14881	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 14881-h.htm or 14881-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/4/8/8/14881/14881-h/14881-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/4/8/8/14881/14881-h.zip) THE LOG SCHOOL-HOUSE ON THE COLUMBIA A Tale of the Pioneers of the Great Northwest by HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH Author of the Zigzag Books ILLUSTRATED 1890 [Illustration] New York D. Appleton and Company [Illustration: _Gretchen at the Potlatch Feast._] PREFACE. A year or more ago one of the librarians in charge of the young people's books in the Boston Public Library called my attention to the fact that there were few books of popular information in regard to the pioneers of the great Northwest. The librarian suggested that I should write a story that would give a view of the heroic lives of the pioneers of Oregon and Washington. Soon after this interview I met a distinguished educator who had lately returned from the Columbia River, who told me the legend of the old chief who died of grief in the grave of his son, somewhat in the manner described in this volume. The legend had those incidental qualities that haunt a susceptible imagination, and it was told to me in such a dramatic way that I could not put it out of my mind. A few weeks after hearing this haunting legend I went over the Rocky Mountains by the Canadian Pacific Railway, and visited the Columbia River and the scenes associated with the Indian story. I met in Washington, Yesler, Denney, and Hon. Elwood Evans, the historian; visited the daughter of Seattle, the chief, "Old Angeline"; and gathered original stories in regard to the pioneers of the Puget Sound country from many sources. In this atmosphere the legend grew upon me, and the outgrowth of it is this volume, which, amid a busy life of editorial and other work, has forced itself upon my experience. H.B. 28 WORCESTER STREET, BOSTON, July 4, 1890 CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. GRETCHEN'S VIOLIN II. THE CHIEF OF THE CASCADES III. "BOSTON TILICUM" IV. MRS. WOODS'S TAME BEAR, LITTLE "ROLL OVER" V. THE NEST OF THE FISHING EAGLE VI. THE MOUNTAIN LION VII. THE "SMOKE-TALK" VIII. THE BLACK EAGLE'S NEST OF THE FALLS OF THE MISSOURI IX. GRETCHEN'S VISIT TO THE OLD CHIEF OF THE CASCADES X. MRS. WOODS MEETS LITTLE "ROLL OVER" AGAIN XI. MARLOWE MANN'S NEW ROBINSON CRUSOE XII. OLD JOE MEEK AND MR. SPAULDING XIII. A WARNING XIV. THE POTLATCH XV. THE TRAUMEREI AGAIN XVI. A SILENT TRIBE XVII. A DESOLATE HOME AND A DESOLATE PEOPLE XVIII. THE LIFTED CLOUD--THE INDIANS COME TO THE SCHOOLMASTER HISTORICAL NOTES. I. Vancouver II. The Oregon Trail III. Governor Stevens IV. Seattle the Chief V. Whitman's Ride for Oregon VI. Mount Saint Helens LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Gretchen at the Potlatch Feast E. J. Austen (Frontispiece) Indians spearing fish at Salmon Falls "Here were mountains grander than Olympus." The North Puyallup Glacier, Mount Tacoma In the midst of this interview Mrs. Woods appeared at the door of the cabin A. E. Pope The eagle soared away in the blue heavens, and the flag streamed after him in his talons E.J. Austen The mountain lion D. Carter Beard An Indian village on the Columbia Afar loomed Mount Hood A castellated crag arose solitary and solemn At the Cascades of the Columbia Multnomah Falls in earlier years. Redrawn by Walter C. Greenough The old chief stood stoical and silent. E. J. Austen Middle block-house at the Cascades CHAPTER I. GRETCHEN'S VIOLIN. An elderly woman and a German girl were walking along the old Indian trail that led from the northern mountains to the Columbia River. The river was at this time commonly called the Oregon, as in Bryant's poem: "Where rolls the Oregon, And no sound is heard save its own dashings." The girl had a light figure, a fair, open face, and a high forehead with width in the region of ideality, and she carried under her arm a long black case in which was a violin. The woman had lived in one of the valleys of the Oregon for several years, but the German girl had recently arrived in one of the colonies that had lately come to the territory under the missionary agency of the Rev. Jason Lee. There came a break in the tall, cool pines that lined the trail and that covered the path with glimmering shadows. Through the opening the high summits of Mount St. Helens glittered like a city of pearl, far, far away in the clear, bright air. The girl's blue eyes opened wide, and her feet stumbled. "There, there you go again down in the hollow! Haven't you any eyes? I would think you had by the looks of them. Well, Gretchen, they were placed right in the front of your head so as to look forward; they would have been put in the top of your head if it had been meant that you should look up to the sky in that way. What is it you see?" "Oh, mother, I wish I was--an author." "An author! What put that into your simple head? You meant to say you would like to be a poet, but you didn't dare to, because you know I don't approve of such things. People who get such flighty ideas into their loose minds always find the world full of hollows. No, Gretchen, I am willing you should play on the violin, though some of the Methody do not approve of that; and that you should finger the musical glasses in the evening--they have a religious sound and soothe me, like; but the reading of poetry and novels I never did countenance, except Methody hymns and the 'Fool of Quality,' and as for the writing of poetry, it is a Boston notion and an ornary habit. Nature is all full of poetry out here, and what this country needs is pioneers, not poets." There came into view another opening among the pines as the two went on. The sun was ascending a cloudless sky, and far away in the cerulean arch of glimmering splendors the crystal peaks and domes of St. Helens appeared again. The girl stopped. "What now?" said the woman, testily. "Look--yonder!" "Look yonder--what for? That's nothing but a mountain, a great waste of land all piled up to the sky, and covered with a lot of ice and snow. I don't see what they were made for, any way--just to make people go round, I suppose, so that the world will not be too easy for them." "Oh, mother, I do not see how you can feel so out here! I never dreamed of anything so beautiful!" "Feel so out here! What do you mean? Haven't I always been good to you? Didn't I give you a good home in Lynn after your father and mother died? Wasn't I a mother to you? Didn't I nurse you through the fever? Didn't I send for you to come way out here with the immigrants, and did you ever find a better friend in the world than I have been to you?" "Yes, mother, but--" "And don't I let you play the violin, which the Methody elder didn't much approve of?" "Yes, mother, you have always been good to me, and I love you more than anybody else on earth." There swept into view a wild valley of giant trees, and rose clear above it, a scene of overwhelming magnificence. "Oh, mother, I can hardly look at it--isn't it splendid? It makes me feel like crying." The practical, resolute woman was about to say, "Well, look the other way then," but she checked the rude words. The girl had told her that she loved her more than any one else in the world, and the confession had touched her heart. "Well, Gretchen, that mountain used to make me feel so sometimes when I first came out here. I always thought that the mountains would look _peakeder_ than they do. I didn't think that they would take up so much of the land. I suppose that they are all well enough in their way, but a pioneer woman has no time for sentiments, except hymns. I don't feel like you now, and I don't think that I ever did. I couldn't learn to play the violin and the musical glasses if I were to try, and I am sure that I should never go out into the woodshed to try to rhyme _sun_ with _fun_; no, Gretchen, all such follies as these I should _shun_. What difference does it make whether a word rhymes with one word or another?" To the eye of the poetic and musical German girl the dead volcano, with its green base and frozen rivers and dark, glimmering lines of carbon, seemed like a fairy tale, a celestial vision, an ascent to some city of crystal and pearl in the sky. To her foster mother the stupendous scene was merely a worthless waste, as to Wordsworth's unspiritual wanderer: "A primrose by the river's brim, A yellow primrose was to him, And it was nothing more." She was secretly pleased at Gretchen's wonder and surprise at the new country, but somehow she felt it her duty to talk querulously, and to check the flow of the girl's emotions, which she did much to excite. Her own life had been so circumscribed and hard that the day seemed to be too bright to be speaking the truth. She peered into the sky for a cloud, but there was none, on this dazzling Oregon morning. The trail now opened for a long way before the eyes of the travelers. Far ahead gleamed the pellucid waters of the Columbia, or Oregon. Half-way between them and the broad, rolling river a dark, tall figure appeared. "Gretchen?" "What, mother?" "Gretchen, look! There goes the Yankee schoolmaster. Came way out here over the mountains to teach the people of the wilderness, and all for nothing, too. That shows that people have souls--some people have. Walk right along beside me, proper-like. You needn't ever tell any one that I ain't your true mother. If I ain't ashamed of you, you needn't be ashamed of me. I wish that you were my own girl, now that you have said that you love me more than anybody else in the world. That remark kind o' touched me. I know that I sometimes talk hard, but I mean well, and I have to tell you the plain truth so as to do my duty by you, and then I won't have anything to reflect upon. "Just look at him! Straight as an arrow! They say that his folks are rich. Come out here way over the mountains, and is just going to teach school in a log school-house--all made of logs and sods and mud-plaster, adobe they call it--a graduate of Harvard College, too." A long, dark object appeared in the trees covered with bark and moss. Behind these trees was a waterfall, over which hung the crowns of pines. The sunlight sifted through the odorous canopy, and fell upon the strange, dark object that lay across the branching limbs of two ancient trees. Gretchen stopped again. "Mother, what is that?" "A grave--an Indian grave." The Indians bury their dead in the trees out here, or used to do so. A brown hawk arose from the mossy coffin and winged its way wildly into the sunny heights of the air. It had made its nest on the covering of the body. These new scenes were all very strange to the young German girl. The trail was bordered with young ferns; wild violets lay in beds of purple along the running streams, and the mountain phlox with its kindling buds carpeted the shelving ways under the murmuring pines. The woman and girl came at last to a wild, open space; before them rolled the Oregon, beyond it stretched a great treeless plain, and over it towered a gigantic mountain, in whose crown, like a jewel, shone a resplendent glacier. Just before them, on the bluffs of the river, under three gigantic evergreens, each of which was more than two hundred feet high, stood an odd structure of logs and sods, which the builders called the Sod School-house. It was not a sod school-house in the sense in which the term has been applied to more recent structures in the treeless prairie districts of certain mid-ocean States; it was rudely framed of pine, and was furnished with a pine desk and benches. Along the river lay a plateau full of flowers, birds, and butterflies, and over the great river and flowering plain the clear air glimmered. Like some sun-god's abode in the shadow of ages, St. Helens still lifted her silver tents in the far sky. Eagles and mountain birds wheeled, shrieking joyously, here and there. Below the bluffs the silent salmon-fishers awaited their prey, and down the river with paddles apeak drifted the bark canoes of Cayuses and Umatillas. [Illustration: _Indians spearing fish at Salmon Falls._] A group of children were gathered about the open door of the new school-house, and among them rose the tall form of Marlowe Mann, the Yankee schoolmaster. He had come over the mountains some years before in the early expeditions organized and directed by Dr. Marcus Whitman, of the American Board of Missions. Whether the mission to the Cayuses and Walla Wallas, which Dr. Whitman established on the bend of the Columbia, was then regarded as a home or foreign field of work, we can not say. The doctor's solitary ride of four thousand miles, in order to save the great Northwest territory to the United States, is one of the most poetic and dramatic episodes of American history. It has proved to be worth to our country more than all the money that has been given to missionary enterprises. Should the Puget Sound cities become the great ports of Asia, and the ships of commerce drift from Seattle and Tacoma over the Japan current to the Flowery Isles and China; should the lumber, coal, minerals, and wheat-fields of Washington, Oregon, Montana, and Idaho at last compel these cities to rival New York and Boston, the populous empire will owe to the patriotic missionary zeal of Dr. Whitman a debt which it can only pay in honor and love. Dr. Whitman was murdered by the Indians soon after the settlement of the Walla Walla country by the pioneers from the Eastern States. Mr. Mann's inspiration to become a missionary pioneer on the Oregon had been derived from a Boston schoolmaster whose name also the Northwest should honor. An inspired soul with a prophet's vision usually goes before the great movements of life; solitary men summon the march of progress, then decrease while others increase. Hall J. Kelley was a teacher of the olden time, well known in Boston almost a century ago. He became possessed with the idea that Oregon was destined to become a great empire. He collected all possible information about the territory, and organized emigration schemes, the first of which started from St. Louis in 1828, and failed. He talked of Oregon continually. The subject haunted him day and night. It was he who inspired Rev. Jason Lee, the pioneer of the Willamette Valley. Lee interested Senator Linn, of Missouri, in Oregon, and this senator, on December 11, 1838, introduced the bill into Congress which organized the Territory. Some of the richly endowed new schools of Oregon would honor history by a monumental recognition of the name of Hall J. Kelley, the old schoolmaster, whose dreams were of the Columbia, and who inspired some of his pupils to become resolute pioneers. Boston was always a friend to Washington and Oregon. Where the old schoolmaster now rests we do not know. Probably in a neglected grave amid the briers and mosses of some old cemetery on the Atlantic coast. When Marlowe Mann came to the Northwest he found the Indian tribes unquiet and suspicious of the new settlements. One of the pioneers had caused a sickness among some thievish Indians by putting emetic poison in watermelons. The Indians believed these melons to have been conjured by the white doctor, and when other sickness came among them, they attributed it to the same cause. The massacre at Waülaptu and the murder of Whitman grew in part out of these events. Mr. Mann settled near the old Chief of the Cascades. He sought the Indian friendship of this chief, and asked him for his protection. "People fulfill the expectation of the trust put in them--Indians as well as children," he used to say. "A boy fulfills the ideals of his mother--what the mother believes the boy will be, that he will become. Treat a thief as though he were honest, and he will be honest with you. We help people to be better by believing in what is good in them. I am going to trust the friendship of the old Chief of the Cascades, and he will never betray it." It was summer, and there was to be a great Indian Potlatch feast under the autumn moon. The Potlatch is a feast of gifts. It is usually a peaceful gathering of friendly tribes, with rude music and gay dances; but it bodes war and massacre and danger if it end with the dance of the evil spirits, or the devil dance, as it has been known--a dance which the English Government has recently forbidden among the Northwestern tribes. The Indians were demanding that the great fall Potlatch should end with this ominous dance of fire and besmearings of blood. The white people everywhere were disturbed by these reports, for they feared what might be the secret intent of this wild revel. The settlers all regarded with apprehension the October moon. The tall schoolmaster watched the approach of Mrs. Woods and Gretchen with a curious interest. The coming of a pupil with no books and a violin was something unexpected. He stepped forward with a courtly grace and greeted them most politely, for wherever Marlowe Mann might be, he never forgot that he was a gentleman. "This is my gal what I have brought to be educated," said Mrs. Woods, proudly. "They think a great deal of education up around Boston where I came from. Where did you come from?" "From Boston." "So I have been told--from Harvard College. Can I speak with you a minute in private?" "Yes, madam. Step aside." "I suppose you are kinder surprised that I let my gal there, Gretchen, bring her violin with her; but I have a secret to tell ye. Gretchen is a kind of a poet, makes rhymes, she does; makes _fool_ rhyme with _school_, and such things as that. Now, I don't take any interest in such things. But she does play the violin beautiful. Learned of a German teacher. Now, do you want to know why I let her bring her violin? Well, I thought it might _help_ you. You've got a hard lot of scholars to deal with out here, and there are Injuns around, too, and one never knows what they may do. "Well, schoolmaster, you never heard nothin' like that violin. It isn't no evil spirit that is in Gretchen's violin; it's an angel. I first noticed it one day when husband and I had been havin' some words. We have words sometimes. I have a lively mind, and know how to use words when I am opposed. Well, one day when husband and I had been havin' words, which we shouldn't, seein' we are Methody, Gretchen began to cry, and went and got her violin, and began to play just like a bird. And my high temper all melted away, and my mind went back to the old farm in New England, and I declare, schoolmaster, I just threw my apron over my head and began to cry, and I told Gretchen never to play that tune again when I was talking to husband for his good. "Well, one day there came a lot of Injuns to the house and demanded fire-water. I am Methody, and don't keep any such things in the house. Husband is a sober, honest man. Now, I've always noticed that an Injun is a coward, and I think the best way to get along with Injuns is to appear not to fear them. So I ordered the stragglers away, when one of them swung his tommyhawk about my head, and the others threatened to kill me. How my heart did beat! Gretchen began to cry; then she ran all at once for her violin and played the very same tune, and the Injuns just stood like so many dumb statues and listened, and, when the tune was over, one of them said 'Spirits,' and they all went away like so many children. "Now, I thought you would like to hear my gal play between schools, and, if ever you should get into any trouble with your scholars or Injuns or anybody, just call upon Gretchen, and she will play that tune on the violin." "What wonderful tune is it, madam?" "I don't know. I don't know one tune from another, though I do sing the old Methody hymns that I learned in Lynn when I am about my work. I don't know whether she knows or not. She learned it of a German." "I am glad that you let her bring the instrument. I once played the violin myself in the orchestra of the Boston Handel and Haydn Society." "Did you? Then you like it. I have a word or two more to say about Gretchen. She's a good gal, and shows her bringing up. Teach her reading, writing, and figures. You needn't teach her no grammar. I could always talk without any grammar, in the natural way. I was a bound-girl, and never had much education. I have had my ups and downs in life, like all the rest of the world. You will do the best you can for Gretchen, won't you?" "Yes, my dear madam, and for every one. I try to make every one true to the best that is in them. I am glad to have Gretchen for a scholar. I will speak to her by and by." How strange was the scene to Gretchen! She remembered the winding Rhine, with its green hills and terraced vineyards and broken-walled castles; Basel and the singing of the student clubs in the gardens on summer evenings; the mountain-like church at Strasburg; and the old streets of Mayence. She recalled the legends and music of the river of song--a river that she had once thought to be the most beautiful on earth. But what were the hills of the Rhine to the scenery that pierced the blue sky around her, and how light seemed the river itself to the majestic flow of the Columbia! Yet the home-land haunted her. Would she go back again? How would her real parents have felt had they known that she would have found a home here in the wilderness? Why had Providence led her steps here? Her mother had been a pious Lutheran. Had she been led here to help in some future mission to the Indian race? "Dreaming?" said Mrs. Woods. "Well, I suppose it can't be helped. If a body has the misfortune to be kiting off to the clouds, going up like an eagle and coming down like a goose, it can't be helped. There are a great many things that can't be helped in this world, and all we can do is to make the best of them. Some people were born to live in the skies, and it makes it hard for those who have to try to live with them. Job suffered some things, but--I won't scold out here--I have my trials; but it may be they are all for the best, as the Scripture says." These forbearing remarks were not wholly meant for Gretchen's reproval. Mrs. Woods liked to have the world know that she had her trials, and she was pleased to find so many ears on this bright morning open to her experiences. She liked to say to Gretchen things that were meant for other ears; there was novelty in the indirection. She also was accustomed to quote freely from the Scriptures and from the Methodist hymnbook, which was almost her only accomplishment. She had led a simple, hard-working life in her girlhood; had become a follower of Jason Lee during one of the old-time revivals of religion; had heard of the Methodist emigration to Oregon, and wished to follow it. She hardly knew why. Though rough in speech and somewhat peculiar, she was a kind-hearted and an honest woman, and very industrious and resolute. Mr. Lee saw in her the spirit of a pioneer, and advised her to join his colony. She married Mr. Woods, went to the Dalles of the Columbia, and afterward to her present home upon a donation claim. CHAPTER II. THE CHIEF OF THE CASCADES. Marlowe Mann was a graduate of Harvard in the classic period of the college. He had many scholarly gifts, and as many noble qualities of soul as mental endowments. He was used to the oratory of Henry Ware and young Edward Everett, and had known Charles Sumner and Wendell Phillips at college, when the Greek mind and models led the young student in his fine development, and made him a Pericles in his dreams. But the young student of this heroic training, no matter how well conditioned his family, usually turned from his graduation to some especial mission in life. "I must put myself into a cause," said young Wendell Phillips. Charles Sumner espoused the struggle of the negro for freedom, and said: "To this cause do I offer all I have." Marlowe Mann was a member of the historic Old South Church, like Phillips in his early years. There was an enthusiasm for missions in the churches of Boston then, and he began to dream of Oregon and the mysterious empire of the great Northwest, as pictured by the old schoolmaster, Kelley; just at this time came Dr. Whitman to the East, half frozen from his long ride, and asked to lead an emigration to Walla Walla, to save the Northern empire to the territory of the States. He heard the doctor's thrilling story of how he had unfurled the flag over the open Bible on the crags that looked down on the valleys of the Oregon, and his resolution was made. He did not follow Dr. Whitman on the first expedition of colonists, but joined him a year or two afterward. He built him a log-cabin on the Columbia, and gave his whole soul to teaching, missionary work among the Indians, and to bringing emigrants from the East. The country thrilled him--its magnificent scenery, the grandeur of the Columbia, the vastness of the territory, and the fertility of the soil. Here were mountains grander than Olympus, and harbors and water-courses as wonderful as the Ægean. He was almost afraid to map the truth in his extensive correspondence with the East, lest it should seem so incredible as to defeat his purpose. [Illustration: _The North Puyallup Glacier, Mount Tacoma._] When the log school-house was building, Mr. Mann had gone to the old Chief of the Cascades and had invited him to send his Indian boy to the school. He had shown him what an advantage it would be to the young chief to understand more thoroughly Chinook and English. He was wise and politic in the matter as well as large-hearted, for he felt that the school might need the friendliness of the old chief, and in no way could it be better secured. "The world treats you as you treat the world," he said; "and what you are to the world, the world is to you. Tell me only what kind of a neighborhood you come from, and I will tell you what kind of a neighborhood you are going to; we all see the world in ourselves. I will educate the boy, and his father will protect the school. The Indian heart is hot and revengeful, but it is honest and true. I intend to be honest with the Indians in all things, and if there should occur a dance of the evil spirits at the Potlatch, no harm will ever come to the log school-house; and I do not believe that such a dance with evil intent to the settlers will ever take place. Human nature is all one book everywhere." As he stood there that morning, with uncovered head, an unexpected event happened. The children suddenly said: "Look!" and "Umatilla!" Out of the forest came an aged Indian, of gigantic stature--Umatilla, one of the chiefs of the Cascades; and beside him walked his only son, the Light of the Eagle's Plume, or, as he had been named by the English, Benjamin. Umatilla, like Massasoit, of the early colonial history of Plymouth, was a remarkable person. Surrounded by warlike tribes, he had been a man of peace. He was a lover of Nature, and every shining cloud to his eye was a chariot. He personified everything, like the ancient Greeks. He talked in poetic figures; to him the sky was alive, every event had a soul, and his mind had dwelt upon the great truths of Nature until he had become more of a philosopher than a ruler. He had been the father of a large family, but six of his sons had died of the plague, or rather of the treatment which the medicine-men had used in the disease, which was to sweat the victims in hot earthen ovens, and then plunge them into the Columbia. His whole heart in his old age was fixed upon his only son, Benjamin. The two were seldom separated. To make the boy happy was the end of the old chief's life. The two approached the courtly schoolmaster. "White master," said the old chief, "I have brought to you the Light of the Eagle's Plume. He is my heart, and will be the heart of my people when my suns are all passed over and my stars gone out. Will you teach him to be a good chief? I want him to know English, and how to worship the Master of Life. Will you take him to your school lodge?" The tall master bowed low, and took the Indian boy by the hand. The boy was a princely youth. His figure would have held the eye of a sculptor in long admiration. The chisel of a Phidias could hardly have exceeded such a form. His features were like the Roman, his eye quick and lustrous, and his lips noble and kindly. He wore a blanket over his shoulders, gathered in a long sash, ornamented with shells, about his loins, and a crest of eagle plumes and shells on his head indicated his rank and dignity. He could speak some words of Chinook, and English imperfectly. He had mingled much with the officers of the Hudson Bay Company, and so had learned many of the customs of civilization. "I am honored," said the courtly, tall schoolmaster, "in having such a youth for my pupil. Chief of the Umatillas, I thank thee. All that is good in me will I give to your noble boy. I live with my eye upon the future; the work of my life is to lead people to follow their better natures and to be true to their best selves. There is a good angel in all men here"--he put his hand on his heart--"it leads men away from evil; it seeks the way of life; its end is yonder with the Infinite. Chief of the Umatillas, I will try to teach the young man to follow it. Do you understand?" The aged chief bowed. He caught the meaning of the thought, if not of the rather formal words. He comprehended the idea that the tall schoolmaster believed goodness to be immortal. The regions of the Cascades were indeed beautiful with their ancient forests and gleaming mountain walls, but he had been taught to believe that the great Master of Life had provided eternal scenes that transcended these for those who were worthy to receive them. An unexpected turn came to this stately and pacific interview. Mrs. Woods was piqued at the deference that the tall schoolmaster had shown to the chief and his son. She walked about restlessly, cut a rod from one of the trees with a large knife which she always carried with her, and at last called the master aside again. "Say, mister, here. You ain't going to take that young Injun into your school, are you? There'll be trouble, now, if you do. Know Injuns--you don't. You are young, but 'tain't best for you to eat all your apples green. I've always been very particular about the company I keep, if I was born poor and have had to work hard, and never studied no foreign languages. I warn you!" She raised her voice, and Benjamin heard what she had said. He suspected her ill-will toward him from her manner, but he comprehended the meaning of her last words. He at first looked puzzled and grieved, then suddenly his thin lips were pressed together; the passion of anger was possessing him, soon to be followed by the purpose of revenge. Mrs. Woods saw that she had gone too far in the matter, and that her spirit and meaning had been discovered by the son of the chief. The danger to which she had exposed herself made her nervous. But she began to act on her old principle never to show fear in the presence of an Indian. "Here, mister, I must go now," she said, in a loud voice. "Take this rod, and govern your school like a man. If I were a teacher, I'd make my scholars smart in more ways than one." She held out the rod to the master. There was a movement in the air like a flash. Benjamin, with noiseless feet, had slipped up behind her. He had conceived the idea that the offer of the rod somehow meant enmity to him. He seized the rod from behind the woman, and, sweeping it through the air, with kindled eye and glowing cheeks, wheeled before the master. "Boston tilicum, don't you dare!" "Boston tilicum" was the Chinook for an American, and the Chinook or trade language had become common to all the tribes on the Columbia. The early American traders on the Northern Pacific coast were from Boston. He raised the rod aloft defiantly like a young champion, and presented a heroic figure, which excited the tremulous admiration and wonder of the little group. He then pointed it toward Mrs. Woods, and said contemptuously in Chinook: "Cloochman!" (woman). The scene changed to the comical. Mrs. Woods snatched off her broad sun-bonnet, revealing her gray hair, and assumed an appearance of defiance, though her heart was really trembling with fear. "I ain't afraid of no Injuns," she said, "and I don't take any impudence from anybody. I've had to fight the whole world all my life, and I've always conquered. There--now--there!" She whipped the rod out of the young Indian's hand. Benjamin's eyes blazed. "Closche nanitch" (look out), he said. "I am an Umatilla. Siwash (Indian) will remember. There are hawks in the sky." "Kamooks" (dog), returned Mrs. Woods, defiantly. "Kamooks." She would have said "cultus" had she dared. "Cultus" is the most insulting word that can be applied to an Indian, and, when it is used, it invites the most deadly revenge. The word had come to her lips, but she had not the courage to invoke the consequences of such a taunt. But the young Indian further excited her. He shook the rod at her, and her passion mastered her prudence. She struggled with herself, and was silent for a few moments. But, suddenly catching the young Indian's eye, which had in it a savage triumph, she exclaimed: "Cultus Umatilla--" The old chief stepped forward and lifted his hands. "Pil-pil" (blood), said Benjamin. "There are hawks in the air--" "Be still!" said the chief. "--they whet their beaks," continued Benjamin. "Potlatch!" The whole company were filled with excitement or terror. Gretchen trembled, and began to cry. Three Indians were seen coming down the trail, and the sight seemed to fill Benjamin with a mysterious delight. Mrs. Woods saw them with secret fear, and the master with apprehension. Several of the children began to cry, and there was a look of pain, terror, or distress on all the faces. Suddenly Gretchen stepped apart from the group and lifted to her shoulder her violin. A hunting strain rose on the bright morning air. It seemed like the flight of a singing bird. The chief's arms dropped. The music arose like a sweet memory of all that is good and beautiful. The three Indians stopped to listen. The music became more sweet and entrancing. The anger went out of Benjamin's face, and there came better feelings into his soul. The music breathed of the Rhine, of vineyards and festivals, but he understood it not; to him it recalled the mysterious legends of the Umatillas, the mysteries of life, and the glory of the heroes who slept on the island of the dead or amid the sweetly sighing branches of the trees. The air was the _Traumerei_. When the music ceased there was a long silence. In it Mrs. Woods turned away slowly, with a word of advice to Gretchen that under other circumstances would have appeared amusing: "Behave yourself like a lady," she said, "and remember your bringing up. Good-morning to ye all." The little group watched her as she moved safely away. A little black bear crossed her path as she was entering the wood, and stopped on the way. But her steps were growing rapid, and, as she did not seem to regard him as a matter of any consequence, he turned and ran. The company smiled, and so the peril of the morning seemed to pass away. The scene would have been comical but for the painful look in the kindly face of the old Chief of the Cascades. He had come toward the school-house with high hopes, and what had happened caused him pain. The word "Potlatch," spoken by the Indian boy, had caused his brow to cloud and his face to turn dark. "We will all go into the house," said the master. "Umatilla, will you not honor us with a visit this morning?" "No--me come this afternoon for the boy; me wait for him outside. Boston tilicum, let me speak to you a little. I am a father." "Yes, and a good father." "I am a father--you no understand--Boston tilicum--father. I want you to teach him like a father--not you understand?" "Yes, I understand." "Father--teacher--you, Boston tilicum." "Yes, I understand, and I will be a father teacher to your Benjamin." "I die some day. You understand?" "Yes, I understand." "You understand, Boston tilicum, you understand. What I want my boy to become that I am for my boy. That you be." "Yes, Umatilla, I believe an Indian's word--you may trust mine. I will be to your boy what you may have him become. The Indian is true to his friends. I believe in _you_. I will be true." The old chief drew his blanket round him proudly. "Boston tilicum," said he, "if ever the day of trouble comes, I will protect you and the log school-house. You may trust my word. Indian speak true." The tall schoolmaster bowed. "Nika atte cepa" (I like you much), said the chief. "Potlatch shall no harm you. Klahyam klahhye--am!" (Good-by). Mrs. Woods hurried homeward and tried to calm her excited mind by singing a very heroic old hymn: "Come on, my partners in distress, My comrades in the wilderness, Who still your bodies feel." The blue skies gleamed before her, and overhead wheeled a golden eagle. To her it was an emblem, a good omen, and her spirit became quiet and happy amid all the contradictions of her rough life. She sat down at last on the log before her door, with the somewhat strange remark: "I do hate Injuns; _nevertheless_--" Mrs. Woods was accustomed to correct the wrong tendencies of her heart and tongue by this word "nevertheless," which she used as an incomplete sentence. This "nevertheless" seemed to express her better self; to correct the rude tendencies of her nature. Had she been educated in her early days, this tendency to self-correction would have made her an ideal woman, but she owed nearly all her intellectual training to the sermons of the Rev. Jason Lee, which she had heard in some obscure corner of a room, or in Methodist chapel, or under the trees. Her early experience with the Indians had not made her a friend to the native races, notwithstanding the missionary labors of the Rev. Jason Lee. The first Indian that made her a visit on the donation claim did not leave a favorable impression on her mind. This Indian had come to her door while she was engaged in the very hard work of sawing wood. He had never seen a saw before, and, as it seemed to him to be a part of the woman herself, he approached her with awe and wonder. That the saw should eat through the wood appeared to him a veritable miracle. Mrs. Woods, unaware of her visitor, paused to take breath, looked up, beheld the tall form with staring eyes, and started back. "Medicine-woman--conjure!" said the Indian, in Chinook. Mrs. Woods was filled with terror, but a moment's thought recalled her resolution. She lifted her hand, and, pointing to the saw in the wood, she said, with a commanding tone: "Saw!" The Indian obeyed awkwardly, and wondering at the progress of the teeth of the saw through the wood. It was a hot day; the poor Indian soon became tired, and stopped work with a beating heart and bursting veins. "Saw--saw!" said Mrs. Woods, with a sweep of her hands, as though some mysterious fate depended upon the order. The saw went very hard now, for he did not know how to use it, and the wood was hard, and the Indian's only thought seemed to be how to escape. Mrs. Woods held him in her power by a kind of mental magnetism, like that which Queen Margaret exercised over the robber. "Water!" at last gasped the Indian. "Saw--saw!" said Mrs. Woods; then turned away to bring him water. When she looked around again, an unexpected sight met her eyes. The Indian was flying away, taking the saw with him. She never beheld either again, and it was a long time before any Indian appeared at the clearing after this odd event, though Mrs. Woods ultimately had many adventures among the wandering Siwashes. A saw was no common loss in these times of but few mechanical implements in Oregon, and Mrs. Woods did not soon forgive the Indian for taking away what he probably regarded as an instrument of torture. "I do hate Injuns!" she would often say; but quite likely would soon after be heard singing one of the hymns of the missionaries at the Dalles: "O'er Columbia's wide-spread forests Haste, ye heralds of the Lamb; Teach the red man, wildly roaming, Faith in Immanuel's name," which, if poor poetry, was very inspiring. CHAPTER III. BOSTON TILICUM. Marlowe Mann--"Boston tilicum," as the Siwashes called all the missionaries, teachers, and traders from the East--sat down upon a bench of split log and leaned upon his desk, which consisted of two split logs in a rough frame. A curious school confronted him. His pupils numbered fifteen, representing Germany, England, Sweden, New England, and the Indian race. "The world will some day come to the Yankee schoolmaster," he used to say to the bowery halls of old Cambridge; and this prophecy, which had come to him on the banks of the Charles, seemed indeed to be beginning to be fulfilled on the Columbia. He opened the school in the same serene and scholarly manner as he would have done in a school in Cambridge. "He is not a true gentleman who is not one under all conditions and circumstances," was one of his views of a well-clothed character; and this morning he addressed the school with the courtesy of an old college professor. "I have come here," he said, "with but one purpose, and that is to try to teach you things which will do you the most good in life. That is always the best which will do the most good; all else is inferior. I shall first teach you to obey your sense of right in all things. This is the first principle of a true education. You will always know the way of life if you have this principle for your guide. "Conscience is the first education. A man's spiritual nature is his highest nature, and his spiritual concerns transcend all others. If a man is spiritually right, he is the master of all things. I would impress these truths on your minds, and teach them at the beginning. I have become willing to be poor, and to walk life's ways alone. The pilot of the Argo never returned from Colchis, but the Argo itself returned with the Golden Fleece. It may be so with my work; if so, I will be content. I have selected for our Scripture lesson the 'incorruptible seed.'" He rose and spoke like one before an august assembly; and so it was to him, with his views of the future of the great empire of the Northwest. A part of the pupils could not comprehend all that he said any more than they had understood the allusion to the pilot of the Argo; but his manner was so gracious, so earnest, so inspired, that they all felt the spirit of it, and some had come to regard themselves as the students of some great destiny. "Older domes than the pyramids are looking down upon you," he said, "and you are born to a higher destiny than were ever the children of the Pharaohs." "With the exception of Gretchen, not one of the pupils fully understood the picturesque allusion. Like the reference to the pilot of the Argo, it was poetic mystery to them; and yet it filled them with a noble curiosity to know much and a desire to study hard, and to live hopefully and worthily. Like the outline of some unknown mountain range, it allured them to higher outlooks and wider distances. "He talked to us so grandly," said Gretchen to Mrs. Woods one evening, "that I did not know half that he was saying; but it made me feel that I might be somebody, and I do intend to be. It is a good thing to have a teacher with great expectations." "Yes," said Mrs. Woods, "when there is so little to expect. People don't take a lot of nothing and make a heap of something in this world. It is all like a lot of feathers thrown against the wind. _Nevertheless_ it makes one happier to have prospects, if they are far away. I used to; but they never came to nothing, unless it was to bring me way out here." The log school-house was a curious place. The children's benches consisted of split logs on pegs, without backs. The sides of the building were logs and sods, and the roof was constructed of logs and pine boughs. All of the children were barefooted, and several had but poor and scanty clothing. Yet the very simplicity of the place had a charm. Benjamin sat alone, apart from the rest. It was plain to be seen that he was brooding over the painful event of the morning. Gretchen had grown cheerful again, but the bitter expression on the young Indian's face seemed to deepen in intensity. Mr. Mann saw it. To quiet his agitation, he began his teaching by going to him and sitting down beside him on the rude bench and opening to him the primer. "You understand English?" said Mr. Mann. "A little. I can talk Chinook." In the Chinook vocabulary, which was originally the trade language of all the tribes employed by the Hudson Bay Company in collecting furs, most of the words resemble in sound the objects they represent. For example, a wagon in Chinook is chick-chick, a clock is ding-ding, a crow is kaw-kaw, a duck, quack-quack, a laugh, tee-hee; the heart is tum-tum, and a talk or speech or sermon, wah-wah. The language was of English invention; it took its name from the Chinook tribes, and became common in the Northwest. Nearly all of the old English and American traders in the Northwest learned to talk Chinook, and to teach Chinook was one of the purposes of the school. "Can you tell me what that is?" asked Mr. Mann, pointing to the letter A in the primer. "Fox-trap." "No; that is the letter A." "How do you know?" Our digger of Greek roots from Cambridge was puzzled. He could not repeat the story of Cadmus to this druid of the forest or make a learned talk on arbitrary signs. He answered happily, however, "Wise men said so." "Me understand." "That is the letter B." "Yes, aha! Boston tilicum, you let her be. Old woman no good; me punish her. Knock-sheet--stick her" (club her). Mr. Mann saw at once the strange turn that the young Indian's mind had taken. He was puzzled again. "No, Benjamin; I will teach you what to do." "Teach me how to club her? You are good! Boston tilicum, we will be brothers--you and I. She wah-wah, but she is no good." "That is C." "Aha! _She_ heap wah-wah, but _she_ no good." "Now, that is A, B, and that is C. Try to remember them, and I will come soon and talk with you again." "You wah-wah?" "Yes," said Mr. Mann, doubtful of the Indian's thought. "She wah-wah?" "Yes." "You heap wah-wah. You good. She heap wah-wah. She no good. Potlatch come; dance. She wah-wah no more. I wah-wah." Mr. Mann was pained to see the revengeful trend of the Indian's thought. The hints of the evil intention of the Potlatch troubled him, but his faith in the old chief and the influence of his own integrity did not falter. Gretchen was the most advanced scholar in the school. Her real mother had been an accomplished woman, and had taken great pains with her education. She was well instructed in the English branches, and had read five books of Virgil in Latin. Her reading had not been extensive, but it had embraced some of the best books in the English language. Her musical education had been received from a German uncle, who had been instructed by Herr Wieck, the father of Clara Schumann. He had been a great lover of Schumann's dreamy and spiritual music, and had taught her the young composer's pieces for children, and among them Romance and the Traumerei. He had taught her to play the two tone poems together in changing keys, beginning with the Traumerei and returning again to its beautiful and haunting strains. Gretchen interpreted these poems with all the color of true feeling, and under her bow they became enchantment to a musical ear and a delight to even as unmusical a soul as Mrs. Woods. Gretchen's chief literary pleasure had been the study of the German poets. She had a poetic mind, and had learned to produce good rhymes. The songs of Uhland, Heine, and Schiller delighted her. She had loved to read the strange stories of Hoffman, and the imaginative works of Baron Fouqué. She used to aspire to be an author or poet, but these aspirations had received no countenance from Mrs. Woods, and yet the latter seemed rather proud to regard her ward as possessing a superior order of mind. "If there is anything that I do despise," Mrs. Woods used to say, "it is books spun out of the air, all about nothin'! Dreams were made for sleep, and the day was made for work. I haven't much to be proud of in this world. I've always been a terror to lazy people and to Injuns, and if any one were to write my life they'd have some pretty stirring stories to tell. I have no doubt that I was made for something." Although Mrs. Woods boasted that she was a terror to Indians, she had been very apprehensive of danger since the Whitman colony massacre. She talked bravely and acted bravely according to her view of moral courage, but with a fearful heart. She dreaded the approaching Potlatch, and the frenzy that calls for dark deeds if the dance of the evil spirits should conclude the approaching feast. There was a sullen look in Benjamin's face as he silently took his seat in the log school-house the next morning. Mr. Mann saw it, and instinctively felt the dark and mysterious atmosphere of it. He went to him immediately after the opening exercises, and said: "You haven't spoken to me this morning; what troubles you?" The boy's face met the sympathetic eye of the master, and he said: "I was happy on the morning when I came--sun; _she_ hate Indian, talk against him to you; make me unhappy--shade; think I will have my revenge--_pil-pil_; then music make me happy; you make me happy; night come, and I think of her--she hate Indian--shade. Me will have my revenge--_pil-pil_. She say I have no right here; she have no right here; the land all belong to Umatilla; then to me; I no have her here. Look out for the October moon--Potlatch--dance--_pil-pil_." "I will be a friend to you, Benjamin." "Yes, Boston tilicum, we will be friends." "And I will teach you how to be noble--like a king. You felt good when I was kind to you?" "Yes, Boston tilicum." "And when the music played?" "Yes, Boston tilicum." "Then you must be good to her; that will make her feel good toward you. Do you see?" There came a painful look into the young Indian's face. "I good to her, make her good? She good to me make me good? She no good to me. She say I no right here. The land belong to Umatilla. She must go. You stay. Look out for the October moon. She wah-wah no more." "It is noble to be good; it makes others good." "Then why isn't _she_ good? She make me ugly; you make me good. I think I will punish her--_pil-pil_; then you speak kind, and the music play, then I think I will punish her not. Then dark thoughts come back again; clouds come again; hawks fly. What me do? Me am two selves; one self when I think of you, one when I think of her. She say I have no right. She have no right. All right after Potlatch. I wah-wah; she wah-wah no more." "Be good yourself, Benjamin. Be kind to her; make her kind. You do right." The young Indian hesitated, then answered: "I do as you say. You are friend. I'll do as I feel when the music play. I try. So you say." The cloud passed. The teacher paid the Indian boy special attention that morning. At noon Gretchen played Von Weber's Wild Hunt of Lutzow, which drove Napoleon over the Rhine. The rhythm of the music picturing the heroic cavalry enchanted Benjamin, and he said: "Play it over again." After the music came a foot-race among the boys, which Benjamin easily won. The afternoon passed quietly, until in the cool, lengthening shadows of the trail the resolute form of Mrs. Woods appeared. Benjamin saw her, and his calm mood fled. He looked up at the master. "I is come back again--my old self again. She say I no business here; she no business here. She wah-wah." The master laid his hand on the boy's shoulder kindly and bent his face on his. "I do as you say," the boy continued. "I will not speak till my good self come again. I be still. No wah-wah." He dropped his eyes upon a page in the book, and sat immovable. He was a noble picture of a struggle for self-control in a savage and untutored heart. Mrs. Woods asked for Gretchen at the door, and the master excused the girl, thanking her for the music that had delighted the school at the noon-hour. As she was turning to go, Mrs. Woods cast a glance toward Benjamin, and said to the master in an undertone: "He's tame now--quiet as a purring cat. The cat don't lick cream when the folks are around. But he'll make trouble yet. An Injun is a Injun. I hate Injuns, though Parson Lee says I am all wrong. When you have seen as many of 'em as I have, you'll know more than you do now." Benjamin did not comprehend the words, but he felt that the woman had said something injurious to him. The suspicion cut him to the quick. His black eye sparkled and his cheek burned. The scholars all seemed to be sorry at the impression that Mrs. Woods's muttered words had left in his mind. He had struggled for two days to do his best--to follow his best self. School closed. Benjamin rose like a statue. He stood silent for a time and looked at the slanting sun and the dreamy afternoon glories of the glaciers, then moved silently out of the door. The old chief met him in the opening, and saw the hurt and troubled look in his face. "What have you been doing to my boy?" he said to the master. "Has he not been good?" "Very good; I like him," said Mr. Mann. "He is trying to be good here," pointing to his heart. "The good in him will grow. I will help him." The old chief and the boy walked away slowly out of the shadows of the great trees and up the cool trail. The tall master followed them with his eye. In the departing forms he saw a picture of the disappearing race. He knew history well, and how it would repeat itself on the great plateau and amid the giant forests of the Oregon. He felt that the old man was probably one of the last great chiefs of the Umatillas. On one of the peninsulas of the Oregon, the so-called Islands of the Dead, the old warriors of the tribes were being gathered by the plagues that had come to the territories and tribal regions ever since the Hudson Bay Company established its posts on the west of the mountains, and Astoria had been planted on the great river, and settlers had gathered in the mountain-domed valley of the Willamette. Wherever the white sail went in the glorious rivers, pestilence came to the native tribes. The Indian race was perceptibly vanishing. Only one son of seven was left to Umatilla. What would be the fate of this boy? The master went home troubled over the event of the afternoon. He was asking the Indian to be better than his opponent, and she was a well-meaning woman and nominally a Christian. His first thought was to go to Mrs. Woods and ask her to wholly change her spirit and manners, and, in fact, preach to her the same simple doctrine of following only one's better self that he had taught to the young prince. But he well knew that she had not a teachable mind. He resolved to try to reach the same result through Gretchen, whom she upbraided with her tongue but loved in her heart. Mrs. Woods had come to regard it as her appointed mission to abuse people for their good. She thought it tended toward their spiritual progress and development. She often said that she felt "called to set things right, and not let two or three people have their own way in everything"--a view of life not uncommon among people of larger opportunities and better education. Benjamin came to school the next morning silent and sullen, and the master went to him again in the same spirit as before. "She say I no right here," he said. "She suffer for it. She wah-wah. Look out for the October moon." "No, you are a better Indian now." "Yes; sometimes." "The better Indian harms no one--one's good self never does evil. You are to be your good self, and please me." The young Indian was silent for a time. He at last said, slowly: "But me know who will." "Do what, Benjamin?" "Make her suffer--punish." "Who?" "I know a bad Indian who will. He say so." "You must not let him. You are son of a chief." "I will try. I no wah-wah now." At noon Benjamin was light-hearted, and led the sports and games. He was very strong, and one of his lively feats was to let three or four children climb upon his back and run away with them until they tumbled off. He seemed perfectly happy when he was making the others happy, and nothing so delighted him as to be commended. He longed to be popular, not from any selfish reason, but because to be liked by others was his atmosphere of contentment. He was kindly above most Indians, a trait for which his father was famous. He was even kindly above many of the white people. The next morning he came to school in good humor, and a curious incident occurred soon after the school began. A little black bear ventured down the trail toward the open door, stopping at times and lifting up its head curiously and cautiously. It at last ventured up to the door, put its fore feet on the door-sill, and looked into the room. "Kill it!" cried one of the boys, a recent emigrant, in the alarm. "Kill it!" "What harm it do?" said the Indian boy. "Me drive it away." The young Indian started toward the door as at play, and shook his head at the young bear, which was of the harmless kind so well known in the Northwest, and the bear turned and ran, while the Indian followed it toward the wood. The odd event was quite excusable on any ground of rule and propriety in the primitive school. "It no harm; let it go," said the boy on his return; and the spirit of the incident was good and educational in the hearts of the school. The charm of his life was Gretchen's violin. It transfigured him; it changed the world to him. His father was a forest philosopher; the boy caught a like spirit, and often said things that were a revelation to Mr. Mann. "Why do you like the violin so much?" said the latter to him one day. "It brings to me the thing longed for--the thing I long to know." "Why, what is that?" "I can't tell it--I feel it here--I sense it--I shall know--something better--yonder--the thing we long for, but do not know. Don't you long for it? Don't you feel it?" The tall schoolmaster said "Yes," and was thoughtful. The poor Indian had tried to express that something beyond his self of which he could only now have a dim conception, and about which even science is dumb. Mr. Mann understood it, but he could hardly have expressed it better. The boy learned the alphabet quickly, and began to demand constant attention in his eagerness to learn. Mr. Mann found that he was giving more than the allotted time to him. To meet the case, he appointed from time to time members of the school "monitors," as he called them, to sit beside him and help him. One day he asked Gretchen to do this work. The boy was delighted to be instructed by the mistress of the violin, and she was as pleased with the honor of such monitorial duties to the son of a chief. But an unexpected episode grew out of all this mutual good-will and helpful kindness. Benjamin was so grateful to Gretchen for the pains that she took with his studies that he wished to repay her. He had a pretty little Cayuse pony which he used to ride; one day after school he caused it to be brought to the school-house, and, setting Gretchen upon it, he led it by the mane up the trail toward her home, a number of the pupils following them. On the way the merry-making party met Mrs. Woods. She was as astonished as though she had encountered an elephant, and there came into her face a look of displeasure and anger. "What kind of doings are these, I would like to know?" she exclaimed, in a sharp tone, standing in the middle of the way and scanning every face. "Riding out with an Injun, Gretchen, are you? That's what you are doing. Girl, get off that horse and come with me! That is the kind of propriety that they teach out in these parts, is it? and the master came from Harvard College, too! One would think that this world was just made to enjoy one's self in, just like a sheep pasture, where the lambs go hopping and skipping, not knowing that they were born to be fleeced." She hurried Gretchen away excitedly, and the school turned back. Benjamin was disappointed, and looked more hurt than ever before. On the way he met his old father, who had come out to look for him, and the rest of the scholars dispersed to their homes. That evening, after a long, vivid twilight, such as throws its splendor over the mountain ranges in these northern latitudes, Mrs. Woods and Gretchen were sitting in their log-house just within the open door. Mr. Woods was at the block-house at Walla Walla, and the cabin was unprotected. The light was fading in the tall pines of the valleys, and there was a deep silence everywhere, undisturbed by so much as a whisper of the Chinook winds. Mrs. Woods's thoughts seemed far away--doubtless among the old meadows, orchards, and farm-fields of New England. Gretchen was playing the musical glasses. Suddenly Mrs. Woods's thoughts came back from their far-away journeys. She had seen something that disturbed her. She sat peering into a tract of trees which were some three hundred feet high--one of the great tree cathedrals of the Northwestern forests. Suddenly she said: "Gretchen, there are Injuns in the pines. Watch!" Gretchen looked out, but saw nothing. The shadows deepened. "I have twice seen Injuns passing from tree to tree and hiding. Why are they there? There--look!" A sinewy form in the shadows of the pines appeared and disappeared. Gretchen saw it. "They mean evil, or they would not hide. Gretchen, what shall we do?" Mrs. Woods closed the door and barred it, took down the rifle from the side of the room, and looked out through a crevice in the split shutter. There was a silence for a time; then Mrs. Woods moved and said: "They are coming toward the house, passing from one tree to another. They mean revenge--I feel it--revenge on me, and Benjamin--he is the leader of it." The flitting of shadowy forms among the pines grew alarming. Nearer and nearer they came, and more and more excited became Mrs. Woods's apprehensions. Gretchen began to cry, through nervous excitement, and with the first rush of tears came to her, as usual, the thought of her violin. She took up the instrument, tuned it with nervous fingers, and drew the bow across the strings, making them shriek as with pain, and then drifted into the air the music of the Traumerei. "Fiddling, Gretchen--fiddling in the shadow of death? I don't know but what you are right--that tune, too!" The music trembled; the haunting strain quivered, rose and descended, and was repeated over and over again. "There is no movement in the pines," said Mrs. Woods. "It is growing darker. Play on. It does seem as though that strain was stolen from heaven to overcome evil with." Gretchen played. An hour passed, and the moon rose. Then she laid down the violin and listened. "Oh, Gretchen, he is coming! I know that form. It is Benjamin. He is coming alone. What shall we do? He is--right before the door!" Gretchen's eye fell upon the musical glasses, which were among the few things that she had brought from the East and which had belonged to her old German home. She had tuned them early in the evening by pouring water into them, as she had been taught to do in her old German village, and she wet her fingers and touched them to the tender forest hymn: "Now the woods are all sleeping." "He has stopped," said Mrs. Woods. "He is listening--play." The music filled the cabin. No tones can equal in sweetness the musical glasses, and the trembling nerves of Gretchen's fingers gave a spirit of pathetic pleading to the old German forest hymn. Over and over again she played the air, waiting for the word of Mrs. Woods to cease. "He is going," said Mrs. Woods, slowly. "He is moving back toward the pines. He has changed his mind, or has gone for his band. You may stop now." Mrs. Woods watched by the split shutter until past midnight. Then she laid down on the bed, and Gretchen watched, and one listened while the other slept, by turns, during the night. But no footstep was heard. The midsummer sun blazed over the pines in the early morning; birds sang gayly in the dewy air, and Gretchen prepared the morning meal as usual, then made her way to the log school-house. She found Benjamin there. He met her with a happy face. "Bad Indian come to your cabin last night," said he. "He mean evil; he hate old woman. She wah-wah too much, and he hate. Bad Indian hear music--violin; he be pleased--evil hawks fly out of him. Good Indian come back. One is tied to the other. One no let the other go. What was that low music I hear? Baby music! Chinook wind in the bushes! Quail--mother-bird singing to her nest! I love that music. "Say, you play at Potlatch, frighten away the hawks; mother-birds sing. No devil dance. Say, I have been good; no harm old wah-wah. Will you--will you play--play that tin-tin at Potlatch under the big moon?" A great thought had taken possession of the young Indian's mind, and a great plan--one worthy of a leader of a peace congress. Gretchen saw the plan in part, but did not fully comprehend it. She could only see that his life had become a struggle between good and evil, and that he was now following some good impulse of his better nature. CHAPTER IV. MRS. WOODS'S TAME BEAR. Mrs. Woods was much alone during this summer. Her husband was away from home during the working days of the week, at the saw and shingle mill on the Columbia, and during the same days Gretchen was much at school. The summer in the mountain valleys of Washington is a long serenity. The deep-blue sky is an ocean of intense light, and the sunbeams glint amid the cool forest shadows, and seem to sprinkle the plains with gold-dust like golden snow. Notwithstanding her hard practical speech, which was a habit, Mrs. Woods loved Nature, and, when her work was done, she often made little journeys alone into the mountain woods. In one of these solitary excursions she met with a little black cub and captured it, and, gathering it up in her apron like a kitten, she ran with it toward her cabin, after looking behind to see if the mother bear was following her. Had she seen the mother of the cunning little black creature in her apron pursuing her, she would have dropped the cub, which would have insured her escape from danger. But the mother bear did not make an early discovery of the loss in her family. She was probably out berrying, and such experiences of stolen children were wholly unknown to the bear family in Washington before this time. The Indians would not have troubled the little cub. The black bear of the Cascades is quite harmless, and its cubs, like kittens, seem to have a sense of humor unusual among animals. For a white child to see a cub is to desire it to tame for a pet, and Mrs. Woods felt the same childish instincts when she caught up the little creature, which seemed to have no fear of anything, and ran away with it toward her home. It was Saturday evening when she returned, and she found both Mr. Woods and Gretchen waiting to meet her at the door. They were surprised to see her haste and the pivotal turning of her head at times, as though she feared pursuit from some dangerous foe. Out of breath, she sank down on the log that served for a step, and, opening her apron cautiously, said: "See here." "Where did you get that?" said Mr. Woods. "I stole it." "What are you going to do with it?" "Raise it." "What for?" "For company. I haven't any neighbors." "But what do you want it for?" "It is so cunning. It just rolled over in the trail at my feet, and I grabbed it and ran." "But what if the mother-bear should come after it?" asked Gretchen. "I would shoot her." "That would be a strange way to treat your new neighbors," said Mr. Woods. Mr. Woods put a leather strap around the neck of the little bear, and tied the strap to a log in the yard. The little thing began to be alarmed at these strange proceedings, and to show a disposition to use its paws in resistance, but it soon learned not to fear its captors; its adoption into the shingle-maker's family was quite easily enforced, and the pet seemed to feel quite at home. There was some difficulty at first in teaching the cub to eat, but hunger made it a tractable pupil of the berry dish, and Mrs. "Woods was soon able to say: "There it is, just as good as a kitten, and I would rather have it than to have a kitten. It belongs to these parts." Poor Mrs. Woods! She soon found that her pet did "belong to these parts," and that its native instincts were strong, despite her moral training. She lost her bear in a most disappointing way, and after she supposed that it had become wholly devoted to her. She had taught it to "roll over" for its dinner, and it had grown to think that all the good things of this world came to bears by their willingness to roll over. Whenever any member of the family appeared at the door, the cub would roll over like a ball, and expect to be fed, petted, and rewarded for the feat. "I taught it that," Mrs. Woods used to say. "I could teach it anything. It is just as knowing as it is cunning, and lots of company for me out here in the mountains. It thinks more of me than of its old mother. You can educate anything." As the cub grew, Mrs. Woods's attachment to it increased. She could not bear to see its freedom restrained by the strap and string, and so she untied the string from the log and let it drag it about during the day, only fastening it at night. "There is no danger of its running away," said she; "it thinks too much of me and the berry dish. I've tamed it completely; it's as faithful to its home as a house-cat, and a great deal more company than a cat or dog or any other dumb animal. The nicest bird to tame is a blue-jay, and the best animal for company is a cub. I do believe that I could tame the whole race of bears if I only had 'em." Mrs. Woods had a pet blue-jay that she had taken when young from its nest, and it would do many comical things. It seemed to have a sense of humor, like a magpie, and to enjoy a theft like that bird. She finally gave it the freedom of the air, but it would return at her call for food and eat from her hand. The blue-jay is naturally a very wild bird, but when it is tamed it becomes very inquisitive and social, and seems to have a brain full of invention and becomes a very comical pet. Mrs. Woods called her pet bear Little Roll Over. One day a visitor appeared at the emigrant's cabin. A black she-bear came out of the woods, and, seeing the cub, stood up on her haunches in surprise and seemed to say, "How came you here?" It was evidently the mother of the cub. The cub saw its mother and rolled over several times, and then stood up on its haunches and looked at her, as much as to say, "Where did you come from, and what brought you here?" In the midst of this interesting interview Mrs. Woods appeared at the door of the cabin. She saw the mother-bear. True to her New England instincts, she shook her homespun apron and said: "Shoo!" She also saw that the little bear was greatly excited, and under the stress of temptation. "Here," said she, "roll over." The cub did so, but in the direction of its mother. Mrs. Woods hurried out toward it to prevent this ungrateful gravitation. The mother-bear seemed much to wonder that the cub should be found in such forbidden associations, and began to make signs by dipping her fore paws. The cub evidently understood these signs, and desired to renew its old-time family relations. "Here," said Mrs. Woods, "you--you--you mind now; roll over--roll over." [Illustration: _In the midst of this interview Mrs. Woods appeared at the door of the cabin._] The cub did so, true to its education in one respect, but it did not roll in the direction of its foster-mother, but rolled toward its own mother. It turned over some five or more times, then bounded up and ran toward the she-bear. The latter dropped her fore feet on the earth again, and the two bears, evidently greatly delighted to find each other, quickly disappeared in the woods. As the cub was about to enter the bushes it turned and gave a final glance at Mrs. Woods and rolled over. This was too much for Mrs. Woods's heart. She said: "After all I have done for ye, too! Oh, Little Roll Over, Little Roll Over, I wouldn't have thought it of you!" She surveyed the empty yard, threw her apron over her head, as stricken people used to do in Lynn in the hour of misfortune, and sat down on the log at the door and cried. "I never have had any confidence in Injuns," she said, "since my saw walked off. But I did have some respect for bears. I wonder if I shall ever meet that little cre'tur' again, and, if I do, if it will roll over. This world is all full of disappointments, and I have had my share. Maybe I'll get it back to me yet. Nevertheless--" Mrs. Woods often talked of Little Roll Over and its cunning ways; she hoped she would some time meet it again, and wondered how it would act if she should find it. CHAPTER V. THE NEST OF THE FISHING EAGLE. Benjamin continued to attend the school, but it was evident that he did so with an injured heart, and chiefly out of love for the old chief, his father. He had a high regard for his teacher, whose kindness was unfailing, and he showed a certain partiality for Gretchen; but he was as a rule silent, and there were dark lines on his forehead that showed that he was unhappy. He would not be treated as an inferior, and he seemed to feel that he was so regarded by the scholars. He began to show a peculiar kind of contempt for all of the pupils except Gretchen. He pretended not to see them, hear them, or to be aware of their presence or existence. He would pass through a group of boys as though the place was vacant, not so much as moving his eye from the direct path. He came and went, solitary and self-contained, proud, cold, and revengeful. But this indifference was caused by sensitiveness and the feeling that he had been slighted. The dark lines relaxed, and his face wore a kindly glow whenever his teacher went to his desk--if the split-log bench for a book-rest might be so called. "I would give my life for Gretchen and you," he said one day to Mr. Mann; and added: "I would save them all for you." There was a cluster of gigantic trees close by the school-house, nearly two hundred feet high. The trees, which were fir, had only dry stumps of limbs for a distance of nearly one hundred feet from the ground. At the top, or near the top, the green leaves or needles and dead boughs had matted together and formed a kind of shelf or eyrie, and on this a pair of fishing eagles had made their nest. The nest had been there many years, and the eagles had come back to it during the breeding season and reared their young. For a time after the opening of the school none of the pupils seemed to give any special attention to this high nest. It was a cheerful sight at noon to see the eagles wheel in the air, or the male eagle come from the glimmering hills and alight beside his mate. One afternoon a sudden shadow like a falling cloud passed by the half-open shutter of the log school-house and caused the pupils to start. There was a sharp cry of distress in the air, and the master looked out and said: "Attend to your books, children; it is only the eagle." But again and again the same swift shadow, like the fragment of a storm-cloud, passed across the light, and the wild scream of the bird caused the scholars to watch and to listen. The cry was that of agony and affright, and it was so recognized by Benjamin, whose ear and eye were open to Nature, and who understood the voices and cries of the wild and winged inhabitants of the trees and air. He raised his hand. "May I go see?" The master bowed silently. The boy glided out of the door, and was heard to exclaim: "Look! look! the nest--the nest!" The master granted the school a recess, and all in a few moments were standing without the door peering into the tall trees. The long dry weather and withering sun had caused the dead boughs to shrink and to break beneath the great weight of the nest that rested upon them. The eagle's nest was in ruins. It had fallen upon the lower boughs, and two young half-fledged eaglets were to be seen hanging helplessly on a few sticks in mid-air and in danger of falling to the ground. It was a bright afternoon. The distress of the two birds was pathetic, and their cries called about them other birds, as if in sympathy. The eagles seldom descended to any point near the plain in their flight, but mounted, as it were, to the sun, or floated high in the air; but in their distress this afternoon they darted downward almost to the ground, as though appealing for help for their young. While the school was watching this curious scene the old chief of the Umatillas came up the cool highway or trail, to go home with Benjamin after school. The eagles seemed to know him. As he joined the pitying group, the female eagle descended as in a spasm of grief, and her wing swept his plume. She uttered a long, tremulous cry as she passed and ascended to her young. "She call," said the old chief. "She call me." "I go," said Benjamin, with a look at his father. "Yes, go--she call. She call--the God overhead he call. Go!" A slender young pine ran up beside one of the giant trees, tall and green. In a moment Benjamin was seen ascending this pine to a point where he could throw himself upon the smallest of the great trees and grasp the ladder of the lower dead branches. Up and up he went in the view of all, until he had reached a height of some hundred and fifty feet. The eagles wheeled around him, describing higher circles as he ascended. He reached the young eagles at last, but passed by them. What was he going to do? There was a shelf of green boughs above him, which would bear the weight of a nest. He went up to them at a distance of nearly two hundred feet. He then began to gather up the fallen sticks of the old nest, and to break off new sticks and to construct a new nest. The old chief watched him with pride, and, turning to the master, said: "Ah-a--that is my boy. He be me. I was he once--it is gone now--what I was." When Benjamin had made a nest he descended, and at the peril of his own life, on the decayed limbs, he rescued the two young eagles that were hanging with heads downward and open beaks. He carried them up to the new nest and placed them in it, and began to descend. But a withered bough that he grasped was too slender for his weight, and broke. He grasped another, but that too gave way. He tried to drop into the top of the tall young pine below him, but, in his effort to get into position to do so, limb after limb of dead wood broke, and he came falling to the earth, amid the startled looks of the chief and the cries of the children. The ground was soft, and his body lay for a time half imbedded in it. He was senseless, and blood streamed from his nose and reddened his eyes. The old chief seized his arm and tried to raise him, but the effort brought no sign of life, and his body was lowered slowly back again by the agonized father, who sat down and dropped his head on his son's breast. Mr. Mann brought water and wet the boy's lips and bathed his brow. He then placed his hand over the boy's heart and held it there. There was a long silence. The old chief watched the teacher's hand. He seemed waiting for a word of hope; but Mr. Mann did not speak. The old chief lifted his head at last, and said; appealingly: "Boston tilicum, you do not know how I feel! You do not know--the birds know--_you_ do not know!" The teacher rubbed the boy's breast and arms, and said: "He will revive." "What, Boston tilicum?" "He will _live_." "My boy?" "Yes." The dark face brightened. The old man clasped the boy's hand and drew it to his breast. The children attempted to brush the earth out of the young hero's dark, matted hair, but the old chief said, mysteriously: "No touch him! he is mine." At last a convulsive movement passed over the boy's body. The teacher again pressed his hand on the heart of his pupil, and he quickly exclaimed: "It beats." The fiery sun gleamed from the snowy mountains. There were cool murmurs of winds in the trees, and they sent forth a resinous odor into the air. The balm dropped down like a messenger of healing. Presently the boy's eyes opened and gazed steadily into the blue air. The eagles were wheeling about the trees. The boy watched them, as though nothing had passed. They were making narrowing circles, and at last each alighted on the new nest beside their young. He turned his face slowly toward his father. "Saved!" he said. "They are happy. I fell. Let's go." He rose up. As he did so the male eagle rose from his nest and, uttering a glad scream, wheeled in the sky and made his way through the crimson haze toward the fishing grounds of the lower Columbia. The chief's eye followed him for a time; then the old man turned a happy face on the schoolmaster and children and said: "I know how he feels--the Manitou overhead--he made the hearts of all; yours--the birds--mine. He is glad!" There was something beautiful and pathetic in the old chief's sense of the common heart and feeling of all conscious beings. The very eagles seemed to understand it; and Master Mann, as he turned away from the school-house that day, said to Gretchen: "I myself am being taught. I am glad to learn all this large life. I hope that you will one day become a teacher." Gretchen went home that afternoon with a glad heart. Benjamin did not return to the school again for several days, and when he came back it seemed to be with a sense of humiliation. He seemed to feel somehow that he ought not to have fallen from the tree. The fourth of July came, and Master Mann had invited the school to come together on the holiday for patriotic exercises. He had one of the pupils read the Declaration of Independence on the occasion, and Gretchen played the President's March on the violin. He himself made an historical address, and then joined in some games out of doors under the trees. He brought to the school-house that day an American flag, which he hung over the desk during the exercises. When the school went out to play he said: "I wish I could hang the flag from a pole, or from the top of one of the trees." Benjamin's face brightened. "I will go," he said; "I will go _up_." "Hang it on the eagle's nest," said one of the pupils. "The eagle is the national bird." Mr. Mann saw that to suspend the national emblem from the eagle's nest would be a patriotic episode of the day, and he gave the flag to Benjamin, saying: "Beware of the rotten limbs." "I no woman," said Benjamin; and, waving the flag, he moved like a squirrel up the trees. He placed the flag on the nest, while the eagles wheeled around him, screaming wildly. He descended safely, and made the incident an object lesson, as Mr. Mann repeated the ode to the American eagle, found at that time in many reading-books. While Mr. Mann was doing so, and had reached the line-- "Bird of Columbia, well art thou," etc., one of the eagles swept down to the nest and seized the banner in his talons. He rose again into the air and circled high, then with a swift, strong curve of the wings, came down to the nest again, and, seizing the flag, tore it from the nest and bore it aloft to the sky. [Illustration: _The eagle soared away in the blue heavens, and the flag streamed after him in his talons._] It was a beautiful sight. The air was clear, the far peaks were serene, and the glaciers of Mount Hood gleamed like a glory of crystallized light. The children cheered. The bird soared away in the blue heavens, and the flag streamed after him in his talons. He dropped the flag at last over a dark, green forest. The children cheered again. It was miles away. "I go find it," said Benjamin; and he darted away from the place and was not seen until the next day, when he returned, bringing the flag with him. Marlowe Mann never forgot that fourth of July on the Columbia. CHAPTER VI. THE MOUNTAIN LION. One morning, as Mrs. Woods sat in her door picking over some red whortleberries which she had gathered in the timber the day before, a young cow came running into the yard, as if for protection. Mrs. Woods started up, and looked in the direction from which the animal had come running, but saw nothing to cause the alarm. The cow looked backward, and lowed. Mrs. Woods set down her dish of red berries, took her gun, and went out toward the timber where the cow had been alarmed. There was on the edge of the timber a large fir that the shingle-maker had felled when he first built his house or shack, but had not used, owing to the hardness of the grain. It lay on the earth, but still connected with its high stump, forming a kind of natural fence. Around it were beds of red phlox, red whortleberry bushes, and wild sunflowers. The horny stump and fallen tree had been made very interesting to Mrs. Woods in her uneventful life by a white squirrel that often had appeared upon it, and made a pretty picture as it sat eating in the sun, its head half covered with its bushy tail. White squirrels were not common in the timber, and this was the only one that Mrs. Woods had ever seen. "I wish that I could contrive to catch that there white squirrel," she said to Gretchen one day; "it would be a sight of company for me when you are gone. The bear used me mean, but I kind o' like all these little children of Natur'. But I don't want no Injuns, and no more bears unless _he_ comes back again. The schoolmaster may like Injuns, and you may, but I don't. Think how I lost my saw; Injun and all went off together. I can seem to see him now, goin'." As Mrs. Woods drew near the fallen tree she looked for the white squirrel, which was not to be seen. Suddenly the bushes near the stump moved, and she saw the most evil-looking animal that she had ever met drawing back slowly toward the fallen tree. It was long, and seemed to move more like an immense serpent than an animal. It had a catlike face, with small ears and spiteful eyes, and a half-open mouth displaying a red tongue and sharp teeth. Its face was sly, malicious, cruel, and cowardly. It seemed to be such an animal as would attack one in the dark. It was much larger than a dog or common black bear. Mrs. Woods raised her gun, but she thought that she was too far from the house to risk an encounter with so powerful an animal. So she drew back slowly, and the animal did the same defiantly. She at last turned and ran to the house. "Gretchen," she said, "what do you think I have seen?" "The white squirrel." "No; a tiger!" "But there are no tigers here; so the chief said." "But I have just seen one, and it had the meanest-looking face that I ever saw on any living creature. It was all snarls. That animal is dangerous. I shall be almost afraid to be alone now." "I shall be afraid to go to school." "No, Gretchen, you needn't be afraid. I'll go with you mornin's and carry the gun. I like to walk mornin's under the trees, the air does smell so sweet." That night, just as the last low tints of the long twilight had disappeared and the cool, dewy airs began to move among the pines, a long, deep, fearful cry was heard issuing from the timber. Mrs. Woods started up from her bed and called, "Gretchen!" The girl had been awakened by the cry, which might have been that of a child of a giant in pain. "Did you hear that?" asked Mrs. Woods. "Let's get up and go out," said Gretchen. Presently the same long, clear, pitiable cry, as if some giant distress, was repeated. "It seems human," said Mrs. Woods. "It makes me want to know what it is. Yes, let us get up and go out." The cry was indeed pleading and magnetic. It excited pity and curiosity. There was a strange, mysterious quality about it that drew one toward it. It was repeated a third time and then ceased. There was a family by the name of Bonney who had taken a donated claim some miles from the Woodses on the Columbia. They had two boys who attended the school. Early the next morning one of these boys, named Arthur, came over to the Woodses in great distress, with a fearful story. "Something," he said, "has killed all of our cattle. They all lie dead near the clearing, just as though they were asleep. They are not injured, as we can see; they are not shot or bruised, nor do they seem to be poisoned--they are not swelled--they look as though they were alive--but they are cold--they are just dead. Did you hear anything in the timber last night?" "Yes," said Mrs. Woods. "Wasn't it mysterious? Lost your cattle, boy? I am sorry for your folks. Mabbie (may be) 'tis Injuns." "No; father says that he can find no injury on them." "'Tis awful mysterious like," said Mrs. Woods, "cattle dyin' without anything ailin' 'em! I've always thought this was a good country, but I don't know. Tell your folks I'm sorry for 'em. Can I do anything for you? I'll come over and see ye in the course of the day." That night the same strange, wild, pleading cry was repeated in the timber. "There's something very strange about that sound," said Mrs. Woods. "It makes me feel as though I must run toward it. It draws me. It makes me feel curi's. It has haunted me all day, and now it comes again." "Do you suppose that the cry has had anything to do with the death of Mr. Bonney's cattle?" asked Gretchen. "I don't know--we don't understand this country fully yet. There's something very mysterious about the death of those cattle. You ought to have seen 'em. They all lie there dead, as though they had just lost their breath, and that was all." The next night was silent. But, on the following morning, a boy came to the school with a strange story. He had been driving home his father's cows on the evening before, when an animal had dropped from a great tree on the neck of one of the cows, which struggled and lowed for a few minutes, then fell, and was found dead. The boy and the other cattle had run away on the sudden appearance of the animal. The dead cow presented the same appearance as the cows of Mr. Bonney had done. When the old chief appeared at the school-house with Benjamin that morning, the school gathered around him and asked him what these things could mean. He replied, in broken Chinook, that there was a puma among them, and that this animal sucked the blood of its victims. The puma or cougar or panther, sometimes spelled _painter_, is the American lion. It is commonly called the mountain lion in the Northwest. It belongs to the cat family, and received the name of lion from its tawny color. When its appetite for blood has been satisfied, and its face is in repose, it is a very beautiful animal; but when seeking its prey it presents a mean, cowardly, stealthy appearance, and its face is a picture of cruelty and evil. It will destroy as many as fifty sheep in a night, sucking their blood and leaving them as though they had died without any external injury. This terrible animal is easily tamed if captured young, and, strange to say, becomes one of the most affectionate and devoted of pets. It will purr about the feet and lick the hands of its master, and develop all the attractive characteristics of the domestic cat. "We must have a puma-hunt," said the chief, "now--right away." "Not to-day?" said the teacher. "Yes," said the chief, "now--he eat your children. Find boy dead some day, just like cow. He drop down from a tree on a papoose. Benjamin and I will go hunt." [Illustration: _The mountain lion._] The two disappeared. For several days they did not return. But, one morning, a party of Indians in hunting-gear came riding up to the school-house, full of gay spirits and heroic pride. Behind them came the old chief on foot, moving slowly, as though tired, and with him was Benjamin. The Indian boy had a brown skin of an animal on his shoulder--a raw hide with very beautiful fur. The old chief came into the school-room with an air of pride, and stood for a few minutes silent before the master. His face, though wrinkled, was really beautiful and noble, in the light of the happy intelligence that awaited communication. He at last looked each pupil in the face and then said: "We have killed the puma. School no fear now." He took the skin of the animal from Benjamin's shoulder, and held it up before the eyes of all. "Boston tilicum, who killed the animal?" he said. "It was you?" asked the teacher. "No--not me, not me, no!" "The braves?" "No--not the braves. No." The old chief paused, and then said: "Boston tilicum, it was Benjamin. Treat him well. He is good to me--he mean well. He likes you--he die for you. Tell the boys it was Benjamin." He turned away slowly, with a bearing of pride. The Indian boy gave the puma's skin to the master, and took his seat in silence. There was a spirit in the strange scene that was touching, and the master's lip quivered as he took the old chief's hand that bright morning, as a parting sign of gratitude and good-will. He felt the innate brotherhood of all human hearts, and returned to his desk happy in his calling and work; and seeing that the natural rights of all men were secured; and that the human heart has the same impulses everywhere, as he had never seen these truths before. That night Gretchen told the story of the puma to Mrs. Woods, who had learned the leading incidents of it in the afternoon as she came to meet the girl in the trail, on the way from school. CHAPTER VII. THE SMOKE-TALK. One day in September Mrs. Woods was at work in her cabin, and Gretchen was at school. Mrs. Woods was trying to sing. She had a hard, harsh voice always, and the tune was a battle-cry. The hymn on which she was exercising her limited gifts was not one of the happy tunes of Methodism, which early settlers on the Columbia loved to sing. It was a very censorious rhyme and took a very despondent view of the human heart: "The pure testimony poured forth from the Spirit Cuts like a two-edgèd sword; And hypocrites now are most sorely tormented Because they're condemnèd by the Word." She made the word "hypocrites" ring through the solitary log-cabin--she seemed to have the view that a large population of the world were of this class of people. She paused in her singing and looked out of the door. "There's one honest woman alive," she remarked to herself. "Thank Heaven, _I_ never yet feared the face of clay!" A tall, dark form met her eye--a great shadow in the scintillant sunlight. It was an aged Indian, walking with a staff. He was coming toward the cabin. "Umatilla!" she said. "What can he want of me?" The old chief approached, and bowed and sat down on a log that answered for a door-step. "I walk with a staff now," he said. "My bow has drifted away on the tide of years--it will never come back again. I am old." "You have been a good man," said Mrs. Woods, yielding to an impulse of her better nature. She presently added, as though she had been too generous, "And there aren't many good Injuns--nor white folks either for that matter." "I have come to have a smoke-talk with you," said the old chief, taking out his pipe and asking Mrs. Woods to light it. "Listen! I want to go home. When a child is weary, I take him by the hand and point him to the smoke of his wigwam. He goes home and sleeps. I am weary. The Great Spirit has taken me by the hand; he points to the smoke of the wigwam. There comes a time when all want to go home. I want to go home. Umatilla is going home. I have _not_ spoken." The smoke from his pipe curled over his white head in the pure, clear September air. He was eighty or more years of age. He had heard the traditions of Juan de Fuca, the Greek pilot, who left his name on the straits of the Puget Sea. He had heard of the coming of Vancouver in his boyhood, the English explorer who named the seas and mountains for his lieutenants and friends, Puget, Baker, Ranier, and Townsend. He had known the forest lords of the Hudson Bay Company, and of Astoria; had seen the sail of Gray as it entered the Columbia, and had heard the preaching of Jason Lee. The murder of Whitman had caused him real sorrow. Umatilla was a man of peace. He had loved to travel up and down the Columbia, and visit the great bluffs of the Puget Sea. He lived for a generation at peace with all the tribes, and now that he was old he was venerated by them all. "You are a good old Injun," said Mrs. Woods, yielding to her better self again. "I don't say it about many people. I do think you have done your best--considering." "I am not what I want to be," said Umatilla. "It is what we want to be that we shall be one day; don't you think so? The Great Spirit is going to make me what I want to be--he will make us all what we want to be. My desires are better than I--I will be my desires by and by. My staff is in my hand, and I am going home. The old warriors have gone home. They were thick as the flowers of the field, thick as the stars of the night. My boys are gone home--they were swift as the hawks in the air. Benjamin is left to the Umatillas. He is no butcher-bird; no forked tongue--he will remember the shade of his father. My heart is in his heart. I am going home. I have _not_ spoken." He puffed his pipe again, and watched an eagle skimming along on the great over-sea of September gold. The Indian language is always picturesque, and deals in symbols and figures of speech. It is picture-speaking. The Indians are all poets in their imaginations, like children. This habit of personification grows in the Indian mind with advancing years. Every old Indian speaks in poetic figures. Umatilla had not yet "spoken," as he said; he had been talking in figures, and merely approaching his subject. There was a long pause. He then laid down his pipe. He was about to speak: "Woman, open your ears. The Great Spirit lives in women, and old people, and little children. He loves the smoke of the wigwam, and the green fields of the flowers, and the blue gardens of stars. And he loves music--it is his voice, the whisper of the soul. "He spoke in the pine-tops, on the lips of the seas, in the shell, in the reed and the war-drum. Then _she_ came. He speaks through _her_. I want _her_ to speak for me. My people are angry. There are butcher-birds among them. They hate you--they hate the cabin of the white man. The white men take away their room, overthrow their forests, kill their deer. There is danger in the air. "The October moon will come. It will grow. It will turn into a sun on the border of the night. Then come Potlatch. My people ask for the Dance of the Evil One. I no consent--it means graves. "Let me have _her_ a moon--she play on the air. She play at the Potlatch for me. She stand by my side. The Great Spirit speak through her. Indians listen. They will think of little ones, they will think of departed ones, they will think of the hunt--they will see graves. Then the night will pass. Then the smoke will rise again from white man's cabin. Then I die in peace, and go home to the Great Spirit and rest. Will you let me have her? I _have_ spoken." Mrs. Woods comprehended the figurative speech. The old chief wished to take Gretchen to his wigwam for a month, and have her play the violin on the great night of the Potlatch. He hoped that the influence of the music would aid him in preventing the Dance of the Evil Spirits, and a massacre of the white settlers. What should she say? "I will talk with Gretchen," she said. "You mean well. I can trust you. We will see." He rose slowly, leaning on his staff, and emptied his pipe. It required a resolute will now to cause his withered limbs to move. But his steps became free after a little walking, and he moved slowly away. Poor old chief of the Cascades! It was something like another Sermon on the Mount that he had spoken, but he knew not how closely his heart had caught the spirit of the Divine Teacher. When Gretchen came home from school, Mrs. Woods told her what had happened, and what the old chief had asked. Mr. Woods had returned from the block-houses. He said: "Gretchen, go! Your _Traumerei_ will save the colony. Go!" Gretchen sat in silence for a moment. She then said: "I can trust Umatilla. I will go. I want to go. Something unseen is leading me--I feel it. I do not know the way, but I can trust my guide. I have only one desire, if I am young, and that is to do right. But is it right to leave you, mother?" "Mother!" how sweet that word sounded to poor Mrs. Woods! She had never been a mother. Tears filled her eyes--she forced them back. "Yes, Gretchen--go. I've always had to fight my way through the world, and I can continue to do so. I've had some things to harden my heart; but, no matter what you may do, Gretchen, I'll always be a mother to _you_. You'll always find the latch-string on the outside. You ain't the wust girl that ever was, if I did have a hand in bringing you up. Yes--go." "Your heart is right now," said Gretchen; "and I want to speak to you about Benjamin. He told me a few days ago that he hated you, but that no one should ever harm you, because he loved the Master." "He did, did he?" said Mrs. Woods, starting up. "Well, I hate him, and I'll never forgive him for tellin' you such a thing as that." "But, mother, don't you love _the_ Master, and won't you be friendly and forgiving to Benjamin, for _his_ sake? I wish you would. It would give you power; I want you to do so." "I'll think about it, Gretchen. I don't feel quite right about these things, and I'm goin' to have a good talk with Father Lee. The boy has some good in him." "I wish you would tell him that." "Why?" "Sympathy makes one grow so." "That's so, Gretchen. Only praise a dog for his one good quality, and it will make a good dog of him. I 'spect 'tis the same with folks. But my nature don't break up easy. I shall come out right some time. I tell you I'm goin' to have a talk with Father Lee. It is his preachin' that has made me what I am, and may be I'll be better by and by." Mrs. Woods, with all her affected courage, had good reason to fear an Indian outbreak, and to use every influence to prevent it. The very mention of the Potlatch filled her with recent terror. She well knew the story of the destruction of Whitman and a part of his missionary colony. _That_ was a terrible event, and it was a scene like that that the new settlers feared, at the approaching Potlatch; and the thought of that dreadful day almost weakened the faith of Mr. Mann in the Indians. We must tell you the old-time history of the tragedy which was now revived in the new settlement. _THE CONJURED MELONS._ Most people who like history are familiar with the national story of Marcus Whitman's "Ride for Oregon"[A]--that daring horseback trip across the continent, from the Columbia to the Missouri, which enabled him to convince the United States Government not only that Oregon could be reached, but that it was worth possessing. Exact history has robbed this story of some of its romance, but it is still one of the noblest wonder-tales of our own or any nation. Monuments and poetry and art must forever perpetuate it, for it is full of spiritual meaning. Lovers of missionary lore have read with delight the ideal romance of the two brides who agreed to cross the Rocky Mountains with their husbands, Whitman and Spaulding; how one of them sang, in the little country church on departing, the whole of the hymn-- "Yes, my native land, I love thee," when the voices of others failed from emotion. They have read how the whole party knelt down on the Great Divide, beside the open Bible and under the American flag, and took possession of the great empire of the Northwest in faith and in imagination, and how history fulfilled the dream. At the time of the coming of the missionaries the Cayuse Indians and Nez-Percés occupied the elbow of the Columbia, and the region of the musical names of the Wallula, the Walla Walla, and Waülaptu. They were a superstitious, fierce, and revengful race. They fully believed in witchcraft or conjuring, and in the power to work evil through familiar spirits. Everything to them and the neighboring tribes had its good or evil spirit, or both--the mountains, the rivers, the forest, the sighing cedars, and the whispering firs. The great plague of the tribes on the middle Columbia was the measles. The disease was commonly fatal among them, owing largely to the manner of treatment. When an Indian began to show the fever which is characteristic of the disease, he was put into and inclosed in a hot clay oven. As soon as he was covered with a profuse perspiration he was let out, to leap into the cold waters of the Columbia. Usually the plunge was followed by death. There was a rule among these Indians, in early times, that if the "medicine-man" undertook a case and failed to cure, he forfeited his own life. The killing of the medicine-man was one of the dramatic and fearful episodes of the Columbia. Returning from the East after his famous ride, Whitman built up a noble mission station at Waülaptu. He was a man of strong character, and of fine tastes and ideals. The mission-house was an imposing structure for the place and time. It had beautiful trees and gardens, and inspiring surroundings. Mrs. Whitman was a remarkable woman, as intelligent and sympathetic as she was heroic. The colony became a prosperous one, and for a time occupied the happy valley of the West. One of the vices of the Cayuse Indians and their neighbors was stealing. The mission station may have overawed them for a time into seeming honesty, but they began to rob its gardens at last, and out of this circumstance comes a story, related to me by an old Territorial officer, which may be new to most readers. I do not vouch for it, but only say that the narrator of the principal incidents is an old Territorial judge who lives near the place of the Whitman tragedy, and who knew many of the survivors, and has a large knowledge of the Indian races of the Columbia. To his statements I add some incidents of another pioneer: "The thieving Cayuses have made 'way with our melons again," said a young farmer one morning, returning from the gardens of the station. "One theft will be followed by another. I know the Cayuses. Is there no way to stop them?" One of the missionary fraternity was sitting quietly among the trees. It was an August morning. The air was a living splendor, clear and warm, with now and then a breeze that rippled the leaves like the waves of the sea. He looked up from his book, and considered the question half-seriously, half-humorously. "I know how we used to prevent boys from stealing melons in the East," said he. "How?" "Put some tartar emetic in the biggest one. In the morning it would be gone, but the boys would never come after any more melons." The young farmer understood the remedy, and laughed. "And," added he, "the boys didn't have much to say about melons after they had eaten _that_ one. The subject no longer interested them. I guess the Indians would not care for more than one melon of that kind." "I would like to see a wah-wah of Indian thieves over a melon like that!" said the gardener. "I declare, I and the boys will do it!" He went to his work, laughing. That day he obtained some of the emetic from the medical stores of the station, and plugged it into three or four of the finest melons. Next morning he found that these melons were gone. The following evening a tall Indian came slowly and solemnly to the station. His face had a troubled look, and there was an air of mystery about his gait and attitude. He stopped before one of the assistant missionaries, drew together his blanket, and said: "Some one here no goot. You keep a conjurer in the camp. Indian kill conjurer. Conjurer ought die; him danger, him no goot." The laborers gathered round the stately Indian. They all knew about the nauseating melons, and guessed why he had come. All laughed as they heard his solemn words. The ridicule incensed him. "You one conjurer," he said, "he conjure melons. One moon, two moons, he shall die." The laborers laughed again. "Half moon, more moons, he shall suffer--half moon, more moons," that is, sooner or later. The missionary's face grew serious. The tall Indian saw the change of expression. "Braves sick." He spread out his blanket and folded it again like wings. "Braves double up _so_"--he bent over, opening and folding his blanket. "Braves conjured; melon conjured--white man conjure. Indian kill him." There was a puzzled look on all faces. "Braves get well again," said the missionary, incautiously. "Then you _know_," said the Indian. "You know--you conjure. Make sick--make well!" He drew his blanket again around him and strode away with an injured look in his face, and vanished into the forests. "I am sorry for this joke," said the missionary; "it bodes no good." November came. The nights were long, and there was a perceptible coolness in the air, even in this climate of April days. Joe Stanfield, a half-breed Canadian and a member of Whitman's family, was observed to spend many of the lengthening evenings with the Cayuses in their lodges. He had been given a home by Whitman, to whom he had seemed for a time devoted. Joe Lewis, an Indian who had come to Whitman sick and half-clad, and had received shelter and work from him, seems to have been on intimate terms with Stanfield, and the two became bitter enemies to the mission and sought to turn the Cayuses against it, contrary to all the traditions of Indian gratitude. In these bright autumn days of 1847 a great calamity fell upon the Indians of the Columbia. It was the plague. This disease was the terror of the Northwestern tribes. The Cayuses caught the infection. Many sickened and died, and Whitman was appealed to by the leading Indians to stay the disease. He undertook the treatment of a number of cases, but his patients died. The hunter's moon was now burning low in the sky. The gathering of rich harvests of furs had begun, and British and American fur-traders were seeking these treasures on every hand. But at the beginning of these harvests the Cayuses were sickening and dying, and the mission was powerless to stay the pestilence. A secret council of Cayuses and half-breeds was held one night under the hunter's moon near Walla Walla, or else on the Umatilla. Five Crows, the warrior, was there with Joe Lewis, of Whitman's household, and Joe Stanfield, alike suspicious and treacherous, and old Mungo, the interpreter. Sitkas, a leading Indian, may have been present, as the story I am to give came in part from him. Joe Lewis was the principal speaker. Addressing the Cayuses, he said: "The moon brightens; your tents fill with furs. But Death, the robber, is among you. Who sends Death among you? The White Chief (Whitman). And why does the White Chief send among you Death, the robber, with his poison? That he may possess your furs." "Then why do the white people themselves have the disease?" asked a Cayuse. None could answer. The question had turned Joe Lewis's word against him, when a tall Indian arose and spread his blanket open like a wing. He stood for a time silent, statuesque, and thoughtful. The men waited seriously to hear what he would say. It was the same Indian who had appeared at the mission after the joke of the plugged melons. "Brothers, listen. The missionaries are conjurers. They conjured the melons at Waülaptu. They made the melons sick. I went to missionary chief. He say, 'I make the melons well.' I leave the braves sick, with their faces turned white, when I go to the chief. I return, and they are well again. The missionaries conjure the melons, to save their gardens. They conjure you now, to get your furs." The evidence was conclusive to the Cayuse mind. The missionaries were conjurers. The council resolved that all the medicine-men in the country should be put to death, and among the first to perish should be Whitman, the conjurer. Such in effect was the result of the secret council or councils held around Waülaptu. Whitman felt the change that had come over the disposition of the tribes, but he did not know what was hidden behind the dark curtain. His great soul was full of patriotic fire, of love to all men, and zeal for the gospel. He was nothing to himself--the cause was everything. He rode hither and thither on the autumn days and bright nights, engaged in his great work. He went to Oregon City for supplies. "Mr. McKinley," he said to a friend, "a Cayuse chief has told me that the Indians are about to kill all the medicine-men, and myself among them. I think he was jesting." "Dr. Whitman," said McKinley, "a Cayuse chief never jests." He was right. The fateful days wore on. The splendid nights glimmered over Mount Hood, and glistened on the serrated mountain tents of eternal snow. The Indians continued to sicken and die, and the universal suspicion of the tribes fell upon Whitman. Suddenly there was a war-cry! The mission ran with blood. Whitman and his wife were the first to fall. Then horror succeeded horror, and many of the heroic pioneers of the Columbia River perished. "The Jesuits have been accused of causing the murder of Whitman," said one historian of Washington to me. "They indignantly deny it. I have studied the whole subject for years with this opinion, that the Indian outbreak and its tragedies had its origin, and largely gathered its force, from the terrible joke of the conjured melons. "That was the evidence that must have served greatly to turn the Indian mind against one of the bravest men that America has produced, and whose name will stand immortal among the heroes of Washington and Oregon." I give this account as a local story, and not as exact history; but this tradition was believed by the old people in Washington. When any one in the new settlement spoke of the Potlatch, this scene came up like a shadow. Would it be repeated? FOOTNOTES: [Footnote A: See Historical Notes.] CHAPTER VIII. THE BLACK EAGLE'S NEST. In the log school-house, Lewis and Clarke's Expedition was used as a reading-book. Master Mann had adopted it because it was easy to obtain, and served as a sort of local geography and history. In this book is an account of a great black eagle's nest, on the Falls of the Missouri; and the incident seemed intensely to interest the picturesque mind of Benjamin. "Let us go see," said Benjamin, one day after this poetic part of Lewis and Clarke's narrative had been read. "What do you mean?" asked Mr. Mann. "I carry canoe, and we go and find him!" "What?" "The black eagle's nest." "Why?" "I'll get a plume--wear it here. Please father. I love to please father." There was to be a few weeks' vacation in a part of September and October, and Benjamin's suggestion led Mr. Mann to plan an excursion to the Falls of the Missouri at that time. The old chief would be glad to have Benjamin go with him and help hunt, and carry the canoe. They would follow the Salmon River out of the Columbia, to a point near the then called Jefferson River, and so pass the mountains, and launch themselves on the Missouri, whence the way would be easy to the Falls. The dream of this expedition seemed to make Benjamin perfectly happy. He had already been over a part of this territory, with his father, on a visit to the friendly tribes. The mid-autumn in the valleys of the Columbia and Missouri Rivers is serene, and yet kindles, with a sort of fiery splendor. The perfect days of America are here. Master Mann and Benjamin started on their expedition with a few Indians, who were to see them to the Jefferson River and there leave them. The Yankee schoolmaster had a prophetic soul, and he felt that he was treading the territory of future empires. Launched on the Missouri, the thought of what the vast plains might become overwhelmed him at times, and he would lie silent in his boat, and pray and dream. The soul of the Indian boy seemed as bright as the golden air of the cloudless days, during most of the time on the Salmon River, and while passing through the mountains. But he would sometimes start up suddenly, and a shade would settle on his face. Master Mann noticed these sudden changes of mood, and he once said to him: "What makes you turn sad, Benjamin?" "Potlatch." "But that is a dance." "Hawks." "I think not, Benjamin!" "You do not know. They have a bitter heart. My father does not sleep. It is you that keeps him awake. He loves you; you love me and treat me well; he loves you, and want to treat you well--see. _She_ make trouble. Indians meet at night--talk bitter. They own the land. They have rights. They threaten. Father no sleep. Sorry." _THE FALLS OF THE MISSOURI._ The Falls of the Missouri are not only wonderful and beautiful, but they abound with grand traditions. Before we follow our young explorer to the place, let us give you, good reader, some views of this part of Montana as it was and as it now appears. We recently looked out on the island that once lifted the great black eagle's nest over the plunging torrent of water--the nest famous, doubtless, among the Indians, long before the days of Lewis and Clarke. We were shown, in the city of Great Falls, a mounted eagle, which, it was claimed, came from this nest amid the mists and rainbows. The fall near this island, in the surges, is now known as the Black Eagle's Fall. This waterfall has not the beauty or the grandeur of the other cataracts--the Rainbow Falls and the Great Falls--a few miles distant. But it gathers the spell of poetic tradition about it, and strongly appeals to the sense of the artist and the poet. The romancer would choose it for his work, as the black eagles chose it for their home. Near it is one of the most lovely fountains in the world, called the Giant Spring. "Close beside the great Missouri, Ere it takes its second leap, Is a spring of sparkling water Like a river broad and deep." The spring pours out of the earth near the fall in a great natural fountain, emerald-green, clear as crystal, bordered with water-cresses, and mingles its waters with the clouded surges of the Missouri. If a person looks down into this fountain from a point near enough for him to touch his nose to the water, all the fairy-like scenes of the Silver Springs and the Waukulla Spring in Florida appear. The royal halls and chambers of Undine meet the view, with gardens of emeralds and gem-bearing ferns. It kindles one's fancy to gaze long into these crystal caverns, and a practical mind could hardly resist here the poetic sense of Fouqué that created Undine. The Black Eagle Falls, with its great nest and marvelous fountains, was a favorite resort of the Blackfeet Indians and other Indian tribes. It is related in the old traditions that the Piegans, on one of their expeditions against the Crows, rested here, and became enchanted with the fountain: "Hither came the warrior Piegans On their way to fight the Crow; Stood upon its verge, and wondered What could mean the power below." The Piegans were filled with awe that the fountain rose and fell and gurgled, as if in spasms of pain. They sent for a native medicine-man. "Why is the fountain troubled?" they asked. "This," said the Indian prophet, "is the pure stream that flows through the earth to the sun. It asks for offerings. We cast the spoils of war into it, and it carries them away to the Sun's _tepee_, and the Sun is glad, and so shines for us all." The Blackfeet worshiped the Sun. The Sun River, a few miles above this cataract, was a medicine or sacred river in the tribal days, and it was in this region of gleaming streams and thundering waterfalls that the once famous Sun-dances were held. There was a barbarous splendor about these Sun-dances. The tribes gathered for the festival in the long, bright days of the year. They wore ornaments of crystal, quartz, and mica, such as would attract and reflect the rays of the sun. The dance was a glimmering maze of reflections. As it reached its height, gleaming arrows were shot into the air. Above them, in their poetic vision, sat the Sun in his _tepee_. They held that the thunder was caused by the wings of a great invisible bird. Often, at the close of the Sun-dance on the sultry days, the clouds would gather, and the thunder-bird would shake its wings above them and cool the air. Delightful times were these old festivals on the Missouri. At evening, in the long Northern twilights, they would recount the traditions of the past. Some of the old tales of the Blackfeet, Piegans, and Chippewas, are as charming as those of La Fontaine. The Rainbow Falls are far more beautiful than those of the Black Eagle. They are some six miles from the new city of Great Falls. A long stairway of two hundred or more steps conducts the tourist into their very mist-land of rocks and surges. Here one is almost deafened by the thunder. When the sun is shining, the air is glorious with rainbows, that haunt the mists like a poet's dream. The Great Fall, some twelve miles from the city, plunges nearly a hundred feet, and has a roar like that of Niagara. It is one of the greatest water-powers of the continent. The city of Great Falls is leaping into life in a legend-haunted region. Its horizon is a borderland of wonders. Afar off gleam the Highwood Mountains, with roofs of glistening snow. Buttes (hills with level tops) rise like giant pyramids here and there, and one may almost imagine that he is in the land of the Pharaohs. Bench lands diversify the wide plains. Ranches and great flocks are everywhere; armies of cattle; creeks shaded with cottonwood and box-elder; birds and flowers; and golden eagles gleaming in the air. The Rockies wall the northern plains. The Belt Mountain region near Great Falls is a wonder-land, like the Garden of the Gods in Colorado, or the Goblin Land near the Yellowstone. It would seem that it ought to be made a State park. Here one fancies one's self to be amid the ruins of castles, cathedrals, and fortresses, so fantastic are the shapes of the broken mountain-walls. It is a land of birds and flowers; of rock roses, wild sunflowers, golden-rods; of wax-wings, orioles, sparrows, and eagles. Here roams the stealthy mountain lion. This region, too, has its delightful legends. One of these legends will awaken great curiosity as the State of Montana grows, and she seems destined to become the monarch of States. In 1742 Sieur de la Verendrye, the French Governor of Quebec, sent out an expedition, under his sons and brother, that discovered the Rocky Mountains, which were named _La Montana Roches_. On the 12th of May, 1744, this expedition visited the upper Missouri, and planted on an eminence, probably in the near region of Great Falls, a leaden plate bearing the arms of France, and raised a monument above it, which the Verendryes named _Beauharnois_. It is stated that this monument was erected on a river-bluff, between bowlders, and that it was twenty feet in diameter. There are people who claim to have discovered this monument, but they fail to produce the leaden plate with the arms of France that the explorers buried. The search for this hidden plate will one day begin, and the subject is likely greatly to interest historical societies in Montana, and to become a very poetic mystery. Into this wonder-land of waterfalls, sun-dances, and legends, our young explorers came, now paddling in their airy canoe, now bearing the canoe on their backs around the falls. Mr. Mann's white face was a surprise to the native tribes that they met on the way, but Benjamin's brightness and friendly ways made the journey of both easy. They came to the Black Eagle Falls. The great nest still was there. It was as is described in the book of the early explorers. It hung over the mists of the rapids, and, strangely enough, there were revealed three black plumes in the nest. Benjamin beheld these plumes with a kind of religious awe. His eyes dilated as he pointed to them. "They are for me," he said. "One for me, one for father, and one for you. I'll get them all." He glided along a shelf of rocks toward the little island, and mounted the tree. The black eagles were yet there, though their nest was empty. He passed up the tree under the wings of the eagles, and came down with a handful of feathers. "The book was true," said he. They went to Medicine River, now called the Sun River, and there witnessed a Sun-dance. It was a scene to tempt a brilliant painter or poet. The chiefs and warriors were arrayed in crystals, quartz, and every bright product of the earth and river that would reflect the glory of the sun. They returned from where the city of Great Falls is now, back to the mountains and to the tributaries of the Columbia. Benjamin appeared before his father, on his return, with a crest of black eagle's plumes, and this crest the young Indian knight wore until the day of his death. "I shall wear mine always," he said to his father. "You wear yours." "Yes," said his father, with a face that showed a full heart. "Both together," said Benjamin. "Both together," replied Umatilla. "Always?" said Benjamin. "Always," answered the chief. The Indians remembered these words. Somehow there seemed to be something prophetic in them. Wherever, from that day, Umatilla or Young Eagle's Plume was seen, each wore the black feather from the great eagle's nest, amid the mists and rainbows or mist-bows of the Falls of the Missouri. It was a touch of poetic sentiment, but these Indian races of the Columbia lived in a region that was itself a school of poetry. The Potlatch was sentiment, and the Sun-dance was an actual poem. Many of the tents of skin abounded with picture-writing, and the stories told by the night fires were full of picturesque figures. Gretchen's poetic eye found subjects for verse in all these things, and she often wrote down her impressions, and read them to practical Mrs. Woods, who affected to ignore such things, but yet seemed secretly delighted with them. "You have _talons_" she used to say, "but they don't amount to anything, anyway. Nevertheless--" The expedition to the Falls of the Missouri, and the new and strange sights which Benjamin saw there, led him to desire to make other trips with the schoolmaster, to whom he became daily more and more attached. In fact, the Indian boy came to follow his teacher about with a kind of jealous watchfulness. He seemed to be perfectly happy when the latter was with him, and, when absent from him, he talked of him more than of any other person. In the middle of autumn the sky was often clouded with wild geese, which in V-shaped flocks passed in long processions overhead, _honking_ in a trumpet-like manner. Sometimes a flock of snowy geese would be seen, and the laughing goose would be heard. "Where do they go?" said Mr. Mann one day to Benjamin. The boy told him of a wonderful island, now known as Whidby, where there were great gatherings of flocks of geese in the fall. "Let's go see," said he. "The geese are thicker than the bushes there--the ponds are all alive with them there--honk--honk--honk! Let's go see." "When the school is over for the fall we will go," said Mr. Mann. The Indian boy's face beamed with delight. He dreamed of another expedition like that to the wonderful Falls. He would there show the master the great water cities of the wild geese, the emigrants of the air. The thought of it made him dance with delight. Often at nightfall great flocks of the Canada geese would follow the Columbia towards the sea. Benjamin would watch them with a heart full of anticipation. It made him supremely happy to show the master the wonderful things of the beautiful country, and the one ambition of his heart now was to go to the lakes of the _honks_. CHAPTER IX. GRETCHEN'S VISIT TO THE OLD CHIEF OF THE CASCADES. "Go to the chief's lodge, Gretchen, and stay until the Potlatch, and I will come to visit you." Such were the words of Mrs. Woods, as her final decision, after long considering the chief's request. The forest lodge of the old chief of the Cascades was picturesque without and within. Outwardly, it was a mere tent of skins and curious pictography, under the shadows of gigantic trees, looking down on the glistening waters of the Columbia; inwardly, it was a museum of relics of the supposed era of the giant-killers, and of the deep regions of the tooth and claw; of Potlatches, masques and charms of _medas_ and _wabenoes_; of curious pipes; of odd, curious feathers, and beautiful shells and feather-work and pearls. But, though all things here were rude and primitive, the old chief had a strong poetic sense, and the place and the arrangement of everything in it were very picturesque in its effect, and would have delighted an artist. On a hill near were grave-posts, and a sacred grove, in which were bark coffins in trees. Near by was an open field where the Indian hunters were accustomed to gather their peltries, and where visiting bands of Indians came to be hospitably entertained, and feasts were given _à la mode de sauvage_. From the plateau of the royal lodge ran long forest trails and pathways of blazed trees; and near the opening to the tent rose two poles, to indicate the royal rank of the occupant. These were ornamented with ideographic devices of a historical and religious character. The family of Umatilla consisted of his squaw, an old woman partly demented, and Benjamin, who was now much of the time away with the schoolmaster. The old chief was very kind to his unfortunate wife, and treated her like a child or a doll. Benjamin was about to take as his bride an Indian girl whom the English called Fair Cloud, and she was a frequent visitor at the tent. To this patriarchal family Gretchen came one day, bringing her violin. Fair Cloud was there to receive her, and the crazy old squaw seemed to be made happy by the sight of her white face, and she did all that she could in her simple way to make her welcome. She gave her ornaments of shells, and pointed out to her a wabeno-tree, in whose tops spirits were supposed to whisper, and around which Indian visitors sometimes danced in the summer evenings. The Indian maid was eager to hear the violin, but the old chief said: "It is the voice of the Merciful; let it be still--the god should not speak much." He seemed to wish to reserve the influence of the instrument for the Potlatch, to make it an object of wonder and veneration for a time, that its voice might be more magical when it should be heard. There was a kind of tambourine, ornamented with fan-like feathers, in the lodge. Fair Cloud used to play upon it, or rather shake it in a rhythmic way. There was also a war-drum in the lodge, and an Indian called Blackhoof used to beat it, and say: "I walk upon the sky, My war-drum 'tis you hear; When the sun goes out at noon, My war-drum 'tis you hear! "When forkèd lightnings flash, My war-drum 'tis you hear. I walk upon the sky, And call the clouds; be still, My war-drum 'tis you hear!" The tribes of the Oregon at this time were numerous but small. They consisted chiefly of the Chinooks, Vancouvers, the Walla Wallas, the Yacomars, the Spokans, the Cayuses, the Nez-Percés, the Skagits, the Cascades, and many tribes that were scarcely more than families. They were for the most part friendly with each other, and they found in the Oregon or Columbia a common fishing-ground, and a water-way to all their territories. They lived easily. The woods were full of game, and the river of salmon, and berries loaded the plateaus. Red whortleberries filled the woodland pastures and blackberries the margins of the woods. The climate was an almost continuous April; there was a cloudy season in winter with rainy nights, but the Japanese winds ate up the snows, and the ponies grazed out of doors in mid-winter, and spring came in February. It was almost an ideal existence that these old tribes or families of Indians lived. [Illustration: _An Indian village on the Columbia._] Among the early friends of these people was Dick Trevette, whose tomb startles the tourist on the Columbia as he passes Mamaloose, or the Island of the Dead. He died in California, and his last request was that he might be buried in the Indian graveyard on the Columbia River, among a race whose hearts had always been true to him. The old chief taught Gretchen to fish in the Columbia, and the withered crone cooked the fish that she caught. Strange visitors came to the lodge, among them an Indian girl who brought her old, withered father strapped upon her back. The aged Indian wished to pay his last respects to Umatilla. Indians of other tribes came, and they were usually entertained at a feast, and in the evening were invited to dance about the whispering tree. The song for the reception of strangers, which was sung at the dance, was curious, and it was accompanied by striking the hand upon the breast over the heart at the words "Here, here, here": "You resemble a friend of mine, A friend I would have in my heart-- Here, here, _here_. "My heart is linked to thine; You are like a friend of mine-- Here, here, _here_. "Are we not brothers, then; Shall we not meet again-- Here, here, _here_? "Mi, yes, we brothers be, So my fond heart sings to thee-- Here, here, _here_. "Ah! yes, we brothers be; Will you not answer me-- Here, here, _here_?" Gretchen was happy in the new kind of life. She did not fear the Indians; in fact, the thing that she feared most was the promised visit of Mrs. Woods. She was sure that her foster-mother's spirit would change toward the Indians, but the change had not yet come. One evening the schoolmaster came to call. He was bent upon a mission, as always. The family gave him a seat outside of the tent, and gathered around him, and they talked until the stars came out and were mirrored in the Columbia. One of the first questions asked by the old chief was, "Is Eagle's Plume (Benjamin) brave?" (a good scholar). "Yes, brave at times; he must learn to be brave always. He must always keep his better self. The world would be good if people would learn to keep their better selves. Do you see?" "Yes." "A chief should conquer himself first; obey the will of the Great Manitou--do you see?" "Yes, but how can we know his will?" "It is his will that we be our best minds. Forgive, and so make bad people good, and return good for bad. Do you see?" "Yes, boy, do you see?" (to Benjamin). "Yes, yes, I see what white man means. But white man do not so. He cheat--he kill." "_Boston tilicum_, what do you say?" asked the chief. "White man does not follow his best heart when he cheats and kills. It is wrong. All men should be brothers--see?" "Yes, I have tried to be a brother. I have no shed blood--I live in peace--like yonder river. The stars love to shine on the peaceful river. Benjamin will learn. I go away when the swallows go, and no more come when the swallows bring the spring on their wings again. Teach Benjamin to be his good self all the time; make him good _here_." All the Indian visitors who came to the place examined the violin cautiously, and the Indian hunters seemed to regard Gretchen with suspicion. When any asked her to play for them, the old chief would answer: "Not now, but at the Potlatch--then it speak and you will hear; you will hear what it says." But, of all the people that came to the lodge, no one could have been more curious than Mrs. Woods. She had been living in terror of the threatened events of the October feast, and yet she wished to make the Indians believe that she was indifferent to their ill-will, and that she possessed some hidden power that gave her security. She approached the lodge slowly on the occasion of her visit, picking red whortleberries by the way. Benjamin watched her nervous motions, and felt that they implied a want of respect, and he grew silent and looked stoical. Gretchen went out to meet her, and brought her to the old chief. [Illustration: _Afar loomed Mount Hood._] It was a beautiful day, one of those long dreams of golden splendor that glorify the banks of the Oregon. Eccentric Victor Trevette and his Indian wife were at the lodge, and the company were joined by the Rev. Jason Lee, who had come up the Columbia in the interests of the mission in the Willamette Valley. Seattle[B] was there, from the Willamette, then young, and not yet the titular chief of Governor Stevens.[C] It was a company of diverse spirits--Trevette, the reputed gambler, but the true friend of the Indian races; Lee, who had beheld Oregon in his early visions, and now saw the future of the mountain-domed country in dreams; sharp-tongued but industrious and warm-hearted Mrs. Woods; the musical German girl, with memories of the Rhine; and the Indian chief and his family. The Columbia rolled below the tall palisades, the opposite bank was full of cool shadows of overhanging rocks, sunless retreats, and dripping cascades of glacier-water. Afar loomed Mount Hood in grandeur unsurpassed, if we except Tacoma, inswathed in forests and covered with crystal crowns. The Chinook winds were blowing coolly, coming from the Kuro Siwo, or placid ocean-river from Japan; odoriferous, as though spice-laden from the flowery isles of the Yellow Sea. Warm in winter, cool in summer, like the Gulf winds of Floridian shores, the good angel of the Puget Sea territories is the Chinook wind from far Asia, a mysterious country, of which the old chief and his family knew no more than of the blessed isles. "It is a day of the Great Manitou," said the old chief. "He lights the sun, and lifts his wings for a shadow, and breathes on the earth. He fills our hearts with peace. I am glad." "I only wish my people in the East knew how wonderful this country is," said Jason Lee. "I am blamed and distrusted because I leave my mission work to see what great resources here await mankind. I do it only for the good of others--something within me impels me to do it, yet they say I neglect my work to become a political pioneer. As well might they censure Joshua." "As a missionary," said the old hunter, "you would teach the Indians truth; as a pioneer, you would bring colonies here to rob them of their lands and rights. I can respect the missionary, but not the pioneer. See the happiness of all these tribal families. Benjamin is right--Mrs. Woods has no business here." "Adventurer," said Mrs. Woods, rising upon her feet, "I am a working-woman--I came out here to work and improve the country, and you came here to live on your Injun wife. The world belongs to those who work, and not to the idle. It is running water that freshens the earth. Husband and I built our house with our own hands, and I made my garden with my own hands, and I have defended my property with my own hands against bears and Injuns, and have kept husband to work at the block-house to earn money for the day of trouble and helplessness that is sure some day to come to us all. I raise my own garden-sass and all other sass. I'm an honest woman, that's what I am, and have asked nothing in the world but what I have earned, and don't you dare to question my rights to anything I possess! I never had a dollar that I did not earn, and that honestly, and what is mine is mine." "Be careful, woman," said the hunter. "It will not be yours very long unless you have a different temper and tongue. There are black wings in the sky, and you would not be so cool if you had heard the things that have come to my ears." Mrs. Woods was secretly alarmed. She felt that her assumed boldness was insincere, and that any insincerity is weakness. She glanced up a long ladder of rods or poles which were hung with Potlatch masks--fearful and merciless visages, fit to cover the faces of crime. She had heard that Umatilla would never put on a mask himself, although he allowed the custom at the tribal dances. Mrs. Woods dropped her black eyes from the ominous masks to the honest face of the chief. "There," said she, lifting her arm, "there sits an honest man. He never covered his heart with a mask--he never covered his face with a mask. He has promised me protection. He has promised to protect the school. I can trust a man who never wears a mask. Most people wear masks--Death takes the masks away; when Death comes to Umatilla, he will find great Umatilla only, fearless and noble--honest and true, but no mask. He never wore a mask." "But, woman," said Umatilla, "you are wearing a mask; you are afraid." "Yes, but I can trust your word." "You seek to please me for your own good." "Yes--but, Umatilla, I can trust your word." "The word of Umatilla was never broken. Death will come to Umatilla for his mask, and will go away with an empty hand. I have tried to make my people better.--Brother Lee, you have come here to instruct me--I honor you. Listen to an old Indian's story. Sit down all. I have something that I would say to you." The company sat down and listened to the old chief. They expected that he would speak in a parable, and he did. He told them in Chinook the story of _THE WOLF BROTHER._ An old Indian hunter was dying in his lodge. The barks were lifted to admit the air. The winds of the seas came and revived him, and he called his three children to him and made his last bequests. "My son," he said, "I am going out into the unknown life whence I came. Give yourself to those who need you most, and always be true to your younger brother." "My daughter," he said, "be a mother to your younger brother. Give him your love, or for want of it he may become lonely and as savage as the animals are." The two older children promised, and the father died at sunset, and went into the unknown life whence he came. The old Indian had lived apart from the villages of men for the sake of peace; but now, after his death, the oldest son sought the villages and he desired to live in them. "My sister," he said, "can look out for my little brother. I must look out for myself." But the sister tired of solitude, and longed to go to the villages. So one day she said to her little brother: "I am going away to find our brother who has taken up his abode in the villages. I will come back in a few moons. Stay you here." But she married in the villages, and did not return. The little brother was left all alone, and lived on roots and berries. He one day found a den of young wolves and fed them, and the mother-wolf seemed so friendly that he visited her daily. So he made the acquaintance of the great wolf family, and came to like them, and roam about with them, and he no longer was lonesome or wished for the company of men. One day the pack of wolves came near the villages, and the little boy saw his brother fishing and his sister weaving under a tree. He drew near them, and they recognized him. "Come to us, little brother," said they, sorry that they had left him to the animals. "No--no!" said he. "I would rather be a wolf. The wolves have been kinder to me than you. "My brother, My brother, I am turning-- am turning Into a wolf. You made me so! "My sister, My sister, I am turning-- I am turning Into a wolf. You made me so!" "O little brother, forgive me," said the sister; "forgive me!" "It is too late now. See, I _am_ a wolf!" He howled, and ran away with the pack of wolves, and they never saw him again. * * * * * "Jason Lee, be good to my people when I am gone, lest they become like the little brother. "Victor Trevette, be good to my people when I am gone, lest they become like the little brother." The tall form of Marlowe Mann now appeared before the open entrance of the lodge. The Yankee schoolmaster had been listening to the story. The old chief bent his eye upon him, and said, "And, Boston tilicum, do you be good to Benjamin when I am gone, so that he shall not become like the little brother." "You may play, Gretchen, now--it is a solemn hour; the voices of the gods should speak." Gretchen took her violin. Standing near the door of the tent, she raised it to her arm, and the strains of some old German music rose in the glimmering air, and drifted over the Columbia. "I think that there are worlds around this," said the old chief. "The Great Spirit is good." The sun was going down. High in the air the wild fowls were flying, with the bright light yet on their wings. The glaciers of Mount Hood were flushed with crimson--a sea of glass mingled with fire. It was a pastoral scene; in it the old history of Oregon was coming to an end, after the mysteries of a thousand years, and the new history of civilization was beginning. Evening came, and the company dispersed, but the old chief and Gretchen sat down outside of the tent, and listened to the murmuring music of the Dalles of the Columbia, and breathed the vital air. The Columbia is a mile wide in some places, but it narrows at the Dalles, or shelves and pours over the stone steps the gathered force of its many tides and streams. Across the river a waterfall filled the air with misty beauty, and a castellated crag arose solitary and solemn--the remnant of some great upheaval in the volcanic ages. [Illustration: _A castellated crag arose solitary and solemn._] The red ashes of the sunset lingered after the fires of the long day had gone down, and the stars came out slowly. The old chief was sad and thoughtful. "Sit down by my feet, my child," he said to Gretchen, or in words of this meaning. "I have been thinking what it is that makes the music in the violin. Let us talk together, for something whispers in the leaves that my days are almost done." "Let me get the violin and play to you, father; we are alone." "Yes, yes; get the music, child, and you shall play, and we will talk. You shall sit down at my feet and play, and we will talk. Go, my little spirit." Gretchen brought her violin, and sat down at his feet and tuned it. She then drew her bow, and threw on the air a haunting strain. "Stop there, little spirit. It is beautiful. But what made it beautiful?" "My bow--don't you see?" Gretchen drew her bow, and again lifted the same haunting air. "No--no--my girl--not the bow--something behind the bow." "The strings?" "No--no--something behind the strings." "My fingers--so?" "No--no--something behind the fingers." "My head--_here_?" "No--something behind that." "My heart?" "No--no--something behind that." "I?" "Yes--you, but something behind that. I have not seen it, my girl--your spirit. It is that that makes the music; but there is something behind that. I can feel what I can not see. I am going away, girl--going away to the source of the stream. Then I will know everything good is beautiful--it is good that makes you beautiful, and the music beautiful. It is good that makes the river beautiful, and the stars. I am going away where all is beautiful. When I am gone, teach my poor people." Gretchen drew his red hand to her lips and kissed it. The chief bent low his plumed head and said: "That was so beautiful, my little spirit, that I am in a haste to go. One moon, and I will go. Play." Gretchen obeyed. When the strain died, the two sat and listened to the murmuring of the waters, as the river glided down the shelves, and both of them felt that the Spirit of Eternal Goodness with a Father's love watched over everything. The old chief rose, and said again: "When I am gone to my fathers, teach my poor people." He added: "The voice of the good spirits ask it--the All-Good asks it--I shall go away--to the land whence the light comes. You stay--teach. You will?" "Yes," said Gretchen--a consciousness of her true calling in life coming upon her, as in an open vision--"I will be their teacher." The old chief seemed satisfied, and said: "It is well; I am going away." Much of the chief's talk was acted. If he wished to speak of a star, he would point to it; and he would imitate a bird's call to designate a bird, and the gurgle of water when speaking of a running stream. He spoke Chinook freely, and to see him when he was speaking was to learn from his motions his meaning. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote B: See Historical Notes.] [Footnote C: See Historical Notes.] CHAPTER X. MRS. WOODS MEETS LITTLE ROLL OVER AGAIN. One day Rev. Jason Lee came up from the Cascades, in a boat, to visit Mr. and Mrs. Woods on their donation claim. Mr. Lee at this tine was inspired with missionary zeal for the Indians, and he remembered Mrs. Woods kindly as an ignorant but earnest and teachable woman, whom the influence of his preaching had brought to his spiritual flock. He knew her needs of counsel and help, he pitied her hard and lonely life, and he came to visit her from time to time. He had once given her a copy of Wesley's Hymns, and these hymns she had unconsciously learned, and delighted to quote on all occasions. Her favorite hymn in the collection was written by Thomas Olivers, one of Wesley's coadjutors, beginning-- "The God of Abrah'm praise." She used to sing it often about her work; and one approaching the cabin, might often have heard her trying to sing to the old Hebrew melody of _Leoniel_--a tune perhaps as old as the Jewish Temple itself--such sublime thoughts as these-- "The God of Abrah'm praise, At whose supreme command From earth I rise, and seek the joys At his right hand; I all on earth forsake, Its wisdom, fame, and power; And him my only portion make, My shield and tower. "He by himself hath sworn, I on his oath depend; I shall, on eagles' wings upborne, To heaven ascend: I shall behold his face, I shall his power adore, And sing the wonders of his grace Forever more." Another favorite hymn, in an easy metre, was John Wesley's triumphant review of life in his middle age. The tune, although marked in the music-books C.P.M., and thus indicating some difficulty, was really as simple as it was lively, and carried the voice along like the music of a meadow stream: "How happy is the pilgrim's lot, How free from every anxious thought, From worldly hope and fear! Confined to neither court nor cell, His soul disdains on earth to dwell-- He only sojourns here." Mrs. Woods was singing as usual about her work, when Jason Lee rapped at her door. "Father Lee," said Mrs. Woods, "can I trust my eyes!--come again to see me, away out here in the timber? Well, you are welcome. I have got something on my mind, and I have long been wanting to have a talk with you. How is the mission at the Dalles?" "It is prospering, but I regard it as my duty to leave it and go back to the East; and this may be my farewell visit, though I expect to come back again." "Why, Father Lee, what has changed your mind? You surely can not think it your duty to leave this great country in the Oregon! You are needed here if anywhere in this world." "Yes, but it is on account of this country on the Oregon being great, as you call it, that I must go away. It was once my calling in life to become a missionary to the Indians of Oregon, and to see this wonderful land. The same Voice that called me to that work calls me again to go back to tell the people of the East of their great opportunity here. I owe it to my country's future to do this. I have eaten the grapes of a promised land, and I must return to my own people with the good report. I believe that the best life of America will yet be here--it seems to be so revealed to me. My mission was to the Indians; it is now to induce colonies to come to the Oregon." "Well, each heart knows its own calling and duty, and none of us are led alike. Father Lee, Gretchen has been reprovin' me, though she shouldn't, perhaps, being a girl. She was sassy to me, but she meant well. She is a well-meanin' girl, though I have to be hard on her sometimes--it is my duty to be, you know. "Well, some months ago, more than a year, an Injun ran away with my best saw, and that gave me a prejudice against the Injuns, I suppose. Afterward, Young Eagle's Plume--Benjamin, the chief's boy--insulted me before the school by takin' a stick out of my hand, and I came to dislike him, and he hates me. There are many Injuns in the timber now, and they all cast evil looks at me whenever I meet them, and these things hint that they are goin' to capture me at the Potlatch and carry me away. I hate Injuns. "But Gretchen has told me a thing that touches my feelin's. She says that Benjamin he says that he will protect me on account of his love for the master; and that, on account of my love for the good Master of us all and his cause, I ought to show a different spirit toward the Injuns. What do you think?" "Gretchen is right, although a girl should be modest with her elders. Hatred only multiplies itself; when one overcomes his evil passions he gains others, and loses nothing. Do you see?" "But I am always good to those I like and those who treat me well. Think how I used to take care of the sick folk on our way out here, and what I have tried to do for Gretchen!" "'If ye love them that love you, what thank have ye?' All people love those who love them--the savages do. To give up one's evil desires, and to help others by returning love for hate, is the true life. The best friends in the world that we can have are those that we have drawn to our hearts by forgiveness. Do something good to every Indian that hates you, and you will never be carried away captive." "But Whitman, remember Whitman: he showed the right spirit, and the Injuns killed _him_!" "His death was caused by a misapprehension, and it made him a martyr. His work lives. Men live in their work." "Well, Father Lee, if Benjamin can overcome his evil feelin's for his master, I ought to do so for mine, as Gretchen says. My bad spirit in this matter has long troubled me; it has caused a cloud to come over me when singin' hymns. I will give it all up now--I will give up everything, and just follow the better spirit. I want to do right, so that I can sing hymns." When Father Lee left the cabin, Mrs. Woods accompanied him to his boat on the river. As they were passing along under the tall spruces whose tops glimmered in the sun, and whose cool shadows made the trail delightful and refreshing, a black she-bear suddenly rose up before them, and a cub started up by her side. The great bear and the little bear both stood on their haunches, with their fore-feet outstretched like arms, as in great surprise. Mrs. Woods stopped and threw up her arms, and Parson Lee drew back. Mrs. Woods looked at the little bear, and the little bear at her. "Roll over, roll over!" she suddenly exclaimed. A strange event followed, very strange indeed in the eyes of the startled missionary. The little bear rolled itself into a ball, and began to turn over and over, and to come toward them in its somersaults. The mother bear made a peculiar noise, dropped upon her four feet and ran off into the timber; and the little one, hearing the noise and movement, leaped up and followed her. "What _does_ that mean?" asked the missionary, in astonishment. "That is Little Roll Over. I taught him that trick myself. He was once a pet of mine, and he ran away." "Extraordinary!" said the missionary; "and it seems to me, if you have such a good influence over bears, you might do a great deal of good among the Indians." "And I will," said Mrs. Woods. "I mean to live so I can sing hymns, and feel right about it." On the return home, Mrs. Woods looked everywhere for her pet bear. She did not fear the old bear, for these animals are generally harmless if unmolested. She called, "Roll Over! Roll Over!" when she came to the place where she had had the adventure. But there was no answer except from the blue jays that piped out their shrill call in the tall trees. Mrs. Woods came home to have a long battle with herself. Her idea of happiness seemed to be the freedom to sing hymns with a clear conscience, and the poor pioneer woman's philosophy was not very far from right. CHAPTER XI. MARLOWE MANN'S NEW ROBINSON CRUSOE. Besides the Narrative of Lewis and Clarke, which was used in the school as a reader, Mr. Mann made use of another book in his teaching which greatly delighted his pupils and often awakened their sympathies. It was called "John E. Jewett and Thompson." It presented a picture of life on the coast early in the century. The strange story was much as follows: _THE ROBINSON CRUSOE OF VANCOUVER._ About the year 1802 the ship Boston, from Boston, Mass., went to Hull, England, to secure a cargo of goods to carry to the Indians on the Northwest coast of America to trade for furs. She was a general trading-vessel, such as roamed the seas of the world adventurously at that time, and often made fortunes for the merchants of New York, Boston, and other Atlantic port cities. She was commanded by Captain John Salter, a clever man and a natural story-teller, whose engaging pictures of travel were sure to fascinate the young. While in England this man met a lad by the name of John Rogers Jewett, who listened eagerly to his romantic adventures, and who desired to embark with him for America, and was allowed by his parents to make the voyage. The ship sailed around Cape Horn to Nootka Island, one of the islands on the west coast of Vancouver Island between the forty-ninth and fiftieth parallel. Here the whole crew, with the exception of young Jewett and a man by the name of Thompson, were massacred by the Indians, and the strange and tragic narrative of the survivors was an American and English wonder-tale seventy years ago. Mr. Jewett published the account of his capture and sufferings, under the title of "John R. Jewett and Thompson," or, to copy the title of the quaint old book before me, "A Narrative of the Adventures and Sufferings of John R. Jewett, only Survivor of the Crew of the Ship Boston, during a Captivity of nearly Three Years among the Savages of Nootka Sound." The book was issued from London, England, and from Middletown, Conn. After Robinson Crusoe, perhaps no book was more eagerly read by our grandfathers in their boyhood than this. The Indian king of Nootka was Maquina. He used to visit the ship, sometimes wearing a wooden mask over his face representing some wild beast. Such masks are still to be found among the Indians of Vancouver. Maquina was at first very friendly to Captain Salter, but one day the latter offended him, and he resolved to have his revenge by killing him and the crew, and destroying the ship. Accordingly, one morning, after he had been capering on deck and blowing a rude whistle, he said to the captain: "When do you intend to sail?" "To-morrow," replied the captain. "You love salmon--much in Friendly Cove; go, then, and catch some," said the chief. The captain thought it very desirable to have a large supply of fish on board, so he assented to the chief's proposal, and, after dinner with the latter, he sent away a jolly-boat or yawl with nine men to fish in Friendly Cove. A series of tragedies followed. "I went down to my vise-bench in the steerage," says Mr. Jewett, in his Narrative, "where I was employed in cleaning muskets. I had not been there more than an hour, when I heard a great bustle and confusion on deck. I ran up the steerage stairs, but scarcely was my head above deck when I was caught by the hair by one of the savages. My hair was short, and I fell from his hold into the steerage. As I was falling, he struck me with an axe and cut a deep gash in my forehead. I remained in a state of suspense for some time, when Maquina himself appeared at the hatch and ordered me to come up. What a terrific spectacle met my eyes! Six naked savages stood in a circle around me, covered with the blood of my murdered comrades! I thought that my last moment had come, and commended my soul to my Maker. "'John,' said the chief, 'I speak--you no say no; you say no--daggers come. Will you become my slave and fight for me?' I answered, 'Yes.' Then he told me that he would spare my life. "Taking me by the hand, he led me to the quarter-deck, where the most horrid sight presented itself; the heads of our unfortunate captain and his crew, to the number of twenty-five, were arranged in a line. "Maquina then ordered me to get the ship under way for Friendly Cove. We were there received by the inhabitants of the village with loud shouts of joy and a horrible drumming of sticks upon the roofs and sides of their houses. Maquina took me on shore to his house." Young Jewett became a favorite of the chief's son, and was made a member of the tribe. He was compelled to marry an Indian princess, and his search for his wife is a wonderful romance, and really very poetic, as the marriage customs of the tribes are associated with a rustic festival worthy of a painter and poet. The young princess chosen was beautiful, and served him with the most affectionate devotion, but he could not love her, because he had been compelled to marry her. The most remarkable incidents of this strange narrative are associated with the fate of those who were engaged in the massacre of the officers and crew of the Boston, and which show that the experience of retribution is a law common to all peoples and lands. The principal chief or sub-chief among the warriors was Tootooch. He had married Maquina's sister. He ranked next to Maquina in all things pertaining to war, and he had been the foremost leader and the most merciless of conquerors in the destruction of the Boston. He killed two men on shore, presumably with his own hand. Insanity is not common among the Indians. But a terrible mania took possession of this ambitious warrior. "While in the enjoyment of the highest health," says Mr. Jewett, "he was suddenly seized with delirium, in which he fancied that he saw the ghosts of the two men that he had murdered." The avenging vision followed him wherever he went. He was filled with terror at all times, and at last refused to eat to sustain his life. The Indians forced food into his mouth. Maquina was informed of the terrible state of the warrior's mind by his sister, Tootooch's wife. He went to the haunted man's house, taking Mr. Thompson and Mr. Jewett with him. "We found him raving about the two murdered men, Hall and Wood," says Jewett. "Maquina placed provisions before him, but he would not eat." At last the distressed _tyee_, induced by hunger, put forth his hand to touch the food. But he suddenly drew it back, saying that Hall and Wood were there. "They will not let me eat," said he, with a look of despair and terror. Maquina pointed to Thompson and Jewett. "Is it they who have bewitched you?" he asked. "_Wik_ (no); John _klashish_ (is good), Thompson _klashish_ (is good)." He arose and piteously put his hand on Jewett's shoulder, and, pointing to the food offered him, he said, "Eat." "Eat it yourself," replied Mr. Jewett. "Hall and Wood are not there." "You can not see them," he answered; "I can. I know that you can not see them." "What do you do in your own country in such cases as this?" asked Maquina. "We confine the person and whip him," said Jewett. The chief ordered that the haunted warrior should be confined and whipped; but the pain did not relieve the warrior's mind of the terrible vision of the two men that he had killed. He grew more wild. He would torture his slaves for diversion. His wife fled from him. The vision continued until he became completely exhausted, and Death came with a merciful face. "Early in June," says Mr. Jewett, "Tootooch, the crazy chief, died. The whole village set up a loud cry. The body was laid on a plank, and the head bound with a red fillet. It was then wrapped in an otter-skin robe and placed in a large coffin, which was ornamented with rows of white shells. It was buried by night in a cavern." The _tyees_ or chiefs had discussed often the policy of putting Mr. Jewett and Mr. Thompson to death, and so end all evidence of the destruction of the Boston in the event of new ships appearing on the coast. But the spectacle of Tootooch staring at the ghosts of the men that he had killed, and wasting away amid days and nights of horror, made them fear that the other warriors engaged in the massacre would become affected in the like way, and deterred them from any further violence. Jewett was at last rescued by a trading-ship, and was taken to the Columbia River, where he arrived shortly after the visit of Lewis and Clarke, of the famous expedition that bears these names. He finally came to New England and settled in Middletown, Conn. His history gives a very picturesque view of the habits and customs of the Indians on the Northwest coast nearly a century ago. The book can be found in antiquarian libraries, and should be republished in the interest of American folk-lore. The truth of the incidents gives the whole narrative a vivid and intense interest; it reads like De Foe. CHAPTER XII. OLD JOE MEEK AND MR. SPAULDING. One day a man in a buckskin habit came to the door of the school-house and looked in upon the school. His face was that of a leader of men, hard and powerful; one could see that it feared nothing, and that it looked with contempt on whatever was artificial, affected, or insincere. His form had the strength and mettle of a pioneer. He rapped a loud, hard rap, and said, in a sturdy tone: "May I come in?" The master welcomed him cordially and courteously, and said: "This is Mr. Meek, I believe?" "Yes, old Joe Meek, the pioneer--you have heard of me." "Yes, yes," said Mr. Mann. "You have caught the spirit of Oregon--you are Oregon. You have made the interest of this great country your life; I honor you for it. I feel the same spirit coming over me. What we do here is done for a thousand years, for here the great life of the Anglo-Saxon race is destined to come. I can see it; I feel it. The morning twilight of time is about me. I can hear the Oregon calling--calling; to teach here is a glorious life; the whole of humanity is in it. I have no wish to return to the East again." "Stranger, give me your hand." The New England schoolmaster took the hard hand of the old pioneer, and the two stood there in silence. The children could not understand the great, soul-expanding sympathy that made these two men friends. They gazed on Mr. Meek's buckskin jacket and trousers with curiosity, for they were picturesque with their furs, belts, and weapons, and he looked like a warrior or a forest knight clad in armor. He wore the same buckskin suit when he appeared in Washington as the delegate to Congress from Oregon. It was at the time of Polk and Dallas, and not a person in Washington probably knew him when he made his appearance at the Congressional Hotel. The people at the hotel stared at him as the children did now. He went into the great dining-room with the other Congressmen, but alone and unknown. The colored waiters laughed at him as he took his seat at the table. The other people at the table were served, but no one came near him. At last he turned and faced a hurrying colored man, and, in a voice that silenced the room, said: "Waiter, come here!" The waiter rolled up his eyes and said, "Sir?" "Have you any big meat to-day?" "Yes, sir." "Any bear?" "Any bear? bear? No, sir." "Any buffalo?" "Any buffalo--buffalo? Where did you come from? No, sir." "Well, waiter you may bring me what you have." The waiter went away with white teeth, and a smile and titter passed around the table. The waiter returned with the usual first course of the meal, and was about to hurry away, when the old pioneer took out his pistol and laid it down on the table, saying: "Waiter, you stand there, I may want you; and if anybody wants to know who I am, tell him I am Hon. Joseph Meek, the delegate of the people of Oregon." When it was known who Mr. Meek was, he was met by Mr. Dallas, the courtly Vice-President. "I will attend you to the reception this afternoon, where you will meet the wives of the Congressmen," said he. "I will call for you at three." The Vice-President called, and was surprised to find Mr. Meek still in his buckskins. "You do not intend to go in that habit to the reception?" said he. "Yes," said Mr. Meek, "or else not go at all. In the first place, I have nothing else to wear, and what is good enough for me to wear among the people of Oregon is good enough for their representative here." We have given, in these two anecdotes, very nearly Mr. Meek's own words. A few days after the visit of this most extraordinary man, another visitor came. She was an earnest-looking woman, on an Indian pony, and there was a benevolence in her face and manner that drew the whole school into immediate sympathy with her. The lady was Mrs. Spaulding, one of the so-called "Brides of Oregon." Her husband had come to the Territory with Dr. Whitman and his bride. The long missionary journey was the bridal tour of Mrs. Whitman and Mrs. Spaulding. They were the first white women who crossed the Rocky Mountains. It was related of Mrs. Spaulding, who had a beautiful voice, and was a member of a church quartet or choir in a country town in New York, as a leading singer, that, just before leaving the place for her long horseback journey of more than two thousand miles, she sang in the church the hymn beginning-- "Yes, my native land, I love thee," in such an affecting manner as to silence the rest of the choir, and melt the congregation to tears: "Home, thy joys are passing lovely, Joys no stranger's heart can tell; Happy scenes and happy country, Can I bid you all farewell? Can I leave thee, Far in heathen lands to dwell?" This lady addressed the school, and spoke feelingly of the condition of the Indian race, and of the field for the teacher in the valleys of the Columbia. Gretchen listened to the address with open heart. There are moments of revelation when a knowledge of one's true calling in life comes to the soul. Faith as a blind but true guide vanishes, and the eye sees. Such was the hour to Gretchen. She had often felt, when playing on the violin, that the inspiration that gave such influence to her music should be used in teaching the tribes that were so susceptible to its influence. This feeling had grown in the playing and singing of a school-song, the words of which were written by Mrs. Hunter, an English lady, and the wife of the famous Dr. Hunter, which showed the heroism and fortitude of the Indian character: "The sun sets at night and the stars shun the day, But glory remains when the light fades away; Begin, ye tormentors, your threats are in vain, For the son of Alknoomook will never complain." The tune or melody was admirably adapted to the violin. Benjamin loved to hear it sung, and Gretchen was pleased to sing and to play it. Mr. Mann asked Gretchen to play for Mrs. Spaulding, and she chose this simple but expressive melody. He then asked the school to sing, and he selected the words of "Yes, my native land, I love thee," to the music of Rousseau's Dream. Mrs. Spaulding could hardly keep from joining in the tune and hymn, then well known to all the missionary pioneers. At the words-- "In the desert let me labor, On the mountain let me tell," her beautiful voice rose above the school, and Gretchen's fingers trembled as she played the air. As the lady rode away, Gretchen felt tears coming into her eyes. The school was dismissed, and the pupils went away, but Gretchen lingered behind. She told Benjamin to go to the lodge, and that she would follow him after she had had a talk with the master. "That song is beautiful," said Gretchen. "'In the desert let me labor.' That is what I would like to do all my life. Do you suppose that I could become a teacher among the Indians like Mrs. Spaulding? It would make me perfectly happy if I could. If I were to study hard, would you help me to find such a place in life?" Gretchen's large eyes, filled with tears, were bent earnestly on the face of Mr. Mann. "Yes," he said, "and if I can inspire you only to follow me in such work, it will repay me for an unknown grave in the forests of the Columbia." Gretchen started; she trembled she knew not why, then buried her face in her arms on the rude log desk and sobbed. She raised her head at last, and went out, singing-- "In the desert let me labor." It was a glorious sundown in autumn. The burning disk of the sun hung in clouds of pearl like an oriel-window in a magnificent temple. Black shadows fell on the placid waters of the Columbia, and in the limpid air under the bluffs Indians fished for salmon, and ducks and grebes sported in river weeds. Marlowe Mann went away from the log school-house that night a happy man. He had seen that his plans in life were already budding. He cared little for himself, but only for the cause to which he devoted his life--to begin Christian education in the great empire of Oregon. But how unexpected this episode was, and how far from his early dreams! His spirit had inspired first of all this orphan girl from the Rhine, who had been led here by a series of strange events. This girl had learned faith from her father's prayers. On the Rhine she had never so much as heard of the Columbia--the new Rhine of the sundown seas. CHAPTER XIII. A WARNING. One evening, as Gretchen was sitting outside of the lodge, she saw the figure of a woman moving cautiously about in the dim openings of the fir-trees. It was not the form of an Indian woman--its movement was mysterious. Gretchen started up and stood looking into the darkening shadows of the firs. Suddenly the form came out of the clearing--it was Mrs. Woods. She waved her hand and beckoned to Gretchen, and then drew back into the forest and disappeared. Gretchen went toward the openings where Mrs. Woods had so suddenly and strangely appeared. But no one was there. She wondered what the secret of the mysterious episode could be. She returned to the lodge, but said nothing about what she had seen. She passed a sleepless night, and resolved to go to see her foster-mother on the following day. So, after school the next afternoon, she returned to her old home for a brief visit, and to gain an explanation of the strange event of the evening before. She found Mrs. Woods very sad, and evidently troubled by some ominous experience. "So you saw me?" was her first salutation. "I didn't dare to come any further. They did not see me--did they?" "But, mother, why did you go away--why did you come to the lodge?" "O Gretchen, husband has been at home from the shingle-mill, and he has told me something dreadful!" "What, mother?" "There's a conspiracy!" "Where?" "Among the Injuns. A friendly Injun told husband in secret that there would be no more seen of the log school-house after the Potlatch." "Don't fear, mother; the chief and Benjamin will protect that." "But that isn't all, Gretchen. Oh, I am so glad that you have come home! There are dark shadows around us everywhere. I can feel 'em--can't you? The atmosphere is all full of dark faces and evil thoughts. I can't bear to sleep alone here now. Gretchen, there's a plot to capture the schoolmaster." "Don't fear, mother. I know Umatilla--he will never permit it." "But, Gretchen, the Injun told husband something awful." "What?" "That the schoolmaster would one day perish as Dr. Whitman did. Dr. Whitman was stricken down by the Injun whom he regarded as his best friend, and he never knew who dealt the blow. He went out of life like one smitten by lightning. O Gretchen!" "But, mother, I do not fear. The Indians thought that Dr. Whitman was a conjurer. We make people true, the master says, by putting confidence in them. I believe in the old chief and in Benjamin, and there will no evil ever come to the schoolmaster or the log school-house." "Gretchen, are you sure? Then I did not bring you away out here for nothing, did I? You may be the angel of deliverance of us all. Who knows? But, Gretchen, I haven't told you all yet." Mrs. Woods's face clouded again. "The Injun told husband that some of the warriors had formed a plot against _me_, and that, if they were to capture me, they would torture me. Gretchen, I am afraid. Don't you pity me?" "Mother, I know my power over the chief and Benjamin, and I know the power of a chief's sense of honor. I do pity you, you are so distressed. But, mother, no evil will ever come to you where I am, nor the school where I am. I am going to be a teacher among these Indians, if I live; I feel this calling, and my work will somehow begin here." "A teacher among the Injuns! You? You a teacher? Are anvils going to fly? Here I am, a poor lone woman, away out here three thousand miles from home, and tremblin' all over, at every sound that I hear at night, for fear I shall be attacked by Injuns, and you are dreamin', with your head all full of poetry, of goin' away and leavin' me, the best friend that you ever had on the earth, as good as a mother to you; of goin' away--of leavin' me, to teach a lot of savages! Gretchen, I knew that the world was full of empty heads, but I never realized how empty the human heart is until now! Been a mother to you, too!" "O mother, I never thought of leavin' you unless you wished it." "What did you think was goin' to become of me? I never kissed any child but you, and sometimes, when you are real good, I feel just as though I was your mother." "I thought that you would help me." "Help you, what doin'?" "To teach the Indians." "To teach the Injuns--Indians you call 'em! I'd like to teach one Injun to bring back my saw! I never tried to teach but one Injun--and he was _him_. You can't make an eagle run around a door-yard like a goose, and you can't teach an Injun to saw wood--the first thing you know, the saw will be missin'.--But how I am runnin' on! I do have a good deal of prejudice against the savages; nevertheless--" "I knew, mother, that you would say 'nevertheless.' It seems to me that word is your good spirit. I wish you would tell me what thought came to your mind when you said that word." "'Nevertheless?'" "Yes." "Well, the Master--" "He said--" "Yes--preach the gospel to every creature! I suppose that meant Injuns and all." "Yes--he said '_teach_'--so the schoolmaster explained it." "Did he? Well, I ought to obey it in spirit--hadn't I?--or at least not hinder others. I might help you teach it if I could get into the right spirit. But what put that thought into your head?" "Mrs. Spaulding, the missionary, has been to visit the school. She sang so beautifully! These were the words: "'In the desert let me labor, On the mountain let me tell.' "When she sung that, it all came to me--what I was--what I was sent into the world to do--what was the cause of your loving me and bringing me out here--I saw a plan in it all. Then, too, it came to me that you would at first not see the calling as I do, but that you would say _nevertheless_, and help me, and that we would work together, and do some good in the world, you and I. Oh! I saw it all." "Gretchen, did you see all that? Do you think that the spirit has eyes, and that they see true? But how could I begin? The Injuns all hate me." "Make them love you." "How?" "Say _nevertheless_ to them." "Well, Gretchen, you are a good girl, and I am sorry for the hard things that I have said. I do not feel that I have shown just the right spirit toward Benjamin. But he has said that he will not do me any harm, for the sake of his master, and I am willin' to give up my will for my Master. It is those that give up their desires that have their desires in this world, and anybody who does an injury to another makes for himself a judgment-day of some sort. You may tell Benjamin that I am real sorry for bein' hard to him, and that, if he will come over and see me, I'll give him a carved pipe that husband made. Now, Gretchen, you may go, and I'll sit down and think a spell. I'll be dreadful lonely when you're gone." Gretchen kissed her foster-mother at the door, and said: "Your new spirit, mother, will make us both so happy in the future! We'll work together. What the master teaches me, I'll teach you." "What--books?" "Yes." "O Gretchen, your heart is real good! But see here--my hair is gray. Oh, I am sorry--what a woman I might have been!" Gretchen lay down in the lodge that night beside the dusky wife of the old chief. The folds of the tent were open, and the cool winds came in from the Columbia, under the dim light of the moon and stars. The _tepee_, or tent, was made of skins, and was adorned with picture-writing--Indian poetry (if so it might be called). Overhead were clusters of beautiful feathers and wings of birds. The old chief loved to tell her stories of these strange and beautiful wings. There were the wings of the condor, of the bald and the golden eagle, of the duck-hawk, pigeon-hawk, squirrel-hawk, of the sap-sucker, of the eider duck, and a Zenaider-like dove. Higher up were long wings of swans and albatrosses, heads of horned owls, and beaks of the laughing goose. Through the still air, from some dusky shallow of the river came the metallic calls of the river birds, like the trumpeting swan. The girl lay waking, happy in recalling the spirit with which her foster-mother had accepted her plan of life. Suddenly her sensitive spirit became aware of something unusual and strange at the opening of the tent. There was a soft, light step without, a guarded footfall. Then a tall, dark shadow distinctly appeared, with a glitter of mother-of-pearl ornaments and a waving of plumes. It stood there like a ghost of a vivid fancy, for a time. Gretchen's heart beat. It was not an unusual thing for an Indian to come to the _tepee_ late in the evening; but there was something mysterious and ominous in the bearing and atmosphere of this shadowy visitor. The form stepped within the opening of the tent, and a voice whispered, "Umatilla, awake!" The old chief raised himself on his elbow with an "Ugh!" "Come out under the moon." The old chief arose and went out, and the two shadowy forms disappeared among a column of spruces on the musical banks of the Columbia. Gretchen could not sleep. The two Indians returned late, and, as they parted, Gretchen heard Umatilla's deep voice say, "No!" Her fears or instincts told her that the interview had reference to plots which were associated with the great Potlatch, now near at hand. She had heard the strange visitor say, "The moon is growing," and there was something shadowy in the very tone in which the words were spoken. Mrs. Woods sat down in her home of bark and splints all alone after Gretchen's departure. "She offers to teach me," she said to herself. "I am so sorry that I was not able to teach her. I never read much, any way, until I came under the influence of the Methody. I might have taught her spiritual things--any one can have spiritual knowledge, and that is the highest of all. But I have loved my own will, and to give vent to my temper and tongue. I will change it all. There are times when I am my better self. I will only talk and decide upon what is best in life at such times as these. That would make my better nature grow. When I am out of sorts I will be silent-like. Heaven help me! it is hard to begin all these things when one's hair is turnin' gray, and I never knew any one's gray hair to turn young again." She sat in the twilight crying over herself, and at last sang the mournful minor measures of a very quaint old hymn with a peculiar old history: "From whence doth this union arise That hatred is conquered by love? It fastens our souls in such ties As distance and time can't remove." The October moon came up larger and larger night by night. It stood on the verge of the horizon now in the late afternoon, as if to see the resplendent setting of the sun. One wandered along the cool roads at the parting of day between the red sun in the west and the golden moon in the east, and felt in the light of the two worlds the melancholy change in the atmospheres of the year. The old volcanoes glistened, for a wintry crust was widening over their long-dead ovens. Mount Saint Helens, as the far range which led up to the relic of the ancient lava-floods that is now known by that name was called by the settlers, was wonderfully beautiful in the twilights of the sun and moon. Mount Hood was a celestial glory, and the shadows of the year softened the glimmering glories of the Columbia. The boatman's call echoed long and far, and the crack of the flint-lock gun leaped in its reverberations from hill to hill as though the air was a succession of hollow chambers. Water-fowl filled the streams and drifted through the air, and the forests seemed filled with young and beautiful animals full of happy life. CHAPTER XIV THE POTLATCH. A potlatch among the tribes of the Northwest means a feast at which some wealthy Indian gives away to his own people or to a friendly tribe all that he has. For this generosity he becomes a councilor or wise man, or judge, an attendant on the chief in public affairs, and is held in especial honor during the rest of his life. To attain this honor of chief man or councilor, many an ambitious young Indian labors for years to amass wampum, blankets, and canoes. The feast at which he exchanges these for political honors is very dramatic and picturesque. It is usually held at the time of the full moon, and lasts for several days and nights. One of the principal features is the _Tamanous_, or Spirit-dance, which takes place at night amid blazing torches and deafening drums. A chief rarely gives a Potlatch; he has no need of honors. But Umatilla desired to close his long and beneficent chieftainship with a gift-feast. He loved his people, and there seemed to him something noble in giving away all his private possessions to them, and trusting the care of his old age to their hearts. His chief men had done this, and had gained by it an influence which neither power nor riches can attain. This supreme influence over the hearts of his people he desired to possess. The gift-feast was held to be the noblest service that an Indian could render his race. At the great Potlatch he would not only give away his private goods, but would take leave of the chieftainship which he had held for half a century. It was his cherished desire to see Benjamin made chief. His heart had gone into the young heart of the boy, and he longed to see The Light of the Eagle's Plume, sitting in his place amid the councilors of the nation and so beginning a new history of the ancient people. [Illustration: _At the Cascades of the Columbia_.] The full moon of October is a night sun in the empires of the Columbia and the Puget Sea. No nights in the world can be more clear, lustrous, and splendid than those of the mellowing autumn in the valleys of Mount Saint Helens, Mount Hood, and the Columbia. The moon rises over the crystal peaks and domes like a living glory, and mounts the deep sky amid the pale stars like a royal torch-bearer of the sun. The Columbia is a rolling flood of silver, and the gigantic trees of the centuries become a ghostly and shadowy splendor. There is a deep and reverent silence everywhere, save the cry of the water-fowl in the high air and the plash of the Cascades. Even the Chinook winds cease to blow, and the pine-tops to murmur. It was such a night that the Potlatch began. On an open plateau overlooking the Columbia the old chief had caused a large platform to be built, and on this were piled all his canoes, his stores of blankets, his wampum, and his regal ornaments and implements of war. Around the plateau were high heaps of pine-boughs to be lighted during the Spirit-dance so as to roll a dark cloud of smoke under the bright light of the high moon, and cause a weird and dusky atmosphere. The sun set; the shadows of night began to fall, but the plateau was silent. Not a human form was to be seen anywhere, not even on the river. Stars came out like lamps set in celestial windows, and sprinkled their rays on the crimson curtains of the evening. The glaciers on Mount Hood began to kindle as with silver fires. The east seemed like a lifting gate of light. The great moon was rising. Hark! At the first ray of the moon there are heard low, mysterious sounds everywhere. The forests are full of them--calls, like the coyote's bark, or bird-calls, or secret signals. They are human voices. They answer each other. There are thousands of voices calling and answering. The full moon now hangs low over the forests, golden as the morning sun in the mists of the calm sea. There is a piercing cry and a roll of war-drums, and suddenly the edges of the forest are full of leaping and dancing forms. The plateau is alive as with an army. Pipes play, shells rattle, and drums roll, and the fantastic forms with grotesque motions pass and repass each other. Up the Columbia comes a fleet of canoes like a cloud passing over the silvery ripples. The river is all alive with human forms, and airy paddles and the prows of tilting boats. The plateau swarms. It is covered with waving blankets and dancing plumes. All is gayety and mirth. There is another roll of drums, and then silence. The circling blankets and plumes become motionless. The chief of the Cascades is coming, and with him is Benjamin and his young bride, and Gretchen. The royal party mount the platform, and in honor of the event the torch-dance begins. A single torch flashes upon the air; another is lighted from it, another and another. A hundred are lighted--a thousand. They begin to dance and to whirl; the plateau is a dazzling scene of circling fire. Gretchen recalled the old _fêtes_ amid the vineyards of the Rhine in her childhood. Hither and thither the circles move--round and round. There is poetry in this fire-motion; and the great army of fire-dancers become excited under it, and prepared for the frenzy of the Spirit-dance that is to follow. The torches go out. The moon turns the smoke into wannish clouds of white and yellow, which slowly rise, break, and disappear. There is another roll of drums. Wild cries are heard in the forests. The "biters" are beginning their hunt. Who are the biters? They are Indians in hides of bears and wolves, who run on their hands and feet, uttering terrible cries, and are followed by women, who, to make the scene more fearful, pretend to hold them back, and restrain them from violence. The Spirit-dance is held to be a sacred frenzy, and before it begins the biters are charged to hunt the woods for any who have not joined the army of dancers, and, if such are found, to bite them and tear their flesh with their teeth. They also guard the dance like sentinels, and fly at one who attempts to leave it before it is done. The frenzied shrieks of these human animals, and of the women who follow them, produce a wonderful nervous effect upon the listening multitudes. All feel that they are about to enter into the ecstatic spiritual condition of departed souls, and are to be joined by the shades of the dead heroes and warriors of tradition and story. Each dancer has a masque. It may be an owl's head with mother-of-pearl eyes, or a wooden pelican's beak, or a wolf's head. It may be a wooden animal's face, which can be pulled apart by a string, and reveal under it an effigy of a human face, the first masque changing into great ears. The museum at Ottawa, Canada, contains a great number of such masques, and some missionaries in the Northwest make curious collections of them. The whirling begins. Everywhere are whirling circles--round and round they go. The sight of it all would make a spectator dizzy. Cries arise, each more and more fearful; the whole multitude are at last shrieking with dizzy heads and wildly beating pulses. The cries become deafening; an almost superhuman frenzy passes over all; they seem to be no longer mortal--the armies of the dead are believed to be about them; they think that they are reveling in the joys of the heroes' paradise. One by one they drop down, until the whole assembly is exhausted. At midnight the great fires are kindled, and throw their lights and shadows over the frenzied sleepers. Such was the _Tamanous_-dance, and so ended the first night of the feast. On the second night the old chief gave away his private possessions, and on the third the wedding ceremony was performed. The wild and inhuman Death-dance, which the tribe demanded, was expected to end the festival at the going down of the shadowy moon. Could it be prevented after the traditions of unknown centuries, and at a time when the historical pride of the warriors was awakened to celebrate the barbarous deeds of their ancestors? The wedding was simple. It consisted chiefly in gifts to the bride, Multoona. The girl was fantastically dressed, with ornaments of shells and feathers, and she followed the young prince demurely. After the ceremony of the bridal gifts came the Fire-fly dance, in which light-torches gleamed out in vanishing spirals here and there, and over all the plain. Then followed the _Tamanous_ or Spirit dance, in which a peculiar kind of frenzy is excited, as has been described. The excitement was somewhat less than usual this night, on account of the great orgies which were expected to follow. The third and great night of the Potlatch came. It was the night of the full October moon. The sun had no sooner gone down in the crimson cloud-seas among the mountains, than the moon, like another sun, broad and glorious, lifted its arch in the distant blue of the serene horizon. The Indians gathered on the glimmering plain in the early shadows of evening, besmeared with yellow ochre and war-paint. Every head was plumed. There was a savagery in their looks that had not been seen before. The wild dancers began their motions. The Spirit or _Tamanous_ dance awakened a frenzy, and all were now impatient for the dance of the Evil Spirits to begin. The moon hung low over the plateau and the river. The fires were kindled, and the smoke presently gave a clouded gold color to the air. The biters were out, running hither and thither after their manner, and filling the air with hideous cries. All was expectation, when the old chief of the Cascades stepped upon the platform, and said: "Listen, my children--listen, O sons of the warriors of old. Twice four times sixty seasons, according to the notch-sticks, have the wings of wild geese cleaved the sky, and all these years I have lived in peace. My last moon has arisen--I have seen the smile of the Great Spirit, and I know that the last moon hangs over my head. "Warriors, listen! You have always obeyed me. Obey me once more. Dance not the dance of the Evil Spirits to-night. Let me die in peace. Let not blood stain my last days. I want you to remember the days of Umatilla as the days of corn and maize and the pipes of peace. I have given you all I have--my days are done. You will respect me." There were mutterings everywhere, suppressed cries of rage, and sharp words of chagrin and disappointment. The old chief saw the general dissatisfaction, and felt it like a crushing weight upon his soul. "I am going to light the pipe of peace," said he, "and smoke it now before you. As many of you as love Umatilla, light the pipes of peace." Not a light glimmered in the smoky air. There were words of hate and suppressed cries everywhere. A circle was forming, it widened, and it seemed as though the dreaded dance was about to begin in spite of the command of the old chief. Suddenly a form in white stood beside Umatilla. It was Gretchen. A white arm was raised, and the martial strain of the "Wild Hunt of Lutzow" marched out like invisible horsemen, and caused every Indian to listen. Then there were a few sharp, discordant strains, and then the _Traumerei_ lifted its spirit-wings of music on the air. [Music: Tranmerei. BY ROBERT SCHUMANN, SIMPLIFIED BY F. BRANDEIS.] [Music] [Music] The murmurs ceased. The plain grew still. "Romance" followed, and then the haunting strain of the _Traumerei_ rose again. It ceased. Lights began to glimmer here and there. Peace-pipes were being lighted. "You have saved your people," said Umatilla. "Play it again." Again and again the dream-music drifted out on the air. The plain was now filled with peace-pipes. When the last blended tones died away, the whole tribe were seated on the long plateau, and every old warrior was smoking a pipe of peace. Gretchen saw that her spirit, through the violin, had calmed the sea. She was sure now that she had rightly read her mission in life. Amid the scene of glimmering peace-pipes, a heavenly presence seemed near her. She had broken the traditions of centuries by the sympathetic thrill of four simple strings. She felt that Von Weber was there in spirit, and Schumann. She felt that her father's soul was near her; but, more than all, she felt that she was doing the work of the Great Commission. She bowed her head on the instrument, thought of poor, terrorized Mrs. Woods in her lonely home, and wept. A seen and unseen world had come to her--real life. She saw her power; the gates of that mysterious kingdom, in which the reborn soul is a new creation, had been opened to her. Her spirit seemed to rise as on new-created wings, and the world to sink beneath her. She had spiritual sight, ears, and senses--a new consciousness of Divine happiness. Her purpose became strong to live for the soul alone, and she sung, over and over again, amid the silence of the peace-pipes and the rising of those puffs of smoke in the silver illumination of the high moon-- "In the deserts let me labor, On the mountains let me tell." CHAPTER XV. THE TRAUMEREI AGAIN. An hour passed in this mysterious and strange tranquillity--the noon hour of night. The warriors seemed contented and satisfied. Many of them were old; some of them remembered the coming of the first ships to the Columbia, and a few of them the long visit of Vancouver. They knew the wisdom of Umatilla, and seemed proud that his will had been so readily obeyed. But not so with the biters. They were young, and they had plotted on this night to begin hostilities against the settlers. Their plan had been to burn the log school-house and the house of the Woodses, and to make a captive of Mrs. Woods, whose hostile spirit they wished to break and punish. Soon after the quiet scene at midnight they began to be restless. Their cries arose here and there about the margin of the plateau and along the river. The old chief knew their feelings, and saw the stormy ripples here and there. He arose slowly, and called: "My people, draw near." The tribe gathered about the platform. The young braves knew what the old chief was about to say, and their cries of discontent grew loud and multiplied. "The log school-house!" shrieked one, in a voice of rage. "_Pil-pil!_" cried another. "_Pil-pil!_" echoed many voices. A tumult followed, and Gretchen started up from her reverie, and heard among the restless murmurs the name of Mrs. Woods. She felt a nervous terror for a moment, but her spiritual sense and faith, which had come to her like a new-born life, returned to her. She arose on the platform and took her violin, and looked down upon the sea of dusky faces in the smoky moonlight. She drew her bow. The music quivered. There was a lull in the excited voices. She played low, and there followed a silence. The old chief came heavily up on the platform with a troubled face and stood beside her. "Play the beautiful air." She played the _Traumerei_ again. The chief arose, as the last strain died away, and said: "My people, listen." The plateau was silent. The Columbia could be heard flowing. The trees seemed listening. Benjamin came upon the platform, reeling, and seemed about to speak to his father, but the old chief did not heed. "My people, listen," repeated the chief. A wild shriek of pain rent the air, and Benjamin dropped at the feet of his father. It was his voice that uttered the cry of agony and despair as he fell. What had happened? The boy lay on the platform as one dead. The old chief bent over him and laid his hand on his face. He started back as he did so, for the face was cold. But the boy's eyes pitifully followed every movement of his father. Gretchen sunk down beside the body, and drew her hand across his forehead and asked for water. Benjamin knew her. Soon his voice came again. He looked wistfully toward Gretchen and said: "I shall never go to find the Black Eagle's nest again. It is the plague. My poor father!--my poor father!" "Send for the medicine-man," said the chief. "Quick!" Hopping-Bear, the old medicine-man, came, a dreadful figure in eagle's plumes and bear-skins. To affect the imagination of the people when he was going to visit the sick, he had been accustomed to walk upon his two hands and one foot, with the other foot moving up and down in the air. He believed that sickness was caused by obsession, or the influence of some evil spirit, and he endeavored, by howlings, jumpings, and rattling of snake-skins, to drive this imaginary spirit away. But he did not begin his incantations here; he looked upon Benjamin with staring eyes, and cried out: "It is the plague!" The old chief of the Cascades lifted his helpless face to the sky. "The stars are gone out!" he said. "I care for nothing more." The boy at times was convulsed, then lay for a time unconscious after the convulsions, then consciousness would return. In one of these moments of consciousness he asked of Gretchen: "Where is Boston tilicum?" "He is not here--he does not know that you are sick." "Run for him; tell him I can't go to the Missouri with him. I can't find the Black Eagle's nest. Run!" His mind was dreaming and wandering. Gretchen sent a runner to bring the schoolmaster to the dreadful scene. A convulsion passed over the boy, but he revived again. "Have faith in Heaven," said Gretchen. "There is One above that will save you." "One above that will save me! Are you sure?" "Yes," said Gretchen. She added: "Mother is sorry for what she said to you." "I am sorry," said the boy, pathetically. He was lost again in spasms of pain. When he revived, Marlowe Mann had come. The boy lifted his eyes to his beloved teacher vacantly; then the light of intelligence came back to them, and he knew him. "I can't go," he said. "We shall never go to the lakes of the honks together. Boston tilicum, I am going to die; I am going away like my brothers--where?" It was near the gray light of the morning, and a flock of wild geese were heard trumpeting in the air. The boy heard the sound, and started. "Boston tilicum!" "What can I do for you?" "Boston tilicum, listen. Do you hear? What taught the honks where to go?" "The Great Father of all." "He leads them?" "Yes." "He will lead me?" "Yes." "And teach me when I am gone away. I can trust him. But my father--my father! Boston tilicum, he loves me, and he is old." Flock after flock of wild geese flew overhead in the dim light. The boy lay and listened. He seemed to have learned a lesson of faith from the instincts of these migratory birds. He once turned to the master and said, almost in Gretchen's words: "There is One above that will save me." As the morning drew nearer, the air seemed filled with a long procession of Canadian geese going toward the sea. The air rang with their calls. The poor boy seemed to think that somehow they were calling to him. There was silence at last in the air, and he turned toward Gretchen his strangely quiet face, and said, "Play." Gretchen raised her bow. As she did so a sharp spasm came over him. He lifted his hand and tried to feel of one of the feathers from the Black Eagle's nest. He was evidently wandering to the Falls of the Missouri. His hand fell. He passed into a stertorous sleep, and lay there, watched by the old chief and the silent tribe. Just as the light of early morn was flaming through the tall, cool, dewy trees, the breathing became labored, and ceased. There he lay in the rising sun, silent and dead, with the helpless chief standing statue-like above him, and the tribe, motionless as a picture, circled around him, and with Gretchen at his feet. "Make way!" said the old chief, in a deep voice. He stepped down from the platform, and walked in a kingly manner, yet with tottering steps, toward the forest. Gretchen followed him. He heard her step, but did not look around. "White girl, go back," he said; "I want to be alone." He entered the forest slowly and disappeared. Just at night he was seen coming out of the forest again. He spoke to but a single warrior, and only said: "Bury him as the white men bury; open the blanket of the earth; and command the tribe to be there--to-morrow at sundown. Take them all away--I will watch. Where is the white girl?" "She has gone home," said the Indian. "Then I will watch alone. Take them all away--I want to be alone. It is the last night of the chief of the Umatillas. It is the last watch of the stars. My blood is cold, my heart beats slow--it will not be long!" The chief sat all night by the body. In the morning he went to his lodge, and the tribe made the preparations for the funeral, and opened a grave in the earth. CHAPTER XVI. A SILENT TRIBE. It was sunset on the bluffs and valleys of the Columbia. Through the tall, dark pines and firs the red west glowed like the lights in an oriel or mullioned window. The air was voiceless. The Columbia rolled silently in the shadows with a shimmering of crimson on its deep middle tides. The long, brown boats of the salmon-fishers sat motionless on the tide. Among the craft of the fishermen glided a long, airy canoe, with swift paddles. It contained an old Umatilla Indian, his daughter, and a young warrior. The party were going to the young chief's funeral. [Illustration: _Multnomah Falls._] As the canoe glided on amid the still fishermen of other tribes, the Indian maiden began to sing. It was a strange song, of immortality, and of spiritual horizons beyond the visible life. The Umatillas have poetic minds. To them white Tacoma with her gushing streams means a mother's breast, and the streams themselves, like the Falls of the distant Shoshone, were "falling splendors." She sang in Chinook, and the burden of her song was that horizons will lift forever in the unknown future. The Chinook word _tamala_ means "to-morrow"; and to-morrow, to the Indian mind, was eternal life. The young warrior joined in the refrain, and the old Indian listened. The thought of the song was something as follows: "Aha! it is ever to-morrow, to-morrow-- Tamala, tamala, sing as we row; Lift thine eye to the mount; to the wave give thy sorrow; The river is bright, and the rivulets flow; Tamala, tamala, Ever and ever; The morrows will come and the morrows will go-- Tamala! tamala! "Happy boat, it is ever to-morrow, to-morrow-- Tamala, whisper the waves as they flow; The crags of the sunset the smiles of light borrow, And soft from the ocean the Chinook winds blow: Tamala, tamala, Ever and ever; The morrows will come and the morrows will go-- Tamala! tamala! "Aha! the night comes, but the light is to-morrow-- Tamala, tamala, sing as we go; The waves ripple past, like the heart-beats of sorrow, And the oar beats the wave to our song as we row: Tamala, tamala, Ever and ever; The morrows will come and the morrows will go-- Tamala! tamala! "For ever and ever horizons are lifting-- Tamala, tamala, sing as we row; And life toward the stars of the ocean is drifting, Through death will the morrow all endlessly glow-- Tamala, tamala, Ever and ever; The morrows will come and the morrows will go, Tamala! tamala!" The paddle dipped in the wave at the word _tamala_, and lifted high to mark the measure of the song, and strew in the warm, soft air the watery jewels colored by the far fires of the Sound. So the boat swept on, like a spirit bark, and the beautiful word of immortality was echoed from the darkening bluffs and the primitive pine cathedrals. The place where the grave had been made was on the borders of the Oregon desert, a wild, open region, walled with tremendous forests, and spreading out in the red sunset like a sea. It had a scanty vegetation, but a slight rain would sometimes change it into a billowy plain of flowers. The tribe had begun to assemble about the grave early in the long afternoon. They came one by one, solitary and silent, wrapped in blankets and ornamented with gray plumes. The warriors came in the same solitary way and met in silence, and stood in a long row like an army of shadows. Squaws came, leading children by the hand, and seated themselves on the soft earth in the same stoical silence that had marked the bearing of the braves. A circle of lofty firs, some three hundred feet high, threw a slanting shadow over the open grave, the tops gleaming with sunset fire. Afar, Mount Hood, the dead volcano, lifted its roof of glaciers twelve thousand feet high. Silver ice and black carbon it was now, although in the long ages gone it had had a history written in flame and smoke and thunder. Tradition says that it sometimes, even now, rumbles and flashes forth in the darkness of night, then sinks into rest again, under its lonely ice palaces so splendid in the sunset, so weird under the moon. Just as the red disk of the sun sunk down behind this stupendous scenery, a low, guttural sound was uttered by Potlatch Hero, an old Indian brave, and it passed along the line of the shadowy braves. No one moved, but all eyes were turned toward the lodge of the old Umatilla chief. He was coming--slowly, with measured step; naked, except the decent covering of a blanket and a heroic ornament of eagle-plumes, and all alone. The whole tribe had now gathered, and a thousand dusky forms awaited him in the sunset. There was another guttural sound. Another remarkable life-picture came into view. It was the school in a silent procession, following the tall masks, out of the forest trail on to the glimmering plain, the advent of that new civilization before which the forest lords, once the poetic bands of the old Umatillas, were to disappear. Over all a solitary eagle beat the luminous air, and flocks of wild geese made their way, like V-letters, toward the Puget Sea. The school soon joined the dusky company, and the pupils stood with uncovered heads around their Yankee pedagogue. But the old chief came slowly. After each few steps he would stop, fold his arms, and seem lost in contemplation. These pauses were longer as he drew near the silent company. Except the honks of the pilots of the flocks of wild geese, there was a dead silence everywhere. Only eyes moved, and then furtively, toward the advancing chief. [Illustration: _The old chief stood stoical and silent._] He reached the grave at last by these slow movements, and stepped upon the earth that had been thrown out of it, and folded his arms in view of all. A golden star, like a lamp in the windows of heaven, hung over Mount Hood in the fading splendors of the twilight, and the great chief bent his eye upon it. Suddenly the air was rent by a wail, and a rattle of shells and drums. The body of Benjamin was being brought out of the lodge. It was borne on a bier made of poles, and covered with boughs of pine and fir and red mountain phlox. It was wrapped in a blanket, and strewn with odorous ferns. Four young braves bore it, besmeared with war-paint. They were followed by musicians, who beat their drums, and rattled shell instruments at irregular times, as they advanced. They came to the grave, lifted the body on its blanket from the bier of evergreens and flowers, and slowly lowered it. The old chief stood stoical and silent, his eye fixed on the star in the darkening shadows. The face of Benjamin was noble and beautiful in its death-sleep. Over it were two black eagle's plumes. The deep black hair lay loosely about the high, bronze forehead; there was an expression of benevolence in the compressed lips, and the helpless hands seemed like a picture as they lay crossed on each other. As soon as the body was laid in the earth, the old chief bent his face on the people. The mysterious dimness of death was in his features. His eyes gleamed, and his bronze lips were turning pale. "My nation, listen; 'tis my last voice. I am a Umatilla. In my youth the birds in the free lakes of the air were not more free. I spoke, and you obeyed. I have but one more command to give. Will you obey me? "You bow, and I am glad. "Listen! "My fathers were men of war. They rolled the battle-drums. I taught my warriors to play the pipes of peace, and sixty years have they played them under the great moons of the maize-fields. We were happy. I was happy. "I had seven sons. The white man's plague came; the shadow fell on six of them, and they went away with the storm-birds. They entered the new canoe, and sailed beyond us on the sea of life. They came back no more at the sunrisings and sun settings, at the leaf-gatherings of the spring, or the leaf-fallings of the autumn. They are beyond. "One son was left me--Benjamin. He was no common youth; the high spirits were with him, and he came to be like them, and he has gone to them now. I loved him. He was my eyes; he was my ears; he was my heart. When I saw his eyes in death, my eyes were dead; when he could hear me call his name no longer, my ears lost their hearing; when his young heart ceased to beat, my own heart was dead. All that I am lies in that grave, beside my dead boy. "My nation, you have always obeyed me. I have but one more command to make. Will you obey me? "You bow again. My life-blood is growing cold. I am about to go down into that grave. "One step! The clouds fly and darken, and you will see them return again, but not I. "Two steps! Farewell, sun and light of day. I shall see thee again, but not as now. "Three steps! Downward to the grave I descend to meet thee, my own dear boy. Adieu, my people. Adieu, hearts of faith. Farewell, ye birds of the air, ye mighty forests, ye sun of night, and ye marches of stars. I am dying. "Two steps more I will take. There he lies before me in the unfolded earth, the life of my life, the heart of my heart. "You have promised to obey me. I repeat it--you have promised to obey me. You have always done so. You must do so now. My hands are cold, my feet are cold, and my heart beats very slow. Three steps more, and I shall lay myself on the body of my boy. Hear, then, my last command; you have promised to obey it like brave men. "When I have taken my last three steps of life, and laid down beside the uncovered bed of earth beside my boy, fill up the grave forever; my breath will be gone; Umatilla will be no more. You must obey. "One step--look! There is fire on the mountain under the curtains of the night. Look, the peak flashes; it is on fire.--O Spirit of All, I come! One step more! Farewell, earth. Warriors, fill the grave! The black eagle's plumes will now rest forever." There was deep silence, broken only by the sobs of the little school. A warrior moved and passed round the grave, and uttered the word "Dead!" The braves followed him, and the whole tribe like shadows. "Dead!" "Dead!" passed from mouth to mouth. Then a warrior threw a handful of earth into the grave of the father and son. The braves followed his example, then all the tribe. As they were so doing, like phantoms in the dim light, Mount Saint Helens[D] blazed again--one volcanic flash, then another; then all was darkness, and the moon arose in a broad sea of light like a spectral sun. The grave was filled at last. Then they brought the Cayuse pony of Benjamin toward the grave, and a young brave raised the hatchet to kill it, that it might bear the dead boy into the unknown land. There was a cry! It came from Gretchen. The girl rushed forward and stood before the hatchet. The pony seemed to know her, and he put his head over her shoulder. "Spare him!" she said. "Benjamin gave him to me--the soul of Benjamin would wish it so." "Let the girl have her way," said the old warriors. The moon now moved free in the dark-blue sky, and sky, forest, and plain were a silver sea. The Indians began to move away like shadows, one by one, silent and slow. Gretchen was the last to go. She followed the school, leading the pony, her soul filled with that consciousness of a new life that had so wonderfully come to her. Her way in life now seemed clear: she must teach the Umatillas. She left the pony in a grassy clearing, on the trail that led to her home, and hurried toward the cabin to describe all the events of the day to her foster-mother. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote D: See Notes.] CHAPTER XVII. A DESOLATE HOME AND A DESOLATE PEOPLE. As Gretchen was hurrying home on the evening after these exciting scenes, she met Mrs. Woods in the trail, and she saw at a glance that her foster-mother was in great distress. "O Gretchen," she said, "I am so glad that you have come--you are all that is left to me now! I am all alone in the world! Have you heard it, Gretchen?" "What, mother?" "Husband is drowned!" Mrs. Woods seized the arm of the girl, and the two helpless women hurried toward their rude home, each to relate to the other a scene of distress, and each to wonder what the wide future had in store for them. They held each other by the hand, and talked in the open door of the cabin. Then they went in and ate a simple meal of milk and berries, and lay down and slept the sleep of sorrow. At the early light they awoke. Almost the first words that Gretchen spoke were: "Let us face life and be fearless. I have faith. My father had faith, and my mother lived by faith. It was faith that led them across the sea. Their faith seemed to be unfulfilled, but it will be fulfilled in me. I feel it. Mother, let trouble pass. We belong to the family of God." "You are a comfort to me, Gretchen. I can not see my way--it is covered." "But you can trust your Guide, mother, and the end of trust _is_ peace." "What are we to do, Gretchen?" "I will go to Walla Walla and seek the advice of Mrs. Spaulding." "Gretchen, don't you think that the schoolmaster is a good man?" "Yes, I am sure that he is." "I am. Let us go to him and follow his advice. We will go together." They agreed to make the visit on the following day in the morning, before school. Gretchen told her foster-mother the story of the Indian pony. "Where is he now?" asked Mrs. Woods. "I left him in the clearing. I will go and find him." "I will go with you," said Mrs. Woods. The two went out together. They came to the clearing--a place of waving grass, surrounded with gigantic trees, in whose tops were great nests of birds. The pony was not there. "He has gone to the next clearing," said Gretchen. They passed through a strip of wood to another clearing. But the pony was not there. As they were returning, a little black animal crossed their path. Mrs. Woods said, "Hold!" then called out in a kindly voice, "Roll over." The little animal rolled head over heels in a very comical way, then ran quickly into the thick bushes. It was the last time that Mrs. Woods ever saw little Roll Over, and Gretchen never saw the pony again. The latter probably found a herd of horses and wandered away with them. It was a time of such confusion and distress that the matter did not awaken the interest of the Indians at that time. That evening they talked of plans for the future. "Let us seek work in one of the missionary stations," said Gretchen, "or let us find a home among the Indians themselves. I want to become a teacher among them, and I know that they would treat you well." Mrs. Woods's views on these matters were changing, but something of her old distrust and prejudice remained despite her good resolutions. "Foxes and geese were never made to hold conference meetings together. You can't make one man out of another if you try." "But, mother, your English ancestors once wandered about in sheep-skins, and worshiped the oaks; the whole English race, and the German race, were made what they are by teachers--teachers who gave themselves to a cause almost two thousand years ago." "Yes, I suppose that is so. But, Gretchen, I want your heart; I never thought that you would give it to the Injuns. I ought not to be so ruled by my affections; but, if I do scold you, there is something in you that draws my heart toward you all the time. I believe in helping others; something good in the future always comes of it. If men would be good to each other, Heaven would be good to the world. It is the things done here in this world that are out of order, and I never was on very good terms with myself even, not to say much of the world. But you have helped me, Gretchen, and hymns have helped me. I want you to be charitable toward my feelins', Gretchen, when I grow old, and I pray that you will always be true to me." "I shall always be true to you, whatever I may be called to do. I shall not leave you until you give your consent. One day you will wish me to do as I have planned--I feel it within me; something is leading me, and our hearts will soon be one in my plan of life." "It may be so, Gretchen. I have had a hard time, goin' out to service when I was a girl. My only happy days were during the old Methody preaching of Jason Lee. I thought I owned the heavens then. It was then I married, and I said to husband: 'Here we must always be slaves, and life will be master of us; let us go West, and own a free farm, and be masters of life.' There is a great deal in being master of life. Well, we have had a hard time, but husband has been good to me, and you have made me happy, if I have scolded. Gretchen, some people kiss each other by scoldin'; I do--I scold to make the world better. I suppose everything is for the best, after all. There is no experience in life that does not teach us something, and there is a better world beyond that awaits all who desire a better life. Our desires are better than ourselves--mine are. Good desires are prayers, and I think that they will all be answered some day." She sat in silence, thinking of her lonely situation, of her ignorance and imperfection, of her often baffled struggles to do well in this world and to overcome her poor, weak self, and she burst into tears. "Play," she said. "Music is a kind of prayer." And Gretchen touched the musical glasses. CHAPTER XVIII. THE LIFTED CLOUD--THE INDIANS COME TO THE SCHOOLMASTER. The next day witnessed a strange scene at the log school-house on the Columbia. It was a red October morning. Mrs. Woods accompanied Gretchen to the school, as she wished to have a talk with Mr. Mann. As the two came in sight of the house, Mrs. Woods caught Gretchen by the arm and said: "What's _them_?" "Where?" "Sittin' in the school-yard." "They are Indians." "Injuns? What are they there for?" "I don't know, mother." "Come for advice, like me, may be." "Perhaps they are come to school. The old chief told them that I would teach them." "You?" "They have no father now." "No father?" "No chief." Mrs. Woods had been so overwhelmed with her own grief that she had given little thought to the death of Benjamin and the chief of the Cascades. The unhappy condition of the little tribe now came to her as in a picture; and, as she saw before her some fifty Indians seated on the ground, her good heart came back to her, and she said, touched by a sense of her own widowhood, "Gretchen, I pity 'em." Mrs. Woods was right. These Indians had come to seek the advice of Mr. Mann in regard to their tribal affairs. Gretchen also was right. They had come to ask Mr. Mann to teach their nation. It was an unexpected assembly that Marlowe Mann faced as he came down the clearing, but it revealed to him, at a glance, his future work in life. The first of the distressed people to meet him was Mrs. Woods. "O Mr. Mann, I am all alone in the world, and what am I goin' to do? There's nothin' but hard days' work left to me now, and--hymns. Even Father Lee has gone, and I have no one to advise me. You will be a friend to me, won't you?" "Yes," said Mr. Mann. "I need you, and the way is clear." "What do you mean?" "I have a letter from Boston." "What is it, Marlowe Mann?" "The Indian Educational Society have promised me a thousand dollars for my work another year. I must have a house. I would want you to take charge of it. _But_--your tongue?" "O Master Mann, I'll give up my tongue! I'll just work, and be still. If an Injun will give up his revenge, an' it's his natur', ought not I to give up my tongue? When I can't help scoldin' I'll just sing hymns." Mr. Mann gazed into the faces of the Indians. The warm sunlight fell upon them. There was a long silence, broken only by the scream of the eagles in the sky and the passing of flocks of wild geese. Then one of the Indians rose and said: "Umatilla has gone to his fathers. "Benjamin has gone to his fathers. We shall never see Young Eagle's plume again! "Boston tilicum, be our chief. We have come to school." Mr. Mann turned to Gretchen. Her young face was lovely that morning with sympathy. He said in a low voice: "You see _our_ work in life. Do you understand? Will you accept it?" She understood his heart. "I will do whatever you say." * * * * * In 1859 a great Indian Reservation was established in what is known in Oregon as the Inland Empire of the Northwest. It contained about two hundred and seventy thousand acres, agricultural land and timber-land. The beautiful Umatilla River flows through it. The agency now is near Pendleton, Oregon. Thither the Umatillas were removed. Marlowe Mann went there, and Gretchen as his young wife, and in their home Mrs. Woods for many years could have been heard singing hymns. Their home stood for the Indian race, and the schoolmaster and his wife devoted themselves to the cause of Indian education. Through the silent influence of Mr. Mann's correspondence with the East, Indian civilization was promoted, and the way prepared for the peaceful settlement of the great Northwest. Gretchen taught the Indians as long as she lived. Often at evening, when the day's work had been hard, she would take her violin, and a dream of music would float upon the air. She played but one tune at last as she grew serenely old. That tune recalled her early German home, the Rhine, her good father and mother, and the scenes of the great Indian Potlatch on the Columbia. It was the _Traumerei_. Her poetic imagination, which had been suppressed by her foster-mother in her girlhood, came back to her in her new home, and it was her delight to express in verse the inspirations of her life amid these new scenes, and to publish these poems in the papers of the East that most sympathized with the cause of Indian education. The memory of Benjamin and the old chief of the Cascades never left her. It was a never-to-be-forgotten lesson of the nobility of all men whose souls have the birthright of heaven. Often, when the wild geese were flying overhead in the evening, she would recall Benjamin, and say, "He who guides led me here from the Rhine, and schooled me for my work in the log school-house on the Columbia." Such is not an overdrawn picture of the early pioneers of the Columbia and the great Northwest. Jason Lee was censured for leaving his mission for the sake of Oregon--for turning his face from the stars to the sun. Whitman, when he appeared ragged at Washington, was blamed for having left his post. The early pioneers of the great Northwest civilization lie in neglected graves. We are now beginning to see the hand of Providence, and to realize how great was the work that these people did for their own country and for the world. And Marlowe Mann--whose name stands for the Christian schoolmaster--no one knows where he sleeps now; perhaps no one, surely but a few. He saw his college-mates rise to honor and fame. They offered him positions, but he knew his place in the world. When his hair was turning gray, there came to him an offer of an opportunity for wealth, from his remaining relatives. At the same time the agency offered him the use of a farm. He accepted the latter for his work's sake, and returned to his old friends a loving letter and an old poem, and with the latter we will leave this picture of old times on the Oregon: "Happy the man whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound; Content to breathe his native air On his own ground. "Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire; Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter, fire. "Sound sleep by night, study and ease, Together mixed sweet recreation; And innocence, which most doth please, With meditation. "Blessed who can unconcernedly find Hours, days, and years glide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind; Quiet by day. "Thus let me live unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie." HISTORICAL NOTES. I. VANCOUVER. The remarkable progress of the Pacific port cities of Seattle and Tacoma make Washington an especially bright, new star on the national flag. Surrounded as these cities are with some of the grandest and most poetic scenery in the United States, with gigantic forests and rich farm-lands, with mountains of ores, with coal-mines, iron-mines, copper-mines, and mines of the more precious treasures; washed as they are by the water of noble harbors, and smiled upon by skies of almost continuous April weather--there must be a great future before the cities of Puget Sound. The State of Washington is one of the youngest in the Union, and yet she is not too young to celebrate soon the one-hundredth anniversary of several interesting events. It was on the 15th of December, 1790, that Captain George Vancouver received his commission as commander of his Majesty's sloop of war the Discovery. Three of his officers were Peter Puget, Joseph Baker, and Joseph Whidby, whose names now live in Puget Sound--Mount Baker, and Whidby Island. The great island of British Columbia, and its energetic port city, received the name of Vancouver himself, and Vancouver named most of the places on Puget Sound in honor of his personal friends. He must have had a heart formed for friendship, thus to have immortalized those whom he esteemed and loved. It is the discovery and the naming of mountains, islands, and ports of the Puget Sound that suggest poetic and patriotic celebrations. The old journals of Vancouver lie before us. In these we read: "From this direction, round by the north and northwest, the high, distant land formed, like detached islands, among which the lofty mountains discovered in the afternoon by the third lieutenant, and in compliment to him called by me Mount Baker, rose to a very conspicuous object." It was on Monday, April 30, 1792, that Mount Baker was thus discovered and named. In May, 1792, Vancouver states that he came to a "very safe" and "capatious" harbor, and that "to this port I gave the name of Port Townshend, in honor of the noble marquis of that name." Again, on Thursday, May 29, 1792, Vancouver discovered another excellent port, and says: "This harbor, after the gentleman who discovered it, obtained the name of Port Orchard." In May, 1792, he makes the following very important historical note: "Thus by our joint efforts we had completely explored every turning of this extensive inlet; and, to commemorate Mr. Puget's exertions, the fourth extremity of it I named Puget Sound." A very interesting officer seems to have been this lieutenant, Peter Puget, whose soundings gave the name to the American Mediterranean. Once, after the firing of muskets to overawe hostile Indians, who merely pouted out their lips, and uttered, "Poo hoo! poo hoo!" he ordered the discharge of a heavy gun, and was amused to note the silence that followed. It was in April and May, 1792, that Puget explored the violet waters of the great inland sea, a work which he seems to have done with the enthusiasm of a romancer as well as of a naval officer. Mount Hood was named for Lord Hood, and Mount Saint Helens was named in 1792, in the month of October, "in honor of his Britannic Majesty's ambassador at the court of Madrid." But one of the most interesting of all of Vancouver's notes is the following: "The weather was serene and pleasant, and the country continued to exhibit the same luxuriant appearance. At its northern extremity Mount Baker bore compass; the round, snowy mountain, now forming its southern extremity, after my friend Rear-Admiral Ranier, I distinguished by the name of Mount Ranier, May, 1792." This mountain is now Mount Tacoma. The spring of 1892 ought to be historically very interesting to the State of Washington, and it is likely to be so. II. THE OREGON TRAIL. "There is the East. There lies the road to India." Such was Senator Thomas H. Benton's view of the coast and harbors of Oregon. He saw the advantage of securing to the United States the Columbia River and its great basin, and the Puget Sea; and he made himself the champion of Oregon and Washington. In Thomas Jefferson's administration far-seeing people began to talk of a road across the continent, and a port on the Pacific. The St. Louis fur-traders had been making a way to the Rockies for years, and in 1810 John Jacob Astor sent a ship around Cape Horn, to establish a post for the fur-trade on the Pacific Coast, and also sent an expedition of some sixty persons from St. Louis, overland, by the way of the Missouri and Yellowstone, to the Columbia River. The pioneer ship was called the Tonquin. She arrived at the mouth of the Columbia before the overland expedition. These traders came together at last, and founded Astoria, on the Columbia. Ships now began to sail for Astoria, and the trading-post flourished in the beautiful climate and amid the majestic scenery. But the English claimed the country. In June, 1812, war broke out with England, and Astoria became threatened with capture by the English. It was decided by Astor's agent to abandon the post; but Astoria had taught the United States the value of Oregon. The Oregon trail from St. Louis, by the way of the great rivers, the Missouri, the Yellowstone, and the Columbia, followed the fall of Astoria, and began the highway of emigration to the Pacific coast and to Asia. Over it the trapper and the missionary began to go. The Methodist missionaries, under the leadership of Revs. Jason and Daniel Lee, were among the first in the field, and laid the foundations of the early cities of Oregon. One of their stations was at the Dalles of the Columbia. In 1835 the great missionary, Marcus Whitman, of the Congregationalist Board, established the mission at Walla Walla. Yet up to the year 1841, just fifty years ago, only about one hundred and fifty Americans, in all, had permanently settled in Oregon and Washington. Senator Benton desired the survey of a route to Oregon, to aid emigration to the Columbia basin. He engaged for this service a young, handsome, gallant, and chivalrous officer, Lieutenant John C. Fremont, who, with Nicollet, a French naturalist, had been surveying the upper Mississippi, and opening emigration to Minnesota. Fremont espoused not only the cause of Oregon, but also Senator Benton's young daughter Jessie, who later rendered great personal services to her husband's expedition in the Northwest. Kit Carson was the guide of this famous expedition. The South Pass was explored, and the flag planted on what is now known as Fremont's Peak, and the country was found to be not the Great American Desert of the maps, but a land of wonderful beauty and fertility. In 1843 Fremont made a second expedition; this time from the South Pass to the Columbia country. After he was well on his way, the War Department recalled him; but Mrs. Fremont suppressed the order, in the interest of the expedition, until it was too late to reach him. Fremont went by the way of Salt Lake, struck the Oregon trail, and finally came to the mission that Dr. Whitman had founded among the Nez-Percés (pierced noses) at Walla Walla. This mission then consisted of a single adobe house. The British claimants of the territory, finding that American immigration was increasing, began to bring settlers from the Red River of the North. A struggle now began to determine which country should possess this vast and most important territory. When Dr. Whitman learned of the new efforts of the English to settle the country, and the danger of losing Oregon by treaties pending at Washington, he started for St. Louis, by the way of Santa Fé. This ride, often called "Whitman's Ride for Oregon," is one of the poetical events of American history. He went to Washington, was treated cavalierly by the State Department, but secured a delay of the treaties, which proved the means of saving Oregon and Washington to the United States. So his missionary efforts gave to our country an empire that seems destined to become ultimate America, and a power in the Asian world. III. GOVERNOR STEVENS. In the long line of brave American soldiers, General Isaac Ingalls Stevens deserves a noble rank in the march of history. He was born at Andover, Mass., and was educated at West Point, where he was graduated from the Military Academy in 1839 with the highest honors. He was on the military staff of General Scott in Mexico, and held other honorable positions in the Government service in his early life. But the great period of his life was his survey of the Northern route to the Pacific, since largely followed by the Northern Pacific Railroad, and his development of Washington Territory as a pioneer Governor. He saw the road to China by the way of the Puget Sea, and realized that Washington stood for the East of the Eastern Continent and the Western. He seems to have felt that here the flag would achieve her greatest destiny, and he entered upon his work like a knight who faced the future and not the past. His survey of the Northern Pacific route led the march of steam to the Puget Sea, and the great steamers have carried it forward to Japan, China, and India. His first message to the Legislature at Olympia (1854) was a map of the future and a prophecy. It was a call for roads, schools, a university, and immigration. The seal of Washington was made to bear the Indian word _Alké_--"by and by"--or "in the future." It also was a prophecy. He created the counties of Sawanish, Whatcom, Clallam, Chehalis, Cowlitz, Wahkiakum, Skamania, and Walla Walla. Olympia was fixed upon as the seat of government, and measures were taken by the Government for the regulation of the Indian tribes. Stevens was the military leader of the Indian war. He reduced the tribes to submission, and secured a permanent peace. He was elected to Congress as a Territorial delegate in 1857, and sought at Washington as earnestly as on the Puget Sea the interests of the rising State. He was a man of great intellect, of a forceful and magnetic presence--a man born to lead in great emergencies. He carried New England ideas and traditions to the Pacific, and established them there for all time to come, creating there a greater New England which should gather to its harbors the commerce of the world. Governor Stevens was a conservative in politics, but when the news of the fall of Sumter thrilled the country, he said to the people of Olympia, "I conceive it my duty to stop disunion." He went to Washington and entered the Union service. He fell like a hero at Chantilly, and under the flag which he had taken from his color-bearer, who had received a mortal wound. His was a splendid career that the nation should honor. We recently saw his sword and historic pictures at the home of his widow and son at Dorchester, Mass., and were impressed with these relics of a spirit that had done so much for the progress of the country and mankind. The State of Washington is his monument, and progressive thought his eulogy. His great mind and energy brought order out of chaos, and set the flag in whose folds he died forever under the gleaming dome of the Colossus of American mountains and over the celestial blue of the Pacific harbors of the Puget Sea. IV. SEATTLE THE CHIEF. Seattle was a Dwamish chief, and a true friend of the white race, whom he seemed to follow on account of their superior intelligence. He gave the name to an early settlement, which is now a great city, and which seems destined to become one of the important port cities of the world; for when in 1852, some forty years ago, the pioneers of Alké Point left the town which they had laid out and called New York, and removed to the other side of the bay, they named the place Seattle, from the friendly chief, instead of New York. Alké means _by and by_ and Seattle is likely to become the New York of the Pacific, and one of the great ports for Asiatic trade. With the immense agricultural and mineral resources with which it is surrounded, with its inexhaustible stores of timber, its sublime scenery and delightful climate, with its direct and natural water-road to Japan and China, and its opportunity of manufacturing for the Asiatic market the kind of goods that England has to carry to the same markets over an adventurous course of three times the distance, with the great demand for grain among the rice-eating countries of the East--the mind can not map the possibilities of this port city for the next hundred years or more. The prophecy of its enterprising citizens, that it will one day be one of the great cities in the world, is not unlikely to be realized; and it is interesting to ask what was the history of the chief who gave the name to this new Troy of the Puget Sea. He was at this time somewhat advanced in life, a portly man, of benevolent face, recalling the picture of Senator Benton, of Missouri, whom he was said to resemble. He was the chief of the Dwamishes, a small tribe inhabiting the territory around what is now Elliott Bay. He became a friend of Dr. Maynard, one of the pioneers of the new town, and of General Stevens, the great Territorial Governor. He was well known to Foster, Denny, Bell, and Borden, who took claims where the city now stands. His last years were passed at Port Madison, where he died in 1866, at a great age. Governor Stevens confirmed his sachemship, and Seattle became the protector and the good genius of the town. A curious legend, which seems to be well founded, is related of a tax which Seattle levied upon the new town, for the sake of the trouble that the name would give him in the spiritual world. When a Dwamish Indian lost a near relative of the same name by death, he changed his own name, because the name might attract the ghost of the deceased, and so cause him to be haunted. The tribe believed that departed spirits loved their old habitations, and the associations of their names and deeds, and so they changed their names and places on the death of relatives, that they might not be disturbed by ghostly apparitions. "Why do you ask for a tax?" asked a pioneer of Seattle. "The name of the town will call me back after I am dead, and make me unhappy. I want my pay for what I shall suffer then, now." I hope that the rapid growth of the great city of the North does not disquiet the gentle and benevolent soul of Seattle. The city should raise a monument to him, that he may see that he is kindly remembered when he comes back to visit the associations of his name and life. Or, better for his shade, the city should kindly care for his daughter, poor old Angeline Seattle, who at the time of this writing (1890) is a beggar in the streets of uplifting commercial palaces and lovely homes! We visited her in her hut outside of the city some months ago, to ask her if she saved Seattle in 1855, by giving information to the pioneers that the woods around it were full of lurking Indians, bent on a plot to destroy it; for there is a legend that on that shadowy December night, when Seattle was in peril, and the council of Indian warriors met and resolved to destroy the town before morning, Jim, a friendly Indian, was present at the conference as a spy. He found means to warn the pioneers of their immediate danger. The ship of war Decatur, under Captain Gansevoort, lay in the harbor. Jim, who had acted in the Indian council, secretly, in the interest of the town, had advised the chiefs to defer the attack until early in the morning, when the officers of the Decatur would be off their guard. [Illustration: _Middle block-house at the Cascades._] Night fell on the Puget Sea. The people went into the block-house to sleep, and the men of the Decatur guarded the town, taking their stations on shore. As the night deepened, a thousand hostile Indians crept up to the place and awaited the morning, when the guard should go on board the ship for breakfast, and the people should come out of the block-house and go to their houses, and "set the gun behind the door." It was on this night, according to the legend, that "Old Angeline," as she is now called, became the messenger that saved the inhabitants from destruction. The legend has been doubted; and when we asked the short, flat-faced old woman, as she answered our knock, if she was the daughter of the chief who saved Seattle, she simply said, "Chief," grinned, and made a bow. She was ready to accept the traditional honors of the wild legend worthy of the pen of a Cooper. On returning from our visit to old Angeline, we asked Hon. Henry Yesler, the now rich pioneer, why the princess was not better cared for by the people of the city. He himself had been generous to her. "Why," he said, "if you were to give her fifty dollars, she would give it all away before night!" Benevolent old Angeline! She ought to live in a palace instead of a hovel! Mr. Yesler doubted the local legend, but I still wished to believe it to be true. V. The story of "Whitman's Ride for Oregon" has been told in verse by the writer of this volume, as follows: WHITMAN'S RIDE FOR OREGON. I. "An empire to be lost or won!" And who four thousand miles will ride And climb to heaven the Great Divide, And find the way to Washington, Through mountain cañons, winter snows, O'er streams where free the north wind blows? Who, who will ride from Walla-Walla, Four thousand miles, for Oregon? II. "An empire to be lost or won? In youth to man I gave my all, And naught is yonder mountain wall; If but the will of Heaven be done, It is not mine to live or die, Or count the mountains low or high, Or count the miles from Walla-Walla. I, I will ride for Oregon!" 'Twas thus that Whitman made reply. III. "An empire to be lost or won? Bring me my Cayuse pony, then, And I will thread old ways again, Beneath the gray skies' crystal sun. 'Twas on those altars of the air I raised the flag, and saw below The measureless Columbia flow; The Bible oped, and bowed in prayer, And gave myself to God anew, And felt my spirit newly born; And to my mission I'll be true, And from the vale of Walla-Walla I'll ride again for Oregon. IV. "I'm not my own; myself I've given, To bear to savage hordes the Word; If on the altars of the heaven I'm called to die, it is the Lord. The herald may not wait or choose, 'Tis his the summons to obey; To do his best, or gain or lose, To seek the Guide and not the way. He must not miss the cross, and I Have ceased to think of life or death; My ark I've builded--heaven is nigh, And earth is but a morning's breath! Go, then, my Cayuse pony bring; The hopes that seek myself are gone, And from the vale of Walla-Walla I'll ride again for Oregon." V. He disappeared, as not his own, He heard the warning ice winds sigh; The smoky sun-flames o'er him shone, On whitened altars of the sky, As up the mountain-sides he rose; The wandering eagle round him wheeled, The partridge fled, the gentle roes, And oft his Cayuse pony reeled Upon some dizzy crag, and gazed Down cloudy chasms, falling storms, While higher yet the peaks upraised Against the winds their giant forms. On, on and on, past Idaho, On past the mighty Saline sea, His covering at night the snow, His only sentinel a tree. On, past Portneuf's basaltic heights, On where the San Juan Mountains lay, Through sunless days and starless nights, Toward Taos and far Sante Fé. O'er table-lands of sleet and hail, Through pine-roofed gorges, cañons cold, Now fording streams incased in mail Of ice, like Alpine knights of old, Still on, and on, forgetful on, Till far behind lay Walla-Walla, And far the fields of Oregon. VI. The winter deepened, sharper grew The hail and sleet, the frost and snow; Not e'en the eagle o'er him new, And scarce the partridge's wing below. The land became a long white sea, And then a deep with scarce a coast; The stars refused their light, till he Was in the wildering mazes lost. He droppèd rein, his stiffened hand Was like a statue's hand of clay! "My trusty beast, 'tis the command; Go on, I leave to thee the way. I must go on, I must go on, Whatever lot may fall to me, On, 'tis for others' sake I ride-- For others I may never see, And dare thy clouds, O Great Divide, Not for myself, O Walla-Walla, Not for myself, O Washington, But for thy future, Oregon." VII. And on and on the dumb beast pressed Uncertain, and without a guide, And found the mountain's curves of rest And sheltered ways of the Divide. His feet grew firm, he found the way With storm-beat limbs and frozen breath, As keen his instincts to obey As was his master's eye of faith-- Still on and on, still on and on, And far and far grew Walla-Walla, And far the fields of Oregon. VIII. That spring, a man with frozen feet Came to the marble halls of state, And told his mission but to meet The chill of scorn, the scoff of hate. "Is Oregon worth saving?" asked The treaty-makers from the coast; And him the Church with questions tasked, And said, "Why did you leave your post?" Was it for this that he had braved The warring storms of mount and sky? Yes!--yet that empire he had saved, And to his post went back to die-- Went back to die for others' sake, Went back to die from Washington, Went back to die for Walla-Walla, For Idaho and Oregon. IX. At fair Walla-Walla one may see The city of the Western North, And near it graves unmarked there be That cover souls of royal worth; The flag waves o'er them in the sky Beneath whose stars are cities born, And round them mountain-castled lie The hundred states of Oregon. VI. MOUNT SAINT HELENS. We refer to the snowy range to the west, which terminates in the great dome that now bears that name. There was once a great lava-flood in the Northwest, and Mount Hood, Mount Adams, Mount Saint Helens, and Mount Tacoma (Rainier) are but great ash-heaps that were left by the stupendous event. 
24509	----	None 
21842	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 21842-h.htm or 21842-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/1/8/4/21842/21842-h/21842-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/1/8/4/21842/21842-h.zip) THE BOY SCOUTS OF LENOX Or The Hike Over Big Bear Mountain by FRANK V. WEBSTER Author of "Only a Farm Boy," "Ben Hardy's Flying Machine," "The Boy from the Ranch," Etc. Illustrated [Illustration: THEY HOISTED HIM TO THE LIMB, WHERE HE CLUNG WATCHING THE NEXT RESCUE. _Page 202._] New York Cupples & Leon Company Publishers * * * * * BOOKS FOR BOYS By FRANK V. WEBSTER 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. ONLY A FARM BOY TOM, THE TELEPHONE BOY THE BOY FROM THE RANCH THE YOUNG TREASURER HUNTER BOB, THE CASTAWAY THE YOUNG FIREMEN OF LAKEVILLE THE NEWSBOY PARTNERS THE BOY PILOT OF THE LAKES THE TWO BOY GOLD MINERS JACK, THE RUNAWAY COMRADES OF THE SADDLE THE BOYS OF BELLWOOD SCHOOL THE HIGH SCHOOL RIVALS BOB CHESTER'S GRIT AIRSHIP ANDY DARRY, THE LIFE SAVER DICK, THE BANK BOY BEN HARDY'S FLYING MACHINE THE BOYS OF THE WIRELESS HARRY WATSON'S HIGH SCHOOL DAYS THE BOY SCOUTS OF LENOX TOM TAYLOR AT WEST POINT COWBOY DAVE THE BOYS OF THE BATTLESHIP JACK OF THE PONY EXPRESS Cupples & Leon Co., Publishers, New York * * * * * Copyright, 1915, by Cupples & Leon Company THE BOY SCOUTS OF LENOX Printed in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. WHEN THE SEED TOOK ROOT 1 II. THE MAN WHO LOVED NATURE 10 III. A CLOUD OVER THE OSKAMP HOME 20 IV. THE DEFIANCE OF DOCK PHILLIPS 30 V. THE BLACK BEAR PATROL 41 VI. SETTING THE TRAP 48 VII. DOCK GOES FROM BAD TO WORSE 57 VIII. SIGNS OF TROUBLE AHEAD 66 IX. NO SURRENDER 76 X. READY FOR THE START 84 XI. ON THE WAY 91 XII. THE FIRST CAMP-FIRE 98 XIII. THE LIFE THAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN SAVED 106 XIV. AT THE FOOT OF BIG BEAR MOUNTAIN 114 XV. NOT GUILTY 122 XVI. WHAT TO DO IN A STORM 129 XVII. THE LANDSLIDE 137 XVIII. CAMPING ON THE LAKE SHORE 145 XIX. FRIENDS OF THE DEER 153 XX. FIRST AID TO THE INJURED 162 XXI. SCOUT GRIT 171 XXII. THE CABIN IN THE WOODS 180 XXIII. INTO THE GREAT BOG 189 XXIV. RETURNING GOOD FOR EVIL 198 XXV. WHEN CARL CAME HOME--CONCLUSION 207 THE BOY SCOUTS OF LENOX CHAPTER I WHEN THE SEED TOOK ROOT "I move we go into it, fellows!" "It strikes me as a cracking good idea, all right, and I'm glad Tom stirred us up after he came back from visiting his cousins over in Freeport!" "He says they've got a dandy troop, with three full patrols, over there." "No reason, Felix, why Lenox should be left out in the cold when it comes to Boy Scout activities. Let's keep the ball rolling until it's a sure thing." "I say the same, Josh. Why, we can count about enough noses for a full patrol right among ourselves. There's Tom Chesney to begin with; George Cooper here, who ought to make a pretty fair scout even if he is always finding fault; Carl Oskamp, also present, if we can only tear him away from his hobby of raising homing pigeons long enough to study up what scouts have to know; yourself, Josh Kingsley; and a fellow by the name of Felix Robbins, which happens to be me." "That's five to begin with; and I might mention Billy Button; yes, and Walter Douglass, though I guess he'd take the premium for a tenderfoot, because he knows next to nothing about outdoor life." "But he's willing to learn, because he told me so, Josh; and that counts a lot, you know. That makes seven doesn't it? Well, to complete the roster of the patrol we might coax Horace Herkimer Crapsey to cast in his lot with us!" The boy named Josh laughed uproariously at the suggestion, and his merriment was shared to some extent by the other two, Carl Oskamp and George Cooper. Felix shook his head at them disapprovingly. "Just go slow there, fellows," he told them. "Because Horace has always been so afraid of his soft white hands that he wears gloves most of the time isn't any reason why he shouldn't be made to see the error of his ways." "Oh! Felix means that if only we can coax Horace to join, we _might_ reform him!" exclaimed Josh, who was a thin and tall boy, with what might be called a hatchet face, typically Yankee. "By the same token," chuckled Felix in turn, "a few of us might drop some of our bad habits if once we subscribed to the rules of the scouts, because I've read the same in a newspaper. They rub it into fellows who find fault with things instead of being cheerful." "Oh! is that so, Felix?" burst out George Cooper, who took that thrust to himself. "How about others who are lazy, and always wanting to put things off to another day? Do those same rules say 'procrastination is the thief of time?'" "Well boys," remarked Carl Oskamp, pouring oil on the troubled water as was his habit, "we've all got our faults, and it might be a good thing if joining the scouts made us change our ways more or less. There comes Tom, now, let's get him to tell us something more about the chance for starting a troop in Lenox right away." "He said he believed he knew a young man who might consent to act as scout master," observed Felix. "It's Mr. Robert Witherspoon, the civil engineer and surveyor." "Why, yes, I believe he used to be a scout master in the town he came from!" declared Carl. "I hope Tom is bringing us some good news right now." "If that look on his face counts for anything, he's going to give us a chance to let out a few cheers," asserted Felix, as the fifth boy drew near. It was a Friday afternoon near the close of winter when this conversation took place. School was over for the week, and as there was an unmistakable feeling of coming spring in the air the snow on the ground seemed to be in haste to melt and disappear. Every now and then one of the boys would be overcome by an irresistible temptation to stoop, gather up enough of the soft clinging snow to make a hard ball, which was thrown with more or less success at some tree or other object. The town of Lenox was just one of many in the eastern section of the great United States, and boasted a few thousand inhabitants, some industries, a high school, and various churches. In Lenox the boys were no different from those to be found in every like community. They had a baseball club that vied with rival schools in spirited contests, a football organization, and in fact almost every element that might be expected to thrive in the midst of a lively community. There was, however, one thing in which the boys of Lenox seemed to have been lacking, and this had been brought home to them when Tom Chesney came back from his recent visit to Freeport, some twenty miles away. Somehow the growing fever among boys to organize scout troops had not broken out very early in Lenox; but if late in coming it bade fair to make up for lost time by its fierce burning. The boy who now joined the four whose chatter we have just recorded was a healthy looking chap. There was something positive about Tom Chesney that had always made him a leader with his comrades. At the same time he was never known to assume any airs or to dictate; which was all the more reason why his chums loved him. "What luck, Tom?" demanded Josh, as soon as the newcomer joined the others. "It's all fixed," was the quick answer given by Tom, who evidently did not believe in beating about the bush. "Good for you!" cried Felix. "Then Mr. Witherspoon is willing to organize the Lenox Troop of Boy Scouts, is he, Tom?" "He said he would be glad to have a hand in it," replied the other, "his only regret being that as he is often called out of town he might not be able to give the matter all the attention he would like." "That's great news anyhow, Tom!" declared Josh, beaming with satisfaction. "We've just been figuring things out, and believe we can find eight fellows who would be willing to make up the first patrol." "We would need that many for a starter," commented Tom; "because according to the rules he tells me there must be at least one full patrol before a troop can be started. And I'm glad you can figure on enough. It's going to make it a success from the start." "There's yourself to begin with," remarked Josh, counting with his fingers; "Felix, Walter Douglass, George here, Billy Button, Horace Crapsey, Carl and myself, making the eight we need for a patrol." "I'm glad you're all anxious to join," said Tom, glancing from one eager face to the other, as they walked slowly down the street in a group. "Why, so far as that goes, Tom," ventured Felix Robbins, "most of us are counting the days before we can be wearing our khaki suits and climbing up out of the tenderfoot bunch to that of second-class scout. Only Carl here seems to be kind of holding back; though none of us can see why he should want to go and leave his old chums in the lurch." At that Tom gave Carl another look a little more searching than his first. He was immediately struck by the fact that Carl did not seem as happy as usual. He and Tom had been close chums for years. That fact made Tom wonder why the other had not taken him into his confidence, if there was anything wrong. Carl must have known that the eyes of his chum were upon him for he flushed, and then looked hastily up. "Oh! it isn't that I wouldn't be mighty glad of the chance to go into this thing with the rest of you," he hastened to say; "don't believe that I'm getting tired of my old chums. It isn't that at all. But something has happened to make me think I may be kept so busy that I'd have no time to give to studying up scout laws and attending meetings." "Oh! forget it all, Carl, and come in with us," urged Josh, laying a hand affectionately on the other's shoulder. "If it's anything where we can help, you know as well as you do your own name that there isn't a fellow but would lay himself out to stand back of you. Isn't that so, boys?" Three other voices instantly joined in to declare that they would only be glad of the opportunity to show Carl how much they appreciated him. It always touches a boy to find out how much his chums think of him. There was a suspicious moisture about Carl's eyes as he smiled and nodded his head when replying. "That's nice of you, fellows. But after all perhaps I may see my way clear to joining the troop. I hope so, anyway, and I'll try my best to make the riffle. Now Tom, tell us all Mr. Witherspoon said." "Yes, we want to know what we'd have to do the first thing," added Josh, who was about as quick to start things as Felix Robbins was slow. "I sent off and got a scout manual. It came last night, and I'm soaking up the contents at a great rate." "That was why I saw a light over in your room late last night, was it?" George Cooper demanded. "Burning the midnight oil. Must have been interesting reading, seems to me, Josh." "I could hardly tear myself away from the book," responded the other boy. "After to-night I'll loan it to the rest of you, though I guess Tom must have got one from Mr. Witherspoon, for I see something bulging in his pocket." Tom laughed at that. "Josh," he said, "it's very plain to me that you will make a pretty clever scout, because you've got the habit of observing things down to a fine point. And if you've read as much as you say, of course you know that one of the first things a tenderfoot has to do is to remember to keep his eyes about him, and see things." "Yes," added Josh, eagerly, "one test is for each boy to stand in front of a store window for just two minutes, making a mental map of the same, and then go off to jot down as many objects as he can remember to have seen there." "That's quite a stunt," remarked Felix thoughtfully; "and I reckon the one who can figure out the biggest number of articles goes up head in the class. I must remember and practice that game. It strikes me as worth while." "Listen to the row up there, will you?" burst out George Cooper just then. "Why, that lot of boys seems to be having a snowball fight, don't they? Hello! it isn't a battle after all, but they're pelting somebody or other. See how the balls fly like a flock of pigeons from Carl's coop!" "It looks like a man they're bombarding!" ejaculated Felix. "You're right about that, and an old man in the bargain," added Tom as he quickened his steps involuntarily; "I can see that bully Tony Pollock leading the lot; yes, and the other fellows must be his cronies, Wedge McGuffey and Asa Green." "See the poor old fellow try to dodge the balls!" exclaimed Josh. "They're making them like ice too, and I wouldn't put it past that lot to pack a stone in each snowball in the bargain. They'd be equal to anything." "Are we going to stand by and see that sport go on, boys?" asked Carl as he shut his jaws tight together, and the light of indignation shone in his eyes. "We wouldn't be fit to wear the khaki of scouts if we did, fellows!" cried Tom Chesney. "Come on, and let's give them a taste of their own medicine," and with loud shouts the five comrades started to gather up the snow as they chased pell-mell toward the scene of excitement. CHAPTER II THE MAN WHO LOVED NATURE "Give it to them, boys!" Josh was shouting as he started to send his first ball straight at the group of busy tormentors who were showering the helpless old man with their icy balls that must have stung almost as much as so many rocks. He seemed to be lame, for while he tried to advance toward the young rascals waving his stout cane wildly, they had no difficulty in keeping a safe distance off, and continuing the cruel bombardment. The smashing of that ball flung by Josh, who was pitcher on the Lenox baseball team, and a fine shot, was the first intimation the three tormentors of the old man had that the tables had been turned. "Hey! look here what's on to us!" shrilled one of the trio, as he felt the sudden shock caused by the first snowball striking the back of his head. Upon that the bully of the town and his two allies were forced to turn and try to defend themselves against this assault from the rear. They fought desperately for a very short time, but their hands were already half frozen, and five against three proved too great odds for their valor. Besides, every time Josh let fly he managed to land on some part of the person of Tony Pollock or one of his cronies. And those hard balls when driven by the sturdy arm of the baseball pitcher stung mercilessly. The old man stood and watched, with something like a smile on his face. He seemed to have forgotten all about his own recent predicament in seeing these young rowdies receiving their just dues. If he had not been old and lame possibly he might have insisted on joining in the fray, and adding to the punishment being meted out to the three cowardly boys. Once a retreat was begun, it quickly merged into a regular panic. Tom stayed to talk to the old man while his comrades pursued the fleeing trio, and peppered them good and hard. When finally they felt that they had amply vindicated their right to be reckoned worthy candidates for scout membership they came back, laughing heartily among themselves, to where Tom and the old man were standing. "Why, I've seen that old fellow before," Josh remarked in a low tone as he and Carl, George and Felix drew near. "His name is Larry Henderson, and they say he's something of a hermit, living away up in the woods beyond Bear Mountain." "Sure thing," added Felix, instantly; "I've heard my folks talking about him lots of times. He does a little trapping, they say, but spends most of his time studying animated nature. He knows every animal that ever lived on this continent, and the birds and insects too, I reckon. He's as smart as they make 'em, and used to be a college professor some people say, even if he does talk a little rough now." For some reason all of them were feeling more or less interest in the man who walked with a cane. Perhaps this arose from the fact that of late they had become enthusiastic over everything connected with woodcraft. And the fact that Mr. Henderson was acquainted with a thousand secrets about the interesting things to be discovered in the Great Outdoors appealed strongly to them. "These are my chums, Mr. Henderson," said Tom, when the others came up; and as the name of each one was mentioned the hermit of Bear Mountain grasped his hand, giving a squeeze that made some of the boys wince. "I'm glad to meet you all," he said, heartily. "It was worth being attacked by that lot of rowdies just to get acquainted with such a fine lot of boys. And I want to say that you gave them all the punishment they deserved. I counted hits until I lost all track of the number." "Yes," said Felix, with a grin on his freckled face; "they're rubbing many a sore spot right now, I reckon. Josh here, who's our star pitcher on the nine, never wasted a single ball. And I could hear the same fairly whistle through the air." "Gosh all hemlock! Felix," objected the boy mentioned, "you're stretching things pretty wide, aren't you? Now I guess the rest of you did your share in the good work, just as much as I." "All the same I'm thankful for your coming to my assistance," said Mr. Henderson. "My rheumatism kept me from being as spry in dodging their cannonade as I might have been some years ago. And one ball that broke against that tree had a stone inside it, I'm sorry to say. We would have called that unsportsmanlike in my young days." "Only the meanest kind of a fellow would descend to such a trick!" exclaimed the indignant Josh; "but then Tony Pollock and his crowd are ready to do anything low-down and crooked. They'll never be able to join our scout troop, after we get it started." "What's that you are saying?" asked the old man, showing sudden interest. "Why, you see, sir," explained Josh, always ready to do his share of talking if given half a chance, "our chum here, Tom Chesney, was visiting his cousins over in Freeport, and got interested in their scout troop. So we've taken the thing up, and expect to start the ball rolling right away." "It happens," Tom went on, "that there is a young man in town who once served as scout master in a troop, and I've just had him promise to come around to-night and tell us what we've got to do to get the necessary charter from scout headquarters." "You interest me very much, boys," said Mr. Henderson, his eyes sparkling as he spoke. "I have read considerable about the wonderful progress this new movement is making all over the land; and I want to say that I like the principles it advocates. Boys have known too little in the past of how to take care of themselves at all times, and also be ready to lend a helping hand to others." "The camping out, and finding all sorts of queer things in the woods is what makes me want to join a troop!" said Josh; "because I always did love to fish and hunt, and get off in the mountains away from everybody." "That's a good foundation to start on," remarked the hermit, with kindling eyes, as he looked from one eager face to another; "but I imagine that after you've been a scout for a short time your ideas will begin to change considerably." "How, sir?" asked Josh, looking unconvinced. "Well," continued the old man, softly, "you'll find such enjoyment in _observing_ the habits of all the little woods folks that by degrees the fierce desire you have now to slay them will grow colder. In the end most of you will consider it ten times better to sit and watch them at their labors or play than to slaughter them in sport, or even to kill them for food." "But Mr. Henderson," said Josh, boldly, "I've heard that you trap animals for their pelts; and I guess you must knock a few over when you feel like having game for dinner, don't you?" "Occasionally I go out and get a rabbit or a partridge, though not often," admitted the old man; "and as for my trapping, I only try to take such animals or vermin as are cruel in their nature and seem to be a pest to the innocent things I'm so fond of having around me. I wish you boys could visit my cabin some time or other, and make the acquaintance of my innumerable pets. They look on me as their best friend, and I would never dream of raising a hand to injure them. Kindness to animals, I believe, is one of the cardinal principles of a true scout." "Yes, sir, that's what it is," responded Josh, eagerly. "I've got the whole twelve points of scout law on the tip of my tongue right now. Here's what they are: A scout has got to be trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean and reverent." "Whew! that's going some!" declared Felix, who being prone to put things off to a more convenient season could readily see that he was sure to run up against a good many snags if he tried to keep the scout law. "Then you can easily understand," continued Mr. Henderson, "what a treasure-house the woods is going to be to every observing boy who spends some time there, and becomes interested in seeing all that is going on around him." "I'm sure of that, sir," responded Tom, earnestly. "I know for one that I've never paid a quarter of the attention to such things as I ought to have done." "No, you are right there, my lad," the hermit continued, being evidently on a favorite subject, "the average boy can walk through a mile of forest and hardly notice anything around him. In fact, he may even decide that it's only a gloomy place, and outside the cawing of the crows or perhaps an occasional squirrel at which he shies a stone he has heard and seen nothing." "Then it's different with a scout, is it, sir?" asked George Cooper. "If he has been aroused to take a keen interest in nature the same woods will be alive with interesting things," the other told them. "He will see the shy little denizens peeping curiously out at him from a cover of leaves, and hear their low excited chattering as they tell each other what they think of him. Every tree and moss-covered stone and swinging wild grape-vine will tell a story; and afterwards that boy is going to wonder how he ever could have been content to remain in such dense ignorance as he did for years." "Mr. Henderson do you expect to remain in town over night?" asked Tom, suddenly. "Why yes, I shall have to stay until to-morrow," came the reply; "I am stopping with my old friend, Judge Stone. We attended the same red school house on the hill a great many years ago. My stock of provisions ran short sooner than I had counted on, and this compelled me to come down earlier than usual. As a rule I deal over in Fairmount, but this time it was more convenient to come here. Why do you ask, Tom?" "I was wondering whether you could be coaxed to come around to-night, and meet the rest of the boys," the boy told him. "We expect to have a dozen present, and when Mr. Witherspoon is explaining what a scout must subscribe to in joining a troop, it might influence some of the fellows if you would tell them a few things like those you were just describing to us." The old naturalist looked at the eager faces of the five lads, and a smile came over his own countenance. Undoubtedly he was a lover of and believer in boys, no matter whether he had ever had any of his own or not. "I shall be only too pleased to come around, Tom; if Judge Stone can run his car by moonlight. Tell me where the meeting is to take place." "The deacons of the church have promised to let us have a room in the basement, which has a stove in it. The meeting will be at eight o'clock, sir," Tom informed him. "I hope to be there and listen to what goes on," said the hermit. "And after all I'm not sorry those vicious boys thought to bombard me the way they did, since it has given me the opportunity to get acquainted with such a fine lot of lads. But I see my friend, the Judge, coming with his car, and I'll say good-bye to you all for the present." He waved his hand to them as he rode away beside the white-bearded judge, who was one of the most highly respected citizens of Lenox. "Well, he's a mighty fine sort of an old party, for a fact!" declared George, as they looked after the receding car; nor did he mean the slightest disrespect in speaking in this fashion of the interesting old man they had met in such a strange way. "I'd give something if only I could visit Mr. Henderson at his cabin," remarked Felix; "I reckon he must have a heap of things worth seeing in his collection." "Who knows," said Tom, cheerily, "but what some good luck might take us up that way one of these fine days." "Let's hope so," added Josh, as they once more started toward home. CHAPTER III A CLOUD OVER THE OSKAMP HOME Tom and Carl walked along together after the other three boys had dropped off at various stages, taking short-cuts for their homes, as supper-time was approaching. "What's gone wrong, Carl?" asked Tom, as he flung an arm across the shoulders of his closest chum. "I was meaning to tell you about it, Tom," explained the other, quickly; "but somehow I kept holding back. It seemed as if I ought to find a way of solving that queer mystery myself. But only this morning I decided to ask you to help me." His words aroused the curiosity of the other boy more than ever. "What's this you're talking about?" he exclaimed. "A mystery is there now, Carl? Why, I thought it might all be about that coming around so often of Mr. Amasa Culpepper, who not only keeps the grocery store but is a sort of shyster lawyer, and a money lender as well. Everybody says he's smitten with your mother, and wants to be a second father to you and your sisters and brothers." "Well that used to worry me a whole lot," admitted Carl, frankly, "until I asked my mother if she cared any for Amasa. She laughed at me, and said that if he was the last man on earth she would never dream of marrying him. In fact, she never expected to stop being John Oskamp's widow. So since then I only laugh when I see old Amasa coming around and fetching big bouquets of flowers from his garden, which he must hate to pull, he's so miserly." "Then what else has cropped up to bother you, Carl?" asked Tom. The other heaved a long-drawn sigh. "My mother is worried half sick over it!" he explained; "she's hunted every bit of the house over several times; and I've scoured the garden again and again, but we don't seem to be able to locate it at all. It's the queerest thing where it could have disappeared to so suddenly." "Yes, but you haven't told me what it is?" remarked Tom. "A paper, Tom, a most valuable paper that my mother carelessly left on the table in the sitting room day before yesterday." "What kind of a paper was it?" asked Tom, who always liked to get at the gist of things in the start. "Why, it was a paper that meant considerable to my mother," explained Carl. "My father once invested in some shares of oil stock. The certificate of stock was in the safe keeping of Amasa Culpepper, who had given a receipt for the same, and a promise to hand over the original certificate when this paper was produced." "And you say the receipt disappeared from the table in your sitting room, without anybody knowing what became of it?" asked Tom. "Yes," replied Carl. "This is how it came about. Lately we received word that the company had struck some gushers in the way of wells, and that the stock my father had bought for a few cents a share is worth a mint of money now. It was through Amasa Culpepper my mother first learned about this, and she wrote to the company to find out." "Oh! I see," chuckled Tom, "and when Mr. Culpepper learned that there was a chance of your mother becoming rich, his unwelcome attentions became more pronounced than ever; isn't that so, Carl?" "I think you're right, Tom," said the other boy, but without smiling, for he carried too heavy a load on his mind to feel merry. "You see my mother had hunted up this precious receipt, and had it handy, meaning to go over to Mr. Culpepper's office in the forenoon and ask for the certificate of stock he has in his safe." "So she laid it on the table, did she?" pursued Tom, shaking his head. "Don't you think that it was a little careless, Carl, in your mother, to do that?" "She can't forgive herself for doing it," replied his chum, sadly. "She says that it just shows how few women have any business qualities about them, and that she misses my father more and more every day that she lives. But none of the other children touched the paper. Angus, Elsie and Dot have told her so straight; and it's a puzzle to know what did become of it." "You spoke of hunting in the garden and around the outside of the house; why should you do that?" "It happened that one of the sitting room windows was open half a foot that day. The weather had grown mild you remember," explained the other. "And you kind of had an idea the paper might have blown out through that open window, was that it?" "It looked like it to me," answered the widow's son, frowning; "but if that was what happened the wind carried it over the fence and far away, because I've not been able to find anything of it." "How long was it between the time your mother laid the paper on the table and the moment she missed it?" continued Tom Chesney. "Just one full hour. She went from the breakfast table and got the paper out of her trunk. Then when she had seen the children off to school, and dressed to go out it was gone. She said that was just a quarter to ten." "She's sure of that, is she?" demanded Tom. "Yes," replied Carl, "because the grocer's boy always comes along at just a quarter after nine for his orders, and he had been gone more than twenty minutes." At that the other boy stopped still and looked fixedly at Carl. "That grocer's boy is a fellow by the name of Dock Phillips, isn't he?" was what Tom asked, as though with a purpose. "Yes," Carl replied. "And he works for Mr. Amasa Culpepper, too!" continued Tom, placing such a decided emphasis on these words that his companion started and stared in his face. "That's all true enough, Tom, but tell me what you mean by saying that in the way you did? What could Mr. Culpepper have to do with the vanishing of that paper?" "Oh! perhaps nothing at all," pursued the other, "but all the same he has more interest in its disappearance than any other person I can think of just now." "Because his name was signed at the bottom, you mean, Tom?" cried the startled Carl. "Just what it was," continued Tom. "Suppose your mother could never produce that receipt, Mr. Culpepper would be under no necessity of handing over any papers. I don't pretend to know much about such things, and so I can't tell just how he could profit by holding them. But even if he couldn't get them made over in his own name, he might keep your mother from becoming rich unless she agreed to marry him!" Carl was so taken aback by this bold statement that he lost his breath for a brief period of time. "But Tom, Amasa Culpepper wasn't in our house that morning?" he objected. "Perhaps not, but Dock Phillips was, and he's a boy I'd hate to trust any further than I could see him," Tom agreed. "Do you think Mr. Culpepper could have hired Dock to _steal_ the paper?" continued the sorely-puzzled Carl. "Well, hardly that. If Dock took it he did the job on his own responsibility. Perhaps he had a chance to glance at the paper and find out what it stood for, and in his cunning way figured that he might hold his employer up for a good sum if he gave him to understand he could produce that receipt." "Yes, yes, I'm following you now, go on," implored the deeply interested Carl. "Here we are at your house, Carl; suppose you ask me in. I'd like to find out if Dock was left alone in the sitting room for even a minute that morning." "Done!" cried the other, vehemently, as he pushed open the white gate, and led the way quickly along the snow-cleaned walk up to the front door. Mrs. Oskamp was surprised as she stood over the stove in the neat kitchen of her little cottage home when her oldest boy and his chum, Tom Chesney, whom she liked very much indeed, entered. Their manner told her immediately that it was design and not accident that had brought them in together. "I've been telling Tom, mother," said Carl, after looking around and making certain that none of the other children were within earshot; "and he's struck what promises to be a clue that may explain the mystery we've been worrying over." "I'm pleased to hear you say so, son," the little woman with the rosy cheeks and the bright eyes told Carl; "and if I can do anything to assist you please call on me without hesitation, Tom." "What we want you to tell us, mother," continued Carl, "is how long you left that Dock Phillips alone in the sitting room when he called for grocery orders on the morning that paper disappeared." Mrs. Oskamp looked wonderingly at them both. "I don't remember saying anything of that sort to you, Carl," she presently remarked, slowly and with a puzzled expression on her pretty plump face. "But you _did_ leave him alone there, didn't you?" the boy persisted, as though something in her manner convinced him that he was on the track of a valuable clue. "Well, yes, but it was not for more than two minutes," she replied. "There was a mistake in my last weekly bill, and I wanted Dock to take it back to the store with him for correction. Then I found I had left it in the pocket of the dress I wore the afternoon before, and so I went upstairs to get it." "Two minutes would be plenty of time, wouldn't it, Tom?" Carl continued, turning on his chum. "He may have stepped up to the table to see what the paper was," Tom theorized; "and discovering the name of Amasa Culpepper signed to it, considered it worth stealing. That may be wronging Dock; but he has a bad reputation, you know, Mrs. Oskamp. My folks say they are surprised at Mr. Culpepper's employing him; but everybody knows he hates to pay out money, and I suppose he can get Dock cheaper than he could most boys." "But what would the boy want to do with that paper?" asked the lady, helplessly. "Why, mother," said Carl, with a shrug of his shoulders as he looked toward his chum; "don't you see he may have thought he could tell Mr. Culpepper about it, and offer to hand over, or destroy the paper, for a certain amount of cash." "But that would be very wicked, son!" expostulated Mrs. Oskamp. "Oh well, a little thing like that wouldn't bother Tony Pollock or Dock Phillips; and they're both of the same stripe. Haven't we hunted high and low for that paper, and wondered where under the sun it could have gone? Well, Dock got it, I'm as sure now as that my name's Carl Oskamp. The only question that bothers me now is how can I make him give it up, or tell what he did with it." "If he took it, and has already handed it over to Mr. Culpepper, there's not a single chance in ten you'll ever see it again," Tom asserted; "but we've got one thing in our favor." "I'm glad to hear that, Tom," the little lady told him, for she had a great respect for the opinion of her son's chum; "tell us what it is, won't you?" "Everybody knows how Amasa Culpepper is getting more and more stingy every year he lives," Tom explained. "He hates to let a dollar go without squeezing it until it squeals, they say. Well, if Dock holds out for a fairly decent sum I expect Amasa will keep putting him off, and try to make him come down in his price. That's our best chance of ever getting the paper back." "Tom, I want you to go with me to-night and face Dock Phillips," said Carl. "Just as you say; we can look him up on our way to the meeting." CHAPTER IV THE DEFIANCE OF DOCK PHILLIPS Remembering his promise, Tom called early for his chum. Carl lived in a pretty little cottage with his mother, and three other children. There was Angus, a little chap of five, Dot just three, and Elsie well turned seven. Everybody liked to visit the Oskamp home, there was such an air of contentment and happiness about the entire family, despite the fact that they missed the presence of the one who had long been their guide and protector. Tom was an especial favorite with the three youngsters, and they were always ready for a romp with him when he came to spend an evening with his chum. On this occasion however Tom did not get inside the house, for Carl was on the lookout and hurried out of the door as soon as he heard the gate shut. "Hello! seems to me you're in a big hurry to-night," laughed Tom, when he saw the other slip out of the house and come down the path to meet him; "what's all the rush about, Carl?" "Why, you see I knew we meant to drop in at Dock Phillips' place, and we wouldn't want to be too late at the meeting if we happened to be held up there," was the explanation Carl gave. As they hurried along they talked together, and of course much of their conversation was connected with this visit to Dock. Carl seemed hopeful of good results, but to tell the truth Tom had his doubts. In the first place he was a better judge of human nature than his chum, and he knew that the Phillips boy was stubborn, as well as vicious. If he were really guilty of having taken the paper he would be likely to deny it vehemently through thick and thin. Knowing how apt Carl was to become discouraged if things went against him very strongly, Tom felt it was his duty to prepare the other for disappointment. "Even if Dock denies that he ever saw the paper, we mustn't let ourselves feel that this is the end of it, you know, Carl," he started to say. "I'll be terribly disappointed, though, Tom," admitted the other boy, with a sigh that told how he had lain awake much the last two nights trying to solve the puzzle that seemed to have no answer. "Oh! that would only be natural," his chum told him, cheerily; "but you know if we expect to become scouts we must figure out what they would do under the same conditions, and act that way." "That's right, Tom," agreed the other, bracing up. "Tell me what a true-blue scout would figure out as his line of duty in case he ran up against a snag when his whole heart was set on doing a thing." "He'd just remember that old motto we used to write in our copybooks at school, and take it to heart--'if at first you don't succeed, try, try again!' And Carl, a scout would keep on trying right along. He'd set his teeth together as firm as iron and say he'd solve that problem, or know the reason why." "Tom, you know how to brace a weak-kneed fellow up all right." "But you're not that kind, Carl. Only in this case there's so much at stake you hardly do yourself justice. Remember how Grant went at it, and when he found that Lee met all of his tactics so cleverly he got his back up and said he'd fight it out on that line if it took all summer." "I see what you mean, and I'm game enough to say the same thing!" declared the other, with a ring of resolution in his voice. Tom felt wonderfully relieved. He knew that Carl was capable of great things if only he succeeded in conquering his one little failing of seeing the gloomy side of passing events. "Well, here we are at Dock's place. It's not a particularly lovely home for any fellow, is it? But then his father is known to be a hard drinker, and the mother finds it a tough job to keep her family in clothes and food. My folks feel sorry for her, and do what they can at times to help her out, though she's too proud to ask for assistance." "Dock promises to be as bad as his father, I'm afraid, only so far he hasn't taken to drinking," remarked Carl. "There's some hope for him if only he keeps away from that," ventured Tom. "But let's knock on the door." No sooner had his knuckles come in contact with the panel than there was a furious barking within. Like most poor families the Phillips evidently kept several dogs; indeed, Dock had always been a great lover of animals, and liked to be strutting along the main street of Lenox with a string of dogs tagging at his heels. A harsh voice was heard scolding the dogs, who relapsed into a grumbling and whining state of obedience. "That's Dock himself," said Carl. "They mind him all right, you see. I hope he opens the door for us, and not his father." Just then the Phillips door was drawn back. "Hello! Carl, and you too Tom; what's up?" Although Dock tried to say this with extreme indifference Tom saw that he was more or less startled at seeing them. In fact he immediately slipped outside, and closed the door behind him, as though he did not want his mother or any one else to overhear what might be said. This action was positive evidence to the mind of Tom Chesney that Dock was guilty. His fears caused him to act without thinking. At the same time such evidence is never accepted in a court of law as circumstantial. If either of the two boys had ever called at the Phillips' house before it must have been on account of some errand, and at the request of their mothers. Dock might therefore be filled with curiosity to know why he had been honored with a visit. "We dropped around to have a few words with you, Dock," said Tom, who had made arrangements with his chum to manage the little interview, and had his plan of campaign all laid out in advance. "Oh is that so?" sneered the other, now having had time to recover from the little shock which their sudden appearance had given him. "Well, here I am, so hurry up with what you've got to say. I came home late from the store and I'm not done my supper yet." "We'll keep you only a few minutes at the most, Dock," continued Tom; "you take the orders for groceries for the store, don't you?" "What, me? Why, course I do. Ain't you seen me a-goin' around with that bob-tail racer of Old Culpepper's that could make a mile in seventeen minutes if you kept the whip a-waggin' over his back? What if I do take orders; want to leave one with me for a commission, hey?" Dock tried to throw all the sarcasm he could into his voice. He had an object no doubt in doing this; which was to impress these two boys as to his contempt for them and their errand, whatever it might be. "We came here in hopes that you might solve a little bit of a mystery that's bothering Carl's mother, Dock," continued Tom. It was pretty dark out there, as the night had settled down, and not much light escaped from the windows close by; still Tom thought he saw the other boy move uneasily when he said this. "That's a funny thing for you to say, Tom Chesney," grumbled the other. "How'd I be able to help Mrs. Oskamp out, tell me? I ain't much of a hand to figger sums. That's why I hated school, and run away, so I had to go to work. Now what you drivin' at anyhow? Just tell me that." "Day before yesterday you called at Mrs. Oskamp's house, Dock, as you do every morning, to take orders. You always make it about the same time, I understand, which is close to a quarter after nine." "Oh! I'm the promptest grocery clerk you ever saw!" boasted Dock, perhaps to hide a little confusion, and bolster up his nerve. "After you had gone, or to make it positive at just a quarter to ten Mrs. Oskamp, who had dressed to go out, missed something that was on the table of the sitting room where you came for orders, and which she says she knows was there when you first arrived!" "What's this you're a-sayin', Tom Chesney? Want to make me out a thief, do you? Better go slow about that sort of talk, I tell you!" blustered Dock, aggressively. "Did Mrs. Oskamp see me take anything?" "Oh! no, certainly not," continued Tom; "but she had to go upstairs to get a bill she wanted you to take back to the store for correction, and left you alone in the room for a couple of minutes, that's all." Tom was fishing for a "rise," as he would have put it himself, being something of an angler; and he got it too. All unsuspicious of the trap that had been spread for his unwary feet Dock gave a harsh laugh, and went on to say angrily: "You have got the greatest nerve I ever heard about, Tom Chesney, a-comin' here right to my own home, and accusin' me of bein' a reg'lar thief. I wouldn't take a thing for the world. Besides, what'd I want with a silly old scrap of paper, tell me?" "Oh!" said Tom, quietly, "but I never mentioned what it was that was taken. How do you happen to know then it was a paper, Dock?" Carl gave a gasp of admiration for the clever work of his chum. As for Dock, he hardly knew what to say immediately, though after he caught his breath he managed to mutter: "Why, there was some papers on the table, I remembered, and I just guessed you must be meanin' that. I tell you I ain't seen no paper, and you can't prove it on me either. I defy you to; so there! Now just tell me what you're goin' to do about it." He squared off as though he had a dim idea the two boys might want to lay hands on him and try to drag him around to the police headquarters. Of course this was the very last thing Tom and Carl would think of attempting. Strategy alone could influence Dock to confess to the truth. "Oh! we don't mean to touch you, Dock," said Tom, hastily. "All we wanted to do was to ask you if you had seen that paper? If you denied it we knew we would have to try and find it another way; because sooner or later the truth is bound to come out, you understand. We'd rather have you on our side than against us, Dock." "But what would a feller like me want with your old paper?" snarled the boy, who may not have wholly liked the firm way in which Tom said that in the end the real facts must be made known, just as if they meant to get some one accustomed to spying on people to watch him from that time on. "Nothing so far as it concerned you," replied Tom; "but it was of considerable value to another. Your employer, Mr. Culpepper, might be willing to pay a considerable sum to get possession of that same paper, because it bore his signature." Dock gave a disagreeable laugh. "What, that old miser pay any real money out? Huh, you don't know him. He squeezes every dollar till it squeals before he lets it go. He'd bargain for the difference of five cents. Nobody could do business with him on the square. But I tell you I ain't seen no paper; and that's all I'm a-goin' to say 'bout it. I'm meanin' to let my dogs out for a little air soon's I go back in the house, an' I hopes that you'll close the gate after you when you skip!" There was a veiled threat in his words, and as he proceeded to terminate the interview by passing inside Tom and Carl thought it good policy to make use of the said gate, for they did not like the manner in which the dogs growled and whined on the other side of the barrier. "He's a tough one, all right," Carl was saying as they walked on together, and heard the three dogs barking in the Phillips' yard. "Yes," admitted his chum, "Dock's a hard customer, but not so very smart when you come right down to it. He fell headlong into my trap, which is a very old one with lawyers who wish to coax a man to betray his guilt." "You mean about saying it was a paper that had been lost?" said Carl. "Yes, you fairly staggered him when you asked him how he knew that." "There's no question about Dock's being the guilty one," asserted Tom. "He gave himself away the worst kind then. The only thing we have to do is to try and get the truth from him. Sooner or later it's got to be found out." "Yes," continued Carl, dejectedly, "but if he's handed that paper over to Mr. Culpepper in the meantime, even if we could prove that Dock took it what good will that do? Once that paper is torn up, we could recover nothing." "But I'm sure he hasn't made his bargain with old Amasa yet," Tom ventured. "Why do you believe that?" asked the other, eagerly. "You heard what he said about the meanness of his employer, didn't you?" was what Tom replied. "Well, it proves that although Dock sounded Mr. Culpepper about being in a position to give him the paper they haven't arrived at any satisfactory conclusion." "You mean Dock wants more than Amasa is willing to pay, is that it, Tom?" "It looks that way to me," the other boy assented; "and that sort of deadlock may keep on indefinitely. You see, Dock is half afraid to carry the deal through, and will keep holding off. Perhaps he may even have put so high a price on his find, that every once in a while they'll lock horns and call it a draw." "I hope you've hit on the right solution," sighed Carl; "if it didn't do anything else it would give us a chance to think up some other scheme for getting the truth out of Dock." "Leave it to me, Carl; sooner or later we'll find a way to beat him at his own game. If he's got that paper hidden away somewhere we may discover his secret by following him. There are other ways too. It's going to come out all right in the end, you take my word for it!" CHAPTER V THE BLACK BEAR PATROL It was a lively scene in the room under the church when the meeting was called to order by Mr. Witherspoon, the civil engineer and surveyor. A dozen boys were on hand, several having come from curiosity, and meaning to join the scouts later on if they saw reason to believe it would amount to anything. Besides the boys there were present Judge Stone, his friend the hermit-naturalist, Larry Henderson, and two fathers, who had dropped around to learn whether this new-fangled movement for the rising generation meant that the boys were to be secretly trained for soldiers, as so many people believed. Robert Witherspoon having once been a scout master knew how to manage a meeting of this sort. After he had called it to order he made a neat little speech, and explained what a wonderful influence for good the organization had been in every community where it had been tested. He read various extracts from the scout manual to show the lofty aims of those who had originated this idea which was taking the world by storm. "The boys have been neglected far too long," he told them; "and it has been decided that if we want a better class of men in the world we must begin work with the boy. It is the province of this scout movement to make duty so pleasant for the average lad that he will be wild to undertake it." In his little talk to the boys Mr. Witherspoon mentioned the fact that one of the greatest charms of becoming scouts was that growing habit of observing all that went on around them. "When you're in town this may not seem to be much of a thing after all," he had gone on to say; "but in the woods you will find it an ever increasing fascination, as the wonders of nature continue to be unfolded before your eyes. We are fortunate to have with us to-night a gentleman who is known all over the country as a naturalist and lover of the great outdoors. I think it will be worth our while to listen while he tells us something of the charming things to be found in studying nature. Mr. Henderson I'm going to ask you to take up as much time as you see fit." When Tom and Carl and some of the other boys did that little favor for Mr. Larry Henderson they were inclined to fancy that he was rather rough in his manner. He had not been talking five minutes however, before they realized that he was a born orator, and could hold an audience spell-bound by his eloquence. He thrilled those boys with the way in which he described the most trivial happening in the lonely wilds. They fairly hung upon his every sentence. "When you first commence to spend some time in the woods, boys," he told them, "it will seem very big and lonesome to you. Then as you come to make the acquaintance of Br'er 'Coon and Mr. Fox and the frisky chipmunk and all the rest of the denizens, things will take on a different color. In the end you will feel that they are all your very good friends, and nothing could tempt you to injure one of the happy family. "Yes, it is true that occasionally I do trap an animal but only when I find it a discordant element in the group. Some of them prey upon others, and yet that is no excuse why man should step in and exterminate them all, as he often does just for the sake of a few dollars." This sort of talk roused the enthusiasm of the boys, and when after a while Mr. Witherspoon put the question as to how many of them felt like immediately signing the roster roll so as to start the first patrol of the intended troop, there was a good deal of excitement shown. First of all Tom Chesney signed, and immediately after him came Carl, Felix, Josh and George. By the time these five names had appeared Josh had slipped his arm through that of Walter Douglass and brought him up to the table to place his signature on the list. "We need two more to make up the first patrol," announced Mr. Witherspoon. "Unless eight are secured we cannot hope to get our charter from scout headquarters, because that is the minimum number of a troop. I sincerely hope we may be able to make so much progress to-night at this meeting that I can write to-morrow to obtain the necessary authority for acting as your scout master." At that another boy who had been anxiously conferring with his father walked forward. "Good for you, Billy Button!" called out Josh. "That makes seven, and we only need one more name. Horace, are you going to see this grand scheme fall through for lack of just a single name? Your sig would look mighty good to the rest of us at the end of that list." Then he ended with an air of assumed dignity, "Horace, your country calls you; will it call in vain?" Horace Herkimer Crapsey was the boy who had been spoken of as a dainty dude, who hated to soil his white hands. Tom had expressed it as his opinion that if only Horace could be coaxed to join the troop it would prove to be the finest thing in the world for him. He had the making of a good scout only for those faults which other boys derided as silly and girlish. He was neat to a painful degree, and that is always looked on as a sort of crime by the average boy. Horace evidently had been greatly taken by the combined talk of the scout master and the old hermit-naturalist. To the great delight of Josh, as well as most of the other boys, he now stepped forward and placed his name on the list. "That makes eight, and enough for the first patrol," announced Mr. Witherspoon, with a pleased look; "we can count on an organization now as a certainty. All of you will have to start in as tenderfeet, because so far you have had no experience as scouts; but unless I miss my guess it will be only a short time before a number of you will be applying for the badge of second-class scouts." "That's just what we will, sir!" cried Josh, brimming over with enthusiasm. "We cannot elect a patrol leader just now," continued Mr. Witherspoon, "until there are some of you who are in the second class; but that will come about in good time. But it is of considerable importance what name you would like to give this first patrol of the new Lenox Troop of Boy Scouts." There was a conference among the boys, and all sorts of suggestions were evidently being put forward. Finally Tom Chesney seemed to have been delegated as usual to act as spokesman. "Mr. Chairman," he said, rising from his seat, "my comrades of Lenox Troop have commissioned me to say they would like to ask Mr. Henderson to name the first patrol for them. They believe they will be perfectly satisfied with any name he may think best to give them." Judge Stone smiled, and nodded his head as though he considered this quite a neat little compliment for his good old friend. And the naturalist was also evidently pleased as he got upon his feet. "After all, boys," he told them, "it is a matter of very little consequence what you call this fine patrol. There are a dozen names that suggest themselves. Since you have a Bear Mountain within half a dozen miles of your town suppose you call it the Black Bear Patrol." There was a chorus of approving assents, and it looked as though not a single objection was to be offered. "The black bear is an American institution, you might say," Mr. Henderson continued, when this point had been settled, "and next to the eagle is recognized as distinctive. From what I have heard said this evening it seems to me also that the Boy Scouts of America differ from any other branch of the movement in many ways." "Above all things," exclaimed Mr. Witherspoon, "in that there is nothing military about the movement over here. In Europe scouts are in one sense soldiers in the making. They all expect to serve the colors some day later on. We do not hold this up before our boys; though never once doubting that in case a great necessity arose every full-fledged scout would stand up for his country's honor and safety." "Every time!" exclaimed the impetuous Josh. Long they lingered there, discussing many things connected with the securing of their uniforms, after the proper time had elapsed. Various schemes were suggested whereby each boy could earn enough money to pay for his outfit; because that was one of the important stipulations made in joining a troop, no candidate being allowed to accept help in securing his suit. Before the meeting was adjourned it was settled that they were to come together every Friday night; and meanwhile each member of the Black Bear Patrol expected to qualify for the grade of second-class scout just as soon as his month of membership as arranged under the bylaws of the order had expired. CHAPTER VI SETTING THE TRAP "Three weeks have gone by since we had that first meeting, Tom; just think of it." Carl was walking along the river road with his chum when he made this remark. They had seen the last of the snow vanish, and with the coming of milder days all the boys began to talk of going fishing before long. Perhaps this saunter of the pair after school may have had something to do with the first contemplated outing of the season, and they wanted to see whether the fish had commenced to come from their winter quarters, though the law would not be off for trout yet awhile. "That's a fact, Carl," replied the other boy; "and at our very next meeting most of the members of the patrol are going to get their badges as second-class scouts, because they've already qualified for it to the satisfaction of Mr. Witherspoon." "Honest to goodness I believe there'll be only one tenderfoot left in the lot," Carl continued; "and that of course is our dude, Horace. He managed to exert himself just enough to fulfill the requirements a tenderfoot has to possess, but there he sticks." "Wait a while longer," Tom told him, "and one of these fine days you may see Horace wake up. I haven't lost hopes of him by a long shot. At our next meeting, after we've passed up, the first thing we have to do is to elect a patrol leader." Carl laughed softly. "Oh that's all cut and dried, already," he asserted. "Well, if it is no one has said anything to me about it," objected Tom, at which the other laughed again. "Why should they bother when it was seven against one, Tom?" argued Carl. "Why, the boys wouldn't dream of having any other leader than you!" "But that doesn't seem quite fair, it ought to be talked over openly. Why pick me out above every one else for that?" "Because you've always been a leader among your schoolmates, Tom, that's why!" he was quickly, told. "You've got it in you to take the lead in every kind of sport known to boys. Baseball, football, hockey, athletics--tell me a single thing where you've had to play second fiddle to any other fellow. And it isn't because you want to push yourself either, but because you can go ahead." "Well," said Tom, slowly and musingly, "it's mighty nice to know that the other boys like you, and if the fellows are bound to make me take the office of patrol leader I suppose I'll have to accept it." "No one so well able to do the work as you are, Tom. But this has been a terribly long three weeks to me, I tell you." "Now you're thinking that we haven't made a bit of progress about finding that stolen paper," suggested Tom, looking a little crest-fallen. "Both of us have tried from time to time to watch Dock after nights, but somehow we haven't had much success up to now." "No," added Carl, with one of his heavy sighs, "if he has that paper hidden somewhere he's smart enough to keep away from his cache, so far as we've been able to find out." "I don't believe he's come to any settlement with Amasa Culpepper as yet," Tom observed, with considerable positiveness. "We think that, but we don't know for sure," ventured the less confident Carl. "If only I could glimpse the paper I'd have a big load lifted from my mind. And it cuts me to the quick to see poor mother trying to look cheerful when I come indoors, though I've noticed signs of tears on her cheeks several times." "I've been thinking of some sort of scheme," began Tom, slowly. "Good for you!" burst out Carl, delightedly. "Tell me what it is then; and can we start in to try it right away?" "That depends on several conditions," explained the other. "First of all do you remember what that receipt made out by Mr. Culpepper looked like, Carl?" "Do I? Why, it seems to me it must have been burned on my memory as though you'd take a red hot poker and make marks on the clean kitchen floor. When I shut my eyes nights and try to go to sleep it keeps dancing in front of me. Before I know what I'm doing I find myself grabbing out for it, and then I want to kick myself for being so foolish, when I know it's all just a silly bit of imagination." "I'm glad you remember so well how it looked," remarked Tom, somewhat to the mystification of his companion. "What has that got to do with your scheme?" he demanded, in perplexity. "A whole lot," came the swift answer; "because I want you to get me up as close a copy of that receipt as you possibly can!" "Whew! do you mean even to signing Mr. Culpepper's name at the end?" asked Carl, whose breath had very nearly been taken away. "Yes, even to that," he was told; "in fact the paper wouldn't be worth a pinch of salt in my little game if that signature were omitted. Do you think you could duplicate the receipt, Carl?" "I am sure I could; but even now I'm groping in the dark, because for the life of me I can't see what you expect to do with it, Tom." "Don't forget to crease it, to make it look as though it had been folded and opened ever so many times; yes, and soil the outside a little too, as if it had been carried in a boy's pocket along with a lot of other things like marbles or a top or something like that." "But please explain what all this means," Carl pleaded. "Listen!" replied the other, impressively, "and I'll tell you what my game is. It may work, and it may fall flat; a whole lot depends on circumstances, but there's no harm trying it out." "Of course not; go on and tell me." "In watching Dock when he didn't know it, we've learned considerable about his habits," continued Tom. "For one thing every single night he walks home along the river road here after delivering a package or two at certain houses. It seems to be a part of the programme. Well, some fine night we'll lie in wait for him about this spot; and on the road will be that duplicate of the paper which we believe he stole." At that Carl became quite excited. "Oh! now I see what your game it!" he cried; "and let me tell you I think it's as clever a trick as could be thought of. He'll pick up the paper, thinking it may be something worth while; and when he sees that it is the very receipt he thinks he has got safely hidden away somewhere, Dock will be so rattled that the first thing he does will be to hurry to find out whether it's been taken or not." "That's the idea, Carl; and of course we'll follow him, so as to jump in the very minute he gets out the real document to compare them." "Fine! fine, Tom! You are certainly the crackerjack when it comes to laying a trap to trip a scamp up. Why, he'll fall into that pit head over heels; and I do hope we can snatch the paper away from him before he has a chance to tear it up." "We'll look out for that all right, you can depend on it," came the reassuring remark from the other scout. "When will you get busy on that copy, Carl?" "To-night, after the kids are in bed," Carl hastened to reply; "I wouldn't care to have them see what I was doing, though in this case I firmly believe it's all right." "And if your mother wants to know, tell her," said Tom. "I'd have to do that anyway," said Carl, without the least confusion or hesitation; "I always tell my mother everything that happens. She takes an interest in all my plans, and she's the dearest little mother a boy ever had. But she'll understand that it's only meant to be a trick to catch the thief." "Then if you have it ready by to-morrow afternoon we might try how it works that same evening," Tom remarked. "I wish the time was now, I'm getting so anxious to do something," sighed the second boy, as he again remembered how he had seen his mother force herself to appear cheerful when he came from school, though there were traces of tears on her cheeks, and her eyes looked red. Soon after that the chums separated, as the afternoon was drawing near a close. "I wish you luck with your work to-night, Carl," was what Tom called out in parting; "and if any one wants to know where we've been, be sure and tell them that so far as we've been able to find out the fishing promises to be mighty fine this spring, better than for years, if signs go for anything." On the following day at noon when they walked home for lunch Carl showed his chum the paper. It had been carefully done, and even bore the marks of service in the way of numerous creases, and some soiled spots in the bargain. Tom was loud in his praise. "It certainly looks as if it had been carried in a boy's pocket for some time," he declared; "and it's up to you to say how close a copy the contents are to the original." "I'm sure Amasa Culpepper would say it was his own crabbed handwriting to a fraction," Carl had no hesitation in asserting. "And so far as that goes Dock Phillips isn't capable of discovering any slight difference. If he ever picks this up you mark my words, Tom, he's going to get the biggest shock he's felt in many a day." "And you can see how the very first thing he'd be apt to do would be to look around to see if anybody was spying on him, and then hurry away to find if his paper could have been taken from the place where he hid it." "Oh! I hope, Tom, he doesn't just step over it, and never bother to pick it up." "We've got to take our chance of that happening," he was told; "but we know how nearly every boy would act. Besides, scraps of paper have begun to seem worth something in Dock's eyes lately. The chances are three to one he'll get it." "Well, I'll meet you at just seven o'clock to-night at the old smithy, and we'll lay the trap when we hear his whistle up the road. Dock always whistles when he's out after dark. I think it must help him keep his courage up." The church bells had just started to ring seven when the two boys came close to the old blacksmith shop that had been deserted when Mr. Siebert moved to a better location. They had chosen this spot because it was rather lonely, and there did not seem to be very much chance of their little game being interrupted by any other pedestrian coming along just at the critical time. On one side of the road lay the bushes, in the midst of which the boys expected to hide; on the other could be seen the river. All was quiet around them as the minutes passed away. "There, that's his whistle, Tom!" whispered Carl, suddenly. Thereupon the other scout crept swiftly out upon the road, and placed the folded paper where it could hardly help being seen by any one with ordinary eyesight. He had just returned to the bushes when a figure came hurrying around the bend, whistling vigorously as some boys are in the habit of doing. Carl's heart seemed almost to stop beating when he saw Dock suddenly halt and bend over. CHAPTER VII DOCK GOES FROM BAD TO WORSE Just at that instant, as luck would have it, a vagrant gust of wind, perhaps an advance courier of the prospective storm, swooped down across the road. Before the boy who was stooping over could touch the paper that had attracted his attention it was whisked suddenly away. He made an ineffectual effort to seize upon it in the air, but missed it and had to stand there, while the paper floated far out over the river, to fall finally on the moving current. Carl quivered with another feeling besides anxiety and suspense; keen disappointment was wringing his heart cruelly. Just when their clever little plot seemed on the point of working, a freak of fate had dashed his hopes to the ground. He had the greatest difficulty in suppressing the cry that tried to bubble from between his lips. Even Tom must have felt bitterly chagrinned when he saw the paper go swirling off, without having had a chance to test its ability to deceive Dock Phillips, and perhaps lead him into confessing his guilt. The grocer's boy was now walking on again. Of course he knew nothing about the character of the elusive paper, save that it had played him a little trick. They could hear him whistling again in his loud way as though he had already forgotten the circumstance. "Hang the luck!" complained Carl, when he felt that it was safe to let a little of the compressed steam escape through the safety valve of his voice. "That was a rough deal, all right," admitted Tom. "Who would have dreamed such a blast could sweep down and take that paper off? Too bad you had all your work for nothing, Carl." "Oh! the work didn't amount to much," said the other boy, despondently; "but after hoping for such great things through our plan it's hard to feel that you're up in the air as bad as ever." "We might try it all over again some time, after Dock's kind of forgotten about this happening," suggested Tom. "But if he kept on seeing loose papers every little while he might get suspicious about it. Perhaps we can think up another plan that will have the earmarks of success about it." "I never thought the river would play me such a trick," said Carl, looking out on the moving water; "up to now I've had a sort of friendly feeling for the old stream, but after this I'll be apt to look on it as an unprincipled foe." "Oh! I wouldn't say that," urged Tom, always practical; "the river wasn't to blame at all. And that gust of wind would have come whether we thought to place our bait on the road or not. I'd call it a piece of hard luck, and let it go at that." "We couldn't do anything, Tom, now our paper's gone off on the current?" "Oh well," replied the other purposely allowing himself to grow humorous so as to cause Carl to forget the keen bitterness of his disappointment; "perhaps if we went fishing to-morrow below here we might take the trout that would have your paper tucked away in his little tummy." "That's right, Tom," the other added; "we've read some thrilling yarns about jewels being recovered that way; and I remember that even a gold watch was said to have been found, still running inside a fish after many moons." "Yes, they tried to explain that phenomenon in a lot of ways, but I guess it must have been meant for a joke, just as my idea was." "It's all over for to-night then?" "Yes, let's go home," replied Tom. "We have lots to talk over and do, too. Before long the exams will be coming on, and we want to pass with honors if we expect to enjoy our vacation this summer." "And it's pretty nearly decided I hear, that the Black Bear Patrol takes a long hike the first thing after school closes," Carl was saying, as they started down the river road into Lenox. "Ten days in camp or knocking about will do more to make us seasoned scouts than as many months at home," ventured Tom, knowingly. "All the difference between theory and practice you mean," added Carl. "On my own part I don't care how soon we get started. I've a whole lot of things written down to be attended to, once we get away from civilization. That long list Mr. Witherspoon gave me I've made up a name for." "What is it, then?" asked Tom. "Things for a Tenderfoot Scout to Look for on His First Visit to the Storehouse of Nature. What do you think of the title, Tom?" "A pretty long one, it strikes me," answered the other; "but it covers the ground. Every one of us must have a copy, and it'll be a lot of fun to find out who'll be the first to answer all those questions." "One thing I hope will happen before we start out on that hike," said Carl. "Of course you're referring to that paper again, and I don't blame you a bit. We'll do our level best to get hold of it before then," and trying as well as he knew how to buoy up the drooping spirits of the disappointed chum Tom locked arms with him, and in this fashion they walked home. The days again drifted along into weeks. Scout matters were looking up decidedly in Lenox. There was even some talk of a second rival organization among another set of boys, though Mr. Witherspoon gave it as his opinion that nothing could ever be done with such a wild crowd. "There isn't a single one among them, from what I hear and know, who could comply with the requirements every scout is expected to have as an asset when he makes application," was the way he put it. "Those boys couldn't subscribe to any of the rules which govern scouts in their daily life. They'd have to turn over a new leaf for a fact before they could don the khaki." "And," said Josh Kingsley, "when such tough fellows as Tony Pollock, Asa Green, Wedge McGuffey and Dock Phillips start to turning leaves you can begin to see angel wings sprouting back of their shoulder blades." There were already five boys who had given in their names to make up a second patrol. When it was filled they meant to join the troop, and qualify for a better standing than greenhorns or tenderfeet. Larry Henderson had long since gone back to his wilderness home beyond Bear Mountain. Twice had Tom received a letter from the old naturalist, in which he asked a great many questions, all concerning the boys of Lenox, in whom he had not lost interest, and what progress the new troop was making. He also expressed a hearty wish that should they ever take a trip through the section of country where he lived they would not neglect to look him up in his cabin. One thing Tom and Carl had noticed of late, and this was that Dock Phillips had taken to going with that tough crowd again. For a while his work in the grocery store had tired him so much each day that when evening came he had been content to go to his home, eat his supper, and then crawl in between the sheets. Once more Dock was to be seen hanging around the street corners late at night with that group of rowdies that gave the uniformed force so much trouble. Some of them only escaped arrest on numerous occasions because their fathers happened to be local politicians whom the police did not wish to offend. Tom and Carl talked this fact over and arrived at a conclusion, which may, and again may not, have been the true explanation. "Dock's getting tired of holding down his job," Tom had said, "He's been out of school so long now that he can't be sent back; and he doesn't like hard work either. Since his father signed the pledge he's been working steadily enough, and perhaps Dock gets into trouble at home because of his temper." "I happen to know he does for a fact," assented Carl. "He's been acting hateful, staying out up to midnight every night, and his father has threatened to pitch him out. I rather think he's lazy, and wants to loaf." "Perhaps he thinks that he ought to be drawing a regular salary because of that paper he's got hidden away, and which is worth so much to Amasa Culpepper, as well as to you. To keep him quiet it may be, the old man is paying him a few dollars every week on the sly, even though he refuses to come down with a big lump sum." "Tom, would it be right for me to have another talk with Dock, and make him an offer?" ventured Carl, hesitatingly. "Do you mean try to find out what the sum is he asked Amasa to pay him?" questioned Tom; "and agree to hand it over to him just as soon as the stock of the oil well company can be sold, after your mother gets it again?" "Yes, like that. Would it be wrong in me? anything like compounding a felony?" Carl continued. "I don't see how that could be wrong," the other boy answered, after stopping to think it all over. "You have a right to offer a reward and no questions asked for the return of your own lost or stolen property." "Then I'd like to try it before we settle on leaving town, Tom." "It would do no harm, I should think," his chum advised him. "The only danger I can see would be if Dock took the alarm and went to Mr. Culpepper, to tell him you were trying to outbid him for the possession of the paper." "That would be apt to make him come to time with a jump, wouldn't it?" said Carl. "Unless he got it into his head that Dock was only trying to frighten him into meeting the stiff price at which he held the paper," said Tom. "He might make out that he didn't care a pin, with the idea of forcing Dock to come down." "Yes, because he would believe Dock wouldn't dare put his neck in the noose by confessing to us he had stolen the paper. Then would you advise me to try the plan I spoke of?" "If you get a good chance I should say yes." That was on a Wednesday afternoon, and Carl went home, his head filled with a programme he had laid out that concerned the cornering of Dock Phillips. On Thursday he learned, when home for lunch, that a new boy had come for orders from the grocery. Carl was immediately filled with alarm. In imagination he could see Dock and Mr. Culpepper coming to terms at last. After school that afternoon he waited for Tom, to whom the startling news was disclosed. The stunning effect of it did not seem to affect Tom's quick acting mind. "Let's find out just what's happened," he remarked. "Perhaps over at Joslyn's, next door to the Phillips's, we might pick up a clue." "Yes, and I know Mrs. Joslyn right well in the bargain," said Carl, showing interest at once. "I'm sure that if I told her as a secret just why we wanted to know about Dock she'd tell me if anything had happened there lately." To the Joslyn house the two boys went. Mrs. Joslyn was an energetic little woman, and said to be able to mind her own business. She listened with growing eagerness to the story, and at its conclusion said: "I'm sorry for your mother, Carl, and I don't know that I can help you any; but there was something strange that happened at the Phillips' house last night." CHAPTER VIII SIGNS OF TROUBLE AHEAD "Was it about Dock?" asked Carl, eagerly, while Tom could see that the color had left his face all of a sudden. "Yes," continued Mrs. Joslyn, "Dock seems to have fallen into the habit of staying out until midnight, with some of those young fellows who loaf on the corners and get into every kind of mischief they can think up." "That's what we've been told was going on, ma'am," said Tom. "I could hear his father scolding him furiously, while his mother was crying, and trying to make peace. Dock was ugly, too, and for a time I thought his father was going to throw him out of the house. But in the end it quieted down." "That's a new streak in Dock's father, I should say," remarked Tom. "Time was when he used to come home himself at all hours of the night, and in a condition that must have made his wife's heart sick." "Yes, but you know he's turned over a new leaf, and acts as if he meant to stick to the water wagon," Mrs. Joslyn explained. "Somehow it's made him just the other way, very severe with Dock. I guess he's afraid now the boy will copy his bad example, and that's peeving Mr. Phillips." "But he let Dock stay in the house, you say?" Carl continued. "Then I wonder why he didn't show up for orders this morning. The other boy told my mother Dock was sick and couldn't come." Mrs. Joslyn smiled. "Yes, he says that," she observed. "I went over to take back a dish I had borrowed, and he was lying on the lounge, smoking a cigarette. He said he was real sick, but between you and me, Carl, I'm of the opinion he's just tired of his job, and means to throw it up. He'd rather loaf than work any day." Carl breathed more freely. It was of course none of his business what Dock did with himself, though he might think the other was a mean shirk to hang around idle when his people needed every dollar they could scrape up. "Thank you for telling me this, Mrs. Joslyn," he said as with his chum he prepared to take his departure; "it relieves my mind in several ways. And please don't whisper my secret to any one. I still hope to be able to get that paper from Dock sooner or later, if he doesn't come to terms with Amasa Culpepper." "I promise you faithfully Carl," the little woman told him. "I guess I'm able to hold my tongue, even if they do say my sex never can. And Carl, you must let me know if anything happens to alter conditions, because I'm dreadfully interested. This is the first time in all my life I've been connected with a secret." "I certainly will let you know, Mrs. Joslyn," Carl promised. "And furthermore," she continued, "if I happen to see Dock doing anything that looks queer or suspicious I'll get word to you. He might happen to have his hiding-place somewhere around the back yard or the hen house, you know. He may have buried the paper in the garden. I'll keep an eye on the neighbors while he's home." Tom was chuckling at a great rate as he and Carl went down the street. "It looks as if you've got Mrs. Joslyn a whole lot interested, Carl," he told the other. "She's just burning with curiosity to find out something. Every time Dock steps out to feed the chickens she's going to drop whatever she may be doing, and focus her eyes on him, even if her pork chops burn to black leather." "I wonder what he's meaning to do?" remarked Carl, in a speculative way. "Oh! just as Mrs. Joslyn told us, Dock's a lazy fellow," Tom suggested; "and now that his father is working steadily he thinks it's time for him to have a rest. Then we believe he's expecting sooner or later to get a big lot of money from Mr. Culpepper, when they come to terms." "Yes," added Carl. "And in the meantime perhaps he's got Amasa to hand him over a few dollars a week, just to keep him quiet. That would supply his cigarettes, you know, and give him spending money." "Well, it's a question how long his father will put up with it," Tom mused. "One of these fine days we'll likely hear that Dock has been kicked out, and taken to the road." "He's going with that Tony Pollock crowd you know," Carl hinted; "and some of them would put him up for a time. But I'm hoping we'll find a chance to make him own up, and hand back the thing he stole. I'd like to see my mother look happy again." "Does Amasa still drop in to call now and then?" asked the other. "Yes, but my mother insists that I sit up until he goes whenever he does. You'd have a fit laughing, Tom, to see the black looks he gives me. I pretend to be studying to beat the band, and in the end he has to take his hat and go. I'm allowed to sleep an hour later after those nights, you see, to make up. It's getting to be a regular nuisance, and mother says she means to send him about his business; but somehow his hide is so thick he can't take an ordinary hint. I think his middle name should have been Rhinoceros instead of Reuben." "What will she do when you're away with the rest of us on that ten day hike over Big Bear Mountain?" asked Tom. "Oh! she says she'll have told Mr. Culpepper before then she doesn't want him to call again," explained Carl; "either that or else she'll have to keep all the rest of the children up, and get them to romping like wild Indians. You know Amasa is nervous, and can't stand noise." Tom laughed at the picture thus drawn of three boisterous youngsters employed in causing an ardent wooer to take his departure. "It's only a few days now before we can get started, you know, Carl. Nearly all the preparations have been made. Each scout will have his new uniform on, with a few extra clothes in his pack." "We won't try to carry any tent, will we, Tom?" "That's been settled," came the ready answer. "At the meeting when I was elected patrol leader we discussed this trip, and it took like wildfire. In the first place we haven't a tent worth carrying; and then again it would make too heavy a load. All of us have been studying up on how to make brush shelters when in the woods, and even if it rains I think we'll get on fairly well." "Each scout has a rubber poncho, which can be made mighty useful in a pinch, I should think," said Carl. "Then besides our clothes and a blanket, we'll have to carry a cooking outfit, as light as it can be made, and what grub we expect to eat up." "Oh! most of that we'll rustle for on the way," the patrol leader told him. "We'll find farms scattered along our route, and it'll be easy enough to buy eggs, milk, perhaps a home-cured ham, some chickens, and other things like bread and butter." "That's a great scheme, Tom, and it makes my mouth fairly water just to talk about it. Sounds like an army foraging, only instead of taking things we'll expect to pay cash for them. How many are going along on the hike?" "I have yet to hear of any member of the Black Bear Patrol who dreams of backing out; and there are several others who've told me they hope to join us. The way it looks now only a bad case of sickness would be able to keep any scout from being in line on that wonderful morning when Lenox Troop marches out of town headed for Big Bear Mountain." "One good thing, we don't have to pack any heavy guns along with us," declared Carl. "No, that's absolutely forbidden," the patrol leader declared; "we can take a fishing rod if we feel like it, because there's a chance to pick up some trout or bass before we come back on the down-river boat ten days later." "I like that idea of making the return trip by water," Carl continued. "It will be great after so much tramping and camping. Besides, some of the boys have never been fifteen miles up the river before, and so the trip is going to be a picnic for them." "Come over to-night and do your cramming for the exam with me," suggested Tom. "I'd like to the worst kind," the other boy said with a grimace; "but this is the night Mr. Culpepper generally pops in, and you see I'm on guard. But I'm hoping mother will give him his walking papers pretty soon now." "You would have to put a bomb under his chair to convince Amasa that his space was more desired than his company," laughed Tom, as he strode off toward his own comfortable home. The days passed, and since school would be over for the year at the end of the week, in the bustle of examinations and all that they meant for each boy scout, the intended outing was over-shadowed for the time being. When, however, several of the scouts got together of course the talk soon drifted toward the subject of the hike, and many were the wonderful projects advanced, each of which seemed to give promise of a glorious prospect ahead. So Friday night finally came. School had been dismissed with all the accustomed ceremonies that afternoon, and there were few of the boys who had not gone up to a higher grade, so that when the last meeting before their expected vacation trip was called to order by the president of the organization it was a care-free and happy assemblage that answered the roll-call. Mr. Witherspoon, the scout master, was on hand, but he seldom interfered with the routine of the meeting. It was his opinion that boys got on much better if allowed to manage things as much as possible after their own ideas. If his advice was needed at any time he stood ready to give it; and meanwhile he meant to act more as a big brother to the troop than its leading officer. Of course Mr. Witherspoon expected to start out on the hike with the boys. His only fear was that he might not be allowed to finish the outing in their company, since he was liable to be called away at any time on urgent business. The usual routine of the meeting was gone through with, and then a general discussion took place in connection with the anticipated hike. They had laid out the plan of campaign as well as they could, considering that none of the boys had actually been over the entire route before. "That makes it all the more interesting," Tom had told them; "because we'll be apt to meet with a few surprises on the way. None of us would like to have anything all cut and dried ahead of time, I'm sure." "It's generally the unexpected that gives the most pleasure," declared Josh Kingsley, who was known to have leanings toward being a great inventor some fine day, and always hoped to make an important discovery while he experimented in his workshop in the old red barn back of his home. "Well," remarked George Cooper, getting slowly to his feet, "there may be some things that drop in on you unexpected like that don't seem to give you a whit of pleasure, and I can name one right now." "Oh come, George, you old growler, you're just trying to throw cold water on our big scheme," complained Felix Robbins, trying to pull the other down. "I've seen him shaking his head lots of times all evening," asserted Billy Button, "and I just guessed George was aching to make us feel bad. He's never so happy as when he's making other folks miserable." George refused to take his seat. He even shrugged his shoulders as though he thought his comrades were hardly treating him fairly. "Listen, fellows," he said, solemnly and ponderously; "I don't like to be the bird of ill omen that carries the bad news; but honest to goodness I'm afraid there's a heap of trouble looming up on the horizon for us unless we change our plans for a hike over Big Bear Mountain." "What sort of trouble do you mean, George?" asked the patrol leader. "Only this, Mr. President," said George, "on the way here I learned that Tony Pollock, Wedge McGuffey, Asa Green and Dock Phillips had started off this very afternoon, meaning to spend a week or more tramping over Big Bear Mountain; and I guess they've got it in for our crowd." CHAPTER IX NO SURRENDER "It looks like a set-up job to me!" declared Josh Kingsley, with a ring of honest indignation in his voice. "They've been hearing so much talk about what a great time we meant to have, it's just made them green with envy; that's what I think," ventured Horace Crapsey. "Yes, but why pick out Big Bear Mountain," Felix wanted to know; "unless they meant to spy on the scouts, and give us all the trouble they could?" There were signs of anger visible on every side. Scouts may be taught that it is noble to forgive those who wrong them, but all the same they are human, and deep down in their boyish hearts is the resentment any one with spirit feels at being imposed upon. "We haven't lifted a finger to interfere with anything that crowd wanted to do," said Walter Douglass, aggressively; "and they have no business to upset our plans." "Huh! just let them try it, that's all!" grunted Josh, shaking his head. "We had an experience something like this over in Winchester, where I belonged to the scouts before moving to Lenox," remarked Rob Shaefer, one of the two new boys. "Do you mean some rowdies tried to make trouble for you?" asked Carl. "In every way they could," the new boy replied. "We stood it as long as we could, and then acted." "What did you do to them?" asked Mr. Witherspoon, with an amused smile, for he liked to see these wide-awake lads figure out their own plans, and was greatly interested in listening to their discussions as they worked them out. "When it became unbearable," said Rob, gravely, though his eyes twinkled, "we ducked the whole five in a frog pond, and after that they let us alone." "Cooled 'em off, eh?" chuckled Josh, whom the account seemed to amuse very much. "Well, that isn't a bad idea, fellows. Frog ponds have their uses besides supplying messes of delicious frog-legs for eating. Anybody know of a pond that's got a nice green coating of scum on the top? That's the kind I'd like to see Tony and his bunch scrambling around it." "Oh! the pond will crop up all right when the time comes," asserted Felix Robbins, confidently; "they always do, you know." "But what are we going to do about this thing?" asked Tom, as the chairman of the meeting. "Motions are in order. Somebody make a suggestion, so we can get the sense of the troop." "One thing certain," observed George, "we've got to give up the plan we've mapped out, and change our programme--or else count on running foul of Tony and his crowd. Which is it going to be?" A chorus of indignant remonstrances immediately arose. "Why should we take water when we laid our plans first?" one demanded. "There are only four of them, all told, while we expect to number ten, perhaps a full dozen!" another scout announced. "I don't believe in knuckling down to any ugly lot of fellows that chooses to knock up against us," and Josh must have expressed the feelings of most of those present when he said this, for there was a chorus of "my sentiments exactly," as soon as he finished. Then, somehow, all eyes began to turn toward the scout master. They had come to think a great deal of Mr. Witherspoon. He seemed to have a great love for boys implanted in his heart, and was thus an ideal scout master; for there was always an exchange of sympathy between him and his charges. "You want to know what I think of it, boys?" he started to say. "It would have a heap of influence on our actions, sir--even if we did hate to play second fiddle to that crowd," admitted Felix. "But I can see no reason why we should do that," the scout master immediately told them, and at this the anxious look on many faces gave way to one of satisfaction. "Then you don't want us to give up the Big Bear Mountain hike, and make up another programme; is that it, Mr. Witherspoon?" asked Tom, who had not been quite so much concerned as some of the others, because he believed he knew the nature of their efficient scout master, and that he was not one of the "back-down" kind. "Why should we do that?" replied the other, quietly. "We are not supposed to be aware of the fact that these four rowdies have gone off in that direction. Our plain duty is to follow out our original plans, go about our own business, interfering with no one, and at the same time standing up for our rights." At hearing this some of the boys turned and exchanged expressive grins; others even shook hands with each other. Fair play was something they admired above all things; and this manly stand on the part of their scout master pleased them immensely. "We're all glad to hear you say that, Mr. Witherspoon," the chairman of the meeting told him. "I'm sure I voice the sentiments of every scout present when I say that while we'll try to avoid trouble up to a certain point, there's going to be a limit to our forbearance." "And the frog-pond cure is always available as a last resort," added the new boy from Winchester. "Now let us try to forget all about this disagreeable topic, and go on with the discussion concerning the things we should take with us," the scout master suggested. "Scouts should always be able to meet an emergency, no matter how suddenly it is forced on them. We'll be prepared, but at the same time not borrow trouble." Accordingly all mention of Tony Pollock and his scapegrace cronies was avoided as they once more entered into a warm but perfectly friendly argument. There was one among them, however, who seemed to still look troubled. This was no other than Carl Oskamp. Glancing toward his chum several times, Tom could see the lines on his forehead, and he was also able to give a pretty good guess why this should be so. Of course, it was all on account of the fact that when George made his announcement concerning the movements of Tony Pollock he had stated that Dock Phillips was one of the group that had left town, bent on spending a week on Big Bear Mountain. This meant that the new scheme which Carl had expected to "try out" on the coming Saturday night could not be attempted, because the object of his attention would be far away. Tom meant to comfort his chum after the meeting, when they were walking home together. He could see further than Carl, and would be able to find more or less encouragement in the way things were working. Scout affairs were certainly picking up in Lenox of late. Perhaps the coming to town of Rob Shaefer and Stanley Ackerman, who had both belonged to troops in the past, may have had considerable to do with it. At any rate the new Wolf Patrol numbered five, and other boys were showing a disposition to make application for membership. Rob Shaefer was booked for the patrol leader, because of his previous experience along those lines, as well as the fact that he was becoming well liked in Lenox boy circles. The other new boy, while a pretty fair sort of fellow, did not have the same winning qualities that Rob did. Some of them even thought he felt envious because of Rob's popularity, though if this were true, he took the wrong means to supplant his rival in the affection of their new friends. As this would be the last chance to talk things over, every little detail had to be settled before the meeting broke up. Each boy who expected to accompany the expedition starting out to explore Big Bear Mountain was directed what to carry with him. "And remember," Mr. Witherspoon told them as a final caution, "we expect to do much tramping under a hot June sun, so that every ounce you have to carry along will tell on your condition. Limit your pack to the bare necessities as we've figured them out, and if necessary the strong will assist the weak. That's about all for to-night, boys. Seven sharp on Monday morning outside the church here, unless it's stormy. The church bell will ring at six if we are going." The boys gave a cheer as the meeting broke up. And it was a merry-hearted lot of lads that started forth bound for various homes where there would be more or less of a bustle and excitement until the hour of departure arrived on Monday morning. Tom and Carl walked home together. "I could see what ailed you, Carl," the patrol leader was saying as he locked arms with his chum; "you felt as though things were going against you when George announced that Dock had left town." "Because now I'll not have a chance to try out that second plan we'd arranged for, and which I had great hopes might succeed," complained Carl, gloomily. "Cheer up," urged the other, in his hearty fashion; "perhaps things are working your way after all. How do we know but that a glorious chance may come up and that you can win out yet? Dock has gone to Big Bear Mountain, where we expect to camp. In a whole week or more we're apt to run across him maybe many times. And Carl, something seems to tell me your chance is going to come while we're off on this hike. Dock hasn't settled with Mr. Culpepper yet, that's certain; and he's got that paper hidden away still. Keep up your hopes, and it's sure to come out all right yet. Besides, think what a grand time we're going to have on our outing!" CHAPTER X READY FOR THE START On the following day, which was Saturday, there was considerable visiting among the scouts who so proudly wore their new khaki suits. Conferences were of hourly occurrence, blankets brought out for inspection and comment, packs made up and taken to pieces again, and all manner of advice asked concerning the best way to carry the same. Each boy had a written list of what he was expected to provide. This was a part of the wonderful system Tom Chesney had inaugurated. He had told them it was copied from the methods in vogue in the German army, so that in case of a hurried mobilization every man capable of bearing arms in the whole empire would know exactly what his particular duty was. This scout was to carry a generous frying-pan, made of sheet-steel to reduce the weight; another had to look out for the coffee-pot, which was also to hold enough for at least six thirsty campers. So it went on through the whole list of necessities. There were to be two messes of five or six each, and the second had a duplicate list of cooking utensils, as well as food to look after. Nothing had been omitted that Tom, assisted by several others who had had more or less camping experience, could think of. It was about eleven this Saturday morning when Tom, doing a little work among his vegetables in the kitchen garden, heard his name called. Glancing up he discovered Carl standing there by the fence that separated the garden from the highway. Immediately Tom realized that something new must have happened to make his chum appear so downcast. His first fear was that Mr. Culpepper had been asked by Carl's mother for the securities, and had flatly denied ever having had them. "Hello! what's gone wrong now, Carl?" he asked, as he hurried over to join the boy who was leaning both elbows on the picket fence, and holding his head in his hands. "It seems as though everything is going wrong with us nowadays, Tom," sighed poor Carl. "Anything more about that stolen paper?" asked Tom. "No, it's something else this time," Carl replied. "Just as if we didn't have enough to worry about already." "No one sick over at your house, is there?" demanded the other, anxiously. "I'm glad to say that isn't the case," Carl told him. "Fact is, some bad news came in a letter mother had this morning from a lawyer in the city who manages her small affairs." "Was it about that tenement house she owns, and the rents from which comes part of her income?" continued Tom, quick to make a guess, for he knew something about the affairs of Carl's folks. The other nodded his head as he went on to explain: "It burned down, and through some mistake of a clerk part of the insurance was allowed to lapse, so that we will not be able to collect on more than half. Isn't that hard luck though, Tom?" "I should say it is," declared the other, with a look of sympathy on his face. "But if it was the fault of the lawyer's clerk why shouldn't he be held responsible for the loss? I'd think that was only fair in the eye of the law." "Oh!" said Carl, quickly, "but my mother says he's really a poor man, and hasn't anything. Besides, he's been conducting her little business since father died without charging a cent for his labor, so you see there's no hope of our collecting more than half of the insurance." "Too bad, and I'm mighty sorry," Tom told him. "Coming on top of our losing that paper you can imagine how my mother feels," continued the other; "though she tries to be cheerful, and keeps on telling me she knows everything is sure to come out right in the end. Still I can see that while she puts on a brave face it's only to keep me from feeling so blue. When she's all alone I'm sure she cries, for I can see her eyes are red when I happen to come in on her unexpectedly." "Nothing can be done, I suppose, Carl?" "Not a thing," the other boy replied. "That is what makes me furious. If you can only see what's hitting you, and strike back, it does a whole lot of good. Unless something crops up to make things look brighter between now and fall there's one thing certain." "What's that?" asked Tom, though he believed he could give a pretty good guess, knowing the independent spirit of his chum so well. "I shall have to quit school, and go to work at something or other. My mother will never be able to meet expenses, even in the quiet way we live, now that part of her little income is cut off. A few hundred dollars a year means a lot to us, you see." "Oh, I hope it won't come to that," said Tom. "A whole lot may happen between now and the beginning of the fall term. For all we know that missing paper may be recovered, which would put your folks on Easy street." "That's about the last hope, then," admitted Carl. "It's all I'm counting on; and even then the chances seem to be against us." "But you won't think of backing down about going on this grand hike over Big Bear Mountain, I hope?" remarked the patrol leader. "I believe I'd lack the heart to do it, Tom, leaving mother feeling so bad; only for one thing." "Meaning the fact that Dock Phillips is somewhere up there on the mountain; that's what you've got in your mind, isn't it, Carl?" "Yes, and what you said last night keeps haunting me all the time, Tom. What if I did run across the chance to make Dock own up, and got him to give me that precious paper? It would make everything look bright again--for with the boom on in the oil region that stock must be worth thousands of dollars to-day, if only we can get hold of the certificate again." "Well, you're going to; things often work in a queer way, and that's what is happening now. And I feel as sure as anything that Mr. Culpepper's stinginess in holding out against Dock's demands is going to be his undoing." Such confident talk as this could not help having its effect on Carl. He had in fact come over to Tom's house knowing that he was sure to get comfort there. "You make me feel better already, Tom," he asserted, as he took the hand the other boy thrust over the top of the garden fence; "and I'm going to try and look at it as a true scout should, believing that the sun is still shining back of the clouds." "I'm about through with my work here in the garden," Tom told him, "so suppose you come around to the gate, or hop over the fence here. We'll go up to my room and take a look over the stuff that I expect to pack out of Lenox Monday A. M. I want to ask your opinion about several things, and was thinking of calling you up on the 'phone when I heard you speak just now." Of course the main object Tom had in view was not so much getting Carl's opinion as to arouse his interest in the projected trip, so that for the time being he might forget his troubles. The two boys spent an hour chatting, and consulting a map Tom produced that was supposed to cover most of the Big Bear Mountain territory. It had been made by an old surveyor some years back, simply to amuse himself, and while not quite up to date might be said to be fairly accurate. Mr. Witherspoon had secured this chart and loaned it to Tom, for there was always a possibility of his receiving a sudden call on business that would take him away from town, when the duty of engineering the trip must fall to the leader of the Black Bear Patrol as the second in command. That was going to be an unusually long and tedious Sunday for a good many boys in Lenox. Doubtless they would have their thoughts drawn from the sermon, as they sat with their folks in the family pews. And, too, looking out of the window at the waving trees they would probably picture themselves far away on the wooded slope of Big Bear Mountain, perhaps making their first camp, and starting the glorious fire around which, as the night drew on, they would gather to tell stories and sing school songs. And it could be set down as certain that few of those who expected to join the adventurous spirits starting forth on the long mountain hike slept very soundly on the last night. When the hour agreed on, seven o'clock, came around, there was a scene of bustle under the tower of the church, where the scouts had gathered, together with many friends both young and old who meant to give them a noisy send-off on their hike over Big Bear Mountain. CHAPTER XI ON THE WAY Amidst many hearty cheers and the clapping of hands the Boy Scouts started off. Felix Robbins had been elected bugler of the troop, and as there was no regular instrument for him, he had thought to fetch along the fish horn the boys used in playing fox and geese. This he sounded with considerable vim as the khaki-clad lads marched away, with a flag at their head, the scout master keeping step alongside the column. Some of the older people had come to see them off. Others hurried to the open doors and windows at the sound of the horn and the cheers, to wave their hands and give encouraging smiles. It was a proud time for those boys. They stood up as straight as ramrods, and held their heads with the proud consciousness that for the time being they were the center of attraction. There were ten in all starting forth. More might have gone, only that no scout not wearing the khaki could accompany the expedition; and besides the members of the Black Bear Patrol, Rob Shaefer and Stanley Ackerman were the only two who could boast of a uniform. A number of boys accompanied them for a mile or so, to give them a good send-off; after which they either returned home or else went over the river fishing. For the first two miles or so every one seemed to be standing the tramp well. Then as it began to get warmer, and the pack, somehow, seemed to increase in weight, several scouts lagged a little. Seeing this, and understanding that it is always an unwise thing to push a horse or a human being in the beginning of a long race, Mr. Witherspoon thought it best to slacken their pace. They were in no particular hurry to get anywhere; and once heels began to get sore from the rubbing of their shoes, it would not be easy to cure them again. The wise scout master was a believer in the motto that "an ounce of prevention is better than a pound of cure." Ahead of them loomed the lofty elevation that possibly from its shape had long been known as Big Bear Mountain. The boys had tried to learn just how it came by that name--and naturally this subject interested them more than ever as they found themselves drawing steadily closer to its foot. "It doesn't look so _very_ much like a bear to me," George Kingsley remarked, as the discussion waxed warmer. Though for that matter George always did find some reason to object to almost everything. "I was told by an old settler who ought to know," ventured Tom, "that long ago numerous bears lived in the rocky dens of the mountain, and that's how it came to be called as it is." "Must have been years and years ago then," said Josh, "because I never remember hearing about a bear being seen hereabouts. I often used to look for bear tracks when I was out hunting, but of course I never found one." "Wouldn't it be a great thing if we did happen on a real bear while we were out on this hike?" suggested Billy Button, who was rather given to stretches of imagination, and seeing things where they did not exist. So they beguiled the time away as they tramped along. Gradually they approached the great gloomy looking mountain, and it was seen that by the time they stopped for their noon meal they would probably be at its foot. Tom and Carl were walking together, for somehow the boys seemed to pair off as a general thing. Carl was looking brighter now, as though in the excitement of the start he might have temporarily forgotten his troubles. "There don't seem to be so many farms up this way as we thought," Tom observed as they found themselves walking close beside a stretch of woodland, with a gully on the other side of the road. "That may make it harder for us to get the supplies we'll need, I should think," suggested Carl, who knew the leaders of the expedition had counted on finding hospitable farmers from time to time, from whom they could purchase bread, butter, and perhaps smoked ham or bacon, very little of which had been carried with them--in fact no more than would be required for a few meals. "Yes," admitted Tom readily enough. "But then it will afford us a chance to show our ability as scouts--and if you look at it the right way that counts for a lot. When everything goes according to the schedule you've arranged there isn't much credit in doing things; but when you're up against it good and hard, and have to shut your teeth and fight, then when you accomplish things you've got a right to feel satisfied." Carl knew full well there was a hidden significance beneath these words of his chum's--and that Tom was once more trying to buoy up his hopes. Since they had struck a portion of country not so thickly populated, the observing scouts had commenced to notice numerous interesting sights that attracted their attention. Soon every boy was straining his eyesight in the hope of discovering new things among the trees, in the air overhead, or it might be amidst the shadows of the woodland alongside the country road. The scout master encouraged this habit of observation all he could. He knew that once it got a firm hold upon the average boy he could never again pass along a road or trail in the country without making numberless discoveries. What had once been a sealed book to his eyes would now become as an open page. About this time there were heard inquiries as to when they expected to stop and have a bite of lunch. Tom and the scout master had already arranged this, and when the third scout was heard to say he felt as hungry as a wolf, Tom took it upon himself to explain. "If you look ahead," he remarked, so that all could hear, "you'll notice where a hump of the mountain seems to hang over the road. That's about where we expect to rest an hour or so." "Must be something unusual about this particular place, I should say, for you to settle on it ahead of time this way," remarked wise Josh in his Yankee way. "There is," Tom informed him. "According to my map here, and what information I've been able to pick up, there's a fine cold spring bubbles up alongside the road right there; and for one I'm feeling the need of a good drink the worst kind." After that it was noticed that even the laggards began to show unusual energy, as if the prospect of soon being able to throw themselves down and slake their thirst, as well as satisfy their hunger, appealed forcibly to them. It was close on to noon when finally, with a shout, they hurried forward and dropped their packs close to where the ice-cold spring flowed. "Queer how heavy those old packs do get the longer you carry them," observed George, as he waited for his turn to lie down and drink his fill of the spring water. "You're a suspicious sort of fellow, George," declared Felix; "I've seen you turn around as quick as a flash, just as if you thought some other scout might be hanging his pack on to yours, so as to make you carry double." George turned redder than he had already become under the force of the sun; but he did not deny the accusation. It was decided not to light a fire at noon. They could eat a cold lunch and wash it down with water. "We'll keep our fire for this evening," said Mr. Witherspoon; "you know it is generally quite a ceremony--the starting of the first campfire when scouts go off on a long trip." Waiting until the sun had started well on his way down the heavens, and there had arisen a little breeze that made it more bearable, the scout master finally had Felix sound his fish horn for the signal to "fall in." Some of the boys did not show quite as much animation as on that other occasion. They were not accustomed to walking for hours, and would have to get used to it through experience. An hour later they were straggling along, some of them on the other side of a wire fence that separated the road from the woods, as there seemed to be a chance of making interesting discoveries there. "Look at that red squirrel hanging head down to the bark on the trunk of that tree!" exclaimed Billy Button; "I never noticed just how they did that stunt before." "Huh! lots of us are seeing things through a magnifying glass since we joined the scouts," admitted Felix. "Seems as if the scales have been taken from my eyes, and I find a thousand things worth looking at all around me." "Well, here comes one right now, Felix; and he's a bouncer at that!" cried the third of the group that had invaded the woods beyond the barbed-wire fence. Even as he spoke there was a furious barking, and a savage-looking dog came tearing swiftly toward them, evidently bent on doing mischief. CHAPTER XII THE FIRST CAMP-FIRE "Help, he's going to eat us all up!" shouted Billy Button. Felix and Rob Shaefer did not like the looks of the oncoming dog any more than did Billy. Being more pugnacious by nature, however, instead of making a frantic dash over the wire fence, and trying to crawl through between the strands at the risk of tearing their clothes, they hurried to snatch up some clubs which would serve them as a means of defence. The dog acted as if he meant business. They were trespassing on his master's territory, and as the guardian appointed to defend this ground he assailed the intruders without fear or favor. They had quite a lively time of it, what with the shouting, the loud bursts of laughter from those scouts who were safe on the other side of the fence, and the agonized cries of Billy Button, caught fast in the grip of the barbed-wire, and expecting to be devoured. Both Felix and Rob had luckily managed to secure fairly strong pieces of broken limbs from the trees. With these they boldly assaulted the dog, and kept him from jumping on the helpless comrade until some of the others came to Billy's assistance, and by raising the wires allowed him to crawl through. Tom and George hastened to join in the fray for it was evident that the savage dog would have to be beaten off before those who were in danger could find a chance to reach the road again. With four enemies against him the dog concluded that he had done all that could be expected of him, and that it was now no dishonor to beat a masterly retreat; which he accordingly did. The boys pretended to chase after him, with loud shouts; but seeing their opportunity to escape made haste to put the wire fence between themselves and the owner of those cruel white fangs. As long as he could follow them from his side of the barrier the dog continued to bark savagely; but did not offer to leave his own domain. After all Billy Button was the only one to suffer, and he had a fine big three-cornered hole in his coat. "Going into the real-estate business, are you, Billy?" asked Josh, who could always see a chance for a joke. "Oh! am I?" retorted the other. "What makes you think that, Josh?" "Because you've got a sign up 'to rent,'" is what the other told him. "Didn't I see that dog take hold of you by the leg, Felix, at the time you struck him so hard on the head with your club?" Mr. Witherspoon asked. "Yes, sir, but he only dented my leggings, you see," the bugler replied, as he showed where the marks of the animal's teeth could be plainly seen; "that's the good of having extra-thick canvas leggings on; they save you from snake bites and all sorts of other things that you don't want." "It was a pretty lively skirmish while it lasted, let me tell you," admitted Rob Shaefer, who had seemed quite to enjoy the affair. Another hour or more passed, with the column straggling along, and some of the boys showing positive signs of fatigue. Mr. Witherspoon had been consulting with the leader of the Black Bear Patrol, and evidently they had reached a conclusion, for presently the welcome order was given to turn into the woods, as the day's hike was at an end. Gladly did those tired lads obey the call. And one of the first things they discovered was that there was another cold spring nearby, the presence of which, of course, had been known to those who carried the chart of the region. First of all they dropped down to rest themselves. Later on, when they were feeling more like doing things, they would start to put the camp in order, get the fires started, and perhaps erect some sort of rude shelter that to a certain degree would take the place of tents. Finally some of the more enterprising began to stir around. Josh took it upon himself to provide a fireplace made out of stones which lay conveniently near. It was to be built according to the best formula he knew, something in the shape of a letter V, with the large end toward the wind; and across the top of the stones they would lay their iron rods, thus forming a gridiron on which would rest the frying-pan and the coffee-pot. "I'll duplicate your cooking fire, Josh," said Rob Shaefer, who meant to show some of his new chums a few wrinkles he had learned when in camp on other occasions. Half an hour before the sun went down both fires were crackling at a great rate; and when good beds of red embers should have formed operations looking to supper would be started by those in charge of the occasion. Everybody took a deep interest in what was now going on. All sorts of suggestions were called back and forth as the ham was sliced and the potatoes put in the pots for boiling; while further along the fires the two coffee-pots began to emit a most delightful and appetizing odor that made the hungry boys wild with impatience. The spot where they had determined to spend their first night out was in the midst of the woods. Around them the forest trees lay on every side, some being great oaks, others beeches, with drooping branches and smooth silvery bark--as well as other species, such as sycamore, ash and lindens. Most of the scouts were bubbling over with enthusiasm concerning the outlook before them; but several of the less daring ones might be seen casting furtive glances about as though the prospect of passing the night amidst such lonely surroundings had already commenced to make them feel a little queer. No doubt the pride of these fellows would carry them through the initial night; and after that by degrees they would become accustomed to their new experiences. Every soldier can look back to his first battle, remembering how he trembled in his shoes, and feeling that he would give all he possessed for the privilege of running away at top speed. And when supper was ready, with the boys gathered around, each bent on doing the best he knew how to show his appreciation of the work of the cooks, it seemed to be the fitting climax to a most wonderful day. Would they ever forget that supper? Never had anything tasted so royally good at home. "This is the life!" declared Josh Kingsley, buoyantly, as he passed his tin plate along for a second helping when he heard it mentioned that there was still a further supply not distributed. "It certainly does taste pretty fine to me!" admitted Horace Crapsey, who had in times gone by been so finicky about his eating that his folks had begun to wonder what was going to become of him--yet who was now sitting there cross-legged like a Turk, wielding an ordinary knife and fork, and with his pannikin on his lap, actually doing without a napkin, and enjoying it in the bargain. Mr. Witherspoon had the seat of honor, for the boys insisted that he should occupy the highest place on the log that had been rolled near the fires. He observed all that went on with satisfaction. Boys were close to his heart, and he never tired of his hobby of studying them. It was a constant source of delight to the scout master to listen to them chatter, and he noticed that a perceptible change was taking place in some of his charges since first joining the troop. Finally when every youth admitted that he had had all he could eat, Mr. Witherspoon got up. "Now it's full time we started our _real_ campfire," he announced. "That was why I had you gather such a big heap of wood. Here's the right place for the blaze, as we must be careful not to scorch any of the trees, the branches of which hang down over us, because this property belongs to some one, and we must respect his rights." He had no trouble about finding willing workers, because every one acted as if anxious to have a hand in the building of that first campfire, to be recorded in the annals of Lenox Troop as an event of unusual importance. When finally the pyramid had been carefully built the scout master was asked to apply the match. "Unfortunately I do not know the customary procedure on such momentous occasions," he told the boys, as they formed a circle around the pile; "and all I can say is that with this match I am about to dedicate this fire to the useful purpose of bringing all our hearts in tune with our surroundings. For to-night then, we will try to believe ourselves real vagabonds, or children of the forest, sitting around the sanctuary at which every camper worships--the crackling fire!" Then the blaze began to seize hold of the wood, and amidst the cheers of the enthusiastic scouts the fire got fully under way. High leaped the red flames, so that presently there was a general backward movement, on account of the heat. Had it been November instead of June, they would doubtless have enjoyed the cheery warmth much more. Each boy managed to pick out a comfortable place, and then the talk began to grow general. Plans for the morrow and the succeeding days were being discussed with much ardor. It was while this was going on, and the scouts were all feeling most happy that with but scant warning a discomforting element was suddenly injected into Camp Content. Moving figures, harsh voices, together with the half strangled barks of dogs held in leash startled the seated campers. Two rough-looking men, evidently a farmer and his hired man, armed with guns, and holding a couple of dogs by ropes, came in sight close by. CHAPTER XIII THE LIFE THAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN SAVED "Hey! what d'ye mean by trespassin' on my ground? I'll have the law on ye for darin' to build a big bonfire like that! No tramp convention c'n threaten to set fire to my woods, let me tell ye!" The man in the lead was shouting this in an angry voice as he bustled forward, with his dog growling and straining to get free. Of course every one of the boys scrambled to his feet in a hurry. The sight of their khaki uniforms seemed to give the big farmer a decided shock, for they saw him come to a stop. "What's this here?" he exclaimed, as he stared at the dozen lads. "Tell me, am I seein' things Bill Scruggs? Is it the State Militia dropped down on us? Is there a war on?" Mr. Witherspoon, who was of course in uniform, stepped to the front and made the old fellow a military salute that must have gone far toward soothing his ruffled feelings. "We're sorry if we've intruded on your ground, sir," he said in that convincing voice of his. "The fact is these are some of the Boy Scouts of Lenox, a troop that has lately been organized. I am Robert Witherspoon, the surveyor, and if I'm not mistaken I did some work for you a few months ago, Mr. Brush." "That's a fact ye did, Mr. Witherspoon," declared the farmer, with less venom in his tone. "Seems like I didn't know ye with them togs on." "I'm acting as scout master to these lads just now," continued the other, in his conciliatory way. "One of the rules of the organization is that each troop must have a grown person to serve with them, so that any undue boyish spirits may be kept within reasonable bounds." "So I read in the paper, Mr. Witherspoon," continued the countryman. "Won't you tie up your dogs, Mr. Brush, and come and join us here before the fire?" asked the scout master, who doubtless had more or less faith in the ability of a cheery blaze to curb animosity. They saw the farmer rub his chin with his hand. He seemed to be debating within himself as to whether or not it would be advisable to comply with such a friendly invitation. "Well, p'raps I mightn't git such a good chance to look scouts over again as this here one," he presently said, half to himself. "I've been reading a hull lot lately 'bout the doin's of the boys. Got three lads o' my own yet," and there he was seen to swallow something that seemed almost to choke him. "Then for their sake you ought to be interested in this great movement, Mr. Brush," said the scout master; "I remember a bright boy of yours who was very much interested in the little surveying work I did for you that day. He helped me some, and said he thought he'd like to be a civil engineer when he grew up. If he joined the scouts that desire might be encouraged, sir, I assure you." "Oh, they been pesterin' the life outen me to let 'em jine, but I ain't had no faith in the thing," Mr. Brush went on to say, with a stubborn shake of the head. He had by this time tied up his dog, and was accepting a seat on the log close to the obliging scout master. The boys were satisfied to let Mr. Witherspoon do the most of the talking. They could see that he meant to open the eyes of this unbeliever, and show him a few things that he ought to know. "Just why did you frown on the scout movement, may I ask, sir?" Mr. Witherspoon continued, quietly. "Well, in the fust place I don't calc'late that my boys be brought up to be food for gunpowder," replied the farmer. "Then like a good many people you think Boy Scouts in this country are intended to become a part of the military defences; is that it, Mr. Brush?" "Do you mean to tell me it ain't so, Mr. Witherspoon?" asked the farmer. "Nothing is further from the truth than that, as I'll prove to you in a dozen ways, if you care to listen," the scout master told him. "Fire away, then," said the farmer. "I'm not hide-bound ye know, and allers open to conviction; so tell me why I orter let my three boys jine the scouts." Mr. Witherspoon started in and explained the fundamental principles upon which the new movement was organized. He soon convinced the farmer that there was not the slightest intention on the part of those having the matter in hand to incorporate the scouts into a National Defence Movement. "Was that the only objection you had, Mr. Brush?" he asked when the farmer frankly admitted that he had been wrong in his opinion. "I reckoned that these boys only got together and wore uniforms for a big lark," was the reply to his question. "I ought to know what boys is like, havin' had four of my own." "Then you have lost one, have you sir?" questioned the scout master, not from idle curiosity, either, Tom Chesney felt positive. The old man heaved a great sigh. "Yes, my youngest, and the darling o' his maw's heart, little Jim. Only last summer he was off swimmin' with several o' his chums, and got caught with a cramp. They got him out, brave enough, but--he never kim to agin." Mr. Witherspoon cast a quick and meaning glance around the circle of eager faces. Several of the scouts nodded in a significant fashion as though they guessed what was flashing through the mind of their leader. "Mr. Brush," said the scout master, gravely, "I'd like to tell you some things that to my own personal knowledge scouts have done; things that they never would have been capable of performing in the wide world had they remained outside of this organization that first of all teaches them to be manly, independent, helpful to others, and true to themselves. May I, sir?" "Jest as ye please, Mr. Witherspoon," came the low reply, for the farmer had evidently been partly overcome with the sad remembrance of the vacant chair, and the face he missed so much at his table. The scout master went about it in a very able manner. Again he explained the numerous duties of a scout, and how he was taught to render first aid to the injured in case, for instance, his services should ever be needed when some comrade cut himself with an ax, and was in peril of bleeding to death. "There are other ways," Mr. Witherspoon continued, "in which the scout is instructed to be able to depend on himself should he be lost in the wilderness, caught in a tornado, tempted to take refuge in a barn, or under an exposed tree during a thunder storm." "All o' that sounds mighty interestin', I must say, sir!" commented the farmer, deeply interested. "To my own personal knowledge, Mr. Brush," finally said the other, "on three separate occasions I have known of cases where a boy in swimming was apparently dead when dragged from the water after having been under for several minutes; in every one of those instances his scout companions, working according to the rules that had become a part of their education, managed to revive the fluttering spark of life and save the lad!" There was an intense silence as the last word was spoken. Every one of those boys realized how terribly the man was suffering, for they could see his face working. Presently he looked up, with a groan that welled from his very heart. "Jest a year too late, sir!" he said, in an unsteady voice. "Oh, why didn't ye come last June? My little Jim was alive then, and the apple of my eye. If he'd jined the scouts he might a be'n with us right now. A year too late--it's hard, hard!" "But you said you have three boys still, Mr. Brush?" said the scout master. "So I have, and mighty dear they be to me too!" exclaimed the farmer, as he proceeded to bring down his ponderous fist on his knee, "and arter what you've told me this night, sir, they cain't be scouts any too soon to please me. I've had my lesson, and it was a bitter one. I'm right glad ye kim along to-night, and camped in my big woods, where we seen the light o' yer fire." "And we're glad too, Mr. Brush," said the scout master, while several of the boys were heard to cough as though taken with a sudden tickling in their throats. Long they sat there talking. Mr. Brush became an ardent advocate of the scout movement, and even made an arrangement for his boys to join the new patrol being formed, though it would mean many a trip in and out of Lenox for him in his new cheap motor car, in order that they attend the weekly meetings. After all that was an evening long to be remembered. Tom Chesney, who kept a regular log of the outing, meaning to enter his account in a competition for a prize that had been offered by a metropolitan daily, found a fine chance to spread himself when jotting down the particulars. The farmer could hardly tear himself away from the crackling fire. Three times he said he must be going, yet did not stir, which quite amused Josh Kingsley and Felix Robbins. "Our scout master sure must have missed his calling when he set out to be a civil engineer and surveyor," whispered the former in the ear of Felix. "That's so," replied the other, "for while he may be a pretty good civil engineer, he'd made a crackerjack of a lawyer or a preacher. When he talks somehow you just hang on every word he says, and it convinces you deep down. That old farmer on a jury would do whatever Mr. Witherspoon wanted. But it's been worth hearing; and I'm a heap glad to be a scout, after listening to what he's been saying." Finally the owner of the woods shook hands all around with them, and accompanied by his hired man and the two dogs respectfully took his departure. CHAPTER XIV AT THE FOOT OF BIG BEAR MOUNTAIN It took them a long time to get settled on that night. Some of the scouts were about to experience their first camp sleep. They had to be shown just how to arrange their blankets, and what to do about the customary pillow upon which they wished to rest their heads. Tom, Josh and Rob Shaefer, having been through the mill before, explained these things. They even helped the tenderfeet fill with hemlock browse the little cotton bag, which had possibly once held flour, and which each scout had been advised to carry along in his pack. "They'll be worth their weight in gold many times on the trip," said Tom, when even Mr. Witherspoon stood listening with interest, for he had not as yet learned everything, he was free to confess. "But do we have to carry them along with us like that?" asked Horace as he held up the rather bulky object he had made of his cotton slip. "Certainly not," he was informed; "you empty it before breaking camp, and in the evening fill it again. Plenty of hemlock or spruce handy, whenever you choose to stretch out your hand and pluck it." "You must show me about all these things," Billy Button remarked. "To tell the truth I don't know the difference between balsam, fir, spruce, hemlock, larch and some other trees I've heard you talking about." "I'll begin to-morrow, and you'll find it simple enough," Tom promised him. After all the night really passed without any disturbance. Tom and Rob managed to wake up a number of times, and getting quietly out of their snug nests, they renewed the fire, thus keeping it going all through the night. Had any one been watching closely they probably would have seen a head bob up occasionally, the owner take a cautious look around, and then drop back again as though convinced that all was well, with no danger of ferocious wild beasts raiding the camp. These were the tenderfeet of the troop. They of course could not sleep save in snatches, and the strangeness of their surroundings caused them to feel more or less nervous. All they heard, however, was the barking of Farmer Brush's watch dogs or some little woods animal complaining because these two-legged intruders had disturbed the peace of their homeland. With the coming of dawn there was a stir in camp. Then one by one the scouts crawled out from their blankets, all but two greenhorns. "Let them sleep a while longer," said Mr. Witherspoon. "I fancy neither of them passed a very comfortable night." And at this the other boys moderated their voices as they proceeded to get an early breakfast ready, though in no hurry to leave that pleasant Camp Content. Of course both the laggards were up and ready by the time the call to breakfast was heard in the land. It may be that the smell of the eggs and bacon frying and the aromatic coffee's bubbling had much to do with arousing them. While they were eating who should appear but the hired man of Farmer Brush. He had a big basket on his arm, also a note for the scout master. "I have to go to town early this morning or I'd fetch these few things myself," the note ran; "I want you to accept them from me with my compliments, and my hearty thanks for your entertainment last night. I have hardly slept a wink thinking about what you told me; and next meeting me and my boys will be on hand. "EZRA BRUSH. "P.S. The chickens my wife sends you, and she says they are tender enough to fry." Besides the four chickens, all ready for cooking, there was a fine print of new butter, as well as a carton of several dozen eggs fresh from the coop. "Three cheers for Mr. Brush, fellows!" cried Tom, after the scout master had read the note aloud; and they were given with a will, much to the entertainment of Bill, who stood there and grinned broadly. It was about eight o'clock when the column started once more. They meant to leave the main road they had been following up to this time, for it did not run in the direction they wanted to go. There was another smaller one which they expected to follow, for that day at least, and which skirted the base of the mountain, even ascending it in several places, as their map showed. "It will be our last day on any sort of road, if we follow out the programme as arranged," Tom Chesney explained, as they sat around at noon munching the "snack" each scout had been commissioned to prepare at breakfast time against his being hungry in the middle of the day, when they would not care to start a fire in order to do any cooking. "You mean we expect to push right up the mountain and begin exploring the country, don't you, Tom?" asked Josh between bites. "Yes, and three of the fellows intend to make maps as we go, for practice," the leader of the Black Bear Patrol explained. "All I hope is," commented Billy Button, anxiously, "that we don't manage to get lost. I've got a very important engagement a week from Friday that I wouldn't want to miss." "Huh, guess I'm in the same box," chuckled Josh; "anyway I promised to be sitting in my usual chair with my feet under our dining table on that same day; and it'd grieve my heart if I missed connections." The middle of that June day proved to be very warm, and the boys decided to lie around for several hours. When the sun had got well started down the western sky perhaps there might be a little more life in the air. Besides, they were in no hurry; so what was the use of exerting themselves unduly? "I hope it isn't going to storm!" suggested Carl, as they sprawled under the shady tree where they had halted for the noon rest, each youth in as comfortable an attitude as he could assume. "Oh, is there any chance of a terrible storm dropping down on us, do you think?" asked Horace Crapsey, looking troubled; for although none of the others knew it, the crash of the thunder and the play of lightning had struck terror to his soul ever since the time he had been knocked down, when a tree near his house was shattered by a bolt from the clouds. "Not that you can see right now," Josh informed him, a little contemptuously; with a strong boy's feeling toward one who shows signs of being afraid; "but when it's summer time and when, in the bargain, a day has been as hot as this one, you never can tell." "That's so, Josh," George Kingsley remarked, wagging his head as though for once he actually agreed with something that had been said; "a simmering day often coaxes a storm along. It may hit us toward night-time, or even come on any hour afterwards when we're sleeping like babes in the woods." "But what can we do for shelter?" asked Billy Button; "we haven't got even a rag for a tent; and once we get soaked it'll be a hard job to dry our suits, you know." "Leave that to us, Billy," Tom told him, confidently. "First of all every scout has a rubber poncho; two of these fastened together will make what they call a dog tent, under which a couple of fellows can tuck themselves, and keep the upper part of their bodies dry. Soldiers always use them." "Yes," added Rob Shaefer; "and if it looks like rain to-night we'll raise several brush shanties. By making use of the rubber blankets they can be kept as dry as a bone. Scouts must learn how to meet every possible condition that can rise up. That's a big part of the fun, once you've begun to play the game." Billy seemed to be much impressed by this cheering intelligence; and even Horace smiled again, having recovered from his little panic. It was almost three o'clock when the signal was given for a start. They took it slowly, and in the next two hours had probably covered little more than two miles. They were still loitering along the road that skirted the foot of the Big Bear Mountain. "As we have some extra cooking to do to-night, boys," the scout master told them, "we had better pull up here where we can get fine water. That's one of the things you must always look for when camping, remember." Nothing pleased the scouts better than the prospect of stopping, and starting supper, for they were tired, and hungry in the bargain. "If we didn't want to eat these fowls right away," Tom remarked, "I'd suggest that we bake them in a hot oven made in the ground. That's the original cooker, you know. But it takes a good many hours to do it." "Another time, perhaps, when we're stopping several days in one camp we'll get some more chickens, Tom," said the scout master, "and have you show us just how it is done. I've heard of the old-time scheme, but never tasted anything cooked in a mud oven." Everything looked calm and peaceful just then, but after all that was a deception and a snare. Even while the cooks were starting in to cut up the chickens so that the various parts might be placed in the two big frying-pans, after a certain amount of fat salt pork had been "tried out," and allowed to get fiercely hot, Josh, who happened to be seen coming from the spring with a coffee-pot of water called out: "Well, here comes your storm cloud all right, Horace; only instead of a ducking we stand a chance of getting a licking from another enraged tiller of the soil!" CHAPTER XV NOT GUILTY "Whew! but he looks even madder than Mr. Brush did!" exclaimed Billy Button, when he saw the advancing man snap his whip furiously, as though to warn them what to expect on his arrival. Every scout was now on his feet and watching. "There's his wagon over on the road," said Carl; "he must have been passing and have seen us here. I wonder if we've trespassed on _his_ private property now. Mr. Witherspoon, you'd better get ready to hypnotize another mad farmer." "He's got his eye on our chickens, let me tell you!" urged Josh, as he moved over a few paces, as though meaning to defend the anticipated treat desperately if need be. The man was a big brawny fellow, and very angry at that. Mr. Witherspoon faced him without a sign of alarm, even smiling, because conscious of having given no reasonable cause for an assault. "That cracking of his whip isn't going to scare us a bit," muttered the pugnacious Josh; "he'd better not lay it on me for one, or any of my chums, that's what!" The man could hardly speak at first, from the effect of his anger, together with his hasty rush from the road up to the camp. Then holding his threatening whip in one hand he pointed a quivering finger straight toward the fowls that they were expecting to have for their supper, and which could no longer be concealed by Josh. "So," bellowed the man, "now I know where the chickens that were stolen from my coop last night went. Raidin' the farms up this way, are you? I want to tell you it's going to be a bad job for every one of ye. I'll have the law on ye if I have to go to Lenox and look every boy in town over. And I'll know ye all again, if its a month from now." He snapped the whip viciously as he stopped talking; but Mr. Witherspoon did not seem to shrink back an inch. Looking the excited farmer squarely in the eye the scout master started to speak. "I judge from what you say, sir, that you have had the misfortune to lose some of your poultry lately? I'm sorry to hear of it, but when you come and accuse us of being the guilty parties you are making a serious mistake, sir." "Oh, am I?" demanded the other, still as furious as ever, though the boys noticed that he made no effort to use the dreadful whip he carried. "I lost some fowls, and you're expecting to have some chickens for dinner. Anybody with hoss sense could put them facts together, couldn't they? I ain't to be blarnied so easy, let me tell you." "You seem to talk as though no one owned chickens up this Bear Mountain way but yourself, sir," said Mr. Witherspoon, calmly. "These lads are Boy Scouts. They are a part of the Lenox Troop, and I can vouch for every one of them as being honest, and incapable of stealing any man's fowls." "You don't say, mister?" sneered the man; "but tell me, who's a-goin' to vouch for you, now?" "My name is Robert Witherspoon," replied the scout master, showing wonderful self-control the boys thought, considering the insulting manner of the angry farmer. "I am a civil engineer and surveyor. I love boys every way I find them; and it is a pleasure to me to act as their scout master, accompanying them on their hikes when possible, and seeing that they behave themselves in every way. You can find out about my standing from Judge Jerome, Doctor Lawson or Pastor Hotchkiss in Lenox." The man still looked in Mr. Witherspoon's calm eyes. What he saw there seemed to have an influence upon his aroused feelings, for while he still shook his head skeptically there was not so much of menace in his manner now. "Boys will be boys, no matter whether they have scout uniforms on or overalls," he said sullenly. "I've suffered mor'n once from raids on my orchards and chicken coops, and found it was some town boys, off on what they called a lark, that made other people suffer." "But I assure you there is not the slightest possibility of any boy here having taken your chickens, sir," continued the scout master. "We've been on the move all day long," added Tom, "and only arrived here half an hour back. Last night we were several miles away in camp." "But--you got chickens, and I was robbed last night," faltered the farmer, as though that fact impressed him as evidence that no argument could keep down. "If we could prove to you," continued Mr. Witherspoon, "that we came by these four fowls honestly, I hope you will be frank enough to apologize to my boys for unjustly suspecting them of being hen thieves?" "Go on then and do it, mister; but I warn you I'm sot in my ways, and hard to convince. It's got to be a mighty likely yarn that'll fotch me over." "You've lived around here some time, I take it?" asked Mr. Witherspoon. "Man and boy forty-seven years," came the reply. "Then you must know Ezra Brush, for he was born in the farm house he occupies to this day?" suggested the scout master. "I know Ezra like a book. Him and me have always been good friends, except for that boundary dispute which took us to court; but I reckon Ezra don't hold no grudge agin me 'cause I won out. "We had Mr. Brush sitting beside our campfire for two hours last night, while I told him all about the things Boy Scouts are taught. He means to have his three boys join the troop at the next meeting; for he knows now that if his little Jim and some of his companions had been scouts, the boy's life in all probability would have been saved last summer." "It might have been," admitted the farmer, "if them other lads had knowed what to do, but before a man got there it was too late. And Ezra certainly sot some store by that bright-faced little Jim; everybody keered for him, he was so winnin' in his ways." "Well," continued Mr. Witherspoon with a smile, for he was certain of his ground by this time, and the whip hung listlessly alongside the farmer's leg; "we made so good an impression on Mr. Brush that early this morning his man Bill came over with a basket, and also this note. Please read it, sir." He placed the paper in the other's hand; and leaning down so that the waning light of the setting sun might fall on the writing the farmer seemed to take in the contents of the note. When he looked up he no longer scowled, but let his eyes rove around at the faces of the scouts, all filled with eager anticipation. "Well, I was wrong to say what I did, I owns up," he commenced, making a wry face, as though it was rather an unusual thing for him to admit being anything but right; "and since I promised to apologize to ye, boys I'm ready to do it. Chickens all looks alike after they've been plucked and the heads cut off; but 'cordin' to what that note reads these here are Brush fowls and not from the Perkins coop." Mr. Witherspoon nodded his head, and his eyes twinkled. "Are you satisfied to accept Mr. Perkins' apology, boys, in the same spirit in which it is given?" he asked, looking at his charges. Of course there was an immediate response, and in the affirmative too. Boys are not apt to harbor any deep resentment, once the accusation is withdrawn. "There, you see these boys are not the ones to hold it against you, Mr. Perkins," the scout master continued. "Did you see the thieves who were in your hen house last night, Mr. Perkins?" asked Tom, as though he had some object in making the inquiry. "Wall, no, though I heard the racket when my chickens got to squawkin', and run to the coop with a gun; but the pesky rascals had cleared out with half a dozen of my best young fowls. I reckoned to larn where they was, and I'm on my way to town right now with a load of stuff, meanin' to make a few inquiries in the mornin'." He grinned as he fumbled at the pocket of his coat. "What have you got there, Mr. Perkins?" asked Tom. "It's a boy's cap as was left in my coop last night," declared the farmer; "and a queer lookin' one at that. Guess they might tell me who it fits in Lenox." Every eye was focused on the cap which he held up. It was indeed of an odd color, and very likely the only one of the kind in that section. Josh Kingsley laughed out loud. "Guess we ought to know that cap, fellows!" he exclaimed. "The last time I saw the same it was perked on the red head of Tony Pollock." CHAPTER XVI WHAT TO DO IN A STORM "Would you mind letting me see that cap for a minute, Mr. Perkins?" asked the leader of the Black Bear Patrol. The farmer seemed to hesitate as though loth to let his only evidence go out of his hand; but after one good look at the smiling countenance of Tom Chesney apparently he felt ashamed of suspecting that so clean-looking a boy could mean to deceive him in any way. So he passed the head-gear over. Knowing that Tom must have some object in making this request the other scouts pushed closer and watched eagerly. They saw him turn the cap partly inside out. "I thought as much," Tom remarked laughingly, at the same time carefully picking several tiny objects up, which he held before the eyes of the admiring farmer, who had doubtless never before heard of such a thing as "scoutcraft." "Look for yourself, Mr. Perkins," Tom said exultantly; "you will have no difficulty in recognizing these as fiery red hairs. The boy mentioned by my chum here, has a brick-top like that. I should say the evidence is about as conclusive as anything could be." Mr. Perkins' mouth had opened wide. He was apparently thunder-struck by the cleverness displayed by this stripling in clinching the guilt of the party who had stolen his spring chickens. "Tell me his name again, Bub," he said turning to Josh; "I calc'late makin' it some warm for him unless I gets pretty good pay for them fowls." "His name is Tony Pollock," he was told with a grin, for somehow Josh seemed to be tickled over the retribution that was likely to overtake the boy who had for so long a time acted as a bully in Lenox. After some talk the farmer withdrew, taking with him his evidence in the shape of the queer checked cap, and also the best wishes of the assembled scouts, who gave him a cheer as he drove away. He had even promised to drop around at a couple of their houses with messages hastily scribbled, to the effect that the boys were very well, and having the time of their lives. Needless to say that those who sent these were the tender feet of the troop. Horace and Billy, who imagined that their respective mothers must be lying awake nights in mortal fear lest something dreadful had happened to the heretofore pampered darlings. Most of the other boys were accustomed to being away from home, and prided themselves on being able to show the spirit of veteran campers. The fowls turned out to be the peer of any the boys had ever tasted. Indeed with the chicken cooked a delicate brown by those in charge, and seasoned with the keen appetites a day in the open air is apt to give a boy, that supper must always linger in their memories as a bright spot never to be excelled. By now the greenhorns would be getting more accustomed to seeing the woods all around them, and probably sleep better than they did before. The second night in camp always does find everybody feeling more at ease, and settling down for a good rest. They had no reason to find fault with anything that happened to them after the departure of Mr. Perkins. The stars came out in the heavens and there was apparently no sign of rain. To satisfy the more timid boys, Tom and Rob Shaefer had started on a brush shanty, which they so far completed that it could be changed into a fair shelter by making use of their rubber ponchos. It was not really needed, though several of the boys chose to make up their beds under its arched roof, mentioning that they might feel the dew if it happened to prove heavy. Again they prepared breakfast, and then started off with a day's tramp ahead of them that would differ in many respects from anything as yet encountered. This was because they expected to strike boldly up the side of the massive mountain that reared its head far above them, its slopes covered for the most part with a heavy growth of timber. This, however, thinned out the nearer one came to the summit, which in turn was composed of bald rocks, grim and silent, save when some eagle gave its shrill scream from a projecting crag. They took their last look at the little road, and then Tom led the way into the heart of the wild growth. Just as they had anticipated it was a great deal more difficult going now, for there was no trail save an occasional cowpath which might lead down to the creek, or anywhere else; and to which, for this reason, they could not pay any attention. When noon came there was a loud call for a halt. While every boy was too proud to confess that his muscles were beginning to feel sore from the continual strain, he tried pretty hard to find some plausible excuse for wanting to make a good long halt. While they were eating and fanning themselves, for it was very warm, Walter Douglass noticed Tom glancing off toward the southwest. Upon looking in that direction himself he burst out with an exclamation: "It's going to strike us this time, boys, as sure as anything!" "What another irate farmer?" cried Josh, laughingly. "Whatever have the scouts been doing this time to raise trouble? We've been accused of trespassing, and stealing chickens; p'raps they'll try to make out we have evil designs on some country bank." "It looks like a storm," admitted Tom; upon which Billy Button began to stare at the clouds in plain sight, and Horace seemed to be listening anxiously to catch the first distant mutter of thunder in the air. "If you are all through eating," said Mr. Witherspoon, "perhaps we had better move out of this. I'm not the best judge of such things, but I think we could find a better spot than this to stay during the storm." "There! listen to that, will you?" exclaimed George as they heard a heavy boom that seemed to throb on the heavily charged air like the roar of a monster siege gun. Horace was looking a little pale, though he set his teeth hard together, and apparently had made up his mind to at least refrain from showing the white feather, no matter how frightened he felt. They did up their packs, keeping the rubber ponchos out, according to the advice of the patrol leader. "At the worst we can put our heads through the slit in the center," he explained to them; "and then it serves as a waterproof to keep the upper part of you dry. But perhaps we can find an overhanging shelf of rock under which all of us can crawl." "But how about that fine big tree yonder, couldn't we take shelter under that?" asked Horace, pointing to a massive oak with wide-spreading branches that made a canopy through which even a downpour of rain could hardly penetrate. "Never!" Tom told him hastily. "A tree standing apart like that is always one of the most dangerous places you can select when seeking shelter from an electrical storm. Far better stay out and take your little soaking than to take chances in a barn, or under an isolated tree. In the forest it is not so bad, where there are hundreds of trees; but then you ought to be careful which one you select. Lightning loves a shining mark, you know." "But that big tree has stood for one or two hundred years and never been hit by lightning," objected Horace, who could not understand exactly. "So have others that I've seen shattered to fragments," Mr. Witherspoon told him, "but their time came at last, and without warning. We can't afford to accept the risk. There is only one safe way, and that is to avoid dangerous places." The thunder grew louder with every peal. There were vivid flashes of lightning, too, each of which caused Horace to start and close his eyes, though he bravely suppressed the groan that seemed ready to burst from his lips. Tom, as well as Mr. Witherspoon, Josh and Rob Shaefer, was constantly on the lookout for some sign of shelter. The ground seemed to favor the possibility of finding something in the line of overlapping lines of rock, which, forming a mushroom ledge, would screen them from the violence of the expected downpour. After all, the honor of making the discovery went to Carl. "Look over yonder between those bushes, sir; doesn't that seem to be about the kind of place you're after?" he called out, clutching the scout master by the arm. So impressed was Mr. Witherspoon by what he saw that he immediately directed all of his charges to make for the spot pell-mell. The first big drops were coming down as they arrived, to find that, sure enough, the ledges of stone cropped out as much as six or seven feet. "Crawl under wherever you can find a good place, and lie quiet!" ordered the scout master; and in several detachments they proceeded to get out of the rain, now commencing to fall heavily. The wind rushed through the branches with a furious shriek; the thunder crashed; they heard several trees fall under the strain; and then without warning came a blinding flash, with a terrific ear-splitting roar of thunder accompanying it. Horace, who with a number of others was in the cavity Tom had chosen, shrank close to the leader of the Black Bear Patrol. "Oh, Tom!" he cried, when his voice could be heard, "didn't that sound right from where that magnificent big oak tree stood that I wanted to get under?" "Just what it did!" Josh Kingsley told him, vehemently, while Tom said: "We'll investigate after the storm is over, Horace; but right now I'm of the opinion your fine oak is lying shattered into fragments by the bolt that fell!" CHAPTER XVII THE LANDSLIDE "Whether that's so or not," said the trembling Horace, "I feel that I've learned a lesson. I own up that I'm terribly afraid of lightning; but after this I'm going to face it, even if I have to lie out in the storm, rather than take chances." It became difficult to carry on any sort of conversation, what with all the racket around them. The wind blew, the rain fell in sheets, and the thunder boomed so continuously that one deep-toned roll hardly died away before there would come another crash that made everybody start. Still they were a thankful lot of boys as they lay under the ledges and counted the minutes creep past. "We've managed to keep our jackets tolerably dry after all," announced Josh, at a time when there happened to be a little slackening of the gale; "and that's what everybody couldn't have done under the same conditions." "Well, I should say not," another scout declared; "I know lots of fellows who think themselves extra smart around town, and yet put them up here and they'd either have been knocked out hiding under a tree that was struck, or else soaked through to the skin." "It takes scouts to figure things out when the supreme test comes," said Josh. "Yes, _some_ scouts," added Felix, drily; as much as to tell Josh not to plume himself too highly, because this was not his bright thought. A more terrific peal of thunder than any they had yet heard except that one outburst, stopped their talking for a brief time. "I really believe the old storm is coming back to try it all over again!" cried Billy Button, in dismay. "They often seem to do that," remarked another boy. "That has puzzled me more'n I can tell. What's the explanation, Mr. Witherspoon?" "Well, as near as I can say," replied the scout master, "it's something like this. Most storms have a regular rotary movement as well as their forward drift. On that account a hurricane at sea has a core or center, where there is almost a dead clam." "Yes, I've read about that," interrupted Josh. "Sea captains always mention it when they've found themselves in the worst of a big blow. It slackens up, and then comes on again worse than ever." "But always from exactly the opposite quarter," the scout master continued. "You can see how this is, for the wind coming from the east up to the time the core of the gale strikes them, is from the west after the center has passed by. We may be about to get the other side of this little storm now." "Listen to it roaring, up on the mountain?" cried Horace. "I wonder what those other fellows are doing about now?" Josh was heard to say, in a speculative way. "Of course you mean Tony Pollock and his crowd," observed Tom. "Unless they've been as lucky as we were they're feeling pretty damp ground this time. Still Tony is a shrewd fellow, and may have discovered some sort of shelter before the downpour came." "I hope so," Horace went on to say, for he was not at all cruel by disposition; "because I wouldn't want a dog to be out in this blow, much less boys I've known all my life, even if they have been an ugly lot." There was a short interval of violent downpour. Then all at once the storm again slackened, and soon the rain ceased. Horace had been whispering to Tom, and the pair of them now started to crawl out from under the shelter. "Where are you going, Tom?" asked Josh, wondering what the strange move meant. "Just mean to take a little walk over here," was the reply; "we'll be back in a few minutes. Horace is curious to see if it was the big oak that was struck." "I'll go along, if you don't object," said the always ready Josh. "Me too," called out a second scout. Accordingly several of them followed Tom and Horace out from under the ledges. There were at least six in the group that hurried along toward the spot where the splendid oak had been noticed an hour before. They were compelled to pick their way along, for little streams of water flowed in almost every direction; besides, the trees were shedding miniature Niagaras that would be very unpleasant if received in the back of the neck by any one passing underneath. In this fashion they neared the place. Every boy was keenly on the lookout. "Why, I don't see anything at all of the tree, and yet it certainly stood high above those smaller ones over there!" exclaimed Horace, presently, with a curious little quiver of awe in his voice. Ten seconds later they had advanced far enough to pass the barrier formed by those lesser forest trees. Then the entire group of scouts came to a sudden stop and simply stared. Horace even rubbed his eyes as if he half believed he might be dreaming. The big oak was gone! Where it had stood they saw a shattered trunk not more than twenty feet high. Upon the ground in every direction lay torn and twisted limbs and smaller branches, just as they had been violently hurled when that terrible electric bolt struck with such amazing force. "Whew!" gasped Josh, "there's an object lesson for you, Horace!" "It's the same for each one of us," added Tom, gravely; "and for every scout who ever hears of it." "Supposing we had taken refuge under that fine old oak," suggested Felix, with a shrug of his shoulders; "not one of us would have ever known what hit him." "I've seen all I want to, Tom; let us go back," said Horace, who looked rather white by now. "Besides, I think it's going to pour down again shortly." "That's right," added another scout; "you can hear it coming over there. Everybody scoot for the home base." They lost no time in retracing their steps, and just managed to reach the friendly shelter of the ledges when the rain did come down, if anything harder than ever. "There'll be a big boom in the river after this!" remarked Felix, when the rain had been falling in a deluge for ten minutes. "I think it must be next door to what they call a cloud burst; wouldn't you say so, Mr. Witherspoon?" asked another boy. "It seems like it," he was told by the scout master. "Meantime we ought to be very thankful we're so well provided for. No danger of being floated away this far up on the mountain. But the rain is going to stop presently." "Getting softer already!" announced the watchful Josh. "I didn't have any chance to ask you about the big oak?" Mr. Witherspoon continued. "There isn't any," remarked Felix; "only a wreck that would make you hold your breath and rub your eyes." "Then it was struck by that terrible bolt, was it?" asked the scout master. "Smashed, into flinders," replied Josh. "You never in all your life saw such a wreck, sir." "We'll all take a glance at it before we leave this place," the leader of the hiking troop told them. "But from the way things look there's a good chance we may think it best to put in the night right here, where we can be sure of a dry place for sleeping." "That strikes me as a good idea, sir," said Tom, promptly, for he had been considering proposing that very plan himself, though of course he did not see fit to say so now. "All I hope is that the river doesn't sweep away a part of Lenox," one of the boys was heard to say. "You remember that years ago, before any of us can remember, they had a bad flood, and some lives were lost." "Oh yes, but that was in the spring," explained Josh, "when the heavy snows melted, and what with ten days of rain the ground couldn't take up any more water. It's a whole lot different in June. Besides, we've been having it pretty hot and dry lately, remember, and the earth can drink up a lot of water." "Still, you never can tell what a flood will do," George was heard to say; but as they all understood his way of looking at the worst side of things none of the other boys took much stock in his gloomy predictions. "We must hustle to find some dry wood, so as to cook our supper, and keep warm afterwards," Felix told them. "Leave us alone to do that," Josh announced. "No matter how hard it has been raining you can always get plenty of dry stuff out of the heart of a stump or a log. And thank goodness we brought an ax along with us." "Say, did you feel anything then?" called out one of the other boys. "Seemed to me the rocks might be trembling as they did when it thundered extra loud. There it goes again! Get that, fellows?" They certainly did, and a thrill of wonder and sudden anxiety passed over them when the trembling sensation became even more pronounced. Then they realized that a strange rumbling sound had arisen. It came from further up the mountain, and yet drew rapidly closer, increasing in intensity, until it began to assume the proportions of a terrible roaring, while the rocks vibrated in a sickening way. "Oh! it must be an earthquake!" shrilled one scout, in alarm. "Lie still, everybody!" shouted Mr. Witherspoon; "don't think of crawling out. It's a landslide coming down the side of the mountain!" CHAPTER XVIII CAMPING ON THE LAKE SHORE For several minutes the scouts lay there and fairly held their breath in the grip of that sudden fear that had come upon them. As the rumbling noise and the sickening sensation of the rock trembling under them passed away they regained in some degree their former confidence. "The worst is over, I think," said Mr. Witherspoon; "but we'll stay where we are a while longer." Content to abide by his judgment, and glad that they had escaped being caught in that avalanche of earth and rocks, the boys kept quiet until finally, as there was no repetition of the landslide, they were allowed to issue forth. Investigation showed them where the slip had occurred. Some fault in the formation of the mountain side had allowed it to happen, the conditions being just right. Later on the rest of the scouts went over to view the wrecked oak, bringing back some of the splinters of wood to use in making the fire they expected to have going presently. Considering the two narrow escapes they had passed through recently, one from lightning and the other from the avalanche, the boys all felt that they had reason to be thankful. "You'll have some remarkable things to set down in that log book of yours for this particular day, Tom," said the scout master; "and I think you can do the subject justice. I hope to read an account of this trip in print one of these days." "Oh! there's a small chance of my account taking the first prize, I'm afraid Mr. Witherspoon," laughed the leader of the Black Bear Patrol; "I imagine there'll be scores of competitors in the race, and plenty of them can write things just as well as I can, perhaps even better." "Yes," remarked Josh, "but don't forget that every account of an outing trip has to be absolutely true. No wonderful imaginary stories will be allowed in the competition, the rules said." "Yes, that's just what they did state," added Felix; "you've got to have things authenticated--wasn't that the word the paper used?" "Attested to in due form by the scout master who accompanied the troop," Mr. Witherspoon explained, smiling; "and in this case I can do that with an easy conscience." "And if things keep going as they have been lately," declared another boy, "there never was and never can be a trip so crowded with interesting happenings as this same hike of Lenox Troop over Big Bear Mountain." The fire was made without any particular trouble, just as Josh and some of the others had predicted. The boys knew how to get dry fuel out of the heart of a stump, and once the fire was roaring it hardly mattered what kind of wood was used, since the heat quickly dried it out. Then supper was cooked as usual, only on this occasion they dispensed with some of the conditions that were not absolutely necessary, such as having two separate fires. On the whole they managed to get on, and every one admitted he could dispose of no more when finally the meal was concluded. Later on the boys sat around, and while most of them compared notes regarding their experiences during the exciting day just closed, others proceeded to attend to certain duties they did not wish to postpone any longer. As for Tom Chesney, it was an aim with him to write out his account of daily events while they were still fresh in his mind. He was afraid many of the little details might be forgotten if he delayed; and in the end those were what would give most of the charm to the narrative of the scout doings. The storm had passed on, and above them they saw the stars peeping out once more. Long into the night the steady drip of water could be heard, telling of numerous little rivulets that still ran down the side of Big Bear Mountain, though by morning most of these would have dried up. They slept under the friendly ledges. It was, after all was said, a pretty "rocky" bed, as Josh termed it; but since the ground outside was so well soaked, and there was always more or less peril in the shape of another landslide, none of the boys complained, or expressed his feelings in more than sundry grunts. With the coming of morning the strange camp was astir, and one by one the boys painfully crawled out, to try to get some of the stiffness from their limbs by jumping around and "skylarking." About nine o'clock the hike was resumed Mr. Witherspoon did not think it advisable to go on up the mountain any further after that avalanche; he believed they would have just as good a time passing around the base, and in the end making a complete circuit of the high elevation. The day turned out to be a delightful one after the storm. It seemed as though the air had been purified, and even in the middle of the day it was not unpleasantly warm. "We ought to make that little lake by the afternoon, oughtn't we, Tom?" the scout master asked, as he plodded along at the side of the patrol leader. Another consultation of the map Tom carried followed, and it was decided that they must be within a half a mile of the water. Ten minutes later Josh declared he had caught a glimpse of the sun shining on dancing wavelets; and shortly afterwards a sudden turn brought them in full view of the pond. It was hardly more than that, covering perhaps ten acres; but the boys declared they had never set eyes on a prettier sight as they arrived on the near shore, and proceeded to make a camp there. "If we only had a canoe up here what a great time we'd have fishing," said Josh, who was particularly fond of casting a fly for a trout or bass, and scorned to use the humble angleworm, as ordinary fishermen do. "What's the matter with taking a log and straddling the same?" asked Tom. "Three of us could manage it, one to troll with a spoon, another to cast near the shore and the third to paddle the log." "Let's try that in the morning," suggested Josh, eagerly; "it's too late in the day to have any great luck now. But I like the looks of that pond--and I think we might get a good string of fish from it, if the wind's right." That night their fire glowed upon the border of the water. It was a new experience, and the boys, seeing Tom busily engaged in writing, told him to do full justice to the theme, for it deserved to be recorded exactly in the way they saw it. It was a comfortable night they spent by the pond, in sharp contrast to the preceding one when flattened out under the rocky ledges. Every one got a good sound night's sleep, so that when morning came they were in prime condition for the work of the day. "We'll stay here to-day and not go on for another twenty-four hours," decided the scout master, as they sat around eating breakfast. "For one I'm glad to hear that," said Felix; "I can hike as well as the next fellow; but just the same when I'm off for pleasure I don't like to keep moving all the time. This suits me first-rate. Then I expect to do some paddling when we find the right sort of a log, with Josh at the bow casting his flies, and Tom at the stern trolling his phantom minnow along." The log needed was easily found, and was rolled down, to be launched in the pond. A rude paddle was also cut, with the aid of the ax and a sharp knife. Felix declared he could make it answer the purpose; so presently the enterprising scouts composing the fishing party went forth, followed by the best wishes of their mates. "Fix it so we have a fish dinner to-night, fellows!" Billy Button called out. "If you're wise you'll not make up your mouth that way; then there's no danger of being disappointed," said George. "I never expect anything, and so I meet with pleasant surprises once in a while." Perhaps since the days of old Robinson Crusoe a more remarkable fishing party never started out than that one. The three boys had taken off shoes and socks, and rolled up their trousers above their knees. Straddling the log, Felix used his paddle, and, sure enough, the clumsy craft moved along fast enough to answer their desires. Tom let out his line and trolled, while Josh began to cast with great animation, sending his trailing flies close to the shore, and drawing them toward him in fine style. Presently he struck and managed to land a fair-sized bass. Then Tom caught a larger one on his imitation minnow. The fun began to wax furious, so that once both the anglers chanced to be busily engaged with fish they had hooked at the same time. It was while this was going on, and their string had already reached respectable proportions, that the boys on the log heard a sound far away, up on the side of the mountain, which caused Josh to exclaim: "That's a pack of dogs yapping, and they're hot on the track of some sort of game, too! It may be only a poor little cottontail, but we'll soon know, for they're heading straight in our direction. Whew! listen to the yelps they give!" "There's something in the lake over yonder, and coming this way, too!" exclaimed Felix "Can it be a muskrat, Tom, do you think, swimming on top of the water?" "Not much it isn't!" cried Josh from the bow of the novel craft; "it's a deer I tell you, a stag with half-grown antlers, taking to the water to escape from the hounds." CHAPTER XIX FRIENDS OF THE DEER "Yes, its a buck," announced Tom, as a shout from the camp told that one of the other scouts had also discovered the swimming animal. "Whew! there come the dogs along the shore!" cried Felix, pointing as he spoke to where a number of swiftly-moving objects could be seen. "They've taken to the water after the deer!" exclaimed Josh. "It'll be a shame if they manage to catch up with the poor thing in the pond!" Felix declared; "we ought to break that game up somehow. Isn't there a way?" "If we had a canoe instead of a log we might get between, and keep the dogs back," he was told by the patrol leader; "but I'm afraid we'll never be able to make it at this rate." Felix had started paddling furiously even while the other was speaking. The novel craft began to move through the water much faster than at any previous time. It was really surprising how much speed it could show, when driven by that stout, if homely, paddle, held in the hands of a muscular and excited scout. Tom gave directions as though he were the pilot, and while the swimming buck certainly saw them approaching he must have considered that these human enemies were not to be feared one-half as much as those merciless hounds following after him, for he swerved very little. "We're going to cut in between the deer and the dogs after all, boys!" cried the delighted Josh, who was bending his body with every movement of the paddler, as though he hoped to be able in that fashion to assist the drive. "It's a pity we didn't think to bring another paddle along!" was Tom's comment, "for that would have added considerably to our progress." As it was, however, they managed to intervene between the hounds and the frightened buck. Josh waved both arms, and shouted threateningly at the eager dogs. They possibly did not know what to make of it, for as a rule their masters probably tempted them to chase a deer even with the law against hounding in force. "Keep back there, you greedy curs!" yelled Josh; and as Tom and Felix joined in the shouting, the last mentioned also waving his flashing paddle, the swimming dogs came to a pause. Whenever they made a start as though intending to sweep past the log on which the three scouts were perched, Felix, waiting for some such move, paddled vigorously to head them off. This series of obstructive tactics, coupled with the demonstration made by the other boys, served to keep the hounds in check for a certain length of time. "There, he's made the shore across on the other side of the pond!" announced Tom. Looking that way the boys saw the harried buck hasten out of the shallow water. He turned once on the very edge to give a single glance back toward the baffled dogs, still swimming aimlessly about, and yapping in defeat, then leaped lightly into the undergrowth and vanished from sight. "Good-bye!" shouted Josh, waving his hand after the rescued deer, "and good luck!" The dogs by this time had managed to flank the obstruction. "No use chasing after them any more, Felix," said Tom; "I think the deer has a good lead on them now, and will easily make his escape." They watched the pack swim to the shore, and noted that they came out at some little distance from the spot where the buck had left the water. "That's going to delay them still more," announced Tom; "they've lost the scent, and will have to chase up and down hunting for it." Sure enough the hounds ran first one way with their noses to the ground, then doubled back. It was several minutes before a triumphant yelp announced that they had finally struck the lost trail. "There they go with a rush!" said Josh, as the pack was seen to start off, following the course taken by the deer. Their eager yelps became less distinct as they skirted around the foot of Big Bear Mountain. "Well, that was a queer happening, wasn't it?" said Tom, as they prepared to resume their fishing, which had been so singularly interrupted. "It'll make an interesting event for your note book, Tom," declared Felix. "A deer is seldom seen around this region," Josh ventured to say; "which makes our luck all the more remarkable. I wouldn't have missed that sight for a good deal!" "I saw Stanley Ackerman using his camera, so let's hope he got a bunch of snapshots that'll show the whole circus," Felix announced. "How about allowing dogs to roam the woods up here, Tom; isn't it against the law in this State nowadays?" Josh asked. "It certainly is," he was informed. "For a good many years chasing deer with hounds, and using a jack-light at nights to get them, has been strictly forbidden. Time was when packs of hounds used to be met with in plenty. Men would start out and hunt deer that way. Then the papers took it up, and showed the cruelty of the so-called sport, and it was abolished." "According to the law anybody is allowed to shoot dogs caught in the act of running deer, especially in the summer time; isn't that right, Tom?" "Yes, that's what we would have had a perfect right to do if we'd had a gun along. But I don't believe that pack belonged to any one man. They are dogs that have gone wild, and having gathered together in the woods, live by hunting." "I've heard that dogs do go back to the old wolf strain sometimes," Josh admitted; "and now that you mention it, Tom, there was a wild look about every one of the beasts. I even thought they had half a notion to attack us at one time; but the way Felix kept that paddle flashing through the air cowed them, I guess." The fishing was resumed, though all this racket seemed to have caused the bass to cease taking hold for some time. By skirting the more distant shores, close to where the water grass and reeds grew, they finally struck a good ground, and were amply rewarded for the efforts put forth. "I think the bass must have their beds on this shoal here," said Tom, when they paddled back over the place at which success had come to them. "It's early in the season as yet, and a lot of them are still around here. They haven't gone out into deep water with their newly-hatched young ones." "Is that what they do?" asked Felix, who was not as much of a fisherman as either of his chums. "Well, not immediately after the eggs hatch," Tom told him. "The mother bass is going to keep her swarm of little ones in shallow water, and guard them until they get to a certain size. Then she darts in among them, scatters the whole lot, after which she is done with them. They have reached an age when they must take their chances." When finally about noon the three came ashore, rather stiff from having straddled that log for such a length of time, they had a pretty fine string of fish, two of them in fact. The talk as they ate their mid-day meal was along the subject of deer hunting, and Tom as well as Josh had to tell all about it, as far as they knew. Stanley declared he had made good use of his camera, and hoped the results would come up to expectations. All of them united in saying that it had been an adventure worth while; and apparently their sympathies were wholly with the gallant buck, for they expressed a fervent hope that he would succeed in outrunning his canine enemies. Somehow in the course of the conversation mention was made of Tony Pollock and his crowd. "I heard Tony tell a story of having seen a deer pulled down somewhere in the forest last fall by a pack of ugly dogs," related George Cooper. "At the time I believed he was only yarning, though he vowed black and blue it was so. He said the dogs looked and acted so ugly that he thought it best to clear out before they turned on him." "Like as not this same pack," remarked Tom. "They say that once a dog has taken to that savage sort of life nothing can ever coax him to go back to living with mankind again. It's in the blood, that call of the wild." "Well," chuckled Josh, "we know of another kind of call of the wild that's going to be heard in the land pretty soon, when Farmer Sile Perkins faces Tony. He will demand double pay for the chickens Tony and his crowd stole, on penalty of his being arrested if he doesn't whack up. Oh I can just see Tony begin to crawl then; and I wonder how he'll get the money." Carl was saying little or nothing, and Tom knew why. Here they had been on the hike several days, and as yet there had arisen not a single chance for him to get in touch with Dock Phillips. Tom understood that another spell of dark foreboding was beginning to enfold his chum. At the first opportunity he could find, Tom joined Carl. The latter had thrown himself down on the bank some distance away from the camp, where he could be in the shade, and yet look out on the sunlit water, which just then had a most attractive aspect. "You're worrying again because nothing has happened as we hoped would be the case, eh, Carl?" was what the patrol leader said as he dropped down close to the moody scout. Carl sighed heavily. "Perhaps it's foolish of me, Tom," he said, with a curious little break in his voice, which he tried hard to master; "but once in so often it seems as if something gripped me, and made me shiver. It's when I get to thinking what little real progress I am making that this chilly spell comes along." "Yes, I can understand that," the other told him. "I did hope we might run on Dock while we were up here, and either force or coax him to tell what he did with the stolen paper. He's away from the influence of Mr. Culpepper, you know, and if we had to come down to offering him a price to get the paper he might accept." "Oh! much as I hate to have to compromise such a thing," said Carl, desperately; "I believe I'd do it. Anything to get that paper, for the more I think of it the stronger I believe it means everything to my mother." "Well, we haven't quite got to the end of our tether yet," the patrol leader assured him. "I can't explain it, but somehow there's a feeling inside of me that tells me to keep on hoping. In some sort of fashion luck is going to turn your way. Just keep up your grit, and hang on. Take a lesson from the persistence of those dogs in following the deer." "Yes, I suppose I ought to. I've read how wolves will keep chasing after a deer day and night, steady as dock-work, until in the end they tire it out and get their dinner." Just then they heard a shout, or what was closer to a shriek. It came from beyond the camp, and was immediately followed by cries of alarm from the other scouts. "What's happened?" asked Tom, as with Carl he hurried to the spot to see a group approaching bearing some burden in their midst. "Walt Douglass fell out of a tree," replied Billy Button, looking very pale; "and Mr. Witherspoon says he's afraid it means a fractured leg, if nothing worse!" CHAPTER XX FIRST AID TO THE INJURED Dismay seized upon most of the scouts upon realizing what a disaster had fallen upon them. Tom however was not the one to forget that he had made a special study of "first aid to the injured," as had also Rob Shaefer. "Carry him over here, where we'll make a soft bed of the blankets, and then we've got to see how badly he's hurt!" was what Tom called out, hurrying on ahead to arrange things. His example seemed contagious. Boys are apt to follow a leader very much as sheep will a bell-wether. Everybody wanted to assist; and the feeling of panic gave way to one of confidence. Scouts should be equal to any sudden emergency; and in that way prove the value of their education along the lines of usefulness. Walter was groaning dismally, although trying his best to bear the pain. He looked as white as a sheet in the face. Tom's first act was to force himself to appear cheerful; he knew that if all of them stared and shuddered it would have a bad effect on the injured lad. When they had made an examination Tom and Rob agreed that one of the bones only had been broken. "It's a painful thing, but not nearly so bad as a compound fracture would be," Tom announced. "I think we can set it all right, temporarily, and then bind the leg up. In the meantime, Mr. Witherspoon, please make up your mind what we'd better do about getting Walter home in a hurry, where the doctor can take charge of him." "I hope you won't think of giving up your hike just on account of me, fellows," said the poor Walter, weakly, showing a magnanimous spirit in adversity that made his chums feel all the more admiration for him. "Leave that to me," Mr. Witherspoon announced; "I remember seeing an old car in the yard of that house we passed some three miles back. If you boys can make some sort of stretcher for carrying Walter I'll see that he gets home to-day, if I have to accompany him, and then come back again to you." This cheered the stricken lad as nothing else could have done. Home just then had a most alluring look to Walter. The woods may seem all very delightful when a boy is perfectly well, but let sickness or an accident put him on his back, and there is nothing like one's own home. After making some preparations, Tom and Rob announced that they were ready. "It's going to hurt you some, Walter," said the patrol leader, regretfully; "but it's got to be done, you know. Those two ends of the bone must be brought together, and after that we intend to bandage your leg the very best we know how." Walter shut his teeth hard together, and seemed to prepare for the worst. "Go ahead, boys," he said, grimly; "I'll have to grin and bear it, I guess. And I deserve all I'm getting for being so silly as to slip when I was climbing that tree to see what was in the hole in the trunk." He managed to stand it very bravely indeed, though the agony must have been intense. The other scouts heaved a sigh when they saw the amateur surgeons start to binding up the injured limb. "That's all through with, Walter," said Tom, cheerily, "and you stood it like a soldier, we'll all declare. Just as soon as that litter is done you're going to be carried back to that house, if it takes every one of us to do the job." Josh and some of the others had been busily engaged trying to construct a suitable litter. Fortunately they had learned how this should be done, for it is one of the duties of every Boy Scout to know this. With the ax they cut a couple of stout poles about eight feet in length. These were to constitute the sides, and would form the handles, each one to be in charge of a scout. A blanket was arranged across these in such a manner that there would not be the slightest danger of its slipping, after the two poles had been held a certain distance apart with a couple of cross-pieces. When finally the litter was completed it was pronounced first-class by every one. "I'm proud of the way you boys grapple with an emergency," said Mr. Witherspoon, enthusiastically. "You're all a credit to the organization to which you belong. I mean that your light shall not be kept under a bushel, for this is an example worthy of being spread abroad, and copied by other scouts." The next thing was to lift Walter to the litter, which was done without giving the poor fellow much pain. He seemed so grateful for every little thing they did for him, and looked so pitiful lying there that tender-hearted Billy Button was observed to hurriedly rush away, pretending that he wanted to wash his hands down at the water, when they all knew the tears had been welling up in his eyes. "It's going to be no easy task getting him all the way back to that house," said Mr. Witherspoon, "especially over such rough ground as we've struck. Four will be needed to work at a time, and they'll have to be relieved often, so perhaps we had better all go along save one scout, who can stay to look after the camp." "Let Billy stay," said Josh; "he was complaining of a stone bruise on his heel, and would be better off here than taking that six mile tramp." So it was decided that Billy Button should remain in the camp. He did not look as if he enjoyed the prospect very much. "No wild animals around here to bother you, Billy," Josh assured him, when they were prepared to make the start. "You forget those dogs, I guess," Billy told him; "they must be pretty mad at us for holding them up. What must I do if they take a notion to come back and threaten to eat me up?" "Oh! the easiest thing for you to try," Josh told him, "would be to shin up this tree here, and wait for us to rescue you. We've hung our grub up so nothing can get hold of it. But don't worry, Billy; there isn't one chance in ten that the dogs'll come back this way." It was a strange procession that left the camp. Stanley took a picture of the litter bearers so they would have something to remember the occurrence by; and Walter had so far recovered from the shock and the acute pain as to be able to raise his head, so that he might appear in the scene as the object of all this excitement. Billy saw them depart, and then turned his attention to other things. Being left in full charge of the camp he had a sense of responsibility resting upon him, such as he had never experienced before. It would take them perhaps two full hours going that distance with the injured boy, because great care would be required in picking the easiest way. Of course the return journey would be made in half that time. Altogether three hours might elapse, even with the best of luck, before the main body of scouts could be expected back; and Billy had been told that they would depend on him to get supper started. It was fine to see how very careful the litter bearers were as they pushed along the back trail. One would go ahead to lead the way, and so avoid any unusually rough places as much as possible. Every boy looked well to his footing, since any sort of jolt, such as would accompany a stumble, was apt to cause Walter unnecessary pain. Their progress was necessarily somewhat slow. Tom said that was one of the times when it paid to be sure rather than to try to make speed. And from the fact that not once did they cause poor Walter to give a groan it could be seen that these careful litter-bearers fulfilled their duty fully as well as Red Cross or hospital attendants could have done. The two hours and more had passed before they came to the house at which Mr. Witherspoon had remembered seeing a car. It turned out that the man who lived there was doing so for his health. He wanted to be in a quiet place on account of shattered nerves. When he learned what had happened he told them he would gladly take the injured scout to his home, and that there was room also for Mr. Witherspoon, whom he would bring back with him again. The splendid manner in which the scouts had managed, both with regard to doing up the fractured limb, and in making that litter, excited the man's admiration; and he felt that he could not do too much for those self-reliant lads. "Such work should be encouraged by every right-thinking man or woman," he told them; "and after you've all had a cup of hot coffee, which my wife is getting ready right now, we'll be off." Of course all of them were feeling much more cheerful, now that they knew the hike would not have to be abandoned on account of this accident. Some of the boys had begun to fear this would be the result. "When I get back here from town," Mr. Witherspoon told them, "it is apt to be late, and I'll be too tired to try that three miles over rough ground. So I've made arrangements to stay here over-night with our good friends. In the morning after breakfast I'll start off along the trail for the camp. Of course it would be nice if several of you met me half way there." "We'll be only too glad to do that, sir," Josh told him; for Mr. Witherspoon had by this time firmly entrenched himself in the affections of his boys, who believed him to be the best scout master any troop had ever boasted, barring none. After seeing the car start, and giving Walter a rousing send-off that must have done his heart good, the rest of the boys concluded to turn their faces toward the camp. "Three hours will seem an age to Billy Button," said Horace, who was feeling quite proud of the fact that he had been chosen as one of the litter-bearers. "Oh! he'll have plenty to do cleaning all those fish we caught this morning, and some other odd jobs I gave him," remarked Josh, carelessly. "Billy is inclined to be timid," Felix observed, loftily; "and it's a good thing, for him to be left alone once in a while. Nothing like making a scout feel he's just got to depend on himself for things." The three miles was soon covered by the returning eight scouts. "I can see smoke ahead!" announced Josh presently. "Yes, and there's the pond shining in the light of the sun," added Felix. "Isn't that our chum, Billy, waving his hands to us?" asked George. "Looks as if he wanted us to hurry up some. I wonder what's happened now?" "Oh! he's only anxious for us to join him," said Carl; "perhaps he made a mistake in the time we were to be back, and he's gone and cooked all the fish." It was soon seen, however, that the guardian of the camp had a good reason for his excitement. His face bore a troubled expression, it struck Tom, when he drew near the camp. "Anything gone wrong here Billy?" he asked. "I should say there had, Tom!" he burst out with. "Why, would you believe it, some miserable tramps raided the camp, and got away with most of our stuff!" CHAPTER XXI SCOUT GRIT "Tell us how it happened, Billy!" said the patrol leader, when the clamor of excited voices partly died away, giving him a chance to make himself heard. "Yes, what did they do to you, Billy?" demanded Josh, noticing that the other did not seem to be limping, or showing any other signs of having met with rough treatment at the hands of the camp raiders. "Why, it was this way," Billy hastened to explain. "You see I was down by the water cleaning all those fish at the time. Guess I must have been pretty much a whole hour at the job. And I'd just about finished when I thought I heard somebody give a sneeze, which made me get up off my knees and look around." "And did you see the tramps in camp cleaning things out then?" asked Felix. "Well, no, not exactly," replied Billy; "the most I thought I saw was something moving in the bushes on the other side of the camp; and yes, it was just like a laugh too that I caught." "What did you do?" asked Josh. "I wondered if those wild dogs had come back," said the guardian of the camp, "and the first thing I thought to do was to put the pan of fish I'd cleaned up in the crotch of a tree. Then I went to the camp, and oh! my stars I but it was in an _awful_ mess, with things flung around, and most of our eatables taken, as well as the frying-pan and coffee-pot!" "Oh! that's sure the limit!" groaned Josh. "We'll never be able to keep on our hike with nothing to eat or drink, and not a pan to cook stuff in, even if we bought it from the farmers. It spells the end, fellows!" "Yes," echoed George, always seeing the worst side of things, "we'll have to go back to town like dogs with their tails between their legs, and have all the other fellows make fun of us." "Hold on there, fellows, don't show the white feather so easily," said Tom, who was looking very determined. "Do you mean there's any chance for us to keep going, after our things have been taken in this way?" demanded George. "Well, we can talk that over to-night, and then see what Mr. Witherspoon has to say about it when he joins us in the morning," Tom told him. "As for me, I'd be willing to go on half rations rather than own up beat. How do we know but that this raid on our stuff was made just to force us to give up our hike?" "Why, how could that be?" asked Billy Button, wonderingly. "And why would hoboes want that to happen?" added George. "When Billy says they were tramps he's only jumping to conclusions," Tom explained, "he doesn't know a thing about it, because he owns up he failed to get even a single look at the thieves. I've got my own opinion about this thing." "Meaning you believe you know who the fellows were?" questioned Carl. "Stop and think--who would like nothing better than to put us in a hole? Don't we happen to know that Tony Pollock and his crowd are around here on Big Bear Mountain somewhere? Didn't they rob that hen roost of Mr. Perkins?" "Tom, I really believe you're right!" exclaimed Josh, beginning to look at the matter from the standpoint taken by the patrol leader. "We can soon settle that part of it!" declared Rob Shaeffer. "By hunting for their tracks, and finding out how many thieves there were," Tom went on to say. "Come on Billy, and show me just where you saw the bushes moving when that laugh struck you." He called upon the others to keep back so that they might not spoil any tracks to be found at that particular spot. A very little search showed the boys what they so eagerly sought. "Here are tracks enough, and all heading away from the camp," said the patrol leader presently, "let's see how we can classify them, for every footprint will be different from the others." "Here's one that is square across the toe," announced Josh, instantly. "And say, seems to me I remember Asa Green always wears shoes like that. Now Wedge McGuffey has got broad shoulders and spindle legs, and he wears a pointed shoe like the one that made these tracks." "Here's another that's got a patch across the toe," said Felix. "Couldn't mistake that shoe, no matter where you saw it. A fellow could be hung on such circumstantial evidence as that." "And here's a fourth that's different from any of the rest," continued Tom, as he pointed downward, "so it looks as if there were just four in the bunch, which you may remember corresponds with the number in Tony Pollock's crowd, now that Dock Phillips has thrown his lot in with them." Some of the scouts expressed their indignation loudly as they investigated the results of the daring raid. It would not have been pleasant for Tony and his cronies had they been brought face to face with the angry scouts about that time. Tom Chesney soon had reason to admit that he had met with a personal loss that bothered him exceedingly. "They've even taken my little diary in which I've been keeping an accurate account of our entire trip," he announced; "though what good that could do them I'm at a loss to understand." "Oh! they just believed it would make you feel bad," explained Carl; "and that would tickle Tony, he's such a mean sort of fellow. Perhaps he expects to read it out to the others while they sit by their fire, and then throw it away. I hope you can write it all over again, Tom." "Too bad!" declared Josh, "when you went to such trouble to jot everything down just as it happened, thinking you might take that prize offered for the best true account of a hike by scouts." "I'll make sure to write this latest adventure out while it's fresh in my mind," remarked Tom, bent on making the best of a bad bargain. "Well," observed Felix, "all I hope is that we decide not to give up the ship for such a little thing as being without provisions. It'll make us hustle some to lay in a supply; but, after all, the experience is going to be a great thing for us." "And if it comes to a vote," added Horace, showing unexpected stamina in this emergency; "count on my voice being raised against giving up. Why, I'm just getting interested in this game, and I find it pretty exciting." "Just what I say!" echoed Josh. "And I!" came from every one of the others, without even the exception of poor Billy, who seemed to feel that he might be mostly to blame because the raid on the camp had been conducted while he was in charge. Tom smiled on hearing so unanimous an expression of opinion. He knew that even such an apparent catastrophe as had befallen them was not going to cause these gallant fellows to "take water." "How long ago was it that the raid took place, Billy?" asked Josh, as though a sudden idea had struck him. "Oh! I should say about an hour or more," replied the other, after thinking it over. "I suppose they watched the camp for a while to make sure I was the only one around. Then when they saw me so busy down there by the pond they just started to root. They may have been poking around half an hour, for all I know; I was keeping my eyes on my work and thinking of poor Walter." "Tom, would it pay us to follow them right now?" demanded Josh, while his eyes sparkled with the spirit of retaliation, as though he could picture them pouncing on the spoilers of the camp, and making them pay dearly for their frolic. The patrol leader, however, shook his head in the negative, much to the disappointment of the impetuous Josh. "In the first place they were apt to hurry off," said Tom. "Then they might even try to blind their trail, though I don't believe any of them know much of the Indian way of doing that. But the sun will soon set, and it grows dark early along the northeast side of Big Bear Mountain you know." "Yes," added George, always ready with an objection, "and some of us feel a little tired after all we've gone through with to-day." "We'd better leave that until Mr. Witherspoon joins us in the morning," concluded Tom. "Of course that wouldn't prevent a couple of scouts following the trail a bit while breakfast was cooking, and saving us that much trouble later on." "The next thing for us to see about is how under the sun will we cook all these delicious bass Billy's got ready?" remarked Felix. "Oh! I forgot to tell you they missed one frying-pan," remarked Billy, exultantly; "it chanced to be hanging from a nail I drove in a tree, and they couldn't have seen it. By making relays we can do our cooking in that." "Besides, we're two shy of our original number," added Horace. "What would we have done without any skillet at all, Tom?" asked Billy. "Oh! there are ways of doing it by heating a flat stone, and cooking the fish on that," replied Tom. "Then some old hunters who won't bother to carry a frying-pan into the woods with them manage by toasting the meat or fish at the end of a long sliver of wood. Given the fish and a hot fire, the fellow who couldn't invent some way of cooking would deserve to go hungry." "That's right," agreed Josh. "And everybody notice that it's going to take more than a little thing like this to stall the scouts who are up to their business." Indeed, there did seem to be an unusual spirit of animation among the boys that evening. Every fellow was anxious to assist in getting supper ready, so that after all it began to look at one time like a case of "too many cooks spoiling the broth." When the first batch of fish had been browned they were kept hot on a clean stone close to the fire while the other lot was cooked. As their supply of coffee had gone together with numerous other things, the boys had to drink cold water for supper. Loud were the lamentations over this. "The smell of coffee, bacon, or fried onions is what always makes it seem like camping out," declared Josh, sadly; "and now we haven't got a single one of those lovely things left. Our breakfast is going to be a pretty limited one; and as for other meals to-morrow, where they are going to come from is a question I'd like somebody to settle." "Listen," said Tom. "I'm going to get you up at daylight, Josh." "Me? What for? Do we have to start in fishing that early, or else go hungry?" "I want you to go along with me, that's all, Josh." "Along--where to, may I ask?" continued the other scout, wonderingly. "Back to where we took Walter," replied Tom; "I think when that gentleman hears what's happened to us, after we tell Mr. Witherspoon, he might be willing to sell us some supplies, such as coffee and bacon, and even loan us an extra frying-pan, as well as some sort of tin to boil coffee in." So, after all, the boys who gathered around the camp fire that evening, after such an eventful day, did not seem to be cast down one-half as much as undoubtedly the four young rascals who had played this mean trick upon them expected would be the case. CHAPTER XXII THE CABIN IN THE WOODS It was just about an hour after dawn, and the sun had hardly got started on his journey toward the zenith, when two boys in the khaki garb of scouts arrived at the house to which Walter Douglass had been carried on a litter. Mr. Witherspoon on coming out to get a breath of air before breakfast was announced was surprised and pleased to see Tom and Josh. "Why, this is splendid of you, boys!" he remarked, as they came toward him. "Of course you were anxious to know about your comrade. We got him safely home, and called the doctor, who said he would not have to set the limb again, since you scouts had done the job in first-class style. It's a feather in your cap, for he is sure to tell it everywhere. Now, what makes you look so glum, Josh?" That gave them a chance to explain. When the scout master heard of the latest outrage of which the Tony Pollock crowd had been guilty, he was much annoyed. "We thought," Tom went on to say, "that perhaps by coming over here before you got started we might influence the gentleman to spare us a small amount of coffee, a strip of bacon, and some sort of tin to make the coffee in." "No harm trying," Mr. Witherspoon immediately remarked; "and it does you credit to have thought up such a scheme. I've found him an accommodating gentleman. If he has anything he can spare I'm sure we'll be welcome to it." When the matter was mentioned to Mr. Clark, he immediately offered to help them out as far as he could do so. "I can give you plenty of eggs," he said, "and enough coffee for several meals. It happens that I'm shy on bacon just now, and intended to run in to town to stock up either to-day or to-morrow, when I have my eggs to dispose of. What I can spare, you're entirely welcome to." Nor would he allow them to pay a cent for what he handed over to them. "What I've heard about you boys from Mr. Witherspoon here has aroused my interest greatly," he told Tom and Josh as they were about to depart; "and I'd be glad to know more about such a splendid movement as this promises to be. You must keep me informed of your progress. I would appreciate an occasional letter. Then, if it happens that your account of the outing is ever put in print, Tom, remember me with a copy." "I certainly will, sir," the patrol leader promised, for he realized that the gentleman and his wife led a lonely life of it, removed from association as they were, with most of their fellows. They reached the camp in three-quarters of an hour after leaving the house, and received a noisy welcome from the rest of the boys, who gave their leaders the regular scout salute as they came into camp. Then once again the affair was discussed, this time with Mr. Witherspoon to listen and give occasional comments. It ended in their original plan's being sustained. They would not give up, and would try to carry out the plan as arranged before the hike was started. Tom had an idea that they must be near the cabin of Larry Henderson, the naturalist whom he had met in Lenox, at the time of the snowball battle with the Pollock crowd. "He gave me directions how to find his cabin," Tom explained to his companions when they were discussing this matter, "and I believe we must be somewhere near there right now. I asked Mr. Clark, and what he could tell me only confirmed my idea." "But Tom, do you think we could get some supplies from him?" asked Josh. "There's a reasonable chance of that," he was told. "I understood him to say he always kept a supply of all sorts of food on hand. It was to lay in a lot that took him down to Lenox that time, you know." "Then goodness knows I hope we can run on his shack to-day," said Felix fervently. "We want most of all coffee, potatoes, onions, bacon, ham, and, well anything that can stop the gap when ten campers are half starved." "Shall we get started right away, Tom?" asked George, who looked distressed, as though he had not been wholly satisfied with the amount of his breakfast. "There's nothing to delay us, since we have no tents to come down," Tom told him. "Every fellow fold up a blanket, and make his pack ready." "It's going to be marching in light order with us nowadays," sighed Felix, "with all our good stuff stolen. That's the only compensation I can see about it." "Tom, you've studied your chart good and hard, let's hope," commented Josh; "so we won't run any chance of going past the place without knowing it?" "He gave me certain land marks that I couldn't very well miss seeing," explained the patrol leader. "According to my way of thinking," Felix was saying, "we must be half around the foot of Big Bear Mountain by this time." "You've got the right idea of it," admitted the one who carried the chart; "and Mr. Henderson's cabin isn't far away from here. That crag up on the side of the mountain was one of the things he told me about. When we can get it in a direct line with that peak up there we will be within shouting distance of his place." Tom continued to keep on his guard as they pressed onward. Every one was alive to the necessity of finding the cabin of the old naturalist as soon as possible. Farms were so rare up here that they found they could not count on getting their supplies from such places; and the possibility of going hungry was not a pleasant prospect. After all it was an hour after noon when Tom announced the fact that the several land marks which had been given to him were in conjunction. "The cabin must be around here somewheres," he said, positively. Hardly had he spoken when Josh was noticed to be sniffing the air in a suspicious fashion. "What is it, Josh?" asked the scout master. "I smell smoke, that's all," was the answer. Others could do the same, now that their attention was called to the fact. "With the breeze coming from over that way, it ought to be plain enough we must look for the cabin there," remarked Tom. The further they advanced the plainer became the evidence that there was a fire of some sort ahead of them. Presently they got a whiff of cooking, at which some of the hungry scouts began to sniff the air like war horses when the odor of burnt powder comes down the breeze from the battlefield. "There it is!" exclaimed one of the watchful boys, suddenly. Yes, there stood a commodious cabin right in the midst of the thick woods. It was a charming site for the home of one who loved nature as much as the old naturalist did. When a vociferous shout rang forth a form was seen to come quickly to the open doorway. It was the same genial Larry Henderson whom some of the scouts had once rescued from the unkind assault of the bully of Lenox and his crowd, as they pelted the lame man with hard ice balls. He welcomed them to his little home with a heartiness that could not be doubted, and soon a royal dinner was being prepared for the whole party. While this was being dispatched later on, the owner of the woods cabin listened to the story of the great hike over Big Bear Mountain, as told by the boys. Everything seemed to interest him very much indeed, and when last of all they told him how some unscrupulous boys had stolen most of their supplies, meaning to break up the hike, Mr. Henderson looked pleased. "Don't let a little thing like that deter you, boys, from carrying out your original proposition," he remarked. "I can spare you all you want in the way of supplies. Yes and even to a coffee-pot and an extra frying-pan. An enterprise as splendidly started as this has been must not be allowed to languish, or be utterly wrecked through the mean tricks of such scamps as those boys." He was pleased when they gave him a round of hearty cheers, such as could only spring from a group of lively, wide-awake American boys. Afterwards he showed Tom and some of the others many things that interested them more than words could tell. Indeed, so fascinating were the various things he took the trouble to explain to them, that the scouts only wished they could stay at the cabin in the woods for a number of days, enjoying his society. It was decided that they must remain there at least until another morning, which would give them a night with the naturalist and hunter, a prospect that afforded satisfaction all around. Tom soon saw that Mr. Henderson had something on his mind which he wished to confide to him; consequently he was not much surprised when he saw him beckon to the leader of the Black Bear Patrol to join him. "Tell Mr. Witherspoon to come, too, and also that bright chap you call Rob," remarked the recluse. "It is a little matter that may interest you and I think it best to lay the story before you, and then let you decide for yourselves what you want to do. Still, from what I've seen up to this time of your character, I can give a pretty shrewd guess what your answer will be." Of course this sort of talk aroused a good deal of curiosity in both Tom Chesner and Rob Shaefer, and they impatiently awaited the coming of the scout master. "And now I'll explain," Mr. Henderson told them, when he found three eager pairs of eyes fastened on him. "I chanced to be about half a mile away from home an hour before noon to-day when I heard angry voices, and discovered that several persons were about to pass by, following a trail that leads straight into the worst bog around the foot of Big Bear Mountain." "I warrant you that it must have been the four young rascals who robbed our camp, that you saw," ventured Mr. Witherspoon. "I know now that it was as you say," continued the other. "At the time I might have called out and warned them of the peril that lay in wait for them if they should continue along that misleading trail, but when I looked at their faces, and heard a little of the vile language they used, I determined that it would be a very unwise thing for me to let them know I lived so near." "And you allowed them to go on past, you mean, sir?" questioned Mr. Witherspoon. "Yes, I regret to confess it now," came the reply, "but at the time it seemed to be simply ordinary caution on my part. Besides, how was I to know they would pay the slightest heed to anything I might say? I did not like their looks. But since then I've had grave doubts about the wisdom of my course, and was more than half inclined to start out, lame though I am, to see whether they did get off the only safe trail, and lose themselves in the bog." "Is it then so dangerous?" asked Mr. Witherspoon; while Tom was saying to himself that perhaps the chance so ardently desired by poor Carl might be coming at last. "There are places where it might be death itself to any one who got off the trail, and became bewildered. The mud is deceptive, and once one gets fast in it an hour or two is apt to see him swallowed up; nor will his fate ever be known, for the bottomless mire of the bog never discloses its secrets." Tom drew a long breath. "If you will show us the way there, sir," he told the naturalist, "we will certainly accompany you." CHAPTER XXIII INTO THE BIG BOG "Is it worth our while to bother with that crowd, Tom?" asked Josh, with a look approaching disgust on his face. One lad waited to hear what reply the patrol leader would make with more or less eagerness, as his face indicated. Needless to say this was Carl Oskamp, who had so much at stake in the matter. "There's just this about it, Josh," said Tom, gravely, "suppose after we arrived safely home from this splendid hike, the first thing we heard was that one or two of that crowd had been lost in the Great Bog up here, and it was feared they must have found a grave in the mud flats. How would we feel about it, knowing that we had had the chance given to us to stretch out a helping hand them, and had failed?" Josh turned red in the face. Then he made a sudden gesture which meant he was ready to throw up his hands. "Huh! guess you know best," he replied, in a husky voice; "I didn't think of it that way. I'd sure hate to have such a thing on my mind nights. Let's start right away then." That was the way with Josh; when he had anything unpleasant to do he was always eager to get it accomplished. For that matter, however, there were others among the scouts who wished to be astir, for the words of the patrol leader had thrilled them. "What if they have gotten lost in that awful mud bog, and right now are stuck fast there, whooping for help?" suggested Felix. Billy Button and Horace looked white with the very thought. As usual George pretended to make light of the whole matter, though some of them fancied much of his disbelief was assumed, for George had a reputation to maintain. "Oh! no danger of those Smart Alecks being caught so easy," he told them; "they could slip through any sort of bog without getting stuck. Like as not we'll only have our trouble for our pains." "You can stay here at the cabin if you like, George," Tom told him. That, however, was far from George's mind; if the others meant "to make fools of themselves he guessed he could stand it too"; and when they started forth George had his place in the very van. Josh often said George's "bark was worse than his bite." "Fortunately," said the old naturalist, "the Great Bog isn't more than a mile away from here, and as I've spent many a happy hour there observing the home life of the little creatures that live in its depths the ground is familiar to me." "But you still limp, I notice, sir," remarked Tom; "are you sure you can make it to-day? Hadn't we better try it alone?" "I wouldn't think of letting you," replied the other, hastily. "I shall get along fairly well, never fear. This limp has become more a habit with me than anything else, I must admit. But if you are ready let us start off." Accordingly the entire party began to head in the direction taken by those four boys from Lenox. Rob and Josh were keeping a close watch, and from time to time announced that those they were following had actually come along that same trail, for they could see their footprints. "You know we took note of the different prints made by their shoes," Rob told some of the other boys when they expressed surprise that this should be possible, "and it's easy enough to tell them every once in a while." "They are really following my usual trail, which I always take when going to or returning from a trip," explained the hermit-naturalist, looking pleased at this manifestation of scout sagacity on the part of the trackers. Tom was keeping alongside his chum Carl, instead of being with those who led the procession. He had a reason for this, too; since he had seen that the other was again showing signs of nervousness. "Tom," said Carl in a low voice as they walked steadily onward, "do you think I may have a chance to see Dock face to face, so I can ask him again to tell me what he ever did with that paper he took?" "While of course I can't say positively," was Tom's steady answer, "I seem to feel that something's going to happen that will make you happier than you've been this many a long day, Carl." "Oh! I hope you're on the right track!" exclaimed Carl, drawing a long breath, as he clutched the arm of his faithful chum. "It would mean everything to me if only I could go home knowing I was to get that paper. Just think what a fine present it would be to my mother, worried half to death as she is right now over the future." "Well, keep hoping for the best, and it's all going to come out well. But what's that the boys are saying?" "I think they must have sighted the beginning of the Great Bog," replied Carl. "Do you suppose Mr. Henderson has brought that stout rope along with the idea that it may be needed to pull any one out of the mud?" "Nothing else," said Tom. "He knows all about this place, and from what he's already told us I reckon it must be a terrible hole." "Especially in that one spot where he says the path is hidden under the ooze, and that if once you lose it you're apt to get in deeper and deeper, until there's danger of being sucked down over your head." "It's a terrible thing to think of," declared Tom; "worse even than being caught in a quicksand in a creek, as I once found myself." "How did you get out?" asked Carl. "I never heard you say anything about it before, Tom?" "Oh! in my case it didn't amount to much," was the answer, "because I realized my danger by the time the sand was half way to my knees. I suppose if I'd tried to draw one foot out the other would have only gone down deeper, for that's the way they keep sinking, you know." "But tell me how you escaped?" insisted Carl. "I happened to know something about quicksands," responded the other, modestly, "and as soon as I saw what a fix I was in I threw myself flat, so as to present as wide a surface as I could, and crawled and rolled until I got ashore. Of course I was soaked, but that meant very little compared with the prospect of being smothered there in that shallow creek." "But the chances are Tony and those other fellows know nothing at all about the best ways to escape from a sucking bog," ventured Carl. "Yes, and I can see that Mr. Henderson is really worried about it. He is straining his ears all the while, and I think he must be listening in hope of hearing calls for help." "But none of us have heard anything like that!" said the other. "No, not a shout that I could mention," Tom admitted. "There are those noisy crows keeping up a chatter in the tree-tops where they are holding a caucus, and some scolding bluejays over here, but nothing that sounds like a human cry." "It looks bad, and makes me feel shivery," continued Carl. "Oh! we mustn't let ourselves think that all of them could have been caught," the patrol leader hastened to say, meaning to cheer his chum up. "They may have been smarter than Mr. Henderson thinks, and managed to get through the bog without getting stuck." Perhaps Carl was comforted by these words on the part of his chum; but nevertheless the anxious look did not leave his face. They had by this time fully entered the bog. It was of a peculiar formation, and not at all of a nature to cause alarm in the beginning. Indeed it seemed as though any person with common sense could go through on those crooked trails that ran this way and that. The old naturalist had taken the lead at this point, and they could see that he kept watching the trail in front of him. From time to time he would speak, and the one who came just behind passed the word along, so in turn every scout knew that positive marks betrayed the fact of Tony's crowd having really come that way. By slow degrees the nature of the bog changed. One might not notice that his surroundings had become less promising, and that the surface of the ooze, green though it was, would prove a delusion and a snare if stepped on, allowing the foot to sink many inches in the sticky mass. In numerous places they could see where the boys ahead of them had missed the trail, though always managing to regain the more solid ground. "It's getting a whole lot spooky in here, let me tell you!" admitted Felix, after they had been progressing for some time. "But it's entirely different from a real swamp, you see," remarked Josh; "I've been in a big one and I know." "How about that, Josh; wouldn't you call a bog a swamp, too?" asked George. "Not much I wouldn't," was the reply. "A swamp is always where there are dense trees, hanging vines and water. It's a terribly gloomy place even in the middle of the day, and you're apt to run across snakes, and all sorts of things like that." "Well, we haven't seen a single snake so far," admitted Horace. "I'm glad, too, because I never did like the things. This isn't so very gloomy, when you come to look around you, but I'd call it just desolate, and let it go at that." "Black mud everywhere, though it's nearly always covered with a deceptive green scum," remarked Josh, "with here and there puddles of water where the frogs live and squawk the live-long day." "I wonder how deep that mud is anyhow?" speculated George. "Suppose you get a pole and try while we're resting here," suggested Josh, with a wink at the scout next to him. George thereupon looked around, and seeing a pole which Mr. Henderson may have placed there at some previous time he started to push it into the bog. "What d'ye think of that, fellows?" he exclaimed, in dismay when he had rammed the seven foot pole down until three fourths of its length had vanished in the unfathomable depths of soft muck. "Why, seems as if there wasn't any bottom at all to the thing," said Felix. "Of course there is a bottom," remarked the naturalist, who had been watching the boys curiously; "but in some places I've been unable to reach it with the longest pole I could manage." "Have we passed that dangerous place you were telling us about, sir?" asked Mr. Witherspoon. "No, it is still some little distance ahead," came the reply. "If it's much worse than right here I wouldn't give five cents for their chances," declared George. "Hark!" exclaimed Tom just then. "What did you hear?" cried Carl. "It sounded like voices to me, though some distance off, and coming from further along the trail," the patrol leader asserted. "They may be stuck in the mire and trying every way they can to get out," observed the naturalist. "Let us give them a shout, boys. Now, all together!" As they all joined in, the volume of sound must have been heard a mile away. Hardly had the echoes died out than from beyond came loud calls, and plainly they heard the words "Help, help! Oh! come quick, somebody! Help!" CHAPTER XXIV RETURNING GOOD FOR EVIL When that wailing cry reached their ears it thrilled the scouts through and through, for now they knew that the worst must have happened to the wretched Tony Pollock and his three cronies, adrift in the treacherous muck bog. "Forward, but be very careful to keep in my tracks all the time!" called out the naturalist as he started off. They wound around this way and that. There were times when Rob, who came directly on the heels of the pilot, could not see the slightest trace of a trail; but he realized that from long association and investigation Mr. Henderson knew exactly where to set his feet, and thus avoid unpleasant consequences. They now and then sent out reassuring calls, for those unseen parties ahead continued to make fervent appeals, as though a terrible fear assailed them that the rescuers might go astray and miss them. By degrees the shouts sounded closer, though becoming exceedingly hoarse. Presently Felix called out that he believed he had glimpsed the unfortunate boys. "Oh! they're all in the mud, and up to their waists at that!" he cried. "No, you're wrong there, Felix," said Josh. "Three of them seem to be stuck fast, but there's one up in that tree nearly over them. He must have managed to pull himself up there, somehow or other." "He's got a branch, and is trying to help one of his mates," asserted Rob. "But he doesn't seem to be making much headway." "They're in a peck of trouble, believe me!" admitted George, for once neglecting to sneer at the prospect of a fatality. Carl was trying to make out who the three in the bog were. "Can you see if _he's_ in there, Tom?" he asked, eagerly. "Yes, it's Wedge McGuffey up in the tree, and the others must be Tony, Asa and Dock," the patrol leader assured him; nor did he blame poor Carl for sighing as though in relief, for he could easily guess what it meant to him, this golden opportunity to be of help to the stubborn boy who could lift the load from his heart, if only he chose. When they came closer to the struggling captives in the lake of mud they heard them actually sobbing for joy. Hope must have been almost gone when first they heard that chorus of cheering shouts. And when the scouts saw what a desperate condition the three prisoners were in they could not blame them for showing such emotion in the excess of their joy. Soon the newcomers were as close as they could come to the three who were stuck there in the mire. Never would they forget their deplorable appearance. They had evidently floundered about until they were fairly plastered over with the mud, and looked like imps. "Can't you get us out of here, fellers?" called Tony Pollock, in a voice that seemed almost cracked, such was his excitement, and his fears that these scouts, whom he had done his best to injure, might think to pay him back in his own coin and abandon him to his fate. "Yes, we'll manage it some way or other," said the hermit-naturalist. "Keep as still as you can, because every movement only sends you down deeper." Then he turned to Tom, for he knew the patrol leader was the one to take charge of the rescue party. "Here's the rope, Tom," he told him. "Pick out several of the stoutest of your comrades, and make use of the tree as a lever. It's all very simple, you can see, thought it may hurt them more or less when you pull." Tom understood what was expected of him. "Come along with me, Carl, Rob and Josh," he said. "The rest of you stand by and be ready to pull if we need any more help. We'll pass the end of the rope back to you." "But how are we going to climb up in the tree?" asked Rob; "without getting stuck in the mud ourselves?" "There's only one way," replied Tom, as he seized hold of a branch that happened to be within reach, and commenced to climb it as though he were a sailor swarming up a rope. When he had effected a lodgment above they threw the rope to him, and after Tom had made one end fast to the thick limb the other three had little difficulty in following him. Then they clambered out to where Wedge McGuffey was perched. His condition betrayed the fact that he too had been caught in the muck; but being closer to a friendly branch he must have made a tremendous effort and climbed into the tree. First of all Tom made a running noose in the end of the rope. Then he lowered this to Tony who was almost below the limb of which they were astride. "Listen, Tony," said Tom, clearly, "put the loop under your arms, with the knot at your chest. Then grin and bear it, because we've got to drag hard to get you free from all that stuff you're in." "Oh! never mind about me, Tom; I'd stand anything if only I could get out of this terrible place. Pull me in half if you have to; I'm game!" said the boy below. They found that it was really a little harder than they had bargained for, because of their insecure footing. Accordingly, after several attempts that did not meet with much success, Tom had the other end of the rope carried to the scouts who were on the ground. After that Tony just had to come. He evidently suffered pain, but, as he had said, he was game, and in the end they hoisted him to the limb, where he clung watching the next rescue. It happened that Asa was the second to be pulled out. Meanwhile Dock was in great distress of mind. All his nerve seemed to have gone, for he kept pleading with Carl not to think of having revenge because of the way he had harmed him. "Only get me out of this, Carl," he kept saying, "and I've got something right here in my pocket I'm meaning to give back to you. I was getting shaky about it anyhow; but if you help me now you're a-goin' to have it, sure you are, Carl!" It can easily be imagined that Carl worked feverishly when it came time to get Dock Phillips out. He was deeper than either of the others had been, and it required some very rough usage before finally they loosened him from his miry bed. Dock groaned terribly while the work was being carried on, but they did not stop for that, knowing it had to be. In the end he, too, was drawn up to the limb, a most sorry looking spectacle indeed, but his groans had now changed into exclamations of gratitude. It required much labor to get the four mud-daubed figures down to where the others were awaiting them. Even Tom and his helpers were pretty well plastered by that time, and their new uniforms looked anything but fine. Josh grumbled a little, but as for Tom and Carl they felt that it was worth all it cost and a great deal more. Carl would not wait any longer than he could help. Perhaps he believed in "striking while the iron was hot." Tom too was egging him on, for he felt that the sooner that precious paper was in the possession of his chum the better. "Dock, I hope you mean to keep your word to me," Carl said, as they took up the line of march over the ground that had been so lately covered. Dock was seen to be fumbling as though reaching into an inner pocket; and while the suspense lasted of course Carl held his very breath. Then a hand reached back, and something in it was eagerly seized by the widow's son. One look told him that it was the paper his mother needed so much in order to balk the greedy designs of Amasa Culpepper. "How is everything now, Carl?" asked a voice in his ear, and turning he found Tom's smiling face close to his own. "Oh! that terrible load seems to have fallen from my shoulders just as water does from the back of a duck!" Carl exclaimed, joyously, and the patrol leader saw that he was very happy. "I'm so glad!" was all Tom said, but the way he grasped his chum's hand counted for much more than mere words. When they finally reached the end of the treacherous Great Bog there was a halt called by the naturalist. "We must stop here and try to clean these boys off as best we can," he announced. This was no easy task, but by making use of slivers of wood from a fallen tree they finally managed to relieve Tony and his crowd of most of the black mud, although they would be apt to carry patches of it on their garments for some time after it dried. "Now," said the kindly old hermit-naturalist, "I'm going to invite all of you up to my cabin, and we'll have a feast to-night in celebration of this rescue from the Great Bog. You four lads have had a narrow escape, and I only hope you'll never forget what the scouts have done for you." Even Tony seemed affected, and certainly no one had ever before known him to show the first sign of contrition. He went straight up to Tom and looked him in the eye. "We played your crowd a mighty low trick I want to say, Tom Chesney; and while we've et up most of the grub we took, here's something you might be glad to get back again," and with that he thrust into the hand of the patrol leader the little note-book which Tom had mourned as lost to him forever. "I'm glad to have that again, Tony," the other said, offering his hand to the contrite one; "because I mean to use my account of this hike later on in trying for a prize. It's lucky you didn't throw it away as you did the frying-pan and coffee-pot, which I see you failed to carry along with you." "We know where they're hid in the brush," Tony hastened to declare; "and I c'n get 'em again inside of an hour. I'm a-goin' to do it too, 'cause I feel mean about that thing. I'm done with callin' the scouts names. Fellers that'd reach out a helpin' hand to them that didn't deserve it must be the right sort. And laugh if you want to, Tom Chesney, but when we get back home I want ye to lend me a book that tells all a feller has to do when he thinks of gettin' up a scout troop!" Tony was as good as his word. When he said a thing he stuck to it, which was his best quality. He tramped a long way back along the trail, and reappeared after sunset bearing the missing cooking utensils. "We're going to pay for the eatables we took later on, I promise ye, Tom," he declared. They spent a great night and those four boys who had hated the scouts so long learned many wonderful things connected with the great movement as they sat by the fire, and listened to all that was said. In the morning they went their way, and appeared to be different youths from what they had been in the past. Mr. Witherspoon and the scouts spent another day and night with the hermit-naturalist. Then on the next morning they started forth to complete their hike over Big Bear Mountain. It chanced that no further adventures came their way, and one afternoon weary but well satisfied with the success of their trip, the troop re-entered Lenox, with Felix sounding his fish horn just as valiantly as though it were the most beautiful silver-plated bugle that money could buy. CHAPTER XXV WHEN CARL CAME HOME--CONCLUSION Amasa Culpepper had taken advantage of the absence of Carl to drop around that afternoon to see the widow. He fully believed that by this time Dock Phillips had either destroyed or lost the paper he claimed to have found; or else Amasa felt that he could secure possession of it at any time by paying the sum the boy demanded. When Carl drew near his home he saw the well-known rig of the old lawyer and grocer at the gate. Somehow, the sight gave Carl an unpleasant feeling. Then, as his hand unconsciously went up to the pocket where he had that precious paper, he felt a sensation of savage joy. They would get rid of this nuisance at last. Mr. Culpepper would have to produce the certificate for the oil shares that had become so valuable, now that the receipt he had given for it could be produced, and after that an era of prosperity would come to the Oskamp's, with grim poverty banished forever. Carl entered by the gate, and passed around the side of the house instead of using the front door as usual. The boy knew that the windows of the little sitting room must be open, and of course the afternoon caller would be in there. Carl was anxious to hear what had caused the rich old man to don his best clothes and drop in to see his mother of an afternoon, though he strongly suspected the reason back of it. It did not strike the boy that he was playing the part of an eavesdropper, for in his mind just then the end justified the means. And he knew that Amasa Culpepper had to be fought with his own weapons. Evidently he must have again asked Mrs. Oskamp to marry him, and as before met with a laughing refusal, for Carl could hear him walking nervously up and down in the little sitting room. Having exhausted his stock of arguments as to why she should think seriously of his proposal, Mr. Culpepper seemed to be getting angry. He had been courting the widow for a long time without making any impression on her heart. It was time to change his tactics. Perhaps since entreaties had failed something in the way of half-veiled threats would become more successful. "You tell me that with the burning of the tenement building more than half of your little property has been lost," Carl heard him saying as he crouched there under the open window. "Yes, that is the sad truth, Mr. Culpepper," the widow admitted. "But with a family of children to bring up how are you going to live from now on, when before this happened you had barely enough? If you would seriously consider the proposition I make you, and become Mrs. Culpepper, your children would have a good home." "That is very generous of you, Mr. Culpepper," Carl heard his mother say, while he fairly held his breath in suspense for fear she might agree to what the other asked; "but I cannot change my mind. I never expect to marry again." "But how can you get along, I want to know?" he demanded, angrily. "It takes money to live, and you will see the children you love suffer." "There is one resource still left," she told him, as though urged to put him to the test. "It lies in those shares of oil stock which you are holding for me. They have become very valuable, and when I dispose of them I hope to have enough and to spare for all future needs." There was a brief and awkward silence. "But what evidence is there," he finally asked icily, "that you ever placed any shares of stock in my hand, or even so, that they were not delivered to you again? Of course you can show my name at the bottom of a receipt if that is the fact?" "Is that absolutely necessary, Mr. Culpepper?" she asked, helplessly. "It is strictly business, madam," the visitor went on, in his cold, cutting tones that were like the rasping of a file. "I could not think of handing over anything of value that was in my possession without receiving in return a receipt." "But you would not be so cruel as to deprive my children of their bread simply because of a little technicality, sir? I will do anything the law demands to insure that you are not held liable whether the lost receipt is ever found again or not." "There is only one thing you can do," continued Mr. Culpepper, eagerly, "that will cause me to waive my rights, and you know what that is. Those are my only terms of surrender." "That's just where you're a whole lot mistaken Mr. Culpepper!" cried Carl, unable to hold in any longer, and thrusting his head and shoulders through the open window as he spoke. The widow gave a slight shriek, while Mr. Culpepper said something half under his breath that no doubt expressed his feelings. "What do you mean by saying that?" he asked, in a voice that was unsteady. "You made a statement that you'll have to take water on," Carl told him with a broad smile on his face. "Listen! My mother will be down at your office to-morrow morning with Judge Beatty and myself, and she'll demand that you deliver the paper that this receipt calls for!" With that he held up the precious little paper so that those in the sitting room could see it. Mrs. Oskamp gave a bubbling cry of joy, while Amasa Culpepper, seizing his hat and stick, hurried out of the door, entered his buggy and whipped his horse savagely, as though glad to vent his ill humor on some animate object. Carl was not another moment in climbing through the open window and gathering his mother in his strong arms. The whole story was told that evening with the younger children gathered around. Mrs. Oskamp sat there and felt her mother heart glow with pride as she heard how Carl had played his part in the exciting drama connected with the hike of the Boy Scouts. "It seems as though some power over which you had no control must have led you on to the glorious success that came in the end," she told the happy Carl, after everything had been narrated. "With that paper in our hands we can have no further trouble in securing our property. But I shall feel that we owe something to Dock Phillips, and that it can only be repaid through kindness to his mother." On the following day they took Judge Beatty, who was an old friend of Carl's father, into their confidence, and the certificate of stock was promptly though grudgingly delivered to them on demand. Amasa Culpepper knew that he had been fairly beaten in the game, and he annoyed Mrs. Oskamp no longer. The oil shares turned out to be worth a large sum of money, and it placed the Oskamps beyond the reach of want. Tom Chesney wrote his account of their great trip over big Bear Mountain, and, sure enough it did take the prize when submitted in competition with numerous others to the magazine that had made the offer. Tom remembered his promise and sent copies of the story to Mr. Clark, as well as to Mr. Henderson. The last heard from Lenox the Boy Scouts were thriving famously. They expected to enjoy many an outing under the charge of the good-hearted scout master, Mr. Witherspoon, but some of the boys were of the opinion that there never could be just such a wonderful series of exciting adventures befall them as had accompanied the hike over Big Bear Mountain. 
22566	----	[Illustration: DOROTHY AND THE WIZARD] [Illustration: PICKING THE PRINCESS.] DOROTHY AND THE WIZARD IN OZ BY L. FRANK BAUM AUTHOR OF THE WIZARD OF OZ, THE LAND OF OZ, OZMA OF OZ, ETC. ILLUSTRATED BY JOHN R. NEILL BOOKS OF WONDER WILLIAM MORROW & CO., INC. NEW YORK [Illustration] COPYRIGHT 1908 BY L. FRANK BAUM ALL RIGHTS RESERVED * * * * * [Illustration] DEDICATED TO HARRIET A. B. NEAL. * * * * * To My Readers It's no use; no use at all. The children won't let me stop telling tales of the Land of Oz. I know lots of other stories, and I hope to tell them, some time or another; but just now my loving tyrants won't allow me. They cry: "Oz--Oz! more about Oz, Mr. Baum!" and what can I do but obey their commands? This is Our Book--mine and the children's. For they have flooded me with thousands of suggestions in regard to it, and I have honestly tried to adopt as many of these suggestions as could be fitted into one story. After the wonderful success of "Ozma of Oz" it is evident that Dorothy has become a firm fixture in these Oz stories. The little ones all love Dorothy, and as one of my small friends aptly states: "It isn't a real Oz story without her." So here she is again, as sweet and gentle and innocent as ever, I hope, and the heroine of another strange adventure. There were many requests from my little correspondents for "more about the Wizard." It seems the jolly old fellow made hosts of friends in the first Oz book, in spite of the fact that he frankly acknowledged himself "a humbug." The children had heard how he mounted into the sky in a balloon and they were all waiting for him to come down again. So what could I do but tell "what happened to the Wizard afterward"? You will find him in these pages, just the same humbug Wizard as before. There was one thing the children demanded which I found it impossible to do in this present book: they bade me introduce Toto, Dorothy's little black dog, who has many friends among my readers. But you will see, when you begin to read the story, that Toto was in Kansas while Dorothy was in California, and so she had to start on her adventure without him. In this book Dorothy had to take her kitten with her instead of her dog; but in the next Oz book, if I am permitted to write one, I intend to tell a good deal about Toto's further history. Princess Ozma, whom I love as much as my readers do, is again introduced in this story, and so are several of our old friends of Oz. You will also become acquainted with Jim the Cab-Horse, the Nine Tiny Piglets, and Eureka, the Kitten. I am sorry the kitten was not as well behaved as she ought to have been; but perhaps she wasn't brought up properly. Dorothy found her, you see, and who her parents were nobody knows. I believe, my dears, that I am the proudest story-teller that ever lived. Many a time tears of pride and joy have stood in my eyes while I read the tender, loving, appealing letters that come to me in almost every mail from my little readers. To have pleased you, to have interested you, to have won your friendship, and perhaps your love, through my stories, is to my mind as great an achievement as to become President of the United States. Indeed, I would much rather be your story-teller, under these conditions, than to be the President. So you have helped me to fulfill my life's ambition, and I am more grateful to you, my dears, than I can express in words. I try to answer every letter of my young correspondents; yet sometimes there are so many letters that a little time must pass before you get your answer. But be patient, friends, for the answer will surely come, and by writing to me you more than repay me for the pleasant task of preparing these books. Besides, I am proud to acknowledge that the books are partly yours, for your suggestions often guide me in telling the stories, and I am sure they would not be half so good without your clever and thoughtful assistance. L. FRANK BAUM CORONADO, 1908. LIST OF CHAPTERS CHAPTER PAGE 1 THE EARTHQUAKE 13 2 THE GLASS CITY 23 3 THE ARRIVAL OF THE WIZARD 41 4 THE VEGETABLE KINGDOM 55 5 DOROTHY PICKS THE PRINCESS 64 6 THE MANGABOOS PROVE DANGEROUS 77 7 INTO THE BLACK PIT AND OUT AGAIN 88 8 THE VALLEY OF VOICES 95 9 THEY FIGHT THE INVISIBLE BEARS 106 10 THE BRAIDED MAN OF PYRAMID MT 120 11 THEY MEET THE WOODEN GARGOYLES 131 12 A WONDERFUL ESCAPE 142 13 THE DEN OF THE DRAGONETTES 160 14 OZMA USES THE MAGIC BELT 172 15 OLD FRIENDS ARE REUNITED 187 16 JIM, THE CAB-HORSE 203 17 THE NINE TINY PIGLETS 217 18 THE TRIAL OF EUREKA, THE KITTEN 231 19 THE WIZARD PERFORMS ANOTHER TRICK 240 20 ZEB RETURNS TO THE RANCH 251 [Illustration] CHAPTER 1. THE EARTHQUAKE The train from 'Frisco was very late. It should have arrived at Hugson's siding at midnight, but it was already five o'clock and the gray dawn was breaking in the east when the little train slowly rumbled up to the open shed that served for the station-house. As it came to a stop the conductor called out in a loud voice: "Hugson's Siding!" At once a little girl rose from her seat and walked to the door of the car, carrying a wicker suit-case in one hand and a round bird-cage covered up with newspapers in the other, while a parasol was tucked under her arm. The conductor helped her off the car and then the engineer started his train again, so that it puffed and groaned and moved slowly away up the track. The reason he was so late was because all through the night there were times when the solid earth shook and trembled under him, and the engineer was afraid that at any moment the rails might spread apart and an accident happen to his passengers. So he moved the cars slowly and with caution. The little girl stood still to watch until the train had disappeared around a curve; then she turned to see where she was. The shed at Hugson's Siding was bare save for an old wooden bench, and did not look very inviting. As she peered through the soft gray light not a house of any sort was visible near the station, nor was any person in sight; but after a while the child discovered a horse and buggy standing near a group of trees a short distance away. She walked toward it and found the horse tied to a tree and standing motionless, with its head hanging down almost to the ground. It was a big horse, tall and bony, with long legs and large knees and feet. She could count his ribs easily where they showed through the skin of his body, and his head was long and seemed altogether too big for him, as if it did not fit. His tail was short and scraggly, and his harness had been broken in many places and fastened together again with cords and bits of wire. The buggy seemed almost new, for it had a shiny top and side curtains. Getting around in front, so that she could look inside, the girl saw a boy curled up on the seat, fast asleep. She set down the bird-cage and poked the boy with her parasol. Presently he woke up, rose to a sitting position and rubbed his eyes briskly. "Hello!" he said, seeing her, "are you Dorothy Gale?" "Yes," she answered, looking gravely at his tousled hair and blinking gray eyes. "Have you come to take me to Hugson's Ranch?" "Of course," he answered. "Train in?" "I couldn't be here if it wasn't," she said. He laughed at that, and his laugh was merry and frank. Jumping out of the buggy he put Dorothy's suit-case under the seat and her bird-cage on the floor in front. "Canary-birds?" he asked. "Oh, no; it's just Eureka, my kitten. I thought that was the best way to carry her." The boy nodded. "Eureka's a funny name for a cat," he remarked. "I named my kitten that because I found it," she explained. "Uncle Henry says 'Eureka' means 'I have found it.'" "All right; hop in." She climbed into the buggy and he followed her. Then the boy picked up the reins, shook them, and said "Gid-dap!" The horse did not stir. Dorothy thought he just wiggled one of his drooping ears, but that was all. "Gid-dap!" called the boy, again. The horse stood still. "Perhaps," said Dorothy, "if you untied him, he would go." The boy laughed cheerfully and jumped out. "Guess I'm half asleep yet," he said, untying the horse. "But Jim knows his business all right--don't you, Jim?" patting the long nose of the animal. Then he got into the buggy again and took the reins, and the horse at once backed away from the tree, turned slowly around, and began to trot down the sandy road which was just visible in the dim light. "Thought that train would never come," observed the boy. "I've waited at that station for five hours." "We had a lot of earthquakes," said Dorothy. "Didn't you feel the ground shake?" "Yes; but we're used to such things in California," he replied. "They don't scare us much." [Illustration: DOROTHY POKED THE BOY WITH HER PARASOL.] "The conductor said it was the worst quake he ever knew." "Did he? Then it must have happened while I was asleep," he said, thoughtfully. "How is Uncle Henry?" she enquired, after a pause during which the horse continued to trot with long, regular strides. "He's pretty well. He and Uncle Hugson have been having a fine visit." "Is Mr. Hugson your uncle?" she asked. "Yes. Uncle Bill Hugson married your Uncle Henry's wife's sister; so we must be second cousins," said the boy, in an amused tone. "I work for Uncle Bill on his ranch, and he pays me six dollars a month and my board." "Isn't that a great deal?" she asked, doubtfully. "Why, it's a great deal for Uncle Hugson, but not for me. I'm a splendid worker. I work as well as I sleep," he added, with a laugh. "What is your name?" asked Dorothy, thinking she liked the boy's manner and the cheery tone of his voice. "Not a very pretty one," he answered, as if a little ashamed. "My whole name is Zebediah; but folks just call me 'Zeb.' You've been to Australia, haven't you?" "Yes; with Uncle Henry," she answered. "We got to San Francisco a week ago, and Uncle Henry went right on to Hugson's Ranch for a visit while I stayed a few days in the city with some friends we had met." "How long will you be with us?" he asked. "Only a day. Tomorrow Uncle Henry and I must start back for Kansas. We've been away for a long time, you know, and so we're anxious to get home again." The boy flicked the big, boney horse with his whip and looked thoughtful. Then he started to say something to his little companion, but before he could speak the buggy began to sway dangerously from side to side and the earth seemed to rise up before them. Next minute there was a roar and a sharp crash, and at her side Dorothy saw the ground open in a wide crack and then come together again. "Goodness!" she cried, grasping the iron rail of the seat. "What was that?" "That was an awful big quake," replied Zeb, with a white face. "It almost got us that time, Dorothy." The horse had stopped short, and stood firm as a rock. Zeb shook the reins and urged him to go, but Jim was stubborn. Then the boy cracked his whip and touched the animal's flanks with it, and after a low moan of protest Jim stepped slowly along the road. Neither the boy nor the girl spoke again for some minutes. There was a breath of danger in the very air, and every few moments the earth would shake violently. Jim's ears were standing erect upon his head and every muscle of his big body was tense as he trotted toward home. He was not going very fast, but on his flanks specks of foam began to appear and at times he would tremble like a leaf. The sky had grown darker again and the wind made queer sobbing sounds as it swept over the valley. Suddenly there was a rending, tearing sound, and the earth split into another great crack just beneath the spot where the horse was standing. With a wild neigh of terror the animal fell bodily into the pit, drawing the buggy and its occupants after him. Dorothy grabbed fast hold of the buggy top and the boy did the same. The sudden rush into space confused them so that they could not think. Blackness engulfed them on every side, and in breathless silence they waited for the fall to end and crush them against jagged rocks or for the earth to close in on them again and bury them forever in its dreadful depths. The horrible sensation of falling, the darkness and the terrifying noises, proved more than Dorothy could endure and for a few moments the little girl lost consciousness. Zeb, being a boy, did not faint, but he was badly frightened, and clung to the buggy seat with a tight grip, expecting every moment would be his last. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER 2. THE GLASS CITY When Dorothy recovered her senses they were still falling, but not so fast. The top of the buggy caught the air like a parachute or an umbrella filled with wind, and held them back so that they floated downward with a gentle motion that was not so very disagreeable to bear. The worst thing was their terror of reaching the bottom of this great crack in the earth, and the natural fear that sudden death was about to overtake them at any moment. Crash after crash echoed far above their heads, as the earth came together where it had split, and stones and chunks of clay rattled around them on every side. These they could not see, but they could feel them pelting the buggy top, and Jim screamed almost like a human being when a stone overtook him and struck his boney body. They did not really hurt the poor horse, because everything was falling together; only the stones and rubbish fell faster than the horse and buggy, which were held back by the pressure of the air, so that the terrified animal was actually more frightened than he was injured. How long this state of things continued Dorothy could not even guess, she was so greatly bewildered. But bye and bye, as she stared ahead into the black chasm with a beating heart, she began to dimly see the form of the horse Jim--his head up in the air, his ears erect and his long legs sprawling in every direction as he tumbled through space. Also, turning her head, she found that she could see the boy beside her, who had until now remained as still and silent as she herself. Dorothy sighed and commenced to breathe easier. She began to realize that death was not in store for her, after all, but that she had merely started upon another adventure, which promised to be just as queer and unusual as were those she had before encountered. With this thought in mind the girl took heart and leaned her head over the side of the buggy to see where the strange light was coming from. Far below her she found six great glowing balls suspended in the air. The central and largest one was white, and reminded her of the sun. Around it were arranged, like the five points of a star, the other five brilliant balls; one being rose colored, one violet, one yellow, one blue and one orange. This splendid group of colored suns sent rays darting in every direction, and as the horse and buggy--with Dorothy and Zeb--sank steadily downward and came nearer to the lights, the rays began to take on all the delicate tintings of a rainbow, growing more and more distinct every moment until all the space was brilliantly illuminated. Dorothy was too dazed to say much, but she watched one of Jim's big ears turn to violet and the other to rose, and wondered that his tail should be yellow and his body striped with blue and orange like the stripes of a zebra. Then she looked at Zeb, whose face was blue and whose hair was pink, and gave a little laugh that sounded a bit nervous. "Isn't it funny?" she said. The boy was startled and his eyes were big. Dorothy had a green streak through the center of her face where the blue and yellow lights came together, and her appearance seemed to add to his fright. "I--I don't s-s-see any-thing funny--'bout it!" he stammered. [Illustration: HORSE, BUGGY AND ALL FELL SLOWLY.] Just then the buggy tipped slowly over upon its side, the body of the horse tipping also. But they continued to fall, all together, and the boy and girl had no difficulty in remaining upon the seat, just as they were before. Then they turned bottom side up, and continued to roll slowly over until they were right side up again. During this time Jim struggled frantically, all his legs kicking the air; but on finding himself in his former position the horse said, in a relieved tone of voice: "Well, that's better!" Dorothy and Zeb looked at one another in wonder. "Can your horse talk?" she asked. "Never knew him to, before," replied the boy. "Those were the first words I ever said," called out the horse, who had overheard them, "and I can't explain why I happened to speak then. This is a nice scrape you've got me into, isn't it?" "As for that, we are in the same scrape ourselves," answered Dorothy, cheerfully. "But never mind; something will happen pretty soon." "Of course," growled the horse; "and then we shall be sorry it happened." Zeb gave a shiver. All this was so terrible and unreal that he could not understand it at all, and so had good reason to be afraid. Swiftly they drew near to the flaming colored suns, and passed close beside them. The light was then so bright that it dazzled their eyes, and they covered their faces with their hands to escape being blinded. There was no heat in the colored suns, however, and after they had passed below them the top of the buggy shut out many of the piercing rays so that the boy and girl could open their eyes again. "We've got to come to the bottom some time," remarked Zeb, with a deep sigh. "We can't keep falling forever, you know." "Of course not," said Dorothy. "We are somewhere in the middle of the earth, and the chances are we'll reach the other side of it before long. But it's a big hollow, isn't it?" "Awful big!" answered the boy. "We're coming to something now," announced the horse. At this they both put their heads over the side of the buggy and looked down. Yes; there was land below them; and not so very far away, either. But they were floating very, very slowly--so slowly that it could no longer be called a fall--and the children had ample time to take heart and look about them. They saw a landscape with mountains and plains, lakes and rivers, very like those upon the earth's surface; but all the scene was splendidly colored by the variegated lights from the six suns. Here and there were groups of houses that seemed made of clear glass, because they sparkled so brightly. "I'm sure we are in no danger," said Dorothy, in a sober voice. "We are falling so slowly that we can't be dashed to pieces when we land, and this country that we are coming to seems quite pretty." "We'll never get home again, though!" declared Zeb, with a groan. "Oh, I'm not so sure of that," replied the girl. "But don't let us worry over such things, Zeb; we can't help ourselves just now, you know, and I've always been told it's foolish to borrow trouble." The boy became silent, having no reply to so sensible a speech, and soon both were fully occupied in staring at the strange scenes spread out below them. They seemed to be falling right into the middle of a big city which had many tall buildings with glass domes and sharp-pointed spires. These spires were like great spear-points, and if they tumbled upon one of them they were likely to suffer serious injury. Jim the horse had seen these spires, also, and his ears stood straight up with fear, while Dorothy and Zeb held their breaths in suspense. But no; they floated gently down upon a broad, flat roof, and came to a stop at last. When Jim felt something firm under his feet the poor beast's legs trembled so much that he could hardly stand; but Zeb at once leaped out of the buggy to the roof, and he was so awkward and hasty that he kicked over Dorothy's birdcage, which rolled out upon the roof so that the bottom came off. At once a pink kitten crept out of the upset cage, sat down upon the glass roof, and yawned and blinked its round eyes. "Oh," said Dorothy. "There's Eureka." "First time I ever saw a pink cat," said Zeb. "Eureka isn't pink; she's white. It's this queer light that gives her that color." "Where's my milk?" asked the kitten, looking up into Dorothy's face. "I'm 'most starved to death." "Oh, Eureka! Can you talk?" "Talk! Am I talking? Good gracious, I believe I am. Isn't it funny?" asked the kitten. "It's all wrong," said Zeb, gravely. "Animals ought not to talk. But even old Jim has been saying things since we had our accident." "I can't see that it's wrong," remarked Jim, in his gruff tones. "At least, it isn't as wrong as some other things. What's going to become of us now?" "I don't know," answered the boy, looking around him curiously. The houses of the city were all made of glass, so clear and transparent that one could look through the walls as easily as though a window. Dorothy saw, underneath the roof on which she stood, several rooms used for rest chambers, and even thought she could make out a number of queer forms huddled into the corners of these rooms. The roof beside them had a great hole smashed through it, and pieces of glass were lying scattered in every direction. A near by steeple had been broken off short and the fragments lay heaped beside it. Other buildings were cracked in places or had corners chipped off from them; but they must have been very beautiful before these accidents had happened to mar their perfection. The rainbow tints from the colored suns fell upon the glass city softly and gave to the buildings many delicate, shifting hues which were very pretty to see. But not a sound had broken the stillness since the strangers had arrived, except that of their own voices. They began to wonder if there were no people to inhabit this magnificent city of the inner world. Suddenly a man appeared through a hole in the roof next to the one they were on and stepped into plain view. He was not a very large man, but was well formed and had a beautiful face--calm and serene as the face of a fine portrait. His clothing fitted his form snugly and was gorgeously colored in brilliant shades of green, which varied as the sunbeams touched them but was not wholly influenced by the solar rays. The man had taken a step or two across the glass roof before he noticed the presence of the strangers; but then he stopped abruptly. There was no expression of either fear or surprise upon his tranquil face, yet he must have been both astonished and afraid; for after his eyes had rested upon the ungainly form of the horse for a moment he walked rapidly to the furthest edge of the roof, his head turned back over his shoulder to gaze at the strange animal. "Look out!" cried Dorothy, who noticed that the beautiful man did not look where he was going; "be careful, or you'll fall off!" But he paid no attention to her warning. He reached the edge of the tall roof, stepped one foot out into the air, and walked into space as calmly as if he were on firm ground. The girl, greatly astonished, ran to lean over the edge of the roof, and saw the man walking rapidly through the air toward the ground. Soon he reached the street and disappeared through a glass doorway into one of the glass buildings. "How strange!" she exclaimed, drawing a long breath. "Yes; but it's lots of fun, if it _is_ strange," remarked the small voice of the kitten, and Dorothy turned to find her pet walking in the air a foot or so away from the edge of the roof. "Come back, Eureka!" she called, in distress, "you'll certainly be killed." "I have nine lives," said the kitten, purring softly as it walked around in a circle and then came back to the roof; "but I can't lose even one of them by falling in this country, because I really couldn't manage to fall if I wanted to." "Does the air bear up your weight?" asked the girl. "Of course; can't you see?" and again the kitten wandered into the air and back to the edge of the roof. "It's wonderful!" said Dorothy. "Suppose we let Eureka go down to the street and get some one to help us," suggested Zeb, who had been even more amazed than Dorothy at these strange happenings. "Perhaps we can walk on the air ourselves," replied the girl. Zeb drew back with a shiver. "I wouldn't dare try," he said. "May be Jim will go," continued Dorothy, looking at the horse. "And may be he won't!" answered Jim. "I've tumbled through the air long enough to make me contented on this roof." "But we didn't tumble to the roof," said the girl; "by the time we reached here we were floating very slowly, and I'm almost sure we could float down to the street without getting hurt. Eureka walks on the air all right." "Eureka weighs only about half a pound," replied the horse, in a scornful tone, "while I weigh about half a ton." "You don't weigh as much as you ought to, Jim," remarked the girl, shaking her head as she looked at the animal. "You're dreadfully skinny." "Oh, well; I'm old," said the horse, hanging his head despondently, "and I've had lots of trouble in my day, little one. For a good many years I drew a public cab in Chicago, and that's enough to make anyone skinny." "He eats enough to get fat, I'm sure," said the boy, gravely. "Do I? Can you remember any breakfast that I've had today?" growled Jim, as if he resented Zeb's speech. "None of us has had breakfast," said the boy; "and in a time of danger like this it's foolish to talk about eating." "Nothing is more dangerous than being without food," declared the horse, with a sniff at the rebuke of his young master; "and just at present no one can tell whether there are any oats in this queer country or not. If there are, they are liable to be glass oats!" [Illustration: "COME ON, JIM! IT'S ALL RIGHT."] "Oh, no!" exclaimed Dorothy. "I can see plenty of nice gardens and fields down below us, at the edge of this city. But I wish we could find a way to get to the ground." "Why don't you walk down?" asked Eureka. "I'm as hungry as the horse is, and I want my milk." "Will you try it, Zeb" asked the girl, turning to her companion. Zeb hesitated. He was still pale and frightened, for this dreadful adventure had upset him and made him nervous and worried. But he did not wish the little girl to think him a coward, so he advanced slowly to the edge of the roof. Dorothy stretched out a hand to him and Zeb put one foot out and let it rest in the air a little over the edge of the roof. It seemed firm enough to walk upon, so he took courage and put out the other foot. Dorothy kept hold of his hand and followed him, and soon they were both walking through the air, with the kitten frisking beside them. "Come on, Jim!" called the boy. "It's all right." Jim had crept to the edge of the roof to look over, and being a sensible horse and quite experienced, he made up his mind that he could go where the others did. So, with a snort and a neigh and a whisk of his short tail he trotted off the roof into the air and at once began floating downward to the street. His great weight made him fall faster than the children walked, and he passed them on the way down; but when he came to the glass pavement he alighted upon it so softly that he was not even jarred. "Well, well!" said Dorothy, drawing a long breath, "What a strange country this is." People began to come out of the glass doors to look at the new arrivals, and pretty soon quite a crowd had assembled. There were men and women, but no children at all, and the folks were all beautifully formed and attractively dressed and had wonderfully handsome faces. There was not an ugly person in all the throng, yet Dorothy was not especially pleased by the appearance of these people because their features had no more expression than the faces of dolls. They did not smile nor did they frown, or show either fear or surprise or curiosity or friendliness. They simply stared at the strangers, paying most attention to Jim and Eureka, for they had never before seen either a horse or a cat and the children bore an outward resemblance to themselves. Pretty soon a man joined the group who wore a glistening star in the dark hair just over his forehead. He seemed to be a person of authority, for the others pressed back to give him room. After turning his composed eyes first upon the animals and then upon the children he said to Zeb, who was a little taller than Dorothy: "Tell me, intruder, was it you who caused the Rain of Stones?" For a moment the boy did not know what he meant by this question. Then, remembering the stones that had fallen with them and passed them long before they had reached this place, he answered: "No, sir; we didn't cause anything. It was the earthquake." The man with the star stood for a time quietly thinking over this speech. Then he asked: "What is an earthquake?" "I don't know," said Zeb, who was still confused. But Dorothy, seeing his perplexity, answered: "It's a shaking of the earth. In this quake a big crack opened and we fell through--horse and buggy, and all--and the stones got loose and came down with us." The man with the star regarded her with his calm, expressionless eyes. "The Rain of Stones has done much damage to our city," he said; "and we shall hold you responsible for it unless you can prove your innocence." "How can we do that?" asked the girl. "That I am not prepared to say. It is your affair, not mine. You must go to the House of the Sorcerer, who will soon discover the truth." "Where is the House of the Sorcerer?" the girl enquired. "I will lead you to it. Come!" He turned and walked down the street, and after a moment's hesitation Dorothy caught Eureka in her arms and climbed into the buggy. The boy took his seat beside her and said: "Gid-dap, Jim." As the horse ambled along, drawing the buggy, the people of the glass city made way for them and formed a procession in their rear. Slowly they moved down one street and up another, turning first this way and then that, until they came to an open square in the center of which was a big glass palace having a central dome and four tall spires on each corner. [Illustration] CHAPTER 3. THE ARRIVAL OF THE WIZARD The doorway of the glass palace was quite big enough for the horse and buggy to enter, so Zeb drove straight through it and the children found themselves in a lofty hall that was very beautiful. The people at once followed and formed a circle around the sides of the spacious room, leaving the horse and buggy and the man with the star to occupy the center of the hall. "Come to us, oh, Gwig!" called the man, in a loud voice. Instantly a cloud of smoke appeared and rolled over the floor; then it slowly spread and ascended into the dome, disclosing a strange personage seated upon a glass throne just before Jim's nose. He was formed just as were the other inhabitants of this land and his clothing only differed from theirs in being bright yellow. But he had no hair at all, and all over his bald head and face and upon the backs of his hands grew sharp thorns like those found on the branches of rose-bushes. There was even a thorn upon the tip of his nose and he looked so funny that Dorothy laughed when she saw him. The Sorcerer, hearing the laugh, looked toward the little girl with cold, cruel eyes, and his glance made her grow sober in an instant. "Why have you dared to intrude your unwelcome persons into the secluded Land of the Mangaboos?" he asked, sternly. "'Cause we couldn't help it," said Dorothy. "Why did you wickedly and viciously send the Rain of Stones to crack and break our houses?" he continued. "We didn't," declared the girl. "Prove it!" cried the Sorcerer. "We don't have to prove it," answered Dorothy, indignantly. "If you had any sense at all you'd known it was the earthquake." "We only know that yesterday came a Rain of Stones upon us, which did much damage and injured some of our people. Today came another Rain of Stones, and soon after it you appeared among us." "By the way," said the man with the star, looking steadily at the Sorcerer, "you told us yesterday that there would not be a second Rain of Stones. Yet one has just occurred that was even worse than the first. What is your sorcery good for if it cannot tell us the truth?" "My sorcery does tell the truth!" declared the thorn-covered man. "I said there would be but one Rain of Stones. This second one was a Rain of People-and-Horse-and-Buggy. And some stones came with them." "Will there be any more Rains?" asked the man with the star. "No, my Prince." "Neither stones nor people?" "No, my Prince." "Are you sure?" "Quite sure, my Prince. My sorcery tells me so." Just then a man came running into the hall and addressed the Prince after making a low bow. "More wonders in the air, my Lord," said he. Immediately the Prince and all of his people flocked out of the hall into the street, that they might see what was about to happen. Dorothy and Zeb jumped out of the buggy and ran after them, but the Sorcerer remained calmly in his throne. Far up in the air was an object that looked like a balloon. It was not so high as the glowing star of the six colored suns, but was descending slowly through the air--so slowly that at first it scarcely seemed to move. The throng stood still and waited. It was all they could do, for to go away and leave that strange sight was impossible; nor could they hurry its fall in any way. The earth children were not noticed, being so near the average size of the Mangaboos, and the horse had remained in the House of the Sorcerer, with Eureka curled up asleep on the seat of the buggy. Gradually the balloon grew bigger, which was proof that it was settling down upon the Land of the Mangaboos. Dorothy was surprised to find how patient the people were, for her own little heart was beating rapidly with excitement. A balloon meant to her some other arrival from the surface of the earth, and she hoped it would be some one able to assist her and Zeb out of their difficulties. In an hour the balloon had come near enough for her to see a basket suspended below it; in two hours she could see a head looking over the side of the basket; in three hours the big balloon settled slowly into the great square in which they stood and came to rest on the glass pavement. Then a little man jumped out of the basket, took off his tall hat, and bowed very gracefully to the crowd of Mangaboos around him. He was quite an old little man, and his head was long and entirely bald. "Why," cried Dorothy, in amazement, "it's Oz!" The little man looked toward her and seemed as much surprised as she was. But he smiled and bowed as he answered: "Yes, my dear; I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Eh? And you are little Dorothy, from Kansas. I remember you very well." "Who did you say it was?" whispered Zeb to the girl. "It's the wonderful Wizard of Oz. Haven't you heard of him?" Just then the man with the star came and stood before the Wizard. "Sir," said he, "why are you here, in the Land of the Mangaboos?" "Didn't know what land it was, my son," returned the other, with a pleasant smile; "and, to be honest, I didn't mean to visit you when I started out. I live on top of the earth, your honor, which is far better than living inside it; but yesterday I went up in a balloon, and when I came down I fell into a big crack in the earth, caused by an earthquake. I had let so much gas out of my balloon that I could not rise again, and in a few minutes the earth closed over my head. So I continued to descend until I reached this place, and if you will show me a way to get out of it, I'll go with pleasure. Sorry to have troubled you; but it couldn't be helped." The Prince had listened with attention. Said he: "This child, who is from the crust of the earth, like yourself, called you a Wizard. Is not a Wizard something like a Sorcerer?" "It's better," replied Oz, promptly. "One Wizard is worth three Sorcerers." "Ah, you shall prove that," said the Prince. "We Mangaboos have, at the present time, one of the most wonderful Sorcerers that ever was picked from a bush; but he sometimes makes mistakes. Do you ever make mistakes?" "Never!" declared the Wizard, boldly. "Oh, Oz!" said Dorothy; "you made a lot of mistakes when you were in the marvelous Land of Oz." "Nonsense!" said the little man, turning red--although just then a ray of violet sunlight was on his round face. "Come with me," said the Prince to him. "I wish you to meet our Sorcerer." The Wizard did not like this invitation, but he could not refuse to accept it. So he followed the Prince into the great domed hall, and Dorothy and Zeb came after them, while the throng of people trooped in also. There sat the thorny Sorcerer in his chair of state, and when the Wizard saw him he began to laugh, uttering comical little chuckles. "What an absurd creature!" he exclaimed. "He may look absurd," said the Prince, in his quiet voice; "but he is an excellent Sorcerer. The only fault I find with him is that he is so often wrong." "I am never wrong," answered the Sorcerer. "Only a short time ago you told me there would be no more Rain of Stones or of People," said the Prince. "Well, what then?" "Here is another person descended from the air to prove you were wrong." "One person cannot be called 'people,'" said the Sorcerer. "If two should come out of the sky you might with justice say I was wrong; but unless more than this one appears I will hold that I was right." "Very clever," said the Wizard, nodding his head as if pleased. "I am delighted to find humbugs inside the earth, just the same as on top of it. Were you ever with a circus, brother?" "No," said the Sorcerer. "You ought to join one," declared the little man seriously. "I belong to Bailum & Barney's Great Consolidated Shows--three rings in one tent and a menagerie on the side. It's a fine aggregation, I assure you." "What do you do?" asked the Sorcerer. "I go up in a balloon, usually, to draw the crowds to the circus. But I've just had the bad luck to come out of the sky, skip the solid earth, and land lower down than I intended. But never mind. It isn't everybody who gets a chance to see your Land of the Gabazoos." "Mangaboos," said the Sorcerer, correcting him. "If you are a Wizard you ought to be able to call people by their right names." "Oh, I'm a Wizard; you may be sure of that. Just as good a Wizard as you are a Sorcerer." "That remains to be seen," said the other. "If you are able to prove that you are better," said the Prince to the little man, "I will make you the Chief Wizard of this domain. Otherwise--" "What will happen otherwise?" asked the Wizard. "I will stop you from living, and forbid you to be planted," returned the Prince. "That does not sound especially pleasant," said the little man, looking at the one with the star uneasily. "But never mind. I'll beat Old Prickly, all right." "My name is Gwig," said the Sorcerer, turning his heartless, cruel eyes upon his rival. "Let me see you equal the sorcery I am about to perform." He waved a thorny hand and at once the tinkling of bells was heard, playing sweet music. Yet, look where she would, Dorothy could discover no bells at all in the great glass hall. The Mangaboo people listened, but showed no great interest. It was one of the things Gwig usually did to prove he was a sorcerer. Now was the Wizard's turn, so he smiled upon the assemblage and asked: "Will somebody kindly loan me a hat?" No one did, because the Mangaboos did not wear hats, and Zeb had lost his, somehow, in his flight through the air. "Ahem!" said the Wizard, "will somebody please loan me a handkerchief?" But they had no handkerchiefs, either. "Very good," remarked the Wizard. "I'll use my own hat, if you please. Now, good people, observe me carefully. You see, there is nothing up my sleeve and nothing concealed about my person. Also, my hat is quite empty." He took off his hat and held it upside down, shaking it briskly. "Let me see it," said the Sorcerer. He took the hat and examined it carefully, returning it afterward to the Wizard. "Now," said the little man, "I will create something out of nothing." He placed the hat upon the glass floor, made a pass with his hand, and then removed the hat, displaying a little white piglet no bigger than a mouse, which began to run around here and there and to grunt and squeal in a tiny, shrill voice. The people watched it intently, for they had never seen a pig before, big or little. The Wizard reached out, caught the wee creature in his hand, and holding its head between one thumb and finger and its tail between the other thumb and finger he pulled it apart, each of the two parts becoming a whole and separate piglet in an instant. He placed one upon the floor, so that it could run around, and pulled apart the other, making three piglets in all; and then one of these was pulled apart, making four piglets. The Wizard continued this surprising performance until nine tiny piglets were running about at his feet, all squealing and grunting in a very comical way. "Now," said the Wizard of Oz, "having created something from nothing, I will make something nothing again." With this he caught up two of the piglets and pushed them together, so that the two were one. Then he caught up another piglet and pushed it into the first, where it disappeared. And so, one by one, the nine tiny piglets were pushed together until but a single one of the creatures remained. This the Wizard placed underneath his hat and made a mystic sign above it. When he removed his hat the last piglet had disappeared entirely. The little man gave a bow to the silent throng that had watched him, and then the Prince said, in his cold, calm voice: "You are indeed a wonderful Wizard, and your powers are greater than those of my Sorcerer." "He will not be a wonderful Wizard long," remarked Gwig. "Why not?" enquired the Wizard. "Because I am going to stop your breath," was the reply. "I perceive that you are curiously constructed, and that if you cannot breathe you cannot keep alive." The little man looked troubled. "How long will it take you to stop my breath?" he asked. "About five minutes. I'm going to begin now. Watch me carefully." He began making queer signs and passes toward the Wizard; but the little man did not watch him long. Instead, he drew a leathern case from his pocket and took from it several sharp knives, which he joined together, one after another, until they made a long sword. By the time he had attached a handle to this sword he was having much trouble to breathe, as the charm of the Sorcerer was beginning to take effect. So the Wizard lost no more time, but leaping forward he raised the sharp sword, whirled it once or twice around his head, and then gave a mighty stroke that cut the body of the Sorcerer exactly in two. Dorothy screamed and expected to see a terrible sight; but as the two halves of the Sorcerer fell apart on the floor she saw that he had no bones or blood inside of him at all, and that the place where he was cut looked much like a sliced turnip or potato. "Why, he's vegetable!" cried the Wizard, astonished. "Of course," said the Prince. "We are all vegetable, in this country. Are you not vegetable, also?" "No," answered the Wizard. "People on top of the earth are all meat. Will your Sorcerer die?" "Certainly, sir. He is really dead now, and will wither very quickly. So we must plant him at once, that other Sorcerers may grow upon his bush," continued the Prince. "What do you mean by that?" asked the little Wizard, greatly puzzled. "If you will accompany me to our public gardens," replied the Prince, "I will explain to you much better than I can here the mysteries of our Vegetable Kingdom." [Illustration: THE WIZARD CUT THE SORCERER EXACTLY IN TWO.] CHAPTER 4. THE VEGETABLE KINGDOM After the Wizard had wiped the dampness from his sword and taken it apart and put the pieces into their leathern case again, the man with the star ordered some of his people to carry the two halves of the Sorcerer to the public gardens. Jim pricked up his ears when he heard they were going to the gardens, and wanted to join the party, thinking he might find something proper to eat; so Zeb put down the top of the buggy and invited the Wizard to ride with them. The seat was amply wide enough for the little man and the two children, and when Jim started to leave the hall the kitten jumped upon his back and sat there quite contentedly. So the procession moved through the streets, the bearers of the Sorcerer first, the Prince next, then Jim drawing the buggy with the strangers inside of it, and last the crowd of vegetable people who had no hearts and could neither smile nor frown. The glass city had several fine streets, for a good many people lived there; but when the procession had passed through these it came upon a broad plain covered with gardens and watered by many pretty brooks that flowed through it. There were paths through these gardens, and over some of the brooks were ornamental glass bridges. Dorothy and Zeb now got out of the buggy and walked beside the Prince, so that they might see and examine the flowers and plants better. "Who built these lovely bridges?" asked the little girl. "No one built them," answered the man with the star. "They grow." "That's queer," said she. "Did the glass houses in your city grow, too?" "Of course," he replied. "But it took a good many years for them to grow as large and fine as they are now. That is why we are so angry when a Rain of Stones comes to break our towers and crack our roofs." "Can't you mend them?" she enquired. "No; but they will grow together again, in time, and we must wait until they do." They first passed through many beautiful gardens of flowers, which grew nearest the city; but Dorothy could hardly tell what kind of flowers they were, because the colors were constantly changing under the shifting lights of the six suns. A flower would be pink one second, white the next, then blue or yellow; and it was the same way when they came to the plants, which had broad leaves and grew close to the ground. When they passed over a field of grass Jim immediately stretched down his head and began to nibble. "A nice country this is," he grumbled, "where a respectable horse has to eat pink grass!" "It's violet," said the Wizard, who was in the buggy. "Now it's blue," complained the horse. "As a matter of fact, I'm eating rainbow grass." "How does it taste?" asked the Wizard. "Not bad at all," said Jim. "If they give me plenty of it I'll not complain about its color." By this time the party had reached a freshly plowed field, and the Prince said to Dorothy: "This is our planting-ground." Several Mangaboos came forward with glass spades and dug a hole in the ground. Then they put the two halves of the Sorcerer into it and covered him up. After that other people brought water from a brook and sprinkled the earth. "He will sprout very soon," said the Prince, "and grow into a large bush, from which we shall in time be able to pick several very good sorcerers." "Do all your people grow on bushes?" asked the boy. "Certainly," was the reply. "Do not all people grow upon bushes where you came from, on the outside of the earth." "Not that I ever heard of." "How strange! But if you will come with me to one of our folk gardens I will show you the way we grow in the Land of the Mangaboos." It appeared that these odd people, while they were able to walk through the air with ease, usually moved upon the ground in the ordinary way. There were no stairs in their houses, because they did not need them, but on a level surface they generally walked just as we do. The little party of strangers now followed the Prince across a few more of the glass bridges and along several paths until they came to a garden enclosed by a high hedge. Jim had refused to leave the field of grass, where he was engaged in busily eating; so the Wizard got out of the buggy and joined Zeb and Dorothy, and the kitten followed demurely at their heels. Inside the hedge they came upon row after row of large and handsome plants with broad leaves gracefully curving until their points nearly reached the ground. In the center of each plant grew a daintily dressed Mangaboo, for the clothing of all these creatures grew upon them and was attached to their bodies. The growing Mangaboos were of all sizes, from the blossom that had just turned into a wee baby to the full-grown and almost ripe man or woman. On some of the bushes might be seen a bud, a blossom, a baby, a half-grown person and a ripe one; but even those ready to pluck were motionless and silent, as if devoid of life. This sight explained to Dorothy why she had seen no children among the Mangaboos, a thing she had until now been unable to account for. "Our people do not acquire their real life until they leave their bushes," said the Prince. "You will notice they are all attached to the plants by the soles of their feet, and when they are quite ripe they are easily separated from the stems and at once attain the powers of motion and speech. So while they grow they cannot be said to really live, and they must be picked before they can become good citizens." "How long do you live, after you are picked?" asked Dorothy. "That depends upon the care we take of ourselves," he replied. "If we keep cool and moist, and meet with no accidents, we often live for five years. I've been picked over six years, but our family is known to be especially long lived." "Do you eat?" asked the boy. "Eat! No, indeed. We are quite solid inside our bodies, and have no need to eat, any more than does a potato." "But the potatoes sometimes sprout," said Zeb. "And sometimes we do," answered the Prince; "but that is considered a great misfortune, for then we must be planted at once." "Where did you grow?" asked the Wizard. "I will show you," was the reply. "Step this way, please." He led them within another but smaller circle of hedge, where grew one large and beautiful bush. "This," said he, "is the Royal Bush of the Mangaboos. All of our Princes and Rulers have grown upon this one bush from time immemorial." They stood before it in silent admiration. On the central stalk stood poised the figure of a girl so exquisitely formed and colored and so lovely in the expression of her delicate features that Dorothy thought she had never seen so sweet and adorable a creature in all her life. The maiden's gown was soft as satin and fell about her in ample folds, while dainty lace-like traceries trimmed the bodice and sleeves. Her flesh was fine and smooth as polished ivory, and her poise expressed both dignity and grace. "Who is this?" asked the Wizard, curiously. The Prince had been staring hard at the girl on the bush. Now he answered, with a touch of uneasiness in his cold tones: "She is the Ruler destined to be my successor, for she is a Royal Princess. When she becomes fully ripe I must abandon the sovereignty of the Mangaboos to her." "Isn't she ripe now?" asked Dorothy. He hesitated. "Not quite," said he, finally. "It will be several days before she needs to be picked, or at least that is my judgment. I am in no hurry to resign my office and be planted, you may be sure." "Probably not," declared the Wizard, nodding. "This is one of the most unpleasant things about our vegetable lives," continued the Prince, with a sigh, "that while we are in our full prime we must give way to another, and be covered up in the ground to sprout and grow and give birth to other people." "I'm sure the Princess is ready to be picked," asserted Dorothy, gazing hard at the beautiful girl on the bush. "She's as perfect as she can be." "Never mind," answered the Prince, hastily, "she will be all right for a few days longer, and it is best for me to rule until I can dispose of you strangers, who have come to our land uninvited and must be attended to at once." "What are you going to do with us?" asked Zeb. "That is a matter I have not quite decided upon," was the reply. "I think I shall keep this Wizard until a new Sorcerer is ready to pick, for he seems quite skillful and may be of use to us. But the rest of you must be destroyed in some way, and you cannot be planted, because I do not wish horses and cats and meat people growing all over our country." "You needn't worry," said Dorothy. "We wouldn't grow under ground, I'm sure." "But why destroy my friends?" asked the little Wizard. "Why not let them live?" "They do not belong here," returned the Prince. "They have no right to be inside the earth at all." "We didn't ask to come down here; we fell," said Dorothy. "That is no excuse," declared the Prince, coldly. The children looked at each other in perplexity, and the Wizard sighed. Eureka rubbed her paw on her face and said in her soft, purring voice: "He won't need to destroy _me_, for if I don't get something to eat pretty soon I shall starve to death, and so save him the trouble." "If he planted you, he might grow some cat-tails," suggested the Wizard. "Oh, Eureka! perhaps we can find you some milk-weeds to eat," said the boy. "Phoo!" snarled the kitten; "I wouldn't touch the nasty things!" "You don't need milk, Eureka," remarked Dorothy; "you are big enough now to eat any kind of food." "If I can get it," added Eureka. "I'm hungry myself," said Zeb. "But I noticed some strawberries growing in one of the gardens, and some melons in another place. These people don't eat such things, so perhaps on our way back they will let us get them." "Never mind your hunger," interrupted the Prince. "I shall order you destroyed in a few minutes, so you will have no need to ruin our pretty melon vines and berry bushes. Follow me, please, to meet your doom." CHAPTER 5. DOROTHY PICKS THE PRINCESS The words of the cold and moist vegetable Prince were not very comforting, and as he spoke them he turned away and left the enclosure. The children, feeling sad and despondent, were about to follow him when the Wizard touched Dorothy softly on her shoulder. "Wait!" he whispered. "What for?" asked the girl. "Suppose we pick the Royal Princess," said the Wizard. "I'm quite sure she's ripe, and as soon as she comes to life she will be the Ruler, and may treat us better than that heartless Prince intends to." "All right!" exclaimed Dorothy, eagerly. "Let's pick her while we have the chance, before the man with the star comes back." So together they leaned over the great bush and each of them seized one hand of the lovely Princess. "Pull!" cried Dorothy, and as they did so the royal lady leaned toward them and the stems snapped and separated from her feet. She was not at all heavy, so the Wizard and Dorothy managed to lift her gently to the ground. The beautiful creature passed her hands over her eyes an instant, tucked in a stray lock of hair that had become disarranged, and after a look around the garden made those present a gracious bow and said, in a sweet but even toned voice: "I thank you very much." "We salute your Royal Highness!" cried the Wizard, kneeling and kissing her hand. Just then the voice of the Prince was heard calling upon them to hasten, and a moment later he returned to the enclosure, followed by a number of his people. Instantly the Princess turned and faced him, and when he saw that she was picked the Prince stood still and began to tremble. "Sir," said the Royal Lady, with much dignity, "you have wronged me greatly, and would have wronged me still more had not these strangers come to my rescue. I have been ready for picking all the past week, but because you were selfish and desired to continue your unlawful rule, you left me to stand silent upon my bush." "I did not know that you were ripe," answered the Prince, in a low voice. "Give me the Star of Royalty!" she commanded. Slowly he took the shining star from his own brow and placed it upon that of the Princess. Then all the people bowed low to her, and the Prince turned and walked away alone. What became of him afterward our friends never knew. The people of Mangaboo now formed themselves into a procession and marched toward the glass city to escort their new ruler to her palace and to perform those ceremonies proper to the occasion. But while the people in the procession walked upon the ground the Princess walked in the air just above their heads, to show that she was a superior being and more exalted than her subjects. No one now seemed to pay any attention to the strangers, so Dorothy and Zeb and the Wizard let the train pass on and then wandered by themselves into the vegetable gardens. They did not bother to cross the bridges over the brooks, but when they came to a stream they stepped high and walked in the air to the other side. This was a very interesting experience to them, and Dorothy said: "I wonder why it is that we can walk so easily in the air." "Perhaps," answered the Wizard, "it is because we are close to the center of the earth, where the attraction of gravitation is very slight. But I've noticed that many queer things happen in fairy countries." "Is this a fairy country?" asked the boy. "Of course it is," returned Dorothy, promptly. "Only a fairy country could have veg'table people; and only in a fairy country could Eureka and Jim talk as we do." "That's true," said Zeb, thoughtfully. In the vegetable gardens they found the strawberries and melons, and several other unknown but delicious fruits, of which they ate heartily. But the kitten bothered them constantly by demanding milk or meat, and called the Wizard names because he could not bring her a dish of milk by means of his magical arts. As they sat upon the grass watching Jim, who was still busily eating, Eureka said: "I don't believe you are a Wizard at all!" "No," answered the little man, "you are quite right. In the strict sense of the word I am not a Wizard, but only a humbug." "The Wizard of Oz has always been a humbug," agreed Dorothy. "I've known him for a long time." "If that is so," said the boy, "how could he do that wonderful trick with the nine tiny piglets?" "Don't know," said Dorothy, "but it must have been humbug." "Very true," declared the Wizard, nodding at her. "It was necessary to deceive that ugly Sorcerer and the Prince, as well as their stupid people; but I don't mind telling you, who are my friends, that the thing was only a trick." "But I saw the little pigs with my own eyes!" exclaimed Zeb. "So did I," purred the kitten. "To be sure," answered the Wizard. "You saw them because they were there. They are in my inside pocket now. But the pulling of them apart and pushing them together again was only a sleight-of-hand trick." "Let's see the pigs," said Eureka, eagerly. The little man felt carefully in his pocket and pulled out the tiny piglets, setting them upon the grass one by one, where they ran around and nibbled the tender blades. "They're hungry, too," he said. "Oh, what cunning things!" cried Dorothy, catching up one and petting it. "Be careful!" said the piglet, with a squeal, "you're squeezing me!" "Dear me!" murmured the Wizard, looking at his pets in astonishment. "They can actually talk!" "May I eat one of them?" asked the kitten, in a pleading voice. "I'm awfully hungry." "Why, Eureka," said Dorothy, reproachfully, "what a cruel question! It would be dreadful to eat these dear little things." "I should say so!" grunted another of the piglets, looking uneasily at the kitten; "cats are cruel things." "I'm not cruel," replied the kitten, yawning. "I'm just hungry." "You cannot eat my piglets, even if you are starving," declared the little man, in a stern voice. "They are the only things I have to prove I'm a wizard." "How did they happen to be so little?" asked Dorothy. "I never saw such small pigs before." "They are from the Island of Teenty-Weent," said the Wizard, "where everything is small because it's a small island. A sailor brought them to Los Angeles and I gave him nine tickets to the circus for them." "But what am I going to eat?" wailed the kitten, sitting in front of Dorothy and looking pleadingly into her face. "There are no cows here to give milk; or any mice, or even grasshoppers. And if I can't eat the piglets you may as well plant me at once and raise catsup." "I have an idea," said the Wizard, "that there are fishes in these brooks. Do you like fish?" "Fish!" cried the kitten. "Do I like fish? Why, they're better than piglets--or even milk!" "Then I'll try to catch you some," said he. "But won't they be veg'table, like everything else here?" asked the kitten. "I think not. Fishes are not animals, and they are as cold and moist as the vegetables themselves. There is no reason, that I can see, why they may not exist in the waters of this strange country." Then the Wizard bent a pin for a hook and took a long piece of string from his pocket for a fish-line. The only bait he could find was a bright red blossom from a flower; but he knew fishes are easy to fool if anything bright attracts their attention, so he decided to try the blossom. Having thrown the end of his line in the water of a nearby brook he soon felt a sharp tug that told him a fish had bitten and was caught on the bent pin; so the little man drew in the string and, sure enough, the fish came with it and was landed safely on the shore, where it began to flop around in great excitement. [Illustration: IN THE GARDEN OF THE MANGABOOS.] The fish was fat and round, and its scales glistened like beautifully cut jewels set close together; but there was no time to examine it closely, for Eureka made a jump and caught it between her claws, and in a few moments it had entirely disappeared. "Oh, Eureka!" cried Dorothy, "did you eat the bones?" "If it had any bones, I ate them," replied the kitten, composedly, as it washed its face after the meal. "But I don't think that fish had any bones, because I didn't feel them scratch my throat." "You were very greedy," said the girl. "I was very hungry," replied the kitten. The little pigs had stood huddled in a group, watching this scene with frightened eyes. "Cats are dreadful creatures!" said one of them. "I'm glad we are not fishes!" said another. "Don't worry," Dorothy murmured, soothingly, "I'll not let the kitten hurt you." Then she happened to remember that in a corner of her suit-case were one or two crackers that were left over from her luncheon on the train, and she went to the buggy and brought them. Eureka stuck up her nose at such food, but the tiny piglets squealed delightedly at the sight of the crackers and ate them up in a jiffy. "Now let us go back to the city," suggested the Wizard. "That is, if Jim has had enough of the pink grass." The cab-horse, who was browsing near, lifted his head with a sigh. "I've tried to eat a lot while I had the chance," said he, "for it's likely to be a long while between meals in this strange country. But I'm ready to go, now, at any time you wish." So, after the Wizard had put the piglets back into his inside pocket, where they cuddled up and went to sleep, the three climbed into the buggy and Jim started back to the town. "Where shall we stay?" asked the girl. "I think I shall take possession of the House of the Sorcerer," replied the Wizard; "for the Prince said in the presence of his people that he would keep me until they picked another Sorcerer, and the new Princess won't know but that we belong there." They agreed to this plan, and when they reached the great square Jim drew the buggy into the big door of the domed hall. "It doesn't look very homelike," said Dorothy, gazing around at the bare room. "But it's a place to stay, anyhow." "What are those holes up there?" enquired the boy, pointing to some openings that appeared near the top of the dome. "They look like doorways," said Dorothy; "only there are no stairs to get to them." "You forget that stairs are unnecessary," observed the Wizard. "Let us walk up, and see where the doors lead to." With this he began walking in the air toward the high openings, and Dorothy and Zeb followed him. It was the same sort of climb one experiences when walking up a hill, and they were nearly out of breath when they came to the row of openings, which they perceived to be doorways leading into halls in the upper part of the house. Following these halls they discovered many small rooms opening from them, and some were furnished with glass benches, tables and chairs. But there were no beds at all. "I wonder if these people never sleep," said the girl. "Why, there seems to be no night at all in this country," Zeb replied. "Those colored suns are exactly in the same place they were when we came, and if there is no sunset there can be no night." "Very true," agreed the Wizard. "But it is a long time since I have had any sleep, and I'm tired. So I think I shall lie down upon one of these hard glass benches and take a nap." "I will, too," said Dorothy, and chose a little room at the end of the hall. Zeb walked down again to unharness Jim, who, when he found himself free, rolled over a few times and then settled down to sleep, with Eureka nestling comfortably beside his big, boney body. Then the boy returned to one of the upper rooms, and in spite of the hardness of the glass bench was soon deep in slumberland. [Illustration] CHAPTER 6. THE MANGABOOS PROVE DANGEROUS When the Wizard awoke the six colored suns were shining down upon the Land of the Mangaboos just as they had done ever since his arrival. The little man, having had a good sleep, felt rested and refreshed, and looking through the glass partition of the room he saw Zeb sitting up on his bench and yawning. So the Wizard went in to him. "Zeb," said he, "my balloon is of no further use in this strange country, so I may as well leave it on the square where it fell. But in the basket-car are some things I would like to keep with me. I wish you would go and fetch my satchel, two lanterns, and a can of kerosene oil that is under the seat. There is nothing else that I care about." So the boy went willingly upon the errand, and by the time he had returned Dorothy was awake. Then the three held a counsel to decide what they should do next, but could think of no way to better their condition. "I don't like these veg'table people," said the little girl. "They're cold and flabby, like cabbages, in spite of their prettiness." "I agree with you. It is because there is no warm blood in them," remarked the Wizard. "And they have no hearts; so they can't love anyone--not even themselves," declared the boy. "The Princess is lovely to look at," continued Dorothy, thoughtfully; "but I don't care much for her, after all. If there was any other place to go, I'd like to go there." "But _is_ there any other place?" asked the Wizard. "I don't know," she answered. Just then they heard the big voice of Jim the cab-horse calling to them, and going to the doorway leading to the dome they found the Princess and a throng of her people had entered the House of the Sorcerer. So they went down to greet the beautiful vegetable lady, who said to them: "I have been talking with my advisors about you meat people, and we have decided that you do not belong in the Land of the Mangaboos and must not remain here." "How can we go away?" asked Dorothy. "Oh, you cannot go away, of course; so you must be destroyed," was the answer. "In what way?" enquired the Wizard. "We shall throw you three people into the Garden of the Twining Vines," said the Princess, "and they will soon crush you and devour your bodies to make themselves grow bigger. The animals you have with you we will drive to the mountains and put into the Black Pit. Then our country will be rid of all its unwelcome visitors." "But you are in need of a Sorcerer," said the Wizard, "and not one of those growing is yet ripe enough to pick. I am greater than any thorn-covered sorcerer that ever grew in your garden. Why destroy me?" "It is true we need a Sorcerer," acknowledged the Princess, "but I am informed that one of our own will be ready to pick in a few days, to take the place of Gwig, whom you cut in two before it was time for him to be planted. Let us see your arts, and the sorceries you are able to perform. Then I will decide whether to destroy you with the others or not." At this the Wizard made a bow to the people and repeated his trick of producing the nine tiny piglets and making them disappear again. He did it very cleverly, indeed, and the Princess looked at the strange piglets as if she were as truly astonished as any vegetable person could be. But afterward she said: "I have heard of this wonderful magic. But it accomplishes nothing of value. What else can you do?" The Wizard tried to think. Then he jointed together the blades of his sword and balanced it very skillfully upon the end of his nose. But even that did not satisfy the Princess. Just then his eye fell upon the lanterns and the can of kerosene oil which Zeb had brought from the car of his balloon, and he got a clever idea from those commonplace things. "Your Highness," said he, "I will now proceed to prove my magic by creating two suns that you have never seen before; also I will exhibit a Destroyer much more dreadful than your Clinging Vines." So he placed Dorothy upon one side of him and the boy upon the other and set a lantern upon each of their heads. "Don't laugh," he whispered to them, "or you will spoil the effect of my magic." [Illustration: "NOW, PRINCESS," EXCLAIMED THE WIZARD.] Then, with much dignity and a look of vast importance upon his wrinkled face, the Wizard got out his match-box and lighted the two lanterns. The glare they made was very small when compared with the radiance of the six great colored suns; but still they gleamed steadily and clearly. The Mangaboos were much impressed because they had never before seen any light that did not come directly from their suns. Next the Wizard poured a pool of oil from the can upon the glass floor, where it covered quite a broad surface. When he lighted the oil a hundred tongues of flame shot up, and the effect was really imposing. "Now, Princess," exclaimed the Wizard, "those of your advisors who wished to throw us into the Garden of Clinging Vines must step within this circle of light. If they advised you well, and were in the right, they will not be injured in any way. But if any advised you wrongly, the light will wither him." The advisors of the Princess did not like this test; but she commanded them to step into the flame and one by one they did so, and were scorched so badly that the air was soon filled with an odor like that of baked potatoes. Some of the Mangaboos fell down and had to be dragged from the fire, and all were so withered that it would be necessary to plant them at once. "Sir," said the Princess to the Wizard, "you are greater than any Sorcerer we have ever known. As it is evident that my people have advised me wrongly, I will not cast you three people into the dreadful Garden of the Clinging Vines; but your animals must be driven into the Black Pit in the mountain, for my subjects cannot bear to have them around." The Wizard was so pleased to have saved the two children and himself that he said nothing against this decree; but when the Princess had gone both Jim and Eureka protested they did not want to go to the Black Pit, and Dorothy promised she would do all that she could to save them from such a fate. For two or three days after this--if we call days the periods between sleep, there being no night to divide the hours into days--our friends were not disturbed in any way. They were even permitted to occupy the House of the Sorcerer in peace, as if it had been their own, and to wander in the gardens in search of food. Once they came near to the enclosed Garden of the Clinging Vines, and walking high into the air looked down upon it with much interest. They saw a mass of tough green vines all matted together and writhing and twisting around like a nest of great snakes. Everything the vines touched they crushed, and our adventurers were indeed thankful to have escaped being cast among them. Whenever the Wizard went to sleep he would take the nine tiny piglets from his pocket and let them run around on the floor of his room to amuse themselves and get some exercise; and one time they found his glass door ajar and wandered into the hall and then into the bottom part of the great dome, walking through the air as easily as Eureka could. They knew the kitten, by this time, so they scampered over to where she lay beside Jim and commenced to frisk and play with her. The cab-horse, who never slept long at a time, sat upon his haunches and watched the tiny piglets and the kitten with much approval. "Don't be rough!" he would call out, if Eureka knocked over one of the round, fat piglets with her paw; but the pigs never minded, and enjoyed the sport very greatly. Suddenly they looked up to find the room filled with the silent, solemn-eyed Mangaboos. Each of the vegetable folks bore a branch covered with sharp thorns, which was thrust defiantly toward the horse, the kitten and the piglets. "Here--stop this foolishness!" Jim roared, angrily; but after being pricked once or twice he got upon his four legs and kept out of the way of the thorns. The Mangaboos surrounded them in solid ranks, but left an opening to the doorway of the hall; so the animals slowly retreated until they were driven from the room and out upon the street. Here were more of the vegetable people with thorns, and silently they urged the now frightened creatures down the street. Jim had to be careful not to step upon the tiny piglets, who scampered under his feet grunting and squealing, while Eureka, snarling and biting at the thorns pushed toward her, also tried to protect the pretty little things from injury. Slowly but steadily the heartless Mangaboos drove them on, until they had passed through the city and the gardens and come to the broad plains leading to the mountain. "What does all this mean, anyhow?" asked the horse, jumping to escape a thorn. "Why, they are driving us toward the Black Pit, into which they threatened to cast us," replied the kitten. "If I were as big as you are, Jim, I'd fight these miserable turnip-roots!" "What would you do?" enquired Jim. "I'd kick out with those long legs and iron-shod hoofs." "All right," said the horse; "I'll do it." An instant later he suddenly backed toward the crowd of Mangaboos and kicked out his hind legs as hard as he could. A dozen of them smashed together and tumbled to the ground, and seeing his success Jim kicked again and again, charging into the vegetable crowd, knocking them in all directions and sending the others scattering to escape his iron heels. Eureka helped him by flying into the faces of the enemy and scratching and biting furiously, and the kitten ruined so many vegetable complexions that the Mangaboos feared her as much as they did the horse. But the foes were too many to be repulsed for long. They tired Jim and Eureka out, and although the field of battle was thickly covered with mashed and disabled Mangaboos, our animal friends had to give up at last and allow themselves to be driven to the mountain. [Illustration] CHAPTER 7. INTO THE BLACK PIT AND OUT AGAIN When they came to the mountain it proved to be a rugged, towering chunk of deep green glass, and looked dismal and forbidding in the extreme. Half way up the steep was a yawning cave, black as night beyond the point where the rainbow rays of the colored suns reached into it. The Mangaboos drove the horse and the kitten and the piglets into this dark hole and then, having pushed the buggy in after them--for it seemed some of them had dragged it all the way from the domed hall--they began to pile big glass rocks within the entrance, so that the prisoners could not get out again. "This is dreadful!" groaned Jim. "It will be about the end of our adventures, I guess." "If the Wizard was here," said one of the piglets, sobbing bitterly, "he would not see us suffer so." "We ought to have called him and Dorothy when we were first attacked," added Eureka. "But never mind; be brave, my friends, and I will go and tell our masters where you are, and get them to come to your rescue." The mouth of the hole was nearly filled up now, but the kitten gave a leap through the remaining opening and at once scampered up into the air. The Mangaboos saw her escape, and several of them caught up their thorns and gave chase, mounting through the air after her. Eureka, however, was lighter than the Mangaboos, and while they could mount only about a hundred feet above the earth the kitten found she could go nearly two hundred feet. So she ran along over their heads until she had left them far behind and below and had come to the city and the House of the Sorcerer. There she entered in at Dorothy's window in the dome and aroused her from her sleep. As soon as the little girl knew what had happened she awakened the Wizard and Zeb, and at once preparations were made to go to the rescue of Jim and the piglets. The Wizard carried his satchel, which was quite heavy, and Zeb carried the two lanterns and the oil can. Dorothy's wicker suit-case was still under the seat of the buggy, and by good fortune the boy had also placed the harness in the buggy when he had taken it off from Jim to let the horse lie down and rest. So there was nothing for the girl to carry but the kitten, which she held close to her bosom and tried to comfort, for its little heart was still beating rapidly. Some of the Mangaboos discovered them as soon as they left the House of the Sorcerer; but when they started toward the mountain the vegetable people allowed them to proceed without interference, yet followed in a crowd behind them so that they could not go back again. Before long they neared the Black Pit, where a busy swarm of Mangaboos, headed by their Princess, was engaged in piling up glass rocks before the entrance. "Stop, I command you!" cried the Wizard, in an angry tone, and at once began pulling down the rocks to liberate Jim and the piglets. Instead of opposing him in this they stood back in silence until he had made a good-sized hole in the barrier, when by order of the Princess they all sprang forward and thrust out their sharp thorns. [Illustration: THROUGH THE BLACK PIT.] Dorothy hopped inside the opening to escape being pricked, and Zeb and the Wizard, after enduring a few stabs from the thorns, were glad to follow her. At once the Mangaboos began piling up the rocks of glass again, and as the little man realized that they were all about to be entombed in the mountain he said to the children: "My dears, what shall we do? Jump out and fight?" "What's the use?" replied Dorothy. "I'd as soon die here as live much longer among those cruel and heartless people." "That's the way I feel about it," remarked Zeb, rubbing his wounds. "I've had enough of the Mangaboos." "All right," said the Wizard; "I'm with you, whatever you decide. But we can't live long in this cavern, that's certain." Noticing that the light was growing dim he picked up his nine piglets, patted each one lovingly on its fat little head, and placed them carefully in his inside pocket. Zeb struck a match and lighted one of the lanterns. The rays of the colored suns were now shut out from them forever, for the last chinks had been filled up in the wall that separated their prison from the Land of the Mangaboos. "How big is this hole?" asked Dorothy. "I'll explore it and see," replied the boy. So he carried the lantern back for quite a distance, while Dorothy and the Wizard followed at his side. The cavern did not come to an end, as they had expected it would, but slanted upward through the great glass mountain, running in a direction that promised to lead them to the side opposite the Mangaboo country. "It isn't a bad road," observed the Wizard, "and if we followed it it might lead us to some place that is more comfortable than this black pocket we are now in. I suppose the vegetable folk were always afraid to enter this cavern because it is dark; but we have our lanterns to light the way, so I propose that we start out and discover where this tunnel in the mountain leads to." The others agreed readily to this sensible suggestion, and at once the boy began to harness Jim to the buggy. When all was in readiness the three took their seats in the buggy and Jim started cautiously along the way, Zeb driving while the Wizard and Dorothy each held a lighted lantern so the horse could see where to go. Sometimes the tunnel was so narrow that the wheels of the buggy grazed the sides; then it would broaden out as wide as a street; but the floor was usually smooth, and for a long time they travelled on without any accident. Jim stopped sometimes to rest, for the climb was rather steep and tiresome. "We must be nearly as high as the six colored suns, by this time," said Dorothy. "I didn't know this mountain was so tall." "We are certainly a good distance away from the Land of the Mangaboos," added Zeb; "for we have slanted away from it ever since we started." But they kept steadily moving, and just as Jim was about tired out with his long journey the way suddenly grew lighter, and Zeb put out the lanterns to save the oil. To their joy they found it was a white light that now greeted them, for all were weary of the colored rainbow lights which, after a time, had made their eyes ache with their constantly shifting rays. The sides of the tunnel showed before them like the inside of a long spy-glass, and the floor became more level. Jim hastened his lagging steps at this assurance of a quick relief from the dark passage, and in a few moments more they had emerged from the mountain and found themselves face to face with a new and charming country. [Illustration] CHAPTER 8. THE VALLEY OF VOICES By journeying through the glass mountain they had reached a delightful valley that was shaped like the hollow of a great cup, with another rugged mountain showing on the other side of it, and soft and pretty green hills at the ends. It was all laid out into lovely lawns and gardens, with pebble paths leading through them and groves of beautiful and stately trees dotting the landscape here and there. There were orchards, too, bearing luscious fruits that are all unknown in our world. Alluring brooks of crystal water flowed sparkling between their flower-strewn banks, while scattered over the valley were dozens of the quaintest and most picturesque cottages our travelers had ever beheld. None of them were in clusters, such as villages or towns, but each had ample grounds of its own, with orchards and gardens surrounding it. As the new arrivals gazed upon this exquisite scene they were enraptured by its beauties and the fragrance that permeated the soft air, which they breathed so gratefully after the confined atmosphere of the tunnel. Several minutes were consumed in silent admiration before they noticed two very singular and unusual facts about this valley. One was that it was lighted from some unseen source; for no sun or moon was in the arched blue sky, although every object was flooded with a clear and perfect light. The second and even more singular fact was the absence of any inhabitant of this splendid place. From their elevated position they could overlook the entire valley, but not a single moving object could they see. All appeared mysteriously deserted. The mountain on this side was not glass, but made of a stone similar to granite. With some difficulty and danger Jim drew the buggy over the loose rocks until he reached the green lawns below, where the paths and orchards and gardens began. The nearest cottage was still some distance away. "Isn't it fine?" cried Dorothy, in a joyous voice, as she sprang out of the buggy and let Eureka run frolicking over the velvety grass. "Yes, indeed!" answered Zeb. "We were lucky to get away from those dreadful vegetable people." "It wouldn't be so bad," remarked the Wizard, gazing around him, "if we were obliged to live here always. We couldn't find a prettier place, I'm sure." He took the piglets from his pocket and let them run on the grass, and Jim tasted a mouthful of the green blades and declared he was very contented in his new surroundings. "We can't walk in the air here, though," called Eureka, who had tried it and failed; but the others were satisfied to walk on the ground, and the Wizard said they must be nearer the surface of the earth than they had been in the Mangaboo country, for everything was more homelike and natural. "But where are the people?" asked Dorothy. The little man shook his bald head. "Can't imagine, my dear," he replied. They heard the sudden twittering of a bird, but could not find the creature anywhere. Slowly they walked along the path toward the nearest cottage, the piglets racing and gambolling beside them and Jim pausing at every step for another mouthful of grass. Presently they came to a low plant which had broad, spreading leaves, in the center of which grew a single fruit about as large as a peach. The fruit was so daintily colored and so fragrant, and looked so appetizing and delicious that Dorothy stopped and exclaimed: "What is it, do you s'pose?" The piglets had smelled the fruit quickly, and before the girl could reach out her hand to pluck it every one of the nine tiny ones had rushed in and commenced to devour it with great eagerness. "It's good, anyway," said Zeb, "or those little rascals wouldn't have gobbled it up so greedily." "Where are they?" asked Dorothy, in astonishment. They all looked around, but the piglets had disappeared. "Dear me!" cried the Wizard; "they must have run away. But I didn't see them go; did you?" "No!" replied the boy and the girl, together. "Here,--piggy, piggy, piggy!" called their master, anxiously. Several squeals and grunts were instantly heard at his feet, but the Wizard could not discover a single piglet. "Where are you?" he asked. "Why, right beside you," spoke a tiny voice. "Can't you see us?" [Illustration: "ARE THERE REALLY PEOPLE IN THIS ROOM?"] "No," answered the little man, in a puzzled tone. "We can see you," said another of the piglets. The Wizard stooped down and put out his hand, and at once felt the small fat body of one of his pets. He picked it up, but could not see what he held. "It is very strange," said he, soberly. "The piglets have become invisible, in some curious way." "I'll bet it's because they ate that peach!" cried the kitten. "It wasn't a peach, Eureka," said Dorothy. "I only hope it wasn't poison." "It was fine, Dorothy," called one of the piglets. "We'll eat all we can find of them," said another. "But _we_ mus'n't eat them," the Wizard warned the children, "or we too may become invisible, and lose each other. If we come across another of the strange fruit we must avoid it." Calling the piglets to him he picked them all up, one by one, and put them away in his pocket; for although he could not see them he could feel them, and when he had buttoned his coat he knew they were safe for the present. The travellers now resumed their walk toward the cottage, which they presently reached. It was a pretty place, with vines growing thickly over the broad front porch. The door stood open and a table was set in the front room, with four chairs drawn up to it. On the table were plates, knives and forks, and dishes of bread, meat and fruits. The meat was smoking hot and the knives and forks were performing strange antics and jumping here and there in quite a puzzling way. But not a single person appeared to be in the room. "How funny!" exclaimed Dorothy, who with Zeb and the Wizard now stood in the doorway. A peal of merry laughter answered her, and the knives and forks fell to the plates with a clatter. One of the chairs pushed back from the table, and this was so astonishing and mysterious that Dorothy was almost tempted to run away in fright. "Here are strangers, mama!" cried the shrill and childish voice of some unseen person. "So I see, my dear," answered another voice, soft and womanly. "What do you want?" demanded a third voice, in a stern, gruff accent. "Well, well!" said the Wizard; "are there really people in this room?" "Of course," replied the man's voice. "And--pardon me for the foolish question--but, are you all invisible?" "Surely," the woman answered, repeating her low, rippling laughter. "Are you surprised that you are unable to see the people of Voe?" "Why, yes," stammered the Wizard. "All the people I have ever met before were very plain to see." "Where do you come from, then?" asked the woman, in a curious tone. "We belong upon the face of the earth," explained the Wizard, "but recently, during an earthquake, we fell down a crack and landed in the Country of the Mangaboos." "Dreadful creatures!" exclaimed the woman's voice. "I've heard of them." "They walled us up in a mountain," continued the Wizard; "but we found there was a tunnel through to this side, so we came here. It is a beautiful place. What do you call it?" "It is the Valley of Voe." "Thank you. We have seen no people since we arrived, so we came to this house to enquire our way." "Are you hungry?" asked the woman's voice. "I could eat something," said Dorothy. "So could I," added Zeb. "But we do not wish to intrude, I assure you," the Wizard hastened to say. "That's all right," returned the man's voice, more pleasantly than before. "You are welcome to what we have." As he spoke the voice came so near to Zeb that he jumped back in alarm. Two childish voices laughed merrily at this action, and Dorothy was sure they were in no danger among such light-hearted folks, even if those folks couldn't be seen. "What curious animal is that which is eating the grass on my lawn?" enquired the man's voice. "That's Jim," said the girl. "He's a horse." "What is he good for?" was the next question. "He draws the buggy you see fastened to him, and we ride in the buggy instead of walking," she explained. "Can he fight?" asked the man's voice. "No! he can kick pretty hard with his heels, and bite a little; but Jim can't 'zactly fight," she replied. "Then the bears will get him," said one of the children's voices. "Bears!" exclaimed Dorothy. "Are these bears here?" "That is the one evil of our country," answered the invisible man. "Many large and fierce bears roam in the Valley of Voe, and when they can catch any of us they eat us up; but as they cannot see us, we seldom get caught." "Are the bears invis'ble, too?" asked the girl. "Yes; for they eat of the dama-fruit, as we all do, and that keeps them from being seen by any eye, whether human or animal." "Does the dama-fruit grow on a low bush, and look something like a peach?" asked the Wizard. "Yes," was the reply. "If it makes you invis'ble, why do you eat it?" Dorothy enquired. "For two reasons, my dear," the woman's voice answered. "The dama-fruit is the most delicious thing that grows, and when it makes us invisible the bears cannot find us to eat us up. But now, good wanderers, your luncheon is on the table, so please sit down and eat as much as you like." [Illustration] CHAPTER 9. THEY FIGHT THE INVISIBLE BEARS The strangers took their seats at the table willingly enough, for they were all hungry and the platters were now heaped with good things to eat. In front of each place was a plate bearing one of the delicious dama-fruit, and the perfume that rose from these was so enticing and sweet that they were sorely tempted to eat of them and become invisible. But Dorothy satisfied her hunger with other things, and her companions did likewise, resisting the temptation. "Why do you not eat the damas?" asked the woman's voice. "We don't want to get invis'ble," answered the girl. "But if you remain visible the bears will see you and devour you," said a girlish young voice, that belonged to one of the children. "We who live here much prefer to be invisible; for we can still hug and kiss one another, and are quite safe from the bears." "And we do not have to be so particular about our dress," remarked the man. "And mama can't tell whether my face is dirty or not!" added the other childish voice, gleefully. "But I make you wash it, every time I think of it," said the mother; "for it stands to reason your face is dirty, Ianu, whether I can see it or not." Dorothy laughed and stretched out her hands. "Come here, please--Ianu and your sister--and let me feel of you," she requested. They came to her willingly, and Dorothy passed her hands over their faces and forms and decided one was a girl of about her own age and the other a boy somewhat smaller. The girl's hair was soft and fluffy and her skin as smooth as satin. When Dorothy gently touched her nose and ears and lips they seemed to be well and delicately formed. "If I could see you I am sure you would be beautiful," she declared. The girl laughed, and her mother said: "We are not vain in the Valley of Voe, because we can not display our beauty, and good actions and pleasant ways are what make us lovely to our companions. Yet we can see and appreciate the beauties of nature, the dainty flowers and trees, the green fields and the clear blue of the sky." "How about the birds and beasts and fishes?" asked Zeb. "The birds we cannot see, because they love to eat of the damas as much as we do; yet we hear their sweet songs and enjoy them. Neither can we see the cruel bears, for they also eat the fruit. But the fishes that swim in our brooks we can see, and often we catch them to eat." "It occurs to me you have a great deal to make you happy, even while invisible," remarked the Wizard. "Nevertheless, we prefer to remain visible while we are in your valley." Just then Eureka came in, for she had been until now wandering outside with Jim; and when the kitten saw the table set with food she cried out: "Now you must feed me, Dorothy, for I'm half starved." The children were inclined to be frightened by the sight of the small animal, which reminded them of the bears; but Dorothy reassured them by explaining that Eureka was a pet and could do no harm even if she wished to. Then, as the others had by this time moved away from the table, the kitten sprang upon the chair and put her paws upon the cloth to see what there was to eat. To her surprise an unseen hand clutched her and held her suspended in the air. Eureka was frantic with terror, and tried to scratch and bite, so the next moment she was dropped to the floor. "Did you see that, Dorothy?" she gasped. "Yes, dear," her mistress replied; "there are people living in this house, although we cannot see them. And you must have better manners, Eureka, or something worse will happen to you." She placed a plate of food upon the floor and the kitten ate greedily. "Give me that nice-smelling fruit I saw on the table," she begged, when she had cleaned the plate. "Those are damas," said Dorothy, "and you must never even taste them, Eureka, or you'll get invis'ble, and then we can't see you at all." The kitten gazed wistfully at the forbidden fruit. "Does it hurt to be invis'ble?" she asked. "I don't know," Dorothy answered; "but it would hurt me dre'fully to lose you." "Very well, I won't touch it," decided the kitten; "but you must keep it away from me, for the smell is very tempting." "Can you tell us, sir or ma'am," said the Wizard, addressing the air because he did not quite know where the unseen people stood, "if there is any way we can get out of your beautiful Valley, and on top of the Earth again." "Oh, one can leave the Valley easily enough," answered the man's voice; "but to do so you must enter a far less pleasant country. As for reaching the top of the earth, I have never heard that it is possible to do that, and if you succeeded in getting there you would probably fall off." "Oh, no," said Dorothy, "we've been there, and we know." "The Valley of Voe is certainly a charming place," resumed the Wizard; "but we cannot be contented in any other land than our own, for long. Even if we should come to unpleasant places on our way it is necessary, in order to reach the earth's surface, to keep moving on toward it." "In that case," said the man, "it will be best for you to cross our Valley and mount the spiral staircase inside the Pyramid Mountain. The top of that mountain is lost in the clouds, and when you reach it you will be in the awful Land of Naught, where the Gargoyles live." "What are Gargoyles?" asked Zeb. "I do not know, young sir. Our greatest Champion, Overman-Anu, once climbed the spiral stairway and fought nine days with the Gargoyles before he could escape them and come back; but he could never be induced to describe the dreadful creatures, and soon afterward a bear caught him and ate him up." The wanderers were rather discouraged by this gloomy report, but Dorothy said with a sigh: "If the only way to get home is to meet the Gurgles, then we've got to meet 'em. They can't be worse than the Wicked Witch or the Nome King." "But you must remember you had the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman to help you conquer those enemies," suggested the Wizard. "Just now, my dear, there is not a single warrior in your company." "Oh, I guess Zeb could fight if he had to. Couldn't you, Zeb?" asked the little girl. "Perhaps; if I had to," answered Zeb, doubtfully. "And you have the jointed sword that you chopped the veg'table Sorcerer in two with," the girl said to the little man. "True," he replied; "and in my satchel are other useful things to fight with." "What the Gargoyles most dread is a noise," said the man's voice. "Our Champion told me that when he shouted his battle-cry the creatures shuddered and drew back, hesitating to continue the combat. But they were in great numbers, and the Champion could not shout much because he had to save his breath for fighting." "Very good," said the Wizard; "we can all yell better than we can fight, so we ought to defeat the Gargoyles." "But tell me," said Dorothy, "how did such a brave Champion happen to let the bears eat him? And if he was invis'ble, and the bears invis'ble, who knows that they really ate him up?" "The Champion had killed eleven bears in his time," returned the unseen man; "and we know this is true because when any creature is dead the invisible charm of the dama-fruit ceases to be active, and the slain one can be plainly seen by all eyes. When the Champion killed a bear everyone could see it; and when the bears killed the Champion we all saw several pieces of him scattered about, which of course disappeared again when the bears devoured them." They now bade farewell to the kind but unseen people of the cottage, and after the man had called their attention to a high, pyramid-shaped mountain on the opposite side of the Valley, and told them how to travel in order to reach it, they again started upon their journey. They followed the course of a broad stream and passed several more pretty cottages; but of course they saw no one, nor did any one speak to them. Fruits and flowers grew plentifully all about, and there were many of the delicious damas that the people of Voe were so fond of. About noon they stopped to allow Jim to rest in the shade of a pretty orchard, and while they plucked and ate some of the cherries and plums that grew there a soft voice suddenly said to them: "There are bears near by. Be careful." The Wizard got out his sword at once, and Zeb grabbed the horse-whip. Dorothy climbed into the buggy, although Jim had been unharnessed from it and was grazing some distance away. The owner of the unseen voice laughed lightly and said: "You cannot escape the bears that way." "How _can_ we 'scape?" asked Dorothy, nervously, for an unseen danger is always the hardest to face. "You must take to the river," was the reply. "The bears will not venture upon the water." "But we would be drowned!" exclaimed the girl. "Oh, there is no need of that," said the voice, which from its gentle tones seemed to belong to a young girl. "You are strangers in the Valley of Voe, and do not seem to know our ways; so I will try to save you." The next moment a broad-leaved plant was jerked from the ground where it grew and held suspended in the air before the Wizard. [Illustration: ESCAPING THE INVISIBLE BEARS.] "Sir," said the voice, "you must rub these leaves upon the soles of all your feet, and then you will be able to walk upon the water without sinking below the surface. It is a secret the bears do not know, and we people of Voe usually walk upon the water when we travel, and so escape our enemies." "Thank you!" cried the Wizard, joyfully, and at once rubbed a leaf upon the soles of Dorothy's shoes and then upon his own. The girl took a leaf and rubbed it upon the kitten's paws, and the rest of the plant was handed to Zeb, who, after applying it to his own feet, carefully rubbed it upon all four of Jim's hoofs and then upon the tires of the buggy-wheels. He had nearly finished this last task when a low growling was suddenly heard and the horse began to jump around and kick viciously with his heels. "Quick! To the water, or you are lost!" cried their unseen friend, and without hesitation the Wizard drew the buggy down the bank and out upon the broad river, for Dorothy was still seated in it with Eureka in her arms. They did not sink at all, owing to the virtues of the strange plant they had used, and when the buggy was in the middle of the stream the Wizard returned to the bank to assist Zeb and Jim. The horse was plunging madly about, and two or three deep gashes appeared upon its flanks, from which the blood flowed freely. "Run for the river!" shouted the Wizard, and Jim quickly freed himself from his unseen tormenters by a few vicious kicks and then obeyed. As soon as he trotted out upon the surface of the river he found himself safe from pursuit, and Zeb was already running across the water toward Dorothy. As the little Wizard turned to follow them he felt a hot breath against his cheek and heard a low, fierce growl. At once he began stabbing at the air with his sword, and he knew that he had struck some substance because when he drew back the blade it was dripping with blood. The third time that he thrust out the weapon there was a loud roar and a fall, and suddenly at his feet appeared the form of a great red bear, which was nearly as big as the horse and much stronger and fiercer. The beast was quite dead from the sword thrusts, and after a glance at its terrible claws and sharp teeth the little man turned in a panic and rushed out upon the water, for other menacing growls told him more bears were near. On the river, however, the adventurers seemed to be perfectly safe. Dorothy and the buggy had floated slowly down stream with the current of the water, and the others made haste to join her. The Wizard opened his satchel and got out some sticking-plaster with which he mended the cuts Jim had received from the claws of the bears. "I think we'd better stick to the river, after this," said Dorothy. "If our unknown friend hadn't warned us, and told us what to do, we would all be dead by this time." "That is true," agreed the Wizard, "and as the river seems to be flowing in the direction of the Pyramid Mountain it will be the easiest way for us to travel." Zeb hitched Jim to the buggy again, and the horse trotted along and drew them rapidly over the smooth water. The kitten was at first dreadfully afraid of getting wet, but Dorothy let her down and soon Eureka was frisking along beside the buggy without being scared a bit. Once a little fish swam too near the surface, and the kitten grabbed it in her mouth and ate it up as quick as a wink; but Dorothy cautioned her to be careful what she ate in this valley of enchantments, and no more fishes were careless enough to swim within reach. After a journey of several hours they came to a point where the river curved, and they found they must cross a mile or so of the Valley before they came to the Pyramid Mountain. There were few houses in this part, and few orchards or flowers; so our friends feared they might encounter more of the savage bears, which they had learned to dread with all their hearts. "You'll have to make a dash, Jim," said the Wizard, "and run as fast as you can go." "All right," answered the horse; "I'll do my best. But you must remember I'm old, and my dashing days are past and gone." All three got into the buggy and Zeb picked up the reins, though Jim needed no guidance of any sort. The horse was still smarting from the sharp claws of the invisible bears, and as soon as he was on land and headed toward the mountain the thought that more of those fearsome creatures might be near acted as a spur and sent him galloping along in a way that made Dorothy catch her breath. Then Zeb, in a spirit of mischief, uttered a growl like that of the bears, and Jim pricked up his ears and fairly flew. His boney legs moved so fast they could scarcely be seen, and the Wizard clung fast to the seat and yelled "Whoa!" at the top of his voice. "I--I'm 'fraid he's--he's running away!" gasped Dorothy. "I _know_ he is," said Zeb; "but no bear can catch him if he keeps up that gait--and the harness or the buggy don't break." Jim did not make a mile a minute; but almost before they were aware of it he drew up at the foot of the mountain, so suddenly that the Wizard and Zeb both sailed over the dashboard and landed in the soft grass--where they rolled over several times before they stopped. Dorothy nearly went with them, but she was holding fast to the iron rail of the seat, and that saved her. She squeezed the kitten, though, until it screeched; and then the old cab-horse made several curious sounds that led the little girl to suspect he was laughing at them all. [Illustration] CHAPTER 10. THE BRAIDED MAN OF PYRAMID MOUNTAIN The mountain before them was shaped like a cone and was so tall that its point was lost in the clouds. Directly facing the place where Jim had stopped was an arched opening leading to a broad stairway. The stairs were cut in the rock inside the mountain, and they were broad and not very steep, because they circled around like a cork-screw, and at the arched opening where the flight began the circle was quite big. At the foot of the stairs was a sign reading: WARNING. These steps lead to the Land of the Gargoyles. DANGER! KEEP OUT. "I wonder how Jim is ever going to draw the buggy up so many stairs," said Dorothy, gravely. "No trouble at all," declared the horse, with a contemptuous neigh. "Still, I don't care to drag any passengers. You'll all have to walk." "Suppose the stairs get steeper?" suggested Zeb, doubtfully. "Then you'll have to boost the buggy-wheels, that's all," answered Jim. "We'll try it, anyway," said the Wizard. "It's the only way to get out of the Valley of Voe." So they began to ascend the stairs, Dorothy and the Wizard first, Jim next, drawing the buggy, and then Zeb to watch that nothing happened to the harness. The light was dim, and soon they mounted into total darkness, so that the Wizard was obliged to get out his lanterns to light the way. But this enabled them to proceed steadily until they came to a landing where there was a rift in the side of the mountain that let in both light and air. Looking through this opening they could see the Valley of Voe lying far below them, the cottages seeming like toy houses from that distance. After resting a few moments they resumed their climb, and still the stairs were broad and low enough for Jim to draw the buggy easily after him. The old horse panted a little, and had to stop often to get his breath. At such times they were all glad to wait for him, for continually climbing up stairs is sure to make one's legs ache. They wound about, always going upward, for some time. The lights from the lanterns dimly showed the way, but it was a gloomy journey, and they were pleased when a broad streak of light ahead assured them they were coming to a second landing. Here one side of the mountain had a great hole in it, like the mouth of a cavern, and the stairs stopped at the near edge of the floor and commenced ascending again at the opposite edge. The opening in the mountain was on the side opposite to the Valley of Voe, and our travellers looked out upon a strange scene. Below them was a vast space, at the bottom of which was a black sea with rolling billows, through which little tongues of flame constantly shot up. Just above them, and almost on a level with their platform, were banks of rolling clouds which constantly shifted position and changed color. The blues and greys were very beautiful, and Dorothy noticed that on the cloud banks sat or reclined fleecy, shadowy forms of beautiful beings who must have been the Cloud Fairies. Mortals who stand upon the earth and look up at the sky cannot often distinguish these forms, but our friends were now so near to the clouds that they observed the dainty fairies very clearly. "Are they real?" asked Zeb, in an awed voice. "Of course," replied Dorothy, softly. "They are the Cloud Fairies." "They seem like open-work," remarked the boy, gazing intently. "If I should squeeze one, there wouldn't be anything left of it." In the open space between the clouds and the black, bubbling sea far beneath, could be seen an occasional strange bird winging its way swiftly through the air. These birds were of enormous size, and reminded Zeb of the rocs he had read about in the Arabian Nights. They had fierce eyes and sharp talons and beaks, and the children hoped none of them would venture into the cavern. "Well, I declare!" suddenly exclaimed the little Wizard. "What in the world is this?" They turned around and found a man standing on the floor in the center of the cave, who bowed very politely when he saw he had attracted their attention. He was a very old man, bent nearly double; but the queerest thing about him was his white hair and beard. These were so long that they reached to his feet, and both the hair and the beard were carefully plaited into many braids, and the end of each braid fastened with a bow of colored ribbon. "Where did you come from?" asked Dorothy, wonderingly. "No place at all," answered the man with the braids; "that is, not recently. Once I lived on top the earth, but for many years I have had my factory in this spot--half way up Pyramid Mountain." "Are we only half way up?" enquired the boy, in a discouraged tone. "I believe so, my lad," replied the braided man. "But as I have never been in either direction, down or up, since I arrived, I cannot be positive whether it is exactly half way or not." "Have you a factory in this place?" asked the Wizard, who had been examining the strange personage carefully. "To be sure," said the other. "I am a great inventor, you must know, and I manufacture my products in this lonely spot." "What are your products?" enquired the Wizard. "Well, I make Assorted Flutters for flags and bunting, and a superior grade of Rustles for ladies' silk gowns." "I thought so," said the Wizard, with a sigh. "May we examine some of these articles?" [Illustration: THE CLOUD FAIRIES.] [Illustration: THE BRAIDED MAN.] "Yes, indeed; come into my shop, please," and the braided man turned and led the way into a smaller cave, where he evidently lived. Here, on a broad shelf, were several card-board boxes of various sizes, each tied with cotton cord. "This," said the man, taking up a box and handling it gently, "contains twelve dozen rustles--enough to last any lady a year. Will you buy it, my dear?" he asked, addressing Dorothy. "My gown isn't silk," she said, smiling. "Never mind. When you open the box the rustles will escape, whether you are wearing a silk dress or not," said the man, seriously. Then he picked up another box. "In this," he continued, "are many assorted flutters. They are invaluable to make flags flutter on a still day, when there is no wind. You, sir," turning to the Wizard, "ought to have this assortment. Once you have tried my goods I am sure you will never be without them." "I have no money with me," said the Wizard, evasively. "I do not want money," returned the braided man, "for I could not spend it in this deserted place if I had it. But I would like very much a blue hair-ribbon. You will notice my braids are tied with yellow, pink, brown, red, green, white and black; but I have no blue ribbons." "I'll get you one!" cried Dorothy, who was sorry for the poor man; so she ran back to the buggy and took from her suit-case a pretty blue ribbon. It did her good to see how the braided man's eyes sparkled when he received this treasure. "You have made me very, very happy, my dear!" he exclaimed; and then he insisted on the Wizard taking the box of flutters and the little girl accepting the box of rustles. "You may need them, some time," he said, "and there is really no use in my manufacturing these things unless somebody uses them." "Why did you leave the surface of the earth?" enquired the Wizard. "I could not help it. It is a sad story, but if you will try to restrain your tears I will tell you about it. On earth I was a manufacturer of Imported Holes for American Swiss Cheese, and I will acknowledge that I supplied a superior article, which was in great demand. Also I made pores for porous plasters and high-grade holes for doughnuts and buttons. Finally I invented a new Adjustable Post-hole, which I thought would make my fortune. I manufactured a large quantity of these post-holes, and having no room in which to store them I set them all end to end and put the top one in the ground. That made an extraordinary long hole, as you may imagine, and reached far down into the earth; and, as I leaned over it to try to see to the bottom, I lost my balance and tumbled in. Unfortunately, the hole led directly into the vast space you see outside this mountain; but I managed to catch a point of rock that projected from this cavern, and so saved myself from tumbling headlong into the black waves beneath, where the tongues of flame that dart out would certainly have consumed me. Here, then, I made my home; and although it is a lonely place I amuse myself making rustles and flutters, and so get along very nicely." When the braided man had completed this strange tale Dorothy nearly laughed, because it was all so absurd; but the Wizard tapped his forehead significantly, to indicate that he thought the poor man was crazy. So they politely bade him good day, and went back to the outer cavern to resume their journey. [Illustration] CHAPTER 11. THEY MEET THE WOODEN GARGOYLES Another breathless climb brought our adventurers to a third landing where there was a rift in the mountain. On peering out all they could see was rolling banks of clouds, so thick that they obscured all else. But the travellers were obliged to rest, and while they were sitting on the rocky floor the Wizard felt in his pocket and brought out the nine tiny piglets. To his delight they were now plainly visible, which proved that they had passed beyond the influence of the magical Valley of Voe. "Why, we can see each other again!" cried one, joyfully. "Yes," sighed Eureka; "and I also can see you again, and the sight makes me dreadfully hungry. Please, Mr. Wizard, may I eat just one of the fat little piglets? You'd never miss _one_ of them, I'm sure!" "What a horrid, savage beast!" exclaimed a piglet; "and after we've been such good friends, too, and played with one another!" "When I'm not hungry, I love to play with you all," said the kitten, demurely; "but when my stomach is empty it seems that nothing would fill it so nicely as a fat piglet." "And we trusted you so!" said another of the nine, reproachfully. "And thought you were respectable!" said another. "It seems we were mistaken," declared a third, looking at the kitten timorously, "no one with such murderous desires should belong to our party, I'm sure." "You see, Eureka," remarked Dorothy, reprovingly, "you are making yourself disliked. There are certain things proper for a kitten to eat; but I never heard of a kitten eating a pig, under _any_ cir'stances." "Did you ever see such little pigs before?" asked the kitten. "They are no bigger than mice, and I'm sure mice are proper for me to eat." "It isn't the bigness, dear; its the variety," replied the girl. "These are Mr. Wizard's pets, just as you are my pet, and it wouldn't be any more proper for you to eat them than it would be for Jim to eat you." "And that's just what I shall do if you don't let those little balls of pork alone," said Jim, glaring at the kitten with his round, big eyes. "If you injure any one of them I'll chew you up instantly." The kitten looked at the horse thoughtfully, as if trying to decide whether he meant it or not. "In that case," she said, "I'll leave them alone. You haven't many teeth left, Jim, but the few you have are sharp enough to make me shudder. So the piglets will be perfectly safe, hereafter, as far as I am concerned." "That is right, Eureka," remarked the Wizard, earnestly. "Let us all be a happy family and love one another." Eureka yawned and stretched herself. "I've always loved the piglets," she said; "but they don't love me." "No one can love a person he's afraid of," asserted Dorothy. "If you behave, and don't scare the little pigs, I'm sure they'll grow very fond of you." The Wizard now put the nine tiny ones back into his pocket and the journey was resumed. "We must be pretty near the top, now," said the boy, as they climbed wearily up the dark, winding stairway. "The Country of the Gurgles can't be far from the top of the earth," remarked Dorothy. "It isn't very nice down here. I'd like to get home again, I'm sure." No one replied to this, because they found they needed all their breath for the climb. The stairs had become narrower and Zeb and the Wizard often had to help Jim pull the buggy from one step to another, or keep it from jamming against the rocky walls. At last, however, a dim light appeared ahead of them, which grew clearer and stronger as they advanced. "Thank goodness we're nearly there!" panted the little Wizard. Jim, who was in advance, saw the last stair before him and stuck his head above the rocky sides of the stairway. Then he halted, ducked down and began to back up, so that he nearly fell with the buggy onto the others. "Let's go down again!" he said, in his hoarse voice. "Nonsense!" snapped the tired Wizard. "What's the matter with you, old man?" "Everything," grumbled the horse. "I've taken a look at this place, and it's no fit country for real creatures to go to. Everything's dead, up there--no flesh or blood or growing thing anywhere." "Never mind; we can't turn back," said Dorothy; "and we don't intend to stay there, anyhow." "It's dangerous," growled Jim, in a stubborn tone. "See here, my good steed," broke in the Wizard, "little Dorothy and I have been in many queer countries in our travels, and always escaped without harm. We've even been to the marvelous Land of Oz--haven't we, Dorothy?--so we don't much care what the Country of the Gargoyles is like. Go ahead, Jim, and whatever happens we'll make the best of it." "All right," answered the horse; "this is your excursion, and not mine; so if you get into trouble don't blame me." With this speech he bent forward and dragged the buggy up the remaining steps. The others followed and soon they were all standing upon a broad platform and gazing at the most curious and startling sight their eyes had ever beheld. "The Country of the Gargoyles is all wooden!" exclaimed Zeb; and so it was. The ground was sawdust and the pebbles scattered around were hard knots from trees, worn smooth in course of time. There were odd wooden houses, with carved wooden flowers in the front yards. The tree-trunks were of coarse wood, but the leaves of the trees were shavings. The patches of grass were splinters of wood, and where neither grass nor sawdust showed was a solid wooden flooring. Wooden birds fluttered among the trees and wooden cows were browsing upon the wooden grass; but the most amazing things of all were the wooden people--the creatures known as Gargoyles. These were very numerous, for the palace was thickly inhabited, and a large group of the queer people clustered near, gazing sharply upon the strangers who had emerged from the long spiral stairway. The Gargoyles were very small of stature, being less than three feet in height. Their bodies were round, their legs short and thick and their arms extraordinarily long and stout. Their heads were too big for their bodies and their faces were decidedly ugly to look upon. Some had long, curved noses and chins, small eyes and wide, grinning mouths. Others had flat noses, protruding eyes, and ears that were shaped like those of an elephant. There were many types, indeed, scarcely two being alike; but all were equally disagreeable in appearance. The tops of their heads had no hair, but were carved into a variety of fantastic shapes, some having a row of points or balls around the top, other designs resembling flowers or vegetables, and still others having squares that looked like waffles cut criss-cross on their heads. They all wore short wooden wings which were fastened to their wooden bodies by means of wooden hinges with wooden screws, and with these wings they flew swiftly and noiselessly here and there, their legs being of little use to them. This noiseless motion was one of the most peculiar things about the Gargoyles. They made no sounds at all, either in flying or trying to speak, and they conversed mainly by means of quick signals made with their wooden fingers or lips. Neither was there any sound to be heard anywhere throughout the wooden country. The birds did not sing, nor did the cows moo; yet there was more than ordinary activity everywhere. The group of these queer creatures which was discovered clustered near the stairs at first remained staring and motionless, glaring with evil eyes at the intruders who had so suddenly appeared in their land. In turn the Wizard and the children, the horse and the kitten, examined the Gargoyles with the same silent attention. "There's going to be trouble, I'm sure," remarked the horse. "Unhitch those tugs, Zeb, and set me free from the buggy, so I can fight comfortably." "Jim's right," sighed the Wizard. "There's going to be trouble, and my sword isn't stout enough to cut up those wooden bodies--so I shall have to get out my revolvers." He got his satchel from the buggy and, opening it, took out two deadly looking revolvers that made the children shrink back in alarm just to look at. "What harm can the Gurgles do?" asked Dorothy. "They have no weapons to hurt us with." "Each of their arms is a wooden club," answered the little man, "and I'm sure the creatures mean mischief, by the looks of their eyes. Even these revolvers can merely succeed in damaging a few of their wooden bodies, and after that we will be at their mercy." "But why fight at all, in that case?" asked the girl. "So I may die with a clear conscience," returned the Wizard, gravely. "It's every man's duty to do the best he knows how; and I'm going to do it." "Wish I had an axe," said Zeb, who by now had unhitched the horse. "If we had known we were coming we might have brought along several other useful things," responded the Wizard. "But we dropped into this adventure rather unexpectedly." The Gargoyles had backed away a distance when they heard the sound of talking, for although our friends had spoken in low tones their words seemed loud in the silence surrounding them. But as soon as the conversation ceased the grinning, ugly creatures arose in a flock and flew swiftly toward the strangers, their long arms stretched out before them like the bowsprits of a fleet of sail-boats. The horse had especially attracted their notice, because it was the biggest and strangest creature they had ever seen; so it became the center of their first attack. But Jim was ready for them, and when he saw them coming he turned his heels toward them and began kicking out as hard as he could. Crack! crash! bang! went his iron-shod hoofs against the wooden bodies of the Gargoyles, and they were battered right and left with such force that they scattered like straws in the wind. But the noise and clatter seemed as dreadful to them as Jim's heels, for all who were able swiftly turned and flew away to a great distance. The others picked themselves up from the ground one by one and quickly rejoined their fellows, so for a moment the horse thought he had won the fight with ease. But the Wizard was not so confident. "Those wooden things are impossible to hurt," he said, "and all the damage Jim has done to them is to knock a few splinters from their noses and ears. That cannot make them look any uglier, I'm sure, and it is my opinion they will soon renew the attack." "What made them fly away?" asked Dorothy. "The noise, of course. Don't you remember how the Champion escaped them by shouting his battle-cry?" "Suppose we escape down the stairs, too," suggested the boy. "We have time, just now, and I'd rather face the invis'ble bears than those wooden imps." "No," returned Dorothy, stoutly, "it won't do to go back, for then we would never get home. Let's fight it out." "That is what I advise," said the Wizard. "They haven't defeated us yet, and Jim is worth a whole army." But the Gargoyles were clever enough not to attack the horse the next time. They advanced in a great swarm, having been joined by many more of their kind, and they flew straight over Jim's head to where the others were standing. The Wizard raised one of his revolvers and fired into the throng of his enemies, and the shot resounded like a clap of thunder in that silent place. Some of the wooden beings fell flat upon the ground, where they quivered and trembled in every limb; but most of them managed to wheel and escape again to a distance. Zeb ran and picked up one of the Gargoyles that lay nearest to him. The top of its head was carved into a crown and the Wizard's bullet had struck it exactly in the left eye, which was a hard wooden knot. Half of the bullet stuck in the wood and half stuck out, so it had been the jar and the sudden noise that had knocked the creature down, more than the fact that it was really hurt. Before this crowned Gargoyle had recovered himself Zeb had wound a strap several times around its body, confining its wings and arms so that it could not move. Then, having tied the wooden creature securely, the boy buckled the strap and tossed his prisoner into the buggy. By that time the others had all retired. [Illustration] CHAPTER 12. A WONDERFUL ESCAPE For a while the enemy hesitated to renew the attack. Then a few of them advanced until another shot from the Wizard's revolver made them retreat. "That's fine," said Zeb. "We've got 'em on the run now, sure enough." "But only for a time," replied the Wizard, shaking his head gloomily. "These revolvers are good for six shots each, but when those are gone we shall be helpless." The Gargoyles seemed to realize this, for they sent a few of their band time after time to attack the strangers and draw the fire from the little man's revolvers. In this way none of them was shocked by the dreadful report more than once, for the main band kept far away and each time a new company was sent into the battle. When the Wizard had fired all of his twelve bullets he had caused no damage to the enemy except to stun a few by the noise, and so he was no nearer to victory than in the beginning of the fray. [Illustration: THE WIZARD FIRED INTO THE THRONG.] "What shall we do now?" asked Dorothy, anxiously. "Let's yell--all together," said Zeb. "And fight at the same time," added the Wizard. "We will get near Jim, so that he can help us, and each one must take some weapon and do the best he can. I'll use my sword, although it isn't much account in this affair. Dorothy must take her parasol and open it suddenly when the wooden folks attack her. I haven't anything for you, Zeb." "I'll use the king," said the boy, and pulled his prisoner out of the buggy. The bound Gargoyle's arms extended far out beyond its head, so by grasping its wrists Zeb found the king made a very good club. The boy was strong for one of his years, having always worked upon a farm; so he was likely to prove more dangerous to the enemy than the Wizard. When the next company of Gargoyles advanced, our adventurers began yelling as if they had gone mad. Even the kitten gave a dreadfully shrill scream and at the same time Jim the cab-horse neighed loudly. This daunted the enemy for a time, but the defenders were soon out of breath. Perceiving this, as well as the fact that there were no more of the awful "bangs" to come from the revolvers, the Gargoyles advanced in a swarm as thick as bees, so that the air was filled with them. Dorothy squatted upon the ground and put up her parasol, which nearly covered her and proved a great protection. The Wizard's sword-blade snapped into a dozen pieces at the first blow he struck against the wooden people. Zeb pounded away with the Gargoyle he was using as a club until he had knocked down dozens of foes; but at the last they clustered so thickly about him that he no longer had room in which to swing his arms. The horse performed some wonderful kicking and even Eureka assisted when she leaped bodily upon the Gargoyles and scratched and bit at them like a wild-cat. But all this bravery amounted to nothing at all. The wooden things wound their long arms around Zeb and the Wizard and held them fast. Dorothy was captured in the same way, and numbers of the Gargoyles clung to Jim's legs, so weighting him down that the poor beast was helpless. Eureka made a desperate dash to escape and scampered along the ground like a streak; but a grinning Gargoyle flew after her and grabbed her before she had gone very far. All of them expected nothing less than instant death; but to their surprise the wooden creatures flew into the air with them and bore them far away, over miles and miles of wooden country, until they came to a wooden city. The houses of this city had many corners, being square and six-sided and eight-sided. They were tower-like in shape and the best of them seemed old and weather-worn; yet all were strong and substantial. To one of these houses which had neither doors nor windows, but only one broad opening far up underneath the roof, the prisoners were brought by their captors. The Gargoyles roughly pushed them into the opening, where there was a platform, and then flew away and left them. As they had no wings the strangers could not fly away, and if they jumped down from such a height they would surely be killed. The creatures had sense enough to reason that way, and the only mistake they made was in supposing the earth people were unable to overcome such ordinary difficulties. Jim was brought with the others, although it took a good many Gargoyles to carry the big beast through the air and land him on the high platform, and the buggy was thrust in after him because it belonged to the party and the wooden folks had no idea what it was used for or whether it was alive or not. When Eureka's captor had thrown the kitten after the others the last Gargoyle silently disappeared, leaving our friends to breathe freely once more. "What an awful fight!" said Dorothy, catching her breath in little gasps. "Oh, I don't know," purred Eureka, smoothing her ruffled fur with her paw; "we didn't manage to hurt anybody, and nobody managed to hurt us." "Thank goodness we are together again, even if we are prisoners," sighed the little girl. "I wonder why they didn't kill us on the spot," remarked Zeb, who had lost his king in the struggle. "They are probably keeping us for some ceremony," the Wizard answered, reflectively; "but there is no doubt they intend to kill us as dead as possible in a short time." "As dead as poss'ble would be pretty dead, wouldn't it?" asked Dorothy. "Yes, my dear. But we have no need to worry about that just now. Let us examine our prison and see what it is like." The space underneath the roof, where they stood, permitted them to see on all sides of the tall building, and they looked with much curiosity at the city spread out beneath them. Everything visible was made of wood, and the scene seemed stiff and extremely unnatural. From their platform a stair descended into the house, and the children and the Wizard explored it after lighting a lantern to show them the way. Several stories of empty rooms rewarded their search, but nothing more; so after a time they came back to the platform again. Had there been any doors or windows in the lower rooms, or had not the boards of the house been so thick and stout, escape would have been easy; but to remain down below was like being in a cellar or the hold of a ship, and they did not like the darkness or the damp smell. In this country, as in all others they had visited underneath the earth's surface, there was no night, a constant and strong light coming from some unknown source. Looking out, they could see into some of the houses near them, where there were open windows in abundance, and were able to mark the forms of the wooden Gargoyles moving about in their dwellings. "This seems to be their time of rest," observed the Wizard. "All people need rest, even if they are made of wood, and as there is no night here they select a certain time of the day in which to sleep or doze." "I feel sleepy myself," remarked Zeb, yawning. "Why, where's Eureka?" cried Dorothy, suddenly. They all looked around, but the kitten was no place to be seen. "She's gone out for a walk," said Jim, gruffly. "Where? On the roof?" asked the girl. "No; she just dug her claws into the wood and climbed down the sides of this house to the ground." "She couldn't climb _down_, Jim," said Dorothy. "To climb means to go up." "Who said so?" demanded the horse. "My school-teacher said so; and she knows a lot, Jim." "To 'climb down' is sometimes used as a figure of speech," remarked the Wizard. "Well, this was a figure of a cat," said Jim, "and she _went_ down, anyhow, whether she climbed or crept." "Dear me! how careless Eureka is," exclaimed the girl, much distressed. "The Gurgles will get her, sure!" "Ha, ha!" chuckled the old cab-horse; "they're not 'Gurgles,' little maid; they're Gargoyles." "Never mind; they'll get Eureka, whatever they're called." "No they won't," said the voice of the kitten, and Eureka herself crawled over the edge of the platform and sat down quietly upon the floor. "Wherever have you been, Eureka?" asked Dorothy, sternly. "Watching the wooden folks. They're too funny for anything, Dorothy. Just now they are all going to bed, and--what do you think?--they unhook the hinges of their wings and put them in a corner until they wake up again." "What, the hinges?" "No; the wings." "That," said Zeb, "explains why this house is used by them for a prison. If any of the Gargoyles act badly, and have to be put in jail, they are brought here and their wings unhooked and taken away from them until they promise to be good." The Wizard had listened intently to what Eureka had said. "I wish we had some of those loose wings," he said. "Could we fly with them?" asked Dorothy. "I think so. If the Gargoyles can unhook the wings then the power to fly lies in the wings themselves, and not in the wooden bodies of the people who wear them. So, if we had the wings, we could probably fly as well as they do--at least while we are in their country and under the spell of its magic." "But how would it help us to be able to fly?" questioned the girl. "Come here," said the little man, and took her to one of the corners of the building. "Do you see that big rock standing on the hillside yonder?" he continued, pointing with his finger. "Yes; it's a good way off, but I can see it," she replied. "Well, inside that rock, which reaches up into the clouds, is an archway very much like the one we entered when we climbed the spiral stairway from the Valley of Voe. I'll get my spy-glass, and then you can see it more plainly." He fetched a small but powerful telescope, which had been in his satchel, and by its aid the little girl clearly saw the opening. "Where does it lead to?" she asked. "That I cannot tell," said the Wizard; "but we cannot now be far below the earth's surface, and that entrance may lead to another stairway that will bring us on top of our world again, where we belong. So, if we had the wings, and could escape the Gargoyles, we might fly to that rock and be saved." "I'll get you the wings," said Zeb, who had thoughtfully listened to all this. "That is, if the kitten will show me where they are." "But how can you get down?" enquired the girl, wonderingly. For answer Zeb began to unfasten Jim's harness, strap by strap, and to buckle one piece to another until he had made a long leather strip that would reach to the ground. [Illustration: THE FIGHT WITH THE GARGOYLES.] "I can climb down that, all right," he said. "No you can't," remarked Jim, with a twinkle in his round eyes. "You may _go_ down, but you can only _climb_ up." "Well, I'll climb up when I get back, then," said the boy, with a laugh. "Now, Eureka, you'll have to show me the way to those wings." "You must be very quiet," warned the kitten; "for if you make the least noise the Gargoyles will wake up. They can hear a pin drop." "I'm not going to drop a pin," said Zeb. He had fastened one end of the strap to a wheel of the buggy, and now he let the line dangle over the side of the house. "Be careful," cautioned Dorothy, earnestly. "I will," said the boy, and let himself slide over the edge. The girl and the Wizard leaned over and watched Zeb work his way carefully downward, hand over hand, until he stood upon the ground below. Eureka clung with her claws to the wooden side of the house and let herself down easily. Then together they crept away to enter the low doorway of a neighboring dwelling. The watchers waited in breathless suspense until the boy again appeared, his arms now full of the wooden wings. When he came to where the strap was hanging he tied the wings all in a bunch to the end of the line, and the Wizard drew them up. Then the line was let down again for Zeb to climb up by. Eureka quickly followed him, and soon they were all standing together upon the platform, with eight of the much prized wooden wings beside them. The boy was no longer sleepy, but full of energy and excitement. He put the harness together again and hitched Jim to the buggy. Then, with the Wizard's help, he tried to fasten some of the wings to the old cab-horse. This was no easy task, because half of each one of the hinges of the wings was missing, it being still fastened to the body of the Gargoyle who had used it. However, the Wizard went once more to his satchel--which seemed to contain a surprising variety of odds and ends--and brought out a spool of strong wire, by means of which they managed to fasten four of the wings to Jim's harness, two near his head and two near his tail. They were a bit wiggley, but secure enough if only the harness held together. The other four wings were then fastened to the buggy, two on each side, for the buggy must bear the weight of the children and the Wizard as it flew through the air. [Illustration: JIM FLUTTERED AND FLOUNDERED THROUGH THE AIR.] These preparations had not consumed a great deal of time, but the sleeping Gargoyles were beginning to wake up and move around, and soon some of them would be hunting for their missing wings. So the prisoners resolved to leave their prison at once. They mounted into the buggy, Dorothy holding Eureka safe in her lap. The girl sat in the middle of the seat, with Zeb and the Wizard on each side of her. When all was ready the boy shook the reins and said: "Fly away, Jim!" "Which wings must I flop first?" asked the cab-horse, undecidedly. "Flop them all together," suggested the Wizard. "Some of them are crooked," objected the horse. "Never mind; we will steer with the wings on the buggy," said Zeb. "Just you light out and make for that rock, Jim; and don't waste any time about it, either." So the horse gave a groan, flopped its four wings all together, and flew away from the platform. Dorothy was a little anxious about the success of their trip, for the way Jim arched his long neck and spread out his bony legs as he fluttered and floundered through the air was enough to make anybody nervous. He groaned, too, as if frightened, and the wings creaked dreadfully because the Wizard had forgotten to oil them; but they kept fairly good time with the wings of the buggy, so that they made excellent progress from the start. The only thing that anyone could complain of with justice was the fact that they wobbled first up and then down, as if the road were rocky instead of being as smooth as the air could make it. The main point, however, was that they flew, and flew swiftly, if a bit unevenly, toward the rock for which they had headed. Some of the Gargoyles saw them, presently, and lost no time in collecting a band to pursue the escaping prisoners; so that when Dorothy happened to look back she saw them coming in a great cloud that almost darkened the sky. [Illustration] CHAPTER 13. THE DEN OF THE DRAGONETTES Our friends had a good start and were able to maintain it, for with their eight wings they could go just as fast as could the Gargoyles. All the way to the great rock the wooden people followed them, and when Jim finally alighted at the mouth of the cavern the pursuers were still some distance away. "But, I'm afraid they'll catch us yet," said Dorothy, greatly excited. "No; we must stop them," declared the Wizard. "Quick Zeb, help me pull off these wooden wings!" They tore off the wings, for which they had no further use, and the Wizard piled them in a heap just outside the entrance to the cavern. Then he poured over them all the kerosene oil that was left in his oil-can, and lighting a match set fire to the pile. The flames leaped up at once and the bonfire began to smoke and roar and crackle just as the great army of wooden Gargoyles arrived. The creatures drew back at once, being filled with fear and horror; for such a dreadful thing as a fire they had never before known in all the history of their wooden land. Inside the archway were several doors, leading to different rooms built into the mountain, and Zeb and the Wizard lifted these wooden doors from their hinges and tossed them all on the flames. "That will prove a barrier for some time to come," said the little man, smiling pleasantly all over his wrinkled face at the success of their stratagem. "Perhaps the flames will set fire to all that miserable wooden country, and if it does the loss will be very small and the Gargoyles never will be missed. But come, my children; let us explore the mountain and discover which way we must go in order to escape from this cavern, which is getting to be almost as hot as a bake-oven." To their disappointment there was within this mountain no regular flight of steps by means of which they could mount to the earth's surface. A sort of inclined tunnel led upward for a way, and they found the floor of it both rough and steep. Then a sudden turn brought them to a narrow gallery where the buggy could not pass. This delayed and bothered them for a while, because they did not wish to leave the buggy behind them. It carried their baggage and was useful to ride in wherever there were good roads, and since it had accompanied them so far in their travels they felt it their duty to preserve it. So Zeb and the Wizard set to work and took off the wheels and the top, and then they put the buggy edgewise, so it would take up the smallest space. In this position they managed, with the aid of the patient cab-horse, to drag the vehicle through the narrow part of the passage. It was not a great distance, fortunately, and when the path grew broader they put the buggy together again and proceeded more comfortably. But the road was nothing more than a series of rifts or cracks in the mountain, and it went zig-zag in every direction, slanting first up and then down until they were puzzled as to whether they were any nearer to the top of the earth than when they had started, hours before. "Anyhow," said Dorothy, "we've 'scaped those awful Gurgles, and that's _one_ comfort!" [Illustration: "WHY IT'S A DRAGON!"] "Probably the Gargoyles are still busy trying to put out the fire," returned the Wizard. "But even if they succeeded in doing that it would be very difficult for them to fly amongst these rocks; so I am sure we need fear them no longer." Once in a while they would come to a deep crack in the floor, which made the way quite dangerous; but there was still enough oil in the lanterns to give them light, and the cracks were not so wide but that they were able to jump over them. Sometimes they had to climb over heaps of loose rock, where Jim could scarcely drag the buggy. At such times Dorothy, Zeb and the Wizard all pushed behind, and lifted the wheels over the roughest places; so they managed, by dint of hard work, to keep going. But the little party was both weary and discouraged when at last, on turning a sharp corner, the wanderers found themselves in a vast cave arching high over their heads and having a smooth, level floor. The cave was circular in shape, and all around its edge, near to the ground, appeared groups of dull yellow lights, two of them being always side by side. These were motionless at first, but soon began to flicker more brightly and to sway slowly from side to side and then up and down. "What sort of a place is this?" asked the boy, trying to see more clearly through the gloom. "I cannot imagine, I'm sure," answered the Wizard, also peering about. "Woogh!" snarled Eureka, arching her back until her hair stood straight on end; "it's a den of alligators, or crocodiles, or some other dreadful creatures! Don't you see their terrible eyes?" "Eureka sees better in the dark than we can," whispered Dorothy. "Tell us, dear, what do the creatures look like?" she asked, addressing her pet. "I simply can't describe 'em," answered the kitten, shuddering. "Their eyes are like pie-plates and their mouths like coal-scuttles. But their bodies don't seem very big." "Where are they?" enquired the girl. "They are in little pockets all around the edge of this cavern. Oh, Dorothy--you can't imagine what horrid things they are! They're uglier than the Gargoyles." "Tut-tut! be careful how you criticise your neighbors," spoke a rasping voice near by. "As a matter of fact you are rather ugly-looking creatures yourselves, and I'm sure mother has often told us we were the loveliest and prettiest things in all the world." Hearing these words our friends turned in the direction of the sound, and the Wizard held his lanterns so that their light would flood one of the little pockets in the rock. "Why, it's a dragon!" he exclaimed. "No," answered the owner of the big yellow eyes which were blinking at them so steadily; "you are wrong about that. We hope to grow to be dragons some day, but just now we're only dragonettes." "What's that?" asked Dorothy, gazing fearfully at the great scaley head, the yawning mouth and the big eyes. "Young dragons, of course; but we are not allowed to call ourselves real dragons until we get our full growth," was the reply. "The big dragons are very proud, and don't think children amount to much; but mother says that some day we will all be very powerful and important." "Where is your mother?" asked the Wizard, anxiously looking around. "She has gone up to the top of the earth to hunt for our dinner. If she has good luck she will bring us an elephant, or a brace of rhinoceri, or perhaps a few dozen people to stay our hunger." "Oh; are you hungry?" enquired Dorothy, drawing back. "Very," said the dragonette, snapping its jaws. "And--and--do you eat people?" "To be sure, when we can get them. But they've been very scarce for a few years and we usually have to be content with elephants or buffaloes," answered the creature, in a regretful tone. "How old are you?" enquired Zeb, who stared at the yellow eyes as if fascinated. "Quite young, I grieve to say; and all of my brothers and sisters that you see here are practically my own age. If I remember rightly, we were sixty-six years old the day before yesterday." "But that isn't young!" cried Dorothy, in amazement. "No?" drawled the dragonette; "it seems to me very babyish." "How old is your mother?" asked the girl. "Mother's about two thousand years old; but she carelessly lost track of her age a few centuries ago and skipped several hundreds. She's a little fussy, you know, and afraid of growing old, being a widow and still in her prime." "I should think she would be," agreed Dorothy. Then, after a moment's thought, she asked: "Are we friends or enemies? I mean, will you be good to us, or do you intend to eat us?" "As for that, we dragonettes would love to eat you, my child; but unfortunately mother has tied all our tails around the rocks at the back of our individual caves, so that we can not crawl out to get you. If you choose to come nearer we will make a mouthful of you in a wink; but unless you do you will remain quite safe." There was a regretful accent in the creature's voice, and at the words all the other dragonettes sighed dismally. Dorothy felt relieved. Presently she asked: "Why did your mother tie your tails?" "Oh, she is sometimes gone for several weeks on her hunting trips, and if we were not tied we would crawl all over the mountain and fight with each other and get into a lot of mischief. Mother usually knows what she is about, but she made a mistake this time; for you are sure to escape us unless you come too near, and you probably won't do that." "No, indeed!" said the little girl. "We don't wish to be eaten by such awful beasts." "Permit me to say," returned the dragonette, "that you are rather impolite to call us names, knowing that we cannot resent your insults. We consider ourselves very beautiful in appearance, for mother has told us so, and she knows. And we are of an excellent family and have a pedigree that I challenge any humans to equal, as it extends back about twenty thousand years, to the time of the famous Green Dragon of Atlantis, who lived in a time when humans had not yet been created. Can you match that pedigree, little girl?" "Well," said Dorothy, "I was born on a farm in Kansas, and I guess that's being just as 'spectable and haughty as living in a cave with your tail tied to a rock. If it isn't I'll have to stand it, that's all." "Tastes differ," murmured the dragonette, slowly drooping its scaley eyelids over its yellow eyes, until they looked like half-moons. Being reassured by the fact that the creatures could not crawl out of their rock-pockets, the children and the Wizard now took time to examine them more closely. The heads of the dragonettes were as big as barrels and covered with hard, greenish scales that glittered brightly under the light of the lanterns. Their front legs, which grew just back of their heads, were also strong and big; but their bodies were smaller around than their heads, and dwindled away in a long line until their tails were slim as a shoe-string. Dorothy thought, if it had taken them sixty-six years to grow to this size, that it would be fully a hundred years more before they could hope to call themselves dragons, and that seemed like a good while to wait to grow up. "It occurs to me," said the Wizard, "that we ought to get out of this place before the mother dragon comes back." "Don't hurry," called one of the dragonettes; "mother will be glad to meet you, I'm sure." "You may be right," replied the Wizard, "but we're a little particular about associating with strangers. Will you kindly tell us which way your mother went to get on top the earth?" "That is not a fair question to ask us," declared another dragonette. "For, if we told you truly, you might escape us altogether; and if we told you an untruth we would be naughty and deserve to be punished." "Then," decided Dorothy, "we must find our way out the best we can." They circled all around the cavern, keeping a good distance away from the blinking yellow eyes of the dragonettes, and presently discovered that there were two paths leading from the wall opposite to the place where they had entered. They selected one of these at a venture and hurried along it as fast as they could go, for they had no idea when the mother dragon would be back and were very anxious not to make her acquaintance. [Illustration] Chapter 14. OZMA USES THE MAGIC BELT For a considerable distance the way led straight upward in a gentle incline, and the wanderers made such good progress that they grew hopeful and eager, thinking they might see sunshine at any minute. But at length they came unexpectedly upon a huge rock that shut off the passage and blocked them from proceeding a single step farther. This rock was separate from the rest of the mountain and was in motion, turning slowly around and around as if upon a pivot. When first they came to it there was a solid wall before them; but presently it revolved until there was exposed a wide, smooth path across it to the other side. This appeared so unexpectedly that they were unprepared to take advantage of it at first, and allowed the rocky wall to swing around again before they had decided to pass over. But they knew now that there was a means of escape and so waited patiently until the path appeared for the second time. The children and the Wizard rushed across the moving rock and sprang into the passage beyond, landing safely though a little out of breath. Jim the cab-horse came last, and the rocky wall almost caught him; for just as he leaped to the floor of the further passage the wall swung across it and a loose stone that the buggy wheels knocked against fell into the narrow crack where the rock turned, and became wedged there. They heard a crunching, grinding sound, a loud snap, and the turn-table came to a stop with its broadest surface shutting off the path from which they had come. "Never mind," said Zeb, "we don't want to get back, anyhow." "I'm not so sure of that," returned Dorothy. "The mother dragon may come down and catch us here." "It is possible," agreed the Wizard, "if this proves to be the path she usually takes. But I have been examining this tunnel, and I do not see any signs of so large a beast having passed through it." "Then we're all right," said the girl, "for if the dragon went the other way she can't poss'bly get to us now." "Of course not, my dear. But there is another thing to consider. The mother dragon probably knows the road to the earth's surface, and if she went the other way then we have come the wrong way," said the Wizard, thoughtfully. "Dear me!" cried Dorothy. "That would be unlucky, wouldn't it?" "Very. Unless this passage also leads to the top of the earth," said Zeb. "For my part, if we manage to get out of here I'll be glad it isn't the way the dragon goes." "So will I," returned Dorothy. "It's enough to have your pedigree flung in your face by those saucy dragonettes. No one knows what the mother might do." They now moved on again, creeping slowly up another steep incline. The lanterns were beginning to grow dim, and the Wizard poured the remaining oil from one into the other, so that the one light would last longer. But their journey was almost over, for in a short time they reached a small cave from which there was no further outlet. They did not realize their ill fortune at first, for their hearts were gladdened by the sight of a ray of sunshine coming through a small crack in the roof of the cave, far overhead. That meant that their world--the real world--was not very far away, and that the succession of perilous adventures they had encountered had at last brought them near the earth's surface, which meant home to them. But when the adventurers looked more carefully around them they discovered that they were in a strong prison from which there was no hope of escape. "But we're _almost_ on earth again," cried Dorothy, "for there is the sun--the most _beau'ful_ sun that shines!" and she pointed eagerly at the crack in the distant roof. "Almost on earth isn't being there," said the kitten, in a discontented tone. "It wouldn't be possible for even me to get up to that crack--or through it if I got there." "It appears that the path ends here," announced the Wizard, gloomily. "And there is no way to go back," added Zeb, with a low whistle of perplexity. "I was sure it would come to this, in the end," remarked the old cab-horse. "Folks don't fall into the middle of the earth and then get back again to tell of their adventures--not in real life. And the whole thing has been unnatural because that cat and I are both able to talk your language, and to understand the words you say." "And so can the nine tiny piglets," added Eureka. "Don't forget them, for I may have to eat them, after all." "I've heard animals talk before," said Dorothy, "and no harm came of it." "Were you ever before shut up in a cave, far under the earth, with no way of getting out?" enquired the horse, seriously. "No," answered Dorothy. "But don't you lose heart, Jim, for I'm sure this isn't the end of our story, by any means." The reference to the piglets reminded the Wizard that his pets had not enjoyed much exercise lately, and must be tired of their prison in his pocket. So he sat down upon the floor of the cave, brought the piglets out one by one, and allowed them to run around as much as they pleased. "My dears," he said to them, "I'm afraid I've got you into a lot of trouble, and that you will never again be able to leave this gloomy cave." "What's wrong?" asked a piglet. "We've been in the dark quite a while, and you may as well explain what has happened." The Wizard told them of the misfortune that had overtaken the wanderers. "Well," said another piglet, "you are a wizard, are you not?" "I am," replied the little man. "Then you can do a few wizzes and get us out of this hole," declared the tiny one, with much confidence. "I could if I happened to be a real wizard," returned the master sadly. "But I'm not, my piggy-wees; I'm a humbug wizard." "Nonsense!" cried several of the piglets, together. "You can ask Dorothy," said the little man, in an injured tone. "It's true enough," returned the girl, earnestly. "Our friend Oz is merely a humbug wizard, for he once proved it to me. He can do several very wonderful things--if he knows how. But he can't wiz a single thing if he hasn't the tools and machinery to work with." "Thank you, my dear, for doing me justice," responded the Wizard, gratefully. "To be accused of being a real wizard, when I'm not, is a slander I will not tamely submit to. But I am one of the greatest humbug wizards that ever lived, and you will realize this when we have all starved together and our bones are scattered over the floor of this lonely cave." "I don't believe we'll realize anything, when it comes to that," remarked Dorothy, who had been deep in thought. "But I'm not going to scatter my bones just yet, because I need them, and you prob'ly need yours, too." "We are helpless to escape," sighed the Wizard. "_We_ may be helpless," answered Dorothy, smiling at him, "but there are others who can do more than we can. Cheer up, friends. I'm sure Ozma will help us." "Ozma!" exclaimed the Wizard. "Who is Ozma?" "The girl that rules the marvelous Land of Oz," was the reply. "She's a friend of mine, for I met her in the Land of Ev, not long ago, and went to Oz with her." "For the second time?" asked the Wizard, with great interest. "Yes. The first time I went to Oz I found you there, ruling the Emerald City. After you went up in a balloon, and escaped us, I got back to Kansas by means of a pair of magical silver shoes." "I remember those shoes," said the little man, nodding. "They once belonged to the Wicked Witch. Have you them here with you?" "No; I lost them somewhere in the air," explained the child. "But the second time I went to the Land of Oz I owned the Nome King's Magic Belt, which is much more powerful than were the Silver Shoes." "Where is that Magic Belt?" enquired the Wizard, who had listened with great interest. "Ozma has it; for its powers won't work in a common, ordinary country like the United States. Anyone in a fairy country like the Land of Oz can do anything with it; so I left it with my friend the Princess Ozma, who used it to wish me in Australia with Uncle Henry." "And were you?" asked Zeb, astonished at what he heard. "Of course; in just a jiffy. And Ozma has an enchanted picture hanging in her room that shows her the exact scene where any of her friends may be, at any time she chooses. All she has to do is to say: 'I wonder what So-and-so is doing,' and at once the picture shows where her friend is and what the friend is doing. That's _real_ magic, Mr. Wizard; isn't it? Well, every day at four o'clock Ozma has promised to look at me in that picture, and if I am in need of help I am to make her a certain sign and she will put on the Nome King's Magic Belt and wish me to be with her in Oz." "Do you mean that Princess Ozma will see this cave in her enchanted picture, and see all of us here, and what we are doing?" demanded Zeb. "Of course; when it is four o'clock," she replied, with a laugh at his startled expression. "And when you make a sign she will bring you to her in the Land of Oz?" continued the boy. "That's it, exactly; by means of the Magic Belt." "Then," said the Wizard, "you will be saved, little Dorothy; and I am very glad of it. The rest of us will die much more cheerfully when we know you have escaped our sad fate." "_I_ won't die cheerfully!" protested the kitten. "There's nothing cheerful about dying that I could ever see, although they say a cat has nine lives, and so must die nine times." "Have you ever died yet?" enquired the boy. "No, and I'm not anxious to begin," said Eureka. "Don't worry, dear," Dorothy exclaimed, "I'll hold you in my arms, and take you with me." "Take us, too!" cried the nine tiny piglets, all in one breath. "Perhaps I can," answered Dorothy. "I'll try." "Couldn't you manage to hold me in your arms?" asked the cab-horse. Dorothy laughed. "I'll do better than that," she promised, "for I can easily save you all, once I am myself in the Land of Oz." "How?" they asked. "By using the Magic Belt. All I need do is to wish you with me, and there you'll be--safe in the royal palace!" "Good!" cried Zeb. "I built that palace, and the Emerald City, too," remarked the Wizard, in a thoughtful tone, "and I'd like to see them again, for I was very happy among the Munchkins and Winkies and Quadlings and Gillikins." "Who are they?" asked the boy. "The four nations that inhabit the Land of Oz," was the reply. "I wonder if they would treat me nicely if I went there again." "Of course they would!" declared Dorothy. "They are still proud of their former Wizard, and often speak of you kindly." "Do you happen to know whatever became of the Tin Woodman and the Scarecrow?" he enquired. "They live in Oz yet," said the girl, "and are very important people." "And the Cowardly Lion?" "Oh, he lives there too, with his friend the Hungry Tiger; and Billina is there, because she liked the place better than Kansas, and wouldn't go with me to Australia." "I'm afraid I don't know the Hungry Tiger and Billina," said the Wizard, shaking his head. "Is Billina a girl?" "No; she's a yellow hen, and a great friend of mine. You're sure to like Billina, when you know her," asserted Dorothy. "Your friends sound like a menagerie," remarked Zeb, uneasily. "Couldn't you wish me in some safer place than Oz." "Don't worry," replied the girl. "You'll just love the folks in Oz, when you get acquainted. What time is it, Mr. Wizard?" The little man looked at his watch--a big silver one that he carried in his vest pocket. "Half-past three," he said. "Then we must wait for half an hour," she continued; "but it won't take long, after that, to carry us all to the Emerald City." They sat silently thinking for a time. Then Jim suddenly asked: "Are there any horses in Oz?" "Only one," replied Dorothy, "and he's a sawhorse." "A what?" "A sawhorse. Princess Ozma once brought him to life with a witch-powder, when she was a boy." "Was Ozma once a boy?" asked Zeb, wonderingly. "Yes; a wicked witch enchanted her, so she could not rule her kingdom. But she's a girl now, and the sweetest, loveliest girl in all the world." "A sawhorse is a thing they saw boards on," remarked Jim, with a sniff. "It is when it's not alive," acknowledged the girl. "But this sawhorse can trot as fast as you can, Jim; and he's very wise, too." "Pah! I'll race the miserable wooden donkey any day in the week!" cried the cab-horse. Dorothy did not reply to that. She felt that Jim would know more about the Saw-Horse later on. The time dragged wearily enough to the eager watchers, but finally the Wizard announced that four o'clock had arrived, and Dorothy caught up the kitten and began to make the signal that had been agreed upon to the far-away, invisible Ozma. "Nothing seems to happen," said Zeb, doubtfully. "Oh, we must give Ozma time to put on the Magic Belt," replied the girl. She had scarcely spoken the words when she suddenly disappeared from the cave, and with her went the kitten. There had been no sound of any kind and no warning. One moment Dorothy sat beside them with the kitten in her lap, and a moment later the horse, the piglets, the Wizard and the boy were all that remained in the underground prison. [Illustration: DOROTHY MADE THE SIGNAL.] "I believe we will soon follow her," announced the Wizard, in a tone of great relief; "for I know something about the magic of the fairyland that is called the Land of Oz. Let us be ready, for we may be sent for any minute." He put the piglets safely away in his pocket again and then he and Zeb got into the buggy and sat expectantly upon the seat. "Will it hurt?" asked the boy, in a voice that trembled a little. "Not at all," replied the Wizard. "It will all happen as quick as a wink." And that was the way it did happen. The cab-horse gave a nervous start and Zeb began to rub his eyes to make sure he was not asleep. For they were in the streets of a beautiful emerald-green city, bathed in a grateful green light that was especially pleasing to their eyes, and surrounded by merry faced people in gorgeous green-and-gold costumes of many extraordinary designs. Before them were the jewel-studded gates of a magnificent palace, and now the gates opened slowly as if inviting them to enter the courtyard, where splendid flowers were blooming and pretty fountains shot their silvery sprays into the air. Zeb shook the reins to rouse the cab-horse from his stupor of amazement, for the people were beginning to gather around and stare at the strangers. "Gid-dap!" cried the boy, and at the word Jim slowly trotted into the courtyard and drew the buggy along the jewelled driveway to the great entrance of the royal palace. [Illustration] CHAPTER 15. OLD FRIENDS ARE REUNITED Many servants dressed in handsome uniforms stood ready to welcome the new arrivals, and when the Wizard got out of the buggy a pretty girl in a green gown cried out in surprise: "Why, it's Oz, the Wonderful Wizard, come back again!" The little man looked at her closely and then took both the maiden's hands in his and shook them cordially. "On my word," he exclaimed, "it's little Jellia Jamb--as pert and pretty as ever!" "Why not, Mr. Wizard?" asked Jellia, bowing low. "But I'm afraid you cannot rule the Emerald City, as you used to, because we now have a beautiful Princess whom everyone loves dearly." "And the people will not willingly part with her," added a tall soldier in a Captain-General's uniform. The Wizard turned to look at him. "Did you not wear green whiskers at one time?" he asked. "Yes," said the soldier; "but I shaved them off long ago, and since then I have risen from a private to be the Chief General of the Royal Armies." "That's nice," said the little man. "But I assure you, my good people, that I do not wish to rule the Emerald City," he added, earnestly. "In that case you are very welcome!" cried all the servants, and it pleased the Wizard to note the respect with which the royal retainers bowed before him. His fame had not been forgotten in the Land of Oz, by any means. "Where is Dorothy?" enquired Zeb, anxiously, as he left the buggy and stood beside his friend the little Wizard. "She is with the Princess Ozma, in the private rooms of the palace," replied Jellia Jamb. "But she has ordered me to make you welcome and to show you to your apartments." The boy looked around him with wondering eyes. Such magnificence and wealth as was displayed in this palace was more than he had ever dreamed of, and he could scarcely believe that all the gorgeous glitter was real and not tinsel. "What's to become of me?" asked the horse, uneasily. He had seen considerable of life in the cities in his younger days, and knew that this regal palace was no place for him. It perplexed even Jellia Jamb, for a time, to know what to do with the animal. The green maiden was much astonished at the sight of so unusual a creature, for horses were unknown in this Land; but those who lived in the Emerald City were apt to be astonished by queer sights, so after inspecting the cab-horse and noting the mild look in his big eyes the girl decided not to be afraid of him. "There are no stables here," said the Wizard, "unless some have been built since I went away." "We have never needed them before," answered Jellia; "for the Sawhorse lives in a room of the palace, being much smaller and more natural in appearance than this great beast you have brought with you." "Do you mean that I'm a freak?" asked Jim, angrily. "Oh, no," she hastened to say, "there may be many more like you in the place you came from, but in Oz any horse but a Sawhorse is unusual." This mollified Jim a little, and after some thought the green maiden decided to give the cab-horse a room in the palace, such a big building having many rooms that were seldom in use. So Zeb unharnessed Jim, and several of the servants then led the horse around to the rear, where they selected a nice large apartment that he could have all to himself. Then Jellia said to the Wizard: "Your own room--which was back of the great Throne Room--has been vacant ever since you left us. Would you like it again?" "Yes, indeed!" returned the little man. "It will seem like being at home again, for I lived in that room for many, many years." He knew the way to it, and a servant followed him, carrying his satchel. Zeb was also escorted to a room--so grand and beautiful that he almost feared to sit in the chairs or lie upon the bed, lest he might dim their splendor. In the closets he discovered many fancy costumes of rich velvets and brocades, and one of the attendants told him to dress himself in any of the clothes that pleased him and to be prepared to dine with the Princess and Dorothy in an hour's time. Opening from the chamber was a fine bath-room having a marble tub with perfumed water; so the boy, still dazed by the novelty of his surroundings, indulged in a good bath and then selected a maroon velvet costume with silver buttons to replace his own soiled and much worn clothing. There were silk stockings and soft leather slippers with diamond buckles to accompany his new costume, and when he was fully dressed Zeb looked much more dignified and imposing than ever before in his life. He was all ready when an attendant came to escort him to the presence of the Princess; he followed bashfully and was ushered into a room more dainty and attractive than it was splendid. Here he found Dorothy seated beside a young girl so marvelously beautiful that the boy stopped suddenly with a gasp of admiration. But Dorothy sprang up and ran to seize her friend's hand, drawing him impulsively toward the lovely Princess, who smiled most graciously upon her guest. Then the Wizard entered, and his presence relieved the boy's embarrassment. The little man was clothed in black velvet, with many sparkling emerald ornaments decorating his breast; but his bald head and wrinkled features made him appear more amusing than impressive. Ozma had been quite curious to meet the famous man who had built the Emerald City and united the Munchkins, Gillikins, Quadlings and Winkies into one people; so when they were all four seated at the dinner table the Princess said: "Please tell me, Mr. Wizard, whether you called yourself Oz after this great country, or whether you believe my country is called Oz after you. It is a matter that I have long wished to enquire about, because you are of a strange race and my own name is Ozma. No one, I am sure, is better able to explain this mystery than you." "That is true," answered the little Wizard; "therefore it will give me pleasure to explain my connection with your country. In the first place, I must tell you that I was born in Omaha, and my father, who was a politician, named me Oscar Zoroaster Phadrig Isaac Norman Henkle Emmannuel Ambroise Diggs, Diggs being the last name because he could think of no more to go before it. Taken altogether, it was a dreadfully long name to weigh down a poor innocent child, and one of the hardest lessons I ever learned was to remember my own name. When I grew up I just called myself O. Z., because the other initials were P-I-N-H-E-A-D; and that spelled 'pinhead,' which was a reflection on my intelligence." "Surely no one could blame you for cutting your name short," said Ozma, sympathetically. "But didn't you cut it almost too short?" "Perhaps so," replied the Wizard. "When a young man I ran away from home and joined a circus. I used to call myself a Wizard, and do tricks of ventriloquism." "What does that mean?" asked the Princess. "Throwing my voice into any object I pleased, to make it appear that the object was speaking instead of me. Also I began to make balloon ascensions. On my balloon and on all the other articles I used in the circus I painted the two initials: 'O. Z.', to show that those things belonged to me. "One day my balloon ran away with me and brought me across the deserts to this beautiful country. When the people saw me come from the sky they naturally thought me some superior creature, and bowed down before me. I told them I was a Wizard, and showed them some easy tricks that amazed them; and when they saw the initials painted on the balloon they called me Oz." "Now I begin to understand," said the Princess, smiling. "At that time," continued the Wizard, busily eating his soup while talking, "there were four separate countries in this Land, each one of the four being ruled by a Witch. But the people thought my power was greater than that of the Witches; and perhaps the Witches thought so too, for they never dared oppose me. I ordered the Emerald City to be built just where the four countries cornered together, and when it was completed I announced myself the Ruler of the Land of Oz, which included all the four countries of the Munchkins, the Gillikins, the Winkies and the Quadlings. Over this Land I ruled in peace for many years, until I grew old and longed to see my native city once again. So when Dorothy was first blown to this place by a cyclone I arranged to go away with her in a balloon; but the balloon escaped too soon and carried me back alone. After many adventures I reached Omaha, only to find that all my old friends were dead or had moved away. So, having nothing else to do, I joined a circus again, and made my balloon ascensions until the earthquake caught me." "That is quite a history," said Ozma; "but there is a little more history about the Land of Oz that you do not seem to understand--perhaps for the reason that no one ever told it you. Many years before you came here this Land was united under one Ruler, as it is now, and the Ruler's name was always 'Oz', which means in our language 'Great and Good'; or, if the Ruler happened to be a woman, her name was always 'Ozma.' But once upon a time four Witches leagued together to depose the king and rule the four parts of the kingdom themselves; so when the Ruler, my grandfather, was hunting one day, one Wicked Witch named Mombi stole him and carried him away, keeping him a close prisoner. Then the Witches divided up the kingdom, and ruled the four parts of it until you came here. That was why the people were so glad to see you, and why they thought from your initials that you were their rightful ruler." "But, at that time," said the Wizard, thoughtfully, "there were two Good Witches and two Wicked Witches ruling in the land." "Yes," replied Ozma, "because a good Witch had conquered Mombi in the North and Glinda the Good had conquered the evil Witch in the South. But Mombi was still my grandfather's jailor, and afterward my father's jailor. When I was born she transformed me into a boy, hoping that no one would ever recognize me and know that I was the rightful Princess of the Land of Oz. But I escaped from her and am now the Ruler of my people." "I am very glad of that," said the Wizard, "and hope you will consider me one of your most faithful and devoted subjects." "We owe a great deal to the Wonderful Wizard," continued the Princess, "for it was you who built this splendid Emerald City." "Your people built it," he answered. "I only bossed the job, as we say in Omaha." "But you ruled it wisely and well for many years," said she, "and made the people proud of your magical art. So, as you are now too old to wander abroad and work in a circus, I offer you a home here as long as you live. You shall be the Official Wizard of my kingdom, and be treated with every respect and consideration." "I accept your kind offer with gratitude, gracious Princess," the little man said, in a soft voice, and they could all see that tear-drops were standing in his keen old eyes. It meant a good deal to him to secure a home like this. "He's only a humbug Wizard, though," said Dorothy, smiling at him. "And that is the safest kind of a Wizard to have," replied Ozma, promptly. "Oz can do some good tricks, humbug or no humbug," announced Zeb, who was now feeling more at ease. "He shall amuse us with his tricks tomorrow," said the Princess. "I have sent messengers to summon all of Dorothy's old friends to meet her and give her welcome, and they ought to arrive very soon, now." Indeed, the dinner was no sooner finished than in rushed the Scarecrow, to hug Dorothy in his padded arms and tell her how glad he was to see her again. The Wizard was also most heartily welcomed by the straw man, who was an important personage in the Land of Oz. "How are your brains?" enquired the little humbug, as he grasped the soft, stuffed hands of his old friend. "Working finely," answered the Scarecrow. "I'm very certain, Oz, that you gave me the best brains in the world, for I can think with them day and night, when all other brains are fast asleep." [Illustration: DOROTHY AND OZMA.] "How long did you rule the Emerald City, after I left here?" was the next question. "Quite awhile, until I was conquered by a girl named General Jinjur. But Ozma soon conquered her, with the help of Glinda the Good, and after that I went to live with Nick Chopper, the Tin Woodman." Just then a loud cackling was heard outside; and, when a servant threw open the door with a low bow, a yellow hen strutted in. Dorothy sprang forward and caught the fluffy fowl in her arms, uttering at the same time a glad cry. "Oh, Billina!" she said; "how fat and sleek you've grown." "Why shouldn't I?" asked the hen, in a sharp, clear voice. "I live on the fat of the land--don't I, Ozma?" "You have everything you wish for," said the Princess. Around Billina's neck was a string of beautiful pearls, and on her legs were bracelets of emeralds. She nestled herself comfortably in Dorothy's lap until the kitten gave a snarl of jealous anger and leaped up with a sharp claw fiercely bared to strike Billina a blow. But the little girl gave the angry kitten such a severe cuff that it jumped down again without daring to scratch. "How horrid of you, Eureka!" cried Dorothy. "Is that the way to treat my friends?" "You have queer friends, seems to me," replied the kitten, in a surly tone. "Seems to me the same way," said Billina, scornfully, "if that beastly cat is one of them." "Look here!" said Dorothy, sternly. "I won't have any quarrelling in the Land of Oz, I can tell you! Everybody lives in peace here, and loves everybody else; and unless you two, Billina and Eureka, make up and be friends, I'll take my Magic Belt and wish you both home again, _immejitly_. So, there!" They were both much frightened at the threat, and promised meekly to be good. But it was never noticed that they became very warm friends, for all of that. And now the Tin Woodman arrived, his body most beautifully nickle-plated, so that it shone splendidly in the brilliant light of the room. The Tin Woodman loved Dorothy most tenderly, and welcomed with joy the return of the little old Wizard. "Sir," said he to the latter, "I never can thank you enough for the excellent heart you once gave me. It has made me many friends, I assure you, and it beats as kindly and lovingly today as it ever did." "I'm glad to hear that," said the Wizard. "I was afraid it would get moldy in that tin body of yours." "Not at all," returned Nick Chopper. "It keeps finely, being preserved in my air-tight chest." Zeb was a little shy when first introduced to these queer people; but they were so friendly and sincere that he soon grew to admire them very much, even finding some good qualities in the yellow hen. But he became nervous again when the next visitor was announced. "This," said Princess Ozma, "is my friend Mr. H. M. Woggle-Bug, T. E., who assisted me one time when I was in great distress, and is now the Dean of the Royal College of Athletic Science." "Ah," said the Wizard; "I'm pleased to meet so distinguished a personage." "H. M.," said the Woggle-Bug, pompously, "means Highly Magnified; and T. E. means Thoroughly Educated. I am, in reality, a very big bug, and doubtless the most intelligent being in all this broad domain." "How well you disguise it," said the Wizard. "But I don't doubt your word in the least." "Nobody doubts it, sir," replied the Woggle-Bug, and drawing a book from its pocket the strange insect turned its back on the company and sat down in a corner to read. Nobody minded this rudeness, which might have seemed more impolite in one less thoroughly educated; so they straightway forgot him and joined in a merry conversation that kept them well amused until bed-time arrived. [Illustration] CHAPTER 16. JIM, THE CAB-HORSE Jim the Cab-horse found himself in possession of a large room with a green marble floor and carved marble wainscoting, which was so stately in its appearance that it would have awed anyone else. Jim accepted it as a mere detail, and at his command the attendants gave his coat a good rubbing, combed his mane and tail, and washed his hoofs and fetlocks. Then they told him dinner would be served directly and he replied that they could not serve it too quickly to suit his convenience. First they brought him a steaming bowl of soup, which the horse eyed in dismay. "Take that stuff away!" he commanded. "Do you take me for a salamander?" They obeyed at once, and next served a fine large turbot on a silver platter, with drawn gravey poured over it. "Fish!" cried Jim, with a sniff. "Do you take me for a tom-cat? Away with it!" The servants were a little discouraged, but soon they brought in a great tray containing two dozen nicely roasted quail on toast. "Well, well!" said the horse, now thoroughly provoked. "Do you take me for a weasel? How stupid and ignorant you are, in the Land of Oz, and what dreadful things you feed upon! Is there nothing that is decent to eat in this palace?" The trembling servants sent for the Royal Steward, who came in haste and said: "What would your Highness like for dinner?" "Highness!" repeated Jim, who was unused to such titles. "You are at least six feet high, and that is higher than any other animal in this country," said the Steward. "Well, my Highness would like some oats," declared the horse. "Oats? We have no whole oats," the Steward replied, with much defference. "But there is any quantity of oatmeal, which we often cook for breakfast. Oatmeal is a breakfast dish," added the Steward, humbly. "I'll make it a dinner dish," said Jim. "Fetch it on, but don't cook it, as you value your life." You see, the respect shown the worn-out old cab-horse made him a little arrogant, and he forgot he was a guest, never having been treated otherwise than as a servant since the day he was born, until his arrival in the Land of Oz. But the royal attendants did not heed the animal's ill temper. They soon mixed a tub of oatmeal with a little water, and Jim ate it with much relish. Then the servants heaped a lot of rugs upon the floor and the old horse slept on the softest bed he had ever known in his life. In the morning, as soon as it was daylight, he resolved to take a walk and try to find some grass for breakfast; so he ambled calmly through the handsome arch of the doorway, turned the corner of the palace, wherein all seemed asleep, and came face to face with the Sawhorse. Jim stopped abruptly, being startled and amazed. The Sawhorse stopped at the same time and stared at the other with its queer protruding eyes, which were mere knots in the log that formed its body. The legs of the Sawhorse were four sticks driven into holes bored in the log; its tail was a small branch that had been left by accident and its mouth a place chopped in one end of the body which projected a little and served as a head. The ends of the wooden legs were shod with plates of solid gold, and the saddle of the Princess Ozma, which was of red leather set with sparkling diamonds, was strapped to the clumsy body. [Illustration: "FOR GOODNESS SAKE, WHAT SORT OF A BEING ARE YOU?"] Jim's eyes stuck out as much as those of the Sawhorse, and he stared at the creature with his ears erect and his long head drawn back until it rested against his arched neck. In this comical position the two horses circled slowly around each other for a while, each being unable to realize what the singular thing might be which it now beheld for the first time. Then Jim exclaimed: "For goodness sake, what sort of a being are you?" "I'm a Sawhorse," replied the other. "Oh; I believe I've heard of you," said the cab-horse; "but you are unlike anything that I expected to see." "I do not doubt it," the Sawhorse observed, with a tone of pride. "I am considered quite unusual." "You are, indeed. But a rickety wooden thing like you has no right to be alive." "I couldn't help it," returned the other, rather crestfallen. "Ozma sprinkled me with a magic powder, and I just had to live. I know I'm not much account; but I'm the only horse in all the Land of Oz, so they treat me with great respect." "You, a horse!" "Oh, not a real one, of course. There are no real horses here at all. But I'm a splendid imitation of one." Jim gave an indignant neigh. "Look at me!" he cried. "Behold a real horse!" The wooden animal gave a start, and then examined the other intently. "Is it possible that you are a Real Horse?" he murmured. "Not only possible, but true," replied Jim, who was gratified by the impression he had created. "It is proved by my fine points. For example, look at the long hairs on my tail, with which I can whisk away the flies." "The flies never trouble me," said the Saw-Horse. "And notice my great strong teeth, with which I nibble the grass." "It is not necessary for me to eat," observed the Saw-horse. "Also examine my broad chest, which enables me to draw deep, full breaths," said Jim, proudly. "I have no need to breathe," returned the other. "No; you miss many pleasures," remarked the cab-horse, pityingly. "You do not know the relief of brushing away a fly that has bitten you, nor the delight of eating delicious food, nor the satisfaction of drawing a long breath of fresh, pure air. You may be an imitation of a horse, but you're a mighty poor one." "Oh, I cannot hope ever to be like you," sighed the Sawhorse. "But I am glad to meet at last a Real Horse. You are certainly the most beautiful creature I ever beheld." This praise won Jim completely. To be called beautiful was a novelty in his experience. Said he: "Your chief fault, my friend, is in being made of wood, and that I suppose you cannot help. Real horses, like myself, are made of flesh and blood and bones." "I can see the bones all right," replied the Sawhorse, "and they are admirable and distinct. Also I can see the flesh. But the blood, I suppose, is tucked away inside." "Exactly," said Jim. "What good is it?" asked the Sawhorse. Jim did not know, but he would not tell the Sawhorse that. "If anything cuts me," he replied, "the blood runs out to show where I am cut. You, poor thing! cannot even bleed when you are hurt." "But I am never hurt," said the Sawhorse. "Once in a while I get broken up some, but I am easily repaired and put in good order again. And I never feel a break or a splinter in the least." Jim was almost tempted to envy the wooden horse for being unable to feel pain; but the creature was so absurdly unnatural that he decided he would not change places with it under any circumstances. "How did you happen to be shod with gold?" he asked. "Princess Ozma did that," was the reply; "and it saves my legs from wearing out. We've had a good many adventures together, Ozma and I, and she likes me." The cab-horse was about to reply when suddenly he gave a start and a neigh of terror and stood trembling like a leaf. For around the corner had come two enormous savage beasts, treading so lightly that they were upon him before he was aware of their presence. Jim was in the act of plunging down the path to escape when the Sawhorse cried out: "Stop, my brother! Stop, Real Horse! These are friends, and will do you no harm." Jim hesitated, eyeing the beasts fearfully. One was an enormous Lion with clear, intelligent eyes, a tawney mane bushy and well kept, and a body like yellow plush. The other was a great Tiger with purple stripes around his lithe body, powerful limbs, and eyes that showed through the half closed lids like coals of fire. The huge forms of these monarchs of the forest and jungle were enough to strike terror to the stoutest heart, and it is no wonder Jim was afraid to face them. But the Sawhorse introduced the stranger in a calm tone, saying, "This, noble Horse, is my friend the Cowardly Lion, who is the valiant King of the Forest, but at the same time a faithful vassal of Princess Ozma. And this is the Hungry Tiger, the terror of the jungle, who longs to devour fat babies but is prevented by his conscience from doing so. These royal beasts are both warm friends of little Dorothy and have come to the Emerald City this morning to welcome her to our fairyland." Hearing these words Jim resolved to conquer his alarm. He bowed his head with as much dignity as he could muster toward the savage looking beasts, who in return nodded in a friendly way. "Is not the Real Horse a beautiful animal?" asked the Sawhorse admiringly. "That is doubtless a matter of taste," returned the Lion. "In the forest he would be thought ungainly, because his face is stretched out and his neck is uselessly long. His joints, I notice, are swollen and overgrown, and he lacks flesh and is old in years." "And dreadfully tough," added the Hungry Tiger, in a sad voice. "My conscience would never permit me to eat so tough a morsel as the Real Horse." "I'm glad of that," said Jim; "for I, also, have a conscience, and it tells me not to crush in your skull with a blow of my powerful hoof." If he thought to frighten the striped beast by such language he was mistaken. The Tiger seemed to smile, and winked one eye slowly. "You have a good conscience, friend Horse," it said, "and if you attend to its teachings it will do much to protect you from harm. Some day I will let you try to crush in my skull, and afterward you will know more about tigers than you do now." "Any friend of Dorothy," remarked the Cowardly Lion, "must be our friend, as well. So let us cease this talk of skull crushing and converse upon more pleasant subjects. Have you breakfasted, Sir Horse?" "Not yet," replied Jim. "But here is plenty of excellent clover, so if you will excuse me I will eat now." "He's a vegetarian," remarked the Tiger, as the horse began to munch the clover. "If I could eat grass I would not need a conscience, for nothing could then tempt me to devour babies and lambs." Just then Dorothy, who had risen early and heard the voices of the animals, ran out to greet her old friends. She hugged both the Lion and the Tiger with eager delight, but seemed to love the King of Beasts a little better than she did his hungry friend, having known him longer. By the time they had indulged in a good talk and Dorothy had told them all about the awful earthquake and her recent adventures, the breakfast bell rang from the palace and the little girl went inside to join her human comrades. As she entered the great hall a voice called out, in a rather harsh tone: "What! are _you_ here again?" "Yes, I am," she answered, looking all around to see where the voice came from. "What brought you back?" was the next question, and Dorothy's eye rested on an antlered head hanging on the wall just over the fireplace, and caught its lips in the act of moving. "Good gracious!" she exclaimed. "I thought you were stuffed." "So I am," replied the head. "But once on a time I was part of the Gump, which Ozma sprinkled with the Powder of Life. I was then for a time the Head of the finest Flying Machine that was ever known to exist, and we did many wonderful things. Afterward the Gump was taken apart and I was put back on this wall; but I can still talk when I feel in the mood, which is not often." "It's very strange," said the girl. "What were you when you were first alive?" "That I have forgotten," replied the Gump's Head, "and I do not think it is of much importance. But here comes Ozma; so I'd better hush up, for the Princess doesn't like me to chatter since she changed her name from Tip to Ozma." Just then the girlish Ruler of Oz opened the door and greeted Dorothy with a good-morning kiss. The little Princess seemed fresh and rosy and in good spirits. "Breakfast is served, dear," she said, "and I am hungry. So don't let us keep it waiting a single minute." [Illustration] [Illustration: JIM STOOD TREMBLING LIKE A LEAF.] CHAPTER 17. THE NINE TINY PIGLETS After breakfast Ozma announced that she had ordered a holiday to be observed throughout the Emerald City, in honor of her visitors. The people had learned that their old Wizard had returned to them and all were anxious to see him again, for he had always been a rare favorite. So first there was to be a grand procession through the streets, after which the little old man was requested to perform some of his wizardries in the great Throne Room of the palace. In the afternoon there were to be games and races. The procession was very imposing. First came the Imperial Cornet Band of Oz, dressed in emerald velvet uniforms with slashes of pea-green satin and buttons of immense cut emeralds. They played the National air called "The Oz Spangled Banner," and behind them were the standard bearers with the Royal flag. This flag was divided into four quarters, one being colored sky-blue, another pink, a third lavender and a fourth white. In the center was a large emerald-green star, and all over the four quarters were sewn spangles that glittered beautifully in the sunshine. The colors represented the four countries of Oz, and the green star the Emerald City. Just behind the royal standard-bearers came the Princess Ozma in her royal chariot, which was of gold encrusted with emeralds and diamonds set in exquisite designs. The chariot was drawn on this occasion by the Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger, who were decorated with immense pink and blue bows. In the chariot rode Ozma and Dorothy, the former in splendid raiment and wearing her royal coronet, while the little Kansas girl wore around her waist the Magic Belt she had once captured from the Nome King. Following the chariot came the Scarecrow mounted on the Sawhorse, and the people cheered him almost as loudly as they did their lovely Ruler. Behind him stalked with regular, jerky steps, the famous machine-man called Tik-tok, who had been wound up by Dorothy for the occasion. Tik-tok moved by clockwork, and was made all of burnished copper. He really belonged to the Kansas girl, who had much respect for his thoughts after they had been properly wound and set going; but as the copper man would be useless in any place but a fairy country Dorothy had left him in charge of Ozma, who saw that he was suitably cared for. There followed another band after this, which was called the Royal Court Band, because the members all lived in the palace. They wore white uniforms with real diamond buttons and played "What is Oz without Ozma" very sweetly. Then came Professor Woggle-Bug, with a group of students from the Royal College of Scientific Athletics. The boys wore long hair and striped sweaters and yelled their college yell every other step they took, to the great satisfaction of the populace, which was glad to have this evidence that their lungs were in good condition. The brilliantly polished Tin Woodman marched next, at the head of the Royal Army of Oz which consisted of twenty-eight officers, from Generals down to Captains. There were no privates in the army because all were so courageous and skillful that they had been promoted one by one until there were no privates left. Jim and the buggy followed, the old cab-horse being driven by Zeb while the Wizard stood up on the seat and bowed his bald head right and left in answer to the cheers of the people, who crowded thick about him. Taken altogether the procession was a grand success, and when it had returned to the palace the citizens crowded into the great Throne Room to see the Wizard perform his tricks. The first thing the little humbug did was to produce a tiny white piglet from underneath his hat and pretend to pull it apart, making two. This act he repeated until all of the nine tiny piglets were visible, and they were so glad to get out of his pocket that they ran around in a very lively manner. The pretty little creatures would have been a novelty anywhere, so the people were as amazed and delighted at their appearance as even the Wizard could have desired. When he had made them all disappear again Ozma declared she was sorry they were gone, for she wanted one of them to pet and play with. So the Wizard pretended to take one of the piglets out of the hair of the Princess (while really he slyly took it from his inside pocket) and Ozma smiled joyously as the creature nestled in her arms, and she promised to have an emerald collar made for its fat neck and to keep the little squealer always at hand to amuse her. Afterward it was noticed that the Wizard always performed his famous trick with eight piglets, but it seemed to please the people just as well as if there had been nine of them. In his little room back of the Throne Room the Wizard had found a lot of things he had left behind him when he went away in the balloon, for no one had occupied the apartment in his absence. There was enough material there to enable him to prepare several new tricks which he had learned from some of the jugglers in the circus, and he had passed part of the night in getting them ready. So he followed the trick of the nine tiny piglets with several other wonderful feats that greatly delighted his audience and the people did not seem to care a bit whether the little man was a humbug Wizard or not, so long as he succeeded in amusing them. They applauded all his tricks and at the end of the performance begged him earnestly not to go away again and leave them. "In that case," said the little man, gravely, "I will cancel all of my engagements before the crowned heads of Europe and America and devote myself to the people of Oz, for I love you all so well that I can deny you nothing." After the people had been dismissed with this promise our friends joined Princess Ozma at an elaborate luncheon in the palace, where even the Tiger and the Lion were sumptuously fed and Jim the Cab-horse ate his oatmeal out of a golden bowl with seven rows of rubies, sapphires and diamonds set around the rim of it. In the afternoon they all went to a great field outside the city gates where the games were to be held. There was a beautiful canopy for Ozma and her guests to sit under and watch the people run races and jump and wrestle. You may be sure the folks of Oz did their best with such a distinguished company watching them, and finally Zeb offered to wrestle with a little Munchkin who seemed to be the champion. In appearance he was twice as old as Zeb, for he had long pointed whiskers and wore a peaked hat with little bells all around the brim of it, which tinkled gaily as he moved. But although the Munchkin was hardly tall enough to come to Zeb's shoulder he was so strong and clever that he laid the boy three times on his back with apparent ease. Zeb was greatly astonished at his defeat, and when the pretty Princess joined her people in laughing at him he proposed a boxing-match with the Munchkin, to which the little Ozite readily agreed. But the first time that Zeb managed to give him a sharp box on the ears the Munchkin sat down upon the ground and cried until the tears ran down his whiskers, because he had been hurt. This made Zeb laugh, in turn, and the boy felt comforted to find that Ozma laughed as merrily at her weeping subject as she had at him. Just then the Scarecrow proposed a race between the Sawhorse and the Cab-horse; and although all the others were delighted at the suggestion the Sawhorse drew back, saying: "Such a race would not be fair." "Of course not," added Jim, with a touch of scorn; "those little wooden legs of yours are not half as long as my own." "It isn't that," said the Sawhorse, modestly; "but I never tire, and you do." "Bah!" cried Jim, looking with great disdain at the other; "do you imagine for an instant that such a shabby imitation of a horse as you are can run as fast as I?" "I don't know, I'm sure," replied the Sawhorse. "That is what we are trying to find out," remarked the Scarecrow. "The object of a race is to see who can win it--or at least that is what my excellent brains think." "Once, when I was young," said Jim, "I was a race horse, and defeated all who dared run against me. I was born in Kentucky, you know, where all the best and most aristocratic horses come from." "But you're old, now, Jim," suggested Zeb. "Old! Why, I feel like a colt today," replied Jim. "I only wish there was a real horse here for me to race with. I'd show the people a fine sight, I can tell you." "Then why not race with the Sawhorse?" enquired the Scarecrow. "He's afraid," said Jim. "Oh, no," answered the Sawhorse. "I merely said it wasn't fair. But if my friend the Real Horse is willing to undertake the race I am quite ready." So they unharnessed Jim and took the saddle off the Sawhorse, and the two queerly matched animals were stood side by side for the start. "When I say 'Go!'" Zeb called to them, "you must dig out and race until you reach those three trees you see over yonder. Then circle 'round them and come back again. The first one that passes the place where the Princess sits shall be named the winner. Are you ready?" "I suppose I ought to give the wooden dummy a good start of me," growled Jim. "Never mind that," said the Sawhorse. "I'll do the best I can." "Go!" cried Zeb; and at the word the two horses leaped forward and the race was begun. [Illustration: THE WIZARD TOOK A PIGLET FROM OZMA'S HAIR.] Jim's big hoofs pounded away at a great rate, and although he did not look very graceful he ran in a way to do credit to his Kentucky breeding. But the Sawhorse was swifter than the wind. Its wooden legs moved so fast that their twinkling could scarcely be seen, and although so much smaller than the cab-horse it covered the ground much faster. Before they had reached the trees the Sawhorse was far ahead, and the wooden animal returned to the starting place and was being lustily cheered by the Ozites before Jim came panting up to the canopy where the Princess and her friends were seated. [Illustration: THE HUNGRY TIGER TEACHES JIM A LESSON.] I am sorry to record the fact that Jim was not only ashamed of his defeat but for a moment lost control of his temper. As he looked at the comical face of the Sawhorse he imagined that the creature was laughing at him; so in a fit of unreasonable anger he turned around and made a vicious kick that sent his rival tumbling head over heels upon the ground, and broke off one of its legs and its left ear. An instant later the Tiger crouched and launched its huge body through the air swift and resistless as a ball from a cannon. The beast struck Jim full on his shoulder and sent the astonished cab-horse rolling over and over, amid shouts of delight from the spectators, who had been horrified by the ungracious act he had been guilty of. When Jim came to himself and sat upon his haunches he found the Cowardly Lion crouched on one side of him and the Hungry Tiger on the other, and their eyes were glowing like balls of fire. "I beg your pardon, I'm sure," said Jim, meekly. "I was wrong to kick the Sawhorse, and I am sorry I became angry at him. He has won the race, and won it fairly; but what can a horse of flesh do against a tireless beast of wood?" Hearing this apology the Tiger and the Lion stopped lashing their tails and retreated with dignified steps to the side of the Princess. "No one must injure one of our friends in our presence," growled the Lion; and Zeb ran to Jim and whispered that unless he controlled his temper in the future he would probably be torn to pieces. Then the Tin Woodman cut a straight and strong limb from a tree with his gleaming axe and made a new leg and a new ear for the Sawhorse; and when they had been securely fastened in place Princess Ozma took the coronet from her own head and placed it upon that of the winner of the race. Said she: "My friend, I reward you for your swiftness by proclaiming you Prince of Horses, whether of wood or of flesh; and hereafter all other horses--in the Land of Oz, at least--must be considered imitations, and you the real Champion of your race." There was more applause at this, and then Ozma had the jewelled saddle replaced upon the Sawhorse and herself rode the victor back to the city at the head of the grand procession. "I ought to be a fairy," grumbled Jim, as he slowly drew the buggy home; "for to be just an ordinary horse in a fairy country is to be of no account whatever. It's no place for us, Zeb." "It's lucky we got here, though," said the boy; and Jim thought of the dark cave, and agreed with him. [Illustration] CHAPTER 18. THE TRIAL OF EUREKA THE KITTEN Several days of festivity and merry-making followed, for such old friends did not often meet and there was much to be told and talked over between them, and many amusements to be enjoyed in this delightful country. Ozma was happy to have Dorothy beside her, for girls of her own age with whom it was proper for the Princess to associate were very few, and often the youthful Ruler of Oz was lonely for lack of companionship. It was the third morning after Dorothy's arrival, and she was sitting with Ozma and their friends in a reception room, talking over old times, when the Princess said to her maid: "Please go to my boudoir, Jellia, and get the white piglet I left on the dressing-table. I want to play with it." Jellia at once departed on the errand, and she was gone so long that they had almost forgotten her mission when the green robed maiden returned with a troubled face. "The piglet is not there, your Highness," said she. "Not there!" exclaimed Ozma. "Are you sure?" "I have hunted in every part of the room," the maid replied. "Was not the door closed?" asked the Princess. "Yes, your Highness; I am sure it was; for when I opened it Dorothy's white kitten crept out and ran up the stairs." Hearing this, Dorothy and the Wizard exchanged startled glances, for they remembered how often Eureka had longed to eat a piglet. The little girl jumped up at once. "Come, Ozma," she said, anxiously; "let us go ourselves to search for the piglet." So the two went to the dressing-room of the Princess and searched carefully in every corner and among the vases and baskets and ornaments that stood about the pretty boudoir. But not a trace could they find of the tiny creature they sought. Dorothy was nearly weeping, by this time, while Ozma was angry and indignant. When they returned to the others the Princess said: "There is little doubt that my pretty piglet has been eaten by that horrid kitten, and if that is true the offender must be punished." "I don't b'lieve Eureka would do such a dreadful thing!" cried Dorothy, much distressed. "Go and get my kitten, please, Jellia, and we'll hear what she has to say about it." The green maiden hastened away, but presently returned and said: "The kitten will not come. She threatened to scratch my eyes out if I touched her." "Where is she?" asked Dorothy. "Under the bed in your own room," was the reply. So Dorothy ran to her room and found the kitten under the bed. "Come here, Eureka!" she said. "I won't," answered the kitten, in a surly voice. "Oh, Eureka! Why are you so bad?" The kitten did not reply. "If you don't come to me, right away," continued Dorothy, getting provoked, "I'll take my Magic Belt and wish you in the Country of the Gurgles." "Why do you want me?" asked Eureka, disturbed by this threat. "You must go to Princess Ozma. She wants to talk to you." "All right," returned the kitten, creeping out. "I'm not afraid of Ozma--or anyone else." Dorothy carried her in her arms back to where the others sat in grieved and thoughtful silence. "Tell me, Eureka," said the Princess, gently: "did you eat my pretty piglet?" "I won't answer such a foolish question," asserted Eureka, with a snarl. "Oh, yes you will, dear," Dorothy declared. "The piglet is gone, and you ran out of the room when Jellia opened the door. So, if you are innocent, Eureka, you must tell the Princess how you came to be in her room, and what has become of the piglet." "Who accuses me?" asked the kitten, defiantly. "No one," answered Ozma. "Your actions alone accuse you. The fact is that I left my little pet in my dressing-room lying asleep upon the table; and you must hove stolen in without my knowing it. When next the door was opened you ran out and hid yourself--and the piglet was gone." "That's none of my business," growled the kitten. "Don't be impudent, Eureka," admonished Dorothy. "It is you who are impudent," said Eureka, "for accusing me of such a crime when you can't prove it except by guessing." Ozma was now greatly incensed by the kitten's conduct. She summoned her Captain-General, and when the long, lean officer appeared she said: "Carry this cat away to prison, and keep her in safe confinement until she is tried by law for the crime of murder." So the Captain-General took Eureka from the arms of the now weeping Dorothy and in spite of the kitten's snarls and scratches carried it away to prison. "What shall we do now?" asked the Scarecrow, with a sigh, for such a crime had cast a gloom over all the company. "I will summon the Court to meet in the Throne Room at three o'clock," replied Ozma. "I myself will be the judge, and the kitten shall have a fair trial." "What will happen if she is guilty?" asked Dorothy. "She must die," answered the Princess. "Nine times?" enquired the Scarecrow. "As many times as is necessary," was the reply. "I will ask the Tin Woodman to defend the prisoner, because he has such a kind heart I am sure he will do his best to save her. And the Woggle-Bug shall be the Public Accuser, because he is so learned that no one can deceive him." "Who will be the jury?" asked the Tin Woodman. [Illustration: PORTRAIT OF THE WIZARD OF OZ.] "There ought to be several animals on the jury," said Ozma, "because animals understand each other better than we people understand them. So the jury shall consist of the Cowardly Lion, the Hungry Tiger, Jim the Cab-horse, the Yellow Hen, the Scarecrow, the Wizard, Tik-tok the Machine Man, the Sawhorse and Zeb of Hugson's Ranch. That makes the nine which the law requires, and all my people shall be admitted to hear the testimony." They now separated to prepare for the sad ceremony; for whenever an appeal is made to law sorrow is almost certain to follow--even in a fairyland like Oz. But it must be stated that the people of that Land were generally so well-behaved that there was not a single lawyer amongst them, and it had been years since any Ruler had sat in judgment upon an offender of the law. The crime of murder being the most dreadful crime of all, tremendous excitement prevailed in the Emerald City when the news of Eureka's arrest and trial became known. The Wizard, when he returned to his own room, was exceedingly thoughtful. He had no doubt Eureka had eaten his piglet, but he realized that a kitten cannot be depended upon at all times to act properly, since its nature is to destroy small animals and even birds for food, and the tame cat that we keep in our houses today is descended from the wild cat of the jungle--a very ferocious creature, indeed. The Wizard knew that if Dorothy's pet was found guilty and condemned to death the little girl would be made very unhappy; so, although he grieved over the piglet's sad fate as much as any of them, he resolved to save Eureka's life. Sending for the Tin Woodman the Wizard took him into a corner and whispered: "My friend, it is your duty to defend the white kitten and try to save her, but I fear you will fail because Eureka has long wished to eat a piglet, to my certain knowledge, and my opinion is that she has been unable to resist the temptation. Yet her disgrace and death would not bring back the piglet, but only serve to make Dorothy unhappy. So I intend to prove the kitten's innocence by a trick." He drew from his inside pocket one of the eight tiny piglets that were remaining and continued: "This creature you must hide in some safe place, and if the jury decides that Eureka is guilty you may then produce this piglet and claim it is the one that was lost. All the piglets are exactly alike, so no one can dispute your word. This deception will save Eureka's life, and then we may all be happy again." "I do not like to deceive my friends," replied the Tin Woodman; "still, my kind heart urges me to save Eureka's life, and I can usually trust my heart to do the right thing. So I will do as you say, friend Wizard." After some thought he placed the little pig inside his funnel-shaped hat, and then put the hat upon his head and went back to his room to think over his speech to the jury. CHAPTER 19. THE WIZARD PERFORMS ANOTHER TRICK At three o'clock the Throne Room was crowded with citizens, men, women and children being eager to witness the great trial. Princess Ozma, dressed in her most splendid robes of state, sat in the magnificent emerald throne, with her jewelled sceptre in her hand and her sparkling coronet upon her fair brow. Behind her throne stood the twenty-eight officers of her army and many officials of the royal household. At her right sat the queerly assorted Jury--animals, animated dummies and people--all gravely prepared to listen to what was said. The kitten had been placed in a large cage just before the throne, where she sat upon her haunches and gazed through the bars at the crowds around her, with seeming unconcern. And now, at a signal from Ozma, the Woggle-Bug arose and addressed the jury. His tone was pompous and he strutted up and down in an absurd attempt to appear dignified. "Your Royal Highness and Fellow Citizens," he began; "the small cat you see a prisoner before you is accused of the crime of first murdering and then eating our esteemed Ruler's fat piglet--or else first eating and then murdering it. In either case a grave crime has been committed which deserves a grave punishment." "Do you mean my kitten must be put in a grave?" asked Dorothy. "Don't interrupt, little girl," said the Woggle-Bug. "When I get my thoughts arranged in good order I do not like to have anything upset them or throw them into confusion." "If your thoughts were any good they wouldn't become confused," remarked the Scarecrow, earnestly. "My thoughts are always----" "Is this a trial of thoughts, or of kittens?" demanded the Woggle-Bug. "It's a trial of one kitten," replied the Scarecrow; "but your manner is a trial to us all." "Let the Public Accuser continue," called Ozma from her throne, "and I pray you do not interrupt him." "The criminal who now sits before the court licking her paws," resumed the Woggle-Bug, "has long desired to unlawfully eat the fat piglet, which was no bigger than a mouse. And finally she made a wicked plan to satisfy her depraved appetite for pork. I can see her, in my mind's eye----" "What's that?" asked the Scarecrow. "I say I can see her in my mind's eye----" "The mind has no eye," declared the Scarecrow. "It's blind." "Your Highness," cried the Woggle-Bug, appealing to Ozma, "have I a mind's eye, or haven't I?" "If you have, it is invisible," said the Princess. "Very true," returned the Woggle-Bug, bowing. "I say I see the criminal, in my mind's eye, creeping stealthily into the room of our Ozma and secreting herself, when no one was looking, until the Princess had gone away and the door was closed. Then the murderer was alone with her helpless victim, the fat piglet, and I see her pounce upon the innocent creature and eat it up----" "Are you still seeing with your mind's eye?" enquired the Scarecrow. "Of course; how else could I see it? And we know the thing is true, because since the time of that interview there is no piglet to be found anywhere." [Illustration: EUREKA IN COURT.] "I suppose, if the cat had been gone, instead of the piglet, your mind's eye would see the piglet eating the cat," suggested the Scarecrow. "Very likely," acknowledged the Woggle-Bug. "And now, Fellow Citizens and Creatures of the Jury, I assert that so awful a crime deserves death, and in the case of the ferocious criminal before you--who is now washing her face--the death penalty should be inflicted nine times." There was great applause when the speaker sat down. Then the Princess spoke in a stern voice: "Prisoner, what have you to say for yourself? Are you guilty, or not guilty?" "Why, that's for you to find out," replied Eureka. "If you can prove I'm guilty, I'll be willing to die nine times, but a mind's eye is no proof, because the Woggle-Bug has no mind to see with." "Never mind, dear," said Dorothy. Then the Tin Woodman arose and said: "Respected Jury and dearly beloved Ozma, I pray you not to judge this feline prisoner unfeelingly. I do not think the innocent kitten can be guilty, and surely it is unkind to accuse a luncheon of being a murder. Eureka is the sweet pet of a lovely little girl whom we all admire, and gentleness and innocence are her chief virtues. Look at the kitten's intelligent eyes;" (here Eureka closed her eyes sleepily) "gaze at her smiling countenance!" (here Eureka snarled and showed her teeth) "mark the tender pose of her soft, padded little hands!" (Here Eureka bared her sharp claws and scratched at the bars of the cage.) "Would such a gentle animal be guilty of eating a fellow creature? No; a thousand times, no!" "Oh, cut it short," said Eureka; "you've talked long enough." "I'm trying to defend you," remonstrated the Tin Woodman. "Then say something sensible," retorted the kitten. "Tell them it would be foolish for me to eat the piglet, because I had sense enough to know it would raise a row if I did. But don't try to make out I'm too innocent to eat a fat piglet if I could do it and not be found out. I imagine it would taste mighty good." "Perhaps it would, to those who eat," remarked the Tin Woodman. "I myself, not being built to eat, have no personal experience in such matters. But I remember that our great poet once said: "'To eat is sweet When hunger's seat Demands a treat Of savory meat.' "Take this into consideration, friends of the Jury, and you will readily decide that the kitten is wrongfully accused and should be set at liberty." When the Tin Woodman sat down no one applauded him, for his arguments had not been very convincing and few believed that he had proved Eureka's innocence. As for the Jury, the members whispered to each other for a few minutes and then they appointed the Hungry Tiger their spokesman. The huge beast slowly arose and said: "Kittens have no consciences, so they eat whatever pleases them. The jury believes the white kitten known as Eureka is guilty of having eaten the piglet owned by Princess Ozma, and recommends that she be put to death in punishment of the crime." The judgment of the jury was received with great applause, although Dorothy was sobbing miserably at the fate of her pet. The Princess was just about to order Eureka's head chopped off with the Tin Woodman's axe when that brilliant personage once more arose and addressed her. "Your Highness," said he, "see how easy it is for a jury to be mistaken. The kitten could not have eaten your piglet--for here it is!" He took off his funnel hat and from beneath it produced a tiny white piglet, which he held aloft that all might see it clearly. Ozma was delighted and exclaimed, eagerly: "Give me my pet, Nick Chopper!" And all the people cheered and clapped their hands, rejoicing that the prisoner had escaped death and been proved to be innocent. As the Princess held the white piglet in her arms and stroked its soft hair she said: "Let Eureka out of the cage, for she is no longer a prisoner, but our good friend. Where did you find my missing pet, Nick Chopper?" "In a room of the palace," he answered. "Justice," remarked the Scarecrow, with a sigh, "is a dangerous thing to meddle with. If you hadn't happened to find the piglet, Eureka would surely have been executed." "But justice prevailed at the last," said Ozma, "for here is my pet, and Eureka is once more free." "I refuse to be free," cried the kitten, in a sharp voice, "unless the Wizard can do his trick with eight piglets. If he can produce but seven, then this it not the piglet that was lost, but another one." "Hush, Eureka!" warned the Wizard. "Don't be foolish," advised the Tin Woodman, "or you may be sorry for it." "The piglet that belonged to the Princess wore an emerald collar," said Eureka, loudly enough for all to hear. "So it did!" exclaimed Ozma. "This cannot be the one the Wizard gave me." "Of course not; he had nine of them, altogether," declared Eureka; "and I must say it was very stingy of him not to let me eat just a few. But now that this foolish trial is ended, I will tell you what really became of your pet piglet." At this everyone in the Throne Room suddenly became quiet, and the kitten continued, in a calm, mocking tone of voice: "I will confess that I intended to eat the little pig for my breakfast; so I crept into the room where it was kept while the Princess was dressing and hid myself under a chair. When Ozma went away she closed the door and left her pet on the table. At once I jumped up and told the piglet not to make a fuss, for he would be inside of me in half a second; but no one can teach one of these creatures to be reasonable. Instead of keeping still, so I could eat him comfortably, he trembled so with fear that he fell off the table into a big vase that was standing on the floor. The vase had a very small neck, and spread out at the top like a bowl. At first the piglet stuck in the neck of the vase and I thought I should get him, after all, but he wriggled himself through and fell down into the deep bottom part--and I suppose he's there yet." All were astonished at this confession, and Ozma at once sent an officer to her room to fetch the vase. When he returned the Princess looked down the narrow neck of the big ornament and discovered her lost piglet, just as Eureka had said she would. There was no way to get the creature out without breaking the vase, so the Tin Woodman smashed it with his axe and set the little prisoner free. Then the crowd cheered lustily and Dorothy hugged the kitten in her arms and told her how delighted she was to know that she was innocent. "But why didn't you tell us at first?" she asked. "It would have spoiled the fun," replied the kitten, yawning. Ozma gave the Wizard back the piglet he had so kindly allowed Nick Chopper to substitute for the lost one, and then she carried her own into the apartments of the palace where she lived. And now, the trial being over, the good citizens of the Emerald City scattered to their homes, well content with the day's amusement. CHAPTER 20. ZEB RETURNS TO THE RANCH Eureka was much surprised to find herself in disgrace; but she was, in spite of the fact that she had not eaten the piglet. For the folks of Oz knew the kitten had tried to commit the crime, and that only an accident had prevented her from doing so; therefore even the Hungry Tiger preferred not to associate with her. Eureka was forbidden to wander around the palace and was made to stay in confinement in Dorothy's room; so she began to beg her mistress to send her to some other place where she could enjoy herself better. Dorothy was herself anxious to get home, so she promised Eureka they would not stay in the Land of Oz much longer. The next evening after the trial the little girl begged Ozma to allow her to look in the enchanted picture, and the Princess readily consented. She took the child to her room and said: "Make your wish, dear, and the picture will show the scene you desire to behold." Then Dorothy found, with the aid of the enchanted picture, that Uncle Henry had returned to the farm in Kansas, and she also saw that both he and Aunt Em were dressed in mourning, because they thought their little niece had been killed by the earthquake. "Really," said the girl, anxiously, "I must get back as soon as poss'ble to my own folks." Zeb also wanted to see his home, and although he did not find anyone mourning for him, the sight of Hugson's Ranch in the picture made him long to get back there. "This is a fine country, and I like all the people that live in it," he told Dorothy. "But the fact is, Jim and I don't seem to fit into a fairyland, and the old horse has been begging me to go home again ever since he lost the race. So, if you can find a way to fix it, we'll be much obliged to you." "Ozma can do it, easily," replied Dorothy. "Tomorrow morning I'll go to Kansas and you can go to Californy." [Illustration: "I'M MUCH OBLIGED FOR ALL YOUR KINDNESS."] That last evening was so delightful that the boy will never forget it as long as he lives. They were all together (except Eureka) in the pretty rooms of the Princess, and the Wizard did some new tricks, and the Scarecrow told stories, and the Tin Woodman sang a love song in a sonorous, metallic voice, and everybody laughed and had a good time. Then Dorothy wound up Tik-tok and he danced a jig to amuse the company, after which the Yellow Hen related some of her adventures with the Nome King in the Land of Ev. The Princess served delicious refreshments to those who were in the habit of eating, and when Dorothy's bed time arrived the company separated after exchanging many friendly sentiments. Next morning they all assembled for the final parting, and many of the officials and courtiers came to look upon the impressive ceremonies. Dorothy held Eureka in her arms and bade her friends a fond good-bye. "You must come again, some time," said the little Wizard; and she promised she would if she found it possible to do so. "But Uncle Henry and Aunt Em need me to help them," she added, "so I can't ever be very long away from the farm in Kansas." Ozma wore the Magic Belt; and, when she had kissed Dorothy farewell and had made her wish, the little girl and her kitten disappeared in a twinkling. "Where is she?" asked Zeb, rather bewildered by the suddenness of it. "Greeting her uncle and aunt in Kansas, by this time," returned Ozma, with a smile. Then Zeb brought out Jim, all harnessed to the buggy, and took his seat. "I'm much obliged for all your kindness," said the boy, "and very grateful to you for saving my life and sending me home again after all the good times I've had. I think this is the loveliest country in the world; but not being fairies Jim and I feel we ought to be where we belong--and that's at the ranch. Good-bye, everybody!" He gave a start and rubbed his eyes. Jim was trotting along the well-known road, shaking his ears and whisking his tail with a contented motion. Just ahead of them were the gates of Hugson's Ranch, and Uncle Hugson now came out and stood with uplifted arms and wide open mouth, staring in amazement. "Goodness gracious! It's Zeb--and Jim, too!" he exclaimed. "Where in the world have you been, my lad?" "Why, in the world, Uncle," answered Zeb, with a laugh. The End [Illustration] 
36746	----	TRANSCRIBER NOTES: Italic type is indicated by the use of underscores (_). Other changes are noted at the end of the text. [Illustration: C. F. ADAMS. O. C. YOCUM. J. M. KEENE. C. H. GOVE. N. W. DURHAM. W. G. STEEL. J. M. BRECK, Jr. ] THE MOUNTAINS OF OREGON BY W. G. STEEL, Fellow of the American Geographical Society. PORTLAND, OREGON: DAVID STEEL, SUCCESSOR TO HIMES THE PRINTER, 169-1/2 Second Street. 1890. COPYRIGHT, 1889, BY W. G. STEEL. PREFACE. This little volume has not been written with the expectation of accomplishing a mission, or even attracting general attention, but simply to put into permanent form a small portion of information that is constantly appearing in newspaper articles. Such information usually comes from abler pens than mine, but it is all the more pity that it is not in proper shape for future use. If it amuses, entertains or instructs those who peruse it, its aim will be accomplished, and its author satisfied. There is, however, a word of explanation due for the manner in which it is arranged. It was not begun with the intention of publishing a book, but in response to numerous requests received for descriptions of Crater Lake and Mt. Hood. As it was impossible at the time to answer them satisfactorily, it was decided to print a letter on each subject, and issue as a small pamphlet. Before this was accomplished the discovery was made that the space allotted was entirely inadequate, so, acting on the advice of friends, this form was adopted; too late, however, to prevent the present arrangement. W. G. S. CONTENTS. PAGE Crater Lake 12 Exploration Department, Oregon Alpine Club 73 Game Protective Department, Oregon Alpine Club 77 Illumination of Mount Hood 3 Josephine County Caves 34 Mount Rainier 55 Night on the Summit of Mount Rainier 43 Oregon Alpine Club 67 Oregon Alpine Club, Constitution 69 Oregon Bibliography 85 Our Mountains in War 40 Photographic Department, Oregon Alpine Club 79 Preface 1 Presidents of the Oregon Alpine Club 82 Statement of Rev. Peter Stanup 57 Thoughts on the name Tacoma 59 Topical Index 109 What They Signify 52 ILLUMINATION OF MOUNT HOOD. Mount Hood is located in the Cascade range in Oregon, twenty-five miles south of the Columbia river. It is about twelve thousand feet high, and is visible over a large part of the State. Above an elevation of five thousand feet it is covered with perpetual snow. It stands sixty miles east of Portland, a monument of beauty, and the pride of Oregon. In the spring of 1885 the idea originated of illuminating it with red fire. An effort was made to carry this into effect on the following 4th of July, but failed for the reason that, instead of staying with it over night, a system of clock work and acids was devised, which was perfectly willing to do the work assigned, but an ugly avalanche came along at four o'clock in the afternoon, broke the bottles of acid and set the whole thing ablaze. In 1887, the Celebration Committee of Portland, decided to make the trial, and placed the matter in charge of the writer, who was accompanied by N. W. Durham, correspondent of the _Oregonian_, O. C. Yocum, photographer, Dr. J. M. Keene, J. M. Breck, Jr., C. H. Gove and Chas. F. Adams. More agreeable, determined and competent associates I never met. Breck was a cripple, finding it necessary at all times to walk with a crutch, yet, a better mountain climber is hard to find. Everything being placed in readiness, we left Portland at 6 o'clock A.M., Friday July 1st, and reached Government Camp at 5 o'clock in the afternoon of the second. From this point, the mountain rises to the north in all its beauty and grandeur, with timber line apparently within a few rods, instead of four miles, the actual distance. Here the wagons were left, and two horses were packed with blankets and provisions, and our journey was resumed as soon as possible. It was necessary to cross two small streams, over both of which the bridges had fallen, so we were compelled to carry logs and fill in until it was possible to get the horses over. About nine o'clock, finding that we could not reach timber line, it was decided to camp on some friendly rocks near at hand. Here we found the trees thickly covered with a long, dry moss, which afforded excitement for the evening, for, no sooner had the inner man's longings been supplied, than lighted matches were applied to the moss, which blazed furiously until it died out in the distance, simply for the want of material. The scene, while it lasted, was indeed brilliant, and accompanied by a roar that seemed but the echo of thunder. Already exhausted, after three hours plodding through snow knee deep, we sank to rest and slept soundly until four o'clock. At five we were on our way, somewhat surprised to see that the snow remained as soft as on the evening before. In addition to the difficulty of sinking each step nearly to our knees, each man was loaded with fifty pounds of blankets, provisions or red fire, while three tugged savagely at a heavily loaded toboggan. At noon we lunched at timber line. It was hardly a sumptuous repast, but answered every requirement, there being canned Boston brown bread and beef tea, mixed with snow and seasoned with smoke. Not a dainty dish, to be sure, but "the best the market afforded." After lunch we dragged our weary way along, among other difficulties encountering a bitter cold wind, blowing directly from the summit with fearful velocity. Slower and slower we moved, until three o'clock, when two men fell in their tracks utterly exhausted. Here was a "pretty kettle of fish." Barely seven thousand feet up, with five thousand feet more above, and only one day in which to climb. It was finally decided to make camp on the nearest rocks, abandon all idea of reaching the summit, then, on the day following, find the best place possible for the illumination. Two thousand feet above timber line we camped on rocks, over which the cold wind swept, penetrating to the very marrow. Of course it was impossible to have a fire, and at night it was necessary to pile large stones on our blankets to keep them from sailing down the mountain. Hats and a few other things were anchored in like manner. The "Glorious Fourth" was ushered in, clear and cold, while a patriot in the party, not to be outdone by Uncle Sam, saluted the rising sun with a deafening round of fire cracker artillery. At five o'clock we started on our upward march. Every thing was left behind except one hundred pounds of red fire, three overcoats and a few crackers. At 11:30 A.M., bare rocks were found to the west of the summit, in what was considered a good location, and at an altitude of about ten thousand feet. Here our burdens were cast at the foot of the cliff, and all hands, except Keene and myself, returned to Government Camp. By noon the wind had died down entirely, and the day became very pleasant. While waiting at this lonely station for the appointed hour of illumination, a panorama was spread before us, of a scope and magnificence that cannot be appropriately described, but must be seen to be appreciated. Yes, and it remains for those who love the beautiful and grand sufficiently to scale mountains, to toil on day after day, patiently waiting for the time that is sure to come, when the glorious pages of Nature will be unrolled before them. Then, "It seems by the pain of ascending the height, We had conquered a claim to that wonderful sight." The scene embraces millions of acres of land in Eastern Oregon, extending from the Cascades to the Blue mountains, a distance of over one hundred and fifty miles. The entire range of the Cascades lies before us, showing the foothills of both Eastern and Western Oregon, and the increase in height toward the center. For miles upon miles to the south, cross ranges, running from east to west seem piled one upon the other, and to their tops is added a covering of snow, changing the solemn, otherwise unbroken, dark green, to a variegated picture, not only of grandeur, but beauty. To the left of the centre stands Jefferson, similar to Hood as seen from Portland. Next come the Three Sisters to the left of Jefferson, while still further stands Snow Butte. Almost in front of Jefferson is Washington, while to the right McLaughlin looms up in southern Oregon, two hundred and fifty miles distant. Changing the view to western Oregon, we see Mary's Peak over one hundred miles southwest. The Willamette valley can be seen through its entire extent of many miles, while here and there we catch glimpses of the river flowing on to the lordly Columbia. Along the western horizon extends the Coast Range, while in one little spot the mountains break way and give us a vista of the ocean. In the immediate foreground lies the base of old Hood, white with snow for five thousand feet below us. To witness a scene like this many a man would circle the globe;--and yet, imagine a sunset upon it. At 5:30 P.M. clouds drifted from the north and hung on the points of the range a mile below. Slowly the sun sank to rest, while the clouds hovering over the western horizon became brighter and brighter, until it seemed that the very gates of heaven were thrown wide open, and over a scene of unrivaled grandeur was spread another of marvelous magnificence. As if Nature was not even yet satisfied with such dazzling beauty, suddenly the smoke that had gathered far below us, shutting out the great Columbia, was drawn aside and the waters of that river seemed, through the thin smoke remaining, like a stream of molten gold, visible in an unbroken line, winding from the mountain to the sea a distance of one hundred and fifty miles. Then, too, as we looked, just beneath the setting sun, the Pacific ocean came to view, while the sun was setting in the mouth of the Columbia, reflecting its ruddy glare in the ocean and river at one and the same time. To the right could be seen Cape Disappointment, while to the left Point Adams showed with equal clearness. So closed the day and the night came on. Far above the few clouds that lurked beneath us, threatening the success of our experiment, the atmosphere was so perfectly clear that we thought its equal had never been seen. Promptly with the departing day the full moon arose in all its beauty, changing the day's brilliance to a subdued halo of glory. About seven o'clock the wind blew furiously, almost carrying us from the rocks to the snow beneath. Although clad for a land of wintry blasts, it was necessary to pace back and forth, swinging our arms and jumping to keep warm. At eight o'clock the wind died down, and we became comfortable without exercise. Our spirits were low, however, for it seemed that the entire country was covered with a thick veil of smoke, and our labor was to be in vain. Suddenly at 9:30 we saw a red light in the direction of Portland. It was the signal for a complete revolution in our feelings. We danced for joy. Yes, we screamed and halloed until we were hoarse. Did all sorts of silly things, for now we _knew_ our fire would be seen. Following the first light came another, and still others, and in our mad excitement we took a handful of red fire and burned it on a rock. "Thereby hangs a tale." The members of our party at Government camp were gathered around a cheerful fire telling bear stories and waiting patiently for the appointed time, when they were startled by a brilliant light from the mountain, showing through the trees in front of them. Instantly they scattered, every member forgetting his companions in a wild scramble for a good view. In this sudden stampede, one member, who is hard of hearing, climbed a tree, where he remained until the others began to assemble. As one of the drivers, a hardy son of Erin, passed the tree and heard a rustling in the branches, he glanced up, saw a large, dark object, took it for a bear and gave the alarm. Instantly all hands gathered around the tree, every one armed with a club, which he swung like the arms of a windmill, at the same time shouting for some one else to get a gun. The man up a tree, not understanding why the commotion should extend so long after the burning of red fire, started to go down, but, was met with such a lively rain of clubs that he beat a precipitate retreat. At this point, a gun arrived and every fellow wanted to shoot the bear. Bruin, at last comprehending the situation, chimed in with: "You fellows let up with your durned foolishness, will you." Soon after the red fire and rockets at Portland were noticed, others were seen at Prineville, seventy-five miles to the southeast, and also at Vancouver, W. T. These were watched with the most intense interest, until the time arrived to make our own novel show. The red fire was placed in a narrow ridge about ten feet long, and at right angles with Portland. Holding my watch before me, promptly at 11:30 we applied the match with the result as shown by the following account in the _Oregonian_ of the next day: "The celebration closed with the illumination of Mount Hood, the grandest and most unique event of the day. Precisely at 11:30, the time appointed, just as the fireworks display was over, a bright red light shone away up in the clouds above the eastern horizon, which was greeted with cheers from the thousands congregated on the bridge, wharves, roofs, boats on the river and on the hills back of town, and with vigorous and long-continued whistling from every steamboat on the river. "The mountain had been plainly visible all day, but toward evening a curtain of mist and smoke shut off the view at the base, and as twilight fell, the curtain rose higher till at last only the very peak could be seen, and as night came on, even that disappeared from view. Many gave up all hope of seeing any sign from the mountain. But many thought that the obstructions to a view of the summit were very slight, and if the party had reached the peak, the light from one hundred pounds of red fire would be able to pierce through them, and so it proved. It lasted exactly fifty-eight seconds. This was the most novel and the highest illumination ever made, and was seen the farthest and formed a fitting close to the celebration of 1887." Immediately after the illumination we started down the mountain, following our previous trail in the snow. Just after midnight, while lunging through the snow, we suddenly lost our footing and were no little astonished to find that we had fallen into a crevasse. It proved narrow and shallow, however, and all things considered, we extricated ourselves with remarkable celerity and passed on down the mountain side, only to get lost in the timber below, and wander around until daylight, when we found camp and soon after were homeward bound. CRATER LAKE. ONE OF THE WORLD'S GREAT NATURAL WONDERS. A trip to Crater Lake is, to a lover of the grand and beautiful in nature, an important event, around which will ever cluster memories of unalloyed happiness, thoughts of little adventures and weird experiences that go to make life worth living. It is situated in the northwest portion of Klamath county, Oregon, twenty-two miles west of north of Fort Klamath, and about eighty miles northeast of Medford, which is the best point to leave the Oregon & California railroad. The Jacksonville and Fort Klamath military road passes the lake within three miles, and the road to the very walls of it is an exceptionally good one for a mountainous country, while in near proximity may be found remarkably fine camping grounds. The Indians of Southern Oregon have known of it for ages, but until recently none have seen it, for the reason that a tradition, handed down from generation to generation, described it as the home of myriads of sea-devils, or, as they were called, Llaos; and it was considered certain death for any brave even to look upon it. This superstition still haunts the Klamaths. While a few of the tribe have visited it, they do so with a sort of mysterious dread of the consequences. It was discovered by a party of twelve prospectors on June 12th, 1853, among whom were J. W. Hillman, George Ross, James Louden, Pat McManus, Isaac Skeeters and a Mr. Dodd. These had left the main party, and were not looking for gold, but having run short of provisions, were seeking wherewithal to stay the gnawing sensations that had seized upon their stomachs. For a time hunger forsook them, as they stood in silent amazement upon the cliffs, and drank in the awe of the scene stretched before them. After partaking of the inspiration fostered by such weird grandeur, they decided to call it Mysterious, or Deep Blue Lake. It was subsequently called Lake Majesty, and by being constantly referred to as a crater lake, it gradually assumed that name, which is within itself so descriptive. At times when gazing from the surrounding wall, the skies and cliffs are seen perfectly mirrored in the smooth and glassy surface over which the mountain breeze creates scarce a ripple, and it is with great difficulty the eye can distinguish the line dividing the cliffs from their reflected counterfeits. The lake is almost egg-shaped, ranging northeast by southwest and is seven miles long by six in width. The water's surface is six thousand two hundred and fifty-one feet above sea level, and is completely surrounded by cliffs, or walls, from one thousand to over two thousand feet high, which are scantily covered with coniferous trees. To the southwest is Wizard Island, eight hundred and forty-five feet high, circular in shape, and slightly covered with timber. In the top is a depression, or crater--the Witches' Cauldron--one hundred feet deep and four hundred and seventy-five feet in diameter. This was evidently the last smoking chimney of a once mighty volcano. The base of the island is covered with very heavy and hard rocks, with sharp and unworn edges, over which scarcely a score of human feet have trod. Farther up are deep beds of ashes, and light, spongy rocks and cinders, giving evidence of intense heat. Within the crater, as without, the surface is entirely covered with volcanic rocks, but here it forms one of the hottest places on a clear day in August, it has ever been my lot to witness. Not a breath of air seems to enter, and the hot sun pours down upon thousands of rocks and stones that reflect his rays with an intensity that seems to multiply beyond conception. Here, however, we determined to lunch--and did--but one such experience will last a long time. Directly north of the island is Llao Rock, a grand old sentinel, standing boldly out on the west side of the lake and reaching up over two thousand feet perpendicular. From the top of it you can drop a stone and it will pass down and grow smaller and smaller, until your head begins to swim and you see the stone become a mere speck, and fade entirely from view; and at last, nearly half a mile below, it strikes the unruffled surface of the water and sinks forever from sight in the depth of a bottomless lake. There is probably no point of interest in America that so completely overcomes the ordinary Indian with fear as Crater Lake. From time immemorial, no power has been strong enough to induce him to approach within sight of it. For a paltry sum he will engage to guide you thither, but, before you reach the mountain top, will leave you to proceed alone. To the savage mind it is clothed with a deep veil of mystery, and is the abode of all manner of demons and unshapely monsters. Once inhabited by the Great Spirit, it has now become the sheol of modern times, and it is certain death for any proud savage to behold it. This feeling has, to a certain extent, instilled itself in the mind of such whites as have made it their Mecca, until every stray log that floats upon the water is imagined to possess life, and may possibly be a monster. Exaggerated accounts of different points have been given and implicitly believed without a question or reflection. It has been claimed that the crater was eight hundred feet deep, while by actual measurement we found it to be scarcely a hundred. The island was said to be fifteen hundred feet high, but an accurate measurement placed it at just eight hundred and forty-five feet. From Allen Davey, Chief of the Klamath tribe, I gleaned the following in reference to the discovery of Crater Lake: A long time ago, long before the white man appeared in this region to vex and drive the proud native out, a band of Klamaths, while out hunting, came suddenly upon the lake and were startled by its remarkable walls and awed by its majestic proportions. With spirits subdued and trembling with fear, they silently approached and gazed upon its face; something within told them the Great Spirit dwelt there, and they dared not remain, but passed silently down the side of the mountain and camped far away. By some unaccountable influence, however, one brave was induced to return. He went up to the very brink of the precipice and started his camp fire. Here he laid down to rest; here he slept till morn--slept till the sun was high in air, then arose and joined his tribe far down the mountain. At night he came again; again he slept till morn. Each visit bore a charm that drew him back again. Each night found him sleeping above the rocks; each night strange voices arose from the waters; mysterious noises filled the air. At last, after a great many moons, he climbed down to the lake and there he bathed and spent the night. Often he climbed down in like manner, and frequently saw wonderful animals, similar in all respects to a Klamath Indian, except that they seemed to exist entirely in the water. He suddenly became hardier and stronger than any Indian of his tribe because of his many visits to the mysterious waters. Others then began to seek its influence. Old warriors sent their sons for strength and courage to meet the conflicts awaiting them. First, they slept on the rocks above, then ventured to the water's edge, but last of all they plunged beneath the flood and the coveted strength was theirs. On one occasion, the brave who first visited the lake, killed a monster, or fish, and was at once set upon by untold numbers of excited Llaos (for such they were called), who carried him to the top of the cliffs, cut his throat with a stone knife, then tore his body in small pieces, which were thrown down to the waters far beneath, where he was devoured by the angry Llaos--and such shall be the fate of every Klamath brave, who, from that day to this, dares to look upon the lake. My first visit to Crater Lake was in 1885, at which time the thought was suggested by Capt. C. E. Dutton, of having the lake and environs drawn from the market. Promptly acting on the suggestion, my friend, Hon. Binger Hermann, was sought and a movement started looking to the formation of a National Park. In response to a petition forwarded to Washington and ably advocated by Congressman Hermann, the United States Geological Survey, under Capt. Dutton, was ordered to examine the lake and surroundings during the summer of 1886. In this expedition it was my good fortune to have charge of the sounding, which afforded me a pleasure unsurpassed in all my mountain experience. That an idea may be had of the difficulties to be overcome, suffice it to say, boats had to be built for the purpose in Portland, transported to Ashland, three hundred and forty-one miles by rail, and carried from there to the lake on wagons, one hundred miles into the mountains, where they were launched over cliffs one thousand feet high. On the first day of July, I boarded the train for Ashland, where I met Capt. Dutton, and we were joined immediately afterward by Capt. Geo. W. Davis, one of the most eminent engineers of America, and ten soldiers. On the 7th, we started for the lake, preceded by Capts. Dutton and Davis, who were followed by a four mule team, bearing a first-class lap streak boat, which in turn was followed by three double teams, horsemen and pack train. Of our largest boat, the Cleetwood, we all felt justly proud, as it was certainly a beautiful model, four-oared, twenty-six feet long and competent to ride almost any sea. When passing through Phoenix, the typical and irrepressible critic came to the surface, in the shape of a lean, lank, awkward, ignorant country boy of, say, eighteen summers. With hands in his pockets, he aided the single suspender delegated to hold his breeches in place, and when shifting a monstrous chew of tobacco over his tongue, informed his audience (of half a dozen small urchins) that "That 'ere boat won't live in Crater Lake half an hour if a storm comes up. It ain't shaped right. Jist see for yourself how sway-backed it is. It must have been made by some feller as never seed a boat afore." This brings to mind the fact that a critic is a person who finds fault with something of which he is densely ignorant. The entire distance from Ashland--ninety-seven miles--was accomplished by slow, easy marches, every precaution being taken to provide against a mishap, and no incident occurred of special importance. Soon after reaching the foothills, we encountered sliding places and short turns in the road. As the wagon containing the Cleetwood was top heavy and coupled twenty feet long, it was impossible to turn on an ordinary curve, hence it became necessary at times to drive as far as possible, then let ten or fifteen men lift the hind end of the wagon around by main strength. When a sliding place was reached, the men would hang on the upper side, or attach ropes to the top and hold it, thus preventing an upset. On Tuesday we succeeded in reaching the foot of the last grade, and on Wednesday morning began the ascent. Here was the rub. The hill is about a mile and a half long, very steep, sliding, rocky, and filled with roots and stones, added to which were great banks of snow, packed solid by constant thawing. Progress was slow and tedious, a roadway having to be cut in places, while men with picks, axes and shovels dug up rocks, cut down trees and shoveled snow, besides building up or cutting down one side of the roadway. At 10 o'clock on Wednesday the 14th, the boats were landed on the walls of the lake, having traveled four hundred and forty miles from Portland, with scarcely a scratch to mar the paint. Thursday morning the work of launching was commenced by covering the bottom of each skiff with inch boards, firmly secured, as also a shield in front of the bow. They were carried to the lowest place to be found in the cliffs, probably about nine hundred feet, vertical measurement, where a canyon descends at an angle of thirty-five or forty degrees, when a three-quarter inch rope was attached and in turn passed around a tree on the summit, where a man was stationed to manage it, directed by signals below. One was lowered at a time, accompanied by four men to guide and handle it. Besides this, men were stationed at different points to signal to the top, and thus regulate the paying out of rope. Every effort was made to send all loose stones on ahead, to prevent accident from above, yet, before the first boat had proceeded three hundred feet in its descent, a boulder came rolling from near the summit with increasing velocity, and before any one realized the danger, had struck a rock in near proximity and bounded over the skiff, passed between the men and within an inch of one fellow's head. Before the descent was completed, the boards were torn from the first boat; but extra precaution was taken with the second one. About two-thirds of the way down a perfect shower of rocks came tumbling from a cliff to the left, but, strange as it may seem, they either bounded over or around the men and boat, so that no damage resulted. At three o'clock the first skiff reached bottom somewhat scratched, but not injured in any manner. The second one was placed in the lake entirely uninjured at six o'clock P.M. Our tents were pitched in a beautiful spot. In the immediate foreground to the north lies the lake with its twenty odd miles of rugged cliffs standing abruptly from the water's edge. To the left is Wizard Island, on the top of which rests the Witch's Cauldron, or crater, like a great flat top; beyond stands Llao Rock, solemn, grim and grand, over two thousand feet perpendicular, while still beyond stands Mt. Thielsen, the lightning rod of the Cascades. Just to the east of the lake is Mt. Scott, partly covered with snow, while close to the camp on the east, is a high cliff known as Cathedral Rock, running far down to the right and at last disappearing below the tree tops. To the south the scene was varied by a wide range of mountain tops, stretching far away to California, chief among which is snow-capped and beautiful Pitt. Just to the left the rough mountain view is changed to a charming plain, in the midst of which is a broad expanse of water, which proves to be Klamath Lake, about thirty miles distant. Thursday evening, dark and threatening clouds were suddenly seen to approach from this point, accompanied by vivid flashes of lightning and loud peals of thunder. A few large drops of rain had fallen, when there was a sudden outburst of joy in camp, as every one glanced at the sides of Cathedral Rock, which were suddenly illuminated by a light of deep orange. To the west, the sun was slowly sinking to rest, when a glowing light spread itself over the dark clouds, which became brighter and still brighter. Looking beyond a scene of unparalleled magnificence was spread before us. Through the center hung long fleecy clouds lighted to a deep orange, while above, like a great curtain, was spread a belt of olive green. Here and there were tints of crimson, the delicacy of which no artist could approach. Above and parallel with the horizon stretched a long rift, in clouds rendered marvelously rich in gold and garnet, through which the blue sky beyond was visible, slightly obscured by light, fleecy clouds of silver. During all this magnificent sight the electric storm raged in the south with unabated fury, flashes of lightning and peals of thunder adding solemnity to a scene of wonderful brilliance. The 16th was spent in preparing the Cleetwood for her final plunge over the cliffs in search of water. A sled was made of very heavy timbers, on which she was placed, keel up, then lashed and braced in every conceivable manner until, in fact, she seemed a part of the sled itself. Guy ropes were placed on each corner to guide it, in connection with a heavy handspike. Saturday morning the actual work of launching began, by sliding the boat over a snowdrift in a canyon that slopes to the lake at about an angle of fifty degrees. The cliff is probably one thousand feet high at this point. The sled was attached by block and tackle to a tree on the summit and lowered nearly half way, when the bearing was shifted as far down as possible and a new start taken. Leaving the summit at 7:30 A.M., it required the most persistent work and constant care of fifteen men eight hours to reach the lake. In the bottom of the canyon flows a stream of water that contributes very materially to the danger of such an undertaking, as constant slides of rocks are thus caused. When the bottom seemed to be reached it was found that there still remained a sort of jump-off, or slide, into the water, perpendicular and about fifteen feet high. The water, at this point is very deep, and the question arose, "How shall we launch the boat now that we have got it here?" It was simply turned right side up again, lashed to the sled and let partially down with the bow thrown out as far as possible. It was held securely in this position while one of the men climbed aboard, cut the lines and she shot forward in fine style, not shipping a gallon of water, although the bow was almost submerged to start with. The moment the launching was complete there was a cry of unrestrained joy sent up from all present, and our shouts were answered from the cliffs by waving of hats and blowing of fog horns. With one impulse the cry was raised, "Now for the island!" and in an incredibly short space of time both skiffs and the Cleetwood were headed that way. With four men at the oars we soon reached our destination, and then returned to camp, where a bountiful repast awaited us. Every precaution was taken to clear the canyon of loose rocks, nevertheless a few rolled down, but were successfully dodged until the boat was actually in the water, immediately after which a small bowlder came down with terrific force. Capt. Davis stood directly in its course, and not seeing it the other members of the party shouted to him to "lookout." It being impossible for him to run, he jumped under the framework, or sled, hanging where the boat left it, and laid flat on the ground, just as the stone struck a rock and the upper end of the frame. It then struck Capt. Davis in the back, but its force had been so broken that it did no harm further than to make the spot feel sore. The day after launching the Cleetwood, nine members of our party made the circuit of the lake on a sort of casual observation, or tour of inspection. The scenery was grand to a degree far beyond our most sanguine expectations. Four strong oarsmen soon brought us to Llao Rock, and as we gazed in silent wonder at its rugged sides, reaching nearly half a mile above us, for the first time did we realize the immensity of such a spectacle. Never before did I fully understand the meaning of figures when they run up into the thousands of feet, vertical measurement. Beyond Llao rock we found a beautiful little bay, and beyond it a larger one, probably one mile long by a quarter of a mile deep. Here we stopped for lunch, and when landing were surprised to find a long line of dead moths, of large variety, washed up by the waves, and in such numbers that the air was laden with an unpleasant odor, apparently about a first cousin to a slaughter house. We also found here a narrow beach of small gravel running almost the entire length of the bay, while further out in the lake, the bottom is composed of sand. As this point had not only never been named, but probably was never before visited by human beings, we decided to christen it Cleetwood Cove. Passing on our journey, it was soon seen that the cliffs on the north side are not so high as those to the south. In several places it appeared that good trails could easily be made to the water's edge, over which a person might almost ride horseback, and in one place, without any grading whatever, a good pack train could descend with comparative ease. About 2 o'clock a thunder shower came suddenly upon us just as two beautiful grottos appeared in view. Into one of these the boat was run, where we were entirely beyond the reach of rain. It proved to be about thirty feet deep and twenty wide, with an arched roof probably eight feet above the water, while the rocky bottom could be distinctly seen ten feet below the surface. So perfect was its form that it almost seemed the hand of man had hewn it from the solid rock. Beyond it towered an immense cliff, very high, with broken, rugged sides, picturesque and sublime, which I insist on naming Dutton Cliff, in honor of Capt. Dutton, who has done and is doing so much to make Crater Lake justly famous. This point may be known from the fact that it lies directly opposite Llao Rock, and between the two lowest places in the lake's walls. Immediately north of Dutton Cliff, the elements have worn the sides of the mountain, leaving a harder substance, alternately colored red and yellow, resembling the mansard roof of a cottage, while in one place, tall red chimneys stand aloft, making, all in all, such a scene that Cottage Rock could scarcely be improved on for a name. Lying between the two points above referred to, a break in the wall was found, that is almost perpendicular, but certainly does not exceed five hundred feet in height. This is by far the lowest point in the walls. No time was lost in getting our soundings under way. The first was made about one hundred yards from shore. It was supposed that we might possibly find as much as one hundred feet of water, but, as the lead ran out, our excitement grew with each succeeding hundred feet, until over one thousand two hundred feet were out. At one thousand two hundred feet the machine stopped, and our pent-up feelings exploded in one wild yell of delight. For a number of days the soundings were continued. The greatest depth recorded was one thousand nine hundred and ninety-six feet, which, making allowance for stretch of wire, would give two thousand and eight feet. Of the whole number made, eighteen are over one thousand nine hundred, thirteen over one thousand eight hundred, eleven over one thousand seven hundred, fifteen over one thousand six hundred, and nineteen over one thousand five hundred. It was found that at the bottom of the northeastern end lies a plain of several square miles, almost perfectly level, while south of the center is a cliff about nine hundred feet high, and west of the center seems to be cinder cone, nearly one thousand two hundred feet in height, with a crater in the center two hundred and fifty feet deep. Its summit is six hundred feet below the surface of the water. On one occasion our party took five pounds of red fire, which we intended to burn on the summit of Wizard Island, but owing to the fact that the air was so filled with smoke as to destroy the effect, our plan was changed, and we took it to Rogue River Falls on our return. Here we met quite a number of hardy mountaineers, and at 9 o'clock left camp for the falls, about one mile distant. The night was very dark, and a weird sort of a scene it was as we climbed over logs and rocks, lighting our way by tallow candles and a lantern that flickered dimly. At last the bank of the stream was reached, and while the noise of the rushing waters was intense, nothing could be seen but the dim outline of something white far down below us. At this point, the walls are perpendicular, and one hundred and eighty feet high. They are also solid rock from top to bottom. Directly opposite where we stood, Mill Creek falls into Rogue River (one hundred and eighty feet), and this is what we came to see. In order to get the benefit of the red light, it was necessary for some one to climb down to the water. This duty fell to a stranger in the party, who made the descent during the day, and myself. He led the way carrying a dim lantern, and I followed as best I could. The rocks are covered with a remarkably thick layer of moss, which is kept very wet by the rising mist. The path, if such it might be termed, led along the sides of the cliff at an angle of about 45 degrees. As we cautiously climbed from rock to rock, it was a sort of feeling of intensified interest that overcame us, when we realized that a single misstep would precipitate us to the rocks below--and, worst of all, possibly we "never would be missed." The bed of the stream was reached at last, and the fire ignited close to the falls. Ye gods! What a transformation! Suddenly, the canyon, which could not be seen before, was as bright as day, lighted by a fire so brilliant that we could not look upon it. Crimson air and crimson water, crimson walls and crimson everywhere. No magician of the Arabians ever conjured up by a stroke of his wand a spectacle more sublime. It was one of transcendent beauty, upon which the human eye seldom rests, and when it does its possessor is spellbound by the bewildering vision. One almost loses the power of speech in the desperate struggle to see and comprehend the scene, and before it is realized the light dies away and darkness reigns supreme, rendered ten-fold more dense by the splendor of so magnificent a tableau. Near the base of Dutton Cliff stands a solitary rock, probably one hundred feet high, by two hundred in length and nearly the same breadth, that, while not seen by the present generation of Indians, is nevertheless known to them, and is a special object of superstitious dread. They consider it as a peculiarly ferocious monster, but are unable to describe its characteristics. It stands in the lake entirely alone and about fifty yards from shore. Standing on the cliffs, five miles to the west and looking across the lake, this strange rock is plainly visible in the sunlight its rugged peaks reaching aloft, giving it the appearance of a full rigged ship at anchor. Should a cloud pass before the sun, as the shadow strikes the rock it will pass from view as effectually as though it had ceased to exist. While sounding the lake in 1886, I caused a party of topographical engineers to be landed here for observations, but it was so rugged that the most diligent search failed to reveal a level place large enough to accommodate the tripod attached to their instruments, and we were compelled to resort to a point on shore for the purpose. I have never learned its Indian name, but among the whites it is known as the Phantom Ship. To those who enjoy the noble sport of hunting, the vicinity of Crater Lake is especially attractive. Great numbers of deer, bear and panther roam through the timber in fancied security, inviting the keen eye and steady nerve of the sportsman. Although passionately fond of such sport myself, the grandeur and sublimity of the surroundings so overcame me with desire to see and prosecute our explorations, that I forgot my love for a running shot, in an inordinate desire to climb over the cliffs and view the wonderful place from every conceivable point. My companions were no less affected, and the result was that we ran out of meat and applied to a native sheep herder for mutton chops. He scowled upon us for a moment, then informed our spokesman that "when he butchered he never saved the heads." While running a line of soundings from Llao rock to Vidae cliff across the lake one day, a strong wind sprung up from the south accompanied by black clouds and a storm seemed imminent. We had proceeded about three miles across, when we were suddenly startled by a loud noise, as though a multitude of men were savagely beating tin pans. In a very few minutes the southwestern cliffs became white and we could plainly see the "color line" advancing to the north, until all the cliffs to the west seemed covered with snow. To add to so strange a sight, a good-sized water-fall began pouring over Llao rock, and falling to the lake two thousand feet below. Within half an hour from the beginning of the storm, the water-fall ceased, the cliffs became dark again, the wind shifted to the northwest and drove millions of hailstones upon us, sufficiently large to make us wince when struck--especially when struck all over with no possible means of escape. The only accident to any of our party during the sojourn, befel a highly respected mule attached to the Topographical Engineers Corps. One day as the party passed along the east side of Dutton Cliff, progress seemed almost blocked by high precipices. A point was found overlooking a yawning chasm, where a large tree had fallen and lodged. By throwing in stones and brush, a sort of trail was made to terra firma beyond the backbone of the mountain. Over this the pack train was passed safely, except a mule that was blind in one eye. He bore a reputation for dignity and sobriety that any well-to-do mule might envy. However, when just at the point which, above all others, should have received his undivided attention, he became gay and festive, and as a consequence, fell part way over the precipice. By dint of hard labor, he was drawn back, but little the worse for wear, his pack was removed and he again started across. Again, however, he became frisky, and pitched head-long over a rocky precipice five hundred feet high. As his limbs mixed with those of the trees below, the thoughts of the spectators above were: "There goes all that is mortal of Croppy, who climbed to the top of Mt. Shasta, but died in a lonely canyon, by his own hand in a fit of temporary insanity. Let him R.I.P." One day while at work on the lake, my attention was called to what seemed to be a tall, full-bearded man standing on the southern portion of Llao Rock's summit. One foot was placed a little forward of the other and the knee bent slightly but naturally, while before him stood a gun. His hands were clasped over the muzzle as he gazed intently to the north. Just behind him stood a boy, apparently about fifteen years of age. They seemed entirely too natural not to be flesh and blood, and yet, persons at that distance would not be visible to the naked eye, as we were two miles out on the lake. Day after day, as our work progressed, their position remained the same, and, in the absence of a better explanation, we decided them to be trees. Crater Lake is but a striking memento of a dread past. Imagine a vast mountain, six by seven miles through, at an elevation of eight thousand feet, with the top removed and the inside hollowed out, then filled with the clearest water in the world, to within two thousand feet of the top, then place a round island in one end eight hundred and forty-five feet high, then dig a circular hole tapering to the center, like a funnel, one hundred feet deep and four hundred and seventy-five feet in diameter, and you have a perfect representation of Crater Lake. It is hard to comprehend what an immense affair it is. To those living in New York City, I would say, Crater Lake is large enough to have Manhattan, Randall's, Ward's and Blackwell's Islands dropped into it, side by side without touching the walls, or, Chicago or Washington City might do the same. Our own fair city of Portland with all her suburbs, from the City Park to Mount Tabor, and from Albina to Sellwood inclusive, could find ample room on the bottom of the lake. On the other hand, if it were possible to place the lake, at its present elevation, above either of these cities, it would be over a mile up to the surface of the water, and a mile and three-quarters to the top of Llao Rock. Of this distance, the ascent would be through water for two thousand feet. To those living in New Hampshire, it might be said, the surface of the water is twenty-three feet higher than the summit of Mt. Washington. [Illustration: _1. Rogue River Falls, 180 feet high._ _2. Vidae Cliff, Crater Lake, over 2,000 feet high._ _3. A point on Vidae Cliff._] What an immense affair it must have been, ages upon ages ago, when, long before the hot breath of a volcano soiled its hoary head, standing as a proud monarch, with its feet upon earth and its head in the heavens, it towered far, far above the mountain ranges, aye, looked far down upon the snowy peaks of Hood and Shasta, and snuffed the air beyond the reach of Everest. Then streams of fire began to shoot forth, great seas of lava were hurled upon the earth beneath. The elements seemed bent upon establishing hell upon earth and fixing its throne upon this great mountain. At last its foundation gave way and it sank forever from sight. Down, down, down deep into the bowels of the earth, leaving a great, black, smoking chasm, which succeeding ages filled with pure, fresh water, giving to our day and generation one of the most beautiful lakes within the vision of man. In conclusion I will say, Crater Lake is one of the grandest points of interest on earth. Here all the ingenuity of nature seems to have been exerted to the fullest capacity, to build one grand, awe-inspiring temple, within which to live and from which to gaze upon the surrounding world and say: "Here would I dwell and live forever. Here would I make my home from choice; the universe is my kingdom, and this my throne." JOSEPHINE COUNTY CAVES. On Friday evening, August 24, 1888, S. S. Nicolini of Ragusa, Austria, E. D. Dewert of Portland, and the writer boarded the south-bound train for Grant's Pass, intent on a few days' outing. This town of Grant's Pass was so named for a pass in the mountains several miles south, where, in early days, the silent hero camped for the night. Early Saturday morning my head was banged up against one end of our sleeping car, an instant after hearing the shrill whistle sounding down brakes. As soon as possible I got on the outside and found the engines standing within a few feet of a yawning chasm where a bridge had been. Now, however, seven bents had been burned away and a terrible railroad accident was averted by the quick eye of Engineer Elliott, who saw the fire as we turned the curve and stopped the train almost instantly. At Grant's Pass, H. D., M. M. and F. M. Harkness joined us, and we started for the Josephine County Caves, about thirty miles due south, in the Siskiyou mountains. For twenty miles the trip was made over a very good road by wagon. At this point it became necessary to pack our things on two horses and walk over a trail into the mountains. On a hot day, this portion of the trip is very laborious, owing to the fact that it is up the steep mountain side about two-thirds of the way, and down an equally steep incline the remainder. We arrived at our destination a little before noon on the 27th, and found two openings, one above the other, and about one hundred yards apart, on the south side of a deep canyon. When out hunting a few years since, Elijah Davidson, of Williams Creek, found a bear and chased it into the lower entrance, thus discovering the caves. Each entrance is high enough to admit a person without stooping, and is probably about eight feet wide. At noon we entered the upper cave. For a few feet the floor inclined inward; we then descended a ladder for about six feet, and found ourselves in a passage way eight feet wide by an equal height, which changed, however, at every step. Now it would be wider, and now narrower, now higher, and now lower. Walls, ceiling and floor were composed of solid rock. To describe them, appropriately would simply be to use a gift made divine by inspiration. No man can behold them, then impart to others an accurate idea of their appearance. Soon after entering we were compelled to progress on hands and knees, then stood upright in chambers ten feet high, the walls of which were white. Stalactites were first seen here, and involuntarily we cast sly glances around to discover the bodies of kings preserved beneath such droppings in "King Solomon's Mines." We wandered from place to place, from chamber to chamber, dragging ourselves through passage ways barely large enough to admit a human body, while with toes and fingers we worked along, or stood in the midst of rooms that reached far above us. Now we see a beautiful pool of clearest water, surrounded by a delicate crystal formation in the shape of a bowl. In color it is as white as the driven snow, while each crystal is oblong, projecting at right angles with the main portion for about an eighth of an inch. One peculiarity of these crystals that disappointed us was the fact that they change from white to a dull, yellowish color, immediately after being removed from the caves. We were extremely anxious to try a new process for taking photographs in the dark, so Dewert took his camera and acted as photographer for the party. Owing to the limited space at times and cramped manner of locomotion it required the services of four men to carry the camera and accompanying necessities. Having reached a suitable place for a picture, the camera was first put in position, a board was laid on the top of it on which a tin reflector was placed, and a little powder called the lightning flash was then poured on the board in front of the reflector. At this point the order was given, "Douse the glim," and all lights were extinguished. The plate was exposed in perfect darkness, the powder was ignited, and instantly there was a flash of the most intense light. This light was so brilliant that, for several minutes, it caused in the eyes a glimmering sensation of light. Several photographs were taken in this way, which will doubtless prove excellent examples of what ingenuity can do in the dark. It would require days of constant work to explore all the passages we found, whereas our time was limited to that portion of one day after 12 o'clock noon. For this reason we remained in the caves from noon to midnight, first examining the upper, then the lower one. This difference exists between them: The one above is possessed of fine stalactite formations, while below none appear. Instead, however, immense rocks are piled indiscriminately one upon the other, with great cracks between. Long ladders were used to climb to the top of the rocks, over the sides of which yawning pits could be seen that seemed to possess no bottom. Lack of time alone prevented us from making a thorough investigation, but I could not resist the temptation to climb over the side of one friendly rock for a few feet to see how it looked. Down for twenty feet the space remained unchanged, so that I could easily reach from rock to rock. It then widened out and I could proceed no farther without ropes, so I returned to the party. A fine stream of clear cold water flows from this cave and a strong breeze of cool air rushed forth also. At times in both upper and lower cave, the wind blew toward the entrance so that it was impossible to keep the lights burning. No traces of foul air have been found in either cave. Before our visit, visions of square chambers filled my mind, only to be dashed aside when real ones presented themselves, the irregular shape of which could not well be surpassed. There are no parallel walls, few straight ones, but corners everywhere. The floor will pitch in all directions, likewise ceiling and walls. Beautiful views of stalactites and stalagmites stand out in bold relief against snow white walls. At the farthest extremity of the upper cave in one direction an immense chamber presents itself, and should be known as the devil's banquet hall. It is probably 75 � 150 feet and sixty in height. Great blocks of rock hang as by a thread from the ceiling, while on every side rocks of equal size lie in all conceivable shapes. Standing at the point of entry one looks at the opposite side and sees great cracks, yawning cavities with open mouths of blackness, dismal shadows, to which flickering lights give a ghoulish, dance-like appearance. Yes, the devil seems to be holding high carnival, while his imps would dance the night away. They bob up and down and swing their arms in fiendish glee, while the dance goes on forever. None can look therein without seeing these imps and their antics. The floor recedes rapidly from the entrance, and is composed of great rocks scattered in confusion. We placed a number of lighted candles in different places, then climbed to the opposite side to view them. The shadows had partially disappeared, crevices and holes in the walls not before seen became suddenly black and excited our curiosity, so we climbed over high rocks into unknown passages. In a small chamber on one side we found a beautiful stream of water, falling several feet into a crystal basin. The walls of the chamber are white, and the effect by candle-light is very fine. Midnight found us still employed, but we reluctantly ceased our labors and withdrew. Without unnecessary ceremony we wrapped our blankets about us, laid down beneath the stars, and slept the sleep of the just until 3 o'clock, when the dulcet notes of a coyote called us to the business of the day. Preparations were quickly made for the journey, and at daylight we were on our way to Grant's Pass, where we arrived at 9 o'clock P.M. OUR MOUNTAINS IN WAR. It is a curious fact that the home of Liberty has always been in the mountains. The reason for this is, that Nature intervenes every barrier to prevent conquests, and shields the native mountaineer from onslaughts of a foreign foe. The ringing words, "Make way for Liberty," could never have become immortal had it not been for a mountain pass. The memory of William Tell would not now be cherished by liberty-loving Swiss, were it not for the friendly crags of the Alps that sheltered him. Here in the Northwest we are blessed with a wonderful mountain range, extending from California through Oregon and Washington to British Columbia. For beauty, grandeur and extent it has no superior; while as a field of defense, it simply stands unparalleled, and is rich in minerals, agriculture and commerce. Located at from forty to a hundred miles apart are the following mountain peaks, covered with perpetual snow: Baker, Rainier, Adams, St. Helens, Hood, Jefferson, Three Sisters, Pitt and Shasta. From each of these, convenient points of prominence are visible in the Coast Range, one or more of which in turn are visible from every harbor and city as far south as San Francisco. In case of a foreign war it is one of the possibilities of the Oregon Alpine Club to organize a sort of Signal Corps, say five hundred men, each of whom would be thoroughly familiar with every pass, crevasse and crag in the mountains where detailed for service. With a liberal supply of provisions and ammunition on each peak, scarcely anything short of a pestilence could dislodge them. What could a foreign army do around Mt. Hood, for instance, with fifty resolute men well armed and equipped on the summit. It has been but a few years since the entire force of the United States Army was successfully defied by Captain Jack and a dozen Indians in the Lava Beds; and yet we have here every advantage of the Lava Beds, to which is added precipices to the north, east and west, while to the south a narrow passage would permit men to ascend, but it is necessary to cut every step in the ice; while directly across the base of this precipitous glacier, a crevasse extends, of unknown depth, which varies in width from three to forty feet, according to the season. It is needless to say that every wounded member of the assaulting party would pay the penalty with his life, for the slightest misstep would hurl him into the crevasse where "moth doth not corrupt and where thieves do not break through and steal." Now for the point of this article. Give to the corps a liberal supply of heliographs and instruct the men how to use them. In this way a perfect system of communication can be established by which messages can be sent from point to point in an instant. Say, for instance, that a hostile fleet was lying at Victoria and a descent on San Francisco was planned. From a spy within the enemy's lines, the party on Mt. Baker gathers full particulars, and immediately informs San Francisco of the contemplated attack, giving full particulars, including number of ships, men and guns. NIGHT ON THE SUMMIT OF MOUNT RAINIER. Monday, August 14, 1889, Mr. J. Nichols, of Tacoma, and the writer, left Tacoma for Mt. Rainier, determined, if possible, to reach its highest point. The provisions, blankets, alpine stocks (a hickory staff seven feet long with a steel point at one end), alpine ax and all that was necessary in making the ascent easy, were taken from Tacoma, while pack horses were procured at Yelm, a station twenty-five miles south of Tacoma, and from which the trail leads eastwardly to Mount Rainier. It first follows river bottoms, then mountains, ridges and river bottoms again, while an occasional fording of the glacial stream, lends interest to the ever-changing scenes. We aimed at the end of each day to camp where feed could be obtained for hard working horses. Darkness coming on as we reached the first ford, left in some doubt the exact location of the crossing, so camp was made on the bank of the river with nothing but oats for our tired horses. Daylight found us fording the river, which had risen during the night about ten inches, making it quite exciting as the foaming water splashed the horses' sides, and wet our feet and ankles. Stopping at the first place where hay could be had, a stay of nearly two hours was made for breakfast for ourselves and horses. From our last night's experience, we decided to carry hay with us and camp wherever night should overtake us, which was at the foot of a high mountain our trail led over, and on the bank of the river as before. The day was uneventful, if we omit mention of the many hornets' nests we passed through and the four pheasants which fell before the unerring aim of Nichol's rifle. The pheasants led us to a fitting close of the day in the shape of pheasants and dumplings, prepared by the writer and pronounced by Nichols (who, by the way, is an epicure) to be simply _par excellence_. And here I might add that the writer is a single man. The end of the third day found us at the Hotel Longmire at Hot Springs, located on the southwest slope of Mt. Rainier, at an altitude of three thousand feet, and some five miles from the perpetual snow limit. And no finer people ever lived than Mr. and Mrs. Longmire, who own and preside over the hotel and springs. The hotel material was cut by hand out of the finest grained cedar that ever grew--boards twelve inches wide and fifteen feet long--as perfect as though sawed. As a matter of information for those interested, it might be well to say here that the waters of the springs are positively life-giving. The writer has visited many mineral springs, and has never seen anything that will compare with the stimulating and health-giving qualities of these springs. But, to resume: we left the springs next morning, with a single pack horse, expecting to leave the horse at the top of the ridge (eight thousand feet altitude) overlooking Paradise valley, and, with blankets on our backs, to make our way to Ewing's camp, ten thousand five hundred feet above sea level. We reached Paradise valley, and, finding the same had been so well and truly named, decided to stop till next day and enjoy some of its beauties. Accordingly, camp was pitched, fire-wood gathered, and a camp fire built, and a pot of beans placed thereon. After a light lunch we strolled, enjoying the alpine beauties of the valley, well named Paradise. During the afternoon the wind changed to the southwest, and clouds gradually spread over the firmament. From our experience a year ago on Mount Hood in a storm, at no higher altitude than we now were, no thought was given to ascending higher till fair weather and a northwest wind prevailed. Morning dawned and no indications of good weather. Our spirits were accordingly depressed. Observing the barometer, we found it moving quite rapidly in the direction of storm. By noon the sky was heavily overcast, and an hour later undercast as well. By 3 o'clock rain began to fall. The wind had already risen to quite a gale. Re-staking our tent, digging a ditch around the head and sides, and piling wood and rocks along the edges to keep out the wind and rain, we crawled into our blankets and awaited developments. Soon the storm broke upon us with all its alpine fury, and raged during the entire night. By morning the rain had turned into sleet and snow, the thermometer, at daylight registering 34 degrees. Shortly the storm ceased. After some difficulty a fire was started and coffee made. Sampling our pot of beans, which had boiled at least four hours, we found them still hard; after an hour more boiling we emptied them on the ground, having learned that beans are hard to cook at an eight thousand foot altitude. Our barometer still indicating foul weather, we decided to start at once for a more congenial climate. Accordingly our shivering horses (which we had blanketed) were packed and four hours later we were at the Springs hotel, in a rather moody frame of mind. Tuesday morning all was clear, the barometer indicated fair weather, and we started early, reaching the 8500-foot ridge at 1 P.M. Turning our horses loose to feed upon the succulent grass, we bound our blankets upon our backs and started for Ewing's camp, altitude 11,000 feet. Evening coming on, we made camp at 10,500. Clearing away the rocks, leaving a sandy bottom, we stretched our light, small tent, banking wet sand around the edges to keep out the piercing wind, which almost invariably blows at high altitudes. Placing our oilcloth over the damp, cool sand, we soon had a comfortable bed. For tent poles we used our alpine stocks, one of which was seven and one-half feet long. Our bed being satisfactorily arranged, we took notes on the scenery, temperature, etc. A haze hung over the valleys; in fact, it rose to a height of nine thousand feet. The rosy-tinted summits of Hood, Adams and St. Helens towered away above it, however, reflecting the rays of the declining sun. The chilliness of the temperature, 28 degrees, prevented us from remaining long outside our tent. Crawling in, we tightly fastened the flaps and really passed a comfortable night. Twenty minutes after 4 A.M. found us astir, and at five o'clock we were under way. We had scarcely as yet taken time to admire the beauties of the scene, so intent had we been on getting an early start so as to be able to return before sundown to our blankets and provisions. We soon had an opportunity to admire the beauties around and below us, as climbing above eleven thousand feet altitude is productive of sudden stops for rest and breath. We expected to reach the summit by noon, at latest; but on account of the icy condition of portions of the mountain side, it was necessary to cut steps over quite long stretches. This delayed us more than two hours. Twelve o'clock came and went and we were not quite to the top of the "big rock"--a large rock on the south side, the top of which is about two thousand feet below the summit. By 1 o'clock we were past the rock several hundred yards. From here to the summit we crossed eight or nine crevasses. The snow or ice stood in pinnacles often six and seven feet high. Three o'clock came and the top was still beyond us. Having no blankets or provisions, the question now presented itself: Could we make the summit and back over the dangerous points before dark. Not much talking was done, however, as breath was too precious; but we still pushed on. At 4 o'clock we held a council of war and decided that since it was already so late we could not return before dark, and we would make for the summit, where steam caverns were said to exist, and where Messrs. Longmire and Van Trump stayed over night in '83. They found themselves in the same predicament we were now in, by their determination to reach the summit. This being settled, we pushed on, turned out of our way by first one and then another obstacle, until we found ourselves about one hundred feet, not more, below the summit of the highest western bump or dome. From this we descended about a hundred feet, and thence across a level piece of snow about one-third of a mile, to the foot of the main pinnacle, in which is located the crater. Some three hundred feet (in altitude) more climbing, over ashes and fine pumice stone of the outside walls of the crater, and we stood on the apex of one of the highest mountains in the United States. Mr. Nichols claims the honor of being the first and only Tacomaite who has reached the summit. [Illustration: _1. Snowballing on Mt. St. Helens, July 22d, 1889._ _2. Summit of Mt. Hood, looking West._ _3. Illumination Rock on Mt. Hood._] It was now 5:10 P.M., the thermometer registering 23° above zero; and having no blankets, our first business was to find a warm place in the steam to pass the night. Steam could be seen issuing from a dozen different places on the inside rim of the crater, say sixty to seventy feet below the crest. Writing our names on a card, with a short account of the climb, we placed it inside of a small box, on which was inscribed, "Oregon Alpine Club, Portland." This was left on the top of the ridge. We heaped rocks around it to prevent the wind from blowing it away. We soon found a sort of semi-spherical opening in the rocks, from which the warm steam poured forth. Clearing away the rocks, leaving a sandy bottom, we built a wall of rocks two feet in height to break the wind, and then turned our attention to looking for canned corned beef. We were told a can had been left there by Prof. Ingram's party ten days before. This was soon found, together with a package of French chocolate, a box of sardines and some cheese. We were already the possessors of one lemon. As nothing more was needed we got into our den. Taking a cup found lashed to a rock on the crest of the crater and filling it with snow we placed it in our oven and soon had plenty of water. We ate some lunch, but fourteen and fifteen thousand foot altitudes are not productive of strong appetites, so we ate sparingly, and being so completely exhausted soon fell asleep. About 8 o'clock P.M., we were rudely awakened by what appeared to be a dash of ice water in our faces and down our necks. The sky being clear the ice water was explained a few moments later. The wind had arisen and was drifting dry snow--(eight inches of which had fallen Sunday)--from a bank about fifteen feet distant, against the sloping roof and walls of our warm den; thus the snow was turned to water by the time it reached our faces. To prevent being so rudely drenched again we removed our coats, which were then wrapped around our heads. The wind having veered to the west, some anxiety was felt that a storm might arise before we could return. However, fortune smiled upon us in our dizzy resting place so far above the clouds, and morning dawned clear, cold and beautiful. Upon the first gleams of the sun we made for the ridge for our dry clothes, which were placed there before retiring to our den the night before. We had fortunately worn two suits of heavy underclothes, two pairs of pants and two coats, so we now had dry clothes, and well it was we took the precaution of removing a suit and placing it out of the way of the wet steam. Before we could return to our den every vestige of clothing, including a soft hat, was frozen stiff. The cold seemed to strike at once clear through. The agility with which we got into our steam chest would have been amusing to an uninitiated observer. We were soon warm again, and by slight assistance from each other, our dripping clothes were soon changed for dry ones. Mounting the ridge of the crater on the highest side, sunrise observations were taken. The sun appearing above the eastern horizon tinted Rainier's top with molten silver, while the country beneath was still wrapped in shade. Not many moments elapsed till the adjacent mountains, Hood, Adams and St. Helens, one by one in order named, donned their silvery shields like mighty giants in battle attitude, defending themselves against the sun, their common enemy. The effect at this time was grand, indeed, the heavy rains of two days previous having entirely dissipated the smoke. Eastward all was clear, while westward, nearly fifteen thousand feet below, the valleys and lowlands were hidden beneath billowy clouds, which, like the mountain tops, soon turned from gray to shining silver. Soon Sol's rays had reached the western horizon. Mountain shadows now appeared reaching westward to the limit of our vision; the jagged edges resting on hills and plains and valleys contributed to a changing scene, the memory of which will last so long as life is given. Our selfish aim more than attained, we were satisfied and determined at once to descend to earth, from whence we came. Our determination being carried out, we reached Hot Springs at 8 P.M., and Tacoma three days later. CHAS. H. GOVE, Of Oregon Alpine Club. What they Signify. ADAMS, MT.--Called by Winthrop, Tacoma the Second (1853). Named for President Adams. Indian name Pat-to, signifying high. This name was applied to snow caps generally by the Indians. BAKER, MT.--Named for Lieut. Baker by Vancouver, when discovered April 30, 1792. Called by Winthrop (1853), Kulshan; possibly the Indian name. Referred to by the Spanish as Montana del Carmelo. Called Mt. Polk by the Americans (1846). BITTER ROOT RANGE.--Same as the Coeur d'Alene mountains. COFFIN, MT.--Originally used as an Indian burying ground and named by Lieut. Broughton (1792). CASTLE ROCK.--Referred to by Lewis and Clark as Beacon Rock (1805). Subsequently called Castle Rock, because of its appearance. CASCADES.--Known as President's Range (1846). The mountains were named for the cascades of the Columbia river. CAPE HORN.--So named because of the difficulty experienced in doubling it (1812.) GOAT MOUNTAIN.--Called Plas (long sound of a) by the Indians, meaning white. So called because of the white rocks. Mountain goats formerly abounded in that vicinity, hence the present name. HOOD, MT.--Discovered by Broughton, October 29, 1792, and named for Lord Hood of England. General Indian name, Pat-to. An active volcano in 1846. Same as Mt. Washington of the Americans (1846). JEFFERSON, MT.--Discovered by Lewis and Clark and named for President Jefferson, 1806. Same as Mt. Vancouver of the British (1846). MCLAUGHLIN, MT.--Lat. 43° 30'. Named for John McLaughlin who established Vancouver, introduced live stock, fruit, vegetables and grain. Same as Mt. Madison of the Americans (1846). Sometimes called Diamond Peak. OREGON.--First used by Capt. Jonathan Carver in a book published in London (1774). The name appeared in the following statement: "The river Bourbon empties itself into Hudson's Bay; the waters of St. Lawrence; the Mississippi and the river Oregon, or the River of the West, that falls into the Pacific ocean at the straits of Anian." Numerous theories are advanced as to the origin of the name with Carver, but nothing conclusive is shown on the subject. The original Oregon embraced an uncertain portion of the entire Northwest (1578), called by the British New Albion. One portion of it was called New Georgia (1792), and another (1806), New Caledonia by British traders. The Spanish government designated the entire country (1790), as "The Coast of California, in the South Sea." OLYMPUS, MT.--Was discovered by Juan Perez, a Spanish pilot, and called El Cero de la Santa Rosalia. Named Olympus by Capt. Mears, July 4, 1788. Same as Mt. Van Buren (1846). PUGET SOUND.--Named by Vancouver for his lieutenant, Peter Puget, the discoverer, May 19th, 1792. Known among the Indians as Whulge, also as K' uk' lults. RAINIER, MT.--Discovered by Vancouver in May, 1792, and named for Rear Admiral Rainier of the English navy. Sometimes called Mt. Tacoma. Called Mt. Harrison by the Americans (1846). See pages 55, 57 and 59. ROCKY MOUNTAINS.--Named by the Verendrye brothers (1742). First called Stony Mountains. SADDLE MT.--Called by the Indians, "Swallalahoost." Named by Wilkes, Saddle Mountain (1842), on account of its shape. ST. HELENS, MT.--Discovered by Broughton of Vancouver's party, October 20, 1792, and named in honor of His Majesty's ambassador at Madrid. Known among Americans as Mt. Washington (1846), as also Mt. John Adams. Called by the Indians Lou-wala-clough, meaning smoking mountain. TILLAMOOK HEAD.--(1806), originally spelled Killamook. Lewis and Clark refer to it as "Clark's Point of View." TACOMA, MT.--See Rainier, also pages 55, 57 and 59. MOUNT RAINIER. U. S. INDIAN SERVICE. NISQUALLY AND SKOKOMISH AGENCY, } TACOMA, W. T., Dec. 8, 1886. } W. G. STEEL, _Portland, Oregon_: DEAR SIR:--I have the honor to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of Sept. 21st, making certain inquiries about the change of the name of Mt. Rainier to that of Tacoma. Upon careful and diligent inquiry among the Puyallup Indians, I find the following to be the true condition of things: There is a general impression that the name Tacoma was the original name of the mountain among Indians, and that it signified "nourishing mother," and was so named on account of its being the source of a number of rivers which head there and flow into the waters of Puget Sound. This, I find to be entirely erroneous. The Indian word is _Ta-ko-bet_ or _Ta-ke-man_, the first being the most general pronunciation used among these Indians, but both words are used, being the different pronunciation used by the dialects. It means a white mountain, and is a general name for any high, snow-covered, or white, treeless peak. It is applied to this mountain by the Indians of this vicinity, because it is the only, or most prominent one of the kind in the vicinity. They use the word as we would speak of "The White Mountain," there being but one near us. In the Skadgit language, the word is a little different, and is there called _Ko-ma_, and is applied by these Indians to Mt. Baker, it being the mountain in that vicinity of the kind. The word _Squa-tach_, or _Squat-letsh_, is a general name for a range of mountains, while _Ta-ko-bet_ or _Ta-ko-man_ or _Ko-ma_ is the name of the snow covered or white peaks in the range. This information I have gained from inquiry of the Indians with whom I have come in contact and who live near here. I inclose a statement written out by Rev. Peter Stanup, an educated Indian of the Puyallup tribe, and who is unusually well informed on such matters. As to when it was first applied and by whom I am not so well advised; but from what I do know, I understand that it was first applied to the mountains by the whites about twelve years ago, and at the same time that the town of Tacoma was laid out and located by the Northern Pacific Railroad Company, or some of its attaches. I understand that the attempt was made by the N. P. R. R. Co. to have the name changed, and that it still makes strenuous efforts to do so. The people of the town of Tacoma, and the members of the Tacoma Land Company as well as the R. R. Co., above named, all try hard to have the mountain called by that name; while the residents of the other part of the Territory, west of the Cascade mountains and especially of Seattle, are very much opposed to the change, and continue to call it by its first name. I think that the facts are that the name Tacoma is an attempted imitation of an Indian term applied to any high, snow-covered peak, but which was supposed to be the special name of this peak, because generally used by the Indians of this vicinity, and that it was applied to this mountain at the time the town of Tacoma was located and named by the N. P. R. R. Co., for the purpose of bringing into note its western terminus. Yours Respectfully, EDWIN EELLS, U. S. Indian Agent. * * * * * Statement of Rev. Peter Stanup. _Ta-ko-man_ is a name used by many different Indian tribes of this Territory, with the same meaning and a slight variation of pronunciation by each different tribe. It is the name or word from which Tacoma was derived. It originated among the inland Indians. The meaning of _Ta-ko-man_ is a high, treeless, white or light colored peak or mound. The name is applicable to any peak or mound as described, but is generally used for one that is distinguished, or highly honored. And _Squa-tach_, to climb, and _Sba-date_ mountain, are mostly used for all mountains and peaks. The individual name of Mt. Tacoma is _Twhauk_, which was derived from _Twheque_, snow, and _Swheque ad_. Bright, clear, cloudless sky. _Ta-ko-man_ is mostly used for the Mt. Tacoma, as it is held with much respect and esteemed by nearly all the Indians of the Northwest. The reason for conferring the great honor upon _Twhauk_, is that the second syllable _ko_, means water, corresponding with the water, or little lake on top of the mountain, and also in that lake is a great abundance of valuable shells, from which the Indians made their nose and ear-rings, and other valuable jewelry. THOUGHTS ON THE NAME "TACOMA." This beautiful name of the city whose rapid and marvellous growth and development have been unparalleled even in our Western civilization, is a pure invention. Its very euphony divests it of all claim as the Indian nomination of Old Mount Rainier, the name conferred by the illustrious circumnavigator, George Vancouver, borne for a century upon the map of the world. Tacoma is a word of extremely modern origin, invented, or used first by Lieut. Theodore Winthrop, U. S. Army, in his readable book--"Canoe and Saddle." The writer of these thoughts first heard it late in the "sixties," when Capt. D. B. Finch, among the pioneers of steam navigation on Puget Sound, presented a building in Olympia to the Good Templars, and his gift was christened "Tacoma Hall." Contemporaneously Tacoma City, now the first ward of Tacoma, was thus named by some Portland town-builders--Gen. McCarver, Lewis M. Starr and James Steel. The then leading hotel of Olympia, about the same time, assumed that title and wore it for several years; but a whole decade passed before the attempt was made to obliterate the time-honored name of the great mountain peak of Northwest America, conferred at the first visit of white men to Commencement Bay in 1792. Late in 1878, a lithograph map and bird's-eye view of the embryo city of New Tacoma was published under the patronage of the Tacoma Land Company, entitled--"New Tacoma and Mount Rainier"--issued in 1880. At that date the name "Tacoma" existed, but it was not applied to the mountain; nor was it even dreamed that the town was named from the Indian name of the mountain. The fact is that the name, "Mount Tacoma," has been recently conferred on the mountain by white men. A decade back, the name will not be found on the maps of Washington Territory, and it is to be hoped that the attempt to obliterate from the map of the world the name conferred by that illustrious contributor to geographic science, Captain George Vancouver, R. N., will prove unsuccessful. When Gen. Hazard Stevens, and that splendid scholar and writer, P. B. Van Trump, Esq., ascended the grand old mountain, the pronunciation and spelling of the name which Gen. Stevens, in his narrative, ascribed to the mountain, was still unsettled. He spelt the word Te-ho-ma. The "h" being aspirated really represents an Indian guttural grunt without beauty or even resolving itself into a well-defined consonant. In the year 1882, the writer was invited to perform the role of orator on Independence Day at the beautiful settlement called Puyallup. The committee coupled with the invitation the expressed desire that the theme should be Puget Sound reminiscences--the early settlement of Pierce county. He adopted as a starting theme the thoughts suggested by the words "Tacoma" and "Puyallup," or their origin thus euphonized into household words of significance and anglicised beauty, bearing but little resemblance in sound to the half-uttered nasal grunts of the fish-eating natives of Puget Sound, whose syllables are "without form and void;" their language, if such it be considered, acquiring meaning or intensity of signification when accompanied by pantomimic motion, speaking far more than all their syllabic combinations. Through the valued assistance of that veteran Indian student and interlocutor, John Flett, some twenty aged, prominent Indians, who would not deign to talk other than their own dialect, who despised even the Chinook Jargon, but adhered to the grunts and syllabic utterances and the pantomime of their race for the ages before the advent of the Hudson's Bay Company or American settlers, gathered in the writer's office in New Tacoma, as the city of Tacoma was then called, and seated on the floor for hours discussed what they called the mountains and mountain range, its surrounding and attributes. About half were of the White river bands, those who originally lived on the sources of the streams issuing from Mount Rainier. The remainder were Puyallups and 'Squallys, whose original haunts were near the Sound. The form was to put the writer's question or wish for information into Chinook Jargon, which was then translated into the Indian dialect. The old men expressed themselves in their native utterances. It would be the grossest perversion to call their answers "words." They were not so couched--at best, strong syllabic utterances--mere grunts, at times which, with eloquent pantomime, assumed grand and eloquent thought and meaning, when translated, to give just expression arising to poetry of ideas, but as a language, technically so considered, poverty-stricken to the greatest degree, and without its accompanied earnestness of movement, without a single attribute of beauty or euphonism. That interesting study and those comparative views, by old men of the mountain and the sea, extended through hours; and the writer will never forget the eloquence of action required and used by those aged natives, which more than compensated that paucity of syllables or words, which we call language. No such word of beauty as "Tacoma" could possibly be coined by them, nor result from any combination of their uttered but significant grunts, their attempted vocalization of thoughts or ideas. True, there were syllabic emissions of sound which might be resolved into words by toning down grunts and inharmonious belchings of thoughts rather than their legitimate utterances. The manner of conducting that "interview" was the assumption that the word "Tacoma," or some kindred appropriate word identified the grand old mountain in their language; in other words, their attention was invited to the fact, that our people had been told that "Tacoma" was the native name of the mountain. Then began the expression by all, in turn, as to the Indian method of referring to great landmarks, mountains individual and in range, rivers, etc., when talking with each other. Their views on the information communicated found expression in several varied, combined characteristic grunts and shrugs, which were interspersed with some analogous syllables or utterances from which Indian philologists have resolved words, some of which have more or less resemblance to some of the syllables embraced in the word Tacoma, or that word as spelled by different writers. They then detailed their reasons for so speaking of the mountain or any of its natural surroundings or physical features. In that colloquy, no two of those Indians pronounced the same word or used that same guttural utterance or combination of syllables. All were especially interrogated as to the snow-capped mountain. All gave the meaning or idea that they knew as to the cause for a name, by which any other could identify it, and the significance of the utterances by each adopted in referring to it. Each band, not to say each individual, had a peculiar reason for his name of it, contingent upon color, shape or function. In that interview, the literal translations of their syllabic combinations appertaining more or less in sound to the syllables constituting the name Tacoma--Te-ho-ma, Ta-ko-ber, Tak-o-man, etc., as rendered by the venerable John Flett, a truthful, skillful and reliable Indian authority was--"A woman's breast that feeds," a "nourishing breast." To one band, the shape of the cone suggested the breast shape for a name; to another, the milky whiteness was a reminder of the source of nourishment; to another, the color of the streams which flow down from the mountain in the annual freshets, gave origin to the idea of the generous fountain of the great milk-white breast-shaped sentinel for ages; while the Puyallups and 'Squallys, more practical in view, associated the fact that from the mountain rushed the torrents of white water, resembling milk, which fertilized the valleys of Puget Sound. While such was the conversation and speech of those old patriarchs, several of whom had lived to become octogenarians, communicated as above stated, the writer is well aware that across the mountain chain, residing in the vicinity of the mountain, that several bands of the Klickitat nation attach different meanings for synonymous syllabic combinations approximating in sound to the combinations referred to used by Western Washington bands, with shades of meaning more practical, less figurative, less Indian; but the writer has been content to accept as authority, at all events so far as the Aborigines of Western Washington are concerned, the result of the conference of Indian patriarchs convened at his instance in 1882. While that conference failed to establish that there was such an Indian word as "Tacoma," or that these Indians had any distinctive Indian names for "Mount Rainier," or that there was any recognized Indian name known to the several tribes; yet, the different bands did use such syllabic utterances, by which they referred to the mountain chain, to the leading mountain of the chain. That color, shape, and attributed function, suggested such expression, and that the combination of syllables which have been so euphoniously metamorphosed into the beautiful word "Tacoma," when pronounced by them in its native utterances, meant as herein expressed. The writer, however, finds no warrant for adopting Tacoma as an Indian word, nor does he believe that such word, or its approximate, was a name conferred by Indians upon the mountain, or exclusively recognized as the name of the mountain by the original natives of this region. ELWOOD EVANS. [Illustration: PRESIDENTS OF THE OREGON ALPINE CLUB.] OREGON ALPINE CLUB. [Illustration] The Oregon Alpine Club was organized in 1887, and incorporated October 7th of that year. It was originally intended merely as an organization among half a dozen friends who were in the habit of seeking adventure and recreation in the mountains. After considering the matter for a time a meeting, was called, and more persons attended than were expected. A committee was appointed on rules, the adoption of which required several meetings, so that when the organization was completed there were over seventy charter members on the roll. The institution grew and its objects increased until a Scientific Staff was formed and a public museum became an important object. Hon. H. W. Corbett was elected President, and served until October, 1888, when Hon. D. P. Thompson was chosen. Mr. Thompson served until the close of 1889, when a re-organization was effected, as outlined by the subjoined constitutions. Mr. Geo. B. Markle was at this time elected, and is now the very efficient President of the Club. The Alpine Club is a public institution and is deserving of the liberal support of the city and State. The following is a list of officials, as also the Constitutions of the Club and its various Departments: CONSTITUTION. OFFICERS. _President_, GEO. B. MARKLE {W. G. STEEL _Vice Presidents_, {W. W. BRETHERTON {JOHN GILL _Secretary_, GEO. H. HIMES _Treasurer_, C. M. IDLEMAN ARTICLE I. NAME. This Association shall be known as the OREGON ALPINE CLUB, and its subdivisions as the Departments of the same. ARTICLE II. OBJECT. The object shall be the foundation and maintenance of a Public Museum, and advancement and encouragement of Amateur Photography, Alpine and Aquatic exploration, and the protection of our game, fish, birds and animals. ARTICLE III. SECTIONS. There shall be Four Departments, namely, (1) Exploration Department; (2) Photographic Department; (3) Game Protective Department; and (4) Museum Department. ARTICLE IV. OFFICERS. SECTION 1. The officers of the Club shall be a President, four Vice Presidents, Secretary and Treasurer. SEC. 2. The Presidents of the various Departments shall be _ex-officio_ Vice-Presidents of the Club. ARTICLE V. ELECTIONS. SECTION 1. The officers shall be elected by ballot on the second Friday of December in each year, a majority of all votes cast being necessary for election; and shall hold their respective offices until their successors are elected and qualified. SEC. 2. Each Department shall elect its own officers. ARTICLE VI. The duties of President, Vice-Presidents, Secretary and Treasurer shall be those usual to such officers. ARTICLE VII. DIRECTORS. SECTION 1. The President, Vice-Presidents and four members shall constitute the Board of Directors, who will be the managing power of the Club. SEC. 2. They shall employ a Curator and provide for his compensation. ARTICLE VIII. CURATOR. The Curator shall be a taxidermist, and shall have full charge of the Museum and other property of the Club, under the direction of the Board of Directors. ARTICLE IX. MEMBERSHIP. SECTION 1. There shall be three classes of members, namely, Active, Associate and Honorary. SEC. 2. An active member is one who has signed the Constitution, paid his dues, and been admitted to any of the Departments. SEC. 3. An Associate member is one who has not been admitted to any of the Departments. SEC. 4. Any person may become an Associate member by signing the Constitution and paying his dues. SEC. 5. Honorary members shall be entitled to all the privileges of the Club except voting. Their names shall be proposed at one meeting and voted on at the next, three-fourths of all votes cast being necessary for election. SEC. 6. Any member may be expelled by a two thirds vote of the members present: _Provided_, That one week's notice has been given at a regular meeting. ARTICLE X. DUES. SECTION 1. An initiation fee of two dollars shall be charged all persons joining the Club. SEC. 2. The dues shall be six dollars a year, payable quarterly, in advance. SEC. 3. Any member who shall fail to pay his dues for six consecutive months, shall have his name stricken from the roll, and be considered no longer a member: _Provided, always_, One month's notice has been given him in writing by the Curator. ARTICLE XI. All questions in dispute between the Departments shall be referred to the Directors for final settlement. ARTICLE XII. The Oregon Camera Club is hereby incorporated as the Photographic Department of the Oregon Alpine Club. All members of the Oregon Camera Club in good standing, becoming members of the Photographic Department of the Oregon Alpine Club, on ratification and acceptance of this article by the Camera Club. ARTICLE XIII. AMENDMENTS. The Constitution may be amended by a two-thirds vote of members present: _Provided_, That one month's notice has been given in writing, at a regular meeting, and has also been posted in the Club rooms for one month. EXPLORATION DEPARTMENT. OFFICERS. _President_, W. G. STEEL _Vice President_, EDWARD CASEY _Secretary_, M. W. GORMAN _Treasurer_, DR. WILLIS I. COTTEL CONSTITUTION. ARTICLE I NAME. This body shall be called the EXPLORATION DEPARTMENT OF THE OREGON ALPINE CLUB. ARTICLE II. OBJECT. To encourage the exploration of mountains, lakes and rivers, by either scientists or pleasure seekers, to foster pleasure outings by land or water, to award appropriate prizes for meritorious outfits for journeys and cruises, and for speedy trips on land, and swift cruises by water; and to conserve the handling of gun and sail as an accomplishment, and incidentally to encourage canoeing as a means to reach wide fields for research and pleasure, awarding prizes for the handling of the same. ARTICLE III. OFFICERS. The officers shall be a President, Vice President, Secretary and Treasurer, whose duties shall be those usual to such offices. ARTICLE IV. MEMBERSHIP. SECTION 1. No one shall be competent for membership, except members of the Oregon Alpine Club. SEC. 2. It is understood that when the membership of any person ceases in the Oregon Alpine Club, such person shall cease to be a member of this Department. SEC. 3. All propositions for membership shall be in writing. SEC. 4. Every name submitted for membership, shall be proposed at one meeting, and voted on by ballot at the next, two-thirds of all members present being necessary for election. SEC. 5. Any member may be expelled for conduct unbecoming a gentleman, by a two-thirds vote of the members present: _Provided_, That one month's notice has been given at a regular meeting. ARTICLE V. DUES. SECTION 1. An initiation fee of one dollar shall be charged all members, and the monthly dues shall be twenty-five cents each, payable quarterly in advance. SEC. 2. Any member who shall fail to pay his regular dues for six consecutive months, shall have his name stricken from the roll, due notice having been given him by the Secretary. ARTICLE VI. MEETINGS. SECTION 1. Regular meetings shall be held on the second Monday evening of each month, at such hour as shall be agreed upon from time to time. SEC. 2. Special meetings may be called by the President, or by a call signed by five members: _Provided_, That such a call shall state the object of the meeting. SEC. 3. An annual meeting shall be held on the second Monday in December of each year, for the election of officers, and such other business not provided for herein. ARTICLE VII. TRUSTEES. A Board of five Trustees shall be chosen at the annual meeting each year, who shall have the general management of all the affairs of the Department. ARTICLE VIII. QUORUM. Five members shall constitute a quorum competent to transact business. ARTICLE IX. AMENDMENTS. This Constitution may be amended by a two-thirds vote of members present: _Provided_, That one month's notice has been given in writing at a regular meeting, and a copy of said notice posted in the Club room for one month. GAME PROTECTIVE DEPARTMENT. [Not Organized.] PHOTOGRAPHIC DEPARTMENT. OFFICERS. _President_, W. W. BRETHERTON _Vice President_, H. GOLDSMITH _Secretary and Treasurer_, E. E. NORTON CONSTITUTION. ARTICLE I. NAME. This association shall be known as the PHOTOGRAPHIC DEPARTMENT OF THE OREGON ALPINE CLUB. ARTICLE II. OBJECT. Its object shall be to encourage and promote practical Photography, and to invite and stimulate discussion and investigation of all that pertains to Photographic science and art. ARTICLE III. MEMBERSHIP. The Department shall be composed of such members of the Oregon Alpine Club who practice Photography as amateurs, as shall be elected there and shall be known as active members, and such Honorary and Associate members as shall be elected by the Department from the members of the Oregon Alpine Club. Candidates for election may be proposed for election at one meeting, and voted on at the same meeting. All applications for membership shall be voted on by ballot, and it shall require two-thirds of all votes cast to elect any member. All professional Photographers who are members of the Oregon Alpine Club shall be eligible as Associate members, and shall enjoy all the privileges of the Department except the right of vote or hold office. ARTICLE IV. OFFICERS. The officers of the Department shall be a President, Vice-President, one or more, a Secretary, and a Treasurer; the offices of Secretary and Treasurer being held by one member if so desired by the Department. ARTICLE V. QUORUM. The attendance of two officers and three or more members shall be necessary to constitute a quorum for the transaction of business, but the constitution or by-laws shall not be changed except at a meeting called for that purpose by the Secretary and by a vote of two-thirds of all votes cast. ARTICLE VI. ANNUAL MEETING. The Annual Meeting of the Department shall be held on the third Friday of January in each year, for the election of officers and such other business as may come before the meeting. ARTICLE VII. MONTHLY MEETINGS. The monthly meeting of the Department shall be held on the third Friday of each month. ARTICLE VIII. DUES. The dues of the Department shall be $3.00 per year, payable to the treasurer of the Department. PRESIDENTS OF THE OREGON ALPINE CLUB. HENRY WINSLOW CORBETT, the first president of the Oregon Alpine Club was elected immediately after its organization and served until the close of 1888. He was born at Westborough, Mass., February 18th, 1827, and came to Oregon, via Cape Horn, with a stock of general merchandise, arriving at Portland, March 4th, 1851. In 1866, he was elected U. S. Senator and served six years with credit to himself and honor to his State. He is one of the wealthiest and most influential men in Oregon. The following in reference to him is taken from the History of Portland: "In person, Mr. Corbett is six feet high, straight and spare in figure, but symmetrically formed. Cautious, cool-headed and decided, he is not an inviting mark for the wiles of the schemer or impostor, but he is thoroughly approachable, respectful and considerate toward those whom he meets, and utterly lacking either in the arrogance of small greatness, or in the still more objectionable truckling and assumed _bonhommie_ of the small politician. He is thoroughly dignified, and yet his manners are so unassumingly easy that one hardly notices them. Indeed he is a fine type of that well approved manhood in which courtesy, kindness, dignity, culture, honor and charity are most happily blended. To these excellences can be added unswerving integrity, honesty of purpose, purity of thought and act, and those crowning virtues born of an ever present and controlling moral sentiment. His career shows what can be accomplished by steady and quiet energy, directed by sound judgment and high purpose. His name has been associated with numberless successful enterprises, but not one failure, and he is justly entitled to a foremost place among those who have created, established and maintained the commercial and industrial supremacy of Portland." * * * * * "DAVID P. THOMPSON, one of the most widely known men in our State, was born in Harrison county, Ohio, in 1834. In his nineteenth year he came to Oregon, driving sheep across the plains and walking every rod of the way. Upon his arrival at Oregon City in 1853 he took a job of cutting cordwood, which lasted through the winter. Soon after he entered upon the profession of a surveyor, which he followed during several years. In pursuance of this business he acquired an unequaled knowledge of the northwestern country, and laid the foundation of his present ample fortune. He lived at Oregon City till 1876, when he removed to Portland. In 1879, and again in 1881, he was elected mayor, and gave the city a vigorous and efficient administration. Mr. Thompson, throughout his whole life, has been noted for activity and energy. He is a man of firm and positive character, tenacious of his purposes, active in business and successful in his undertakings. By appointment of President Grant he became governor of Idaho Territory in 1875, but resigned the office in 1876. He is now engaged in the banking business in Portland."--(History of Portland,--Scott.) Mr. Thompson served as president of the Alpine Club in 1889. * * * * * MR. GEORGE B. MARKLE is at the present time serving as president of the Alpine Club. He was born in Hazleton, Lucerne county, Pennsylvania, October 7th, 1857, and came to Oregon in 1886. His desire to locate in the west led him to make a tour of inspection, which embraced Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Utah, California, Oregon and Washington. A careful examination of all this region convinced him that Portland offered the best inducements as a business point, combined with all the advantages of an old settled community, and in the fall of 1886 he permanently located in this city. He immediately became a factor in the busy life around him, and displayed a business generalship which marked him as a man of unusual power, and gave him a place among the foremost business men of the city seldom accorded in any community to one of his years. With others he organized the Oregon National Bank, of which he is vice president; also the Ellensburgh National Bank, the Northwest Loan and Trust Company and the Commercial Bank of Vancouver, being president of the last three corporations named. He was one of the purchasers of the Multnomah Street Railway; reorganized the company and ever since has been its president. He is also president of the Portland Mining Company, owning the Sunset group of mines in the famous Coeur d'Alene district. He was one of the leading spirits in organizing the great enterprise of the North Pacific Industrial Association; purchased the land upon which to erect the necessary buildings and secured a large number of subscriptions to its capital stock. He was one of the leading spirits in the organization of the Portland Hotel Company and is prominently identified with many other enterprises.--(History of Portland,--Scott.) OREGON BIBLIOGRAPHY. 1853.--ADAMS, MT.--Called by Winthrop, "Tacoma the Second,"--(Canoe and Saddle, page 48). 1889.--Called by the Indians "Pat-to," which signifies standing up high. With the Indians this was a general term for snow capped mountains. Located in latitude 46° 12' 14.1", longitude 121° 31' 08.3". 1775.--ADAMS POINT.--Discovered by Heceta and called Cape Frondoso (Leafy Cape). 1792.--Capt. Gray subsequently entered the river and named it Point Adams.--(Life on Puget Sound,--Leighton, page 48. Pacific States, vol. 22, page 163). 1792.--ADMIRALTY INLET.--Named by Vancouver for the Board of Admiralty.--(Life on Puget Sound, p. 155). 1766-9.--ALASKA.--Named by Russians.--(Willamette Valley, page 62). The name is derived from a Russian corruption of an Aleutian word, "Alakshak," which signifies Continent, or a large country. The Russian version of the term was "Aliaska," and it applied only to the prominent peninsula jutting out from the continent. Made a general term by the United States.--(Supplement to Encyclopædia Britannica, vol. 1, page 157). 1507.--AMERICA.--First applied to the new world in a work entitled "Cosmographiæ Instructio, etc., in super quatuor Americi Vespucii Navigationes," written by Marti Waldseemuller, under the assumed name of Hylacomylus and printed at Saint Die, in Lorraine.--(History of Oregon and California,--Greenhow, page 48). 1808.--AMERICAN FUR COMPANY organized.--(Burrows' Oregon, page 58). 1846.--APPLEGATE, OR SOUTHERN ROUTE.--Constructed by Jesse Applegate.--(Pacific States, vol 22, page 642). 1811.--ASTORIA founded by John Jacob Astor, April 12.--(Encyclopædia Britannica, vol. 2, page 737. History of the Willamette Valley, page 153). 1813.--Captured by the English and name changed to St. George.--(Burrows' Oregon, page 63). 1818.--Repossessed by the United States.--(Burrows' Oregon, page 65). 1865.--ATMOSPHERIC RIVER OF HEAT.--General course, effects, etc.--(Miners and Travelers' Guide,--Muller, page 61). 1792.--BAKER'S BAY.--Named by Broughton for Capt. Baker, of the brig Jenny.--(Three Years' Residence in W. T.,--Swan, page 129). 1792.--BAKER, MT.--Named for Lieut. Baker, by Vancouver, April 30.--(Vancouver, vol. 2, page 56). 1853.--Called by Winthrop, "Kulshan," presumably because of being the Indian name.--(Canoe and Saddle, page 47). 1846-8.--Same as Mt. Polk.--(Oregon and California,--Thornton, vol. 1, page 256). 1868.--The summit is described and illustrated in Harper's Monthly for November, page 806, by E. T. Coleman. 1869.--Called by the Spanish, "Montana del Carmelo."--(Life on Puget Sound,--Leighton, page 160). 1842-6.--BARLOW ROAD.--See Indian Trail. 1851.--BATTLE ROCK AT PORT ORFORD.--First trip from here to the Willamette Valley (with notes by a participant).--(Oregon and Washington,--Armstrong, page 60). 1792.--BELLINGHAM'S BAY.--Named by Vancouver.--(Vancouver, vol. 2, page 214). 1728.--BEHRING sent out by Russia on a voyage of discovery.--(Barrows' Oregon, page 22). 1865.--BITTER ROOT RANGE.--Same as the Coeur d'Alene Mountains.--(Miners and Travelers' Guide,--Mullan, page 63). 1841.--BLANCHET, FATHER.--Visited by Wilkes.--(Wilkes' Narrative, vol. 4, page 349). 1775.--BODEGA, DON JUAN DE LA.--Sailed north to 58° and returning discovered Bodega Bay in 38° 18'.--(History of Oregon,--Twiss, page 57). BONNEVILLE.--Named for B. L. E. Bonneville, who explored the Rocky Mountains in 1832 and visited the Columbia in 1834.--(Pacific States, vol. 23, page 568). 1792.--BROUGHTON, LIEUT.--Entered the Columbia River, October 20th, and was surprised to find the brig Jenny, of Bristol, Capt. Baker, lying there at anchor.--(Three Years' Residence in W. T.,--Swan, page 129). 1792.--BULFINCH'S HARBOR.--Discovered by Captain Gray.--(Oregon and Its Institutions,--Hines, page 15) See also, Gray's Harbor. 1543.--CABRILLO.--See Viscaino. 1775.--CAPE DISAPPOINTMENT.--Discovered by Heceta, August 15, and called Cape San Roque. Named Disappointment by Mears, because of his not being able to make the entrance of the river.--(Life on Puget Sound,--Leighton, page 48). 1792.--Called Cape Hancock by Gray, but afterwards changed upon hearing that Mears had already named it.--(Three Years' Residence in W. T.,--Swan, page 129). 1778.--CAPE FLATTERY.--Named by Captain Cook.--(Three Years' Residence in W. T.,--Swan, page 120). 1792.--CAPE HANCOCK.--See Cape Disappointment. 1812.--CAPE HORN.--So named because of the difficulty experienced in doubling it.--(The Columbia River,--Cox, vol. 1, page 118). 1766.--CARVER, CAPT. JONATHAN.--A resident of Connecticut and a soldier of the Canadian war. Left Boston, by way of Detroit, for the waters of the Upper Mississippi, and to cross the continent.--(The Oregon Territory,--Nicolay, page 93). CASCADE MOUNTAINS.--Named for the Cascades of the Columbia River.--(American Cyclopedia, vol. 4, page 511. Fremont, page 189). 1846-8.--Same as President's Range.--(Oregon and California,--Thornton, vol. 1, page 255). 1805.--CASTLE ROCK, called by Lewis and Clarke, Beacon Rock.--(Pacific States, vol. 23, page 47). 1852.--Coal discovered near Seahome by Capt. Pattle.--(Harpers Magazine for November, 1869, page 795). 1792.--COFFIN, MT.--Originally used as an Indian burying ground, and discovered by Lieut. Broughton.--(Vancouver, vol. 3, page 98.--Wilkes Narrative, vol. 4, page 319). 1775.--COLUMBIA RIVER.--First discovered by Heceta, August 15. Named by him _Ensenada de Asuncion_, or Assumption Inlet. The north point was called Cape San Roque, and the south, Cape Frondoso, (Leafy Cape). In the chart published in Mexico soon after the conclusion of the voyage, the entrance is, however, called _Ensenada de Heceta_, Hecta Inlet; and _Rio de San Roque_, River of St. Roc. While in command of the sloop Washington, in August, Capt. Gray discovered, and attempted to enter this opening, but the sloop grounded on the bar and came near being lost; and was also attacked by Indians, who killed one man and wounded the mate. Gray was shortly afterward transferred to the Columbia, and on another cruise entered the river; sailed up it about twenty miles, and bestowed the name of his vessel upon it.--(Three Years' Residence in W. T., pages 124 to 128.--Pacific States, vol. 22, page 163.--American Cyclopædia, vol. 5, page 513). Many works published before the discovery refer to a river flowing westward, as "River of the West," "River of Aguilar," "River Thegays."--(History of Oregon and California,--Greenhow, pages 144-5). 1805.--Called by the Indians "Spocatilicum"--Friendly Water.--(Life on Puget Sound,--Leighton, page 50). The Indians also referred to it as Wahn-na, or Big River. 1816.--The bar was first surveyed by Capt. McClellan, of the Col. Allen.--(Pac. States, vol. 23, page 266). 1846.--Was considered accessible for vessels only three months in the year.--(The Oregon Territory,--Nicolay, page 42). 1853.--COMCOMLI.--This Indian Chief is spoken of by Winthrop as one Montgomery.--(Canoe and Saddle, page 77). 1841.--COMMENCEMENT BAY.--Named by Wilkes. (Wilkes' Narrative, vol. 4, page 479). 1778.--COOK, CAPT.--Sailed along the coast and sighted land at 44°, March 7.--(Oregon,--Moseley, page 8.--History of Oregon and California,--Greenhow, page 150). 1779.--Murdered by natives in the Sandwich Islands February 16th.--(History of Oregon and California, page 157). CORVALLIS.--Of Spanish derivation, and signifies Center of the Valley. Originally, Marysville.--(Oregon and Washington,--Armstrong, page 18). 1598.--D'AGUILAR, MARTIN.--See Sebastian Viscanio. 1805.--DES CHUTES RIVER.--Called by Lewis, "Towahnahiooks," and by Gass, "The Kimmooenim."--(Pacific States, vol. 23, page 41). 1775.--DISAPPOINTMENT, CAPE.--See Cape Disappointment. 1786.--DIXON AND POSTLOCK were sent out by the King Georges Sound Co. of London and arrived at Cooks River in July.--(History of Oregon,--Twiss, page 61). 1824.--DOUGLAS, DAVID.--The botanist who gave his name to the Douglas pine (_Abies Douglasii_), and named over one thousand plants, was sent out by the Royal Horticultural Society of London, and remained ten years.--(Pac. States, vol. 23, pages 507-8). 1579.--DRAKE, SIR FRANCIS.--Sailed along the coast.--(Oregon,--Moseley, page 8. History of Oregon and California,--Greenhow, page 73). FALSE DUNGENESS, see Port Angeles. 1542.--FURRELO, BARTOLEME.--Sailed with two vessels to 41° to 44°.--(History of Oregon,--Twiss, pages 26 and 27. History of Oregon and California,--Greenhow, page 64). 1576.--First voyage made from England to seek a Northwest Passage was made by Martin Frobisher.--(History of Oregon and California,--Greenhow, page 77). 1793.--First trip to the Pacific, overland, was made by Sir Alex. Mackenzie, who reached the sea at 52° 20'.--(History of Oregon,--Twiss, pages 19 and 20). 1806.--First civilized post, or settlement, west of the Rocky Mountains was made by the Northwest Co., on Frazer Lake in 54°.--(History of Oregon,--Twiss, page 21). 1810.--First settlement attempted and first house in Oregon built by Capt. Winship forty miles above the sea on the south bank of the Columbia.--(Pac. States, vol. 23, page 133. Oregon,--Moseley, page 9). 1814.--First European woman on the Columbia River was Miss Jane Barnes, who arrived at Astoria on the Isaac Todd, April 17th.--(Pac. States, vol. 23, page 250). 1827.--First fruit tree in Oregon was planted at Vancouver by John McLaughlin, who also introduced live stock, vegetables and grain.--(Pacific States, vol. 23, page 441). 1836.--First steamer to visit Oregon was the Beaver, from England--(Pac. States, vol. 23, page 600). 1598.--FLOREZ, ANTONIO.--See Sebastian Viscanio. 1812.--FRASER RIVER.--Known among the Indians as Tacoutche-Tesse. 1793.--Supposed by Sir Alex. Mackenzie to be the northern source of the Columbia.--(History of Oregon,--Twiss, page 19. Pacific Coast, vol. 22, page 205). Named for Simon Fraser, who established a post in that region in 1805.--(History of Portland,--Scott, page 16). 1713.--France secretly conveys to Spain all her possessions west of the Mississippi River.--(Barrows' Oregon, page 19). 1800.--France recovers the western half of Louisiana from Spain.--(Barrows' Oregon, page 20). 1803.--France sells her claims to the United States.--(Barrows' Oregon, pages 21 and 210). 1843.--Fremont follows Whitman to Oregon, arriving October 23.--(Barrows' Oregon, page 250). 1786.--Fur trade opened by British merchants between Oregon and China.--(History of Oregon,--Twiss, page 18). GOAT, MOUNTAIN.--Known by the Indians as Plas, (white), because of the white rocks. 1792.--GRAY, CAPT.--Explored the Columbia river twenty-five miles, and named it.--(The Oregon Territory,--Nicolay, page 39). 1792.--GRAY'S BAY.--Named by Broughton for Capt. Gray, of the Columbia.--(Vancouver, vol. 3, page 92). 1789.--GRAY'S HARBOR.--First called Bulfinch Harbor, but changed to Gray's Harbor May 7th.--(Pacific States vol. 22, page 259). 1791.--GULF OF GEORGIA.--Called by Don Francisco Elisa, "Canal de Nuestra Senora del Rosary," or The Channel of our Lady of the Rosary. 1792.--Subsequently named by Vancouver in honor of the king.--(Vancouver, vol. 2, page 170.--Life on Puget Sound, page 154). 1846-8.--HARRISON, MT.--See Rainier. 1771.--HEARNE, SAM'L.--An employee of the Hudson Bay Co. succeeded in tracing the Coppermine river to tide water in 72°, and his report caused the Lords of Admiralty to send Capt. Cook to the Northwest Coast.--(History of Oregon,--Twiss, page 58). 1775.--HECETA, BRUNO.--Left San Blas for America March 16th. Passed up the entire coast of Oregon, discovered the Columbia river.--(History of Oregon,--Twiss, page 567. Oregon,--Moseley, page 8). 1792.--HOOD, MT.--Discovered by Broughton October 29th, and named for Lord Hood.--(Vancouver, vol. 3, page 107.--N. W. Coast of America,--Franchere, page 112). 1846-8.--Same as Mt. Washington.--(Oregon and California,--Thornton, vol. 1, page 256). 1846.--Said to be in a state of eruption.--(Oregon and California, vol. 1, page 336). 1854.--Belden claimed to have ascended it in October, and reported it as 19,400 feet high. He claimed to have ascended as high as possible with snowshoes, then with ice hooks and spikes. When they reached a point some 18,000 feet high respiration became very difficult owing to the rarity of the atmosphere. At length the blood began to ooze through the pores of the skin like drops of sweat; their eyes began to bleed, then the blood gushed from their ears. Then they commenced their downward march. At the point where they commenced the ascent they had left their pack mules, and two men to guard them. The men went out hunting, and when they returned found that the cougars had killed two of their mules.--(Oregon and Washington,--Armstrong, page 38). (Lying seemed to have been reduced to an art in those days). 1864.--Ascended by Rev. H. K. Hines and the summit described.--(Oregon and its Institutions,--Hines, page 44). Known among Indians as Pat-to, or high mountain. This was a general term for any high snow-capped mountain. Located in latitude 45° 22' 24.3". Longitude 121° 42' 49.6". 1792.--HOOD'S CANAL.--Named by Vancouver for Lord Hood.--(Life on Puget Sound, page 155). 1805.--HOOD RIVER.--Called by Lewis and Clarke, La Biche.--(Pac. States, vol. 23, page 45). 1670.--HUDSON BAY CO.--Chartered May 16th.--(Burrows' Oregon, page 33). 1842-6.--INDIAN TRAIL.--The first pass over the Cascades used by whites was over the southern flank of Mount Hood. Near it was afterwards made the Barlow Road, which was named for Barlow, of Barlow, Palmer and Rector, who were compelled to abandon their trains at the summit and were rescued by a relief party from the Willamette Valley.--(Pac. States, vol. 22, page 645). 1846-8.--JACKSON, MT.--Same as Mt. Pitt of the English. In lat. 41° 40'.--(Oregon and California,--Thornton, vol. 1, page 257.) 1806.--JEFFERSON, MT.--Named by Lewis and Clarke for President Jefferson.--(Pac. States, vol. 23, page 61). 1846-8.--Called by the British, Mt. Vancouver.--(Oregon and California,--Thornton, vol. 1, page 257). Located in latitude 44° 40' 26.1". Longitude 121° 48' 59.9". 1810-12.--JOHN DAY.--A Virginian, accompanied the Northwest Co. to Astoria. He was 6 feet, 2 inches in height--(Pac. States, vol. 23, page 179). 1805.--JOHN DAY RIVER.--Called by Lewis and Clarke, the Lepage.--(Pac. States, vol. 23. page 41). 1841.--JOHNSON, LIEUT.--Explores the Cascades from Puget Sound.--(Wilkes' Narrative, vol. 4, pages 418 and 424). 1787.--JUAN DE FUCA STRAITS.--Discovered by Capt. Barclay, of the Imperial Eagle. 1788.--The entrance was explored by Capt. Meares, in the Felice, and named by him.--(History of Oregon,--Twiss, p. 19.--Pac. States, vol. 22, page 197). 1805.--KLICKITAT RIVER.--Called by Lewis and Clarke, Cataract River.--(Pacific States, vol. 23, page 45). 1833.--KELLY, HALL J.--First called attention to the feasibility of settling the Pacific Coast by overland emigration. Arrived at Vancouver this year.--(Pacific States, vol. 23, page 549). 1841.--LAVA formation limited to 48° N.--(Wilkes' Narrative, vol. 4, page 457). 1792.--LEDYARD leaves Paris for America, under the direction of Jefferson, to discover the River of the West, but is stopped by the Russians.--(Miners' and Travelers' Guide,--Mullan, page 53). 1834.--LEE, REV. JASON.--Established the first Mission in the Willamette valley, ten miles below the present Salem.--(History of the Willamette Valley, page 208). 1840.--Established a Methodist Mission at the Willamette Falls.--(Pacific States, vol. 23, page 607). 1805-6.--LEWIS AND CLARKE.--Spent the winter at the mouth of the Columbia.--(Oregon,--Moseley, page 8). LEWIS RIVER.--The North Fork was known among Indians as Wicht, and was considered the main river. The South Fork was known as Wa-co-ko, a Pike, (fish); also Yac-co, for Yac-co prairies, near Mt. St. Helens. 1789.--MACKENZIE RIVER.--Named for Alexander Mackenzie.--(Zell's Encyclopedia, vol. 2, page 264). 1793.--MACKENZIE, SIR ALEX.--Reached the Pacific overland, July 22.--(Barrows' Oregon, page 34). 1812.--MCKENZIE, DONALD.--Explored the Willamette Valley one hundred miles or more.--(Pac. States, vol. 23, page 195). 1818.--McKenzie established Ft. Walla Walla.--(Pac. States, vol. 23, page 273). 1825.--MCLAUGHLIN, JOHN..--Established Fort Vancouver, introduced live stock, fruit, vegetables, grain, etc. Took possession of Willamette Falls.--(Pac. States, vol. 23, pages 441 and 505). MADISON, MT.--Is the Mt. McLaughlin of the British. Lat. 43° 30'.--(Oregon and California,--Thornton, vol. 1, page 257). MARY'S RIVER.--Named for an Indian woman, wife of a white man, who had great trouble in making the crossing. Afterwards applied to Mary's Peak, because the river rises there.--(Oregon and its Institutions,--Hines, page 22). 1788.--MEARES, CAPT.--Reached the mouth of the Columbia without discovering it, July 6th.--(History of Oregon,--Twiss, page 95). 1840.--MEEK, JOE.--Arrived in the Willamette Valley.--(Pac. States, vol. 23, page 456). 1846.--MODOC LAKES.--Discovered by Jesse Applegate.--(Pac. States, vol. 22, page 642). 1823.--MONROE DOCTRINE proclaimed.--(Burrows' Oregon, page 24). 1846-8.--MONROE, MT.--Same as Mt. Shasta--(Ore. and Cal.,--Thornton, vol. 1, page 257). 1853.--NACHESS PASS.--5000 feet above sea level.--(Narrative of 1853,--Stevens, vol. 1, page 259). 1792.--NEAH BAY.--Called by Vancouver, Poverty Cove, and by the Spaniards, Port Nunez Gaona.--(Three Years' Residence in W. T.,--Swan, page 119). 1579.--NEW ALBION.--Named by Drake, who was crowned by the natives as their king.--History of Oregon and California,--(Greenhow, page 73; also, page 53 Mountains of Oregon.) 1792.--NEW DUNGENESS.--Named by Vancouver for Dungeness, in the British Channel, because of the similar appearance.--(Vancouver, vol. 2, page 55). 1883.--NICKEL DEPOSIT in Douglas County.--(Mineral Resources of the U. S.,--Williams, page 403). 1778.--NOOTKA SOUND.--Discovered by Capt. Cook, and named King George's Sound, then changed by him to Nootka.--(Voyages of Capt. Cook, vol. 2, page 270.) 1790.--NOOTKA TREATY.--Formed between Spain and England.--(Barrows' Oregon, page 14). 1818.--NORTHERN BOUNDARY of the U. S. located at 49° due west to the Rocky Mountains.--(Burrow's Oregon, page 54). 1843.--NEZ PERCES.--Pierced Nose.--(Fremont, page 181). 1834.--NUTTALL AND TOWNSEND, scientists, arrived at Fort Vancouver with Wyeth.--(Pac. States, vol. 23, page 577). 1792.--OAK POINT.--Named by Broughton because of finding the first oak trees there.--(Vancouver, vol. 3, page 100). 1788.--OLYMPUS, MT.--Named by Capt. Meares, July 4th. Discovered by Juan Perez, a Spanish pilot, and called El Cero de la Santa Rosalia.--(Narrative of 1853, vol. 1, page 262). 1774.--OREGON.--First used by Capt. Jonathan Carver.--(History of the Willamette Valley, page 73. See also page 53, Mountains of Oregon). 1846.--Bounded on the north by the 49°, on the east by the Rocky Mountains, on the south by the 42°, and on the west by the Pacific Ocean.--(Oregon and California,--Thornton, page 251). 1846.--Northern boundary first settled by treaty, July 17.--(Barrows' Oregon, page 282). 1871-2.--Northern boundary finally settled by arbitration.--(Barrows' Oregon, pages 56 and 318). 1874.--Once inhabited by a great number and variety of pre-Adamite beasts.--(The Columbia River and Puget Sound,--Nordhoff, Harper's Magazine for February, page 344). 1818.--Occupied jointly by the United States and England for ten years.--(Barrows' Oregon, page 55). 1859.--Admitted to the Union with present limits, February 14th.--(Zell's Encyclopedia, vol. 2, page 527. Hill's Annotated Laws of Oregon, vol. 1, page 77). 1792.--ORFORD, CAPE.--Named by Vancouver for Earl (George) Orford.--(Vancouver, vol. 2, page 23). 1812-13.--PACIFIC FUR COMPANY.--The plot to rob Astor shown up by an Englishman.--(History of Oregon,--Twiss, page 24). 1513.--PACIFIC OCEAN.--Discovered by Vasco Nunez de Balboa, governor of the Spanish colony of Darien, and named by Fernando Magalhaens, or, Magellan, a Portuguese in the naval service of Spain, because of being so little disturbed by storms. Spoken of as "Mar del Sur."--(History of Oregon and California,--Greenhow, pages 48 and 78. Barrows' Oregon, page 2). 1835.--PARKER, REV. SAMUEL.--Sent to Oregon by the American Board of Foreign Missions.--(Oregon and California, vol. 2, page 22). 1745.--PARLIAMENTARY GRANT.--£20,000 voted by the House of Commons for the discovery of a northwest passage by a British vessel.--(History of Oregon,--Twiss, page 58). 1774.--PEREZ, JUAN.--Anchored in Nootka Sound.--(History of Oregon,--Twiss, page 55). 1846-8.--PITT, MT.--Called at one time Mt. Jackson. (Oregon and California,--Thornton, vol. 1, page 257). 1792.--POINT ADAMS.--See Adams' Point. POINT DE LOS REYS.--Named by the Spaniards.--(Vancouver, vol. 2, page 413). 1791.--PORT ANGELES.--Named by Don Francisco Elisa, the Mexican. Called by Vancouver False Dungeness, because of a similar appearance to New Dungeness.--(Life on Puget Sound, page 153). 1792.--PORT DISCOVERY.--Named by Vancouver, for one of his ships.--(Vancouver, vol. 2, page 66). 1841.--PORT GAMBLE.--Named by Wilkes for Gamble, a U. S. Naval officer.--(Narrative of 1853, vol. 1, page 284). 1869.--Known among Indians as Teekalet.--(Life on Puget Sound, page 156). 1842.--PORTLAND.--Established by A. L. Lovejoy and F. W. Pettygrove, and name agreed upon by tossing up a cent.--(Portland City Directory for 1872, page 10). 1786.--PORTLOCK, CAPT.--See Dixon and Portlock. 1841.--PORT LUDLOW.--Surveyed by Wilkes, and named for Ludlow, a U. S. Naval officer.--(Narrative of 1853, vol. 1, page 283). 1792.--PORT TOWNSEND.--Visited by Vancouver, May 8th, and named in honor of the Marquis of Townshend, who signed Vancouver's instructions. The h was subsequently dropped.--(Life on Puget Sound, page 155. Stephens' Narrative of 1853, vol. 1, page 283. Vancouver, vol. 2, page 76). 1853.--Known among Indians as Kahtai.--(Canoe and Saddle,--Winthrop, page 11). 1854.--Surveyed by the U. S. Coast Survey.--(Stevens' Narrative of 1853, vol. 1, page 283). 1792.--POSSESSION SOUND.--So named by Vancouver, because he landed there on King George's birthday, and took possession of the country.--(The Oregon Territory,--Nicolay, page 53.--Vancouver, vol. 2, page 170). 1792.--PUGET SOUND.--Discovered by Vancouver's lieutenant, Peter Puget, and so named by Vancouver May 19th.--(Vancouver, vol. 2, page 146.--Narrative of 1853, vol. 1, page 289). 1853.--Known among Indians as Whulge.--(Canoe and Saddle,--Winthrop, page 11; also among Klalams as K'uk'-luts page 43). 1792.--PROTECTION ISLAND.--Named by Vancouver because of its advantageous location with reference to the harbor.--(Vancouver, vol. 2, page 67). 1787.--QUEEN CHARLOTTE ISLANDS.--Named by Dixon.--(Encyclopædia Britannica, vol. 20, page 170). 1789.--Capt. Gray sailed round it and named it Washington, for his sloop.--(Backwoods of Canada and Oregon Territory,--Nicolay, page 38). 1786.--QUEEN CHARLOTTE SOUND.--Named by Wedgboro in August.--(Vancouver, vol. 2, page 308.) 1841.--RAINIER AND ST. HELENS in activity.--(Wilkes Narrative, vol. 4, page 440). 1792.--RAINIER, MT.--Discovered by Vancouver on May 8th and named for Rear Admiral Rainier of the English Navy.--(Vancouver, vol. 2, page 79). 1843.--An active volcano, November 13.--(Fremont, page 193). 1846-8.--Also known as Mt. Harrison.--(Oregon and California,--Thornton, vol. 1, page 257. See pages 54, 55 and 59. Also Tacoma). ROCK CREEK, near Mt. St. Helens, known among Indians as "Cut-to" (a sort of guttural sound on first syllable), which means "swift stream." 1742-3.--ROCKY MOUNTAINS.--Named by Verendrye Brothers.--(History of the Willamette Valley, page 70). 1798.--RUSSIAN AMERICAN FUR CO. given exclusive privileges.--(Barrows' Oregon, page 23). 1821.--RUSSIA claims by public decree all of the Pacific Coast north of latitude 51°. This claim was disputed by the U. S.--(Barrows' Oregon, page 24). 1812.--Russians established at Bodega Bay.--(Barrows' Oregon, page 23). 1820.--Russians establish a fort forty miles north of Bodega Bay.--(Barrows' Oregon, page 23). 1766.--Russian Fur Companies organized to operate in America.--(Barrows' Oregon, page 23). 1824.--Russia withdraws to 54° 40'.--(Barrows' Oregon, page 25). 1824.--Russia withdraws from California at the request of the U. S.--(Barrows' Oregon, page 26). 1697.--RYSWICK TREATY FORMED.--(Barrows' Oregon, page 1. American Cyclopedia, vol. 14, page 245). 1842.--SADDLE MOUNTAIN.--Called by the Indians "Swallalahoost." Named by Wilkes, "Saddle Mountain."--(Oregon and Its Institutions,--Hines, page 21). 1805.--SANDY RIVER.--Called by Lewis & Clarke, "Quicksand River."--(Pacific States, vol. 23, page 48). 1741.--ST. ELIAS, MT.--Discovered by Behring, July 18th.--(History of the Willamette Valley, page 58). 1792.--ST. HELENS, MT.--Named by Vancouver for His Majesty's ambassador at Madrid, October 20.--(Vancouver, vol. 2, page 399). 1831.--In a state of eruption.--(Oregon and California,--Thornton, vol. 1, page 256). 1843.--In activity November 13.--(Fremont, page 193). 1846.--Known among Americans as Mt. Washington.--(The Oregon Territory,--Nicolay, page 109). 1843.--Described when in a state of eruption.--(History of Oregon,--Wilkes, page 109). 1846-8.--Known also as Mt. John Adams.--(Oregon and California,--Thornton, vol. 1, page 256). 1852-4.--An active volcano.--(Three years' residence in W. T., Swan--page 395. Canoe and Saddle, page 48). Known among Indians as "Lou-wala'-clough," meaning Smoking Mountain. Located in latitude 46° 11' 52.3". Longitude 122° 12' 37". 1805.--SAUVIES ISLAND.--Called by Lewis and Clarke, Wapato Island, because of an abundance of wapatos found there. It subsequently acquired its name from Jean Baptiste Sauve, a French Canadian, who established a dairy there after the abandonment of Ft. William.--(Pacific States, vol. 23, pages 48 and 598). SEATTLE.--Named for an Indian.--(Harper's Monthly for September, 1870, page 490). 1846.--SHASTA, MT.--Called Pitt by the English, Jackson and Monroe by the Americans, and Shasta by the trappers.--(The Oregon Territory,--Nicolay, page 109). (Oregon and California,--Thornton, vol 1, page 257). 1788.--SHOALWATER BAY.--Discovered and named by Captain John Mears, July 5th.--(Mears' Voyages, vol. 1, page 263). 1852.--First surveyed by Lieut. Com. Alden.--(Narrative of 1853, vol. 1, page 263). 1792.--SKAGIT HEAD.--Named by Vancouver.--(Life on Puget Sound, page 156). 1836.--SLACUM, WM. A.--An agent of the State Department, in the guise of a private citizen, visited the Columbia and Willamette Rivers.--(Pacific States, vol. 23, page 602). SPAIN'S FIRST CLAIM TO OREGON.--(Barrows' Oregon, page 12). 1795.--Spain withdraws from Oregon.--(Barrows' Oregon, page 14). Spaniards coveted a position in the East Indies, but the Bull of Pope Alexander III precluded them from sailing eastward, round the Cape of Good Hope, hence their attempts to go by way of the Pacific.--(History of Oregon,--Twiss, page 50). 1800.--Spanish territory west of the Mississippi conveyed to France.--(Barrows' Oregon, page 210). 1814.--Spanish claims conceded to the United States through France and acknowledged by Great Britain.--(Barrows' Oregon, page 208). SPELYAH PRAIRIE.--An Indian name, meaning Cayote. SPIRIT LAKE.--Near Mt. St. Helens. Indian name, Che-wa-tum, meaning Spirit. 1499-1500.--STRAITS OF ANIAN.--Supposed to have been discovered by Gaspar Cortereal, who explored the coasts of Labrador, and named by him. The name possibly signifies Brother. Cortereal had two brothers with him. In the earliest maps the northwest part of America is called Ania. Ani, in the Japanese language, signifies Brother.--(History of Oregon and California,--Greenhow, page 47). 1592.--Purchas claimed in the seventeenth century, in his "Pilgrims"--a narrative--that a Greek pilot, called Juan de Fuca, in the service of the Spaniards, had informed Michael Lock, the elder, whilst he was sojourning at Venice, that he had discovered (1596) the outlet of the Straits of Anian, in the Pacific Ocean, between 47° and 48°, and had sailed through it into the North Sea.--(History of Oregon,--Twiss, page 18.--History of Oregon and California,--Greenhow, page 87). 1841.--SUNKEN FOREST in the Columbia described.--(Wilkes' Narrative, vol. 4, page 381.--Burnett's Recollections of a Pioneer, page 136.--The Oregon Territory, Nicolay,--page 137.--Fremont, page 195). 1841.--SURVEY OF PUGET SOUND finished.--(Wilkes' Narrative, vol. 4, page 479). TACOMA, MT.--Ta-ho-ma is the Indian name for the Great Spirit who dwells on the mountains.--(George Baily, in the Overland Monthly for Sept., 1886, page 268). 1853.--Called by the Indians, Tacoma, a generic term also applied to all snow peaks.--(Canoe and Saddle,--Winthrop, page 44). TACOMA THE SECOND.--See Mt. Adams. Tamanous is the name of the Great Spirit supposed to dwell on this mountain.--(Canoe and Saddle, page 131). Tacoma the Less--(Canoe and Saddle, page 280). Each fiery Tacoma.--(Canoe and Saddle, page 286). The eruptions of the Tacomas.--(Canoe and Saddle, page 287). Tacoma, the Nourishing Breast. Tahoma, almost to Heaven.--(Life on Puget Sound,--Leighton, page 39). Red Tamahnous, Love.--(Life on Puget Sound,--page 41), Black Tamahnous, Hate, Anger.--(Life on Puget Sound, page 114). 1841.--TENINO MOUNDS.--Described.--(Wilkes' Narrative, vol. 4, page 415). 1848-9.--TERRITORIAL GOVERNMENT.--Granted, covering all the original Oregon.--(Barrow's Oregon, page 335. Encyclopædia Britannica, vol. 17, page 825. General Laws of Oregon, page 52). THE DALLES.--Stone pavement, or trough, or gutter.--(Pacific States, vol. 23, page 44). 1788.--TILLAMOOK BAY.--Known as Murderers' Harbor and Quicksand Bay.--(Pacific States, vol. 22, pages 188 and 198). 1806.--TILLAMOOK, OR KILLAMOOK HEAD.--Called by Clarke, Clarke's Point of View.--(Pacific States, vol. 22, page 164, and vol. 23, page 58). 1792.--TONGUE POINT.--Named by Broughton.--(Vancouver, vol. 3, page 86). 1805.--Called by Lewis and Clarke, William.--(Pacific States, vol. 23, page 53). 1834.--TOWNSEND, JOHN K.--A member of the Philadelphia Academy of Natural Science, arrived at Vancouver with Wyeth, Sept. 16th.--(Townsend's Narrative, page 169. Pacific States, vol. 23, page 577). TROUT LAKE.--Near Mt. St. Helens. Known among Indians as Qual-i'-as, meaning Trout. 1806.--UMATILLA RIVER.--Called by the Indians, "Youmalolam."--(Pacific States, vol. 23, page 64). Named for the Umatilla tribe of Indians. 1832.--UMPQUA FORT.--Built by John McLeod for the Hudson's Bay Co.--(Pacific States, vol. 23, page 521). 1792.--UNITED STATES' CLAIMS TO OREGON.--1st, right of discovery; 2d, by the Louisiana purchase; 3d, by prior explorations; 4th, by prior settlements.--(Barrows' Oregon, pages 213, 216, 217 and 219). 1713.--UTRECHT TREATY.--Between France and England.--(Barrows' Oregon, page 18). 1846-8.--VAN BUREN, MT.--Same as Olympus.--(Oregon and California,--Thornton, vol. 1, page 257). 1826.--VANCOUVER, FORT.--Established by John McLaughlin, and 1849.--As a United States military post.--(Pacific States, vol. 23, pages 437 and 439). 1792.--VANCOUVER ISLAND.--Named by Vancouver, Quadra and Vancouver Island.--(Vancouver, vol. 2, page 357). 1598.--VISCAINO, SEBASTIAN.--Reached a headland at 42° to which he gave name of Cape Sebastian. The smallest of his three vessels, however, conducted by Martin d'Aguilar and Antonio Florez, doubled Cape Mendocino and reached 43° where they found the mouth of a 1543.--River which Cabrillo has been supposed to have discovered.--(History of Oregon,--Twiss, page 53). 1818.--WALLA WALLA, FORT.--Established by McKenzie.--(Pacific States, vol. 23, page 273). 1805.--WAPATO ISLAND.--See Sauvie's Island, also--(Pacific States, vol. 23, page 593). WASCO.--Horn Basin.--(Pacific States, vol. 23, page 44). 1853.--WASHINGTON TERRITORY formed March 2d.--(American Cyclopedia, vol. 12, page 560. Zell's Encyclopædia, vol. 2, page 527). 1805.--WASHOUGAL RIVER.--Called by Lewis and Clarke, Seal River.--(Pacific States, vol. 23, page 48). 1792.--WHIDBY'S ISLAND.--Named by Vancouver for one of his officers who explored it.--(Vancouver, vol. 2, page 180). 1805.--WHITE SALMON.--Called Canoe River by Lewis and Clarke.--(Pacific States, vol. 23. page 45). 1836.--WHITMAN, DR. MARCUS, arrived at Vancouver in September.--(History of the Willamette Valley, page 213). 1842.--Started on his famous ride to Washington, October 3d, to prevent our government from abandoning Oregon.--(Barrow's Oregon, page 166). 1843.--Saved by a mule.--(Barrows' Oregon, page 170). 1843.--Returns from Washington, September 4th, accompanied by 200 wagons and 875 immigrants.--(Barrows' Oregon, page 250). 1847.--Murdered by the Indians in November.--(Barrows' Oregon, page 320). 1841.--WILKES, CHARLES,--DRAYTON, R. R. Waldron and two other men visited the Willamette Valley on a scientific campaign.--(Pacific States, vol. 23, page 673. Wilkes' Narrative, vol. 4, page 341). 1829.--WILLAMETTE FALLS taken possession of by McLaughlin, and a saw mill established.--(Pacific States, vol. 23, page 505). 1806.--WILLAMETTE RIVER.--Part of it called by the Indians Multnomah.--(Pacific States, vol. 23, page 60). 1843.--WINDS, peculiarity of, in the Columbia River.--(Fremont, page 190). 1834.--WORK, JOHN.--explored the Umpqua region.--(Pacific States, vol. 23, page 527). 1832.--WYETH, NATHANIEL J.--Arrives at Vancouver. 1834.--Arrives there second time, September 16th. Established Fort William and a Salmon fishery on Wapato Island on his second trip. 1837.--Returns to Oregon again and sells Forts William and Hall to the Hudson's Bay Co.--(Pacific States, vol. 23, pages 564, 592, 594 and 598). YAQUINA BAY.--Probably named for Yaquina, a female Indian chief.--(Life on Puget Sound, page 174). 1805.--YOUNG'S BAY.--Called by Lewis and Clarke, Meriwether Bay.--(Pacific States, vol. 23, page 54). 1792.--YOUNG'S RIVER.--Named by Broughton for Sir George Young of the Royal Navy.--(Vancouver, vol. 3, page 90). Topical Index. A Adams, C. F., 3. --Mt., 40, 47, 51, 52, 85. Admiralty Inlet, 85. Alaska, 85. --Alakshak, 85. --Aliaska, 85. Alden, Lieut. Com., 103. America, 85, 95. American Bd. of Frn. Msns., 89. --Fur Co., 86. Ania, 104. Applegate, Jesse, 86, 97, --Route, 86. Astoria, 86. Astor, John Jacob, 86. Atmospheric, River of Heat, 86. B Baker, Capt., 86, 87. --Lieut., 52, 86. --Mt., 40, 42, 52, 56, 86. Baker's Bay, 86. Barclay, Capt., 95. Barlow, --Palmer and Rector, 94. --Road, 87. Barnes, Miss Jane, 91. Battle Rock, 87. Beacon Rock, 52, 88. Beaver, Steamer, 91. Behring, 87, 102. Belden, 93. Bellingham's Bay, 87. Bitter Root Range, 52, 87. Blanchet, Father, 87. Board of Admiralty, 85. Bodega, Bay, 87, 102. --Don Juan de la, 87. Bonneville, B. L. E., 87. Bourbon River, 53. Breck, J. M. Jr., 3. Bretherton, W. W., 69, 79. Broughton, Lieut., 52, 53, 54, 86, 87, 88, 92, 93, 98, 106, 109. Bulfinch's Harbor, 87, 92. C Cabrillo, 87, 107. California, 21, 40, 84, 102. Canal de Nuestra del Rosary, 92. Cape Disappointment, 87, 90. Cape Flattery, 88. Cape Frondoso, 85, 89. Cape Hancock, 88. Cape Horn, 52, 82, 88. Cape Mendocino, 107. Cape San Roque, 87, 89. Cape Sebastian, 107. Canoe River, 108. Carver, Capt. Jonathan, 53, 88, 98. Cascade Range, 3, 6, 21, 52, 56, 88, 94, 95. Cascades of the Columbia, 88. Casey, Edw., 73. Castle Rock, 52, 88. Cataract River, 95. Cathedral Rock, 21. Clark's Point of View, 54, 106. Cleetwood, 18, 19, 22, 23, 24. --Cove, 25. Coast of Cal. in South Sea, 54. Coeur d'Alene Mts., 52. Coffin, Mt., 52, 88. Coleman, E. T., 86. Columbia River, 3, 7, 8, 52, 87, 88, 91, 92, 93, 95, 96, 103. Comcomli, 89. Commencement Bay, 59, 90. Cook, Capt., 88, 90, 93, 97. Cooks River, 90. Coppermine River, 93. Corbett, Hon. H. W., 67, 82. Cortereal, Gaspar, 104. Corvallis, 90. Cosmographiæ Instructio, 85. Cottel, Dr. Willis I., 73. Crater Lake, 12, 13, 15, 17, 18, 25, 29, 31, 32, 33. Cut-to, 101. D d'Aguilar, Martin, 90, 107. Davey, Allen, 15. Davidson, Elijah, 35. Davis, Capt. Geo. W., 17, 18, 25. Day, John, 94. --River, 95. de Balboa, Vasco Nunez, 99. Deep Blue Lake, 13. Deschutes River, 90. Dewert, E. D., 34, 36. Diamond Peak, 54. Dixon, 90, 100, 101. Dodd, Mr., 13. Douglas, David, 90. Drake, Sir Francis, 90. Durham, N. W., 3. Dutton, Capt., C. E., 17, 18, 25. --Cliff, 25, 28, 30. E Eels, Edwin, 57. El Cero de la Santa Rosalia, 54, 98. Elisa, Don Francisco, 92, 99. Ensenada de Asuncion, 89. " " Heceta, 89. Evans, Elwood, 65. Exploration Department, 71. F False Dungeness, 90, 99. Felice, The, 95. Finch, Capt. D. B., 59. Flett, John, 61, 63. Florez, Antonio, 91, 107. Fraser River, 91. --Simon, 92. Frazer Lake, 91. Fremont, 92. Frobisher, Martin, 91. Furrelo, Bartoleme, 91. G Game Protective Department, 77. Gill, John, 69. Goat Mountain, 53, 92. Goldsmith, H., 79. Gorman, M. W., 73. Gove, Chas. H., 3, 51. Government Camp, 4, 6, 9. Grant's Pass, 34, 39. Gray, Capt., 85, 87, 88, 89, 92, 101. Gray's Bay, 92. --Harbor, 92. Gulf of Georgia, 92. H Hall, Fort, 109. Harkness, H. D., M. M., and F. M., 34. Harrison, Mt., 54, 92, 101. Hearne, Sam'l., 93. Heceta, 87, 88, 93. Hermann, Hon. Binger, 17. Hillman, J. W., 13. Himes, Geo. H., 69. Hines, Rev. H. K., 94. Hood, Lord, 53, 93, 94. --Mt., 3, 7, 10, 33, 40, 41, 45, 47, 51, 53, 93, 94. --River, 94. Hood's Canal, 94. Hudson's Bay, 53. --Co., 61, 93, 94, 106, 109. Hylacomylus, 86. I Idleman, C. M., 69. Imperial Eagle, The, 95. Indian Trail, 94. Ingram, Prof., 49. Isaac Todd, The, 91. J Jack, Capt., 41. Jackson, Mt., 94, 99, 103. Jefferson, 95. --Mt. 6, 7, 40, 53, 94. John Adams, Mt., 54, 103. Johnson, Lieut., 95. Josephine County Caves, 34. Juan de Fuca, 95, 104. K Kahtai, 100. Keene, Dr. J. M., 3, 6. Kelly, Hall J., 95. Killamook Head, 54, 106. Kimmooenim, 90. King George's Sound, 97. --Co., 90. Klamath, Ft., 12. --Indians, 12, 15, 16, 17. --Lake, 21. Klickitat Indians, 64. --River, 95. Ko-ma, 56. Kukluts, 54. Kulshan, 86. L La Riche, 94. Lake Majesty, 13. Ledyard, 95. Lee, Rev. Jason, 95. Lepage, The, 95. Lewis & Clarke, 52, 53, 54, 88, 94, 95, 102, 103, 106, 107, 108, 109. Lewis River, 96. Llao Rock, 14, 21, 24, 25, 30, 31, 32. Lock, Michael, 104. Longmire, 44, 48. Louden, James, 13. Lords of Admiralty, 93. Louisiana, 92. Lou-wala-clough, 54, 103. Lovejoy, A. L., 100. Ludlow, 100. M Mackenzie, Sir Alex., 91, 96. --River, 96. Madison, Mt., 53, 96. Magalhaens, Fernando, 99. Mar del Sur, 99. Markle, Geo. B., 68, 69, 84. Mary's Peak, 7, 96. --River, 96. Marysville, 90. McCarver, Genl., 59. McClellan, 89. McKenzie, 107. --Donald, 96. McLaughlin, John, 53, 91, 96, 107, 108. --Mt., 7, 53, 96. McLeod, John, 106. McManus, Pat., 13. Meares, Capt., 54, 87, 88, 95, 96, 98, 103. Meek, Joe, 96. Meriwether Bay, 109. Mill Creek, 27. Mississippi River, 53, 92, 104. Modoc Lakes, 97. Monroe Doctrine, 97. --Mt. 97, 103. Montana del Carmelo, 52, 86. Montgomery, 89. Murderer's Harbor, 106. Multnomah, 108. Mysterious Lake, 13. N Nachess Pass, 97. Nea Bay, 97. New Albion, 53, 97. " Caledonia, 53. " Dungeness, 97, 99. " Georgia, 53. " Tacoma, 60, 61. Nez Perces, 98. Nichols, J., 43, 44, 48. Nickel deposit, 97. Nicolini, S. S., 34. Nootka Sound, 97, 99. --Treaty, 97. Northern boundary of U. S., 97. Northwest Co., 91, 94. --Passage, 91, 99. Norton, E. E., 79. O Oak Point, 98. Olympus, Mt., 54, 98, 107. Oregon, 3, 40, 54, 82, 83, 84, 91, 92, 93, 98. --Alpine Club, 40, 49, 51, 67, 69, 82. Orford, 99. P Pacific Fur Co., 99. --Ocean, 99. Paradise Valley, 45. Parker, Rev. Sam'l., 99. Parliamentary Grant, 99. Pattle, Capt., 88. Pat-to, 52, 85, 94. Perez, Juan, 54, 98, 99. Pettygrove, F. W., 100. Phantom Ship, 29. Photographic Department, 79. Pitt, Mt., 21, 40, 94, 99, 103. Plas, 53, 92. Point Adams, 8, 85, 99. " de los Reys, 99. Polk, Mt., 52, 86. Pope, Alexander III, 104. Port Angeles, 99. " Discovery, 100. " Gamble, 100. Portland, 3, 4, 7, 8, 17, 19, 32, 34, 49, 59, 82, 83, 100. Portlock, Capt., 91, 100. Port Ludlow, 100. " Nunez Gaona, 97. " Townsend, 100. Poverty Cove, 97. Possession Sound, 100. President's Range, 52, 88. Protection Island, 101. Puget, Peter, 54, 100. --Sound, 54, 55, 59, 60, 61, 64, 95, 100. Purchas, 104. Puyallup, 60. --Indians, 55, 56, 61, 64. Q Quadra and Vancouver's Island, 107. Qualias, 106. Queen Charlotte Islands, 101. --Sound, 101. Quicksand Bay, 106. --River, 102. R Rainier, Mt., 40, 43, 51, 54, 55, 59, 60, 61, 64, 101. --Rear Admiral, 54, 101. River Aguilar, 89. " of the West, 53, 89, 95. " Thegays, 89. Rio de San Roque, 89. Rock Creek, 101. Rocky Mountains, 54, 91, 101. Rogue River, 27. --Falls, 27. Ross, Geo., 13. Royal Hort. Soc. of London, 90. Russian American Fur Co., 101. Ryswick Treaty, 102. S Saddle Mountain, 54, 102. San Blas, 93. Sandy River, 102. Sauvie, Jean Baptiste, 103. --Island, 103, 107. Sba-date, 57. Scott, Mt., 21. Seahome, 88. Seal River, 107. Seattle, 57, 103. Shasta, Mt., 31, 33, 40, 97, 103. Shoalwater Bay, 103. Siskiyou Mountains, 34. Skagit, 56, 103. Skeeters, Isaac, 13. Slacum, Wm. A., 103. Spelyah Prairie, 104. Spirit Lake, 104. Spocatilicum, 89. Squallys, 61, 64. Squa-tach, 56, 57. Squat-utsh, 56. Stanup, Rev. Peter, 56, 57. Starr, Lewis M., 59. Steel, James, 59. Steel, W. G., 55, 69, 73. St. Elias, Mt., 102. Stevens, Gen. Hazard, 60. St. George, 86. St. Helens, Mt., 40, 47, 51, 54, 101, 102, 106. St. Lawrence River, 53. Stony Mountains, 54. Straights of Anian, 53, 104. Sunken Forest, 105. Survey of Puget Sound, 105. Swallalahoost, 54, 102. T Tacoma, 43, 51, 55, 56, 57, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 105. --The Less, 105. --The Second, 52, 85, 105. --Mt., 54, 55, 58, 60, 105. --Land Co., 56, 60. --Ta-ho-ma, 105. --Ta-ke-man, 55. --Ta-ko-ber, 63. --Ta-ko-bet, 55, 56. --Ta-ko-man, 56, 57, 58, 63. --Tamanous, 105. --Te-ho-ma, 60, 63, 64. --Twheque, 57. --Twhauk, 57, 58. Tacoutche, Tesse, 91. Teekalet, 100. Tenino, 105. The Dalles, 106. Thielsen, Mt., 21. Thompson, Hon. D. P., 67, 83. Three Sisters, 7, 40. Tillamook Head, 54, 106. Tongue Point, 106. Towahnahiooks, 90. Townsend, John K., 98, 106. Townshend, Marquis, 100. Trout Lake, 106. U Umatilla River, 106. Umpqua, 108. --Fort, 106. U. S. Claims to Oregon, 106. Utrecht Treaty, 106. V Van Buren, Mt., 54, 107. Vancouver, Capt., 52, 54, 59, 60, 85, 86, 89, 92, 94, 97, 99, 100, 101, 102, 103, 107. --Fort, 9, 53, 91, 95, 96, 98, 107, 108. --Island, 107. --Mt., 53, 94. Van Trump, P. V., 48, 60. Verendrye Brothers, 54, 101. Vidae Cliff, 29. Viscanio, Sebastian, 107. W Wa-co-ko, 96. Wahn-na, 89. Waldseemuller, Marti, 86. Waldron, R. R., 108. Walla Walla, Fort, 96, 107. Wapato Island, 103, 107, 108. Wasco, 107. Washington, 40, 84, 101, 107. --Mt., 7, 32, 53, 54, 102. --Sloop, 89. Washougal River, 107. Wedgboro, 101. Whidby's Island, 107. White River Indians, 61. Whitman, 92, 108. White Salmon, 108. Whulge, 54, 101. Wicht, 96. Wilkes, 54, 90, 100, 102, 108. Willamette, 7, 94, 95, 96, 103, 108. William, 106. --Fort, 103, 108, 109. Williams Creek, 35. Winship, Capt., 91. Winthrop, Theodore, 52, 59, 86, 89. Witches Cauldron, 13, 21. Wizard Island, 13, 21, 27. Work, John, 108. Wyeth, Nathaniel J., 98, 106, 108. Y Yac-co, 96. Yaquina Bay, 109. Yelm, 43. Yocum, O. C., 3. Youmalolam, 106. Young's Bay, 109. --River, 109. Young, Sir George, 109. * * * * * Transcriber Notes: Punctuation corrected without note. page 19: "sidling" changed to "sliding" (When a sliding place was reached). page 19: "sideling" changed to "sliding" (very steep, sliding, rocky). page 36: "acompanying" changed to "accompanying" (and accompanying necessities). page 42: "imimmediately" changed to "immediately" (and immediately informs San Francisco of the contemplated attack,). page 48: "decended" changed to "descended" (we descended about). page 59: "Cotemporaneously" changed to "Contemporaneously" (Contemporaneously Tacoma City,). page 64: "Klikitat" changed to "Klickitat" (several bands of the Klickitat). page 91: "pages" changed to "page" (page 250). page 99: "Portugese" changed to "Portuguese" (a Portuguese in the naval service of Spain). page 101 and 105: "Brittanica" changed to "Britannica" (Encyclopædia Britannica). page 102: "embassador" changed to "ambassador" (His Majesty's ambassador at Madrid). page 104: "dicovered" changed to "discovered" (that he had discovered). page 111: "Nea" changed to "Neah" (Neah Bay). page 112: "Waldscemuller" changed to "Waldseemuller" (Waldseemuller, Marti). 
35649	----	The Lost Mountain A Tale of Sonora By Captain Mayne Reid Published by George Routledge and Sons, London. This edition dated 1885. The Lost Mountain, by Captain Mayne Reid. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ THE LOST MOUNTAIN, BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID. CHAPTER ONE. IN WANT OF WATER. "_Mira! El Cerro Perdido_!" (See! The Lost Mountain!) The man who thus exclaims is seated in a high-peak saddle, on the back of a small sinewy horse. Not alone, as may be deduced from his words; instead, in company with other men on horseback, quite a score of them. There are several wagons, too; large cumbrous vehicles, each with a team of eight mules attached. Other mules, pack animals, form an _atajo_ or train, which extends in a long line rearward, and back beyond this a drove of cattle in charge of two or three drovers--these mounted, as a matter of course. The place is in the middle of a vast plain, one of the _llanos_ of Sonora, near the northern frontier of this sparsely inhabited state. And the men themselves, or most of them, are miners, as might be told by certain peculiarities of costume, further evinced by a paraphernalia of mining tools and machinery seen under the canvas tilts of the wagons. There are women seen there too, with children of both sexes and every age; for it is a complete mining establishment on the move from a _veta_, worn out and abandoned, to one late discovered and still unworked. Save two of the party all are Mexicans though not of like race. Among them may be noted every shade of complexion, from the ruddy white of the Biscayan Spaniard to the copper-brown of the aboriginal, many being pure-blooded Opata Indians, one of the tribes called _mansos_ (tamed). Distinctive points of dress also, both as to quality and cut, denote difference in rank and calling. There are miners _pur sang_--these in the majority; teamsters who drive the wagons; _arrieros_ and _mozos_ of the mule train; _vaqueros_ with the cattle; and several others, male and female, whose garb and manner proclaim them household servants. The man who has called out differs from all the rest in costume as in calling, for he is a _gambusino_, or professional gold-seeker. A successful one, too; since he it is who discovered the _veta_ above spoken of, in the Great Sonora Desert, near the border-line of Arizona. "Denounced" it as well--that is, made declaration and registration of the discovery, which, by Mexican law, makes the mine his own, with exclusive right of working it. But he is not its owner now. Without sufficient means to undertake the _exploitation_, he has transferred his interest to those who can--Villanueva and Tresillian, a wealthy mining firm, long established near the town of Arispe, with all their _employes_ and a complete apparatus for excavating, crushing, and amalgamating--furniture and household gods added--are _en route_ for the new-found lode, with high hopes it may prove a "bonanza." It is their caravan that is halted on the plain, for to halt it has come at a hail from the _gambusino_ himself, acting as its guide. He is some distance in advance of the wagons with two other horsemen, to whom his speech is particularly addressed. For they are the chiefs of the caravan--the masters and partners of the mining company composing it. One of them, somewhat over middle age, is Don Estevan Villanueva, a born Mexican, but with features of pure Spanish type, from his Andalusian ancestry. He is somewhat the senior of the two, and senior partner of the firm, the junior being Robert Tresillian, an Englishman, and native of Cornwall. Up to that moment there had been anxiety on the countenances of both, as on those of their followers, indeed more, a look of gravest apprehension. Its cause is apparent; a glance along the line of animals--ridden horses as well as draught and pack-mules--clearly proclaiming it. All show signs of distress, by sides hollowed in, necks outstretched and drooping, eyes deep down in their sockets, and tongues protruding from lips that look hot and dry. No wonder! For three days they have not tasted water; and the scant herbage of the plains, on which they have been depasturing, is without a particle of moisture. It has been a season of drought all over Sonora, not a drop of rain having fallen for months, and every stream, spring, and pool along their route dried up. Little strange, then, the animals looking distressed, and no more that the minds of the men are filled with gloomy fears as to what might be before them. Another three days, and it may be death to most, if not all. Just in like proportion are their spirits uplifted on hearing the exclamation of the _gambusino_. Well know they what it means--good grass and abundance of water. All along has he been telling them of this, picturing the "Lost Mountain," or, rather, a spot by its base, as a very Paradise of a camping-place. No want of water there, he has said, however dry the season or long-continued the drought; no fear of animals being famished, since not only is there a spring and running stream, but a lake, surrounded by a belt of meadow-like land, with grass thick, succulent, and green as emeralds. "You're sure it's the Cerro Perdido?" It is Don Estevan who thus doubtingly interrogates, his eyes fixed on a solitary eminence seen afar over the plain. "_Si_, senor," affirms the guide, "sure as that my name's Pedro Vicente. And I ought to be sure of that, from what my mother told me; the old lady in her life never getting over her anger at the cost of my christening. Twenty silver _pesos_, with a pair of church candles--big ones, and of best wax! All that for only handing down to me my father's name, he being Pedro, and a poor _gambusino_ as myself! _Carramba_! The _padres_ are the veriest extortioners--levy black-mail more rigorously than either footpad or highwayman." "_Vaya, hombre_!" rejoins Don Estevan. "Don't be so hard upon the poor priests. And as for the expense your mother was put to in celebrating your baptismal rites, that's all past and gone. If you were poor once, you're now rich enough to care nothing for such a trifle as twenty dollars and a couple of wax candles." The senior partner speaks truth, as any one who had seen Pedro Vicente three months before, seeing him now, would say. Then was he sparely clad, in garments of faded hue, tattered and dust-stained; his mount the scraggiest of mustangs--a very Rosinante. Now bestrides he a horse of best blood and shapely proportions, in a deep tree-saddle of stamped leather, with ornamental housings; his own body bedight with all the glittering adornments peculiar to that special Mexican dress known as "_ranchero_," picturesque as any in the world. His lucky find of gold, still in its matrix of quartz--_madre de oro_, as the Mexican miners call it--with its transference to Villanueva y Tresillian, has given him sufficient of this same metal with the mint stamp on it for all matters of comfort, costume, and equipment. "Oh! bother your christening and candles," puts in the Englishman, with a show of impatience; "we've something more serious to think about. You're quite sure, Senor Vicente, that yonder eminence is the Cerro Perdido?" "I've said," laconically and somewhat gruffly answers the guide, showing slightly nettled at the doubt cast on his affirmation, and by one he supposes a stranger to the country and its ways--in short, a "_gringo_." "Then," pursues Tresillian, "the sooner we get to it the better. It's ten miles off, I take it." "Twice ten, _caballero_, and a trifle over." "What! Twenty miles? I can't believe that." "If your worship had been roaming about these _llanos_ as long as I have, you could and would," rejoins the guide, in quiet confidence. "Oh! if you say so, it must be. You seem to know, Senor Vicente; and should, from all I've heard of your skill as a path-finder. That you're good at finding gold we have the proofs." "_Mil gracias_, Don Roberto," returns the _gambusino_, with a bow, his _amour propre_ appeased by the complimentary speech; "I've no doubt about the distance, for I'm not trusting to guesswork. I've been over this ground before, and remember that big _palmilla_." He points to a tree at some distance, with stout stem, and a bunch of bayonet-like leaves on its summit--a species of _yucca_, of which there are several straggled over the plain, but this one taller than any. Then adds, "If your worship doubts my word, ride up to it, and you'll see a P and V carved in the bark, the initials of your humble servant. It was done to commemorate the occasion of my first setting eyes on the Cerro Perdido." "But I don't doubt your word," says Tresillian, smiling at the odd memento in such an out-of-the-way place; "certainly not." "Then, senor, let me assure you that from it to the mountain is all of twenty miles, and we'll do well if we get there before sun-down." "In which case, the sooner we start for it the better." "Yes, Pedro," adds Don Estevan, speaking to the gold-seeker in a friendly, familiar way. "Ride back and give the order for resuming route. Tell the teamsters and all to do their best." "At your worship's command," returns the _gambusino_, with a bow, and wave of his broad-brimmed hat raised high over his head. Then, pricking his horse with a spur having rowels full five inches in diameter, he canters off towards the caravan. Before reaching it he again uncovers, respectfully saluting a group which has not yet been introduced to the reader, though possibly the oddest, with the individuals comprising it, the most interesting of all the travelling party. For two of them are of the fair sex--ladies--one middle-aged and of matronly aspect, the other a girl late entered upon her teens. Only their faces and the upper portion of their forms are visible, for they are inside a sort of palanquin--the _litera_ of Mexico, used by grand dames on long journeys, and roads over which carriages cannot be taken. The face of the older lady, with dark complexion and features of Andalusian type, is still attractive, but that of the younger one strikingly beautiful; and between the two is a strong family resemblance, as there should, since they are mother and child--the Senora Villanueva and her daughter. The _litera_ is borne between two mules, attached to shafts fore and aft, in charge of a strapping fellow in velveteen jacket, and _calzoneras_, _botas_ of stamped leather, and _sombrero_ of black glaze, with a band of silver bullion round it. But there is a fourth personage comprising the group, unlike all the others, and bearing no resemblance to any of the wayfarers save one--the Englishman. To him the youth--for young he is--shows the likeness, unmistakable, of son to father; and such is the relationship between them. Henry Tresillian, just turned seventeen, is a handsome fellow, fair-haired, of bright complexion, and features delicately chiselled, still aught but effeminate in their expression; instead, of a cast which proclaims courage and resolution, while a figure tersely knit tells of strength and activity equal to anything. On horseback, he sits bending over in his saddle with face to the curtains of the _litera_. There may be eyes inside admiring him; and the expression of his own tells he would fain have it so. But all their eyes, late full of gloom, sparkle delightedly now. The Lost Mountain has been sighted; their fears are over, and so soon will be their sufferings. "_Anda! adalante_!" (advance) shouts Pedro Vicente. His words echoed rearward along the line, followed by other cries, with a creaking of wheels and a cracking of whips, as the wagons once more got into motion. CHAPTER TWO. THE "COYOTEROS." The moving miners are not the only travellers making for the Cerro Perdido on this same day. Just as they have sighted it, approaching from the south, another party is advancing towards it from the north, though not yet within view of it, from being farther off, with a swell of the plain interposed. Very different in appearance, and, indeed, almost in every respect, is this second band from that already introduced to the reader; in count of men outnumbering the latter by more than treble, though in bulk as a moving mass far inferior to it. For with it are no wagons, nor wheeled vehicles of any kind; no mule train nor cattle drove. Neither are they encumbered with women and children, least of all a _litera_ and ladies. All men, and every one of them on horseback, each bearer of his own baggage, as well he may be, so little and light it is. Their sole _impedimenta_ consist of a few trifling commodities, chiefly provision wallets, with water gourds (_xuages_) strapped over their shoulders or tied to the wither-locks of their horses. Equally unobstructive is their garb, few of them having other articles of dress than a breech-clout, leggings, and moccasins, with a rolled-up blanket or _serape_ in reserve. The exceptions are some half-dozen, who appear to exercise authority, one especially holding command over all. His insignia are peculiar; a coat of arms that would puzzle all the heraldic colleges of Christendom. Nor does he wear it on his shield, though one he carries. It is borne on his naked breast of bronze black, in a tattooing of vivid red; the device, a rattlesnake coiled and couchant, with tail and head erect, jaws wide agape, and forked tongue protruding ready to strike. Beneath are other symbols equally eloquent of anger and menace; one in white, set centrally, well known all over the world--the "death's head and crossbones." It need hardly be said that he, embellished with this savage investiture, is an Indian, and his following the same. Indians they are, of a tribe noted for bloodthirstiness beyond all others of their race; for they are the Wolf-Apaches, or Coyoteros, so called because of mental and moral attributes which liken them to the _coyote_--jackal of the Western world. Unaccompanied by their women and children, as unencumbered with baggage, proclaims them on a warlike expedition--a _maraud_; their arms and equipments telling of the same. They carry guns, and long-shafted lances with pennons attached, that no doubt once waved above the heads of Mexican _lanzeros_. Pistols too, some even having revolvers, with rifles of latest pattern and patent; of which by their way of handling them they well know the use. If civilisation has taught them nothing else, it has how to _kill_. They are marching along, not in ruck, or straggling crowd, but regular formation, aligned in rank and file, "by twos." Long since have the Horse Indians of both prairie and pampa learnt the military tactics of their pale-faced foes--those special to cavalry--and practise them. But nowhere with more ability and success than in the northern states of Mexico--Tamaulipas, Chihuahua, and Sonora--where Comanches, Navajoes, and Apaches have charged in battle line, breaking that of their white adversaries, and scattering them as chaff. "Indian file," oft used as a synonym for "single file," is a march formation long since abandoned by these Transatlantic Centaurs, save where the nature of the ground makes it a necessity. None such exists on the open _llano_, where this Apache band is now; and they might move in a column or extended line, if willing it; but numbering scant two hundred, they prefer the double file. Unlike the miners, in their three days' traverse of a waterless desert, they have been making way through a district with which they are familiar; acquainted with all the camping-places--every stream, spring, and pond-- so they have not suffered from want of water. Nor are they likely now, since their course lies along the banks of a creek--a tiny rivulet, yet running, despite the continued drought. It is a branch of the Rio San Miguel of the maps--locally known as the Horcasitas--and they are descending it southward, thirst having no terrors for them. Just as the sun is about to set they catch sight of the Cerro Perdido. To them it is not known by that name, but _Nauchampa-tepetl_. Somewhat strange this, pointing to an affinity known to exist between the Indians of Northern Mexico and the Aztecans of the South. In the language of these last the mountain Perote bears the same designation, the "Cofre" usually attached being synonymous with "Nauchampa," both signifying chest, or box. For the Cerro Perdido, viewed from certain points, bears a quaint resemblance to this, as does also the summit of Perote. Neither philology nor ethnography is in the minds of this band of redskins; their thoughts are dwelling on a subject altogether different--robbery and murder. For they _are_ on the maraud; their objective point the towns on the Horcasitas. Just now, however, as they sight the Cerro, another question occupies them: whether it be prudent or possible to continue on to it without halting for the night. Some say Yes, but most No. It is still good twenty miles off, though appearing scarce ten. In the diaphanous atmosphere of the Sonora tableland distances are deceptive, as Pedro Vicente has said. But the native inhabitants, above all the aborigines, are aware of this, and reckon accordingly. Besides, the Coyoteros, like the _gambusino_, have been over the ground before, and are familiar with every foot of it. So distance has nought to do with their discussion, save as it affects the capability of their horses. Since morning they have made fifty miles, and are fagged; twenty more would be killing work for them. And the twenty to Nauchampa-tepetl will be a nice distance to their next day's noon halt. The question of continuing on is at length decided in the negative, by him of the grotesque heraldry dropping down from his horse, and proceeding to picket the animal on the grass. As his example has the force of a command, all the others follow it, and camp is quickly formed. A simple affair this; only the tethering out of their steeds, and stripping them of such caparison as they carry. Then follows a search for dry faggots, and the kindling of a fire; not for warmth, but cooking. There is a bit of butchering to precede; these redskinned rovers having their commissariat on the hoof--this in the shape of some spare horses driven along _en caballada_. A knife drawn across the throat of one lets his blood out in a torrent, and he drops down dead,-- to be skinned and cut up in a trice, the pieces impaled upon sticks and held over the blaze of the fire. But the hippophagists avail themselves of other comestibles of a vegetable kind; seeds from the cones of the _pinon_, or edible pine, and beans of the _algarobia_--trees of both sorts growing near. Enough of both are collected and roasted, to form an accompaniment to the horseflesh. Fruit they find too on several species of cactus; the best of them on the _pitahaya_, whose tall rigid stems, with limbs like the branches of a candelabrum, tower up around their camp. So, in the desert--for it is such--they are enabled to end their dinner with dessert. To provide something for breakfast besides, a viand rare and strange, but familiar to them, a branch of their tribe--the "Mezcaleros"--making it their staple food, even to deriving their tribal appellation from it. For it is the mezcal plant, one of the wild species of magueys (_Agave Mexicana_). The central core, from which radiate the stiff spinous blades, is the part eaten, and the mode of preparing it is now made manifest in the Coyotero camp. Several plants are torn out by the roots, their leaves hacked off, and the skin of the core itself cut away--leaving an egg-shaped mass of white vegetable substance, large as a man's head, or a monster mangold-wurzel. Meanwhile, a hole has been "crowed" in the ground, pit-shaped, its sides fended by flat stones, with a like pavement at the bottom. Into this red coals are flung, nigh enough to fill it; an interval allowed for these to smoulder into ashes, and the stones become burning hot. The mezcals, already wrapped up in the horse's skin late stripped off, red side inward, along with some loose pieces of the flesh, and the bundle is lowered down into the improvised oven, then all covered over with a coat of turf. Thus buried it is left to bake all night, and in the morning will afford them a meal Lucullus need not have disdained to partake of. The Coyoteros, well sure of this, go to sleep contentedly and without care; each rolled-up in his own wrap, his couch the naked earth, canopied by a star-bespangled sky. In that uninhabited and pathless wilderness, or with paths only known to themselves, they have little fear of encountering an enemy; and as little dream they that within less than two hours' gallop of their camping-ground is another camp occupied by the foes of their race, too few to resist their attack. Knew they but this, there would be a quick uprising among them, a hasty springing to horse, and hurried ride towards Nauchampa-tepetl. CHAPTER THREE. A RUSH FOR WATER. Meanwhile, with many a crack of whip and cry of "_Anda!" "Mula maldita_!" the miners have been toiling on towards the Lost Mountain. At slow pace, a crawl; for their animals, jaded and distressed by the long-endured thirst, have barely strength enough left to drag the wagons after them. Even the pack-mules totter under their loaded _alparejas_. Viewing the eminence from the place where they had pulled up, the mine labourers, like the Englishman, had been inclined to doubt the guide's allegation as to the distance. Men whose lives are for the most part spent underground, are as sailors ashore when above it, oddly ignorant of things on the surface, save what may be learnt inside a liquor saloon. Hence their unbelief in Vicente's statement was altogether natural. But the mule and cattle-drivers knew better, and that the _gambusino_ was not deceiving them. All come to this conclusion ere long, a single hour sufficing to convince them of their mistake; at the end of which, though moving continuously on, and making the best speed in their power, the mountain seems far off as ever. And when a second hour has elapsed, the diminution of distance is barely perceptible. The sun is low down--almost touching the horizon--as they get near enough to the Cerro to note its peculiar features; for peculiar these are. Of oblong form it is; and, viewed sideways, bears resemblance to a gigantic catafalque or coffin, its top level as the lid. Not smooth, however, the horizontal line being broken by trees and bushes that stand in shaggy silhouette against the blue background of sky. At all points it presents a _facade_ grim and precipitous, here and there enamelled by spots and streaks of verdure, wherever ledge or crevice gives plants of the scandent kind an opportunity to strike root. It is about a mile in length, trending nearly north and south, having a breadth of about half this; and in height some five hundred feet. Not much for a mountain, but enough to make it a conspicuous object, visible at a great distance off over that smooth expanse of plain. All the more from its standing solitary and alone; no other eminence within view of it, neither _sierra_ nor spur; so looking as if strayed and _lost_--hence the quaint appellation it bears. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "At which end is the lake, Senor Vicente?" asks the elder Tresillian, as they are wending their way towards it; he, with Don Estevan and the guide, as before, being in advance of the wagon train. "The southern and nearer one, your worship. And luckily for us it is so. If it were at the other end, we'd still have a traverse of a league at least before reaching it." "How's that? I've heard that the Cerro is only a mile in length." "True, senor, that's all. But there are rocks strewn over the _llano_ below, for hundreds of yards out, and so thick we couldn't take the wagons through them. I suppose they must have fallen from the cliffs, but how they got scattered so far, that puzzles me, though rocks have been the study of my life." "So they have, Pedro," put in Don Estevan. "And you've studied them to some purpose. But let us not enter into a geological discussion now. I feel more concerned about something else." "About what, your worship?" "Some memory tells me that Indians are accustomed to visit the Cerro Perdido. Though I can see no sign of human being about it, who knows but there might be?" This is said after examination of the plain all along the base of the mountain through a field-glass, which Don Estevan habitually carries on his person. "Therefore," he continues, "I think it advisable that some five or six ride ahead--those who are best mounted--and make sure that the coast is clear. In case of redskins being there in any formidable numbers, the knowledge of it in time will enable us to form _corral_, and so better defend ourselves should we be attacked." Before becoming a master miner, Don Estevan had been a soldier, and seen service on the Indian frontier, in more than one campaign against the three great hostile tribes, Comanches, Apache, and Navajo. For which reason the _gambusino_, instead of making light of his counsel, altogether approves of it--of course volunteering to be himself of the reconnoitring party. In fine, there is another short halt, while the scouts are being selected; half a dozen men of spirit and mettle, whose horses are still strong enough to show speed, should there be Indians and pursuit. Of the half-dozen, Henry Tresillian is one; he coming up quick to the call. No fear of his horse giving out, or failing to carry him safe back if pursued, and whoever the pursuers. A noble animal of Arab strain it is, coal-black, with a dash of dun-colour between the hips and on either side of the muzzle. Nor shows it signs of distress, as the others, notwithstanding all it has come through. For has not its young master shared with it every ration of water served out along the way, even the last one that morning? In a few minutes the scouting party is told off, and, after receiving full instructions, starts onward. The elder Tresillian has made no objection to his son being of it; instead, being rather proud of the spirit the latter is displaying, and follows him with admiring eyes as he rides off. Still another pair of eyes go after him, giving glances in which pride and fear are strangely commingled. For they are those of Gertrudes Villanueva. She is proud that he, whom her young heart is just learning to love, should possess such courage, while apprehensive of what may come of it. "_Adelante_!" calls out the _mayor-domo_, who has chief charge of the caravan; and once more there is a vigorous wielding of whips, with an objurgation of mules, as the animals move reluctantly and laboriously on. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ In twenty minutes after, all is changed with them. Horse and hybrid-- every animal in the train--have raised head and pricked up ears, with nostrils distended. Even the horned cattle to rearward have caught the infection, and low loudly in response to the neighing of the horses and the hinneying of the mules. There is a very _fracas_ of noises, like a Bedlam broke loose, the voice of the _mayor-domo_ rising above all as he cries out, "_Guarda, la estampeda_!" And a "stampede" it becomes, all knowing the cause. The animals have scented water, and no longer need whip-lash or cry to urge them on. Instead, teamsters and _arrieros_ find it impossible to restrain them, for it were a struggle against Nature itself. Taking the bits between their teeth, and regardless of rein, horses, mules, all rush simultaneously and madly forward, as if each had a score of gadflies with their venomous probosces buried deep in its body. A helter-skelter it is, with a loud hullaballoo, the heavily-laden wagons drawn over the ground as light-like and with the velocity of bicycles, and making noise as of thunder. For now, near the mountain's foot, the plain is bestrewed with stones, some big enough to raise the wheels on high, almost to overturning the vehicles, eliciting agonised cries from the women and children inside them. No more are Indians thought of for the time; enough danger without that, from upsets, broken bones, indeed death. In the end none of these eventualities arise. Luckily--and more by good luck than guiding--the wagons keep their balance, and they within them their places, till all come to a stand again. While still tearing on, they see before them a disc of water lit up by the last rays of departing sunlight, with half a dozen horsemen--the reconnoitring party--drawn up on its edge, in attitude of wonder at their coming after so soon. But their animals, still in rush, give no opportunity for explanation. On go they into the lake, horses, mules, and cattle mingled together; nor stop till they are belly-deep, with the water up over their nostrils. No more neighing nor lowing now, but all silent, swilling, and contented. CHAPTER FOUR. EL OJO DE AGUA. Morning dawns upon the Lost Mountain, to disclose a scene such as had never before been witnessed in that solitary spot. For never before had wagon, or other wheeled vehicle, approached it. Remote from town or civilised settlement, leagues away from any of the customary routes of travel, the only white men having occasion to visit it had been hunters or gold-seekers, and their visits, like those of angels, few and far between. Red men, however, have sought it more frequently, for it is not far from one of their great war-trails--that leading from the Apache country to the settlements on the Horcasitas, so serving these savages as a convenient halting-place when on raid thither. The reconnoitring party, sent in advance of the caravan, had discovered traces of their presence by the lake's edge; but none recent, and nothing to signify. There were no fresh tracks upon the meadow-grass, nor the belt of naked sand around the water, save those of wild animals that had come thither to quench their thirst. In confidence, therefore, the miners made camp, though not negligently or carelessly. The old _militario_ had seen too much campaigning for that, and directed the wagons to be drawn up in a _corral_ of oval shape, tongues and tails united as the links of a chain. Lone-bodied vehicles, the six enclose a considerable space--enough to accommodate all who have need to stay inside. In case of attack it could be still further strengthened by the bales, boxes, and _alparejas_ of the pack-mules. Outside the animals were staked, and are still upon their tethers, though without much concern about their running away. After the long traverse over the dry _llanos_, and the suffering they have endured, now on such good grass, and beside such sweet water, they will contentedly stay till it please their masters to remove them. Fires had been kindled the night before, but only for cooking supper; it is summer, and there is no discomfort from cold--heat rather. And now at dawn the fires are being re-lighted with a view to _desayuna_, and later on breakfast; for, though the caravan had unexpectedly run short of water, its stock of provisions is still unexhausted. Among the earliest up--nay, the very first--is Pedro Vicente. Not with any intention to take part in culinary operations. _Gambusino_ and guide, he would scorn such menial occupations. His reasons for being so early astir are altogether different and twofold; though but one of them has he made known, and that only to Henry Tresillian. Overnight, ere retiring to rest, he had signified his intention to ascend the Cerro in the morning--soon as there was enough of daylight to make the ascent practicable--in hopes of finding game both of the furred and feathered sorts, he said. For in addition to his _metier_ as guide to the caravan--being a skilled hunter as well as gold-seeker--he holds engagement to supply it with venison, or such other meat commodity as may fall to his gun. For days he has had but little opportunity of showing his hunter skill. On the sterile tract through which they have been passing birds and quadrupeds are scarce, even such as usually inhabit it having gone elsewhere in consequence of the long-continued drought. All the more is he desirous to make up for late deficit, and at least furnish the table of the quality with something fresh. He knows there are game animals on the mountain--a _mesa_, as already said, level-topped, with trees growing over it, besides water; for there is the fountain's head, source of the stream and lake below. On the night before, he had spoken of wild sheep as likely to be found above, with antelopes, and possibly a bear or two, also turkeys. Now, in the morning, he is sure about these last, having heard them, as is their wont before sunrise, saluting one another with that sonorous call from which they derive their Mexican name, _guajalote_. These confidences he has imparted to Henry Tresillian, who is to accompany him in the chase, though not from any view of inspiring the latter with its ardour. There is no need; the young Englishman being a hunter by instinct, with a love for natural history as well, and the Lost Mountain promises rich reward for the climbing, in discovery as in sport. Besides, the two have been _compagnons de chasse_ all along the route; habitually together, the fellow-feeling of huntership making such association congenial. So, early as is the Mexican afoot, he beats the English youth by barely a minute of time; the latter seen issuing forth from one of the tents that form part of the encampment, just as the former has crawled out from between the wheels of a wagon, under which, rolled-up in his _frezada_, he had passed the night. With just enough light to identify him, Henry Tresillian is seen to be habited in shooting coat, breeches, and gaiters, laced buskins, and a tweed cloth cap; in short, the costume of an English sportsman-- shot-belt over the shoulders, and double-barrel in hand--about to attack a pheasant preserve, or go tramping through stubble and swedes. The _gambusino_ himself wears the picturesque dress of his class and country; the gun he carries being a rifle, while the sword-like weapon hanging along his hip is the ever-present _machete_--in Sonora sometimes called _cortante_. As, overnight, the programme had been all arranged, their interchange of speech at present has only reference to something in the way of _desayuna_ before setting out. This they find ready and near; at the central camp fire now blazing up, where several of the women, "whisks" in hand, are bending over pots of chocolate, stirring the substantial liquid to a creamy froth. A _taza_ of it is handed to each of the "_cazadores_," with a "_tortilla enchilada_," accompanied by a graceful word of welcome. Then, emptying the cups, and chewing up the tough, leatherlike maize cakes, the hunters slip quietly out of camp, and set their faces for the Cerro. The ascent, commenced almost immediately, is by a ravine--a sort of gorge or chine worn out by the water from the spring-head above and disintegrating rains throughout the long ages. They find it steep as a staircase, though not winding as one; instead, trending straight up from its debouchment on the plain to the summit level, between slopes, these with grim, rocky _facade_, still more precipitous. Down its bottom cascades the stream--a tiny rivulet now, but in rain-storms a torrent-- and along this lies the path, the only one by which the Cerro can be ascended, as the _gambusino_ already knows. "There's no other," he says, as they are clambering upward, "where a man could make the ascent, unless with a Jacob's ladder let down to him. All around, the cliff is as steep as the shaft of a mine. Even the wild sheep can't scale it, and if we find any on the summit--and it's to be hoped we shall--they must either have been bred there, or gone up this way. _Guarda_!" he adds, in exclamation, as he sees the impulsive English youth bounding on rather recklessly. "Have a care! Don't disturb the stones; they may go rattling down and smash somebody below." "By Jove! I didn't think of that," returns he thus cautioned, turning pale at thought of how he might have endangered the lives of those dear to him; then ascending more slowly, and with the care enjoined upon him. In due time they arrive at the head of the gorge, there stopping to take breath. Only for an instant, when they proceed on, now no longer in a climb, the path thence leading over ground level as the plain itself; but still by the rivulet's edge, through a tangle of trees and bushes. At some two hundred yards from the head of the gorge they come into an opening, the Mexican as he enters it exclaiming: "_El ojo de agua_!" CHAPTER FIVE. LOS GUAJALOTES. The phrase, "_ojo de agua_" (the water's eye), is simply the Mexican name for a spring; which Henry Tresillian needs not to be told, being already acquainted with the pretty poetical appellation. And he now sees the thing itself but a few paces ahead, gurgling up in a little circular basin, and sending off the stream which supplies the lake below. In an instant they are upon its edge, to find it clear as crystal, the _gambusino_ saying, as he unslings his drinking-cup of cow's horn, "I can't resist taking a swill of it, notwithstanding the gallons I had swallowed overnight. After such a long spell of short-water rations, one feels as though he could never again get enough." Then filling the horn, and almost instantly emptying it, he concludes with the exclamation "_Delicioso_!" His companion drinks also, but from a cup of solid silver; vessels of this metal, even of gold, being aught but rare among the master-miners of Sonora. They are about to continue on, when lo! a flock of large birds by the edge of the open. On the ground these are--having just come out from among the bushes--moving leisurely along, with beaks now and then lowered to the earth; in short, feeding as turkeys in a pasture field. And turkeys they are, the Mexican saying in a whisper: "_Los guajalotes_!" So like are they to the domestic bird--only better shaped and every way more beautiful--that Henry Tresillian has no difficulty in identifying them as its wild progenitors. One of superior size, an old cock, is at their head, striding to and fro in all the pride of his glittering plumage, which, under the beams of the new-risen sun, shows hues vivid and varied as those of the rainbow. A very sultan he seems, followed by a train of sultanas and their attendants; for there are young birds in the flock, fledglings, that differ in appearance from the old ones. Suddenly the grand satrap erects his head, and with neck craned out, utters a note of alarm. Too late. "Bang--bang!" from the double-barrel--the sharper crack of the rifle sounding simultaneously-- and the old cock, with three of his satellites, lies prostrate upon the earth, the rest taking flight with terrified screeches, and a clatter of wings loud as the "whirr" of a threshing machine. "Not a bad beginning," quietly observes the _gambusino_, as they stand over the fallen game. "Is it, senorito?" "Anything but that," answers the young Englishman, delighted at having secured such a good bottom for their bag. "But what are we to do with them? We can't carry them along." "Certainly not," rejoins the Mexican. "Nor need. Let them lie where they are till we come back. But no," he adds, correcting himself. "That will never do. There are wolves up here, no doubt--certainly coyotes, if no other kind--and on return we might find only feathers. So we must string them up out of reach." The stringing up is a matter which occupies only a few minutes' time; done by one leg thrust through the opened sinew of the other to form a loop; then the birds hoisted aloft, and hung upon the up-curving arms of a tall _pitahaya_. "And now, on!" says the _gambusino_, after re-loading guns. "Let us hope we may come across something in the four-legged line, big enough to give everybody a bit of fresh meat for dinner. Likely we'll have to tramp a good way before sighting any; the report of our guns will have frighted both birds and beasts, and sent all to the farthest side of the _mesa_. But no matter for that. I want to go there direct, and at once, for a reason, _muchacho_, I've not yet made known to you." While speaking, an anxious expression has shown itself on the _gambusino's_ face, which, taken in connection with his last words, leads Henry Tresillian to suspect something in, or on, his mind, beside the desire to kill game. Moreover, before leaving the camp he had noticed that the Mexican seemed to act in a manner more excited than was his wont--as if in a great hurry to get away. That, no doubt, for the reason he now hints at; though what it is the young Englishman cannot even give a guess. "May I know it now?" he asks, with some eagerness, noting the grave look. "Certainly you may, and shall," frankly responds the Mexican. "I would have told you sooner, and the others as well, but for not being sure about it. I didn't like to cause an alarm in the camp without good reason. And I hope still there's none. After all it may not have been smoke." "Smoke! What?" "What I saw, or thought I saw, yesterday evening, just after we arrived by the lake's edge." "Where?" "To the north-east--a long way off." "But if it was a smoke, what would that signify?" "In this part of the world, much. It might mean danger; ay, death." "You astonish--mystify me, Senor Vicente. How could it mean that?" "There's no mystery in it, _muchacho_. Where smoke is seen there should be fire; and a fire on these _llanos_ is likely to be one with Indians around it. Now do you understand the danger I'm thinking of?" "I do. But I thought there were no Indians in this part of the country, except the Opatas; and they are Christianised, dwelling in towns." "True, all that. But the Opata towns are far from here, and in an entirely different direction--the very opposite. If smoke it was, the fire that made it wasn't one kindled by Opatas, but men who only resemble them in the colour of their skin--Indians, too." "What Indians do you suspect?" "_Los Apaches_." "Danger indeed, if they be in the neighbourhood." The young Englishman has been long enough in Sonora to have acquaintance with the character of these cruel savages. "But I hope they're not," he adds, trustfully, still with some apprehension, as his thoughts turn to those below. "That hope I heartily echo," rejoins the Mexican, "for if they be about, we've got to look out for the skin of our heads. But come, _muchacho mio_! Don't let us be down in the mouth till we're sure there _is_ a danger. As I've said, I'm not even sure of having seen smoke at all. It might have been a dust-whirl, just as I noticed the thing, the _estampeda_ commenced; and after it the rush for water, which of course took off my attention. When that was over, and I again turned my eyes north-eastward, it was too dark to distinguish smoke or anything else. I then looked for a light all along the sky-line, and also several times during the night--luckily to see none. For all I can't help having fears. A man who's once been prisoner to the Apaches never travels through a district where they are like to be encountered without some apprehension. Mine ought to be of the keenest. I've not only been their prisoner, but rather roughly handled, as no doubt you'll admit after looking at this." Saying which, the Mexican opens his shirt-front, laying bare his breast; on which appears a disc, bearing rude resemblance to a "death's head," burnt deep into the skin. "They gave me that brand," he continues, "just by way of amusing themselves. They meant to have further diversion out of it by using me as a target, and it for a centre mark at one of their shooting matches. Luckily, before that came off, I found the chance of giving them leg-bail. Now, _muchacho_, you'll better understand my anxiety to be up here so early, and why I want to push on to the other end. _Vamonos_!" Shouldering their guns, they proceed onward; now at slower pace, their progress obstructed by thick-growing bushes and trees, with _llianas_ interlacing. For beyond the spring there is neither stream nor path, save here and there a slight trace, often tortuous, which tells of the passage of wild animals wandering to and fro. The hunters are pleased to see it thus; still more when the Mexican, noting some hoof-marks in a spot of soft ground, pronounces them tracks of the _carnero cimmaron_. "I thought we'd find some of the bighorn gentry up here," he says; "and if all the caravan don't this day dine on roast mutton, it'll be because Pedro Vicente isn't the proper man to be its purveyor. Still, we mustn't stop to go after the sheep now. True, we've begun the day hunting, but before proceeding farther with that, we must make sure we shan't have to end it fighting. Ssh!" The sibillatory exclamation has reference to a noise heard a little way off, like the stroke of a hoof upon hard turf, several times rapidly repeated. And simultaneous with it another sound, as the snort or bark of some animal. "That's a _carnero_, now!" says the Mexican, _sotto voce_; as he speaks, coming to a stop and laying hold of the other's arm to restrain him. "Since the game offers itself without going after, or out of our way, we may as well secure a head or two. Like the turkeys, it can be strung up till our return." Of course his _compagnon de chasse_ is of the same mind. He but longs to empty his double-barrel again, all the more at such grand game, and rejoins, saying, "Just so; it can." Without further speech they stalk cautiously forward, to reach the edge of another opening, and there behold another flock--not of birds, but quadrupeds. Deer they might seem at the first glance, to eyes unacquainted with them; and for such Henry Tresillian might mistake them, but that they show no antlers; instead, horns of a character proclaiming them sheep. Sheep they are, wild ones, different from the domesticated animal as greyhound from dachshund. No short legs nor low bodies theirs; no bushy tails, nor tangle of wool to encumber them. Instead, coats clean and smooth, with limbs long, sinewy, and supple as those of stag itself. Several pairs of horns are visible in the flock, one pair spirally curving much larger than any of the others; indeed, of such dimensions, and seeming weight, as to make it a wonder how the old ram, their owner, can hold up his head. Yet is it he who is holding head highest; the same who had snorted, hammering the ground with his hoof. He has done so, repeatedly, since; the last time to be the last in his life. Through the leafy branches, cautiously parted, shoots out a double jet of flame and smoke; three cracks are heard; then again there is dead game on the ground. This time, however, counting less in heads; only one--that carrying the grand curvature of horns. Alone the leader of the flock has fallen to the second fusillade, killed by the rifle's bullet. For the shot from the double-barrel, though hitting too, has glanced off the thick felt-like coats of the _carneros_ as from a corslet of steel. "_Carrai_!" exclaims the _gambusino_, with a vexed air, as they step up to the fallen quarry. "This time we haven't done so well--in fact, worse than nothing." "But why?" queries the young Englishman, in wonder at the other's strange words and ways, after having made such a big kill. "Why, you ask, senorito! Don't your nostrils tell you? _Mil diablos_! how the brute stinks!" Truth he speaks, as his hunting companion, now standing over the dead body of the bighorn, can well perceive--sensible of an offensive odour arising from it as that of ram in the rutting season. "What a fool I've been to spend bullet upon him!" continues the Mexican, without awaiting rejoinder. "Nor was it his great bulk or horns that tempted me. No; all through thinking of that other thing, which made me careless which of them I aimed at." "What other thing?" "The smoke. Well, it's no use crying over spilt milk nor any to bother more about the brute. It's only fit food for coyotes; and the sooner they get it into their bellies the better. Faugh! Let us away from it." CHAPTER SIX. A HOMERIC REPAST. Early as are the white men astir, yet earlier are the red ones. For the Coyoteros, like the animal from which they derive their tribal name, do more of their prowling by night than by day. Moreover, it is the sultry season, and they design reaching Nauchampa-tepetl before the sun gets so high and hot as to make travelling uncomfortable. Even savages are not averse to comfort; though these are now thinking more about that of their horses than their own. They are on an expedition that will need keeping the animals up to their best strength; and journeying in the noon hours would distress and pull them down. So nearly an hour before dawn declines itself they are up and active, moving about in the dim light, silent as spectres. Silent, not from any fear of betraying their presence to an enemy--they know of none likely to be near--but because it is their habit. What they first do is to shift the picket-pins of their horses, or give greater length to the trail-ropes, in order that the animals may get a bite of clean fresh grass, that on which they were tethered throughout the night being now trampled down. Next, they proceed to take care of themselves--to fortify the inner man with a bit of breakfast. No fire is needed for the cooking it, and none is kindled. The _mezcal_ and horse-meat pie has been baking all the night; and now, near morning, they know it will be ready--done to a turn. It but needs the turf lifted off their primitive oven, and the contents extracted. Five or six, detailed for the task, at once set about it; first taking off the top sods, now calcined and still smoking. Then the loose mould, which the fire has converted into ashes, is removed with more care. It is hot, and needs handling gingerly; but the savage _cuisiniers_ know how, and soon the black bundle is exposed to view, the hide now hairless and charred, but moist and reeking. It still adheres sufficiently to bear hoisting out, without fear of spilling the contents; and at length it is so lifted and carried to a clean spot of sward. Then cut open and spread out, there is displayed a steaming savoury mass, whose appetising odour, borne upward and outward on the fresh morning air, inspires every redskin around with delightful anticipations. And not without reason either. To say nothing of the baked horseflesh-- by many _gourmets_ esteemed a delectable dish--the corn of the _mezcal_, treated thus, is a viand palatable as peculiar. And peculiar it is, bearing resemblance to nothing I either know or can think of. In appearance it is much like candied citron, with a sweetish taste too, only firmer and darker in colour. But while eating it the tongue seems penetrated with a thousand tiny darts; a sort of prinkling sensation, quite indescribable, and, to one unaccustomed to it, not altogether agreeable. In time this passes away; and he who has made the experiment of eating _mezcal_ comes to like it exceedingly. Many grand people among the whites regard it in the light of a luxury; and as such it has found its way into most Mexican towns--even the capital itself--where it commands a high price. With the Apache Indians, as already said, it is a staple food, even giving their tribal name to one branch of this numerous nation--the Mezcaleros. But all eat of it alike, and the Coyoteros, _en bivouac_, show, by their knowledge of how to prepare it, that baked _mezcal_ is noways new to them. At the word "ready!" they gather around the hot steaming mass; and, regardless of scorched lips or tongues, set upon it with knife and tooth. Soon the skin is cleaned out, every scrap of its contents eaten. They could eat the hide too, and would, were there a pinch. But there is none such now, and it is left for their namesakes, the coyotes. A smoke follows the Homeric repast, for all American Indians are addicted to the use of the nicotian weed. They were so before the caravels of Columbus spread sail on the Haytian seas. Every Coyotero in camp has his pipe and pouch of tobacco, be it genuine or adulterated; this depending on how their luck has been running, or how recent their latest raid upon some settlement of the palefaces. Pipes smoked out and returned to their places of deposit, all are afoot again. Nothing more now but to draw picket-pins, coil up trail-ropes, mount, and move off; for their horse caparison, scant and easily adjusted, is already on. The chief gives the order "to horse," not in words, but by example-- springing upon the back of his own. Then they ride off, as before, in formation "by twos," each file falling into rank as the line lengthens out upon the plain. Scarce is the last file clear of the abandoned camp-ground ere this becomes occupied by animated beings of another kind--wolves, whose howling has been heard throughout all the night. Having scented the slaughtered horse, these now rush simultaneously towards it, to dispute the banquet of bones. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Shortly after leaving the camp the marching redskins lose sight of the Cerro. This is accounted for by a dip in the plain, with a ridgelike swell beyond, which runs transversely to their course. The hollow continues for several miles before the mountain will be again in view; but, well knowing the way, they need not this to guide them. Nor are they in any particular hurry. They can reach their intended halting-place by the lake long ere the sun becomes sultry, there to lie up till the cool hours of evening. So they move leisurely along, and with a purpose--to spare the sinews of their horses. They talk enough now, loudly and laughingly. They have slept well, and breakfasted satisfactorily; besides, it is broad daylight, and no danger to be apprehended, no fear of hostile surprise. For all that they keep their eyes on the alert through habitude, every now and then scanning the horizon around. Soon they see that which gives them something serious to speak about. Not upon the horizon, nor anywhere upon the plain, but up in the heavens above it--birds. What of them? And what in their appearance to attract the attention of the Coyoteros? Nothing, or not much, were the birds other than they are. But they are vultures, black vultures of two sorts--_gallinazos_ and _zopilotes_. Nor would the Indians think of giving them a second glance were they soaring about in their ordinary way, wheeling in circles and spirals. But they are not; instead, passing overhead in straight onward flight, with a quick, earnest plying of wings, evidently making for some point where they expect to stoop upon carrion. Scores there are of them, straggled out in a long stream, but all flying in one direction--the same in which the savages are themselves proceeding--towards Nauchampa-tepetl. What can be drawing the vultures thither? This the question which the Indians ask one another, in their own formularies of speech; none able to answer it, save by conjecture. Without in any way alarming, the spectacle excites them; and they quicken their pace, eager to learn what is attracting the birds. It should be something more than dead antelope or deer, so many are tending towards it, and from so far. For their high flight, straight onward, tells of their having been for some time keeping the same course. Hastening on up the slope of the swell, the dusky horsemen once more catch sight of the mountain, there to see what brings them to an abrupt halt--a filmy purplish haze hanging over its southern end, more scattered higher up in the sky. Is it fog rising from the water they know to be there? No: smoke, as their practised eyes tell them after regarding it a moment. And with like celerity they interpret it, as proceeding from the fire, or fires, of a camp. Other travellers, anticipating them, are encamped by Nauchampa-tepetl, Who? Opatas? Not likely. Sons of toil--_Indicos mansos_--slaves, as these the _bravos_, their kindred only in race, scornfully call them-- the Opatas keep to their towns, and the patches of cultivation around them. Improbable that they should have ventured into that wilderness so far from home. More likely it is a party of palefaces; men in search of that shining metal which, as the Apaches know, has often lured their white enemies into the very heart of the desert, their own domain, and to destruction--themselves the destroyers. If the smoke of those camp fires they now see be over such a party, then is it doomed--at least so mentally resolve the red centaurs, hoping it may be thus. While still gazing at the blue cloud, taking its measure, and discussing the probabilities of who and what sort of men may be under it, another appears before their eyes; this whiter and of smaller size--a mere puff suddenly rising over the crest of the _mesa_, and separating from it as it drifts higher. From the fire of a gun, or guns, as the Coyoteros can tell, though not by any crack of one having reached their ears, since none has. In the rarefied atmosphere of the high-lying _llanos_ the eye has the advantage of the ear, sounds being heard only at short distance. They are still more than ten miles from the mountain, and the report of a cannon, discharged on its summit, would be barely audible to them. Still staying at halt, but keeping to their horses, the chief and others in authority enter into consultation. And while they are deliberating on the best course to be pursued, still another puff of smoke shoots up over the _mesa_, similar to that preceding, but at a different point. It aids them in coming to conclusions; for now they are sure there is a camp of palefaces by the pond; and they above are hunters who have gone up to get game, which the Indians know to be there in abundance. But what sort of palefaces? Of this they are not sure. Knowing it to be a miners' camp, they would ride straight on for it, in gallop. But it may be an encampment of _soldados_, which would make a difference. Not that the Coyoteros are afraid to encounter Mexican soldiers--far from it. Rather would they rejoice at finding it these. For their tribe, their own branch of it, has an old score against the men in uniform; and nothing would please them better than an opportunity to settle it. Indeed, partly to seek this, with purposes of plunder combined, are they now on the _war-trail_. Only in their mode of action would there be a difference, in the event of the encampment turning out to be occupied by _soldados_. Soldiers in that quarter should be cavalry, and to approach them caution would be called for, with strategy. But these red centaurs are soldiers themselves--veterans, skilled, cunning strategists--and now give proof of it. For the time has come for them to advance; which they do, not straight forward nor in single body, but broken into two bands, one facing right, the other left, with a design to enfilade the camp by approaching it from opposite points. Separating at the start, the two cohorts soon diverge wide apart, both making for the mountain, but with the intention to reach its southern end on different sides. If the black vultures, still in streaming flight above, have hopes of getting a repast there, they may now feel assured of its being a plenteous one. CHAPTER SEVEN. LOS INDIOS! Parting from the despised carcase of the ram the hunters press onward, the younger with mental resolve to return to it, come back what way they will. Its grand spiral horns have caught his fancy: such a pair would grace any hall in Christendom; and, though he cannot call the trophy his own, since it fell not to his gun, he intends appropriating it. Only for a brief moment does the young Englishman reflect about them; in the next they are out of his mind. For, glancing at the Mexican's face, he again sees that look of anxious uneasiness noted before. It had returned soon as the exciting incident of the sheep-shooting was over. And knowing the cause, he shares it; no more thinking about the chase or its trophies. They say but little now, having sufficient work to occupy them without wasting time in words. For beyond the opening where the _carneros_ were encountered, they find no path--not so much as a trace made by animals-- and have to make one for themselves. As the trees stand close, with _lianas_ interlacing, the Mexican is often compelled to use his _machete_ for hewing out a passage-way; which he does with an accompaniment of _carrambas_! thick as the underwood he chops at. Thus impeded, they are nearly an hour in getting through the _chapparal_, though the distance passed is less than the half of a mile. But at length they accomplish it, arriving on the _mesas_ outer edge, close to that of the cliff. There the tall timber ends in a skirting of low bushes, and their view is no longer obstructed. North, east, and west the _llano_ is under their eyes to the horizon's verge, twenty miles at least being within the scope of their vision. They aim not to scan it so far. For at a distance of little more than ten they observe that which at once fixes their glance: a dun yellowish disc--a cloud--with its base resting upon the plain. "Smoke, no--but dust!" exclaims the _gambusino_, soon as sighting it; "and kicked up by the heels of horses--hundreds of them. There can be nothing else out there to cause that. Horses with men on their backs. If a _caballada_ of wild mustangs, the dust would show more scattered. _Indios, por cierto! Carra-i_!" he says in continuation, the shade on his brow sensibly darkening, as with a quick glance over his shoulder he sees real smoke in that direction. "What fools we've been to kindle fires! Rank madness. Better to have eaten breakfast raw. I myself most to blame of any; I should have known the danger. By this they'll have spied our camp smoke--that of our shots, too. Ah, _muchacho_! we've been foolish in every way." Almost breathless from this burst of regret and self-recrimination, he is for a while silent; his heart beating audibly, however, as with gaze fixed on the far-off cloud, he endeavours to interpret it. But the dark cloud soon becomes less dense, partially dispersed, and under it appears something more solid; a clump of sombre hue, but with here and there sparkling points. No separate forms can as yet be made out; only a mass; but for all that, the _gambusino_ knows it to be composed of horses and men, the corruscations being the glint of arms and accoutrements, as the sun penetrates through to them. "What a pity," he exclaims, resuming speech, "I didn't think of asking Don Estevan for the loan of his telescope! If we only had it here now! But I can see enough without it; 'tis as I feared. No more hunting for us to-day; but fighting ere the sun goes down--perhaps ere it reach meridian. _Mira_! the thing's splitting into two. You see, senorito?" The senorito does see that the dust-cloud has parted in twain, as also the dark mass underneath. And now they can distinguish separate forms; horses with men on their backs, and a more conspicuous glittering of arms, because of their being in motion. "Ah, yes!" adds the Mexican, with increased gravity of tone, "_Indios bravos_ they are, hundreds of them. If Apaches, as sure they must, Heaven help us all! I know what they mean by that movement. They've sighted the camp smoke, and intend coming on along both sides of the Cerro. That's why they've broken into two bands. Back to camp, as fast as our legs can carry us! We've not a minute--not a second--to lose. _Vamos_!" And back for camp they start, not to spend time on the way as when coming from it, but in a run and rush along the path already opened-- past the dead sheep, past the spring, and the strung-up turkeys, without even staying to look at these, much less think of taking them along. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The occupants of the miners' camp, men, women, and children, are up and active now. Some are at work about the wagons, pouring water over their wheels to tighten the tyres, loose from the shrinking of the wood; others have set to mending harness and pack-saddles; while still others, out on the open plain, are changing the animals to fresh spots of pasturage. A small party is seen around the carcase of a bullock, in the act of skinning it to get beefsteaks for breakfast. Several fires have been kindled, for the people are many, and have separate messes, according to rank and vocation. Around these are the women and grown girls, some bending over red earthenware pots that contain chocolate and coffee, others on their knees with the _metate_ stone in front, and _metlapilla_ in hand, crushing the boiled maize into paste for the indispensable _tortillas_. The children play by the lake's edge, wading ankle-deep into the water, plashing about like little ducks; some of the bigger boys, who have improvised a rude tackle, endeavouring to catch fish. In this remote tarn there are such, as it has an affluent stream connecting it with the Rio Horcasitas--now nearly dry, but at times having a volume of water sufficient for the finny tribes to ascend to the lake, into which several species have found their way. Within the space enclosed by the wagons--the _corral_--three tents have been erected, and stand in a row. The middle one is a large square marquee, the two flanking it of the ordinary bell shape. The marquee is occupied by the senior partner and his senora; the one on the right by their daughter and an Indian _moza_--her waiting-maid; the third affords shelter and sleeping quarters for the two Tresillians. All three are for a time empty, their occupants having stepped out of them. As known, Henry Tresillian has gone up to the summit of the Cerro, and his father is moving about the camp in the company of the _mayor-domo_, with an eye to superintendence of everything; while Don Estevan, his wife, and daughter, have strolled out along the lake's edge to enjoy the refreshing breeze wafted over its water. The three promenaders have but made one turn along the sandy shore, and back again, when they hear a cry which not only alarms them, but all within and around the camp-- "_Los Indios_!" It has been sent from above--from the head of the ravine; and everybody looks up--all eyes raised simultaneously. To see two men standing on a projecting point of rock, their figures sharply outlined against the blue background of sky; at the same time to recognise them as the _gambusino_ and Henry Tresillian. Only for an instant are these at a stand; only to shout down those terrible words of warning; then both bound into the gorge, and come on at a rush, with risk of breaking their necks. At its bottom they are met by an excited, clamorous crowd; surrounded and assailed by a very tempest of interrogations. But to these they vouchsafe no answer beyond that implied in their shout; instead, push on to where Don Estevan and the elder Tresillian, now together, stand awaiting them. The senior partner is the first to speak, addressing himself to Vicente: "You've seen Indians, Don Pedro? Where?" "Out upon the _llano_, your worship--to north-eastward." "You're sure of it being Indians?" "Quite sure, senor. We were able to make horses with men on them; the men unlike any with a white skin, but just as those with a red one. Your worship can take my word for their being Indians." "I can, and do. But from what you say, it seems they're still a good way off. How far, think you?" "Ten miles or more, when we came away from the place where we saw them. They can't be much nearer yet, as we've not been over ten minutes on the way." The quick time made by the hunters in return is attested by their breathing; both with nostrils agape and breasts heaving up and down as runners at the close of a hard-contested race. "'Tis well they're at such a distance," rejoins Don Estevan. "And lucky your having sighted them before they got nearer." "Ah! senor, they'll soon be near; for I know they've sighted us--at least the smoke of our camp, and are already making for it. Light horsemen as they don't need long to traverse ten miles--on a plain like this." "That's true," assents the _ci-devant_ soldier, with an air of troubled impatience. "What do you advise our doing, Don Pedro?" "Well, for one thing, your worship, we mustn't remain here. We must clear out of this camp as soon as possible. In an hour--ay, less--it may be too late." "Your words want explaining, Don Pedro. I don't comprehend them. Clear out of the camp! But whither are we to go?" "_Arriba_!" answers the guide, pointing to the gorge, "up yonder." "But we can't take the animals there. And to carry up our goods there wouldn't be time." "I know it, your worship. And glad we may be to get ourselves safe up." "Then we're to abandon all? Is that what you advise?" "It is. I'm sorry I can give no better advice. There's no alternative if we wish to live." "To lose everything," puts in the junior partner, "goods, animals, machinery! That would be a terrible calamity. Surely, Senor Vicente, we can defend the camp; our people are all well armed." "Impossible, Don Roberto; impossible were they ever so well armed. From what I could make out of the Indian party it numbers hundreds to our tens, sufficient of them to surround us on every side. And even if we could keep them off during daylight, at night they'd crawl close enough to set the camp on fire. Wagons, tilts, every stick and stitch of them are dry as tinder; the very pack-saddles would be ablaze with the first spark that fell on them." "But how know we that these Indians are hostile? After all, it may be some friendly band; perhaps Opatas?" "No!" exclaims the _gambusino_ impatiently. "I saw enough to know they're not Opatas, nor _mansos_ of any kind; enough to be sure they're _bravos_, and almost sure, Apaches." "Apaches!" echo several voices in the surrounding, in tones proclaiming the dread with which this name inspires the heart of every Sonoreno. Every man present feels a creeping sensation in the skin of his head, as though the scalping-knife were being brandished around it. "They're coming from the direction where Apaches would come," pursues Vicente. "Besides, they have no baggage; not a woman or child to be seen with them. All men, mounted and armed." "Indeed, if it be so," rejoins Don Estevan, with brow now darkly shadowed, "we can expect no friendship from them." "No mercy either!" adds the gold-seeker. "Nor have we a right to expect it, after the treatment they've had at the hands of Captain Gil Perez and his men." All know to what Vicente alludes: a massacre of Apache Indians by a party of Mexican soldiers, after being lured and lulled into false security by professions of peace--cold-blooded and cruel, as any recorded in the annals of frontier warfare. "I've said it. I'm good as sure they're Apaches," repeats the _gambusino_, more impressively. "And it would be madness, sheer insanity, to await them here. We must up to the _mesa_." "But will we be safe there?" "As in a citadel. No fortress ever contrived, or made by hand of man, is strong as the Cerro Perdido. Twenty men could hold it against as many hundreds--ay, thousands. _Carramba_! We may thank the Virgin for providing us with such a secure retreat; so handy, and just in the nick of time." "Then let us to it," assents Don Estevan, after a brief consultation with his partner, who no longer opposes the step, though by it they may lose their all. "We'll follow your advice, Senor Vicente; and you have our authority to order everything as it seems best to you." "I've only one order to give, your worships; that's _arriba_! Up, all and everybody!" CHAPTER EIGHT. TENDER LEAVE-TAKINGS. The excitement in the camp, already at full height, now changes to a quick, confused hurrying to and fro, accompanied by cries of many kinds. Here and there is heard the terrified scream of a woman, who, babe in arms, fancies the spear of a savage pointed at her breast, to impale herself and offspring. There is a rush for the gorge, up which a stream of human forms is soon seen swarming as ants up their hill. And, with a gallantry which distinguishes the miner as the mariner, the women and children are permitted foremost place in the upward retreat, assisted by husbands. Without serious accident all succeed in reaching the summit, where the women are left, the men who went with them hurrying back below. It is hard to part with valuable property and cherished household gods--still harder to see these appropriated by a hated enemy--and an effort is to be made for saving what can be saved. At first they only thought of their lives; but half a dozen men, who had sprung to their horses at the earliest moment of alarm, and galloped out beyond the mountain's flank to get better view, signal back that the Indians are not yet in sight. So there is still a chance to take up a portion of the camp equipage, with such goods as are likely to be most needed in the event of their having to sustain a siege. "The ammunition and provender first!" shouts Vicente, back again at camp, with full authority of direction. "Take up everything that's food for man and loading for gun. After that whatever we'll have time for." Knowing their women now safe, the men work with spirit; and soon a different sort of stream is seen ascending the gorge: a string of burden-bearers, continuous from plain to summit; hastily returning down again, relieved of their loads, to take up others. Never were bees so busy. Some remain below, getting the goods out of the wagons, and making packages of them, convenient for the difficult transport. The bales and boxes--lading of the pack-mules--are broken open, and their more valuable effects picked out and carried off; so that in a short space of time not much remains save the mining tools and machinery, with the heavier articles of house furniture. Could the Rattlesnake have known of this quick precautionary sacking of the camp by its owners, he and his would have approached it in greater haste. But they are seen coming on now. The mounted videttes have at length signalled them in sight, they themselves galloping in at the same time, and dropping down from their horses. There is a last gathering up of bundles, which includes the two smaller tents--the marquee left standing. Then the final _debandade_; all turning face towards the gorge, and toiling up it. No, not all as yet; more than one lingers below. For the horses must needs be left behind; impossible to take them up a steep where only goat, sheep, or clawed creature might go. And more than one has a master who parts with it reluctantly. Regretfully, too, at thought of its changing owner, and to such owner as will soon enter upon possession. Even some of the teamsters and muleteers have an affection for their mules, the head _arriero_ regarding the whole _atajo_ as his children, and the "bell-mare" almost as a mother. Many a long mile and league has he listened to her guiding bell; its cheerful tinkle proclaiming the route clear along narrow dizzy ledge, or through deep defile. And now he will hear its music no more. But the ties must be severed, the parting take place. Which it does, amidst phrases and ejaculations of leave-taking, tender as though the left ones were human beings instead of dumb brutes. "_Caballo-- caballito querido_!" "_Mula-mulita mia_!" "_Pobre-pobrecita_! _Dios te guarda_!" And mingled with these are exclamations of a less gentle kind--anathemas hurled at the redskins coming on to take possession of their pets. At this last Pedro Vicente is among the loudest. As yet he has had only half-payment for his late discovered mine, the remaining moiety dependent on the working it. And now the crash--all the mining apparatus to be destroyed--perhaps the purchasing firm made bankrupt, if even life be left them. Thinking of all this, and what he has already suffered at the hands of "_Los Indios_" no wonder at his cursing them. He, however, is not one of those taking affectionate and sentimental farewell of their animals. His horse is a late purchase, and though of fine appearance, has proved aught but a bargain. For there are "copers" in Arispe as elsewhere, and the _gambusino_ has been their victim. Hence he parts with the disappointing steed neither regretfully nor reluctantly. But not with the saddle and bridle; these, of elaborate adornment having cost him far more than the horse. So shouldering them, he too re-ascends, last of all save one. That one is Henry Tresillian; and very different is the parting between him and the animal of his belonging. The English youth almost sheds tears as he stands by his horse's head, patting his neck and stroking his muzzle, the last time he may ever lay hand on either. Nay, surely, too surely, the last. And the noble creature seems to know it too, responding to the caress by a low mournful whimpering. "Ah! my beautiful Crusader! to think I must leave you behind! And to be ridden by a redskin--a cruel savage who will take no care of you. Oh! it is hard--hard!" Crusader appears to comprehend what is said, for his answer is something like a moan. It may be that he interprets the melancholy expression on his master's face--that master who has been so kind to him. "A last farewell, brave fellow! Be it a kiss," says the youth, bringing his lips in contact with those of the horse. Then pulling off the headstall, with its attached trail-rope, and letting them drop to the ground, he again speaks the sad word "farewell," and, turning back on his beloved steed, walks hurriedly and determinedly away, as though fearing resolution might fail him. Soon he commences climbing up the gorge; all the others who have gone before now nearly out of it. But ere he has ascended ten steps, he hears that behind which causes him to stop and look back. Not in alarm: he knows it to be the neigh of his own horse, accompanied by the stroke of his hoofs in quick repetition--Crusader coming on in a gallop for the gorge. In another instant he is by its bottom, on hind legs, rearing up against the rocky steep, as if determined to scale it. In vain: after an effort he drops back on all fours. But to rear up and try again and again, all the while giving utterance to wild, agonised neighs--very screams. To Henry Tresillian the sight is saddening, the sound torture, stirring his heart to its deepest depths. To escape the seeing--though he cannot so soon the hearing--he once more turns his back upon the horse, and hastens on upward. But when halfway to the head, he cannot resist taking another downward look. Which shows him Crusader yet by the bottom of the gorge, but now standing still on all fours, as if resigned to the inevitable. Not silent, however; instead, at short intervals, giving utterance to that neigh of melancholy cadence, alike proclaiming discomfiture and despair. CHAPTER NINE. "IT'S THE RATTLESNAKE." On again reaching the summit Henry Tresillian finds his father there with Don Estevan and most of the men. These last, under the direction of the _ci-devant_ soldier, are collecting large stones, and laying them all round the head of the gorge. One might fancy them building a breastwork, but nothing of that kind is their intention, none such being needed. As Vicente had said, it is a fortress of nature's construction, stronger than any ever built by the hand of man, and would defy breaching by all the artillery in the world. Ammunition is what the stones are being collected for, to be rolled down the slope in case the enemy should attempt scaling it. Most of them have to be brought up out of the gorge itself, as but few lie loose on the summit. A work that, with so many and willing hands, takes up but short time, and soon a ridge appears in horseshoe shape around the spot where the path leads out upon the level. Others of the men have gone on to the glade by the spring, where the women and children are now assembled, the effects brought up from below lying scattered about them. Some, still in affright, are moving excitedly to and fro; others, with greater courage and calmness, have taken seats on the boxes and bundles. The senora and her daughter, with the family servants, form a group apart, the eyes of Gertrude scanning with anxious interrogative glance each new party as it appears on the edge of the opening. She has been told that Henrique is still upon the plain, and fears he may linger there too long. As yet no move has been made to set up the tents, or otherwise establish camp. There are some who cling to the hope that after all it may not be necessary. The Indians have not yet shown themselves at the southern end, and nothing is known of their character save by conjecture. As that is based on but a distant view of them, it is little reliable; and the guide is directed by Don Estevan to hasten north again, and see what can be seen further. This time he takes the telescope with him, and signals are arranged before starting. Gun signals, of course: a single shot to say the Indians are still advancing towards the Cerro; two, that they are near; a third, denoting their character made out; while a fourth will proclaim them _bravos_, and of some hostile tribe. By this it might appear as if the _gambusino_ bore upon his person a very battery of small arms; while in reality he has only his rifle, with a pair of single-barrelled pistols of ancient fashion and doubtful fire. But, as before, he is to be accompanied by Henry Tresillian, whose double gun will make good any deficiency in the signal shots--should all four be needed. This settled, off the two go again on their old track, first passing through the glade by the _ojo de agua_. There the English youth tarries a moment--only a brief one--to exchange a word with the senora, and a tender glance with Gertrude, whose eyes follow him no longer in fear, but now all admiration. She has been told of the strange parting between him and his favourite steed--her favourite as well--and the fearlessness he displayed, staying down upon the plain after all the others had left it. "Such courage!" she mentally exclaims, as she sees him dash on after the guide. "_Dios mio_! he dare do anything." Proceeding at a run, in less than fifteen minutes' time the videttes arrive at their former place of observation on the projecting point of the cliff; and without delay Vicente lengthens out the telescope, raising it to his eye. To see, at first view, what justifies their sounding the first and second signals: the savages still coming on for the Cerro, and now near! "Fire off both your barrels!" he directs on the instant; and, without lowering the glass, "Allow a little time between, that our people mayn't mistake it for a single shot." The English youth, elevating the muzzle of his gun, presses the front trigger, and then, after an interval, the back one, and the shots in succession go reverberating along the cliff in echo upon echo. Scarce have these died away when the Mexican again speaks, this time not only to say the other two signals are to be given, but with words and in tone telling of even more. "_Carramba_!" he cries out, "just as I expected, and worse! Apaches, and the cruellest, most hostile of all, Coyoteros! Quick, _muchacho_!" he continues, still keeping the telescope to his eye, "pull the pistols out of my belt and fire off both." Again two loud cracks, with a few seconds of time between, resound along the cliff, while the dusky horsemen, now near enough for their individual forms to be distinguishable by the naked eye, are seen to have come to a halt, seated on their horses and gazing upward. But through the glass Vicente sees more, which still further excites him. "_Por todos demonios esta El Cascabel_!" (By all the devils it's the Rattlesnake!) "El Cascabel!" echoes the English youth, less puzzled by the odd name than surprised at the manner of him who has pronounced it. "Who is he, Don Pedro?" "Ah, senorito! you'll find that out too soon--all of us, I fear, to our cost. Yes!" he goes on talking, with the telescope still upheld, "'tis El Cascabel, I can make out the death's head on his breast, original pattern of that on my own. He and his made the copy, the brutes burning it into my flesh in sheer wanton mockery. _Malraya_! we're in for it now; a siege till the crack of doom, or till all of us are starved dead. No hope of escaping it." "But if we surrender, might they not be merciful?" "Merciful! surrender to the Rattlesnake! That would be as putting ourselves in the power of the reptile he takes his name from. You forget Gil Perez and his massacre." "No, indeed. But was it Coyoteros he massacred?" "Coyoteros; and of this very band. El Cascabel's not like to have forgotten that; and will now make us innocent people pay for it. _Ay de mi_!" With this final exclamation, uttered in a tone of deep despondence, the Mexican relapses into silence. But only for a few seconds longer, to look through the telescope. He has seen enough to know all which can be known, and too truly conjectures what is likely to ensue. The party of Indians, led by El Cascabel, is again moving onward, and a sweep of the glass around to the north-west shows the other party making to turn the mountain on its western side. The _gambusino_ can count them now; sees that they number over two hundred, enough to put all hope of a successful encounter with them out of the question. As for retreat, it is too late for that. Surrounded are the luckless miners, or soon will be; besieged on the summit of a mountain as within the walls of a fortress, and as far removed from any chance of succour as castaways on a desert isle in mid-ocean. CHAPTER TEN. AN ENFILADING LINE. The "stone artillery" has been got together; a huge pile of it, forming at the same time protecting parapet and battery of guns; the men have desisted from their work, and having nothing more to do, at least for a time, stand listening for the signals. They know that such have been arranged, without having been told their exact bearing. But they are soon to learn it; almost instantly after hearing a shot, and then quick succeeding it another, as the discharges from a double-barrelled gun. "The Indians coming on, and near!" says Don Estevan, interpreting to those around. "We may look to see them soon yonder." He nods towards the abandoned camp, a portion of which is visible from the head of the gorge. This causes a turning of all eyes in its direction, and on the _llano_ beyond. But scarce have they commenced scanning it when two other shots, less loud but with a like interval between, reach their ears, proceeding from the same quarter. "The pistols--signals three and four!" mechanically pronounces the ex-officer of dragoons, his sallow features showing further clouded. "There's no more to listen for now," he adds. "Don Pedro was right. Apaches they must be, and on a marauding expedition--likely for the towns of the Horcasitas, and, unluckily, we in their way. Ah, _amigos_! it's an ill look-out for us; could not well be worse." But worse it is, as they are yet to learn. And soon do learn from the lips of the _gambusino_, who, returning in breathless haste, cries out ere he is up to them, "_Los Coyoteros_! The band of El Cascabel!" Words of terrible portent, needing no explanation, for they recall to the minds of all present that sanguinary incident already alluded to. The dastardly deed of Captain Perez and his ruffianly soldiery is likely to be retaliated on men, not only themselves guiltless, but every one of whom has condemned it! For how can they expect mercy from the friends and relatives of his murdered victims? How hope for any distinction or exception in their favour? They cannot, and do not, knowing that ever since that inhuman massacre the Apaches have treated every paleface as a foe, the Coyoteros killing all prisoners that fall into their hands, after torturing them. "You think it's the band of Cascabel?" It is Don Estevan who questions in rejoinder to the _gambusino's_ brief but expressive report. "Think! I'm sure of it, your worship. Through this good glass of yours I recognised that savage himself, knowing him too well. It enabled me to make out his _totem_, the pretty device on his breast, of which this on mine's but a poor copy. _Mira_!" While speaking, he unbuttons his shirt-front and draws the plaits apart, as a screen from some precious picture, exposing to the view of all what he had already shown to Henry Tresillian. As most of them remember having heard of the sepulchral symbol borne by the Coyotero chief, with that other more appropriate to his name, they now know the sort of enemy that is approaching, and what they have to expect. No more among them is there hope of either friendship or mercy. On one side, the stronger, it will be attack hostile and vengeful; on the other, and weaker-- theirs, alas!--it must be resistance and defence even unto death. Though fully convinced of this, the miners remain calm, with that confidence due to danger seeming still distant. They know they are safe for the time, unassailable, the _gambusino_ having given them assurance of it. But they now see it for themselves, and any apprehensions they have are less for the present than the future. Sure are they that a siege is before them, how long they cannot guess, nor in which way it will terminate. And there may be chances of relief or escape they have not thought of. Hope is hard to kill, and the least hopeful of them has not yet yielded to despair. Time enough for that when starvation stares them in the face, for hunger--famine--is the foe they have most to fear. But they think not of things so far ahead. They must first see the enemy of which their guide has given such awe-inspiring account; and, with glances sent abroad and over that portion of the plain visible to them, they await his appearance on it. Nearly another hour elapses without any enemy seen. The horses and mules have got over their late excitement, and are again tranquilly depasturing, some having waded into the lake to cool their hoofs, still hot after their long _jornada_. But none wander away from the proximity of the camp; the only animals out on the plain being prong-horn antelopes, a herd of which, on their way to the water too, has been deterred approaching it by the presence of huge monsters unknown to them--the wagons. But these have not hindered the approach of the black-winged birds; instead, attracted them, and a large flock is now around the abandoned camp, some wheeling above, others at rest on the ground or perched upon the rock-boulders which bestrew it. A crowd, collected on the spot where the ox had been butchered for breakfast, contest possession of its offal. All of a sudden, and simultaneously, a movement is perceptible among the animals, birds as quadrupeds, the wild as the tame. The prong-horns with a snort raise their heads aloft as if they saw or scented some new danger, then lope off at lightning speed. The vultures take wing, but only rise a little way into the air, to soar round in circles; while the horses, mules, and horned cattle, as if seized by a frenzy of madness, rush excitedly about, wildly neighing and bellowing, at each instant threatening to break away in stampede. "They smell redskin," knowingly observes the _gambusino_, who is among the rest watching their movements. "Yes; and we'll soon see the ugly thing itself. _Chingara_! yonder it is." He has no need to point out either the thing or the place. The eyes of all are now on it; the head of a dusky cohort just appearing round the eastern projection of the Cerro, becoming elongated as file after file unfolds itself. They are still afar off--at least a league--nor is their line of march directed towards the mountain, but westward, as though they intended turning it. No such manoeuvre is meant, however, as the miners, forewarned by their guide, are already aware. His words are made good by their seeing soon after another dark line developing itself on the _llano_, at a like distance off, but coming from the opposite direction. "The party that went west about," says the _gambusino_, half in soliloquy; "cunning in them to make a complete surround of us. I suppose they thought we were but horsemen, and might get away from them. If they'd seen our wagons, it would have saved them some trouble. Well, they see everything now." No one makes rejoinder, all intently gazing at the two marching bands, now with eyes on one, then quickly transferred to the other. The portion of the plain visible is sextant-shaped--the view on either side cut off by the flanking ridges of the ravine--and from each side the string of savage horsemen is continuously lengthening out. Not rapidly, but in slow leisurely crawl, as if confident they had already secured the enfiladement of the camp. With a thicker concentration near the head of each, and a metallic sparkle all along their line--the sheen of their armour under the rays of the meridian sun--they appear as two huge serpents of antediluvian age, deliberately drawing towards one another either for friendship or combat. In due time their front files come together, near the central part of the sextant; though the rear ones are still invisible;--how many of these no one knows, save approximately. Enough, however, are already in sight to make a formidable array, and put all thought of conflict with them out of the question. The miners but congratulate themselves on their fortune in finding that secure place of retreat, which will enable them to shun it. Grateful are they to their guide for making it known-- and they have reason. If within their late camp instead of where they now are, the hours of their life would be numbered--perhaps to count only minutes. At the best they could but save bare life for a time, but nothing to comfort or sustain it. All this they have come to comprehend thoroughly as they continue to watch the movements of the Coyoteros, and see the cordon these have drawn around them. But for some minutes there is no movement at all, the bands after uniting having come to a halt, the files making quarter-wheel, so as to face the Cerro--all done as by trained cavalry on a parade-ground! And for a while they stay halted, the change of front giving their alignment a thinner look. But at the central point is a thicker clump, without military formation, on which Don Estevan directs his telescope. To see half a dozen of the mounted savages face to face with one another, earnestly, excitedly gesticulating. After a look through it, he tenders the glass to the _gambusino_, who may better understand what they are about. "El Cascabel and his sub-chiefs in consultation," pronounces the latter, soon as sighting them. "It's plain they're puzzled by seeing wagons where never were such before. Like as not they think we're _soldados_, and that makes them cautious. But they'll soon know different. _Por Dios_! they know it now. They're coming on!" CHAPTER ELEVEN. A CAMP WITHOUT OCCUPANTS. The _gambusino_ has guessed everything aright, if words spoken in the confidence of knowledge can be called guesses. True they prove, to the spirit as the letter; for it is just that unaccustomed spectacle of wheeled vehicles with their white canvas covers that caused the Indians to keep their deploying line so far aloof, and bring it to a halt for deliberation. Notwithstanding their being masters of all that desert country, lords of the _llanos_, they themselves do not always traverse it without difficulties to encounter and dangers to dread. The wagons proclaim the camp occupied by white men; and knowing these to be ordinary travellers, miners on the move, or _commerciantes_ on a trading expedition to the frontier towns, the Coyoteros would little regard them--certainly not enough to have made that long _detour_ with so much delay in approaching them. But it may be a _military_ encampment; and if so, will need to be dealt with differently--hence their unwonted caution. Soon as the two bands became conjoined, El Cascabel had summoned his sub-chiefs around him, to take their opinions upon this point. For among Indians the head chief is not armed with despotic authority, but must submit his intended course of action to the approval of his following, even when on the _maraud_. And as the _gambusino_ rightly conjectured, this it was which occupied them at that temporary halt. A question without difficulty, and soon decided. In the negative as regarded the camp being occupied by soldiers. Were it so, men in uniform would be observable around it; whereas none such are seen. Nor human form of any kind; only animals--horses, and mules, with horned cattle commingled--all careering madly about as if masterless, or escaped from their masters' control. This might seem an odd circumstance, yet it does not to the savages. From experience they know that all animals belonging to the palefaces become affrighted at their own proximity--often to break from their fastenings, however secure. Such a scare is likely what they see now. All the more does it assure them they will not have to deal with _soldados_. These would have their horses under better discipline, would indeed by this time be on their backs, at least some of them. Satisfied of its being a camp of civilians, at a signal sent along their line the red horsemen make a move forward, their files becoming thicker as the cordon contracts into nearer and narrower curve. Still they advance slowly, not through fear or want of confidence, but because they feel sure their enfiladement is complete, and their victims enclosed. But another idea rules their cautious approach. A splendid prize is before them in that large _ca Callada_, and to ride hurriedly in might lead to the loose animals breaking through their ranks, and scattering off over the plain, with after difficulty of capturing them. For just then they might have enough to do with their owners. Besides, there can be no surprise. The occupants of the camp, whoever they be, must have seen them long since, and are watching them now, though not one of themselves can be seen. Nothing so strange in this; they are inside the wagon enclosure, screened by the ridge of _alparejas_ that form a sort of breastwork around it. And the ruck of frightened animals rushing to and fro between further prevents view of them. The more reason for deliberate approach, this attitude of the white men telling of an intention to stand upon the defence. Becoming convinced of this, the Indians give up thought of immediate attack. They will wait for the night's darkness to give them a better opportunity; and when at such a distance as they deem beyond longest gun range, they again come to a halt. They would dismount, holding their horses in readiness; and some are already on the ground. But before all alight, a word is sent along their circular line, ordering them up again. Something has transpired to give cause for a change of purpose. Soon they know what, seeing that the camp animals have retreated back beyond the wagons up into an embayment of the cliff, where they stand in a clump, cowering and still showing scare, but at rest. It is not that, however, which has made the Coyoteros re-mount, but because their view of the camp now being clear they still cannot see human beings in or around it. With eyes bent in keenest quest between the corralled wagons, through the spokes of their wheels, all along the periphery of pack-saddles, nothing in the shape of human form or face can they make out. Yet the sun is in their favour, and if such was there they could not fail seeing it. Puzzled are the savages now, and for the first time--since it is the first time for them to have such an experience. For the moment it even mystifies them, and thoughts of the supernatural come creeping into their minds. They know Nauchampa-tepetl to be a place of weird repute, so figuring in many a record and legend of their race. And now to see a camp there, a camp of the palefaces, with every appointment appertaining, wheeled vehicles drawn up in _corral_ with a grand tent inside--for the marquee, still standing, is conspicuous through a break between the wagons--with all the animals that should be there, and yet no man, no one seeming to own or control them, that is certainly strange, to the point of astonishment--even awe! And for a time it so affects the savage warriors, their chief not excepted. But only for a time. Notwithstanding his ghostly coat-of-arms, El Cascabel is but little the slave of superstition; and, after a moment's reflection, feels satisfied there are palefaces in the camp, though invisible to the view of him and his. In that, as the reader knows, he is wrong; but right in the way he takes to test it. It may seem the veriest _grotesquerie_ here to introduce that venerated weapon, known as the "Queen Anne musket," yet the truthfulness of this record requires its introduction. For strange as it may appear, this historical piece, with all its imperfections, has found its way to every corner of the world; even into the hands of the Apache Indians. How they became possessed of it needs but a word of explanation, which is, that they had it--took it--from their hereditary enemies, the Mexicans--from the _infanterio_ of that nation, armed with the old condemned "Queen Anne's" of London Tower celebrity. Leaving this necessary digression, and returning to the Coyoteros--more especially to their chief, we hear him call out to those of his followers who carry the ancient firelock, giving them orders to advance some paces and send shots into the white man's camp. Dismounting, they do so, aiming at the wagons and tent inside, so correctly that their big bullets, an ounce in weight, are seen to hit the mark. But without effect following, any more than if their shots were meant for the _facade_ of cliff beyond, whose rocks echo back the reports of the antiquated pieces, as if in hilarious mockery. CHAPTER TWELVE. THE CHASE OF CRUSADER. By El Cascabel's orders, repeatedly are the big muskets re-loaded and fired into the _corral_, till every wagon has had a bullet through it, and the tent is pierced in several places. But all with the same effect, the shots eliciting no other response than their own echoes. Now the Indians know for sure that the camp is unoccupied; and, but for their foreknowledge of the topography of the place, would be mystified indeed. But most of them have themselves been on the summit of Nauchampa-tepetl, and their eyes turn interrogatively towards it. Thither the white men must have retreated, leaving everything below. They see nothing, however; not as much as a face. For Don Estevan has directed those by the head of the gorge to keep well under cover, in hopes of tempting the savages to an ascent in the face of his formidable battery. But the Coyotero chief is too astute for that, knowing, moreover, that there is no chance for the despised enemy to escape him. Wrathful he is withal, at having been in a way outwitted, angry at himself for having made the surround so slowly. It will cost him a siege, he knows not how long, interfering with the expedition to the Horcasitas, perhaps to its abandonment. But there is some compensation in the plunder so unexpectedly come upon, and from what he sees it should be an ample one. Six large wagons with a grand _tienda--litera_ also--visible, to say nothing of the numerous animals, a travelling party so well-appointed should also have commodities in correspondence, promising a rich prize. The camp is good as captured already; but instead of hastening on to take possession, he proceeds slowly and systematically as ever; for nothing can be gained by speed now, and some thing may be lost--the loose animals. They are still crowded up in the embayment between the cliffs, but with heads aloft and ears apeak, neighing, snorting, and restless, as if about to make a break. "Leave aside arms, all--guns, and spears!" commands the chief. "Get ready the _riatas_!" All together drop down from their horses, those who carry spears sticking them upright in the ground, those with firelocks laying them along it. Any _impedimenta_ of baggage and accoutrements are also pulled off and flung beside. Then they vault back upon their animals, each with but his trail-rope carried in coil over the left arm, to be used as a _lazo_. Thus disencumbered and equipped, they at length advance, not for the camp, but the _caballada_; but ere they can close up the mouth of the cove the white men's animals become more affrighted than ever, and make the burst they had been threatening--horses, mules, and oxen all together. With a noise of thunder, the ground echoes the tread of their hundreds of hooves, as in frenzied madness they rush out for the open plain. Little chance would there be of their reaching it but that the Indian horses catch the stampede, too, many of them becoming unmanageable. The enfilading line is broken, and through its riven ranks the camp animals sweep as a hurricane. One is in the lead--a large horse, coal-black, on whom many an Indian had set eye, with _lazo_ ready for his capture. Crusader it is, his neigh heard above all others, as, with head on high, mane tossed, and tail streaming afar, he dashes at the severed line; again uttered, as it were exultingly, when, having cleared it, he sees no enemy before him. Half a dozen nooses are flung at and after him, all ill-directed; all fall short, and slide from his glistening flanks, while as many disappointed cries follow him in chorus. All is scamper and confusion now; the surround has failed, the stampede taken place, and the stampeded animals, such as succeeded in getting off--for not all went clear--can only be captured after a chase. But the Indian horses quickly get over their scare, and are laid on the pursuit till a stream of them stretches out on the _llano_. Fresher and in better condition than the camp animals, these are soon overtaken and noosed, now one, now another, till at length only a single horse is seen beyond the pursuing line. Followed still, but so far beyond it, at each bound widening the distance, that a pair of eyes watching the chase, at first apprehensively, now sparkle with delight. For they are the eyes of his own master, Henry Tresillian, standing on the _mesa's_ summit behind a screening tree. Half a score of the savages still continue the pursuit, among them their chief himself. For he would give much to be the owner of that matchless steed, and now strains his own to the utmost. All in vain. Crusader forges farther and farther away, till he is but a speck upon the plain. Then the baffled pursuers, one after another, give up discouraged, at length El Cascabel also coming to a stop, and turning to ride back with an air of angry disappointment. The English youth, yielding to a thrill of proud exultation, waves his cap in the air, giving utterance to a triumphant "Hurrah!" "I'm so glad he's got away from them," he says, to Vicente, by his side; "wherever he may go or whatever become of him. My noble Crusader! But wasn't it clever? Wasn't it grand?" "Wonderful!" responds the _gambusino_, alike moved to admiration. "I never saw horse behave so in all my born life. _Santissima_! he must be a witch, if not the _demonio_ himself." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Indians, leading back the captured animals, and recovering their arms, no longer delay entering the camp. Which, to their chagrin, they find not only abandoned, but wellnigh despoiled, as if other plunderers had been there before them! That much has been carried off, and of course of the most valuable kind, is evinced by boxes broken open, bales unroped and the contents extracted, with here and there empty spaces in the wagons, where evidently something had been stored. There is little left for them save the refuse, or effects of a nature to be of no use to them. What care they for mining tools and machinery? More than ever are they angry and regretful of their ill-judged delay; but vow deadlier vengeance, when the time comes for it. Still that may not be soon. The very fashion of retreat shows it to have been made with deliberation, and that the white men intend standing a siege, with the hopes and the wherewithal to hold out ever so long. And they, the Indians, knowing the danger of breasting that steep in the face of resolute defenders, have no thought of attempting it. But the goods that have been carried up must remain there, and sooner or later fall into their hands. So consoling themselves, the new occupants of the camp settle down to the siege, after having secured their animals--both their own and those they have just come into possession of. All are put out to grass, "hoppled" or tethered on trail-ropes. Then the fires, found smouldering, are replenished with fresh fuel, and blaze up brightly as ever, with spits and roasting joints all round them. This day the Coyoteros dine on beef, instead of their customary diet of _mezcal_ and baked horseflesh. And a plenteous repast they make. Not for a long time have they had such an opportunity of gormandising. In their desert land of Apacheria provisions are scarce--often to starvation-point; and they now feast gluttonously, as if to make up for many a fast. Nor are they without drinkables, though none brought they along with them. In a corner of one of the wagons is a cask--which on being tapped is found to be filled with _chingarita_--a fiery spirit distilled from the very plant, chief staple of their food--the _mezcal_. The Coyoteros know it well, and though they do not themselves distil, they drink it, and are so fond of it as to wonder why the cask is there, and not also carried up the mountain! Drawn out, and rolled to the middle of the _corral_, they dance in delight around it, repeatedly quaffing from their calabash cups, with such an accompaniment of noises that the camp, lately occupied by men and women, might seem to have come into the possession of devils. And so on till night. Then demon-like indeed are the forms seen flitting around its fires, and as much the faces, lit up by the red glare from blazing fagots of _mezquite_ and _pinon_--both resinous trees. Still more the discordant sounds, a chorus of cries and ejaculations, in mad wild yelling, as of Bedlam broke loose. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. A RETRIBUTIVE SHOT. It is midnight, and darkness over mountain and plain; pitch darkness, although there is a moon in the sky. But she is not visible, obscured by a bank of thick cumulus clouds, that have rolled up from the Californian Gulf--portent of an approaching rain-storm. The savages have gone to rest; or, at all events, brought their noisy revelry to an end, and silence reigns everywhere around, save now and then a snort from a miner's horse, or mule, with a stamp of hoof, uneasy in their new companionship; the half howl, half bark of prowling coyote, and the wailing of chuck-will's widow--the nightjar of Sonora--hawking for insects high over the lake. But no sound of human voice is heard, nor through the inky blackness can be seen form of man. Yet not all are asleep, either above or below. On the plain is a line of sentries, set at distances apart on the outer edge of the triangular space where the path goes up; and inside this, by the bottom of the gorge itself, two other men, though not on sentinel duty. All Indians, of course; one of the pair by themselves being El Cascabel, the other a sub-chief, his second in command. They are there on reconnoitring purposes, to discover whether it be possible for the besiegers to make the ascent on a dark night unseen, and so take the besieged by surprise. Since settling down in camp the Rattlesnake has reflected, and a thought is now in his mind making him uneasy. Not regret for having to forego his raid on the settlements of the Horcasitas. Unlikely that the siege would take up any more time, and the booty alone should be ample compensation. For he has made study of the abandoned camp, found every indication of wealth, and feels sure it late held rich treasures. They would reward him for the time lost in beleaguering. And as to the revenge, a whole company of miners--nigh a hundred at least--with their wives and daughters, grand senoras among them too--death to the men, and captivity to the women--that should satisfy the keenest vengeance. And perhaps it would his, were he sure of accomplishing it. He was before the sun went down, but is not now. For, since, he has thought of that which had not then occurred to him or to any of his following. Might not the miners have sent off a courier back to their own country, with a demand for help? If so, it would surely come; in strength sufficient, and soon enough to raise the siege. For the head men of the besieging force now know it will be a prolonged one. The fragments of provisions found in the wagons tell of a good store taken out of them and up. Game is there in abundance to supplement it, and water never-failing--a fortress in every way supplied. Not so strange, then, the Coyotero chief being nervous at the thought of a courier having been dispatched. For one might, without having been seen by him or his. A long distance it was from where they themselves must have been first sighted by those on the mountain. But for the obscurity, there are those on it who would see himself and his second now. By the head of the gorge above a party of miners keep guard. They have just come on duty, the relief after a spell of sleep. For Don Estevan, by old experience, knowing there was no clanger of Indian attack in the earlier hours, had entrusted the guard-keeping of these to the more common men. Between midnight and morning is the time to "'ware redskin," and the guard of this period, now commenced, has been confided to a picked party, two of those composing it being Pedro Vicente and his _fidus achates_, Henry Tresillian. Guard it can scarce be called, being only a small vidette-picket. For there is little fear--scarce a thought--that the Indians will attempt the ascent, at least not so soon, or without gravely reflecting upon it. "Perhaps never at all," says the _gambusino_, in confabulation with his fellow-watchers. "And why should they? They must be well aware of the chances against them. Besides, having got us as fish in a net, they're not likely to leap into the water themselves, where they know there are _tiburones_ (sharks)." Vicente has had a spell at pearl-diving in the Gulf, hence his simile drawn from the sea. "Ay, _tintoreros_--these," he adds, specifying the most dreaded of the squaline tribe, with hand caressingly rested on one of the large stones alongside which he is lying. "I only wish they would try it, the Rattlesnake leading. 'Twould give me just the opportunity I want to pay that artist off for the bit of bad engraving--he did on my breast--by hurling one of these beauties at his head. _Malraya_! I may never have the chance to settle that score--not likely now." The final words, uttered in a tone of angry disappointed vengeance, are followed by an interval of silence. For the new videttes, having just entered on their duty, deem it wise, before aught else, to make themselves acquainted with how matters are below. They are all in recumbent attitude, _ventre a terre_, behind the parapet of loose stones. For having witnessed that long-range practice with the "Queen Annes," it occurs to them that a big bullet may at any moment come whizzing up the gorge, and just as well be out of its way. So elevating but their eyes over, they look cautiously down. To see nothing--not even the plain, nor yet the lake; to hear nothing which proceeds from human kind; but they know the savages are on the alert, with sentries aligned below, and for a time continue to listen. At length, satisfied there is nothing which calls for their vigilance being kept on the strain, Vicente draws out his _cajoncito_ of corn-husk _cigarittos_, lights one, and sets to smoking. His comrades of the watch do likewise; and the English youth, long since initiated into the ways of the country, smokes too, only his weed is a Havannah. Not many minutes are they thus occupied when the _gambusino_, chancing to turn his eyes south-westward, sees what makes him spit the _cigaritto_ from his mouth, and gaze intently. The object is up in the sky; a slight rift just opened in the bank of cloud, edged yellowish-white. The moon must be near it--_is_ near it, and now in it! for while they are still regarding the blue spot, she shoots suddenly out from the black, as arrow from bow. Instantly night's darkness is turned into light as of day; every object on the _llano_, even the smallest, made visible for miles upon miles, up to the horizon's verge. But their eyes go not so far, least of all those of Pedro Vicente, who at the first flash from the unveiled moon catches sight of that which arrests his straying glances, fixing them fast. Not the line of sentries, though he sees them too; but a pair of figures inside and closer, up nigh the point where the path steps upon the plain. One of them, recognised, rivets his gaze by a token of identification unmistakable--a death's head in white chalk, which, with the moon full upon it, gleams conspicuous against a background of bronze. "_Carria_! El Cascabel!" he mechanically mutters, in tone of exultation; and without saying another word, or waiting another second, brings his rifle to shoulder, the stock to his cheek, with muzzle deep depressed. A blaze--a crack--and the bullet is sped. A cry of agony from below-- another of anger in voice different--proclaims its course true, and that the mark aimed at has been hit. He who fired the shot knows that, by sight as well as sound. For he sees--all see--a man reeling, staggering, about to fall, and another with arms outstretched, as if partly in surprise, partly with intent to support him. Only for an instant is the spectacle under their eyes. For suddenly as she showed herself, the moon disappears with a plunge into the opaque clouds, leaving all dark as before. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. THE "DEATH FANDANGO." "You think you've killed him?" It is Don Estevan who interrogates, startled out of his slumber by the report of the _gambusino's_ gun, which has brought him in hurried haste to the post of guard. "Pretty sure of it, your worship," is the rejoinder, in calm confidence. "We all saw him staggering--he must have gone down," says another of the videttes, confirmingly. "If I haven't settled his hash," pursues Vicente, "then a man may get a bullet through midribs, and live afterwards--a thing not likely. Or I'm much mistaken, mine went straight centreways into the white--that sweet thing I've such reason to remember--unluckily for him painted too conspicuously." "It must have been El Cascabel, if you saw that." "He it was, or I shouldn't have been so quick on the trigger. Indeed, I wasn't so confident about the carry of my piece. 'Twas a long shot." "The bullet may have hit without killing him--spent, and only stunned him?" "If your worship feels inclined for a bet, I'll lay big odds that ere this the Rattlesnake has kicked his last kick, or, to put it more appropriately, wriggled his last wriggle." The auditory gathered around the _gambusino_ would laugh at his quaint words, but ere they give way to the inclination it is checked by other words quick following in exclamatory tones, "Bet's off, your worship--too late! I'm not the man to dishonour myself by wagering on a certainty. _Oigate_! you hear that?" Don Estevan does hear, as the others, sounds ascending from below--human voices, in that melancholy cadence which tells of lamentation for the dead. They come from the direction of the camp, in a wild crooning wail, now and then a stave, as if coyotes were taking part in the lugubrious chorus. At intervals, also, there are other notes, differently intoned; loud angry ejaculations, the Apache war-cry, proclaiming vengeance only to be satisfied with blood for blood. For nearly an hour the infernal _fracas_ is kept up, the volume of voice continuous, and redoubled by reverberation along the cliffs. Then it is abruptly brought to a close, succeeded by a silence mysterious and ominous in itself. Can it be that in their insane anger the savages have resolved upon the ascent, _coute-qui-coute_? The darkness, dense as ever, would favour, and might tempt them. There is enough probability in it to make the videttes more vigilant, and their numbers are now greater. After an event of such serious consequence, most of the people--women and children excepted--are up and active, moving backwards and forwards between their place of bivouac by the spring and the ravine's head, all careful not to approach this point too near. The big muskets admonish them; though as yet no shot from one, nor from any other sort of piece, has been fired by the savages. If they mean assault, it will be by stealth, and in silence. Hushed, and listening with all ears, the watchers hear nothing; at least, no sound of a suspicious nature. But Indians can creep, or climb, noiselessly as cats--the Coyoteros especially--in this respect equalling the animal from which they have their name. And they may be worming their way up for all, snake-like among the stems of the _mesquites_ and cactus plants. "Speaking for myself," says the _gambusino_, after a time, "I haven't much fear of them trying that trick. But if you think it worth while, _camarados_, to give them a hint--and perhaps it may be as well--we can spare a few of these pebbles." He points to the collected stones. "Half a dozen or so will do it." His _camarades_ comprehend his meaning; and as Don Estevan has returned to his tent leaving him in command of the picket, they signify their approval of his design, all desiring it. On the instant after, a rock pushed over the edge goes crashing down, breaking off branches, loosening other stones in its way, all in loud rumbling borne together to the level below. But they elicit no response, save the echo of their own noise, no shriek or cry, as if man were caught and bruised by them. After a time another is launched, with like result, then another and another at measured intervals--for they must husband their ammunition-- the watchers all the while without fear that man, red or white, will face such an avalanche, dangerous as any that ever swept down the slope of Alps. At the earliest dawn they desist as soon as they can trust to their eyes. And now, scanning the plain below, they see at the bottom of the gorge only the rocks they had rolled down, with the other _debris_. Farther out they perceive the line of dusky sentinels, just as they expected it to be; but no other human form, living or dead. The Coyotero chief is dead for all that--carried to the camp of the palefaces, inside the great tent, where he now lies face upward; the pale, crepusculous light stealing in to show that hideous device on his breast, symbol of death itself, no longer a disc of white, but flaked and mottled red, with a darker spot of ragged edging in the centre where it was pierced by the _gambusino's_ bullet. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Just as the sun begins to show above the horizon's edge, again go up the crooning cries, but now in more measured strain. For the savages are collected in the _corral_, a choice party of them under direction of their medicine man ranged about the marquee, not standing still, but circling round and round it in a slow, saltatory step--in short, dancing the "death-dance." It is accompanied by chants and incantations, in the voice of the medicine chief himself, pitched louder than the rest, with a pause at intervals, to speak eulogies of the deceased, praise of his valour and virtues, ending in a passionate appeal to his followers to avenge his death. They need not the stimulus of such exhortation. In the eyes of all vengeance is already glowing, burning, and but flashes a little angrier as they respond in a vociferous and united yell. They upon the _mesa_ are not witnesses to this odd ceremony, only a portion of the camp being within their view. But ere long they have another under their eyes--a spectacle equally exciting, and of like grave portent to themselves. It takes place out on the open plain by the lake's edge, upon a portion of the grass ground, all visible from the ravine's head. The arena is purposely chosen for the palefaces to be spectators of it, that it may strike terror to their souls, by giving them a foretaste of what is to be their fate. For it is the "_Fandango de crancos_," _anglice_, scalp-dance. What they on the mountain first see is some half-score of the savages issuing forth from the _corral_ and taking their way to the appointed spot. They bear with them a long pole painted blood-red, recognisable as one of the wagon-tongues, drawn to a sharp point at its inner end. In a trice it is stuck upright in the turf, showing at its top something very different from the chains late there. It is the skin of a human head, with the hair hanging straggled down, light-coloured hair proclaiming it that of a paleface. They could crown that pole with scores of such scalps, many having their leggings fringed with them. But for the rites of the ceremony to be performed one is deemed sufficient; and to make it more terribly impressive, the one selected shows by the silken gloss of the hair with its luxuriance and length to have been taken from the head of a woman! There are women looking at it now, and young girls of different ages. For all have left the spring and come forward to the viewing-point. It is a sight to inspire them with awe enough of itself, without their being told of a certain and terrible signification attached to the fact of a _woman's_ scalp being fixed to the head of that pole instead of a _man's_. Pedro Vicente could make it known to them, but does not. Ere long the ceremonial of vengeful menace commences, the Indians approaching the ensanguined stake and forming in wide cordon around it; all of them in full war-paint, a fresh coat of it in their garish devices of various colours, scarlet and blood-red predominating. But there is one common to all, a symbol in white--the same borne by him who is sleeping his last sleep in the _corral_. They have but assumed it for the occasion to do honour to their dead chief. And a frightful form of demonstration it is. Over two hundred men, mahogany-coloured savages, all naked to the waist, each with a death's head and crossbones done in white gypsum on the central and prominent portion of his breast! 'Twere enough to awe the heart of any one within their reach or in their power, and many of the spectators above tremble at beholding the horrid insignia. The dance begins, the savages in circle tramping round and round the pole "how-howing" as they go, at first in slow step and with voice barely audible. Soon, however, the one quickens, the other becoming louder, till the step is a violent bounding, the voice raised to highest pitch. Louder and angrier grow the shouts as they turn their eyes upward to the scalp, and still more violent their gesticulations, arms in air with weapons whirled above their heads, till at length several rush at the reddened stake, and hack it down with their tomahawks. Then follows a confused struggle for the scalp, in which it is torn to pieces, all who can appropriating shred or tress, but to spit upon it in vindictive scorn, while still further rending it! The demoniac dance is now over; some it has most excited come rushing towards the ravine, as though they really meant risking an assault. All above draw back out of sight, only they appointed for the defence staying by the stone artillery. But they are not called upon to hurl any more down just yet. Warned by the event of overnight, the savages think better of it, and before getting too close, come to a stop, and content themselves with wordy threats and a brandishing of weapons. But, empty and impotent as is their menacing attitude, it makes deep impression on those against whom it is directed. For it tells them they may never more go down that gorge, or set foot upon the plain below, to live an hour, if a minute, after. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. NOT LOST YET. In the great desert land of Apacheria there are Coyoteros and Coyoteros; some, abject miserable creatures among the lowest forms of humanity; others, men of fine port, courage, and strength--true Indian warriors. Of these is the band of El Cascabel, noted for its frequent hostile expeditions to the settlements of Sonora, as that on which it was bent when brought up by the Lost Mountain. So unexpectedly deprived of its chief, will it continue on that expedition? or lay siege to the party of travelling miners as he intended doing? A question asked the miners themselves of one another, but not after witnessing the scalp-dance. Then knew they for sure that the siege was to be carried out. As further evidence of it, that very afternoon the mules and horses of the caravan are collected into droves, tied head to tail, and conducted away from the ground altogether by a number of Indians placed in charge of them--evidently that there should not be too many mouths on the pastures around the camp, which, though good, are but of limited extent. Only some of the inferior animals, with the beeves, are allowed to remain as provision for the besiegers. The miners above have meanwhile been busy getting matters regulated in their new camp, or bivouac, soon as convinced that the enemy did not intend assault. All repair thither, only a limited number of videttes keeping post by the gorge. Around the _ojo de agua_ is witnessed a scene of curious interest. To the two tents set up on the day before are being added sheds and arbour-like huts, with such haste that ere night all are completed, for the cloud of the night before, portending rain, still covers the western sky, though not a drop has yet fallen. Just as the last of daylight glimmers over the plain a very drown and downpour, as if to make up for its long absence. The sky is all clouded now, but with clouds at short intervals riven by forking spears of lightning, while the accompanying thunder is almost continuous. Under the yellow light the lake glistens as if it was molten gold, while the rebound upwards from the heavy drops shows something like a golden spray hanging all over it. On beyond the out-going stream, late but a tiny rivulet, has changed to a foaming torrent, madly breaking its way across the plain; while the in-going rill from the _messas_ summit has become a series of cascades and cataracts. The Indians, fearing a stampede by their horses, draw them in from their picket-pins, hobble, and make them fast round the wheels of the wagons, but they are still more solicitous about the fine _caballada_ captured and sent away; for nearly every one of these, with all the mules, has a pack saddle on its back with the distributed dry goods, and other desirable articles not taken up the _messa_. In short, if that pack drove be lost, they may not have much to reward them for the season's raid. They might have sent the wagons along, but aware of the use to which these are often put by the palefaces, as sleeping-tents, are noting the approach of the storm, and determine to utilise them in similar fashion. That night at least they would need them, and it might be many more. So, as the rain falls, lightning flashes, and thunder rolls, there is a close-packed crowd under the tilt of each, with the big tent full to its entrance-flap; and still there is not space enough to shield all from that torrent of the sky, a large number retreating under ledges of the cliffs that overhang near by. The miners are all under shelter; they, too, sure of the approaching storm, having worked hard during the later hours of the day. The _messa_ gave them material for wall and roof. Posts from the indigenous trees with scantling poles cut from saplings of many kinds, and a thatch of _cycas_ and other grasslike plants, which abounded on the summit. Men accustomed as they to handling ropes and gearing, were not long in running up a house sufficient for shelter, and now every such domicile is filled to its door-jambs; men, women, and children mingled together, some standing, some seated on the bundles of goods that, but for their being inside, would have been lost. They had thought of that too. Up to a certain hour the people of quality are all inside one tent, which shows bright from a light burning inside it: their conversation is, of course, about the circumstances which surround them. Who, then, could talk of any other? Don Estevan believes that the killing of the Rattlesnake may be a disadvantage to them rather than otherwise, making the vengeance of his followers more implacable than at least it should do. But he has yet another reason for so believing. In his own military expeditions he had become acquainted with El Cascabel's second in command, a sub-chief, equalling the others in hostility to the whites, while far excelling him in ability. But it is too soon yet to discuss such chances. Rest was the one thing needed; and at the usual hour for retiring, all, save those detailed for picket-guard, seek repose. Just as on the previous night the less experienced stand the first watches of the night, keeping the rain off with waterproof _serapes_; only at intervals need they look down, and then, unlike as on the night before, everything is seen as under a meridian sun, for it is while the lightning gleams they make their intermittent examination of the gorge path, cascading stream, trees, and rocks illuminated by it as by a thousand torches; only towards morning do their blazes become less frequent, gradually dying out as the rain ceases to fall. Henry Tresillian is again on watch duty, having insisted upon it, notwithstanding the opposition made by the others of his party. But he has a reason they do not understand--indeed, he has not communicated it to them; during the earlier hours of the night he fancied having observed a dark object far off on the plain, seemingly in the shape of a horse; but returning several times to look, afterwards he could not see it again. Now, on the post midnight watch, at each blaze he runs his eye around the spot where he fancied the dark object to have been, only in the very last one to see it again, and make sure it was a horse; but his ears tell him more than his eyes, for in the dark spell succeeding the silence of the elements restored he several times hears a neigh, which he recognises as that of his own horse, Crusader. And when the day at length dawns he sees the noble animal itself only a short distance beyond the lower end of the lake, with head upraised and muzzle pointed up the gorge, as though in a morning salute to himself, CHAPTER SIXTEEN. AN UNLOOKED-FOR ENEMY. A thrill of delight sweeps through the heart of the English youth at beholding Crusader in this attitude, as if the horse said, "You see, I've not forsaken you." Satisfaction also to think the animal capable of making its own way, and finding sustenance in those wilds; for should it ever be their fate to escape from that mountain, there might be a hope of horse and master coming together again. But there is fear commingled with these feelings, this causing the eyes of Henry Tresillian to turn with quick glance towards the left, where a small portion of the camp of the Indians is visible outside the flanking battlements of rock; every moment he expects to see issue from it a band of dusky horsemen in start for a new pursuit of his favourite. Crusader seems to have some anticipation of the same; he stands restlessly, now glancing up the chine, anon at the corralled wagons with hundreds of horses around them. These he regards suspiciously, being the same with which he had already declined to associate; perhaps he may be wondering where are the other horses, his companions of the caravan? Whether or no, he hesitates to approach nearer to the old camping-ground, steadfastly keeping his place. Where he stands he is so nigh his former master that the latter might without any difficulty make himself heard, and at first the English youth had it on the tip of his tongue to call out a friendly greeting, but quick reflection showed him its imprudence. The very worst thing he could do for the horse's sake. Crusader would be sure to recognise his voice and respond with a neigh, which would awake a chorus of yells in the Coyoteros' camp, and at once set the savages on the alert. For the last half-hour or more the black horse had been quiet, and there were several reasons against his being seen. He was upon the opposite, or western edge of the stream, which had a fringing of reeds and bushes, broken in places, but here and there continuous for yards, and behind one of these clumps he had come to a stand; even in bright day, as it now nearly is, he would there be invisible to the occupants of the captured camp. But if only to water their horses, the Indians will soon be dashing down to the lake, and then all chance of his remaining longer unobserved will be at an end. With gaze more riveted on the horse than ever, for there is something strange in his behaviour, Henry Tresillian watches him with wondering eyes, his heart audibly pulsating. What if they should again get him in a ring, and this time display more adroitness in hurling their laryettes? Crusader might not be so clever on every occasion. While thus speculating on the result, a noise reaches the ears of the English youth, as also of others on vidette post, which causes an instant and sudden turning of their eyes in the opposite direction. Many voices, indeed, all loud and all in excited tone. Voices of men, shrieks of women, and cries of terrified children, all coming from one place, their new camp by the spring. The videttes stay not on their post an instant longer, but forsaking it, rush towards _ojo de agua_. Sounds inexplicable, mysterious! What can be causing them? The only suggestion attempted is, that the Indians after all may have contrived to ascend the _messa_ by some secret path known only to themselves, and are in the act of attacking from the rear. What other enemy could cause such a scare? Every voice in the miners' party is seemingly convulsed with affright. The young Englishman dashes on ahead, tearing through branches, and bounding over trunks of prostrate trees. Vicente, who had brought the watch with him, is close behind, though he has not such stimulus to haste, for amidst the _fracas_ of noises, Henry Tresillian hears a sweet voice calling out his own name in a tone of appeal. Not till they come to the very edge of the glade do they discover the cause of all these wild demonstrations, though something seen an instant or two earlier leads Vicente to conjecture it. Men, but chiefly boys and girls, standing on the branches of trees high as they can climb, as though there to behold some passing spectacle. "_El orso_!--the grizzly!" "It must be that," says Vicente, pressing on. And so it proves. As the videttes so mysteriously summoned in see on getting to the nearer end of the glade which surrounds the spring, at its farther one are two gigantic animals, one a quadruped, the other to all appearances a biped. For all, both are four-footed creatures, and the most dangerous to be encountered in all the desert lands of America. So utterly are they regardless of the odds against them that they would advance to the attack of horse or man, even were there twenty of these together, and have been known to come shuffling into a well-appointed camp, and make a grand havoc, ere means may be taken to destroy or eject them. The Indian tiger or the African lion are not more to be dreaded in their jungles than is the _ursus ferox_ in the districts it specially affects. Strange that the pair at the inner end of the glade had not yet shown signs of any determination to assail the camp; indeed, they seem to be amusing themselves at the stir their presence has created, or rather as if making amusement for the surprised people. He, upon his hams, for it is the male who has so erected himself, is playing his fore-paws about, as if engaged in an act of prestidigitation; while his mate, at intervals also rearing up, seems to be playing the part of juggler's assistant, the whole spectacle being comical in the extreme. The tragical part of it had not yet commenced, and for two reasons. First, that the grizzly bear seldom makes instant attack, appearing to enter on the field of battle more by accident than from any predetermined hostile resolve. Only after shammering about a while, and at intervals uttering a snort till their passions get the better of them, and then woe to man or horse that comes within the hug of their powerful fore-paws! With its enormous curving claws, many inches in length, a grizzly bear has been known to drag the largest ox or horse to the ground, as a terrier would a rabbit. Henry Tresillian looks only to the two canvas tents to see the senora inside one, her face visible through the opening, while Gertrude is still without by the side of her own father and his. The young girl appears behaving herself more bravely than any of the older people around. She is inspired with fresh courage at the sight of the English youth bounding towards her, gun in hand. By this time others have got out their guns, and a party led by the _mayor-domo_ is advancing to fire on the bears. The _gambusino_, hitherto not having observed this party, now sees it, noting its intention. He would frustrate it, and makes the attempt, shouting in loudest voice, "For your lives, don't draw trigger upon them. They may go without--" Too late; his after-words were drowned by the report of the steward's great gun, and the male bear came down on all fours, evidently hit, but as evidently little harmed, his active motions afterwards telling of a wound he no more regarded than the scratch of a pin. It perhaps only tickled him, and his biting at the place might be but to take the itch out. It angered him, though, to the highest pitch, for again rising on his hind legs he swung his head about, snorting continuously, with an occasional scream which bespoke either pain or vengeance. There was no sign of intention to retreat on the part of either male or female, for they seemed to act in concert and with mutual understanding, this, in the moment after, impelling them to forsake their stationary spot and come rushing on towards the tents and boothes. Showing motion quick enough now, they are soon in their midst, the female instantly after seizing a boy who in fright had fallen from one of the branches directly in front of her, and killing the poor lad by a single stroke of her powerful fore-paw. He is not unavenged: before she has time to seek for a second victim the men with guns gather around her, and regardless of danger, for their blood is now up, go so close that some of their muzzles become buried in her long shaggy fur. Then the cracks of eight or ten guns ring out almost simultaneously, and the she-grizzly comes to ground. But the male, the more formidable of the two, is still afoot, and where are the eight or ten guns to give him his _coup de grace_? Only four loaded ones are seen in hand, the majority of the people who have been able to arm themselves, in their haste, not much over a dozen, having instinctively rushed towards the bear that was attacking the lad. But now the other, having passed that spot, is making for one to be defended by the four guns in question, that tent inside which are the Senora Villanueva and her daughter. No need to say that the defenders are Don Estevan, Robert Tresillian, his son Henry, and the _gambusino_. A formidable defence, nevertheless, since, in addition to their guns, they carry knives and pistols, the last double-loaded. They have thrown cloaks and other dark cloths over the tents to make them less conspicuous, but the bear seems imbued by a vindictive determination to attack in that very quarter, and straight towards them comes he. "Let me fire first, senores," claims Vicente, "and low from my knee my bullets may turn him sideways, and if so, then your chance, pour in your broadside, aim just behind the shoulder, halfway down." Saying which the _gambusino_ drops on one knee, bringing his gun to his shoulder not an instant too soon, for the huge monster is now within ten feet of him. The sharp but full report, with a tuft of hair seen starting off the bear's right neck well back on the shoulder, tells that the animal has been hit there, just as Vicente had intended it, his design being for the others to get flanking shots, which they do, one and all, the bear instantly slewing round as before to bite the wounded spot. This brought his left shoulder to front well spread out, and making the best of marks, into which was simultaneously poured the contents of four barrels with twice as many bullets, hitting so close together as to make an ensanguined irregular disc about the size of a man's hand. No pistols nor knives were needed, no supplementary weapons of any kind, the bear breathing his last ere the reports of the guns had ceased reverberating along the cliffs. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. CRUSADER CHASED AGAIN. The scene, all action and excitement, has nevertheless occupied but a brief space of time: scarce two minutes since the grizzly bears first showed themselves on the edge of the glade till both lie dead within it--victims of their own ferocity. It might have been very different, and under like circumstances nearly always is. Many cases are recorded in which half a score of camp travellers have succumbed to the insane rage of a single grizzly. Fortunate, too, had been the miners in their shots--no doubt clue to the short range at which they were fired--for the thick, tough skin of this animal is almost ball-proof, and one has been known to bear off a dozen bullets in its body, and carry them about with it afterwards. The very openness of their danger, with no prospect of escaping it, had lent to the miners the courage of despair, and so made them more fearless in their attack; otherwise they would have fired at the enemy without approaching so near, perhaps to fail. Enough damage has been done notwithstanding, and a cry of lamentation succeeds the shots, and general shouting, as the women gather around the body of that single victim to the fury of the bears. Frightfully mutilated it is, showing parallel tears over the breast--the tracks of claws, all running blood, and a huge gash by the throat where the first stroke had been given. "_Esta Pablito Rojas_!" cries a voice, identifying the lad, others adding in sympathetic chorus, "_Pobre! pobre-ceti_!" There is one who takes no part in these demonstrations--Henry Tresillian. He is in fact no longer in the camp, for soon as the second grizzly had been disposed of, he started back for the vidette post, and so abruptly as to make all wonder who were observing him. Among the rest Gertrude herself, who thought it strange he should not stay to speak some words of congratulation. He but muttered one or two, with the name of his horse, well known to her, and was off. Now, from his former point of view, he again beholds Crusader standing just as left, and still to all appearance unmolested. It is more than he expected, but there may be reasons: possibly the shouts and fusillade above have for a time drawn the attention of the Indians in that direction. This will not be for long, and Crusader's master but counts the moments till he see him assailed and chased. Nor are they many. Just after his return to the ravine's head he observes nigh threescore dusky horsemen move out beyond the flanking embattlement of rock; not hastily, nor in confusion, but in deliberate and long deployed line, which stretches afar over the _llano_. Crusader sees them too, and seems to regard them with indifference; he has taken to browsing on a piece of rich pasture lying along the stream's edge, this alone for the time occupying him. That he is the objective point of their movement is evident, though none of them are heading straight towards him, their design being evidently to get around him. After all, is he going to let himself be surrounded, and approached in this easy manner? Such is the interrogatory which passes among those watching from above, for the videttes have returned to their post, with others accompanying them. One answers it, saying, "It's not at all likely. He let himself be taken in a trap! More like the redskins will find themselves in one before long. See! they begin to find it now!" This, from Pedro Vicente in his old spirit, as he points to the line of savages far extended. The files have by this faced westward, but are advancing towards the stream; now, on nearing it, they are seen to stop abruptly as if in surprise. Then, after an instant, all wheel round and ride back eastward, till getting on their old line, they return at a gallop towards their camp. They have discovered the stream to be impassable. "That horse is the _demonio_ himself," says Pedro Vicente--"neither more nor less. He must have known they could not cross the swollen streamlet, or he'd never have stopped by it as he has done. But they've not given him up yet. No! see: they're going round by the head of the lake." Just this they intend, as is seen by their advancing towards the point where the lake commences by the mouth of the ravine. They have no difficulty in crossing its in-going stream, a few minutes after the rain ceased having reduced this to its normal condition of a tiny rivulet. And like some dark, disagreeable vision Henry Tresillian sees pass before his eyes the savage cohort, file after file, one disappearing after another, till at length no animated form is observable on the plain below, save that their eyes have been hitherto regarding with interest. There is a long interval without event; nearly an hour elapses ere Crusader shows any sign, his head almost continuously to the grass, raised only occasionally, as he changes place upon it. All this time the Indians are out of sight, with no sound coming from the direction they had taken. But at length there is a sound, a startled neigh from the black horse, who, tossing his crest in air, rears upward with a curving sweep, and then darts straight away, as if in flight from an advancing enemy--the enemy seen instantly afterwards as several mounted men disclose themselves from the western framework of rock, all in a tail-on-end gallop. Crusader has taken along the edge of the stream, and follows it in parallel direction downwards, just as he fled before from the same pursuers. There would seem no chance of their overtaking him now; for he appears to gain distance at every bound, without even straining himself. But lo! what is that? "_Santos Dios_! They've headed him. _Milraya_! what a pity!" It is the _gambusino_ who thus exclaims, seeing other horsemen on the plain farther points on, all facing towards the stream, evidently to intercept the chased steed. Crusader sees them too, for he is now close up to them; but forsaking the course he has hitherto followed, he makes an abrupt turn and breaks off westward, continuing this direction in full gallop, till the rocks hide him from view. Alike the pursuers thrown round, pass out of sight one after another, and again that part of the _llano_ resumes its wonted aspect of stern, savage tranquillity. For most of those composing the party of spectators the chase had no particular interest, and only a few of them were gathered around the point where it could be viewed. Indeed, but a few heard of Crusader being seen, the greater and more serious event obscuring that of lesser note. And now these few, one after the other, again go back to _ojo de agua_, to take part in the duties of the day. But the English youth still stays by the vidette post, with eye constantly directed on the plain below, and ears listening intently, to catch any sound that may come from the western side; apprehensively, too, for he fears to hear shots. The savages failing to catch the black horse with their laryettes, may spitefully endeavour to bring him down with their guns. This, indeed, is the real clanger his young master has been dreading, and which for the time engrosses all his thoughts. Luckily not for long. Within less than an hour the dusky horsemen, in twos and threes, come straggling back across the open ground between the lake's head and their camp, so continuing till the last of them have returned, all with discomfited air, but none with Crusader as their captive. And as no report of gun has been heard, it is more than probable he has once more eluded them. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. LIFE ON THE LOST MOUNTAIN. The exciting events above recorded, as occurring in quick succession, are followed by a period of repose lasting for days. Alike reigns it on the mountain summit and around its base; in the camp of the besieged as of the besiegers. Withal, in the latter there is no lack of activity; parties go and come at all hours, but more especially during those of the night. Scouts sent out; it may be for many purposes. But one large detail is observed on a certain day to make the complete round of the mountain, every here and there halting with front towards it, as if for minute examination of its cliffs from base to summit; evidently to be satisfied whether there be any possible chance for the white men to reach the plain otherwise than down that chine cut by the watercourse. While making this _reconnaissance_ they have been narrowly watched by eyes from above, and as no particular point has been observed to attract their attention, it is concluded that they deem their pale-faced prisoners quite secure, only calling for a little patience ere they may evidently lay hands on them. The same movement also gives assurance to their intended victims, but of a kind not so satisfactory. It tells them how determined their enemy is, how retentive his grasp, and implacable his vengeance. All this with no increased hope on their part of being able to escape him. Thought of how has not yet taken shape in their minds. How could it? So many present facts and fears engrossing them, they have found little time to reflect on the future. And a new fear has now arisen which calls for steps to be taken. There may be other grizzly bears on the _mesa_, and if so these monsters will be prowling around the camp to assail it at any instant. Better they be met outside at a distance off, there attacked, and if possible exterminated. This conclusion come to, Don Estevan gives orders for all to arm, and a general _battue_ is made over the summit of the Cerro. Paths are hacked through the underwood everywhere, laying open many a spot never before trodden by foot of man. Strange birds are flushed from their nests, and strange animals are seen stealing away through the thick tangle of _llianas_, chiefly of the reptilian order, as armadillos, lizards, the curious horned frog (_Agama cornuta_), and serpents--most numerous of all that whose retreat is marked by the defiant rattle which has given it its name. Scores of _cascabeles_ are started out of the dead leaves and branches, their vibratory "skirr" resounding everywhere. But quadrupeds turn up as well. At intervals the crack of gun tells of one shot at, whether killed or no. Now a wild sheep, now a prong-horn antelope, or it may be but a hare or rabbit. The great wolf is also found there, and his lesser and more cowardly congener, the coyote; but no more bears--grizzly or other--nor sign of them. Evidently the two killed at the camp were the sole monarchs of the mountain. The day's hunt, for it occupied a whole day, gives satisfaction in more ways than one. First, by doing away with all apprehension of danger from _Ursus ferox_; secondly, by affording a plentiful supply of present food; and, thirdly, in there being still more on the mountain, giving proof of the abundance of them. Nor is the vegetable element lacking, but present in all its varieties of root, fruit, and berry. The _mezcal_, whose baked stem forms staple food for their enemies, grows on the _mesa_. Its use is known to the _gambusino_, as others of the miners. Several sorts of _mezquite_ trees are found there, whose long pendulous _siliques_ contain seeds which can be ground into a meal making nutritious bread, while the cones of the edible pine (_Pinus edulis_)--"_pinon-nuts_" as called--are in quantity all around. For fruit there are several varieties of the cactus, with that of pear-shape, and all the rich juiciness of a pear, the famed _pitathaya_. In short, the Cerro Perdido is a very oasis, its cornucopia peculiar to the desert. With so bountiful a supply of provisions the besieged need not fear famine, at least for a long time. Their resources, carefully husbanded, may last for weeks. And on time rests their only hope; their sole chance of being rescued depending on that, by some means or other, their situation may become known to their friends at Arispe, or their countrymen elsewhere. But what likelihood of this? As already stated, the Lost Mountain is out of the line of all travel and traffic. Months, a year, nay, years may elapse ere a wayfarer of any kind stray to it, or near it. So their chances of being seen there by friendly eyes, to say naught of their position being understood, are as those of castaways on a desert isle in mid-ocean. And as shipwrecked men they hoist signals of distress. Any one approaching that solitary eminence from the south might wonder to see a flag floating from a tall staff over its southern end, giving it all the greater resemblance to a fortress with banner waving above. A tricolour flag, bearing the symbolic badge of the Mexican Republic--the Eagle upon the Nopal! It is that Don Estevan had meant to have erected over the new mine, now little likely ever to be displayed there. For now it is unfolded to tell a tale of threatening disaster, and attract the eyes of those who may do something to avert it. But for this dark uncertainty of future there is nothing irksome, not even disagreeable, in their present life. On the contrary, it might be even called pleasant; plenty to eat, plenty to drink, sufficient freedom of range, a sapphire sky above, with an atmosphere around them whose heat is tempered by breezes ever blowing, ever laden with the fragrance of fruit and flower. And no scene of sombre gloomy silence; instead, one enlivened by the notes of many wild warblers, both diurnal and nocturnal. By day the jarring yet cheering cry of the blue jay and the red cardinal; the mewing of the catbird, or the "hew-hew" of hawk in pursuit of his victim. By night, the more melodious, all incomparable song of the _czentzontle_--mockingbird of Mexico--oft intermingled with another song, but little less powerful or sweet, that of the _cuitlacoche_--a second species of New World nightingale, not so well known. Life in the odd aerial camp now settles down into a sort of routine, each day having its separate calls and duties. The watch is, of course, kept up, and with no falling off in its vigilance. For although the besiegers have not again shown any sign of an intention to try the assault, who knows what may be in the mind of these subtle savages? Only at night need there be any fear, and only when it is darkest. At other times the vidette duty is a matter of easy fulfilment. In truth the miners might almost fancy themselves in picnic, having a happy time of it, halfway between earth and heaven. But they are not there by choice, too well knowing its stern necessity. And this, with the dark doubtful future, robs them of all zest for enjoyment. So the hours pass not merrily, but wearily. CHAPTER NINETEEN. WHO TO BE THE FORLORN HOPE? Day succeeds day with no brightening of hopes to those beleaguered on the Lost Mountain. Instead, in each something arises to make their prospects darker, if that were possible. About ten days after the commencement of the siege the besiegers have their force increased, a fresh party coming down from the north, evidently in obedience to a summons, which they who drove off the captured _caballada_ have carried back. But for what purpose this accession of strength, when it is not needed? They on the ground are already enough, and to spare. The miners cannot guess what they have come about, unless it be the remaining braves of the tribe, to take part in some ceremony over their fallen chief, or be present when the time arrives for the wreaking of vengeance. It has nothing to do with that, however, solely a conception of their new leader, El Zopilote, who has his reasons for carrying out the raid down the Horcasitas. So on the second day after, the besieging party, instead of being one hundred men the more, is all that the less; at least two hundred seen to issue forth from the camp, and proceed southward in full war-paint and panoply, with all their frightful insignia. As successive files they move off along the stream's edge, it might seem as some gigantic serpent commencing its crawl towards prey. And many on the mountain, with a suspicion of where they are going, have a pitying heart for those who live on the banks of the lower Horcasitas. Enough, however, to think of themselves, and each hour more than enough; for as the days pass circumstances present a still sterner front. The supply of provisions, at first seeming inexhaustible, proves to have a limit. There are over seventy mouths to feed, which calls for a large daily quantity. So one by one the wild quadrupeds give out, the birds long before these, frightened by the constant chase and fusillade, forsaking the place altogether. The store of _tasajo_ and other preserved meats begins to be drawn upon. When these come to an end, so too must all the suspense, all the agonies of that quaint, quasi imprisonment, to terminate in real captivity, or indeed death itself. In the tent of Don Estevan some seven or eight of the mining people are assembled; the two _duenos_ are of course present, with the _mayor-domo_, the chief engineer, and other heads of departments. No need to say the _gambusino_ is among them. They are there to take counsel on the events of the day, and the means of the morrow. Every night it has been their custom to do so, and on this one--for it is at night--there is nothing very different to speak of from any other. Still, Don Estevan has conceived a thought which had not hitherto occurred to him, and now lays it before the assembled conclave. "_Caballeros_! I can think of only one way--poor, doubtful chance it is--by which we may get rescued. Some one must contrive to pass their sentries." "Impossible!" is the thought of all hearing him, one or two expressing it in speech. For of all the things observed as vigorously kept up, never relaxed for an hour--even a moment--has been that sentinel line thrown across the plain from flank to flank of the ravine. All day long it has appeared there, and all through the night evidently redoubled. "Pity if it be," rejoins Don Estevan, yielding to what appears the general sentiment. "And to think that one word at Arispe would make all well. My own brother-in-law, Colonel Requenes, in command there with a regiment of lancers--they of Zacatecas. In less than half an hour they could be in the saddle, and hastening to our relief. _Ay Dios_! if we can't communicate with them we are lost--surely lost!" At this, Robert Tresillian says, interrogatively: "I wonder how many of our people could find the way back to Arispe?" Without altogether comprehending what he means, several numbers are mentioned in a guessing way, according to the estimate of each. Pedro Vicente thinks at least thirty could,--certainly all the _arrieros_ and _vaqueros_. "What is your idea, Don Roberto?" at length asks the senior partner. "That all of those who know the way back be mustered, and two taken from them by lot, who will run the risk of passing the Indian sentries. If they succeed, then all may be saved; if on the contrary, it will be but to lose their lives a little sooner. I propose that all submit to the lottery--all who are unmarried." "I agree with the Senor Tresillian," here puts in the _gambusino_. "Some of us must contrive to get past them at whatever risk. For my part, I'm willing to be one, with any other." The generous proposal is received with applause, but not accepted,--it would not be fair; and in fine it is agreed upon, that fate shall determine who shall be the pair to run the proposed risk--the ceremony for deciding it to take place on the morrow. In the morning it comes off soon as breakfast is eaten. All known to be eligible are summoned together on a spot of ground apart, and told the purport of their being so assembled. No one objects, or tries to evade the dangerous conscription; instead, there are even some who, like Vicente, would volunteer for the duty. For is not one of the _duenos_--the brave Englishman and his son, there present--both offering themselves as candidates like any of the common men? No volunteering, then, is allowed; fortune alone permitted to decide on whom shall be the forlorn hope. The quaint lottery, though awe-inspiring, occupies but a brief space of time. Against the number of men who are to take part in it, a like number of _pinon-nuts_ have been counted out, and dropped into a deep-crowned _sombrero_. Two of the nuts have been already stained with gunpowder, the others left in their natural colour; but no one by the feel could tell which was which. The black ones are to be the _prizes_. The men stand in a ring round Don Estevan, with another who is among the exempt in the centre. These hold the hat, into which one after another, stepping from the circle, led forward blindfolded, inserts his hand, and draws out a nut. If white, he goes clear; but long before the white ones are exhausted the two blacks are taken up, which brings the ceremony to an abrupt end, that deciding all. They who have drawn the _prizes_ are a muleteer and a cattle drover, both brave fellows. They had need be, for this very night they will have to run the gauntlet of life and death, perhaps ere the morrow's sun to be no more. CHAPTER TWENTY. A FATAL FAILURE. It is a day of anxious solicitude. If the night turn out a dark one, the messengers whom fate has chosen for the perilous enterprise are to set out on their errand. They know it is to be a moonless one, but for all, in the diaphanous atmosphere of that upland plateau, it may be too clear to make the passing of the Indian sentinels at all possible. The afternoon begets hope: a bank of heavy clouds is seen rising along the western sky, which, rolling higher and higher, brings on a downpour of rain. It is of short continuance, however--over before sunset, the clouds again dispersing. Then the darkness comes down, but for a long time only in a glimmering of grey, the stars in grand sheen making it almost as clear if there was moonlight. The sentinels can be seen in their old places like a row of dark stakes, conspicuous against the green turf on which they are stationed. They are at short distances apart, and every now and then forms are observed moving from one to the other, as if to keep them continuously on the alert. So thus, nigh up to the hour of midnight, and the miners begin to despair of their messengers being able to pass out--at least, on this night. But soon, to their satisfaction, something shows itself promising a different result. The surface of the lake has suddenly turned white, as if under a covering of snow. It is fog. Through the heated atmosphere the lately-fallen rain is rising in vapour, and within its misty shroud it envelopes not only the lake, but the plain around its edges. It rolls over the line of savage watchers, on up between the jaws of the chine, till in its damp clammy film it embraces the bodies of those who are waiting above. "Now's your time, _muchachos_!" says Don Estevan, addressing himself to those who are to adventure. "There could not be a better opportunity; if they can't be passed now, they never can." The two men are there ready, and equipped for the undertaking. Young fellows both, with a brave look, and no sign of quailing or desire to back out. Each carries a small wallet of provisions strapped to his person, with a pistol in his belt, but no other arms or accoutrements to encumber them. In subtleness and activity, more than mere physical force, lie their chances of success. A shaking of hands with such of their old comrades as are near, farewells exchanged when they pass over the parapet of loose stones to commence the descent, with many a "_va con Dios_!" sent after them in accents of earnest prayerfulness. Then follows an interregnum of profound silence, during which time they at the ravine's head listen with keenest anxiety. After a few seconds a slight rustling below tells that one of the two has made a slip, or pushed a stone out of place; but nothing comes of it. Then a horse neighs in the distant camp, and soon after another, neither of them having any significance. No more the screaming of wild-fowl at the lower end of the lake, nor the querulous cry of "chuck-will's widow," hawking high over it. None of these sounds have any portent as to the affair in hand, and they, listening, begin to hope that it has succeeded--for surely there has been time for the two men to have got beyond the guarded line? Hope premature, alas! to be disappointed. Up out of the mist comes the sound of voices, as if in hail, followed by dubious response, and quick succeeding a struggle with shots. Then a cry or two as in agony, a shout of triumph, and all silent as before. For the rest of the night they on the _mesa_ sleep not. Too surely has their scheme failed, and their messengers fallen victims to it. If they were any doubts about this, these are set at rest at an early hour of the morning. Sad evidence they have to convince them. On the spot where the scalp-dance had taken place a red pole is again erected, as the other ornamented with the skins of human heads. But not now to be danced around; though for a time they, looking from above, think there is to be a repetition of that savage ceremony. Soon they are undeceived, and know it to be a spectacle still more appalling. From the camp they see a man conducted, whom they identify as one of their ill-fated messengers. Taken on to the stake, he is placed back against it, with arms extended and strapped to a cross-piece, in a way representing the figure of the Crucifixion. His breast has been stripped bare, and on it is seen painted in white the hideous symbol of the Death's head and crossbones. For what purpose all this display? the spectators conjecture among themselves. Not long till they have the answer. They see several scores of the savages range themselves at a certain distance off, each gun in hand, one after the other taking aim and discharging his piece at the human target. Gradually the disc on the breast is seen to darken, turning red, till at length not a spot of white is visible. But long ere this the head of the hapless victim, drooped over his shoulder, tells that he is dead. The cruel tragedy is repeated, showing now what was not known before, that both the ill-starred couriers had been taken alive. He brought forth next is recognisable, by the picturesque dress still on his person, as the _vaquero_. But when taken up to the stake he is stripped of it, the velveteen _jaqueta_ pulled from off his shoulders, his shirt torn away, leaving his breast bare. Then with a hurried touch, the grim, ghastly device is limned upon him, and he is taken up to the pole as the other. A fresh fusillade commences, the white gradually showing dimmer, till at length it is deeply encrimsoned, and the _vaquero_ is a lifeless corpse. When it is all over, the Coyoteros turn towards the gorge, and looking up, give utterance to wild yells of triumph, brandishing their weapons in a threatening manner, as much as to say, "That's the way we'll serve you all, when the time comes." CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. A PRODIGIOUS LEAP. Needless to say that the failure of their scheme with such fatal consequence has deepened the gloom in the minds of the besieged miners, already dark enough. Now more than ever do they believe themselves doomed. There seems no alternative left but surrender or starvation and as both are alike certain death, they dwell not on the first. True, starvation is not yet so close at hand; they have still provisions--some of the old caravan stores--sufficient for a couple of weeks, if carefully served out, while the live stock furnished by the _mesa_ itself has not all been exhausted. Some animals as yet remain uncaptured, though how many they know not. To make sure, another grand _battue_ is set on foot to embrace the whole summit area. Every outlying corner and promontory are quartered and beaten, so that no four-footed creature could possibly be there without being seen or shot. The result is a bag, of but small dimensions, though with large variety; a prong-horn antelope, the last of a band that had been daily getting thinned; several sage hares, a wolf, and three or four coyotes. More of these last were startled, but not killed, as they have lairs in the ledges of the cliffs to which they betake themselves, secure from pursuit of hunter. While the _battue_ is at its height, one large quadruped is put up which more than any other excites the ardour of those engaged. It is a bighorn, or Rocky Mountain sheep, remnant of that flock first found upon the _mesa_ by Vicente and Henry Tresillian; it is also a ram, a young one, but with grand curvature of horns. One after another all the rest have been made mutton of, and their bones lie bleaching around the camp; but, though several times chased, this sole survivor has ever contrived to escape, as though it had a charmed life. And now again it seems still under such protection; for at starting several shots are fired at it, none taking effect; and it bounds on, apparently unharmed, towards an outlying projection of the plateau. Those who have emptied their guns follow without staying to re-load; for they form a line which, deployed crossways, cannot fail to enclose and cut off its retreat, making escape impossible. In fine, they effect this purpose; some, with guns still charged, confidently advancing to give the animal its _coup de grace_. They are even aiming at it, when, lo! a leap upward and outward, with head bent down as one making a dive, and the bighorn bounds over the cliff. Five hundred feet fall--shattered to atoms on the rocks below!--this their thought as they approach the precipice to see the prodigious leap that must have been taken by the animal in its panic of fear. One, however, draws nigh with a different thought, knows there was method in that seeming madness, and that the _carnero_ sprang over with a design. Pedro Vicente it is; and with the others soon upon the cliff's brow, and, gazing below, to their surprise they see no sheep there, dead and crushed as expected. Instead, a live one out upon the _llano_, making off in strides long and vigorous. Sure of its being the same they had just driven over, all are astounded, expressing their astonishment in loud ejaculations. Alone the _gambusino_ is silent, a pleased expression pervading his countenance, for that extraordinary feat of the horned creature has let a flood of light into his mind, giving him renewed hope that they may still be saved. He says nothing of it to those around, leaving it for more mature consideration, and to be discussed in their council of the night. But long after the others have returned to camp he lingers on the cliff, treading backwards and forwards along its crest, surveying it from every possible point of vantage, as though in an endeavour to find out how the sheep made that extraordinary descent. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Another night is on, and, as is their wont, the chief men of those besieged are assembled in the tent of Don Estevan. Not discouraged yet, for there is a rumour among them that some new plan has been thought of for passing the Indian sentries, less likely to be disastrous than that which has failed. It has been the whisper of the afternoon, their guide being regarded as he who has conceived a scheme. When all are together Don Estevan calls upon him to declare it, saying, "I understand, Senor Vicente, you've thought of a way by which a messenger may yet elude the vigilance of their sentries, and get beyond them?" "I have, your worship." "Please make it known." "Nothing more simple; and I only wonder at not having thought of it before. After all, that would have been useless, for only this day have I discovered the thing to be possible." "We long to hear what it is." "Well, then, senores, it's but to give them the slip. Going out by the back door, while they are so carefully guarding the front. That can be done by our letting one down the cliff--two, if need be." "But where?" "Where the _carnero_ went over." "What! five hundred feet? Impossible! We have not rope enough to reach half the distance." "We don't need rope to reach much more than a third of it." "Indeed! Explain yourself, Don Pedro." "I will, your worship, and it is thus. I've examined the cliff carefully, where the sheep went over. There are ledges at intervals; it is true not wide, but broad enough for the animal to have dropped upon and stuck. They can cling to the rocks like squirrels or cats. Some of the ledges run downwards, then zigzag into others, also with a downward slope; and the ram must have followed these, now and then making a plunge, where it became necessary, to alight on his hoofs or horns, as the case might be. Anyhow, he got safe to the bottom, as we know, and where it went down, so may we." There is a pause of silence, all looking pleased for the words of the _gambusino_ have resuscitated hopes that had almost died out. They can see the possibility he speaks of, their only doubt and drawback being the fear they may not have rope enough. "It seems but a question of that," says Don Estevan, as if speaking reflectingly to himself. The others are also considering, each trying to recall how much and how many of their trail-ropes were brought up in that hasty _debendade_ from their camp below. "_Por Dios_! your worship," rejoins the _gambusino_, "it is no question of that whatever. We have the materials to make cords enough, not only to go down the cliff, but all round the mountain. Miles, if it were needed!" "What materials?" demanded several of the party, mystified. "_Mira_!" exclaims the _gambusino_. "This!" He starts up from a bundle of dry _mezcal_-leaves on which he has been seated, pushing it before him with his foot. All comprehend him now, knowing that the fibre of these is a flax, or rather hemp, capable of being worked into thread, cloth, or cordage; and they know that on the _mesa_ is an unlimited supply of it. "No question of rope, _caballeros_; only the time it will take us to manufacture it. And with men such as you, used to such gearing, that should not be long." "It shall not," respond all. "We'll work night and day till it be done." "One day, I take it, will be enough--that to-morrow. And if luck attend us, by this time to-morrow night we may have our messengers on the way, safe beyond pursuit of these accursed redskins." Some more details are discussed maturing their plans for the rope-making. Then all retire to rest, this night with more hopeful anticipations than they have had for many preceding. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. A YOUTHFUL VOLUNTEER. Another day dawns, and as the earliest rays of the sun light up the Cerro Perdido, an unusual bustle is observed in the camp of the besieged. Men are busy collecting the leaves of the _mezcal_-plant, those that are withered and dry from having their corms cut out days before; fortunately there are many of these lying all around. Other men, armed with rudely-shaped mallets, beat them against the trunks of trees, to separate the fibre from the now desiccated pulp; while still others are twisting this into threads, by a further process to be converted into thick ropes. It is found that after all not so much will be needed; several lassoes had been brought up, tied round the bundles of goods; and with these and other odds and ends of cordage, a rope can be put together full two hundred feet in length, strong enough to sustain the weight of any man. So, long before night the lowering apparatus is ready, and, as before, they await the darkness to make use of it. Meanwhile Don Estevan, the two Tresillians, and Vicente spend most of the morning on the cliff where the bighorn went over, surveying it from every possible point, taking the bearings of its ledges, and estimating their distances from one another. They are, as the _gambusino_ had represented them, a succession of very narrow benches, but wide enough for a man to find footing; some horizontal, others with a slope downwards, then a zigzag bringing them lower, till within a hundred feet from the cliff's base the _facade_ of rocks shows sheer and clear. Down to this point all will be easy; and beyond it they anticipate little difficulty, now that they are sure of having sufficient rope. While engaged in their reconnaissance, an object comes under their eyes which they gaze upon with interest. They are upon the western side of the _mesa_ not far above its southern point, the plain on that side being invisible from the camp of the besiegers; and on this, at the distance of a mile or more, there is a spot of pasture due to a tiny rivulet, which, filtering off from the side of the lake, becomes dispersed over a considerable surface, which it moistens and makes green. Moving to and fro over this verdant stretch is the object which has caught their attention--a horse of large size and coal-black colour, which they know to be no other than Crusader. They are not surprised at seeing him there. Habitually he frequents this spot, which has become his accustomed pasturing-ground, and more than once had Henry Tresillian stood on that cliff regarding him with fond affectionate gaze; more than once, too, had the Indians again gone in chase of him, to be foiled as before. There is he still unlassoed, free of limb as the antelopes seen flitting over the _llano_ around him. After completing the examination of their precipice, and noting all details that may be needed to help out their design, they stand for a time gazing at the horse, his young master with a thought in his mind which he withholds from the others. Nor does he communicate it to them till after their return to the camp, and the question comes up, who are the ones to be lowered down; for it is thought better that two messengers should be sent, as company and support to each other. That is the question to be decided, and up to this hour all expect it to be as before--by lottery. In fine, when the time arrives for settling it, and the eligible ones are again assembled for drawing lots, a proposal is made which takes every one present by surprise. It comes from the youngest of the party, Henry Tresillian, who says: "Let me go alone." All eyes turn upon him inquiringly and in wonder, none more than those of his father, who exclaims: "You go alone, my son! Why do you propose that?" "Because it will be best, father." "How best? I do not understand you." "Crusader can only carry one." "Ah! Crusader--that's what you're thinking of?" "_Por Dios_!" exclaims the senior partner, "I see what your son means, Don Roberto; his idea is admirable!" "Yes," says the English youth in answer to his father; "I've been thinking of it ever since yesterday. On Crusader's back I can be at Arispe days before any foot messenger could arrive there. Once I had him between my legs, no fear of Indians overtaking me." "The very thing!" cries Don Estevan, delighted. "But, Senor Henrique, are you sure you can catch the horse?" "Catch him! he will come to my call. Once on the plain, and within hearing of my voice, I've no fear of his soon being by my side." "But why not let me take him?" puts in Pedro Vicente, as if to spare the generous youth from undertaking such a risk. "I know the road better than you, _muchacho_." "That may be," returns the other. "But I know it well enough. Besides, Crusader will let no one catch him but myself--much less ride him." During all this conversation the bystanders regard the young Englishman with looks of admiration. Never before have they seen so much courage combined with intelligence. And all to be exerted in their favour; for they have not forgotten the fate of their two comrades, put to death in such a cruel fashion. Every one of them fears that the like may befall himself, should it be his ill luck to draw a black _pinon_ out of the _sombrero_. Not the least in admiration is Robert Tresillian himself: his heart swells with pride at the gallant bearing of the boy, his own son, worthy of the ancestral name; and when Don Estevan turns to him to ask whether he objects to the proposal, it is to receive answer: "On the contrary, I approve of it. Foot messengers might not reach in time, if at all. My brave boy will do it if it can be done; it may be the means of bringing rescue to us all. If he fail, then I, like the rest of you, must submit to fate." "I'll not fail," cries the impetuous youth, rushing forward and throwing his arms round his father. "Fear not. I have a belief that God's hand is in it, else why should my noble horse have stayed? Why is he still there?" "_Virgen santissima_!" exclaims Don Estevan in devout tone. "It would even seem so. Let us hope and pray that the Almighty's hand is in it. If so, we shall be saved." Henry Tresillian is the hero of the hour, though he has been a favourite with the people of the caravan all along, doing kind offices to this one and that one, helping all who needed help. But now, when they hear he has volunteered on this dangerous service, as it were offering up his life for theirs, encomiums are loud on all sides. Women fall upon their knees, and, with crucifix in hand, offer up prayers for his protection. But Gertrude? Oh, the sad thoughts--the utter woe that strikes through her heart--when she hears tidings of what is intended! She receives them with a wild cry, almost a shriek, with arms outstretched staggering to the side of her mother for support. "Mamma, father must not let him go. He will be lost, and then--then--" "Have no fear. Think, _hija mia_, we may all be lost if he do not." "But why cannot some other go in his place? There are many who know the way as well as he, and that brave _gambusino_, I'm sure, would be willing." "No doubt he would, dearest; there's some reason against it I do not quite understand. We shall hear all soon, when father returns to the tent." They do hear the reason; but not any the more to reconcile Gertrude. The young girl is half beside herself with grief, utterly indifferent as to who may observe it. The bud of her love has bloomed into a flower, and she recks not that all the world know her heart is Henry Tresillian's. The cousin left behind at Arispe, supposed to be an aspirant to her hand, is forgotten. All are forgotten, save the one now near, so soon to be cruelly torn away from her. Neither the presence of her father and mother, nor that of his father, restrain her in her wild ravings. She knows she has their approval of her partiality, and her young heart, innocent of guile, yields to nature's promptings. Her appeals are in vain: what must be must be, and she at length resigns herself to the inevitable. For Henry himself tells her how it is, and that no one possibly could take his place. It is in dialogue between them, just as the twilight begins to cast its purple shadows over the plain. For the time is drawing nigh for action, and the two have gone apart from the camp to speak the last words of leave-taking. They stand under a tree, hands clasped, gazing into each other's eyes, those of the young girl full of tears. "_Querida_" he says, "do not weep. 'Twill be all well yet--I feel sure of it." "Would that I could feel so, Henrique; but, oh! dearest, such danger! And if the cruel savages capture you. _Ay Dios_! to think of what they did with the others!" "Let them catch me if they can. They never will if I once get alongside Crusader. On his back I may defy them." "True, I believe it. But are you sure of getting upon his back? In the darkness you may not find him." "If not, it will be but to return to the cliff and be drawn up again." This assurance somewhat tranquillises her. There is at least the hope, almost certainty, he will not, as the others, be sacrificed to a fruitless attempt; and, so trusting, she says in conclusion: "Go, then, _querido mio_. I will no more oppose it, but pray all night long for your safety. I see now it is for the best, and feel that the blessed Mary, mother of God, will listen to my prayers." No longer hands clasped, but arms entwined, and lips meeting in a kiss of pure holy affection, sanctified by parental consent. Then they return to the camp, where the final preparations are being made for that venture upon which so much depends. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. A RIDE IN MID-AIR. It turns out just such a night as was wished for--moonless, still not obscurely dark. Too much darkness would defeat the end in view. They need light for the lowering down, a thing that will take some time with careful management. But the miners are the very men for such purpose. Not one of them who has not dangled at a rope's end in a shaft hundreds of feet sheer down into the earth. To them it is habitude--child's play--as to him who spends his life scaling sea-coast cliffs for the eggs and young of birds. It is yet early when the party entrusted with the undertaking assemble on the edge of the precipice, at the point where the daring adventurer is to make descent. Some carry coils of rope, others long poles notched at the end for fending the line off the rocks, while the _gambusino_ is seen bearing a burden which differs from all the rest. A saddle and bridle it is; his own, cherished for their costliness, but now placed at the service of his young friend, to do what he will with them. "I could ride Crusader without them," says the English youth: "guide him with my voice and knees; but these will make it surer, and I thank you, Senor Vicente." "Ah, _muchacho_! if they but help you, how glad 'twill make me feel! If they're lost, it wouldn't be for that I'd grudge the twenty _doblones_ the saddle cost me. I'd give ten times as much to see you seated in it on the _plaza_ of Arispe." "I'll be there, _amigo_, in less than sixty hours if Crusader hasn't lost his strength by too long feeding on grass." "I fancy you need not fear that, senorito; your horse is one that nothing seems to affect. I still cling to the belief he's the devil himself." "Better believe him an angel--our good angel now, as I hope he will prove himself." This exchange of speech between the two who have long been _compagnons de chasse_, is only an interlude occurring while the ropes are being uncoiled and made ready. Instead of a loop to be passed around the adventurer's body, a very different mode for his making descent has been pre-arranged. He is to take seat in the saddle, just as though it were on the back of a horse, and, with feet in the stirrups and hands clutching the cords that suspend it, be so let down. A piece of wood passed under the tree, and firmly lashed to pommel and cantle, will secure its equilibrium. Finally all is ready, and, the daring rider taking his seat, is soon swinging in mid-air. Hand over hand they lower him down, slowly, cautiously, listening all the while for a signal to be sent up. This they get in due time--a low whistle telling them that he has reached the first ledge, though they could tell it by the strain upon the rope all at once having ceased. Up it is drawn again, its owner himself, in turn, taking seat in it, to be lowered down as the other. Then again and again it is hoisted up and let down, till half a score of the miners, stalwart men, Robert Tresillian among them, stand on the bench below. Now the saddle is detached and fastened on to another rope, when the same process is repeated; and so on, advantage being taken of the sloping ledges, till the last is arrived at. Here it is but a repetition of what has gone before, only with a longer reach of rope; and here Pedro Vicente takes last leave of the youth who has become so endeared to him. In the eye of the _honest gambusino_ there is that not often seen there, a tear. He flings his arms around the English youth, exclaiming: "_Dios te guarda, muchacho valiente_! (God guard you, my brave lad)." The parting between the two is almost as affectionate as that between Henry and his father, the last saying, as he enfolds his son in his arms: "God go with you, my noble boy!" In another moment the daring youth is once more in the saddle, going down, down, till he feels his feet upon the plain. Then stepping out of it, and sending up the preconcerted signal, he detaches saddle and bridle from the cords, leaving the latter to swing free. Shouldering the horse gear with other _impedimenta_, he looks round to get his bearings, and, soon as satisfied about these, starts off over the plain in search of Crusader. He is not the only one at that moment making to find the horse. From the Indian camp a picked party has issued forth, urged by the chief. For the new leader of the Coyoteros longs to possess that now famous steed as much as did the deceased one. "Ten of my best mustangs, and as many of my mules, will I give for the black horse of the paleface. He who captures him may claim that reward." More than once has El Zopilote thus declared himself, exciting the ardour and cupidity of his followers. Withal they have chased Crusader in vain, over and over again, till in their superstitious fancy they begin to think him a phantom. But as yet they have never tried to take him by night; and now, having ascertained the place where he usually passes the nocturnal hours, they start out in quest of him. Not rashly nor incautiously; instead, they proceed deliberately, and with a preconceived plan, as though stalking game. Their intention is first to enfilade the animal at long distance off, then contract the circle, so as to have him sure. In execution of their scheme, on reaching the western side of the lake, they divide into two parties. One moves along the mountain's foot, dropping a file here and there; the other strikes out over the _llano_, in a circular line, as it proceeds doing the same. It is too dark for them to see horse or other object at any great distance, so they take care that their circle be wide enough to embrace the stretch of pasture where the coveted animal is known to browse. Noiselessly they execute the movement, going at a slow walk, lest the hoof-strokes of their horses may alarm the one they would enclose; and when the heads of the separated parties again come together, all know it by a signal agreed upon--the cry of the coyote transmitted along their line admonishes them that the cordon is complete. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. ONCE MORE UPON CRUSADER. Henry Tresillian has hardly advanced a hundred yards from the cliff, when the Indian party, turning northward, passes close to the spot where he had been let down. Luckily not so close as to observe the rope still hanging there, and far enough from himself to hinder their seeing him. For the obscurity makes it impossible to distinguish objects unless very near. Neither sees he them, nor has any suspicion of their dangerous proximity; and without stop or stay he keeps on towards the point where he expects to find his horse. He goes not without a guide. At the latest hour of twilight he had seen Crusader about a mile off, in a direction due west; and although the night is dark, some of the stars are visible, among them the Polar. With this on his right shoulder he cannot mistake the way, so continues on in confidence. He knows he will not need to go groping about, if the horse be still there, as it is hoped he is: a peculiarly intoned call with a whistle will bring him up from far as he can hear it. Many a time has his master, while hunting on the hills round Arispe, so summoned Crusader to his side. He has advanced more than half a mile, and is thinking whether he shall not give the signal and put an end to all uncertainty. He should now be near enough for it to be heard, and it will tell him if the animal be still there or has wandered away to some other part of the _llano_. In the latter case all his labours will be lost, and no alternative left him but return to the cliff and get hoisted up again. Still a thought holds him silent. The activity of the Indians, with their frequent patrol parties, more by night than by day, has long been a matter of curiosity and speculation among the miners. What if such a party be now out and within hearing? For he knows that to his voice Crusader will respond with a neigh, and that might undo all. Therefore, curbing his impatience, he proceeds on, silent as a spectre, his glances directed now this way, now that, endeavouring to penetrate the gloom. All at once he hears the tramp of a horse, on the instant after seeing and recognising Crusader. To his surprise also; for the animal is not at rest or browsing, but moving excitedly about, every now and then uttering a snort, as though he scented danger. His master knows he himself cannot be the cause of this unlooked-for behaviour. The horse is up wind, and could not possibly be aware of his approach. What, then, is exciting him? Wolves--coyotes? Yes, it must be that; and as a proof of its being so, just then he hears the whining howl of the jackals simultaneously all around. Such a chorus resounding on every side seems odd, the more from its being heard for but a brief moment, then silence as before. But Henry Tresillian stays not to reflect on its oddity. He fears that the howling repeated may start Crusader into a stampede, and without further delay gives him that signal he knows will be answered. Answered it is, and instantly, by a neigh sent back in response; and in twenty seconds after the horse stands face to face with his young master, his velvet muzzle pressing the latter's cheek. On one side there are words of endearment, on the other a low, joyous whimpering, as though the dumb brute was trying to speak its delight at their being together again. Crusader opens his mouth to receive the bit, and seems almost to stoop for the saddle to be thrown over him. He is caparisoned in a trice; but just as Henry Tresillian, stooping to tighten the girths, gets the buckle into its hole, he hears that which causes him to rise erect, and clutch at the bridle: the sound of hoofs on all sides; horses evidently, with men upon their backs. Indians!--they can be no other! Quick as thought he vaults into the saddle, and sets himself ready to make a dash. In what direction? He knows that which he should take for Arispe. But is it open to him? This he cannot tell, nor, indeed, that any way is open to him. For he now hears the tramp of horses all around, and before he can resolve himself, sees the horses themselves. It has grown a little clearer, for the moon is about to rise, and Crusader's neigh had guided the Indians to the spot. If he stay, Henry Tresillian is conscious he will soon be encircled by a crowd with no chance to get clear of it. Already he sees its ring closing around him. But the Indians are still some fifty yards distant, come to a halt; suddenly and with shouts of surprise, for they have sighted him. There is even terror in their accents, with awe in their hearts--awe of the supernatural. They supposed themselves making surround of a horse, when lo! there is a man upon his back, all in keeping with the mysterious character Crusader has obtained among those who have vainly chased him. The young Englishman notes their strange behaviour, but without thought of the cause. He knows, however, they will not stay long at rest, and, by the better light, seeing a break in their line, sets his horse's head for it, gives the word with touch of knee, and springs forward at full speed, determined to take his chance. In a dozen strides he is between two of the Coyotero horsemen, when he feels his bridle arm suddenly drawn back and held tight to his body; then, with a quick jerk he is lifted clean out of the saddle and flung with violence to the earth! Fortunately he is neither stunned nor loses consciousness, but has all his senses about him; he knows what has happened, and that he is in the noose of a lasso. But his right arm is free, and, instantly regaining his feet, he draws his knife, and, severing the cord in twain, releases himself. It would have been to little purpose had his horse been other than he is. But the sagacious animal, seeming to comprehend all, instead of galloping away, has stayed by his side, and in another moment has its master on its back again. With to all appearance a clear track before him now, the daring youth once more makes forward, favoured by the confusion that has arisen among the savages. In the dim light they are unable to distinguish the strange horseman from one of themselves, and their surprise is but increased with their superstitious terror, both holding them spellbound. They but cry out, and question one another, without making any effort to pursue. Henry Tresillian begins to think himself safe away, when he sees one of the Coyoteros, who had lagged behind their line, come full tilt towards him in a gallop as himself. Before he can check his pace, their animals meet in violent collision, and the mustang of the Indian is flung back on its haunches, dismounting its rider. The man has his gun in hand, and, seeing a paleface, instinctively raises the piece, taking aim at him. But before he can touch the trigger, the English youth has also a piece levelled--a pistol, which cracks first; and the savage, uttering a wild agonised yell, staggers a pace or two, and falls backward on the grass. With nothing more in his way now, his young master again gives Crusader the word, and off go they at highest race-course speed. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. UP THE CLIFF AGAIN. It is some time before the Indians recover from their mystification. Is the black horse flesh and blood, or a phantom? Not until they have closed together and taken counsel of one another is this question resolved. The wiser of them affirm that in some way one of the palefaces must have got down the cliff, caught the horse, and mounted him. That the rider, at least, is a mortal being they have ample evidence in their comrade stretched dead upon the plain by a bullet. The sight rekindles all their ire, and shouts of vengeance make the welkin ring. But only for a while. Silence again reigns, and the hoof-strokes of the retreating fugitive can be heard through the tranquil calm of the night, stirring them to pursuit. Away go they in gallop after; but not all, nearly half of them turning their horses' heads towards the cliff. For if the white men have let one of their number down, there should be some sign of it, which they proceed to search for. Impossible to depict the feelings of those on the _mesa_, above all, the ones who have been standing on the ledges to await the result. They cannot have themselves hoisted up again till sure their messenger has either failed or got free, and from the moment of his parting from the cliff's base, to them all had been uncertainty. Terrible suspense, too, from the very first; for although they saw not the Indians passing underneath, they heard their horses' tread, now and then a hoof striking against stone, or in dull thud upon the hard turf. Though they could not make out what it meant, they knew it was something adverse--hostile. Horses would not be there without men on their backs, and these must be enemies. Listening on, with hearts anxiously beating, they hear that strange concatenation of cries, the supposed howling of coyotes, all around the plain. It puzzles them, too; but before they have time to reflect on it a sound better understandable reaches their ears--the neighing of a horse--most of them recognising it as Crusader's, for most are familiar with its peculiar intonation. More intently than ever do they listen now, but for a time hear nothing more. Only a brief interval; then arise sounds that excite their apprehension to its keenest--voices of men, in confused clamouring, the accent proclaiming them Indians. Robert Tresillian, still standing beside the _gambusino_ on the lowest ledge, feels his heart sink within him, as he exclaims: "My poor boy! lost--lost!" "Wait, senor," says Vicente, with an effort to appear calm. "That's not so sure. All's not lost that's in danger. If there be a chance of escape your brave son's the very one to take advantage of it. _Oiga_! what's that?" His question has reference to another chorus of cries heard out on the plain; then a moment's lull, succeeded by a crashing sound as of two heavy bodies brought into collision. After that a shot, quickly followed by a yell--a groan. "A pistol!" exclaims the _gambusino_, "and sure the one Senorito Henrique took with him. I'll warrant he's made good use of it." The father is too full of anxious thought to make reply; he but listens on with all ears, and heart audibly pulsating. Next to hear the hoof-strokes of a horse in gallop as if going off; which in a way cheers him: it may be his son escaped. But then there is more confused clamour, with loud ejaculations--voices raised in vengeance; and after the trampling of other horses, apparently starting in pursuit. What is to be done now?--draw up the rope, and have themselves drawn up? There seems no reason for their waiting longer. The messenger is either safe off, or has been captured; one way or the other he will not get back there. So they may as well reascend the cliff. Besides, a thought of their own safety now forces itself upon them. A streak of light along the horizon admonishes them of the uprising moon. Already her precursory rays, reflected over the plain, begin to lighten the obscurity, rendering objects more distinct, and they now make out a dark mass on the _llano_ below, a party of horsemen, moving in the direction of the _mesa_. "We'd better pull up, Don Roberto," says the _gambusino_; "they're coming this way, and if they see the rope it will guide their eyes to ourselves, and we're both lost men. They carry guns, and we'll be within easy range, not over thirty yards from them. _Por Dios_! if they sight us we're undone." Don Roberto makes neither protest nor objection. By this his son has either got clear or is captured: in either case, he cannot return to them. And, as his companion, he is keenly sensible to the danger which is now threatening, so signifies assent. Silently they draw up the rope, and soon as it is all in their hands, signal to those above to hoist them also. First one, making it fast round his body, is pulled up; then the loop is let down, and the other ascends, raised by an invisible power above. Four are now on the next ledge, and, by like course of proceeding are lifted one after another to that still higher, the sloping benches between helping them in their ascent. All is done noiselessly, cautiously; for the savages are now seen below in dark clump, stationary near the foot of the precipice. They have reached the last bench, and so far unmolested, begin to think themselves out of danger, But alas, no! The silence long prevailing is suddenly broken by a rock displaced and rolling down; while at the same moment the treacherous moon, showing over the horizon's edge, reveals them to the eyes of the Indians. Then there is a chorus of wild yells, followed by shots--a very fusillade; bullets strike the rocks and break fragments off, while other shots fired in return by those above into the black mass below instantly disperse it. In the midst of all, the last man is drawn up to the summit, but when landed there, they who draw him up see that the rope's noose is no longer round a living body, but a corpse, bleeding, riddled with bullets. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. DISTANCED--NO DANGER NOW. Finding himself clear of the Indians, Henry Tresillian's heart beats high with hope; no mischance happening, he can trust Crusader to keep him clear. And now he turns his thoughts to the direction he should take. But first to that in which he is going, for he has galloped out of the encircling line through the nearest opening that caught his eye. The foretaste of the moonlight enables him to see where he is--luckily, on the right track. The route to Arispe lies south-eastward, and the lake must be passed at its upper or lower end. The former is the direct route, the other around about; but then there is the Indian camp to be got past, and others of the savages may be up and about. Still the wagon _corral_ is two or three hundred yards from the water's edge, which may give him a chance to pass between unobserved, and, with unlimited confidence in his horse, he resolves upon risking it. An error of judgment: he has not taken into account the _fracas_ behind, with the report of his own pistol, and that all this must have been heard by the redskins remaining in camp. It has nevertheless. The consequence being that ere he has got half round the upper end of the lake, he sees the plain in front of him thickly dotted with dark forms-- men on horseback--hears them shouting to one another. A glance shows him it is a gauntlet too dangerous to be run. The fleetness of his steed were no surety against gun-shots. He reins up abruptly, and, with a wrench round, sets head west again, with the design to do what he should have done at first--turn the lake below. The _detour_ will be much greater now: he has passed a large elbow of it, which must be repassed to get around; but there is no alternative, and, regretting his mistake, he makes along the back track at best speed. Not far before finding further reason to be sorry for his blunder. On that side, too, he sees mounted men directly before him-- those he had lately eluded. They are scattered all over the plain, apparently in search of him, some riding towards the lake's lower end, thinking he has gone that way. But all have their eyes on him now, and place themselves in position to intercept him. His path is beset on every side, the triumphant cries of the Coyoteros proclaiming their confidence that they have him at last--sure to capture or kill him now. And his own heart almost fails him: go which way he will, it must be through a shower of bullets. Again he reins up, and sits in his saddle undecided. The risk seems equal, but it must be run; there is no help for it. Ha! yes, there is. A thought has flashed across his brain--a memory. He remembers having seen the camp animals wading the lake through and through; not over belly-deep. Why cannot Crusader? With quick resolve he sets his horse's head for the water, and in a second or two after the animal is up to the saddle-girths, plunging lightly as if it were but fetlock-deep. Another cry from the Indians on both sides--surprise and disappointment mingled; in tones telling of their belief in the supernatural, and come back. But soon they, too, recall the shallowness of the lake, and see nothing strange in the fugitive attempting to escape across it. So, without loss of time, they again put their horses to speed, making to head him on its eastern shore. They are as near as can be to succeeding. A close shave it is for the pursued messenger, who, on emerging from the water, sees on either flank horsemen hastening towards him. But he is not dismayed. Before any of them are within shot range he dashes onward; Crusader, with sinews braced by the cool bath, showing speed which ensures him against being overtaken. He is pursued, nevertheless. The subtle savages know there are chances and mischances. One of the latter may arise in their favour; and hoping it will be so, they continue the chase. The moon is now up, everything on the level _llano_ distinguishable for miles, and the black horse with his pale-faced rider is still less than twenty lengths ahead; so after him they go, fast as their mustangs can be forced. Only to find that in brief time the twenty lengths have become doubled, then trebled, till in fine they see that it is fruitless to carry the pursuit further. With hearts full of anger and chagrin, they give it up. Some apprehension have they as well. El Zopilote is not with them; what will he say on their returning empty-handed? what do? For it is now no mere matter of the catching of a horse; instead, more serious--a courier gone off to bring succour to the besieged. Down-hearted and dejectedly they turn their horses' heads, and ride back for Nauchampa-tepetl. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Had the Coyoteros stuck to their faith in the probability of accidents and continued the pursuit, they might have overtaken Henry Tresillian after all. For scarce have they turned backs upon him when a mishap befalls him, not absolutely staying him in his course, but delaying him wellnigh an hour. He is making to regain the road which runs north from Arispe, at the point where the caravan, forced by want of water, had deflected from it to the Cerro Perdido. In daylight he could have ridden straight to it; for since then from the _mesas_ summit Pedro Vicente had pointed to guide-marks indicating the spot where his initials were carved upon the _palmida_. But in his haste now, amid the glamour of a newly-risen moon, the messenger has gone astray, only discovering it when his horse suddenly staggering forward comes down upon his knees, shooting him out of the saddle. He is less hurt than surprised. Never before has Crusader made false step or stumble, and why now? A moment reveals the reason: the ground has given way beneath, letting him down knee-deep into a hole, the burrow of some animal. Fortunately, there are no bones broken, no damage done either to horse or rider; and the latter, recovering his seat in the saddle, essays to proceed. Soon to be a second time brought to a stand, though not now unhorsed. Crusader but lurches, keeping his legs, though again near going down. The young Englishman perceives what it is: he is riding through a warren of the kind well known on the plains of Western America as "a prairie-dog town or village." In the moonlight he sees the hillocks of these marmots all around, with the animals themselves squatting on them; hears their tiny squirrel-like bark, intermingling with the hoot of the quaint little owl which shares their subterranean habitations. Once more at halt, he again bethinks himself what is best to do. Shall he ride back and go round the village, or continue on across it, taking the chances of the treacherous ground? He listens, soon to become assured that the pursuit has been abandoned, thus giving him choice to act deliberately, and do as seems best to him. Around the dog town may be miles, while direct to the other side may be only a few score yards. They are often of oblong shape, extending far, but of little breadth, possibly because of the condition of the ground and the herbage it produces. Having ridden into it, he resolves to keep on; but to his great annoyance and disgust finds it to extend far beyond the limits of his patience; and as Crusader's hoofs break through the hollow crust, it becomes necessary to alight and lead him. At length, however, he is out of it, and again on firm ground, with the level _llano_ far stretching before him. But in the distance he discerns a mountain ridge, trending north and south, lit up by the moon's light, along which, as he knows, lies the route to Arispe. "We're on the right road now, my noble Crusader, with no fear of being followed. And we must make it short as possible. The lives of many depend on that--on your speed, brave fellow. So let us on." Crusader responds with one of his strangely-intoned whimperings--almost speech. Then stands motionless, till his young master is in the saddle; after which he again goes off in a gallop, _ventre a terre_. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. IN PAINFUL SUSPENSE. Than the rest of that night no more anxious time has been spent by the beleaguered miners. If their new messenger fail in his errand, then they can never dispatch another. No chance for a second one to descend the cliff, or get down the gorge, for both will be hereafter guarded more carefully than ever. All stay awake till morning, listening to every sound below, and doing what they can to interpret it. They had heard the cries near the Indian camp as Henry Tresillian attempted to pass it, those by the ravine's head hearing them plainer. Then other cries, as in response, proceeding from the western side of the lake. After that a moment of silence, succeeded by a plunging noise, as of a horse making his way through deep water. And soon after shouts again, for a while continuous, terminating in hoof-strokes, at each instant less distinct, at length dying away in the distance. But just then they upon the cliff had to listen to other sounds more concerning themselves. For it was at this time their presence became known to the party remaining behind, resulting in that hurried ascent from ledge to ledge, with the loss of one of their number. Long after, they see that which renews their excitement, their thoughts in a conflict between hope and fear. From the vidette post, around which they have all gathered, they behold a moving mass, in the early dawn distinguishable as men on horseback. It is the party who went in pursuit of their messenger returning. But whether they have him with them or no cannot be told; for they come back in a thick clump, and he may be in its midst invisible. Nor is it opened out till they pass behind the abutment of rock, disappearing from the view of those on the _mesa_. By the besieged ones the day is passed with anxiety unrelieved. For, although several had hastily proceeded to a point from which a sight of the Indian camp could be obtained, it was yet too dark to see whether the pursuers had brought back a prisoner. And when daylight came, he might be there without their being able to see him--inside the marquee, or under one of the wagons. Gradually, however, their hopes gain the ascendant; for nothing of Crusader can be seen, and the noble steed, if there, could not well be hidden away. Besides, there is no more setting up of that ensanguined stake, no more firing at a human target, as would likely have taken place had the pale-faced courier been their captive. Instead, a certain restlessness, with signs of apprehension, is observed among themselves throughout all the day, almost proclaiming his escape. In Don Estevan's tent it is discussed, and this conclusion come to, giving joy to all. But to none as to his own daughter. All day a prey to keen, heart-sickening anxiety, how glad is she at hearing the _gambusino_ say: "I'm sure the senorito has got safe away, and is now on the road to Arispe. Were it not so, we'd have seen him ere this--tied to that accursed stake and riddled with bullets, as the others. The brutes meant doing the same with me; had almost begun it, when, thanks to the Virgin, there came a slip between cup and lip. And I think we may thank her now for giving a like chance to the brave lad. _Santos Dios_! he deserves it." Cheering words to Gertrude, who can scarce resist rushing up to the speaker and giving him a kiss for them. Chaste kiss it would be, for the _gambusino_ is neither young nor handsome. She contents herself by saying: "Oh, sir! if he get safe to Arispe, you shall be paid for your saddle ten times over. I'm sure father will not grudge that." "Saddle, _nina lindissima_!" exclaims Vicente, with a quizzical smile; "that's nought to me. I'd be glad to sacrifice a hundred such--ay, a thousand, if I could afford it, for him you seem so interested in. His life's too precious to be weighed in the scale against all the horsegear in the world." All signify approval of these generous sentiments, so pleasing to the youth's father, who tacitly listens. And the brief dialogue over, they turn to discussing the chances of relief reaching them, now for the first time seeming favourable. "If," says Don Estevan, hopeful as any, "he meet no accident before arriving at Arispe, then we may count on receiving succour. There's but one thing we have to fear--time! Nor need we fear that, if Colonel Requenes be there with his regiment. By ill fortune he may not." "What reason have you for thinking he may not?" asks Robert Tresillian. "I recall his telling me, just before we started, that there was a likelihood of his being ordered to Guaymas, to assist in suppressing a reported rising of the Yaquis Indians. If he has gone thither we'll be no better off than before." "But the people of Arispe--surely they will not be indifferent to our situation?" It is the Englishman who interrogates. "Ah, true," returns the Mexican, correcting himself, as a reassured expression comes over his countenance. "They will not. I did not think of that. I see it now." "'Tis not for us and ours alone we may expect them to bestir themselves; but for their own relatives and friends. Think, _amigo mio_! There isn't one of our following but has left some one behind who should rush to the rescue soon as hearing how things stand." "You're right, Don Roberto. Whether the soldiers be there or not. Arispe and its surroundings can surely furnish force enough to effect our deliverance. We must have patience--hope and pray for it." "Dear husband," here interposes the senora, "you seem to forget my brother, Juliano, and his three hundred _peones_. At least half of them are brave fellows, a match for any savages as these who surround us. If Henrique succeed in reaching Arispe, he will go on to my brother's _hacienda_, soldiers or no soldiers." This speech from an unexpected quarter further heightens their hopes, already rapidly rising. They almost feel as if the siege was being raised, and themselves about to continue their long-delayed journey. A like sentiment pervades the people all through the camp. In every shed and booth is a group conversing on the same topic, and much in a similar way; all with trusting reliance on the friends left behind, confident they will not fail them. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ At this self-same hour the feeling in the Coyotero camp is quite the contrary: instead of confidence, there is doubt, even apprehension. The white men's messenger--for they are sure he must have been this--has got through their lines, clear away, and well do they comprehend the consequences. They know the miners come from Arispe--marks on the wagons and other chattels tell them that--and the paleface courier will be now hastening thither. On such a swift steed he will reach it in quick time; and, with the tale which he has to tell, alike quick will be the response: a rescuing host in rush for Nauchampa-tepetl. It may even arrive before the return of their raiders from the Horcasitas. Thus apprehensive, on the day and night following the escape of Henry Tresillian, and for many days and nights after, there is as much, if not more, anxiety in the camp of the besiegers as in that of the besieged. The latter fear but famine; the former, fire and sword. CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. FRIENDS IN FEAR. "Glad to see you, Senor Juliano! It's not often you honour Arispe with your presence." Colonel Requenes is the speaker, he spoken to being a gentleman of middle age, in civilian costume, the dress of a _haciendado_. It is Don Juliano Romero, brother of the Senora Villanueva, the owner of a large _ganaderia_ or grazing estate, some six or seven miles out of Arispe. "True," he admits, "nor would you see me now, only that this thing begins to look serious." "What thing?" asks the Colonel, half divining it. "No news from Villanueva, I came to see if _you've_ had any." "Not a word; and you're right about it's beginning to look serious. I was just talking of it to your son there, before you came in." They are in a large apartment in Colonel Requenes' official residence, his receiving-room, into which the _ganadero_ has just been ushered; the son alluded to being there already, a youth of some sixteen summers, in military uniform, with sabretasche and other insignia proclaiming him an aide-de-camp. After greeting his father, he has resumed his seat by a table on which are several open despatches, with which he seems to busy himself. "_Por Dios_! I cannot tell what to make of it," pursues the _ganadero_; "they must have reached the mine, wherever it is, long ago. Time enough for word to have been brought back. And my sister not writing to me, that's a puzzle! She promised she would soon as they got there." "And Villanueva himself promised he would write to me. Besides, the people, many of them, have left friends behind, relatives out in the neighbourhood of the old _minera_. Some of them are in Arispe every day, inquiring if there be any news of those gone north; so it's clear they've had no word from them either." "What do you suppose can be the cause, Requenes?" "I've been trying to think. At first I fancied the great drought that's been, with every stream and pond dried up, might have forced them out of their way for water, and so lengthened their journey. But even with that there's been time enough for them to have reached their destination long since, and us to have heard of it. As we haven't, I fear it's something worse." "What's your conjecture, Colonel?" "I'm almost afraid to venture on conjectures, but they force themselves on me, Don Juliano; and in the one shape you will yourself, no doubt, be thinking of." "I comprehend. _Los Indios_!" "_Los Indios_," echoes the officer; "just that. Villanueva told me the new-discovered _veta_ lies a long way to the north-west, beyond the headwaters of the Horcasitas. That's all country claimed by the Apaches of different bands; as you know, every one of them determinedly hostile to the whites, especially to us Mexicans, for reasons you may have heard of." "I know all that; you allude to the affair of Gil Perez?" "I do; and my fear is our friends may have encountered these red-handed savages. If so, Heaven have mercy on them, and God help them; for He only can." "Encountering them would mean being attacked by them?" "Surely so; and destroyed if defeated: the men butchered, the women and children carried into captivity." At this the young aide-de-camp turns round on his chair, his face showing an expression of pain. He says nothing, however, but continues an earnest listener to the conversation. "Merciful Heaven!" exclaims the _ganadero_, with a groan, "I hope it has not come to that." "I hope so too, and don't yet think it has; only that it's probable enough--too probable. Still, even if set upon, they would resist; and when one comes to remember how many there were of them, they ought to make a stout resistance." "Many of them," rejoins Don Juliano, "both miners and _vaqueros_, are of approved valour, and were well armed. I was at the old _minera_ when they started off, and saw that for myself." "Yes, I know; but their holding out would depend on the sort of ground they chanced to be on when attacked, if they have been attacked. By good luck, our mutual brother-in-law is no novice to Indian tactics, but a soldier of experience, who'll know how to act in any emergency." "True; but the worst of it is his being embarrassed by having so many women and children with him; among them, alas! my sister and niece. _Pobrecitas_!" Again the young officer shifts uneasily on his chair, the expression of pain still upon his face. For he is the cousin whom Gertrude was said to have forgotten. "They took a number of large vehicles with them?" says the Colonel, interrogatively. "American wagons, did they not?" "They did." "How many? Can you remember?" "Six or seven, I think." "And a large pack-train?" "Yes; the _atajo_ seemed to number about fourscore mules." For a moment the Colonel is silent, seeming to reflect, then says: "Villanueva would know how to throw these _carros_ into _corral_, and with so many pack-saddles ought to make a defensible breastwork, to say nothing of the bales and boxes of goods. If not taken by surprise while _en route_, he'd be sure of using that precaution. So protected, and armed as they were, they ought to hold good their ground against any number of redskins. The worst danger would be their getting dropped on in some place without water. In that case surrender would be the necessary result, and surrender to Apaches were as death itself." "_Santissima_! yes--we all know that. But, Requenes, do you really think we've to fear their having met such a disaster?" "I don't know what to think. I'd fain not fear it, but the thing looks grave, no matter in what way one views it. There should have been word from them several days ago; none coming, what other can be the explanation?" "Ay, true; what other?" rejoins the _ganadero_, despondently. "But what ought we to do?" he adds. "I've been considering that for some time, but couldn't make up my mind. I've made it up now." "To what?" "To sending one of my squadrons along the route they took; with orders to follow it up, if need be, to the new-discovered mine; at all events, till it be ascertained what hinders our hearing from them." "That seems the best and only way," returns Don Juliano. "But when do you propose your men to start?" "Immediately--soon as they can be ready. For such an expedition, most of the way through a very wilderness, they will need supplies, however lightly equipped. But I will issue the order this moment. Cecilio," to the aide-de-camp, "hasten down to the _cuartel_, and tell Major Garcia to come to me at once." The young officer, rising at the words and clapping on his shako, makes straight for the outer door. But before stepping over its threshold, he sees that which causes him to return instantly to the receiving-room, to the surprise of those he had left there. "What is it?" demands the Colonel. "Look there!" He points out through the open window over the _plaza_ in front of it. Springing from their seats and moving up to it, they perceive a young man on horseback advancing towards the house; his face pale, and with a wayworn look, his dress dust-stained, and otherwise out of order, the horse he bestrides steaming at the nostrils, froth clouted, and with palpitating flanks. "_Caramba_!" exclaims Colonel Requenes. "That's young Tresillian, the son of Villanueva's partner!" CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. TO THE RESCUE. In an instant after Henry Tresillian is inside the room, warmly received by both the Colonel and _ganadero_; less so by the young officer, though the two had been formerly bosom friends. The coolness of Cecilio Romero can be easily understood; but in the scene which succeeds, with hasty questioning, and answers alike hurried, no one takes note of it. "You bring news--bad news, I fear?" says the Colonel. "Bad, yes. I'm sorry having to say so," returns the messenger. "This is for you, senor--from Don Estevan Villanueva. 'Twill tell you all." He pulls a folded paper from under his jacket, and hands it to the Colonel. Breaking it open, the latter reads aloud; Romero standing by and listening, for its contents concern them all. Thus ran it: "_Hermano mio_, (brother), "If Heaven permit this to reach your hands, 'twill tell you how we are situated--in extreme peril, I grieve to say, surrounded by Apache Indians, the most hostile and cruel of all--the Coyoteros. Where and how I need not specify. The brave boy who bears this, if successful in putting it into your hands, will give you all details. When you've got them, I know how you will act, and that no appeal from me is necessary. On you alone depends our safety--our lives. Without your help we are lost. "Estevan Villanueva." "They shall not be lost," cries the Colonel, greatly agitated--"not one of them, if the Zacatecas Lancers can save them. I go to their aid; will start at once. Away, Cecilio! down to the _cuartel_! Bring Major Garcia back with you immediately. Now, senorito," he adds, turning to Henry Tresillian, "the details. Tell us all. But, first, where are our friends in such peril? In what place are they surrounded?" "In a place strange enough, Senor Colonel," answers the young Englishman. "On the top of a mountain." "On the top of a mountain!" echoes the Colonel. "A strange situation, indeed. What sort of mountain?" "One standing alone on the _llanos_, out of sight of any other, 'Tis known as the Cerro Perdido." "Ah! I've heard of it." "I too," says the _ganadero_. "Up somewhere near the sources of the Horcasitas. A singular eminence-- a _mesa_, I believe. But how came they to go there? It must be some way off the route to their intended destination." "We were forced thither, senor, through want of water. The guide advised it, and his advice would have been for the best, but for the ill luck of the savages chancing to come along that way." "_Muchacho_, I won't confuse you with further questioning, but leave you to tell your tale. We listen. First have a _copita_ of Catalan brandy to refresh you. You seem in need of it." "There's one needs refreshing as much as myself, Senor Colonel; ay, more, and more deserves it." "What one! Who?" "My horse out there. But for him I would not be here." "Ah! that's your grand steed," says the Colonel, looking out; "I remember him--Crusader. He does seem to need it, and shall have it. _Sargento_!" This in loud call to an orderly sergeant in waiting outside, who, instantly showing his face at the door, receives command to see the black horse attended to. "Now, _muchacho mio_! proceed." Henry Tresillian, still speaking hurriedly for reasons comprehensible, runs over all that has occurred to the caravan, since its departure from the worked-out mine near Arispe, till its arrival at the Lost Mountain. Then the unexpected approach of the Indians, resulting in the retreat to the summit of the Cerro, with the other incidents and events succeeding--to that, the latest, of himself being lowered down the cliff, and his after-escape through the fleetness of his matchless steed. "How many of the Indians are there?" asks the Colonel. "Can you tell that, senorito?" "Between four and five hundred, we supposed; but they were not all there when I left. Some days before half their number went off on a marauding expedition southward; so our guide believed, as they were dressed and painted as when on the war-trail." "These had not returned when you came away?" "No, Senor Colonel; no sign of them." "I see it all now, and pity the poor people who live on the lower Horcasitas. That's where they were bent for, no doubt. The more reason for our making haste to reach the Cerro Perdido. We may catch these raiders on return. _Sargento_!" This again in call to the orderly, who responds instantly by presenting himself in the doorway. "Summon the bugler! Give him orders to sound the `assembly' at once. We must start without a moment's delay. How fortunate those Yaquis kept quiet, else I would be now operating around Guaymas." "We must, Requenes. But will your regiment be enough? How many men can you muster?" "Five hundred. But there's the battery of mountain howitzers--fifty men more. Of course, I take that along." "And of course I go too," says the _ganadero_; "and, to make sure of our having force sufficient, can take with me at least a hundred good men, the pick of my _vaqueros_. Fortunately they're now all within easy summons, assembled at my house for the _herradero_" (cattle branding), "which was to come off to-morrow. That can be postponed. _Hasta luego_, Colonel; I ride back home to bring them; so doubt not my having them here, and ready for the route soon as your soldiers." "_Bueno_! Whether needed or not, it will be well to have your valiant _vaqueros_ with us. I'll welcome them." Instantly after the _plaza_ of Arispe displays an animated scene, people crowding into it from all parts, with air excited. For the report, brought by the young Englishman, has gone forth and all abroad, spreading like wildfire,--Villanueva and Tresillian, with all their people, surrounded by savages! "_Los Indios_!" is the cry carried from point to point, striking terror into the hearts of the Arispenos, as though the dreaded redskins, instead of being at an unknown distance off, were at the gates of their city. Then succeeds loud cheering as the bugle-call proclaims the approach of the _lanzeros_, troop after troop filing into the _plaza_, and forming line in front of their colonel's quarters, all in complete equipment, and ready for the route. More cheering as Don Juliano Romero comes riding in at the head of his hundred retainers; _vaqueros_ and _rancheros_, in the picturesque costume of the country, armed to the teeth, and mounted on their mustangs, fresh, fiery, and prancing. Still another cheer, as the battery of mountain howitzers rolls in and takes its place in the line. Then a loud chorus of _vivas_! as the march commences, prolonged and carried on as the column moves through the street; the crowd following far beyond the suburbs, to take leave of it with prayers upon their lips for the successful issue of an expedition in which many of them are but too painfully interested. CHAPTER THIRTY. THE RAIDERS RETURNED. Another ten days have elapsed, and they on the Cerro Perdido are held there rigorously as ever; a strong guard kept constantly stationed at both points where it is possible for them to reach the plain. In the interval no incident of any note has arisen to vary the monotony of their lives. One day is just as the other, with little to occupy them, save the watch by the ravine's head, which needs to be maintained with vigilance unabated. But much change has arisen both in their circumstances and appearance. With provision wellnigh out, they have been for days on less than half allowance, and famine has set its stamp on their features. Pallid, hollow cheeks, with eyes sunken in their sockets, are seen all around; and some of the weaker ones begin to totter in their steps, till the place more resembles the grounds of an hospital than an encampment of travellers. They have miscalculated their resources, which gave out sooner than expected. In this lamentably forlorn condition they are still uncertain as to the fate of their messenger, their doubts about his safety increasing every day--every hour. Not that they suppose him to have fallen into the hands of the Coyoteros. On the contrary, they are convinced of his having escaped, else some signs of his capture would have been apparent in the Indian camp, and none such are observed. But other contingencies may have arisen: an accident to himself, or his horse, delaying him on the route, if not stopping him altogether. Or may it be, as Don Estevan has said, that Colonel Requenes with his soldiers is absent from Arispe, and there is a difficulty in raising a force of civilians sufficient for effecting their rescue? These conjectures, with many others, pass through their minds, producing a despondency, now at its darkest and deepest. For at first, in their impatience, blind to probabilities, they fancied theirs a winged messenger--a Mercury, who should have brought them succour long since. That bright dream is passed, and the reaction has set in, gloomy as shadow of death itself. Nor seems there to be much cheer in the camp of their besiegers. They can look down upon it from a distance near enough to distinguish the individual forms of the savages, and note all their actions in the open. Through the telescope can be read even the expressions on their features, showing that they, too, have their anxieties and apprehensions; no doubt from the black horse and his rider having got away from them. Their scouts are still observed to come and go. Some are sent northward, others to the south; the last evidently to look out for the return of the raiding party gone down the Horcasitas. Another day passes, and they are seen coming back, at a pace which betokens their bringing a report of an important nature. That it is a welcome one to their comrades in the camp can be told by their shouts of triumph as they approach. Soon after they upon the _mesa_ are made aware of the cause, by seeing the red marauders themselves coming on towards the camp, in array very different from that when leaving it. Instead of only their arms and light equipments, every man of them is now laden with spoil, every horse besides his rider carrying a load, either on withers or croup. And they have other horses with them now--a _caballada_--mules, too, all under pack and burden. No, not all. As the long straggling line draws closer to the Cerro, they on its summit see a number of these animals bearing on their backs something more than the loot of plundered houses. They see women, most of them appearing to be young girls. As they are conducted on to the camp, and inside its enclosure, Don Estevan, viewing them through his telescope, can trace upon their persons, as their features, all the signs and lines proclaiming utter despair: dresses torn, hair hanging dishevelled, and eyes downcast, with not a ray or spark of hope in them. Others look through the glass, to be pained by the heart-saddening spectacle; each of the married ones, as he views it, thinking of his own wife or daughter, in fear their fate may be the same--a fate too horrid to be dwelt upon in thought, much less to be talked about. This day they are not permitted to see more. Twilight is already on, and night's darkness, almost instantly succeeding, shuts out from their view everything below. But if they see not, they can hear. There are continuous noises in the camp throughout the rest of the night--cries and joyous ejaculations. The Coyoteros have made a grand _coup_: much plunder acquired, many prisoners taken, and pale-faced foes slain, almost to a glut of vengeance. They are greatly jubilant, and yield themselves to a very paean of rejoicing, their boasts and exulting shouts at intervals reverberating along the cliffs. It is another night of carousal with them, as that when they first sate down to the siege; for among the proceeds of their recent maraud are several pig-skins of _aguardiente_, and this fiery spirit, freely distributed, excites them almost to madness. So loud are their yells, so angrily, vengefully intoned, that they who listen above begin to fear they may at length become reckless, and, _coute que coute_, risk the assault so long unattempted. In such numbers now, feeling their strength, they may hold a little loss light. Besides, there is still that apprehension from the side of Arispe; it may further urge them to a desperate deed, which, if not done at once, must be left undone, and the siege ingloriously abandoned. These are but the conjectures of the besieged, who, acting upon them, keep watch throughout the remainder of the night. Never more wakeful, seemingly, though never less needed; for up till the hour of dawn, no assailant is seen approaching the gorge, no sound heard of any one attempting to scale that steep acclivity. Of those fearing that they will try, Pedro Vicente is not among the number. Endeavouring to give confidence to his doubting companions, he says, "I know the Coyoteros too well to suppose them such fools. Not all the _aguardiente_ in Sonora will make them mad enough to expose themselves to our battery of stones. They don't forget our having it here, and that we're watching their every movement; ready to rain a storm of rocks on them if they but come under its range. So, _camarados_, keep up heart and courage! We've nothing more to fear to-day than we had yesterday. That's hunger, not their spears or scalping-knives." Fortified by the _gambusino's_ words, they to whom they are addressed feel their confidence restored--enough to inspire them with further patience and endurance. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. THE RESCUERS EN ROUTE. "Son! that's the Lost Mountain, is it?" "It is, Colonel." "_Gracias a Dios_! Glad we've sighted it at last. How far do you think we're from it, senorito? Nigh twenty miles, I take it; though it looks nearer." "'Tis all of twenty miles, Colonel; so our guide said when we first saw it from the place." "I can quite believe it. On these high plains distances are very deceptive; but my experience enables me to judge pretty correctly." The dialogue is between Colonel Requenes and Henry Tresillian; the latter acting as guide to the expedition _en route_ to release those imprisoned on the Cerro Perdido. Others are beside them; Don Juliano with his son, the young aide-de-camp, and several officers of the staff; their escort forming an advanced guard. Not far behind it, the howitzer battery, followed by the lancer regiment in open order; then Romero's irregulars, closed by a troop of lancers as rear-guard, completing the marching column. All are at halt, brought to it as soon as the Cerro was sighted. They have been on march from an early hour by moonlight, and as the sun, now rising, has lit up the plain afar, the solitary eminence can be clearly seen. As may be deduced from the young Englishman's words, the point they have arrived at is the same where the caravan had temporarily come to a stop--the very spot itself; for close by is the tree bearing the initials of the _gambusino_. "Well, _caballeros_," continues the Colonel, "we've done our best so far; pray God to good purpose. Let us hope we're in time. I wonder how it is? What's your thought, Romero?" "I have none, Requenes--only hopes that they've held out." "I wish," pursues the Colonel, in half soliloquy, "we but knew for certain; 'twould make an important difference as to how I dispose of my force. Should they be still there--" "Senor Colonel," interposes the youthful guide, "if you'll let me have a look through your telescope, I think I can settle that point." This, as he sees the commanding officer drawing his field-glass from its case. "In welcome, senorito. Here!" and he hands him the telescope. Instantly it is brought to his eye, and eagerly--his fingers trembling as they hold it out. What he hopes to see will tell him that his father and friends still live; if he sees it not, he will know they are dead; and _she_, dearer than all, condemned to a fate far worse! What a change comes over his countenance almost on the instant of his raising the glass to his eye! Hitherto grave to apprehension, all at once it lights joyously up, as from his lips proceed the words, "They're still on the mountain; Heaven be praised!" "If it be so, Heaven deserves praise--all our thanks. But how know you, senorito?" "By the flag!" "What flag?" "Take the glass, Colonel; look for yourself." Receiving back the telescope, and adjusting it to his sight, Requenes levels it at the Lost Mountain. "At the nearest end, up on the summit," pursues Henry Tresillian, instructingly, "you'll see it. It is the flag of Mexico. Don Estevan intended to have raised it over his new mine, and had it hoisted yonder in the hope it might be seen by some white men, and lead to our situation being made known. It has proved of service now; telling us our friends are still in the land of the living. If they were not it wouldn't be there." "You're right, senorito, it wouldn't. And it is there--I see it!--yes, can even make out the national insignia--the eagle and nopal. We may thank Heaven, indeed." "And we do!" exclaims the _ganadero_, raising his hat reverentially, all following his example. A thrill of exultation runs like wildfire backward on to the extremest rear--a joyous excitement, as the soldiers learn they have not made their long march in vain, and that the foe is before them, not far oft. For the banner waving above proclaims the siege still continued, and the Indians keeping it up. "They _are_ there," affirms the Colonel, after gazing some time through his glass. "I can see the smoke ascending from their camp fires. No doubt by this they'll be cooking their breakfasts. Well, we won't be in time to hinder their having that meal; but if they eat dinner this day, without my leave, I shall be willing to throw up my commission as colonel of the Zacatecas Lancers. Now, gentlemen!" he adds, turning to his staff, and summoning his chief officers around him in council of war, "the enemy is yonder; no doubt of it. 'Tis a question as to how we should advance upon him. Give your opinion, Major Garcia." "How many are there supposed to be, Colonel?" asks the major, a sage, grizzled veteran. "Our mode of approaching them should much depend upon that." "Unluckily I can't tell," says the Commander-in-chief; "there were wellnigh five hundred all told when together; but it appears that half went off on a raid down the Horcasitas, the other half remaining to carry on the siege. If the raiders are returned and are now among the besiegers, then we'll have their full force to deal with, and may expect a sharp fight for it. I know these redskins of old, the band of the Rattlesnake; though, as our young friend informs me, that worthy has ceased to exist, and the Vulture reigns in his stead. All the worse for us, as Zopilote was the master of Cascabel in tactics, cunning, courage--everything. Never mind, we should only be too glad to meet the renowned warrior, if but for glory's sake." While the Colonel is still speaking a voice is heard to rearward, with exclamations telling of excitement there. Immediately after a subaltern officer of the rear-guard advances rapidly to the front, conducting a strange horseman, whose dress, travel-stained, with the sweat and dust upon his horse, betokens him just arrived from a journey long and hurriedly made. A messenger on some errand, which his wan, woebegone face bespeaks to be of the saddest. "Whence come you, _amigo_?" demands the commanding officer, as the stranger is brought face to face with him. "From Nacomori, on the Horcasitas, Senor Colonel," is the answer. "On what business?" asks Requenes, more than half divining it. "Oh, senor, the Indians have been there; killed scores of our people-- children as grown men; plundered and burnt our houses; carried off all our young women; made rack and ruin of everything. I rode to Arispe, hoping to find you there, but you were gone, and I've hastened hither after you." "What Indians? Where did they come from?" "From the north, senor; down the river. Apaches, we thought; but it was in the night they came upon us, and no one could be sure. When morning came they had gone off with everything." "What night? How long since this occurred?" "The night of _Lunes_--just four days ago." "The raiding party of the Coyoteros, gentlemen," says the Colonel to his surrounding. "The time corresponds, the place--everything; and likely they've got back, and are now by the Cerro yonder. If so, we have others to rescue beside our own friends; with chastisement to inflict on the red-handed marauders, to say nothing of revenge. So much the more reason for our not losing time. Major! order the regiment to close up and form line. Let the others be drawn in also; I want to say a word to them." With a quickness due to thorough discipline, the lancers are brought into battle line; not for fight now, but to receive an address. Thrown forward on one flank, and facing inwards, are the light artillerists; while on the other in file form are Romero's irregulars. Placing himself in a position to be heard by all, the Commander-in-chief cries out: "_Camarados_! at the base of yonder hill, where you see smoke rising, is the enemy. Apaches--Coyoteros--as we know, knowing them also to be the cruellest of all the savages that infest our frontier. To say nothing of the glory gained in conquering them, 'twill be doing humanity a service to destroy them; and never more than now has there been reason. "This gentleman,"--he points to the newly-arrived messenger, still on horseback and near by--"has brought news of a bloodthirsty massacre they have just committed at Nacomori, on the Horcasitas, where women, scores, have been carried off. Like enough they're all over yonder now, and we may be in time to release these prisoners, and avenge the murders that have been done. The only fear is of the Indians getting away from us. Mounted on their swift mustangs, and leaving all encumbrances behind, that is still possible enough. But to prevent it, I intend dividing my force, and sending detachments around to intercept and cut off their retreat on every route they may take. We must deal them a death-blow, and I now call on you--every man to do his best. Remember how many of our people, perhaps many of your own relatives, have fallen victims to the ferocity of these ruthless marauders. Think of the crime we have just heard of at Nacomori. Think of it, _camarados_, and strike home!" An enthusiastic cheer hails the Colonel's speech; and while it is still ringing commands are issued for the disposition of the advance--the movement soon after commencing. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. SUCCOUR IN SIGHT. Not an hour of daylight now passes, scarce a minute, without Don Estevan Villanueva or Robert Tresillian having the telescope to their eyes, scanning the plain southward. For days this has been their practice, up to that on which the red marauders are seen returning from their murderous expedition. And on the following morning at earliest dawn the two--Pedro Vicente along with them--take their stand on an outward projection of the _mesa_, which commands a view of the _llano_ all round its southern side, at the same time overlooking the Coyotero camp. They have not been long there when, under the first rays of the rising sun, they see something sparkle which had never been observed by them before, though in a place with which they are familiar--the same where they first sighted the Cerro Perdido. Nor is the glancing object a single one, for there are many shining points as stars in a constellation. They are visible to the naked eye, for as yet none of them have looked through the telescope. As Don Estevan is levelling it, the _gambusino_ says: "Looks like the glitter of arms and accoutrements. Pray the Virgin it be that!" "It _is_ that!" cries Don Estevan, at the first glance through the glass. "Arms, and in the hands of men. I can make out a body of horse in uniform--soldiers. Requenes and his regiment; he to a certainty. At length--at last--we may hope to be rescued, and our long imprisonment brought to an end." His words, spoken excitedly and aloud, attract those who are sauntering near, and soon most upon the _mesa_ come clustering round him. To see with eyes unaided that metallic sheen, as they eagerly hearken to its interpretation. Don Estevan, with the telescope still held aloft, goes on speaking: "Yes; 'tis they! I can see they carry lances, by the sun glinting on the blades above their heads. They can be no other than the Zacatecas regiment, with my brother-in-law at its head. Your son, Tresillian, is safe; their being yonder tells of his having reached Arispe. Brave youth! we all owe him our blessing." "And we give him that, with our gratitude!" shouts Pedro Vicente, the others enthusiastically echoing his words. There is a momentary lull, all ears intently listening for what Don Estevan may next say; which is: "They appear to be extending line, and look as if there were a good six or seven hundred. Ah! now I note there are others besides the lancers-- a battery of brass guns--that's what's flashing back the sun. And a body of horsemen, not in uniform. They seem to be at halt. Why and for what?" "Like enough," suggests Tresillian, "they've made out our flag telling them we are still here. Requenes, with others of his officers, will have telescopes too, and must see it, as also that smoke over the camp below. It will tell them our besiegers are there also. That would cause them to halt--to concert measures for the attack." "You're right, Don Roberto, it must be as you say. But now there's a movement among them. The mass is breaking up into detachments, some commencing to march to the right, others to the left. Ah! I see it all: they mean making a surround, cutting off the retreat of our enemy. _Caramba_! Requenes _is_ a cunning strategist, as I always believed him." With the glass still at his eye, the old soldier can see every movement made, comprehending all, and explaining them in succession to the audience around him. A party of lancers, seemingly a squadron, separating from the main body, moves off to the right, another party of like strength proceeding in the opposite direction. Then other detachments follow these, as if to form an enfilading line when the time comes for it. But the central force remains stationary long after the flanking parties have been extended, and is only seen to advance when they are far away. These make wide circuit, evidently designed to embrace the Coyoteros' camp, and, if need be, the Cerro itself. And now they draw nearer till all upon the _mesa_, without any artificial aid, can see they are men, and as such surely friends hastening to their rescue. To their joy they also perceive that the occupants of the Indian camp are as yet unaware of what is approaching. Five hundred feet below, their view is more limited; and long before the soldiers become visible to them, they above see the latter distinctly, and understand their strategic scheme. Meanwhile the savages are not acting in the ordinary way: signs of commotion are observable among them, as if some change were intended. Horses are being caught and caparisoned, while the newly acquired animals from the Horcasitas are again loaded with the spoils, those that carried the captives being also made ready for the road. The women are themselves seen within the _corral_; as on the evening before, looking forlorn, every one of them a picture of despair. They are to be taken they know not whither, but to a place from which they have no hope of return. Little dream they that friends are so near. "What a pity we can't let them know of rescue being at hand!" says Don Estevan. "They could hear us if we call to them, but some of the Coyoteros are acquainted with our language, and it would warn them also." "No fear of that," affirms the _gambusino_; "I think I can speak a tongue that the redskins won't understand, and the women will." "What tongue?" asks Don Estevan. "The Opata. Some of those girls are _mestizas_, and should know the lingo of their mothers." "Try them with it, then, Don Pedro." "With your worship's leave, I will." Saying which, the _gambusino_ advances to the outermost edge of the cliff, and, with all the strength of his lungs, utters some words altogether unintelligible to those around him, but evidently understood by the captives below. Several of them on hearing it spring suddenly to their feet, looking up in the direction whence it came, surprised to see men above, hitherto unobserved by them, and still more to hear speech addressed to themselves. Hope and joy become mingled with their astonishment, when the _gambusino_ goes on in the same vernacular to tell them how it is, and that succour is near. Though listening all the while, not one of the Apaches appears to comprehend a word of what Vicente is saying. They suppose it a mere expression of sympathy; and, without giving heed to it, proceed with their preparations for departure. They are evidently bent upon this, though it may be but the raiders about to continue on to their home in Apacheria. Still, other signs seem to indicate a general clearing out of the camp; for now the whole _caballada_ of horses are being brought in saddled and bridled, while everything portable in the way of goods is turned out within the _corral_, packed as if for transportation. And in reality it is their intention to abandon both camp and siege, though reluctantly, and hating to surrender a chance of revenge that had seemed so sure and near. But they have had enough to content them for the time, and there is a fear which forces them to forego it. Ever since Henry Tresillian escaped them they have been nervously apprehensive, correctly surmising him a messenger. He must long since have reached Arispe, and may at any moment reappear, guiding back a force sufficient to overwhelm them. While yet unrecovered from their night's carousal, it is as the fulfilment of a dream, their worst apprehensions realised, as they behold coming towards them, though still far off, a body of men, uniformed and in serried array, with pennoned lances borne aloft! The sight is not so much a surprise, neither does it produce a panic; for they who approach seem not in such numbers as to overawe them. The detached parties sent around are not within their view, and with their habitual contempt for the Mexican _soldados_, they make light of those that are, imagining them under a mistake--advancing upon an enemy whose strength they have underrated. The error is their own; but, misled by it, they resolve to ride out, meet the pale-faced foemen, and anticipate their attack. Their chief so commands it. Quick as thought every warrior is upon his horse, gun or spear in hand; they, too, in military formation--line of battle--pressing forward to the encounter, the sentries alone left on post. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. THE THUNDER GUNS. As is their custom, the savages advance with loud cries and gestures of menace, intended to terrify their antagonists. They have got several miles out from the mountain, and almost within charging distance, when they see that which brings them to sudden halt-- a thing above all others dreaded by the American aboriginal--cannon "thunder guns"--as they call them. The brass howitzers, hitherto screened by the vanguard of cavalry, have been thrown to the front, instantly unlimbered, and so brought under their eyes. Then a flash, a vomiting of flame and smoke, a loud ringing report, followed by the hurtling of a shell in its flight through the air. It drops in their midst and instantly explodes, its severed fragments dealing death around. Too much this for Coyotero courage; and without waiting for other like destructive missiles to follow, they turn tail and gallop back towards the camp. Not that they have any hope of safety there, for they believe the great thunder guns can reach them anywhere, and their flight towards it is but the impulse of a confused fear. The sentries, seeing them in retreat, alike frightened by the report of the howitzers, forsake their posts, each hastening towards a horse--his own. For a time the captive women are unguarded, seemingly forgotten. It gives the _gambusino_ a cue; and, acting upon it, he again calls out as before in the Opata tongue, "Sisters! now's your time! Up and out of the _corral_; make round to the lake, fast as you can run, and on into the ravine. There you'll find friends to meet you." Listening to his counsel, as one the captive women resolve to act upon it; for they are now cognisant of what is going on, and fully comprehend the situation. The result, a rush out of the enclosure all together, and a race round to the spot indicated by that friendly voice above. They reach it, to find there the man himself, with over two-score others around him. For the _gambusino_, seeing how things stood, and that the besiegers had their hands full elsewhere, has hurried down the gorge, all the fighting men of the miners' party along with him. It is but a moment to place the escaped captives behind the rocks standing thick all around; then, screening themselves by the same, they await the coming of the savages. But these come not; enough have they to do looking out for their own safety. The howitzers, now near, are belching forth their bombs, that burst here and there, dealing death in their ranks. With the redskins it is no longer a question of resistance or fight, but flight, _sauve qui peut_. And without thought of taking along with them either spoils or captives, they deem it enough if they can but save their own lives. They are all on horseback now, their chief at their head, who in loud command calls upon them to follow him--not to the charge, but in retreat. First they flee northward; but short is their ride in that direction. Scarce have they commenced it, when they see in front of them a body of horse, seemingly numerous as that they are retreating from. Shall they meet it, or turn back? The thunder guns are still more than a mile from the abandoned camp, and they will have time to repass it. Promptly deciding to do so, they wheel round and gallop back, _ventre a terre_; not slowing pace nor drawing rein till they have reached the western elbow of the lake. Then only coming to a stop perforce at sight of still another party of palefaces there to confront them. Intercepted, threatened on every side by a far superior force, they now know themselves in a trap. Panic stricken, they would surrender and cry for quarter, but well are they aware it would not be given. So, as wolves brought to bay, they at length determine on fighting--to the death. For many of them, death it is. Beset on all sides, in the midst of a circle of fire, bombs exploding and bullets raining through their ranks, they make but a despairing resistance; which ends in half their number being killed and the other half taken prisoner. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The rescuers are now in possession of the camp, animals, everything. But the first to reach the bottom of the ravine is he who has guided them thither, Henry Tresillian; there to receive a shower of thanks and blessings, his father pressing him to his bosom, which alike beats with joy and pride. And the _gambusino_ embraces him, too, crying out, "I see you've brought back my saddle, senorito; and after the service it has done, I hope you'll never consent to part with it. Bridle and saddle both, I make you a present of them; which I trust you'll do me the honour to accept." This draws the attention of all upon Crusader standing by, who in turn becomes the recipient of an ovation. But his young master stays not to witness it. Up on the summit is one who occupies all his thoughts, claiming him now; and up bounds he with lighter heart than he ever before made that ascent. "Henrique!" "Gertrudes!" are the exchanged exclamations of the youthful lovers, as they become locked in each other's arms, their lips meeting in a kiss of rapturous joy. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ All congratulations over, the corralled wagons are once more in possession of their owners. Scarce any damage has been done to the mining machinery or tools; the Indians, from neglect or ignorance of their uses, not having thought it worth while to destroy them. And for the animals and chattels they had carried off, there is ample compensation in those now taken from them--enough to furnish the wagons with fresh teams, re-establish the pack-train, in short, put the caravan in order for resuming the march. Which it does, after a couple of days spent in getting things into condition for the route, when it continues on to its original destination, the _gambusino_ still with it as guide. On the same day Requenes starts out on return to Arispe, taking the Coyotero prisoners along with him; while Don Juliano and his valiant _vaqueros_ charge themselves with the task of restoring the women of Nacomori to their homes. When all are gone, and the Lost Mountain again left to tranquillity and solitude, it is for days the scene of a spectacle telling of the terrible strife which had occurred. The wolves and coyotes have gathered from afar, and over the bodies of the slain savages left unburied, with those of their horses killed in the encounter, hold riot and revel. There, too, are the black vultures, some in the air, some on the ground, in flocks so thick as to darken both earth and sky. They anticipated a plenteous repast--they have not been disappointed. CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. AT THE ALTAR. The last scene of our tale lies in the _pueblita_ of Santa Gertrudes; a mining village chiefly supported by the _minera_ bearing the same name, whose works, with the specialities of crushing-sheds, smelting-houses, and tall chimneys, are seen just outside its suburbs. All have a modern look, as well they may. On the ground where they stand, but three years before grew a thick _chapparal_ of mezquite, cactus, yucca, and other plants characteristic of desert vegetation. For Santa Gertrudes is in the very heart of the Sonora desert, remote from any other civilised settlement. Its prosperity, however, has attracted settlers; for not only does the population of the village itself receive constant increase, but many fertile tracts in the country around have been taken up, and are occupied by a goodly number of graziers and agriculturists, whose chief purpose is to supply the comestibles required by the miners and their dependants. The growth of Santa Gertrudes has been remarkably rapid, almost unprecedently so. From the first opening of the mine, every vein worked has proved a _bonanza_, enriching the owners, Don Estevan Villanueva and Robert Tresillian. For it is the _vela_ discovered, denounced, and made over to them by Pedro Vicente. The gold-seeker himself has also become rich, by the conditions already mentioned as attached to the conveyance of the property. In short, all concerned have benefited thereby--every one of that travelling party delayed, with lives endangered, on the summit of the Cerro Perdido. In and around Santa Gertrudes--name bestowed in honour of the Senora Villanueva and her daughter, or rather their patroness saint--is every evidence of advancement. The cottages of the miners are trim and clean, the shops that supply them showing an abundance of goods, even to articles of _luxe_ and adornment. A pretty _capella_, with spire and belfry, stands central by the side of the public square, for, as in all Spanish-American towns, Santa Gertrudes has its _plaza_. Two other sides of the same are occupied by houses of superior pretension, with ornamental grounds--the respective residences of Don Estevan and his English partner--while here and there a house larger and better than the common denotes the dwelling of an official of the _minera_, some head of a department. On this day Santa Gertrudes is _en fete_. Its _plaza_ is full of people; the miners in their gala dresses, and, mingling with them, _rancheros_--the new settlers from the country around--resplendent in their picturesque costume. Soldiers, too, mix with the crowd, in the gay uniform of the Zacatecas Lancers. For Colonel Requenes and his regiment, on return from an expedition to the northern frontier, have halted at the _pueblita_, and are encamped on the plain outside. The tall chimneys of the _minera_ send forth no smoke, no sound proceeds from the crushing-sheds or the smelting-houses; all is silent, and work suspended as if it were a Sunday. Different with the _capilla_, from whose belfry comes a continual clanging of bells--merry bells--marriage bells. Nor needs any one telling who are to be wedded. All know that the owners are about to enter into relations different from that of a mere commercial partnership; that Gertrudes Villanueva is about to become the wife of Henry Tresillian. The hour for the happy union has at length arrived, and from the two grand houses on the _plaza_ issue the bride and bridegroom--each with their train of attendants--and take their way to the _capella_, amidst the enthusiastic plaudits of the assembled people, who cry out: "_Viva la novia linda! Viva el novio valiente_--_nuestro Salvador_!" (Long live the beautiful bride! Long live the gallant bridegroom--our saviour!) Inside the church the ceremony proceeds, relatives and friends from afar assisting at it; among them Don Juliano Romero, and of course, also, Colonel Requenes. And there is one present who not only disapproves of the marriage, but would forbid it, were it only in his power. This the young cornet of lancers, Colonel Requenes' aide-de-camp, now a captain, who stands among the spectators, with an expression upon his features telling of a heart torn with jealousy. How different is that on the face of Pedro Vicente, luminous with delight! Joyed and proud is he to see his young _protege_ of the chase attain the desire of his heart, in its fullest happiness. The procession returns to the house of the bride's father, followed by the crowd, again vociferating, "_Viva la novia linda! Viva el novio valiente_!" Then the pre-arranged sports of the day commence on a grassy plain outside the _pueblita_. There is _correr el gallo_ (running the cock), _colear el toro_ (baiting the bull), with other feats of equitation, in which Crusader bears a conspicuous part. Ridden by a famous _domidor_-- his owner for once but a looker-on--the beautiful black wins every prize, in speed outstripping all horses on the ground. The Lancer band makes music in accompaniment; and over an improvised pavilion, ornamented with evergreens, in which stand the chief spectators, waves the national flag--that same bit of bunting which, three years before, was run up as a signal of distress on the *Lost Mountain*. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE END. 
21699	----	The Rover of the Andes, a Tale of Adventure in South America, by R.M. Ballantyne. ________________________________________________________________________ This book is well-written and carries the reader right up to the last chapter, always panting to know what ever will happen next. It describes a journey across central South America, at about the latitude of Buenos Aires in Argentina. Lots of different sorts of nasty happenings, and nasty people are encountered, and the problems are overcome one by one. It seems quite realistic, but at anyrate it is a good product of the writer's imagination and research. I enjoyed transcribing it very much. Robert Michael Ballantyne was born in 1825 and died in 1894. He was educated at the Edinburgh Academy, and in 1841 he became a clerk with the Hudson Bay Company, working at the Red River Settlement in Northen Canada until 1847, arriving back in Edinburgh in 1848. The letters he had written home were very amusing in their description of backwoods life, and his family publishing connections suggested that he should construct a book based on these letters. Three of his most enduring books were written over the next decade, "The Young Fur Traders", "Ungava", "The Hudson Bay Company", and were based on his experiences with the HBC. In this period he also wrote "The Coral island" and "Martin Rattler", both of these taking place in places never visited by Ballantyne. Having been chided for small mistakes he made in these books, he resolved always to visit the places he wrote about. With these books he became known as a great master of literature intended for teenagers. He researched the Cornish Mines, the London Fire Brigade, the Postal Service, the Railways, the laying down of submarine telegraph cables, the construction of light-houses, the light-ship service, the life-boat service, South Africa, Norway, the North Sea fishing fleet, ballooning, deep-sea diving, Algiers, and many more, experiencing the lives of the men and women in these settings by living with them for weeks and months at a time, and he lived as they lived. He was a very true-to-life author, depicting the often squalid scenes he encountered with great care and attention to detail. His young readers looked forward eagerly to his next books, and through the 1860s and 1870s there was a flow of books from his pen, sometimes four in a year, all very good reading. The rate of production diminished in the last ten or fifteen years of his life, but the quality never failed. He published over ninety books under his own name, and a few books for very young children under the pseudonym "Comus". For today's taste his books are perhaps a little too religious, and what we would nowadays call "pi". In part that was the way people wrote in those days, but more important was the fact that in his days at the Red River Settlement, in the wilds of Canada, he had been a little dissolute, and he did not want his young readers to be unmindful of how they ought to behave, as he felt he had been. Some of his books were quite short, little over 100 pages. These books formed a series intended for the children of poorer parents, having less pocket-money. These books are particularly well-written and researched, because he wanted that readership to get the very best possible for their money. They were published as six series, three books in each series. Typical of these series is "On the Coast". ________________________________________________________________________ THE ROVER OF THE ANDES, A TALE OF ADVENTURE IN SOUTH AMERICA, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE. CHAPTER ONE. A TALE OF ADVENTURE IN SOUTH AMERICA. AT THE FOOT OF THE MOUNTAIN RANGE. Towards the close of a bright and warm day, between fifty and sixty years ago, a solitary man might have been seen, mounted on a mule, wending his way slowly up the western slopes of the Andes. Although decidedly inelegant and unhandsome, this specimen of the human family was by no means uninteresting. He was so large, and his legs were so long, that the contrast between him and the little mule which he bestrode was ridiculous. He was what is sometimes styled "loosely put together;" nevertheless, the various parts of him were so massive and muscular that, however loosely he might have been built up, most men would have found it rather difficult to take him down. Although wanting in grace, he was by no means repulsive, for his face, which was ornamented with a soft flaxen beard and moustache of juvenile texture, expressed wonderful depths of the milk of human kindness. He wore boots with the trousers tucked into them, a grey tunic, or hunting coat, belted at the waist, and a broad-brimmed straw hat, or sombrero. Evidently the times in which he travelled were troublous, for, besides having a brace of large pistols in his belt, he wore a cavalry sabre at his side. As if to increase the eccentricity of his appearance, he carried a heavy cudgel, by way of riding-whip; but it might have been observed that, however much he flourished this whip about, he never actually applied it to his steed. On reaching a turn of the road at the brow of an eminence the mule stopped, and, letting its head droop till almost as pendent as its tail, silently expressed a desire for repose. The cavalier stepped off. It would convey a false impression to say that he dismounted. The mule heaved a sigh. "Poor little thing!" murmured the traveller in a soft, low voice, and in a language which even a mule might have recognised as English; "you may well sigh. I really feel ashamed of myself for asking you to carry such a mass of flesh and bone. But it's your own fault--you know it is--for you _won't_ be led. I'm quite willing to walk if you will only follow. Come--let us try!" Gently, insinuatingly, persuasively, the traveller touched the reins, and sought to lead the way. He might as well have tried to lead one of the snow-clad peaks of the mighty Cordillera which towered into the sky before him. With ears inclining to the neck, a resolute expression in the eyes, his fore-legs thrown forward and a lean slightly backward, the mule refused to move. "Come now, _do_ be amiable; there's a good little thing! Come on," said the strong youth, applying more force. Peruvian mules are not open to flattery. The advance of the fore-legs became more decided, the lean backward more pronounced, the ears went flat down, and incipient passion gleamed in the eyes. "Well, well, have it your own way," exclaimed the youth, with a laugh, "but don't blame me for riding you so much." He once more re-m-; no, we forgot--he once more lifted his right leg over the saddle and sat down. Fired, no doubt, with the glow of conscious victory the mule moved on and up at a more lively pace than before. Thus the pair advanced until they gained a rocky eminence, whence the rich Peruvian plains could be seen stretching far-away toward the glowing horizon, where the sun was about to dip into the Pacific. Here again the mule stopped, and the rider getting off sat down on a rock to take a look at the level horizon of the west--for he had reached a spot where the next turn in the road would partially shut out the plains and enclose him among the giant mountains. As he sat there meditating, while the mule cropped the herbage at his side, he observed two riders a considerable way down the circuitous road by which he had ascended--a man and a boy, apparently. Whether it was the fine stalwart figure of the man that influenced him, or the mere presence of wayfarers in such a solitary place, our traveller could not tell, but he certainly felt unusual interest, and not only watched the pair as they approached, but sat still until they came up. As they drew near he perceived that the smaller of the two, whom at a distance he had taken for a boy, was an Indian girl, who, according to custom, bestrode her mule like a man. Her companion was a handsome Spanish-looking man--a Peruvian or it might be a Chilian--with fine masculine features and magnificent black eyes. He was well-armed, and, to judge from his looks, seemed a little suspicious of the tall Englishman. The hearty salutation of the latter, however, in bad Spanish, at once dissipated his suspicions. Replying in the same tongue, he then added, in good English:-- "You are a stranger in this land, I perceive." "In truth I am," replied the other, while the Peruvian dismounted, "nevertheless, I ought scarcely to admit the fact, for I was born in Peru. This perhaps may seem contradictory, but it is not more so than your being apparently a native of the soil yet speaking English like an Englishman." "From which it follows," returned the Peruvian, "that men ought not to judge altogether by appearances. But you are wrong in supposing me a native of the soil, and yet--I am not an Englishman. I have got a gift of language, however--at least I feel myself equally at home in English, Indian, Spanish, and Portuguese, which is not to be wondered at, seeing that I have been forced to talk in all four languages for nigh a quarter of a century." "Then you must have been but a boy when you came here," returned the Englishman, "for you seem to be not yet middle-aged." "Right, I was indeed a mere boy when I came to this land." "And I was a boy of seven when I left it to be educated in Europe," returned the Englishman. "It is sixteen years since then, and I had feared that my memory might have failed to recognise the old landmarks, but I am rejoiced to find that I remember every turn of the road as if I had left home but yesterday." We have said that the tall youth's face was not handsome, but the glow of animation which rested on it when he spoke of home, seemed for a moment to transform it. "Your home, then, cannot be far distant?" remarked the Peruvian, with a peculiar look that might have attracted the attention of the younger man if his gaze had not at the moment been directed to the Indian girl, who, during the foregoing conversation, had remained motionless on her mule with her eyes looking pensively at the ground, like a beautiful statue in bronze. "My home is close at hand," said the Englishman, when the question had been repeated; "unless memory plays me false, two more turns in the road will reveal it." The earnest look of the Peruvian deepened as he asked if the Estate of Passamanka was his home. "Yes, you know it, then?" exclaimed the youth eagerly; "and perhaps you knew my father too?" "Yes, indeed; there are few people within a hundred miles of the place who did not know the famous sugar-mill and its hospitable owner, Senhor Armstrong. But excuse me," added the Peruvian, with some hesitation, "you are aware, I suppose, that your father is dead?" "Ay, well do I know that," returned the other in a deeper tone. "It is to take my father's place at the mills that I have been hastily summoned from England. Alas! I know nothing of the work, and it will be sorely against the grain to attempt the carrying on of the old business in the desolate old home." "Of course you also know," continued the Peruvian, "that the country is disturbed just now--that the old smouldering enmity between Chili and Peru has broken forth again in open war." "I could not have passed through the low country without finding that out. Indeed," said the youth, glancing at his belt with a half-apologetic smile, "these weapons, which are so unfamiliar to my hand, and so distasteful to my spirit, are proof that I, at least, do not look for a time of peace. I accoutred myself thus on landing, at the urgent advice of a friend, though my good cudgel--which has sufficed for all my needs hitherto--is more to my mind, besides being useful as a mountain staff. But why do you ask? Is there much probability of the belligerents coming so far among the hills?" "Wherever carrion is to be found, there you may be sure the vultures will congregate. There is booty to be got here among the hills; and whether the soldiers belong to the well-trained battalions of Chili, or the wretched levies of Peru, they are always prepared, for plunder-- ready to make hay while the sun shines. I only hope, Senhor Armstrong, that--but come, let us advance and see before the sun sets." Turning abruptly as he spoke, the man mounted his mule and rode briskly up the winding road, followed by the Indian girl and our Englishman. At the second turning of the road they reached a spot where an opening in the hills revealed the level country below, stretching away into illimitable distance. As had been anticipated, they here came upon the mills they were in quest of. The Peruvian reined up abruptly and looked back. "I feared as much," he said in a low tone as the Englishman rode forward. Rendered anxious by the man's manner, Lawrence Armstrong sprang from his mule and pushed forward, but suddenly stopped and stood with clasped hands and a gaze of agony. For there stood the ruins of his early home--where his mother had died while he was yet a child, where his father had made a fortune, which, in his desolation, he had failed to enjoy, and where he finally died, leaving his possessions to his only child. The troops had visited the spot, fired no doubt with patriotic fervour and knowing its owner to be wealthy. They had sacked the place, feasted on the provisions, drunk the wines, smashed up, by way of pleasantry, all the valuables that were too heavy to carry away, and, finally, setting fire to the place, had marched off to other fields of "glory." It was a tremendous blow to poor Lawrence, coming as he did fresh from college in a peaceful land, and full of the reminiscences of childhood. Sitting down on a broken wall, he bowed his head and wept bitterly-- though silently--while the Peruvian, quietly retiring with the Indian girl, left him alone. The first paroxysm of grief over, young Armstrong rose, and began sadly to wander about the ruins. It had been an extensive structure, fitted with all the most approved appliances of mechanism which wealth could purchase. These now helped to enhance the wild aspect of the wreck, for iron girders had been twisted by the action of fire into snake-like convolutions in some places, while, in others, their ends stuck out fantastically from the blackened walls. Beautiful furniture had been smashed up to furnish firewood for the cooking of the meal with which the heroic troops had refreshed themselves before leaving, while a number of broken wine-bottles at the side of a rosewood writing-desk with an empty bottle on the top of it and heaps of stones and pebbles around, suggested the idea that the warriors had mingled light amusement with sterner business. The roofs of most of the buildings had fallen in; the window-frames, where spared by the fire, had been torn out; and a pianoforte, which lay on its back on the grass, showed evidence of having undergone an examination of its internal arrangements, with the aid of the butt-ends of muskets. "And this is the result of war!" muttered the young man, at last breaking silence. "Only one phase of it," replied a voice at his side, in tones of exceeding bitterness; "you must imagine a few corpses of slaughtered men and women and children, if you would have a perfect picture of war." The speaker was the Peruvian, who had quietly approached to say that if they wished to reach the next resting-place before dark it was necessary to proceed without delay. "But perhaps," he added, "you do not intend to go further. No doubt this was to have been the end of your journey had all been well. It can scarcely, I fear, be the end of it now. I do not wish to intrude upon your sorrows, Mr Armstrong, but my business will not admit of delay. I must push on, yet I would not do so without expressing my profound sympathy, and offering to aid you if it lies in my power." There was a tone and look about the man which awoke a feeling of gratitude and confidence in the forlorn youth's heart. "You are very kind," he said, "but it is not in the power of man to help me. As your business is urgent you had better go and leave me. I thank you for the sympathy you express--yet stay. You cannot advance much further to-night, why not encamp here? There used to be a small hut or out-house not far-off, in which my father spent much of his leisure. Perhaps the--the--" "Patriots!" suggested the Peruvian. "The scoundrels," said Lawrence, "may have spared or overlooked it. The hut would furnish shelter enough, and we have provisions with us." After a moment's reflection the Peruvian assented to this proposal, and, leaving the ruins together, they returned to the road, where they found the Indian girl holding the youth's mule as well as that of her companion. Hastening forward, Lawrence apologised for having in the agitation of the moment allowed his mule to run loose. "But I forgot," he added, "of course you do not understand English." "Try Spanish," suggested the Peruvian, "she knows a little of that." "Unfortunately I have forgotten the little that I had picked up here when a boy," returned Lawrence, as he mounted, "if I can manage to ask for food and lodging in that tongue, it is all that I can do." They soon reached an opening in the bushes at the roadside, and, at the further end of a natural glade or track, observed a small wooden hut thatched with rushes. Towards this young Armstrong led the way. He was evidently much affected, for his lips were compressed, and he gave no heed to a remark made by his companion. Entering the hut, he stood for some time looking silently round. It was but a poor place with bare walls; a carpenter's bench in one corner, near to it a smith's forge, one or two chairs, and a few tools;--not much to interest a stranger but to Lawrence full of tender associations. "It was here," he said in tones of deepest pathos, "that my father showed me how to handle tools, and my mother taught me to read from the Word of God." Looking at his companions he observed that the large dark eyes of the Indian girl were fixed on him with an expression of unmistakable sympathy. He felt grateful at the moment, for to most men sympathy is sweet when unobtrusively offered whether it come from rich or poor-- civilised or savage. "Come, this will do," said the Peruvian, looking round, "if you will kindle a fire on the forge, Senhor Armstrong, Manuela will arrange a sleeping chamber for herself in the closet I see there, while I look after the beasts." He spoke in cheering tones, which had the effect of rousing the poor youth somewhat from his despondency. "Well, then," he replied, "let us to work, and it is but just, as we are to sup together, and you know my name, that I should be put on an equal footing with yourself--" "Impossible!" interrupted the other, with a slight curl of his moustache, "for as I am only six feet one, and you are at least six feet four, we can never be on an equal footing." "Nay, but I referred to names, not to inches. Pray, by what name shall I call you?" "Pedro," returned the Spaniard. "I am known by several names in these parts--some of them complimentary, others the reverse, according as I am referred to by friends or foes. Men often speak of me as a confirmed rover because of my wandering tendencies, but I'm not particular and will answer to any name you choose, so long as it is politely uttered. The one I prefer is Pedro." He went out as he spoke to look after the mules, while Lawrence set about kindling a small fire and otherwise making preparations for supper. The Indian girl, Manuela, with that prompt and humble obedience characteristic of the race to which she belonged, had gone at once into the little closet which her companion had pointed out, and was by that time busily arranging it as a sleeping chamber for the night. CHAPTER TWO. COMPACT WITH THE NEW FRIEND AND DISCOVERY OF AN OLD ONE. Keeping the fire low in order to prevent its being seen by any of the wandering bands of patriots--_alias_ soldiers, _alias_ banditti--who might chance to be in the neighbourhood, the three travellers thus thrown unexpectedly together ate their supper in comparative silence, Lawrence and Pedro exchanging a comment on the viands now and then, and the handsome Indian girl sitting opposite to them with her eyes for the most part fixed on the ground, though now and then she raised them to take a quick stealthy glance at the huge youth whose appetite did not seem to be greatly affected by his misfortunes. Perhaps she was wondering whether all Englishmen, possessed such innocent kindly faces and such ungainly though powerful frames. It may be that she was contrasting him with the handsome well-knit Pedro at his side. Whatever her thoughts might have been, the short glances of her lustrous eyes gave no clue to them, and her tongue was silent, save when she replied by some brief monosyllable to a remark or query put in the Indian language occasionally by Pedro. Sometimes a gleam of the firelight threw her fine brown features into bold relief, but on these occasions, when Lawrence Armstrong chanced to observe them, they conveyed no expression whatever save that of profound gravity, with a touch, perhaps, of sadness. The bench being awkwardly situated for a table, they had arranged a small box, bottom up, instead. Lawrence and his new acquaintance seated themselves on the ground, and Manuela used her saddle as a chair. Towards the end of their meal the two men became more communicative, and when Pedro had lighted a cigarette, they began to talk of their immediate future. "You don't smoke?" remarked Pedro in passing. "No," replied Lawrence. "Not like the most of your countrymen," said the other. "So much the worse," rejoined the youth. "The worse for them or for you--which?" asked Pedro, with a significant glance. "No matter," returned Lawrence with a laugh. "Well, now," resumed Pedro, after a few puffs, during the emission of which his countenance assumed the expression of seriousness, which seemed most natural to it, "what do you intend to do? It is well to have that point fairly settled to-night, so that there may be no uncertainty or delay in the morning. I would not urge the question were it not that in the morning we must either go on together as travelling companions, or say our final adieux and part. I am not in the habit of prying into men's private affairs, but, to speak the bare truth, I am naturally interested in one whose father has on more than one occasion done me good service. You need not answer me unless you please, senhor," added the man with the air of one who is prepared to retire upon his dignity at a moment's notice. "Thanks, thanks, Pedro," said the Englishman, heartily, "I appreciate your kindness, and accept your sympathy with gratitude. Moreover, I am glad to find that I have been thrown at such a crisis in my fortunes into the company of one who had regard for my dear father. But I scarce know what to do. I will give you my confidence unreservedly. Perhaps you may be able to advise--" "Stay," interrupted the other, on whose countenance a slightly stern expression hovered. "Before you give me unreserved confidence, it is but fair that I should tell you candidly that I cannot pay you back in kind. As to private matters, I have none that would be likely to interest any one under the sun. In regard to other things--my business is not my own. Why I am here and what I mean to do I have no right to reveal. Whither I am bound, however, is not necessarily a secret, and if you choose to travel with me you undoubtedly have a right to know." Young Armstrong expressed himself satisfied. He might have wished to know more, but, like Pedro, he had no desire to pry into other men's affairs, and, being of an open confiding nature, was quite ready to take his companion on trust, even though he had been less candid and engaging in manner than he was. After explaining that he had been educated in Edinburgh, and trained to the medical profession, he went on to say that he had been hastily summoned to take charge of the sugar-mill at his father's death, and that he had expected to find an old overseer, who would have instructed him in all that he had to do in a business with which he was totally unacquainted. "You see," he continued, "my father always said that he meant to retire on his fortune, and did not wish me to carry on the business, but, being naturally an uncommunicative man on business matters, he never gave me any information as to details. Of course, I had expected that his manager here, and his books, would reveal all that I required to know, but the soldiers have settled that question. Mill and books have gone together, and as to manager, clerks, and servants, I know not where they are." "Scattered, no doubt," said Pedro, "here, there, and everywhere--only too glad to escape from a neighbourhood which has been given up to fire and sword by way of improving its political condition!" "I know not," returned Lawrence, sadly. "But it would be useless, I fear, to try to ferret them out." "Quite useless," said Pedro. "Besides, what would it avail to talk with any of them about the affairs of a place that is now in ashes? But if your father spoke of his fortune, he must have had at least some of it in a bank somewhere." "True, but I don't know where. All I know is that he once mentioned casually in one of his letters that he was going to Buenos Ayres, where he had some property." "Indeed!" exclaimed Pedro. "Come, that may help you to decide, for I am myself going to Buenos Ayres, and can guide you there if disposed to go. Only, you will have to make up your mind to a pretty long and hard journey, for duty requires me to go by a devious route. You must know," he continued, lighting another cigarette, "that I am pledged to take that girl to her father, who lives not far from Buenos Ayres." He pointed as he spoke to Manuela, who, having laid her head on her saddle, appeared to have fallen asleep. "Her father must be a chief, I should think, to judge from her dignified, graceful carriage, as well as her fine features," said Lawrence in a low tone. "Yes, he is a chief--a great chief," returned Pedro, gazing at his cigarette in a meditative mood--"a very great chief. You see, she happened to be living with friends on the western side of the mountains when this war between Chili and Peru broke out, and her father naturally wants to get her out of danger. The old chief once saved my life, so, you see, I am bound both by duty and gratitude to rescue his daughter." "Indeed you are, and a pleasant duty it must be," returned Lawrence with an approving nod; "but don't you think it might have been wise to have rescued some other female, a domestic for instance, to keep her company? The poor girl will feel very lonely on such a long journey as you speak of." Pedro again looked musingly at his cigarette, and flipped off the ash with his little finger. "You have not had much experience of war, young man," he said, "if you think that in cases of rescue men can always arrange things comfortably, and according to the rules of propriety. When towns and villages are in flames, when plunder and rapine run riot everywhere, and little children are spitted on the bayonets of patriots, as is often the case even in what men have agreed to term civilised warfare, one is glad to escape with the skin of one's teeth. Yet I was not as regardless of Manuela's comfort as you seem to think. A poor woman who had nursed her when a child volunteered to accompany us, and continued with us on the first part of our journey; but the exertion, as I had feared, was too much for her. She caught a fever and died, so that we were forced to come on alone. If you join us, however, I shall be greatly pleased, for two can always make a better fight than one, and in these unsettled times there is no saying what we may fall in with in crossing the mountains." "But why expose the poor girl to such risks?" asked Lawrence. "Surely there must be some place of safety nearer than Buenos Ayres, to which you might conduct her?" "Senhor Armstrong," replied the man, with a return of his stern expression, "I have told you that my business is urgent. Not even the rescue of my old friend's daughter can turn me aside from it. When Manuela begged me to take her with me, I pointed out the difficulties and dangers of the route, and the necessity for my pursuing a long and devious course, but she said she feared to remain where she was; that, being young, strong, and accustomed to an active life, she felt sure she was equal to the journey; that she could trust me, and that she knew her father would approve of her taking the step. I agreed, with some hesitation. It turned out that the girl was right in her fears, for before we left the town it was attacked by the troops of Chili. The Peruvians made but a poor resistance, and it was carried by assault. When I saw that all hope of saving the place was gone, I managed to bring Manuela and her nurse away in safety. As I have told you, the nurse died, and now--here we are alone. Manuela chooses to run the risk. I will not turn aside from my duty. If you choose to join us, the girl will be safer--at least until we cross the mountains. On the other side I shall be joined by friends, if need be." Pedro ceased, and rekindled his cigarette, which had gone out during the explanation. "I will go with you," said Lawrence, with decision, as he extended his hand. "Good," replied Pedro, grasping it with a hearty squeeze; "now I shall have no fears for our little Indian, for robbers are cowards as a rule." "Have we, then, much chance of meeting with robbers?" "Well, I should say we have little chance of altogether escaping them, for in times of war there are always plenty of deserters and other white-livered scoundrels who seize the opportunity to work their will. Besides, there are some noted outlaws in the neighbourhood of the pass we are going to cross. There's Conrad of the Mountains, for instance. You've heard of him?" "No, never." "Ah, senhor, that proves you to be a stranger here, for his name is known from the Atlantic to the Pacific--chiefly, however, on the east side of the Cordillera, and on the Pampas. He is an outlaw--at least he is said to be so; but one cannot believe all one hears. Some say that he is cruel, others that he is ferocious among men, but never hurts women or children." "Well, it is to be hoped we may not fall in with him, or any of his band," said Lawrence; "for it is better to hear of his qualities than to put them to the test." "Yet, methinks," resumed Pedro, "if you fell in with him alone you should have no cause to fear him, for you must be more than his match." "I don't think I should fear him," returned Lawrence, with a simple look. "As to being more than his match, I know not, for my spirit does not prompt me to light, and I cannot boast of much capacity in the use of arms--unless you count my good oak-cudgel a weapon. I have acquired some facility in the use of that, having practised singlestick as an amusement at school." As he spoke, the youth was surprised and somewhat startled by his companion suddenly drawing a pistol from his belt, and pointing it steadily at the open doorway of the hut. Turning his eyes quickly in that direction, he beheld, with increased astonishment, a pair of glaring eyes, two rows of glittering teeth, and a pair of thick red lips! The flesh which united these striking objects was all but invisible, by reason of its being nearly as black as its background. Most eyes, if human, would have got away from a pistol's line of fire with precipitancy, but the eyes referred to did not disappear. On the contrary, they paid no regard whatever to the owner of the pistol, but continued to glare steadily at Lawrence Armstrong. Seeing this, Pedro hesitated to pull the trigger. He was quick to defend himself, but not prompt to kill. When he saw that the eyes slowly advanced out of the gloom, that they with the lips and teeth belonged to a negro who advanced into the room unarmed and with outspread hands, he quietly lowered his weapon, and glanced at Lawrence. No doubt Pedro felt, as he certainly looked, perplexed, when he observed that Lawrence returned the intruder's gaze with almost equal intensity. Suddenly the negro sprang towards the Englishman. He was a short, thick-set, and exceedingly powerful man; yet Lawrence made no move to defend himself. "Quashy!" he exclaimed, as the black fell on his knees, seized one of his hands, and covered it with kisses, at the same time bursting into tears. "Oh! massa Lawrie--oh! massa Lawrie, why you no come sooner? Why you so long? De sodger brutes nebber dar to touch de ole house if you was dere. Oh! Massa Lawrie, you's too late--too late!--My! how you's growed!" In the midst of his sobs the young negro, for he was little more than a youth, drew back his head to obtain a better view of his old companion and playmate. Need we say that Lawrence reciprocated the affection of the man? "He was a boy like myself when I was here," said Lawrence in explanation to the amused Peruvian. "His father was one of my father's most attached servants, whom he brought from Kentucky on his way to this land, and to whom he gave his freedom. Quashy himself used to be my playmate.--But tell me about the attack on the mill, Quash. Were you present?" "Prisint! You bery sure I was, an' I poke some holes in de varmints 'fore dey hoed away." "And how did you escape, Quash? Come, sit down and tell me all about it." The negro willingly complied. Meanwhile the Indian girl, who had been roused by his sudden entrance, resumed her seat on the saddle, and, looking intently into his black face, seemed to try to gather from the expression of his features something of what he said. We need not repeat the story. It was a detailed account of murder and destruction; the burning of the place and the scattering of the old servants. Fortunately Lawrence had no relatives to deplore. "But don't you know where any of the household have gone?" he asked, when the excited negro paused to recover breath. "Don't know nuffin'. Arter I poke de holes in de scoundrils, I was 'bleeged to bolt. When I come back, de ole house was in flames, an' eberybody gone--what wasn't dead. I hollered--ay, till I was a'most busted--but nobody reply. Den I bury de dead ones, an' I've hoed about eber since slobberin' an' wringin' my hands." "Was our old clerk among the slain?" asked Lawrence. "No, massa, but I tinks he's a dead one now, for he too ole to run far." "And I suppose you can't even guess where any of those who escaped went to?" "Couldn't guess more nor a Red Injin's noo-born babby." "Quashy," said Lawrence in a low voice, "be careful how you speak of Indians." He glanced, as he spoke, at Manuela, who now sat with grave face and downcast eyes, having apparently found that the human countenance, however expressive, failed to make up for the want of language. And, truly, Quashy's countenance was unwontedly mobile and expressive. Every feature seemed to possess the power of independently betraying the thoughts and feelings of the man, so that when they all united for that end the effect was marvellous. Emotional, and full of quick sympathy, Quashy's visage changed from grave to gay, pitiful to fierce, humorous to savage, at a moment's notice. When, therefore, he received the gentle rebuke above referred to, his animated countenance assumed a sudden aspect of utter woe and self-condemnation that may be conceived but cannot be described, and when Lawrence gave vent to a short laugh at the unexpected change, Quashy's eyes glistened with an arch look, and his mouth expanded from ear to ear. And what an expansion that was, to be sure! when you take into account the display of white teeth and red gums by which it was accompanied. "Well, now, Quash," resumed Lawrence, "what did you do after that?" "Arter what, massa?" "After finding that slobbering and wringing your hands did no good." "Oh! arter dat, I not know what to do, an' den I tried to die--I _was_ so mis'rable. But I couldn't. You've no notion how hard it is to die when you wants to. Anyhow I couldn't manage it, so I gib up tryin'." At this point Manuela rose, and, bidding Pedro good-night in the Indian tongue, passed into her little chamber and shut the door. "And what do you intend to do now, Quash?" asked Lawrence. "Stick to you, massa, troo t'ick an' t'in," returned the negro with emphatic promptitude, which caused even Pedro to laugh. "My poor fellow, that is impossible," said Lawrence, who then explained his position and circumstances, showing how it was that he had little money and no immediate prospect of obtaining any,--that, in short, he was about to start out in the wide world friendless and almost penniless to seek his fortune. To all of which the negro listened with a face so utterly devoid of expression of any kind that his old master and playmate could not tell how he took it. "And now," he asked in conclusion, "what say you to all that?" "Stick to you troo t'ick and t'in," repeated Quashy, in a tone of what might be styled sulky firmness. "But," said Lawrence, "I can't pay you any wages." "Don' want no wages," said Quashy. "Besides," resumed Lawrence, "even if I were willing to take you, Senhor Pedro might object." "I no care for Senhor Pedro one brass buttin," retorted the negro. The Peruvian smiled rather approvingly at this candid expression of opinion. "Where you gwine?" asked Quashy, abruptly. "To Buenos Ayres." "I's gwine to Bens Airies too. I's a free nigger, an' no mortial man kin stop me." As Quashy remained obdurate, and, upon consultation, Lawrence and Pedro came to the conclusion that such a sturdy, resolute fellow might be rather useful in the circumstances, it was finally arranged, to the poor fellow's inexpressible delight, that he should accompany them in their long journey to the far east. CHAPTER THREE. LINGUAL DIFFICULTIES ACCOMPANIED BY PHYSICAL DANGERS AND FOLLOWED BY THE ADVENT OF BANDITTI. After several days had passed away, our travellers found themselves among the higher passes of the great mountain range of the Andes. Before reaching that region, however, they had, in one of the villages through which they passed, supplied themselves each with a fresh stout mule, besides two serviceable animals to carry their provisions and camp equipage. Pedro, who of course rode ahead in the capacity of guide, seemed to possess an unlimited supply of cash, and Lawrence Armstrong had at least sufficient to enable him to bear his fair share of the expenses of the journey. As for Quashy, being a servant he had no expenses to bear. Of course the finest, as well as the best-looking, mule had been given to the pretty Manuela, and, despite the masculine attitude of her position, she sat and managed her steed with a grace of motion that might have rendered many a white dame envious. Although filled with admiration, Lawrence was by no means surprised, for he knew well that in the Pampas, or plains, to which region her father belonged, the Indians are celebrated for their splendid horsemanship. Indeed, their little children almost live on horseback, commencing their training long before they can mount, and overcoming the difficulty of smallness in early youth, by climbing to the backs of their steeds by means of a fore-leg, and not unfrequently by the tail. The costume of the girl was well suited to her present mode of life, being a sort of light tunic reaching a little below the knees, with loose leggings, which were richly ornamented with needlework. A straw hat with a simple feather, covered her head, beneath which her curling black hair flowed in unconfined luxuriance. She wore no ornament of any kind, and the slight shoes that covered her small feet were perfectly plain. In short, there was a modest simplicity about the girl's whole aspect and demeanour which greatly interested the Englishman, inducing him to murmur to himself, "What an uncommonly pretty girl she would be if she were only white!" The colour of her skin was, indeed, unusually dark, but that fact did not interfere with the classic delicacy of her features, or the natural sweetness of her expression. The order of progress in narrow places was such that Manuela rode behind Pedro and in front of Lawrence, Quashy bringing up the rear. In more open places the young Englishman used occasionally to ride up abreast of Manuela and endeavour to engage her in conversation. He was, to say truth, very much the reverse of what is styled a lady's man, and had all his life felt rather shy and awkward in female society, but being a sociable, kindly fellow, he felt it incumbent on him to do what in him lay to lighten the tedium of the long journey to one who, he thought, must naturally feel very lonely with no companions but men. "Besides," he whispered to himself, "she is only an Indian, and of course cannot construe my attentions to mean anything so ridiculous as love-making-- so, I will speak to her in a fatherly sort of way." Filled with this idea, as the party came out upon a wide and beautiful table-land, which seemed like a giant emerald set in a circlet of grand blue mountains, Lawrence pushed up alongside, and said-- "Poor girl, I fear that such prolonged riding over these rugged passes must fatigue you." Manuela raised her dark eyes to the youth's face, and, with a smile that was very slight--though not so slight but that it revealed a double row of bright little teeth--she replied softly-- "W'at you say?" "Oh! I forgot, you don't speak English. How stupid I am!" said Lawrence with a blush, for he was too young to act the "fatherly" part well. He felt exceedingly awkward, but, observing that the girl's eyes were again fixed pensively on the ground, he hoped that she had not noticed the blush, and attempted to repeat the phrase in Spanish. What he said it is not possible to set down in that tongue, nor can we gratify the reader with a translation. Whatever it was, Manuela replied by again raising her dark eyes for a moment--this time without a smile--and shaking her head. Poor Lawrence felt more awkward than ever. In despair he half thought of making trial of Latin or Greek, when Pedro came opportunely to the rescue. Looking back he began-- "Senhor Armstrong--" "I think," interrupted the youth, "that you may dispense with `Senhor.'" "Nay, I like to use it," returned the guide. "It reminds me so forcibly of the time when I addressed your good old father thus." "Well, Senhor Pedro, call me what you please. What were you about to say?" "Only that we are now approaching one of the dangerous passes of the mountains, where baggage-mules sometimes touch the cliffs with their packs, and so get tilted over the precipices. But our mules are quiet, and with ordinary care we have nothing to fear." The gorge in the mountains, which the travellers soon afterwards entered, fully justified the guide's expression "dangerous." It was a wild, rugged glen, high up on one side of which the narrow pathway wound--in some places rounding a cliff or projecting boulder, which rendered the passage of the baggage-mules extremely difficult. Indeed, one of the mules did slightly graze a rock with its burden; and, although naturally sure-footed, was so far thrown off its balance as to be within a hair's-breadth of tumbling over the edge and being dashed to pieces on the rocks below, where a turbulent river rushed tumultuously at the bottom of the glen. One of the snow-clad peaks of the higher Andes lay right before them. One or two guanacos--animals of the lama species--gazed at them from the other side of the gorge, and several ill-omened vultures wheeled in the sky above, as if anticipating a catastrophe which would furnish them with a glorious meal. "A most suitable place for the depredations of banditti, or fellows like Conrad of the Mountains, I should think," said Lawrence. "Bandits are sometimes met with here," returned Pedro, quietly. "And what if we should meet with such in a place where there is scarcely room to fight?" "Why then," returned the guide, with a slight curl of his moustache, "we should have to try who could fight best in the smallest space." "Not a pleasant prospect in the circumstances," said Lawrence, thinking of Manuela. For some time they rode together in silence; but Quashy, who had overheard, the conversation, and was of a remarkably combative disposition, though the reverse of bad-tempered or quarrelsome, could not refrain from asking-- "W'y de Guv'mint not hab lots ob sojers an' pleece in de mountains to squash de raskils?" "Because Government has enough to do to squash the rascals nearer home, Quashy," answered Pedro. "Have a care, the track gets rather steep here." He glanced over his shoulder at the Indian girl as he spoke. She was riding behind with an air of perfect ease and self-possession. "Fall to the rear, Quashy," said Pedro. The black obeyed at once, and a minute later they turned the corner of a jutting rock, which had hitherto shut out from view the lower part of the gorge and the track they were following. The sight that met their view was calculated to try the strongest nerves, for there, not a hundred paces in advance, and coming towards them, were ten of the most villainous-looking cut-throats that could be imagined, all mounted, and heavily armed with carbine, sword, and pistol. Taken completely by surprise, the bandits--for such Pedro knew them to be--pulled up. Not so our guide. It was one of the peculiarities and strong points of Pedro's character that he was never taken by surprise, or uncertain what to do. Instantly he drew his sword with one hand, a pistol with the other, and, driving his spurs deep into his mule, dashed down the steep road at the banditti. In the very act he looked back, and, in a voice that caused the echoes of the gorge to ring, shouted in Spanish-- "Come on, comrades! here they are at last! close up!" A yell of the most fiendish excitement and surprise from Quashy--who was only just coming into view--assisted the deception. If anything was wanting to complete the effect, it was the galvanic upheaval of Lawrence's long arms and the tremendous flourish of his longer legs, as he vaulted over his mule's head, left it scornfully behind, uttered a roar worthy of an African lion, and rushed forward on foot. He grasped his great cudgel, for sword and pistol had been utterly forgotten! Like a human avalanche they descended on the foe. That foe did not await the onset. Panic-stricken they turned and went helter-skelter down the pass--all except two, who seemed made of sterner stuff than their fellows, and hesitated. One of these Pedro rode fairly down, and sent, horse and all, over the precipice. Lawrence's cudgel beat down the guard of the other, flattened his sombrero, and stopping only at his skull, stretched him on the ground. As for those who had fled, the appalling yells of Quashy, as he pursued them, scattered to the winds any fag-ends of courage they might have possessed, and effectually prevented their return. So tremendous and sudden was the result, that Manuela felt more inclined to laugh than cry, though naturally a good deal frightened. Lawrence and Pedro were standing in consultation over the fallen bandit when the negro came back panting from the chase. "Da's wan good job dooed, anyhow," he said. "What's you be do wid _him_?" "What would you recommend?" asked Pedro. The negro pointed significantly to the precipice, but the guide shook his head. "No, I cannot kill in cold blood, though I have no doubt he richly deserves it. We'll bind his hands and leave him. It may be weakness on my part, but we can't take him on, you know." While Pedro was in the act of binding the robber, a wild shriek, as of some one in terrible agony, startled them. Looking cautiously over the precipice, where the sound seemed to come from, they saw that the man whom Pedro had ridden down was hanging over the abyss by the boughs of a small shrub. His steed lay mangled on the rocks of the river bank at the bottom. There was an agonised expression in the man's countenance which would have touched a heart much less soft than that of Lawrence Armstrong. Evidently the man's power of holding on was nearly exhausted, and he could not repress a shriek at the prospect of the terrible death which seemed so imminent. Being a practised mountaineer, Lawrence at once, without thought of personal danger, and moved only by pity, slipped over the crags, and, descending on one or two slight projections, the stability of which even a Swiss goat might have questioned, reached the bush. A look of fierce and deadly hate was on the robber's face, for, judging of others by himself, he thought, no doubt, that his enemy meant to hasten his destruction. "Here, catch hold--I'll save you!" cried Lawrence, extending his strong right hand. A glance of surprise told that he was understood. The bandit let go the hold of one of his hands and made a convulsive grasp at his rescuer. Their fingers touched, but at the same moment the branch gave way, and, with a cry of wild despair, the wretched man went headlong down. Not, however, to destruction. The effort he had made threw him slightly to one side of the line which his horse had taken in its fall. The difference was very slight indeed, yet it sufficed to send him towards another bush lower down the cliff. Still, the height he had to fall would have ensured the breaking of all his bones if the bush had not hurled him off with a violent rebound. Lawrence almost felt giddy with horror. Next moment a heavy plunge was heard. The man had fallen into a deep dark pool in the river, which was scarce distinguishable from the cliffs above. Being fringed with bushes, it was impossible to note whether he rose again. Lawrence was still gazing anxiously at the pool, when something touched his cheek. It was a lasso which Pedro had quietly dropped over his shoulders. "Hold fast to it, senhor, you'll never get up without it," he said, in tones so earnest that the youth became suddenly alive to the great danger of his position. In the haste and anxiety of his descent he had failed to note that one or two of the slight projections on which he had placed his feet had broken away, and that therefore a return to the top of the almost perpendicular precipice by the same route was impracticable. Even the slight ledge on which he stood, and from which the little shrub grew, seemed to be crumbling away beneath his great weight. With that feeling of alarm which the sudden and unexpected prospect of instant death brings, we presume, even to the stoutest hearts, Lawrence clutched the line convulsively. He was ignorant at that time of the great strength of the South American lasso, and hesitated to trust his life entirely to it. Pedro guessed his feelings. "Don't fear to trust it," he said, "many a wild bull it has held, four times your size; but wait till Quashy and I get our feet well fixed-- we'll haul you up easily." "Have you made the end fast?" cried Lawrence, looking up and encountering the anxious gaze of the Indian maiden. "Yes, massa, all fast," answered Quashy, whose look of horror can be more easily imagined than described. "Hold on, then, and _don't_ haul." The two men obeyed, and the active youth pulled himself up hand over hand, making good use in passing of any hollow or projection that afforded the slightest hold for his toes. At the top he was roughly grasped by his rescuers and dragged into safety. "Poor fellow!" he exclaimed, on reaching the top. "Well, massa," said Quashy, with a broad grin, "das jist w'at I's agwine to say, but you's too quick for me." "I meant the bandit, not myself," said Lawrence, looking over the cliff at the pool with an expression of great pity. "Ha! don't be uneasy about him," said Pedro, with a short laugh, as he resumed the binding of the stunned robber. "If he's killed or drowned he's well out o' the way. If he has escaped he'll be sure to recover and make himself a pest to the neighbourhood for many a day to come.-- No, no, my good man, it's of no use, you needn't try it." The latter part of this speech was in Spanish, and addressed to the robber, who, having recovered consciousness, had made a sudden struggle to shake off his captor. As suddenly he ceased the effort on finding that the strength of the guide was greatly superior to his own. In another minute Pedro stood up, having bound the bandit's hands in front of him in a manner that rendered any effort at self-liberation impossible--at least in a short space of time. "There," said Pedro to Lawrence, "I'll warrant him to lead a harmless life until to-morrow at any rate." As he spoke he drew the man's pistols, knife, and carbine, and handed them to Quashy. "There," he said, "you may find these useful." Meanwhile the robber lay quietly on his back, glancing from one to another of the party with looks of hatred that told clearly enough how he would have acted had he been free. Turning to him as he was about to remount and quit the scene, Pedro said very sternly in Spanish-- "You and I have met before, friend, and you know my powers with the rifle at long-range. If you offer to rise from the spot where you now lie until we have disappeared round that rocky point half a mile along the road, you are a dead man. After we have turned the point, you may go where you will and do what you please. I might point out that in refraining from cutting your throat I am showing mercy which you don't deserve--but it is useless to throw pearls to swine." The man spoke no word of reply, though he did look a little surprised as the party left him and rode away. "Would it not have been safer to have bound his hands behind his back?" asked Lawrence. "No doubt it would, but he is secure enough for our purpose as he is. If I had bound him as you suggest, he would have been almost certain to perish, being quite unable to help himself. As it is, he can use his tied hands to some extent, and, by perseverance in sawing the lines against sharp rocks, he will set himself free at last. By that time, however, we shall be beyond his reach." From time to time they all glanced over their shoulders as they rode along, but the bound man did not stir. After they had passed beyond the point of rock before referred to, Lawrence's curiosity prompted him to turn back and peep round. The bandit had already risen from the ground, and could be seen walking, as quickly as circumstances permitted, up the track by which they had just descended. In a few minutes his tall figure was seen to pause for a brief space at the summit of the pass. Then it disappeared on the other side into the gloomy recesses of the mountains. CHAPTER FOUR. IN WHICH QUASHY IS COMMUNICATIVE AND AN ENEMY IS TURNED INTO A FRIEND. The pass which our travellers had just crossed merely led them over a mountain chain which may be described as the Peruvian Cordillera. Beyond it lay a fruitful valley of considerable extent, which terminated at the base of the great range, or backbone, of the Andes. Beyond this again lay another valley of greater extent than the first, which was bounded by a third range or cordillera of inferior height, the eastern slopes of which descended on one hand in varying undulations to the dense forests of equatorial Brazil, on the other, by easy gradations to the level Pampas or plains which extend for hundreds of miles through the lands of the Argentine Confederation to the Atlantic. Two mountain passes, therefore, were still to be crossed, and Lawrence Armstrong began to think that if things went on as they had begun a pretty lively experience probably lay before them. But in this he was mistaken, at least as regarded banditti, though in some other respects the journey was not quite devoid of stirring incidents--as we shall see. We have said that the good-nature of the young Englishman induced him to attempt conversation with the Indian girl, and at first Manuela appeared to be amused, if not interested, by his unsuccessful efforts; but after one of these futile attempts Pedro made some remarks to the girl in the Indian tongue, and in a tone of remonstrance, which had the effect of rendering her more silent and grave than before. Lawrence, therefore, finally ceased to address her, though his natural gallantry prompted him to offer assistance when it seemed necessary, and to accost her with a hearty good-night and good-morning each day. As Pedro, in his capacity of guide, usually rode a few paces in advance, and was frequently in a silent, abstracted mood, Lawrence was thus thrown almost entirely on the negro for companionship. Although the young Englishman may not have estimated his company very highly, nothing could have been more satisfactory to Quashy, who, with delight expressed in every wrinkle and lineament of his black visage, fully availed himself of his opportunities. "O Massa Lawrie!" he exclaimed, at the close of one of their conversations, "how I does lub to talk ob de ole times when me an' you was play togidder!" "Yes, it's very nice to recall old times," answered Lawrence, with a half-suppressed yawn, for they had by that time gone over the old times so often that the novelty had rather worn off. "Yes, bery nice," repeated Quashy, with gleaming eyes, "when I tink ob de ole fadder an' de ole mill an' de ole fun what me an' you carried on--oh! my heart goes like to bu'st." "Don't let it bu'st here, whatever you do, Quashy, for you'll need all the heart you possess to carry you safely over these mountain passes." Quashy opened his huge mouth, shut his eyes, and went off in a high falsetto--his usual mode of laughing. He always laughed at Lawrence's little jokes, whether good or bad, insomuch that the youth finally abstained from jesting as much as possible. "I did not know," continued Lawrence, "that there were so many robbers about. Pedro tells me that the mountains are swarming with them just now." "Ho yis, massa, plenty ob rubbers eberywhar," said Quashy, with a nod, "more nor 'nuff ob dem. You see, massa, Chili an' Proo's a-fightin' wid each oder jus' now. What dey's fightin' about no mortial knows; an', what's more, nobody cares. I s'pose one say de oder's wrong an' de oder say de one's say not right. Bof say das a big lie so at it dey goes hammer an' tongs to prove--ha! ha! to prove dey's bof right. Oh my!" Here the negro opened his cavernous jaws and gave vent to another explosion of shrill laughter. "What fools dey is!" "Then you think it is only fools who fight, Quashy?" "Ob coorse, massa. Don' you see, if dey wasn't fools dey wouldn't fight; 'cause fightin' can't prove nuffin', an' it can't do nuffin', 'cep' waste life an' money. No doubt," added the negro, with a meditative gaze at the ground, "when rubbers come at a feller he's boun' to fight, for why? he can't help it; or when Red Injin savages--" "Have a care, Quashy, what you say about Indians. I've warned you once already." "O massa!" said the poor black, with a look of almost superhuman penitence, "I beg your pard'n. I's quite forgit to remimber. I was just agwine to say that there _is_ times when you _mus'_ fight. But isn't Chili Christ'n, an' isn't P'roo Christ'n? I don' bleeve in Christ'ns what cut each oder's t'roats to prove dey's right. Howsever, das noting. What I's agwine to say is--dars a lot o' white livers on bof sides, an' dese dey runs away, takes to de mountains and becomes rubbers. But dey's not all bad alike, dough none of em's good. You's heer'd ob Conrad ob de Mountains, massa?" "Yes, Pedro mentioned his name. He seems to be a celebrated bandit." "Well, I's not sure. Some peepil say he's not a rubber at all, but a good sort o' feller as goes mad sometimes. He's bery kind to women an' child'n, but he's bery awrful." "That's a strange character. How do you know he's so very awful, Quashy?" "Because I seed 'im, massa." "Indeed, where?" "On de plains ob Proo, massa," replied the negro, with that self-satisfied clearing of the throat which was usually the prelude to a long story. "Come now, Quashy," said Lawrence, with a laugh, "don't be too long-winded, and don't exaggerate." "Don't ex-what-gerate, massa?" "Exaggerate." "What's dat, massa?" "Never mind, Quashy--go on." With a genial and highly exaggerated smile, the negro proceeded:-- "Well, as I was agwine to say, I see dis man, Conrad ob de Mountains, on de plains ob Proo. I's in de Proo camp at de time, attendin' on you's fadder, an' de army ob Chili was in front ob us on de slopes ob de hills, agwine to go in for a fight wid us. De sojers of Proo wasn't bery keen for fightin'. I could see dat, but their gin'ral screwed 'em up to de pint, an' dey was all ready, when all of a sudden, we sees a pris'ner brought in by four sojers. Dey seem so 'fraid ob him dey darn't touch him, tho' he was unarmed. Two walked behind him, an' two walked in front ob 'im, all wid dere baynets pintin' at 'im, ready to skewer 'im all round if he was try to run. But, poor chap, he walk wid his head down, bery sad-like--nebber t'inkin' ob runnin'. So dey druv' 'im up to our gin'ral. I was in a crowd o' tall fellers, an' de pris'ner had his back to me, so I not seed his face well. `Das Conrad ob de Mountains dey've cotched,' says a feller near me. `Listen!' We all listen'd so quiet you could hear a 'skito sneeze. `What's you' name?' asks de gin'ral, ridin' close up to Conrad on his splendid war-hoss--a child ob one ob de war-hosses as come ober wid Pizarro from Spain. `My name's Pumpkin,' answers de pris'ner. `Das a lie!' says de gin'ral. `No's not,' says Conrad, lookin' up, as I could see by de back ob his head. `What side you b'longs to, raskil?' `To no side, gin'ral.' `Whar you come fro'?' `Fro' de mountains, gin'r'l.' `Whar you go to?' `Ober de mountains, gin'ral.' I could see by de way de fedders in de gin'ral's hat shake dat he's gittin' in a wax at de cool imprence ob de pris'ner, but he 'strain hisself, an' spoke sarkmustic. `Senhor Pumpkin,' says he, `you are Conrad ob de Mountains,'--('cause he guess who he was by dat time); `how you prepose to go ober de mountains?' `Dis way!' says Conrad, an', nixt momint, up goes de gin'ral's leg, down goes his head an' fedders on de ground, and Conrad sits in de saddle afore you can wink. All round de baynets was charge, but dey haul up jist in time not to skewer one anoder, for de horse shotted out fro' between dem all, an' away straight to de Chili lines, whar dere was a great cheerin', for dey t'ought it was a deserter. When Conrad came up, he trotted quietly troo de ranks, till he got near to whar de Chili commander stood wid his hofficers, wonderin' who he was. As he couldn't 'spec' to git no furder, he rides quietly up to a hofficer, takes de sword out ob his hand afore he understand what he wants, den, diggin' de spurs into de big war-hoss, off he goes wid a yell like a Red Inj--oh! I's mean like a--a buff'lo bull. Out comes de swords. Dey close all round 'im. I no see him by dat time. He too fur off; but a friend ob mine was near, an' he say dat Conrad swing de long sword so quick, an' de sun was shinin' so clar, dat it look like a circle ob fire all round him. Down dey hoed on ebery side. Off goed a head here, an arm dere. One trooper cut troo at de waist, an' fall'd off, but de legs stick on. Anoder splitted right down fro' de helmet, so as one half fall on one side, an' de odour half fall--" "Come now, Quashy," interrupted Lawrence, with a laugh, "you exaggerate." "What! you call _dat_ exaggerate, massa? Den Conrad exaggerate about ten more afore he cut his way troo an' 'scaped to de hills. Oh, he's an awrful man!" "Truly he must be very awful, if all you relate of him be true," said Lawrence; "and I sincerely trust that if we fall in with him we may find him friendly. Now, I shall ride forward, and ask Pedro if we are far from our halting-place." This abrupt change of subject was usually understood by the amiable negro to mean that our hero--whom he persisted in regarding as his master--had had enough of his conversation at that time, so he reined back his mule, while Lawrence pushed forward. To his question Pedro replied that he expected to reach the next sleeping-place very soon. "It will not be as luxurious as the last," he said; "but, doubtless, one who has traversed the mountains of Scotland is prepared to rough it in South America." "You speak as if you were yourself somewhat acquainted with the Scottish mountains." "So I am, senhor," replied the guide. "I had clambered up Ben Nevis while I was yet a little boy." "Surely you are not a Scot?" said Lawrence, with a quick glance. "No, I am not a Scot, senhor. To have travelled in a country does not render one a native, else might I claim England, Ireland, and Switzerland as my native lands. See, yonder lies the little farm where I hope to put up for the night." He pointed as he spoke to the head of the glen or valley, which was somewhat narrower and more gloomy than the vales through which they had ridden in the earlier part of the day. Since crossing the first cordillera on the Pacific side of the Andes they had, indeed, traversed a great variety of country. In some places the land was rocky and comparatively barren. In others, where the peculiar form of the mountains sheltered the table-lands, the country was fertile, and numerous farms dotted the landscape, but as they ascended higher on the main chain the farms became fewer, until they finally disappeared, and an occasional hut, with a mere patch of cultivated ground, was all that remained in the vast solitudes to tell of the presence of man. It was to one of these huts that Pedro now directed his companion's attention. "A most suitable place for the abode of banditti," remarked Lawrence, as they advanced up the winding path. "And many a time do the bandits lodge there," returned Pedro. "Of course, robbers of the Andes do not go about with placards on their backs announcing their profession to all the world, and, as long as they behave themselves, farmers are bound to regard them as honest men." "You said, if I heard rightly," observed Lawrence, "that you had formerly met with the rascal whom we let off the other day." "Yes, I know him well. One of the worst men in the land. I'm almost sorry we did not shoot him, but I never could take human life in cold blood, even when that life had been forfeited over and over again. However, he's sure to get his deserts sooner or later." "Then he is not Conrad of the Mountains whom you mentioned to me lately?" "No, Conrad is a very different stamp of man--though he has not too much to boast of in the way of character if all that's said of him be true. The man we let go is a gaucho of the Pampas named Cruz. He delights in war, and has fought in the armies of Chili, Peru, and the Argentine Confederation without much regard to the cause of quarrel. In fact, wherever fighting is going on Cruz is sure to be there. Lately he has taken to the mountains, and now fights for his own hand." "And the other poor fellow who went over the precipice," asked Lawrence, "did you know him?" "I knew him slightly. Antonio is his name, I think, but he is a villain of no note--an inferior bandit, though quite equal to his captain, no doubt, in selfishness and cruelty." On arriving at the hut or small farm at the head of the valley, they found its owner, a burly, good-humoured Creole, alone with his mother, an old woman whose shrivelled-up appearance suggested the idea of a mummy partially thawed into life. She was busy cooking over a small fire, the smoke of which seemed congenial to her--judging from the frequency with which she thrust her old head into it while inspecting the contents of an iron pot. There was plenty of room for them, the host said, with an air of profound respect for Pedro, whom he saluted as an old acquaintance. The house had been full two days before, but the travellers had gone on, and the only one who remained was a poor man who lay in an out-house very sick. "Who is he?" asked Pedro, as he assisted Manuela to alight. "I know not, senhor," replied the host. "He is a stranger, who tells me he has been robbed. I can well believe it, for he has been roughly handled, and there are some well-known bandits in the neighbourhood. His injuries would not have been so serious, however, if he had not caught a fever from exposure." "Indeed," returned the guide, who, however, seemed more interested in unsaddling his mules than in listening to the account of the unfortunate man, "was it near this that he fell in with the bandits?" "No, senhor, it was far to the west. The travellers who brought him on said they found him almost insensible on the banks of a stream into which he appeared to have fallen or been thrown." Pedro glanced at Lawrence. "Hear you that, senhor?" "My Spanish only suffices to inform me that some one has been robbed and injured." Explaining fully what their host had said, Pedro advised Lawrence to visit the stranger in his medical character. "My friend is a doctor," he said, turning to the host, "take him to the sick man; for myself, I will put up the mules and then assist the old mother, for mountain air sharpens appetite." In a rude, tumble-down hut close to the main building Lawrence found his patient. He lay stretched in a corner on a heap of straw in a state of great exhaustion--apparently dying--and with several bandages about his cut and bruised head and face. The first glance told Lawrence that it was Antonio, the robber whom he had tried to rescue, but he carefully concealed his knowledge, and, bending over the man, addressed him as if he were a stranger. The start and look of surprise mingled with alarm on the robber's face told that he had recognised Lawrence, but he also laid restraint on himself, and drew one of the bandages lower down on his eyes. Feeling his pulse, Lawrence asked him about his food. He got little, he said, and that little was not good; the people of the farm seemed to grudge it. "My poor man," said Lawrence in his bad Spanish, "they are starving you to death. But I'll see to that." He rose and went out quickly. Returning with a basin of soup, he presented it to the invalid, who ate it with relish. Then the man began to relate how he had been attacked a few days before by a party of robbers in one of the mountain passes, who had cut the throats of all his party in cold blood, and had almost killed himself, when he was rescued by the opportune arrival of some travellers. Lawrence was much disgusted at first by the man's falsehood. Observing the poor fellow's extreme weakness, however, and his evident anxiety lest he should be recognised, the feeling changed to pity. Laying his hand gently on the man's shoulder, he said, with a look of solemnity which perchance made, up to some extent for the baldness of the phraseology-- "Antonio, tell not lies; you are dying!" The startled man looked at his visitor earnestly. "Am I dying?" he asked, in a low tone. "You are, perhaps; I know not. I will save you if possible." These words were accompanied by a kind look and a comforting pat on the shoulder, which, it may be, did more for the sick man than the best of physic. At all events the result was a sudden grasp of the hand and a look of gratitude which spoke volumes. The robber was about to give vent to his feelings in speech when the door opened, and the burly host, putting his head in, announced that supper was ready. Giving his patient another reassuring pat, the young doctor left him and returned to the banqueting-hall of the mountain farm, where he found that Manuela, Pedro, and Quashy were more or less earnestly engaged with the contents of the iron pot. CHAPTER FIVE. LAWRENCE AND QUASHY BECOME "FLOSUFFICAL," AND THEY CAMP OUT BESIDE THE "GIANT'S CASTLE." While the party were at supper the first gusts of a storm, which had for some time been brewing, shook the little hut, and before they had all fallen into the profound slumber which usually followed their day's journey, a heavy gale was howling among the mountain gorges with a noise like the roaring of a thousand lions. For two days the gale raged so furiously that travelling--especially in the higher regions of the Andes--became impossible. The Indian girl, Pedro, and the negro, bore their detention with that stoicism which is not an infrequent characteristic of mountaineers, guides, and savages. As for our hero, he devoted himself and all his skill to his patient--to which duty he was the more reconciled that it afforded him a good opportunity at once for improving his Spanish and pointing out to the bandit the error of his ways. To do the man justice, he seemed to be fully sensible of the young doctor's kindness, and thanked him, with tears in his eyes, not only for his previous intention to save him from the tremendous fall over the cliff, but for his subsequent efforts to alleviate the evil consequences thereof. It mattered nothing to the great warm-hearted, loose-jointed Englishman that when he mentioned these hopeful signs in his patient to Pedro, that worthy shook his head and smiled sarcastically, or that Quashy received the same information with a closing of the eyes and an expansion of the jaws which revealed the red recesses of his throat to their darkest deeps! Lawrence, being a man of strong opinions, was not to be shaken out of them either by sarcasm or good-humoured contempt. Turning to the Indian girl for sympathy, he related the matter to her at a time when the other inhabitants of the hut had gone out and left them alone. "You see,--Manuela," he said, with the frown of meditation on his brow, and his eyes fixed on the ceiling, "I have no belief in the very common idea that there is a soft spot in the heart of every man, however bad; but I do believe that the heart of the very worst of men may be made soft by the Spirit of God, and that He employs us, who call ourselves Christians, as His agents in bringing about the result. It is quite possible that I may have been thrown in the way of this robber for the very purpose of touching his heart through kindness--God's own motive-power--and that the Spirit will soften his heart to receive the touch." He paused, and, withdrawing his gaze from the ceiling, observed that the girl's eyes were fixed on his face with an expression of perplexity and earnestness. It then suddenly occurred to him that, having spoken in English, she could not have understood him. "But you _do_ look as if you had some idea of what I have been saying, Manuela. Have you?" "Si, senhor, some," was the reply, as she dropped her eyes with an embarrassed look and blushed so as to make her pretty brown face look alarmingly red. Endeavouring to convey the same ideas through the medium of Spanish, Lawrence made such a bungle of it that Manuela, instead of expressing sympathy, began to struggle so obviously with her feelings that the poor Englishman gave up the attempt, and good-naturedly joined his companion in a little burst of laughter. They were in the midst of this when the door opened and Quashy entered. "You 'pears to be jolly," observed the genial negro, with every wrinkle of his black visage ready to join in sympathetically, "was de jok a desprit good un?" "Not very desperate, Quashy," said Lawrence, "it was only my bad Spanish which made Manuela laugh. If you had been here to interpret we might have got on better with our philosophical discourse." "O massa!" returned the black--solemn remonstrance, both in manner and tone, putting to sudden flight the beaming look of sympathy--"don't speak of me 'terpretin' Spinich. Nebber could take kindly to dat stuff. Ob course I kin talk wid de peons an' de gauchos, whose conv'sation am mostly 'bout grub, an' hosses, an' cattle, an' dollars, an' murder, but when I tries to go in for flosuffy, an' sitch like, I breaks down altogidder." At this point the Indian girl's tendency to laugh increased, but whether because of fresh views of the absurdity of what had passed, or because of some faint perception of the negro's meaning, Lawrence had no power to decide. "I should have thought, Quashy," he said, with a return of his wonted gravity, "that a man of a thoughtful and contemplative turn of mind like you would have acquired the power of expressing almost any idea in Spanish by this time." "T'ank you for de compl'ment, massa," replied Quashy, "but I not so clebber as you t'ink. Der am some tings in flosuffy dat beats me. When I tries to putt 'em afore oder peepil in Spinich, I somehow gits de brain-pan into sitch a conglomeration ob fumbustication dat I not able to see quite clar what I mean myself--dough, ob course, I knows dat I'm right." "Indeed!" "Yis; but de great consolation I has is dat de peepil I'm talkin' to don't onderstand me a mossel better nor myself; an', ob course, as noting in de wurl could show dem dey was wrong, it don't much matter." "That is good philosophy, at all events. Isn't it, Manuela?" asked Lawrence in Spanish. "Si, senhor," replied the girl, with sparkling eyes and a dazzling display of little teeth which seemed to indicate that she fully appreciated what was said. "Strange," thought Lawrence--"so grave and pensive, yet at times so sprightly; so intelligent, yet, of course, so ignorant; so very brown, and yet so pretty. What a pity she is not white!" He only said, however, with a sigh, "Is the gale abating, Quashy?" To which the negro replied, with a responsive sigh, "Yis, massa,--it am." After two days' delay our travellers were enabled to proceed. While their host was busy saddling the mules Lawrence took Pedro aside. "I am anxious about that bandit," he said. "It is not his power of recovering I am afraid of, but our host's willingness to take care of him." "Have you not spoken to him about it, senhor, and paid him in advance, like the good Samaritan?" "Truly I have, but that does not secure fidelity in our host, and the man's life may depend on his treatment during the next few days. I almost wish that we might delay our journey a little." "That cannot be," returned Pedro, with decision. "Besides, it is unnecessary, for I have spoken to our host, and told him to take good care of the fellow." Lawrence could scarcely forbear smiling at the quiet assurance with which Pedro spoke. "Surely," he said, "you cannot count on his being influenced by your commands after you are gone?" "Yes, senhor, I can count on that, for he knows me, and I occasionally pass this way." Pedro turned away as he spoke and went towards the mules, the fastenings of whose loads he carefully inspected. Lawrence went to look after his own animal with his mind much relieved, for the manner of Pedro was such as to inspire irresistible, almost blind, confidence. During the first mile or two, as they rode along, our hero puzzled himself in a vain attempt to analyse the cause of this confidence. Was it the result of that imperturbable self-possession and invariable readiness of resource which marked the guide; or was it the stern truthfulness of his dark eyes, coupled with the retiring modesty and gravity of his demeanour? Perhaps it was the union of these characteristics. He could not tell. While thus engaged in profound thought he was roused by Manuela riding alongside of him, and pointing upwards with animated looks while she exclaimed-- "See--look--senhor!" Much surprised, for this was the first time during the journey that the girl had ventured to attract his attention, the youth looked in the direction indicated, and certainly the view that met his eyes was calculated to banish not only the surprise, but all other feelings save those of admiration of Nature and reverence for Nature's God. They had just rounded one of those rocky bluffs which so frequently interrupted their view during their upward journey, and had come upon a scene which they could not find words adequately to describe. As interjectional phrases alone could indicate something of their emotions to each other, so fragmentary sentences alone will convey a faint semblance of the truth to the intelligence of the reader. Mountains, glens, and mighty cliffs; hideous precipices and yawning gulfs; snow-clad summits high above them, and rock-riven gorges far below. Distance upon distance ranging backward and upward to infinity, where all was mingled with cloudland; sunlit here, darkest shadowed there--wildness, weirdness, grandeur, and magnificence everywhere! In the immediate foreground the serpentine path wound upward among rugged rocks, and the riders, picking their steps, as it were, midway up the face of a stupendous precipice, looked upward on the left at an apparently summitless wall, and downward on the right into an almost bottomless valley, through which a river roared as if mad with joy at having escaped its glacier-prison; though its roaring was softened well-nigh to silence by distance, while in appearance it seemed little larger than a silver thread. "I could almost believe that to be a giant's castle," remarked Lawrence, pointing to the opposite side of the ravine, where a huge perpendicular mountain of porphyry was so broken into turrets, towers, and battlements, that it was difficult, except for its size, to believe it other than the work of man. There were even holes and formations about it that had the appearance of antique windows, gates, and drawbridges! "Yes, it is a strange place," said the guide, checking his mule; "moreover, we must spend the night under its shadow, for it is impossible to reach a better place of shelter to-night; and, by good fortune, yonder is something fresh for supper." Pedro pointed to a spot about seven or eight hundred yards distant, where a group of guanacos stood gazing at the intruders with profound attention. "How will you get near enough for a shot?" asked Lawrence; "they will be gone before you can get across the ravine, and there is little or no cover." "You shall see," said Pedro, cocking his rifle. "But--but no weapon short of a cannon will carry so far--at least with accuracy," exclaimed Lawrence in surprise, for at the time of which we write breech-loaders and the long-range weapons of precision had not been introduced in those regions. Indeed, the armies of South America, and of Europe also, still slew each other with the familiar Brown Bess and the clumsy flint-lock at that time. Pedro paid no attention to the remark, but, dismounting, slowly raised the rifle to his shoulder. The guide was one of those men who seem to live in advance of their age. He had thought out, and carried out in a rough-and-ready manner, ideas which have since been scientifically reduced to practice. Being well aware that any projectile is drawn downward in its flight by the law of gravitation, and that if you want to hit a distant point you must aim considerably above it, he had, by careful experiment, found out how high above an object at a given distance one must aim in order to hit, and, by constant practice in judging distance, as well as in taking aim above his mark, he had attained to such skill as a long-range marksman that his friends almost believed it impossible for game to get beyond the range of his deadly weapon, and foes never felt easy till they were entirely out of his sight. The comparative slowness, too, of the flint-lock in discharging a rifle, had necessitated in him a degree of steadiness, not only while taking aim, but even after pulling the trigger, which rendered him what we might term statuesque in his action as he levelled his piece. For a few seconds the rock beside him was not more steady. Then the cliffs burst into a fusillade of echoes, and the guanacos leaped wildly up the mountain-side, leaving one of their number on the rocks behind them. It was some time before the young Englishman could get over his astonishment at this feat, for Pedro had pointed his weapon so high that he did not appear to be aiming at the animal at all, and he maintained an animated discussion with the mountaineer until they reached a part of the pass which proved to be somewhat dangerous. And here they met with a party of muleteers crossing the mountains in the opposite direction. They were still far above them when first observed descending the same steep and narrow road. "We will wait here till they pass," said the guide, pulling up at a point where the width of the track was considerable. "I see by the escort that they carry something of value--probably bars of silver from one of the mines. They have reached the worst part of the pass. I shouldn't wonder to see one of the mules go over--they often do." "And always get killed, I suppose," said Lawrence. "Not always. Now and then they have wonderful escapes, but many hundreds have been lost here. See!" As he spoke one of the baggage-mules of the party touched the cliff with its load. This caused the animal to stagger; his hind-legs actually went over the precipice, and the loose stones began to roll away from under his hoofs. With his fore-feet, however, still on the narrow track, he held on bravely, even sticking his nose on the ground, so that he had the appearance of holding on by his teeth! Two of the peons rushed to render assistance, but before they reached him he had slipped, and rolled down the awful slope which ended in a sheer perpendicular precipice. Here he bounded off into space, and next moment fell, baggage and all, with a tremendous splash into the river. It seemed impossible that the poor animal could have escaped with life, but in another moment his head reappeared above water, and he made a brave struggle to gain the bank. The current, however, was too strong for him. Down he went below the foaming water, his scraggy tail making a farewell flourish as he disappeared. But again his head appeared, and once again he struggled for the bank. This time with success, for he had been swept into a shallow in which he was able to maintain his foothold and slowly drag himself out of the river. When in safety, he stood with drooping head and tail, as if in a state of the most thorough dejection at having made such an exhibition of himself. "Clebber beast!" shouted Quashy, who had stood with his ten fingers expanded, his great mouth open, and his whole emotional soul glaring out of his monstrous eyes. "Well done!" echoed Lawrence, who was scarcely less pleased than his servant. The party now drew near, and very striking was their appearance--the variously coloured mules, following the bell-mare which went in advance as a leader, winding slowly down the crooked path, and the peons in their picturesque costumes shouting, laughing, or singing wild snatches of song as they were moved by fury, fun, or fancy. The men, who numbered a dozen or so, and were well-armed, were apparently relieved to find that our travellers were not bandits, in regard to whom their questions showed that they felt some anxiety. They had witnessed Pedro's shot from the heights above, and looked upon him with no little surprise and much respect as they commented on his power with the rifle. A few questions were asked, a few compliments paid, and then the two parties, passing each other, proceeded on their respective ways. Crossing the mountain torrent at a rather dangerous ford, towards evening Pedro led his companions to a spot not far from the ramparts of what Lawrence styled the giant's castle. It was not an inviting spot at first. There was little pasture for the wearied mules on the almost naked rocks, and the stunted trees and gnarled roots told eloquently of the severity of winter in those high regions. There was, however, a good spring of water and an over-arching rock, which promised some degree of refreshment and shelter, and when firewood was collected, a ruddy blaze sent up, the kettle put on to boil, and several fine cuts of the guanaco set up to roast, the feelings of sadness which had at first influenced Lawrence were put to flight, and he felt more satisfaction in his lodging than he could have experienced if it had been a palatial hotel with its confined air and feather beds and cloying luxuries. There was a species of natural recess in the cliff which Pedro screened off as a chamber for Manuela, while she assisted Quashy to prepare the supper. "There's nothing like fresh mountain air," exclaimed Lawrence, with a glow of enthusiasm, after the first attack on the guanaco steaks had subsided. "Specially when the said air happens to be quiet and warm, and the night fine and the stars bright and the company pleasant," added the guide. Quashy had a habit, when his risible faculties were only gently tickled, of shutting his eyes, throwing back his head, opening his great mouth wide, and indulging in a silent laugh. Having done so on the present occasion, he shut his mouth with a snap and opened his eyes. "Ho yis," he said in a low tone, "bery nice when it all plisent like now, but it am anoder t'ing when de fresh mountain air goes howlerin' an' bowlerin' about like a wild beast, an' when it snowses an frozes fit to cut off your noses an' shribel up de bery marrow in your bones! Oh! you got no notion what--" "Hold your tongue, Quashy," interrupted Lawrence, "why, your description of such things makes one shiver. Let us hope we may have no experience of them and enjoy our comforts while we may." "Dat's true flosuffy, massa," returned the negro, helping himself to more guanaco, and offering some on the end of his fork to Manuela, who accepted the same with her usual ready smile, which, however, on this occasion, expanded into an uncontrollable little laugh. Lawrence was perplexed, and so was Quashy, for the quiet little Indian was not given to giggling at trifles, much less to laughing at nothing. Lawrence observed, however, that the girl did not reach out her hand with her usual graceful action, but on the contrary gave her arm an awkward twist which obliged the negro to stretch needlessly far over towards her in handing the meat. The result was that a pannikin of coffee which Quashy had placed on his plate--the plate being in his lap--began to tilt over. Before any one could warn him it overturned, causing the poor man to spring up with a yell as the hot liquid drenched his legs. Of course every one laughed. People always do at such mild mishaps. As the coffee was not too hot, and there was more in the kettle, Quashy joined in the laugh while he wiped his garments, and afterwards replenished his pannikin. But a new light began to force itself upon Lawrence. "Can it be," he thought, "that she did that on purpose?--that she saw the pannikin was tilting, and--no, that's impossible!" He looked earnestly at the girl. She had recovered her gravity by that time, and was quietly eating her supper with downcast eyes. "Impossible," he repeated in thought, "so unlike her, and so very unlike the Indian character." Nevertheless his perplexity remained, and when he went to sleep that night, after gazing long and earnestly up at the bright stars and at the white summits of the Andes which rose in awful grandeur above him, he dreamed that while Quashy was sitting sound asleep with his head on his knees in front of the fire, Manuela availed herself of the opportunity to pour an ocean of hot coffee down his back! Starting up wide awake at this, he found that Quashy lay beside him, sleeping quietly on his back, that Pedro was similarly engaged, that the Indian girl had disappeared into her dormitory, that the giant's castle looked more splendidly real than ever in the rising moonlight, and that no sound was to be heard save the brawling of the escaped river, as it fled from its glacier-prison to its home in the mighty sea. CHAPTER SIX. A STORM IN THE MOUNTAINS--REFUGE FOUND--CONVERSE ROUND THE FIRE. The summit of the pass was at last gained, and not a moment too soon, for the storm which they had experienced a few days before was but the prelude to a gale such as is rarely experienced save in the winter months of the year, when most of the mountain passes are closed. It began by mutterings of distant thunder, which caused the guide to look round the horizon and up at the sky somewhat anxiously. "Do you think we shall reach our next shelter before it breaks?" asked Lawrence. "I hope so," said Pedro, pausing on a ridge from which an almost illimitable view was had of mountain range and valley in all directions. "Far over in that direction," he continued, pointing with his hand, "lies the land of the Incas. You have heard of the Incas, senhor?" "Yes, I have heard of them, but cannot say that I am intimately acquainted with their history." "It is a strange history--a very sad one," returned Pedro. "I will tell you something about it at another time; at present it behoves us to push on." There was no question as to that point, for just as he spoke a sudden and powerful gust of wind swept Quashy's straw hat off and sent it spinning gaily along the path. Vaulting from his mule with a wild shout, the negro gave chase on foot, with an amount of anxiety that seemed not justified by the occasion. But as the poet truly puts it, "things are not what they seem," and Quashy's head-piece, which presented much the appearance of a battered old straw hat, was in truth an article of very considerable value. It was one of those hats made by the people of South America, with a delicate fibre so finely plaited that in texture it resembles fine canvas, though in appearance it is like straw. It is exceedingly tough, takes a very long time to manufacture, and costs many dollars--so many, indeed, that a hat of the kind is thought worthy of being preserved and left as an heirloom from father to son as long as it lasts. No wonder then that the negro made frantic efforts to regain his property--all the more frantic that he was well aware if it should pass over one of the neighbouring precipices it would be lost to him for ever. At last a friendly gust sent it into a snowdrift, through which Quashy plunged and captured it. Snow in considerable quantities lay here and there around them in the form of old patches or drifts, and this began to be swept up by the fierce wind in spite of its solidity. Soon new snow began to fall, and, mingling with the old drifts, rendered the air so thick that it was sometimes difficult to see more than a few yards in advance. Lawrence, being unused to such scenes, began to fear they should get lost in these awful solitudes, and felt specially anxious for Manuela, who, despite the vigour of a frame trained, as it no doubt had been, in all the hardihood incidental to Indian camp life, seemed to shrink from the fierce blast and to droop before the bitter cold. "Here, put on my poncho," said the youth, riding suddenly up to the girl's side and unceremoniously flinging his ample garment over the slight poncho she already wore. She drew it round her at once, and silently accepted the offering with a smile and an inclination of her small head which, even in these uncomfortable circumstances, were full of grace. "Why _was_ she born a savage?" thought the youth, with almost petulant exasperation. "If she had only been white and civilised, I would have wooed and won--at least," he added, modestly, "I would have _tried_ to win and wed her in spite of all the opposing world. As it is, the-- the--gulf is impassable!" "You have anticipated me, senhor," said the guide, who had reined in until the rest of the party overtook him. "I had halted with the intention of offering my poncho to Manuela. Poor girl, she is a daughter of the warm Pampas, and unused to the cold of the mountains." He turned to her, and said something in the Indian tongue which seemed to comfort her greatly, for she replied with a look and tone of satisfaction. "I have just told her," he said to Lawrence, as they resumed the journey, "that in half an hour we shall reach a hut of shelter. It is at the foot of a steep descent close ahead; and as the wind is fortunately on our backs, we shall be partially protected by the hill." "Surely the place cannot be a farm," said Lawrence; "it must be too high up for that." "No, as you say, it is too high for human habitation. The hut is one of those places of refuge which have been built at every two or three leagues to afford protection to travellers when assailed by such snow-storms as that which is about to break on us now." He stopped, for the party came at the moment to a slope so steep that it seemed impossible for man or mule to descend. Being partly sheltered from the fitful gusts of wind, it was pretty clear of snow, and they could see that a zigzag track led to the bottom. What made the descent all the more difficult was a loose layer of small stones, on which they slipped continually. Before they had quite completed the descent the storm burst forth. Suddenly dense clouds of snow were seen rushing down from the neighbouring peaks before a hurricane of wind, compared with which previous gusts were trifles. "Come on--fast--fast!" shouted the guide, looking back and waving his hand. The first deafening roar of the blast drowned the shout; but before the snowdrift blinded him, Lawrence had observed the wave of the hand and the anxious look. Dashing the cruel Spanish spurs for the first time into the side of his no doubt astonished steed, he sprang alongside of Manuela's mule, seized the bridle, and dragged it forward by main force. Of course the creature objected, but the steep road and slipping gravel favoured them, so that they reached the bottom in safety. Here they found the first of the refuge-huts, and in a few moments were all safe within its sheltering walls. Having been erected for a special purpose, the hut was well adapted to resist the wildest storm. It was built of brick and mortar, the foundation being very solid, and about twelve feet high, with a brick staircase outside leading to the doorway. Thus the habitable part of the edifice was raised well above the snow. The room was about twelve feet square, the floor of brick, and the roof arched. It was a dungeon-like place, dimly lighted by three loop-holes about six inches square, and without furniture of any kind. A mark in the wall indicated the place where a small table had originally been fixed; but it had been torn down long before, as Pedro explained, by imprisoned and starving travellers to serve for firewood. The remains of some pieces of charred wood lay on the floor where the fire was usually kindled, and, to Pedro's great satisfaction, they found a small pile of firewood which had been left there by the last travellers. "A dismal enough place," remarked Lawrence, looking round after shaking and stamping the snow out of his garments. "You have reason to thank God, senhor, that we have reached it." "True, Senhor Pedro, and I am not thankless; yet do I feel free to repeat that it is a most dismal place." "Mos' horriboble," said Quashy, looking up at the vaulted roof. "Ay, and it could tell many a dismal story if it had a tongue," said the guide, as he busied himself arranging the saddles and baggage, and making other preparations to spend the night as comfortably as circumstances should permit. "Luckily there's a door this time." "Is it sometimes without a door, then?" asked Lawrence, as he assisted in the arrangements, while Quashy set about kindling a fire. "Ay, the poor fellows who are sometimes stormstaid and starved here have a tendency to use all they can find about the place for firewood. Some one has replaced the door, however, since I was here last. You'll find two big nails in the wall, Manuela," he added in Indian; "if you tie one of the baggage cords to them, I'll give you a rug directly, which will make a good screen to cut off your sleeping berth from ours." In a short time Quashy had a bright little fire burning, with the kettle on it stuffed full of fresh snow; the saddles and their furniture made comfortable seats and lounges around it; and soon a savoury smell of cooked meat rendered the cold air fragrant, while the cheery blaze dispelled the gloom and made a wonderful change in the spirits of all. Perhaps we should except the guide, whose calm, grave, stern yet kindly aspect rarely underwent much change, either in the way of elation or depression, whatever the surrounding circumstances might be. His prevailing character reminded one of a rock, whether in the midst of a calm or raging sea--or of a strong tower, whether surrounded by warring elements or by profound calm. Need we say that Pedro's imperturbability was by no means the result of apathy? "Blow away till you bust your buzzum," said Quashy, apostrophising the gale as he sat down with a beaming display of teeth and spread out his hands before the blaze, after having advanced supper to a point which admitted of a pause; "I don' care a butt'n how hard you blow now." "Ah! Quashy," said the guide, shaking his head slowly, as, seated on his saddle, he rolled up a neat cigarette, "don't be too confident. You little know what sights these four walls have witnessed. True, this is not quite the season when one runs much risk of being starved to death, but the thing is not impossible." "Surely," said Lawrence, stretching himself on his saddle-cloths and glancing at Manuela, who was by that time seated on the opposite side of the fire arranging some hard biscuits on a plate, "surely people have not been starved to death here, have they?" "Indeed they have--only too often, senhor. I myself came once to this hut to rescue a party, but was nearly too late, for most of them were dead." He paused to light his cigarette. The negro, after making the door more secure, sat down again and gazed at the guide with the glaring aspect of a man who fears, but delights in, the horrible. Manuela, letting her clasped hands fall in her lap, also gazed at Pedro with the intense earnestness that was habitual to her. She seemed to listen. Perhaps, being unusually intelligent, she picked up some information from the guide's expressive face. She could hardly have learned much from his speech, as her knowledge of English seemed to be little more than "yes," "no," and "t'ank you!" "It was during a change of government, senhor," said Pedro, "that I chanced to be crossing the mountains. There is usually a considerable row in South America when a change of government takes place. Sometimes they cause a change of government to take place in order to get up a considerable row, for they're a lively people--almost as fond of fighting as the Irish, though scarcely so sound in judgment. I had some business on hand on the western side of the Cordillera, but turned back to give a helping hand to my friends, for of course I try never to shirk duty, though I'm not fond of fighting. Well, when I got to the farm nearest to this hut where we now sit, they told me that a tremendous gale had been blowing in the mountains, that ten travellers had been snowed up, and that they feared they must all have perished, since travelling in such weather was impossible." "`Have you made no effort to rescue them?' I asked of the farmer. "`No,' says he, `I couldn't get any o' my fellows to move, because they've been terrified about a ghost that's been seen up there.' "`What was the ghost like?' I asked; so he told me that it was a fearful creature--a mulish-looking sort of man, who was in the habit of terrifying the arrieros and peons who passed that way, but he said they were going to get a priest to put a cross up there, and so lay the ghost. "`Meanwhile,' I said, `the ten travellers are to be left to starve?' "`It's my belief they're starved already,' answered the farmer." At this point Pedro paused to relight his cigarette, and Quashy breathed a little more freely. He was a firm believer in ghosts, and feared them more than he would have feared an army of Redskins or jaguars. Indeed it is a question whether Quashy could ever have been brought to realise the sensation of fear if it had not been for the existence, in his imagination, of ghosts! The mere mention of the word in present circumstances had converted him into a sort of human sensitive-plant. He gave a little start and glance over his shoulder at every gust of unusual power that rattled the door, and had become visibly paler-- perhaps we should say less black. Manuela was evidently troubled by no such fears, perhaps because she did not understand the meaning of the word ghost, yet she gazed at the speaker in apparently rapt attention. "You may believe," continued the guide, "that I was disgusted at their cowardice; so, to shame them, as well as to do what I could for the travellers, I loaded a couple of my mules with meat, and said I would set off alone. This had the desired effect, for three men volunteered to go with me. When we reached the hut we found that six of the ten poor fellows were dead. The bodies of two who had died just before our arrival were lying in the corner over there behind Quashy. They were more like skeletons covered with skin than corpses. The four who still lived were in the corner here beside me, huddled together for warmth, and so worn out by hunger and despair that they did not seem to care at first that we had come to save them. We warmed and fed them, however, brought them gradually round, and at last took them back to the farm. They all recovered. During the time they were snowed up the poor fellows had eaten their mules and dogs. I have no doubt that if the ground were clear of snow you would find the bones of these animals scattered about still." This was not a very pleasant anecdote, Lawrence thought, on which to retire to rest, so he changed the subject by asking Pedro if there were many of the Incas still remaining. Before he could reply Manuela rose, and, bidding them good-night in Spanish, retired to her screened-off corner. "A good many of the Incas are still left," replied the guide to his companion's question; "and if you were to visit their capital city you would be surprised to see the remains of temples and other evidences of a very advanced civilisation in a people who existed long before the conquest of Peru." "Massa Pedro," said Quashy, who would have been glad to have the recollection of ghosts totally banished from his mind, "I's oftin hear ob de Incas, but I knows not'ing about dem. Who is dey? whar dey come fro?" "It would take a long time, Quashy, to answer these two questions fully; nevertheless, I think I could give you a roughish outline of a notion in about five minutes, if you'll promise not to stare so hard, and keep your mouth shut." The negro shut his eyes, expanded his mouth to its utmost in a silent laugh, and nodded his head acquiescently. "Well, then, you must know," said Pedro, "that in days of old--about the time that William the Conqueror invaded England--a certain Manco Capac founded the dynasty of the Incas. According to an old legend this Manco was the son of a white man who was shipwrecked on the coast of Peru. He married the daughter of an Indian chief, and taught the people agriculture, architecture, and other arts. He must have been a man of great power, from the influence he exerted over the natives, who styled him the `blooming stranger.' His hair was of a golden colour, and this gave rise to the story that he was a child of the sun, who had been sent to rule over the Indians and found an empire. Another tradition says that Manco Capac was accompanied by a wife named Mama Oello Huaco, who taught the Indian women the mysteries of spinning and weaving, while her husband taught the arts of civilisation to the men. "Whatever truth there may be in these legends, certain it is that Manco Capac did become the first of a race of Incas--or kings or chiefs--and, it is said, laid the foundations of the city of Cuzco, the remains of which at the present day show the power, splendour, and wealth to which Manco Capac and his successors attained. The government of the Incas was despotic, but of a benignant and patriarchal type, which gained the affections of those over whom they ruled, and enabled them to extend their sway far and wide over the land, so that, at the time of the invasion by the Spaniards under Pizarro, the Peruvians were found to have reached a high degree of civilisation, as was seen by their public works--roads, bridges, terrace-gardens, fortifications, and magnificent buildings, and so forth. It is said by those who have studied the matter, that this civilisation existed long before the coming of the Incas. On this point I can say nothing, but no doubt or uncertainty rests on the later history of this race. Cuzco, on Lake Titicaca, became the capital city of a great and flourishing monarchy, and possessed many splendid buildings in spacious squares and streets. It also became the Holy City and great temple of the Sun, to which pilgrims came from all parts of the country. It was defended by a fortress and walls built of stone, some blocks of which were above thirty feet long by eighteen broad and six thick. Many towns sprang up in the land. Under good government the people flourished and became rich. They had plenty of gold and silver, which they used extensively in the adornment of their temples and palaces. But evil followed in the train of wealth. By degrees their simplicity departed from them. Their prosperity led to the desire for conquest. Then two sons of one of the Incas disputed with each other for supremacy, and fought. One was conquered and taken prisoner by the other, who is reported to have been guilty of excessive cruelties to his relations, and caused his brother to be put to death. Finally, in 1532, the Spaniards came and accomplished the conquest of Peru--from which date not much of peace or prosperity has fallen to the lot of this unhappy land. "Yes," said the guide in conclusion, "the Incas were, and some of their descendants still are, a very fine race. Many of the men are what I call nature's gentlemen, having thoughts--ay, and manners too, that would grace any society. Some of their women, also, are worthy to--" "Pedro!" interrupted Lawrence eagerly, laying his hand on the guide's arm, for a sudden idea had flashed into his mind. (He was rather subject to the flashing of sudden ideas!) "Pedro! _she_ is a daughter of a chief of the Incas--is she not? a princess of the Incas! Have I not guessed rightly?" He said this in a half whisper, and pointed as he spoke to the screen behind which Manuela lay. Pedro smiled slightly and tipped the ash from the end of his cigarette, but made no answer. "Nay, I will not pry into other people's affairs," said Lawrence, in his usual tone, "but you once told me she is the daughter of a chief, and assuredly no lady in this land could equal her in grace or dignity of carriage and manner, to say nothing of modesty, which is the invariable evidence." "Not of high rank?" interrupted the guide, with a quick and slightly sarcastic glance. "No, but of nobility of mind and heart," replied the youth, with much enthusiasm. In which feeling he was earnestly backed up by Quashy, who, with eyes that absolutely glowed, said-- "You's right, massa--sure an' sartin! Modesty am de grandest t'ing I knows. Once I knowed a young nigger gal what libbed near your fadder's mill--Sooz'n dey calls 'er--an' she's _so_ modest, so--oh! I not kin 'splain rightly--but I say to 'er one day, when I'd got my courage screwed up, `Sooz'n,' ses I. `Well,' ses she. `I--I lub you,' ses I, `more nor myself, 'cause I t'ink so well ob you. Eberybody t'inks well ob you, Sooz'n. What--what--' (I was gitten out o' bref by dis time from 'citement, and not knowin' what more to say, so I ses) `what--what you t'ink ob _you'self_ Sooz'n?' "`Nuffin',' ses she! Now, _wasn't_ dat modest?" "It certainly was, Quashy. Couldn't have been more so," said Pedro. "And after that we couldn't, I think, do better than turn in." The fire had by that time burned low, and the gale was still raging around them, driving the snowdrift wildly against the hut, and sometimes giving the door so violent a shake as to startle poor Quashy out of sweet memories of Sooz'n into awful thoughts of the ghost that had not yet been laid. Each man appropriated a vacant corner of the hut in which to spread his simple couch, the negro taking care to secure that furthest from the door. Lawrence Armstrong thought much over his supposed discovery before falling asleep that night, and the more he thought the more he felt convinced that the Indian girl was indeed a princess, and owed her good looks, sweet disposition, graceful form and noble carriage to her descent from a race which had at one period been highly civilised when all around them were savage. It was a curious subject of contemplation. The colour of his waking thoughts naturally projected itself into the young man's dreams. He was engaged in an interesting anthropological study. He found himself in the ancient capital of the Incas. He beheld a princess of great beauty surrounded by courtiers, but she was _brown_! He thought what an overwhelming pity it was that she was not _white_! Then he experienced a feeling of intense disappointment that he himself had not been born brown. By degrees his thoughts became more confused and less decided in colour--whitey-brown, in fact,--and presented a series of complicated regrets and perplexing impossibilities, in a vain effort to disentangle which he dropped asleep. CHAPTER SEVEN. THINGS BEGIN TO LOOK BRIGHTER--THE GUIDE'S STORY. It was bright day when our travellers awoke, but only a dim light penetrated into their dungeon-like dormitory, for, besides being very small, the three windows, or loop-holes, had been so filled up with snow as to shut out much of the light that would naturally have entered. That the gale still raged outside was evident enough to the sense of hearing, and sometimes the gusts were so sudden and strong that the little building trembled, stout though it was. Indeed, Lawrence at first thought they must be experiencing the shocks of an earthquake, a mistake not unnatural in one who, besides having had but little experience in regard to such catastrophes, knew well that he was at the time almost in the centre of a region celebrated for earthquakes. It was with mingled feelings of interest, anxiety, and solemnity that he surveyed the scene outside through a hole in the door. It seemed as if an Arctic winter had suddenly descended on them. Snow completely covered hill and gorge as far as the vision could range but they could not see far, for at every fresh burst of the furious wind the restless wreaths were gathered up and whirled madly to the sky, or swept wildly down the valleys, or dashed with fury against black precipices and beetling cliffs, to which they would sometimes cling for a few seconds, then, falling away, would be caught up again by the tormenting gale, and driven along in some new direction with intensified violence. "No prospect of quitting the hut to-day," observed Lawrence, turning away from the bewildering scene. "None," said Pedro, stretching himself, and rising sleepily on one elbow, as men are wont to do when unwilling to get up. "Nebber mind, massa; lots o' grub!" cried Quashy, awaking at that moment, leaping up like an acrobat, and instantly setting about the kindling of the fire. Having, as Quashy truly said, lots of grub, possessing a superabundance of animal vigour, and being gifted with untried as well as unknown depths of intellectual power, also with inexhaustible stores of youthful hope, our travellers had no difficulty in passing that day in considerable enjoyment, despite adverse circumstances; but when they awoke on the second morning and found the gale still howling, and the snow still madly whirling, all except Pedro began to express in word and countenance feelings of despondency. Manuela did not speak much, it is true, but she naturally looked somewhat anxious. Lawrence began to recall the fate of previous travellers in that very hut, and his countenance became unusually grave, whereupon Quashy--whose nature it was to conform to the lead of those whom he loved, and, in conforming, outrageously to overdo his part--looked in his young master's face and assumed such an aspect of woeful depression that his visage became distinctly oval, though naturally round. Observing this, Lawrence could not restrain a short laugh, whereupon, true as the compass to the Pole, the facile Quashy went right round; his chin came up, his cheeks went out, his eyes opened with hopeful sheen, and his thick lips expanded into a placid grin. "There is no cause for alarm," observed Pedro, who had risen to assist in preparing breakfast. "No doubt it is the worst storm I ever met with, or even heard of, at this season of the year, but it cannot last much longer; and whatever happens, it can't run into winter just now." As if to justify the guide's words, the hurricane began to diminish in violence, and the pauses between blasts were more frequent and prolonged. When breakfast was over, appearances became much more hopeful, and before noon the storm had ceased to rage. Taking advantage of the change, without delay they loaded the pack-mules, saddled, mounted, and set forth. To many travellers it would have been death to have ventured out on such a trackless waste, but Pedro knew the road and the landmarks so thoroughly that he advanced with his wonted confidence. At first the snow was very deep, and, despite their utmost care, they once or twice strayed from the road, and were not far from destruction. As they descended, however, the intense cold abated; and when they came out upon occasional table-lands, they found that the snow-fall there had been much less than in the higher regions, also that it had drifted off the road so much that travelling became more easy. That night they came to a second hut-of-refuge, and next day had descended into a distinctly warmer region on the eastern slopes of the great range, over which they travelled from day to day with ever increasing comfort. Sometimes they put up at outlying mountain farms, and were always hospitably received; sometimes at small hamlets or villages, where they could exchange or purchase mules, and, not unfrequently, they encamped on the wild mountain slopes, with the green trees or an overhanging cliff, or the open sky to curtain them, and the voices of the puma and the jaguar for their lullaby. Strange to say, in crossing the higher parts of the Andes not one of the party suffered from the rarity of the air. Many travellers experience sickness, giddiness, and extreme exhaustion from this cause in those regions. Some have even died of the effects experienced at the greater heights, yet neither Manuela, nor Lawrence, nor Quashy was affected in the slightest degree. We can assign no reason for their exemption--can only state the fact. As for the guide, he was in this matter--as, indeed, he seemed to be in everything--invulnerable. One afternoon, as they rode along a mountain track enjoying the sunshine, which at that hour was not too warm, Lawrence pushed up alongside of the guide. "It seems to me," he said, "that we are wandering wonderfully far out of our way just now. We have been going due north for several days; at least so my pocket compass tells me, and if my geography is not greatly at fault, our backs instead of our faces are turned at present towards Buenos Ayres. I do not wish to pry into your secrets, Senhor Pedro, but if it is not presuming too much I should like to know when we shall begin to move in the direction of our journey's end." "There is neither presumption nor impropriety in your wish," returned the guide. "I told you at starting that we should pursue a devious route, for reasons which are immaterial to you, but there is no reason why I should not explain that at present I am diverging for only a few miles from our track to visit a locality--a cottage--which is sacred to me. After that we will turn eastward until we reach the head-waters of streams that will conduct us towards our journey's end." With this explanation he was obliged to rest content, for Pedro spoke like one who did not care to be questioned. Indeed there was an unusually absent air about him, seeing which Lawrence drew rein and fell back until he found himself alongside of Quashy. Always ready--nay, eager--for sympathetic discourse, the negro received his young master with a bland, expansive, we might almost say effusive, smile. "Well, massa, how's you gittin' along now?" "Pretty well, Quashy. How do you?" "Oh! fuss-rate, massa--only consid'rable obercome wid surprise." "What surprises you?" "De way we's agwine, to be sure. Look dar." He pointed towards the towering mountain peaks and wild precipices that closed in the narrow glen or gorge up which they were slowly proceeding. "In all our trabels we's nebber come to a place like dat. It looks like de fag end ob creation. You couldn't git ober de mountain-tops 'cept you had wings, an' you couldn't climb ober de pres'pisses 'cep you was a monkey or a skirl--though it _am_ bery lubly, no doubt." The negro's comments were strictly correct, though somewhat uncouthly expressed. The valley was apparently surrounded in all directions by inaccessible precipices, and the white peaks of the Andes towered into the skies at its head. Within rugged setting lay a fine stretch of undulating land, diversified by crag and hillock, lake and rivulet, with clustering shrubs and trees clinging to the cliffs, and clothing the mountain slopes in rich, and, in many places, soft luxuriance. It was one of those scenes of grandeur and loveliness in profound solitude which tend to raise in the thoughtful mind the perplexing but not irreverent question, "Why did the good and bountiful Creator form such places of surpassing beauty to remain for thousands of years almost, if not quite, unknown to man?" For, as far as could be seen, no human habitation graced the mountain-sides, no sign of cultivation appeared in the valley, though myriads of the lower animals sported on and in the waters, among the trees and on the ground. Perchance man over-estimates his own importance--at least underrates that of the animal kingdom below him--and is too apt to deem everything in nature wasted that cannot be directly or indirectly connected with himself! Is all that glows in beauty in the wilderness doomed to "blush unseen"? Is all the sweetness expended on the desert air "wasted?" As the guide rode slowly forward, he glanced from side to side with thoughtful yet mournful looks, as if his mind were engaged in meditating on some such insoluble problems. As he neared the head of the valley, however, he seemed to awake from a trance, suddenly put spurs to his mule, and went off at a canter. The rest of the party followed at some distance behind, but at so slow a pace, compared with that of the guide, that the latter was soon lost to sight among the trees. Somewhat surprised at his unusual state of mind Lawrence pushed on and soon reached an open glade which showed some signs of having been cultivated. At the end of it stood a pretty little cottage, in front of which Pedro was standing motionless, with clasped hands and drooping head. Lawrence hesitated to disturb him, but as Quashy had no such hesitations, and rode smartly forward, his companions followed. Pedro turned with a grave look as they came up, and said-- "My home. I bid you welcome." "Your home!" echoed Lawrence, in surprise. "Ay, a happy home it once was--but--desolate enough now. Come, we will sleep here to-night. Unload the mules, Quashy, and kindle a fire. Go into the room on the right, Manuela. You will find a couch and other civilised comforts there. Senhor Armstrong, will you come with me?" Without even awaiting a reply, the guide walked smartly into the bushes in rear of his lonely dwelling, followed by our hero. In a few minutes they reached a mound or hillock, which had been cleared of trees and underwood, and from the summit of which one could see over the tree-tops and the cottage roof away down the valley to the horizon of the table-lands beyond. It was a lovely spot, and, as Lawrence saw it that quiet sunny afternoon, was suggestive only of peace and happiness. There was a rustic bower on the mound, in which a roughly-constructed seat was fixed firmly to the ground. In front of the bower was a grave with a headstone, on which was carved the single word "Mariquita." Lawrence looked at his companion, but refrained from speech on observing that he seemed to be struggling with strong emotion. In a few seconds Pedro, having mastered his feelings, turned and said, in a tone that betrayed nothing save profound sadness-- "The body of my wife lies there. Her pure spirit, thank God, is with its Maker." Lawrence's power of sympathy was so great that he hesitated to reply, fearing to hurt the feelings of one for whom, by that time, he had come to entertain sincere regard. He was about to speak, when Pedro raised his head gently, as if to check him. "Sit beside me, senhor," he said, seating himself on the rustic seat already referred to. "You have from our first meeting given me your confidence so frankly and freely that the least I can do is to give you mine in return--as far, at least, as that is possible. You are the first human being I have invited to sit _there_ since Mariquita left me. Shall I tell you something of my history, Senhor Armstrong?" Of course Lawrence assented, with a look of deep interest. "Well, then," said Pedro, "it may perhaps surprise you to learn that I am an Irishman." To this Lawrence replied, with a slight smile, that he was not very greatly surprised, seeing that the perplexing character of that race was such as to justify him in expecting almost anything of them. "I'm not sure whether to take that remark as complimentary or otherwise," returned Pedro; "however, the fighting tendency with which my countrymen are credited has departed from me. I won't quarrel with you on the point. At the age of sixteen I was sent to America to seek my fortune. My mother I never knew. She died when I was a child. My father died the year after I left home. How I came to drift here it would be difficult, as well as tedious, to explain. Many of the men with whom I have chummed in years gone by would have said that it was chance which led me to South America. I never could agree with them on this point. The word `chance' fitly describes the conditions sometimes existing between man and man, and is used in Scripture in the parable of the Good Samaritan, but there can be no such thing as chance with the Almighty. I must have been led or guided here. "At all events, hither I came, and wandered about for some years, with that aimless indifference to the future which is but too characteristic of youth--content to eat and sleep and toil, so that I might enjoy life, and get plenty of excitement! I went to Peru first, and of course I joined in the fights that were so frequently stirred up between that country and its neighbour, Chili. A very little of that, however, sufficed. The brutal ferocity of the soldiery with whom I was mixed up, and their fearful disregard of age, sex, infirmity, or helpless childhood during war disgusted me so much that I finally cut the army, and took to hunting and doing a little trade between the countries lying on the east and west sides of the Andes. It was while thus engaged that I became acquainted with your good father, Senhor Armstrong, who has more than once helped me over financial difficulties and set me on my legs. "At last came the grand crisis of my life. One evening when travelling over the pampas of La Plata, I, with a dozen Gauchos, arrived at a post-house where we meant to put up for the night. On coming in sight of it we saw that something was wrong, for there were a number of Indians fighting about the door. On seeing us they made off; but one, who was in the house struggling with the postmaster, did not observe the flight of his comrades, or could not get clear of his enemy. We all went madly after the savages. As I was about to pass the door of the house, I heard a woman shriek. The Gauchos paid no attention, but passed on. I glanced inside, and saw the Indian in the act of cutting a man's throat, while a girl strove wildly to prevent him. You may be sure I was inside in a moment, and I brained the savage with the butt of a pistol. But it was too late. The knife had already done its work, and the poor man only lived long enough to bless his daughter, who, covered with her father's blood, sank fainting on the floor. It was my first meeting with Mariquita! "Around her," continued Pedro, in deepening tones, "lay her mother and two brothers--all slaughtered. I will not describe the harrowing scene. I tried to comfort the poor girl, and we took her on with us to the next post, where the postmaster's wife attended to her. "On seeing her next morning I felt that my life's happiness or sorrow lay in her hands. She was innocence, simplicity, beauty, combined. With artless gratitude she grasped and kissed my hand, regarding me, she said, as her deliverer, and one who would have saved her father if he had been in time. "Often before had my comrades twitted me with my indifference to the female sex. To say truth, I had myself become impressed with the feeling that I was born to be one of the old bachelors of the world--and I cannot say that the doom gave me much concern. But now--well, if you understand me, senhor, I need not explain, and if you don't understand, explanation is useless! Mariquita was left alone in the wide world. I would not, for all the gold and silver of Peru, have spoken of love to her at that time; but I made arrangements with the postmaster and his wife to take care of the poor girl till I should return. In time I did return. She accepted me. We were married, and I brought her up here, for I wanted no society but hers. I was content to live in absolute solitude with her. She was much of the same mind, dear girl, but God had touched her heart, and in her sweet talk--without intending it, or dreaming of it--she showed me how selfish I was in thinking only of our own happiness, and caring nothing for the woes or the joys of our fellow-men. "My conscience reproached me, and I began to think how I could manage to live a less selfish life, but before I could make up my mind what course to follow an event occurred which caused delay. A little girl was sent to us. I called her Mariquita, of course, and thought no more of leaving our happy home in the mountains. For five years we remained here, and the little Mariquita grew to be an angel of light and beauty-- like her mother in all respects, except that she was very fair, with curly golden hair. "About that time war broke out--doubly accursed war! One night a band of deserters came and attacked my cottage. It had always been well prepared for anything of the sort with bolts, and bars and shutters, and even flanking loop-holes, as well as plenty of fire-arms and ammunition. But the party was too numerous. The villains forced the door in spite of me, and fired a volley before making a rush. From that moment I remembered nothing more until I recovered and found my head supported on the knee of an old man. I knew him at once to be a poor lonely old hunter who ranged about in the mountains here, and had paid us occasional visits. When he saw I was able to understand him, he told me that he had come suddenly on the villains and shot two of them, and that the others, perhaps thinking him the advance-guard of a larger party, had taken fright and made off. `But,' he said, in a low, hesitating tone, `Mariquita is dead!' "I sprang up as if I had been shot, but instantly fell again, for my leg had been broken. I had seen enough, however. My beloved one lay dead on the floor, not far from me, with a bullet through her brain. And now," added Pedro, pointing in deep despondency to the little mound at their feet--"she lies there!" "Not so, my friend," said Lawrence, in a low but earnest tone, as he grasped the man's hand, "it is only her dust that lies there, and even _that_ is precious in the sight of her Lord." "Thank you, senhor, for reminding me," returned Pedro; "but when the memory of that awful night is strong upon me, my faith almost fails." "No wonder," rejoined Lawrence, "but what of the child?" "Ah! that is what I asked the old hunter," returned Pedro. "He started up, and searched high and low, but could not find her. Then he went out, calling her by name loudly, and searched the bushes. Then he returned with a wild look and said the robbers must have taken her away--he would pursue! I knew it would be useless, for the scoundrels were mounted and the old hunter was on foot; but I let him go, and was not surprised when, two hours later, he returned quite exhausted. `It is in vain,' he said. `Yet if I could have come up with them, I would have died for her.' "I was long ill after that. A good while, they say, I was out of my mind, but old Ignacio nursed me through. He also buried Mariquita where she now lies." The guide paused. "And the child?" asked Lawrence, anxiously. "I have sought her far and wide, year after year, over mountain and plain. She may be dead--she may be alive--but I have never seen her nor heard of her from that day to this." "Your story is a very, very sad one," said Lawrence, his face expressing the genuine sympathy which he felt. "May I ask--are your wanderings mere haphazard? Have you no idea who they were that stole your little one, or where they went to?" "None whatever. The broken leg, you know, prevented my commencing the search at once, and when I was able to go about I found that all trace of the band was gone. No wonder, for the country was at war at the time, and many marauding parties had traversed the land since then." "I--I shrink," said Lawrence, with some hesitation, "from even the appearance of unkindness, but I cannot help expressing the fear that this vague, undirected wandering will be useless." "It would be so," returned Pedro, "if God did not direct all human affairs. If it be His will, I shall yet find my child on earth. If not, I shall find her above--with her mother. In our intercourse, senhor, I have observed in you a respect for God's Word. Is it not written, `Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in Him, and He will bring it to pass?'" "Most true," replied Lawrence, feeling the reproof, "yet God works by means. If we do not take the right means, we cannot expect to attain our end, however much we may trust." "Right, senhor, and I have taken the _only_ means open to me. Since I cannot give direction to my search, I search _everywhere_. Fortunately my business permits of this, and also of doing a little service to my fellow-men as I go on my way. Periodically I return here to rest,"--(he pointed to the little mound,)--"and when my powers begin to wane, either through disease or age, it is my purpose, if God permit, to return and die beside Mariquita's grave." CHAPTER EIGHT. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE AND A CHANGE OF SCENE. On their way back to the cottage they heard dogs barking, and a man talking to them. Next moment these came in sight. "The old hunter!" exclaimed Pedro, hastening forward with evident pleasure to meet his friend. It was equally evident that the old man was as much pleased to meet Pedro, for they grasped each other's hands with hearty good-will. "What news?" asked the old man, eagerly, as he held up a hand to check the dogs, which were leaping round him. Pedro shook his head sadly, and the expression of the old man became grave. The question referred to Pedro's search for his lost child. It had long been the first inquiry when these two met after a separation. The old man seemed never to lose hope, but he had become so accustomed to the reply that his despondency was now of short duration. He had known and loved the child in days gone by--had helped the mother in cultivating her garden-plot, and had gone out hunting with the father many a time. He was a fine-looking man, above seventy years of age, with iron-grey hair, turning in some places to pure white. The hunter's spare though still upright figure showed that he must have been a powerful man in his youth, and the deeply-marked wrinkles about his mouth and eyes told eloquently that he was a kind one. Round his shoulders were twined the cords of the heavy "bolas," or balls, with which he sometimes felled, at other times entangled, his prey. These balls were covered with clotted blood. He carried a short gun in his hand, and a large knife was stuck in his belt. The dogs that leaped around him were a strange pack--some being very large, some very small, and all of different breeds. A few of them had been lamed, and all were more or less marked by the wounds received from jaguars and pumas. "You expected me, Ignacio?" said Pedro, after the first greetings were over. "No--not quite so soon, but I chanced to be wandering about in the mountains, and came down to take a look at the old place, to see that all was right. You know I am fond of our old haunts, and never stay long away from them, but I did not expect to find you here." The hunter spoke in Spanish, and Lawrence found to his satisfaction that, although he by no means understood all that was said, he had already improved so much in that tongue through his frequent efforts to converse with Manuela, that he could follow the drift at least of the hunter's remarks. "I have come back sooner than I intended," returned Pedro, "for war is a wonderful hastener, as well as dictator, of events; but I have to thank war for having given me a new friend. Let me introduce Senhor Lawrence Armstrong to you; Senhor, my old comrade Ignacio, who, as I have told you, nursed me back to life many years ago." The old man held out a hard bony hand, and gave Lawrence a hearty squeeze of friendship that had something vice-like in its vigour. He then turned to Pedro, and began to make anxious inquiries about the war. As the two men spoke in undertones, Lawrence drew back a few paces, and followed them towards the cottage. He observed that Ignacio shook his head very often, and also that he laughed once or twice silently, but with apparent heartiness. As he overheard the name of Manuela just before one of these laughs, he experienced some disagreeable feelings, which it was not easy to understand or get rid of, so he took to fondling the hunter's dogs by way of diversion to his mind. The animals testified indirectly to the character of their master by receiving his advances with effusive demonstrations of joy. At the cottage they found Ignacio's horse--a very fine one--with a lasso hanging from the saddle. Beside it stood a loose horse with the carcass of a guanaco flung over it, and a Gaucho lad who was the hunter's only attendant. Quashy was engaged in animated conversation with this youth, and Manuela stood beside him listening. "I cannot understand," said Lawrence to Pedro, as they approached, "how men ever acquire dexterity in the use of these bolas." "Practice makes perfect, you know," said the guide, "and it doesn't matter much what sort of weapons you use, if you only learn to use them well. Of course it's not easy to a beginner. When Ignacio's dogs turn out a jaguar or a puma, they follow him hotly till he stops to defend himself. If the dogs fly upon the brute, the hunter usually jumps off his horse, whirls the three balls about till they get up tremendous momentum, and then brings them down on the jaguar's skull with a whack that generally drops him. But if the dogs are afraid to go at him, Ignacio throws the lasso over him, gallops away, and drags him over the ground, while the dogs rush in and tear him. What between bumping and hounds, the jaguar's career is soon finished." "I'm glad I've met you," said Pedro to Ignacio, as they turned aside into the bushes together, "for I've got news to tell, and I'll want your help. There's mischief brewing in the air, and I am commissioned--" Thus much did Lawrence and Quashy overhear before the voice died away in the distance. It was a tantalising point to stop at! Lawrence looked at Quashy and at Manuela, who stood near. "Does Manuela know anything of the mischief that is brewing?" asked Lawrence in amazing Spanish. "Not'ing," replied the girl in English, "but she _trust_ Pedro." "So do I, with all my heart," returned Lawrence; "my question was prompted by curiosity, not by doubt." "I's not so sure," said Quashy, with a frown, and a tone of self-assertion which was rare in him. "Nice-lookin' men like him's not allers as nice as dey looks." "Fie, Quashy! I thought you were of a more trustful spirit." "So I is, massa--awrful trus'ful! Kin trus' _you_ wid a'most anyt'ing. Trus' dis yer Injin gal wid untol' gol'. Trus' Sooz'n wid de whole world, an' eberyt'ing else besides, but I's not quite so sure about dis yer Pedro. Di'n't he say dar's noos to tell, an' he wants help, an' der's mischif a-brewin'? An' ain't I sure 'nuff dat he's got suffin to do wid de mischif, or he wouldn't be so secret?" "Well, Quashy, you'd better not tell Pedro your doubts of him," said Lawrence; "for if he knocks you down, I won't feel bound to stand up for you--seeing that I have perfect confidence in him." Further conversation on this point was cut abruptly short by a tremendous hissing inside the cottage, followed by clouds of steam. It was caused by one of Quashy's pots having boiled over. The negro sprang to the rescue. Soon afterwards, the host and the old hunter returning, they all entered the place together, and sat down to supper. It was but a simple cottage, suitable to the simple tastes of a mountaineer in such a region, with only two rooms and a kitchen, besides a small attic divided into two chambers, which could be reached only by a ladder through a trap-door. Little furniture graced it, yet what little there was bore evidence of having felt the touch of a tasteful female hand. Numerous nails and pegs were stuck in the walls for the purpose of supporting fire-arms, etcetera, but the weapons had been secreted in a place of safety, for, during the owner's frequent and long absences from home, the cottage was locked up and left pretty much to take care of itself, being deemed safe enough, owing to its remote and lonely position. The key was always left in charge of old Ignacio who was understood to have his eye on the place, and privileged to inhabit it whenever he chose. All this, and a great deal more, Pedro told to Lawrence as they sat round the table at supper in what used to be the parlour of the establishment. "But I'm going to lock it up, and hide the key this time," he continued; "because I have to send Ignacio on urgent matters into the eastern parts of Bolivia, to--" "To git help, an' tell de noos about de mischif what's a-brewin'," said the negro abruptly, with a pointed stare at the guide, and an arrested potato on the end of his fork. "You've learnt your lesson well, Quashy," returned Pedro, with a good-humoured smile, as he helped himself to a fresh supply of meat; "these are the very words--to obtain help and spread the news about the mischief that's brewing. Pass the salt, like a good fellow, and help Manuela to some more maize. You're forgetting your manners, boy." The negro heaved a sigh of discomfiture, and did as he was bid. Next morning at daybreak they left the cottage, and descended the intricate valley which led to it. Pedro seemed to have quite subdued his feelings--at least all outward manifestation of them--for he was sterner and more silent than usual as they resumed their journey. For some distance their route and that of Ignacio lay in the same direction, but towards the afternoon of the same day on which they left Mariquita Cottage the old hunter bade the party adieu, and, accompanied by his Gaucho lad and his dogs, entered a north-easterly defile of the hills, and disappeared. "We shall soon get to more cultivated lands, Manuela," said Pedro, in the Indian tongue, glancing back at Lawrence, who rode a few paces behind. "I doubt not you will be glad to see female faces again." To the surprise of the guide, Manuela said that she did not care! "Indeed!" he rejoined; "I thought you would be getting tired by this time of such rough travelling, and frequent hard lodging and fare, as well as of the conversation of us men." "No, I am not tired. I delight in this wild, free life." "Surely not because it is _new_ to you," said Pedro, with a glance of amusement; "when you dwell with your kindred, your life must be wild enough--unless indeed the great chief, your father, deems it beneath the dignity of his daughter to join in the sports of her fellows." Manuela made no reply, but for a moment or two gave vent to that clear, short, merry laugh in which she sometimes indulged. Lawrence Armstrong, irresistibly charmed by the sound, rode up alongside. "Manuela is merry," he said to the guide; "will you not translate, that I may enjoy the joke?" "It is not easy to translate," replied Pedro. "In fact, I doubt if you will see the joke at all. It requires a little knowledge of Manuela's past career to make understanding possible. She only said that she delighted in this wild, free life." "Not much jest in that, truly," returned Lawrence, "being, I fear, dull of comprehension; nevertheless, I see an unintentional compliment to _us_ in the remark, for it implies that we have not made Manuela's journey tedious to her." "It may be so," said Pedro, simply. "I was just telling her that we shall soon get to more inhabited parts of the land, where she will have a little female society now and then, and I was about to add that afterwards we shall descend into the lower grounds of Bolivia, where she will have wild life enough to her heart's content--perchance too much of it." Soon afterwards the guide's prophecy came true, for they passed from the rugged mountains into a wide and richly clothed table-land, where there were a few scattered farms, at which they were made heartily welcome whenever they chose to stop for the night or for a meal. Passing thence into another range of comparatively low hills, they reached the town of San Ambrosio, where they found comfortable quarters in a new and commodious inn--at least it seemed commodious, after the recent experiences of our travellers. Here Pedro said he would have to spend a day or two, as he had business to transact in the town, and that he would search out an old acquaintance with whose family he would place Manuela till their departure. While Pedro was gone in quest of his friend, the Indian girl, probably feeling shy in the midst of such unwonted crowds, retired to the room provided for her, and Lawrence and Quashy found themselves left in the unusual condition of having nothing to do. Of course, in these circumstances, they resolved to go out and see the town. While Lawrence was questioning the landlord, an American, as to how he should proceed, a very decided tremor passed through his frame. Quashy seemed to experience a similar sensation, for he said abruptly-- "Eart'quak'!" "That's nothing new here, sir," said the landlord to Lawrence, as he lighted a cigarette; "we're used to it, though some of the natives ain't quite easy in their minds, for the shocks have been both frequent as well as violent lately." "Have they done any damage?" asked Lawrence. "Nothin' to speak of. Only shook down a house or two that was built to sell, I suppose, not to stand. You'll find the market-place second turn to your left." Somewhat impressed by the landlord's free-and-easy manner, as well as by his apparent contempt for earthquakes, the master and man went out together. With characteristic modesty the negro attempted to walk behind, but Lawrence would by no means permit this. He insisted on his walking beside him. "Bery good, massa," said Quashy, at last giving in, "if you _will_ walk 'longside ob a nigger, 's'not _my_ fault. Don't blame _me_." With this protest, solemnly uttered, the faithful negro accompanied our hero in his inspection of the town. CHAPTER NINE. TELLS OF A TREMENDOUS CATASTROPHE. San Ambrosio was, at the period of which we write, a small and thriving place--though what may be styled a mushroom town, which owed its prosperity to recently discovered silver-mines. All things considered, it was a town of unusual magnificence on a small scale. Being built with straight streets, cutting each other at right angles, Lawrence and his man had no difficulty in finding the principal square, or market-place, which was crowded with people selling and buying vegetables, milk, eggs, fruit, etcetera, brought in from the surrounding districts. The people presented all the picturesque characteristics of the land in profusion--peons, with huge Spanish spurs, mounted on gaily caparisoned mules; Gauchos, on active horses of the Pampas; market-women, in varied costumes more or less becoming, and dark-eyed senhoras on balconies and verandas sporting the graceful mantilla and the indispensable fan. The carts and donkeys, and dogs and fowls, and boys had the curious effect of reducing the babel of voices and discordant sounds to something like a grand harmony. Besides these, there was a sprinkling of men of free-and-easy swagger, in long boots, with more or less of villainy in their faces--adventurers these, attracted by the hope of "something turning up" to their advantage, though afflicted, most of them, with an intense objection to take the trouble of turning up anything for themselves. Dangerous fellows, too, who would not scruple to appropriate the turnings up of other people when safe opportunity offered. A clear fountain played in the centre of the square--its cool, refreshing splash sounding very sweet in the ears of Lawrence, whose recent sojourn in the cold regions of the higher Andes had rendered him sensitive to the oppressive heat of the town. Besides this, a clear rivulet ran along one side of the square, near to which was the governor's house. A line of trees threw a grateful shade over the footpath here. On the opposite side stood the barracks, where a few ill-clad unsoldierly men lounged about with muskets in their hands. All the houses and church walls and spires, not only in the square, but in the town, bore evidence, in the form of cracked walls and twisted windows and doorways, of the prevalence of earthquakes; and there was a general appearance of dilapidation and dirt around, which was anything but agreeable to men who had just come from the free, grand, sweet-scented scenery of the mountains. "They seem to have had some severe shakings here," said Lawrence, pointing with his stick to a crack in the side of one of the houses which extended from the roof to the ground. We may remark here that, on entering the town, our travellers had laid aside their arms as being useless encumbrances, though Lawrence still carried his oaken cudgel, not as a weapon but a walking-stick. "Yes, massa," replied Quashy, "got lots ob eart' quaks in dem diggins. Ebery day, more or less, dey hab a few. Jest afore you come down dis mornin' I hab some conv'sashin' wid de landlord, an' he say he don' like de look ob t'ings." "Indeed, Quashy. Why not?" "'Cause it's gittin' too hot, he say, for de time ob year--sulfry, he called it." "Sultry, you mean?" "Well, I's not 'zactly sure what I means, but _he_ said sulfry. An' dey've bin shook more dan ornar ob late. An' dere's a scienskrific gen'leman in our inn what's bin a-profisyin' as there'll be a grand bust-up afore long." "I hope he'll turn out to be a false prophet," said Lawrence. "What is his name?" "Dun' know, massa. Look dar!" exclaimed Quashy, with a grin, pointing to a fat priest with a broad-brimmed white hat on a sleek mule, "he do look comf'rable." "More comfortable than the poor beast behind him," returned Lawrence, with a laugh, as he observed three little children cantering along on one horse. There was no lack of entertainment and variety in that town, for people generally seemed to a great extent to have cast off the trammels of social etiquette, both in habits and costume. Many of the horses that passed were made to carry double. Here would ride past a man with a woman behind him; there a couple of girls, or two elderly females. Elsewhere appeared a priest of tremendous length and thinness, with feet much too near the ground, and further on a boy, so small as to resemble a monkey, with behind him a woman so old as to suggest the idea he had taken his great-grandmother out for a ride, or--_vice versa_! For some hours master and man wandered about enjoying themselves thoroughly in spite of the heat, commenting freely on all they saw and heard, until hunger reminded them of the flight of time. Returning to their hotel, Lawrence, to his surprise, found a note awaiting him. It was from Pedro, saying that he had found his friend in a village about three miles from San Ambrosio, describing the route to the place, and asking him to send Quashy out immediately, as he wanted his assistance that night for a few hours. "I wonder what he wants with you?" said Lawrence. "To help him wid de mischif!" replied the negro, in a half-sulky tone. "Well, you'll have to go, but you'd better eat something first." "No, massa; wid you's leave I'll go off at once. A hunk ob bread in de pocket an' lots o' fruit by de way--das 'nuff for dis nigger." "Off with you, then, and tell Pedro that you left Manuela and me quite comfortable." "O Massa Lawrie!--'scuse me usin' de ole name--it _am_ so nice to hear you speak jolly like dat. 'Minds me ob de ole times!" "Get along with you," said Lawrence, with a laugh, as the warm-hearted black left the hotel. Thus these two parted. Little did they imagine what singular experiences they should encounter before meeting again. Soon after Quashy's departure Lawrence went to the door of Manuela's room, and, tapping gently, said-- "Dinner is ready, Manuela." "I kom queek," replied the girl, with a hearty laugh. It had by that time become an established little touch of pleasantry between these two that Lawrence should teach the Indian girl English--at least to the extent of familiar phrases--while she should do the same for him with Spanish. There was one thing that the youth liked much in this, and it also surprised him a little, namely, that it seemed to draw the girl out of her Indian reticence and gravity, for she laughed with childlike delight at the amazing blunders she made in attempting English. Indeed, she laughed far more at herself than at him, although his attempts at Spanish were even more ridiculous. A few minutes later Manuela entered the room, and, with a modest yet gracious smile, took a seat opposite her pupil-teacher. "Dignity," thought the latter--"native dignity and grace! Being the daughter of a great chief of the Incas--a princess, I suppose--she cannot help it. An ordinary Indian female, now, would have come into the room clumsily, looked sheepish, and sat down on the edge of her chair--perhaps on the floor!" But as he gazed at her short, black, curly hair, her splendid black eyebrows, her pretty little high-bred mouth, beautiful white teeth, and horribly brown skin, he sighed, and only said-- "Ay, ay! Well, well! _What_ a pity!" "What ees dat?" inquired the girl, with a look of grave simplicity. "Did I speak?" returned Lawrence, a little confused. "Yes--you say, `Ay, ay. Well, well. _What_ a pittie!'" "Oh!--ah!--yes--I was only _thinking_, Manuela. What will you have?" "Som muttin," replied the girl, with a pursing of the little mouth that indicated a tendency to laugh. "It is not mutton. It's beef, I think." "Well, bee-eef very naice--an' som' gravvie too, plee-ese." She went off at this point into a rippling laugh, which, being infectious in its nature, also set her companion off, but the entrance of the landlord checked them both. He sat down at a small table near to them, and, being joined by a friend, called for a bottle of wine. "Hotter than ever," he remarked to Lawrence. "Yes, very sultry indeed." "Shouldn't wonder if we was to have a sharpish touch or two to-night." To which his friend, who was also an American if not an Englishman, and appeared to be sceptical in his nature, replied, "Gammon!" This led to a conversation between the two which is not worthy of record, as it was chiefly speculative in regard to earthquakes in general, and tailed off into guesses as to social convulsions present, past or pending. One remark they made, however, which attracted the attention of our hero, and made him wish to hear more. It had reference to some desperate character whose name he failed to catch, but who was said to be in the neighbourhood again, "trying to raise men to join his band of robbers," the landlord supposed, to which the landlord's friend replied with emphasis that he had come to the right place, for, as far as his experience went, San Ambrosio was swarming with men that seemed fit for anything--from "pitch-and-toss to manslaughter." Not wishing, apparently, to hear anything more about such disagreeable characters and subjects, Manuela rose at the conclusion of the meal and retired to her apartment, while Lawrence continued to sip his coffee in a balcony which overlooked the vineyard behind the hotel. It was evening, and, although unusually warm, the weather was very enjoyable, for a profound calm reigned around, and the hum of the multitudes in the distant square seemed hushed as the church bells rang the hour for evening prayers. As the twilight deepened, and the stars came faintly into sight in the dark-blue vault above, the thoughts of Lawrence became strangely saddened, and, gradually quitting the scene of peaceful beauty on which he gazed, sped over the Cordillera of the Andes to that home of his boyhood which now lay in ashes. The frame of mind thus induced naturally led him to dwell on past scenes in which his mother had taken a part, and he was still meditating, more than half asleep, on the joys which were never to return, when he was roused into sudden and thorough consciousness by something--he could not tell what-- a sort of sensation--which caused him to leap from his chair. At the same moment there arose from the streets a cry, or wail. Suddenly a rumbling noise was heard. Lawrence bounded towards the nearest door. Full well he knew what it meant. Before he could escape there was a tremendous upheaval of the solid earth, and in one instant, without further warning, the entire town fell with one mighty crash! Lawrence just saw the walls and roof collapsing--then all was dark, and consciousness forsook him. CHAPTER TEN. RECOUNTS SOME TERRIBLE AND SOME VIGOROUS DEEDS. How long our hero lay in this state he could not tell, but on recovering his faculties he became conscious of the fact that he was in total darkness, lying on his back, with a tremendous weight pressing on his chest. For a few moments he remained still, quite unable to recollect what had occurred, or where he was. Suddenly memory resumed its office--the earthquake! the fall of the hotel!--and, with a gush of horror, he realised the terrible truth that he was buried alive. The reader must have been in the position we describe to understand fully the feelings of the poor youth at that moment. His first impulse was to make a violent effort to shake off the intolerable weight that almost suffocated him; but his efforts, strong though he was, proved in vain. It felt as if a mountain held him down. Then the thought of Manuela rushed in upon him, and he uttered a loud cry. The sound of his voice in the confined space was terrible. It seemed to rush in upon his brain with awful din. In his agony, a feeling of frantic despair came over him, and, with the strength of a giant, he struggled to be free, but still without success. Exhausted as much by his horror as by his efforts, he lay for some minutes quite still, his brain keenly alive and thirsting, as it were, for some sound that might convey hope. No sound was to be heard, save the intense beating of his own pulsations which seemed to throb into his ears, and down into his very extremities. As he lay listening, it came strangely into his thoughts, with something like a feeling of regret, that it would be very hard for him to die! So much strong life as he possessed must, he thought, take long to destroy! But again, the memory of poor Manuela, perhaps in a similar condition, and certainly not far from him, banished the thoughts of self, and he listened once more intently. All was still as the grave. The effort at self-control, however, calmed him a little, and, in a gentler mood, he tried to move his arms. The left arm was fixed as in a vice, and gave him so much pain, that he feared it had been broken. The right arm was also fast, but he felt that he could move his hand. It was a feeble straw for the buried man to clutch at, yet it was strong enough to buoy up Hope in a stout heart. His courage returned, and with calm, resolute patience he set to work, uttering the fervent prayer, "Help me, O God!" Where there was space for a hand to move freely, he knew there must be space to remove rubbish, though it might be ever so little. In a few minutes some handful of earth were thrust aside. Then, by drawing his arm upwards and pushing it downwards, he loosened the rubbish around it, and by slow degrees set it partially free. If he had been entombed in solid earth, this, he was well aware, could not have been possible; but, rightly judging that in a mass of mingled bricks, mortar, and beams there must be spaces more or less open, he worked away, with patience and in hope. The result was that he was able at last to touch with his right hand the object which lay so crushingly on his chest. It was an enormous beam. The utter impossibility of even moving it filled him for a moment with despair, but again he cried to God for help. The cry was answered, truly and effectively, yet without a miracle, for the very act of trust in the Almighty calmed his mind and set it free to consider intelligently. He could not hope to lift the beam. It was far too heavy. Being so heavy, he knew it would have killed him outright if it had not been checked in its descent, and partially supported somehow. Might he not, then, scrape away the rubbish on which he lay until he should, as it were, sink away from the beam? He tried at once, and managed to get his right hand slightly under him. He could reach his haunch. It was a terribly slow process, but by degrees the busy hand reached the waist, drawing the rubbish out by small portions at a time. It seemed to him as if hours were spent in these painful efforts. Still no appreciable difference was made in his position, and he had by that time pushed his hand as far up under his back towards his neck as it was possible to turn it. Finding that he could scrape away no more in that direction, he now sought to deepen the hollows already made. In doing so he got hold of a brick, which he wrenched out with a desperate effort. The result was instantaneous relief, for he seemed to subside, not much, indeed, but sufficiently to permit of his breathing freely. With a fervent exclamation of thankfulness he turned slightly round, and drew his left arm out from the rubbish. He felt it anxiously. It was bruised a good deal, but not broken. Although so greatly relieved that he felt for a few moments almost as if he had been delivered from death, the poor youth was still in a terrible case. The space in which he was confined did not admit of his sitting up, much less standing. What seemed to be a solid mass of the fallen wall was above him, prevented from crushing him by the beam before mentioned, while around him were masses of brick and mortar densely packed. Again exerting his lungs, the youth shouted with all his might, and then paused to listen; but there was no reply. Then he shouted the name of Manuela, in the hope that she might hear, and answer, if still alive. But no answering voice replied. Believing now that nothing could save him but a fixed purpose and a prolonged desperate effort on an intelligent plan, he prayed again for help, and then proceeded to enlarge his tomb by scraping the rubbish back under the beam, from beneath which he had drawn himself, and packing it tightly down. This enlarged the space, enabling him to get upon his knees. To work upward through the fallen wall would, he knew, be an impossibility. He therefore worked horizontally for some time, throwing the rubbish between his legs behind him, as, we presume, the moles are accustomed to do. Then he passed his hand along over his head, and found that the solid wall was no longer above him,--only disjointed bricks and beams. With renewed hope and redoubled effort he now worked his way upwards, although well-nigh suffocated by dust, as well as by smoke arising from fires which had broken out in many places all over the ruined town. Suddenly, while thus engaged, he heard voices faintly. He shouted with all his might, and listened. Yes, he was not mistaken; he heard voices distinctly, and they appeared to be speaking in Spanish. With something like a bounding of the heart he repeated his shout, and renewed his labours. If he had known the character of the persons who had thus encouraged him, his hopes would not have been so strong. We have said that the entire town had been levelled by one tremendous convulsion, and that in many places fires had broken out among the ruins. These fires sent up dense volumes of smoke, which naturally attracted people from all quarters of the surrounding country. Among them came bands of desperate and lawless characters, who fastened on the ruins as vultures seize on carrion. They resembled the unclean birds in more respects than one, for they went about as long as there was anything of value to be seized, long after other people had been forced to quit the place owing to the horrible stench of the hundreds of corpses decaying, and in many cases burning, among the ruins. (See note 1.) It was the voices of some of these lawless ruffians that Lawrence had heard. He soon became aware of their character by the terrible oaths which they used, and the fiendish laughter in which they indulged whenever he called for help. Knowing that he had nothing to hope from such miscreants, he ceased to call out, but toiled none the less vigorously to effect his deliverance. At last he managed to scrape through to the upper world; and a feeling of inexpressible relief filled his breast as a bright ray of sunshine shot into his prison. That it was daylight did not surprise him, for the many hours which he had spent under ground seemed to him like weeks. But he soon found that he was not yet free. The hole which he had scraped was much too small to admit of the passage of even a little boy. In trying to enlarge it, he found, to his dismay, that on one side of it was an enormous beam, on the other a mass of solid masonry, which could not be moved without aid. Looking out, he saw nothing but confused heaps of smoking ruins, save in one direction, where, in the far distance, (for the hotel had stood on a mound), he could see a group of men engaged as if searching for something. To these he shouted again, but did not attract their attention. Either they did not hear him, or did not care. Turning then to the beam, he tried with all his might to raise it, but failed, though it moved slightly. Encouraged by hope, and afterwards influenced by despair, he tried again and again, until his strength broke down. At this juncture he heard footsteps, and saw a man passing near. "Senhor! senhor!" he cried, in the best Spanish he could muster, "aid me to get out, for the love of God!" A coarse insult was the only reply as the man passed on. A group of other men who passed soon after behaved as badly, for they only laughed at his entreaties. It is difficult to say whether rage or indignation was more powerful in Lawrence's heart, but both passions were equally unavailing in the circumstances. He felt this, and soon calmed down; so that when, half an hour later, another man passed that way, he addressed him in tones of respect and earnest entreaty. The bandit, for such he was, seemed to be utterly unaffected; for although he must certainly have heard the appeal, he, like the others, passed on without taking the slightest notice. "Senhor! senhor!" cried Lawrence, "I have a gold watch and chain, to which you--" The man stopped, for the bait took at once. Turning, and walking towards the place from which the sound came, he soon found the hole through which our hero looked. "Hand out the watch, senhor," he said. "No, no," answered Lawrence; "aid me first to lift the beam." Whether the man understood the bad Spanish or not we cannot say, but instead of helping to lift the beam, he drew a pistol from his belt, and said-- "Hand out the watch, or I shoot!" "Shoot away, then," cried Lawrence, savagely, as he drew quickly back into his hole. The report of the pistol followed the words, and the ball caused a cloud of dust and rubbish to mingle with the smoke. A wild laugh of defiance from within told that our Englishman was not hurt. "Ha--ha! Shoot again," he cried, fiercely. "No, senhor, no. You are brave. I will help you," replied the miscreant. Lawrence doubted the honesty of the man's assurance, but of course thanked him, and expressed readiness to avail himself of his assistance. He kept carefully at the extreme end of the hole, however, while his murderous deliverer removed some of the rubbish from the beam, and so made it possible to raise it. Remaining quite still, Lawrence waited till he saw that the beam had been so far moved as to enlarge the space sufficiently for him to get through. Then, with a sudden spring _a la_ Jack-in-the-box, he leaped out, and stood before the astonished bandit. Lawrence, whose sense of honour taught him to hold his promise as sacred to a thief as to an honest man, had fully intended to give up his watch and chain to the man if he should remain peaceably disposed; but the bandit was not so disposed. Recovering from his surprise, he drew a second pistol from his belt and levelled it at Lawrence. Thought is quick; quicker even than triggers. His length of limb happily flashed into the youth's mind. Up went his foot with a sudden kick, and away went the pistol into the air, where it exploded after the manner of a sky-rocket! The bandit did not wait for more. He turned and fled, much to the satisfaction of the victor, who, overcome by prolonged exhaustive toil and excitement, sank down on a heap of rubbish, and lay there in a semi-conscious state. It seemed as if both mind and body had resolved to find rest at all hazards, for he lay perfectly motionless for nearly an hour,--not exactly asleep, but without being fully conscious of connected thought. From this state of repose, if it may be so called, he was partially aroused by the voices of men near him, talking in coarse, violent language. Raising his head languidly, he observed a band of about eight or ten villainous-looking fellows busy round a hole, out of which they appeared to be drawing some sort of booty. "A prize!" exclaimed one of the men; "be gentle; she's worth taking alive." A loud laugh from the others roused Lawrence again, but a feeling of unwonted exhaustion oppressed him, so that he scarce knew what it was he heard. Suddenly there arose a female voice, in a cry of pain. Lawrence started up on one elbow, and beheld Manuela struggling in the grasp of one of the band. If electric fire had taken the place of blood in his veins, he could not have bounded up more quickly. The shock seemed to renew and double his wonted strength. Like the English bull-dog, with terrible purpose, but in absolute silence, he rushed over the rubbish towards the man who held the struggling girl. The man seemed to be a leader, being the only one of the band who carried a cavalry sabre. The others were armed, some with short swords, some with carbines and pistols. Swift though Lawrence was, the chief saw him coming. He let go the girl, and made a wild cut at him with the sabre. Lawrence received the cut on his left arm. At the same moment he struck the villain such a blow with his clenched fist, that it seemed to crush in his skull, and sent him headlong into the hole out of which they had just dragged the Indian girl. Fortunately he dropped his sabre as he fell. With a shout of defiance our hero caught it up, just in time to arrest the descent of a carbine butt on his head. Next moment the man who aimed the blow was cleft to the chin, and a united rush of the robbers was for the moment arrested. Manuela, helpless and horror-struck, had stood motionless on the spot where the chief had released her. Lawrence caught her in his left arm, swung her into an angle of the broken wall, placed himself in front, and faced his foes. The villains, though taken by surprise, were no cravens. Apparently they had already discharged their fire-arms, for only one fired at our hero with a pistol, and missed his aim. Flinging the weapon at his adversary with a yell of disappointment, he missed his aim a second time. At the same moment another of the band--one of the tallest and most ferocious-looking--sprang upon the youth with terrible fury. He knew well, apparently, how to use his weapon; and Lawrence felt that his experience at school now stood him in good stead. As the weapons of these giants flew around with rapid whirl and clash, the others stood aside to see the end. Doubtless they would have taken unfair advantage of their foe if they could, but Lawrence, turning his back to the wall, where Manuela crouched, prevented that. At last one dastardly wretch, seeing that his comrade was getting the worst of it, bethought him of his carbine, and began hurriedly to load. Our hero noted the act, and understood its fatal significance. With a bound like that of a tiger he sprang at the man, and cut him down with a back-handed blow, turning, even in the act, just in time to guard a sweeping cut dealt at his head. With a straight point he thrust his sword through teeth, gullet, and skull of his tall adversary, until it stood six inches out behind his head. Then, without a moment's pause, he leaped upon the nearest of the other bandits. Awe-stricken, they all gave back, and it seemed as if the youth would yet win the day single-handed against them all, when a shout was heard, and half a dozen men of the same stamp, if not the same band, came running to the rescue. Lawrence drew hastily back to his protecting wall. "Pray, Manuela, pray," he gasped; "we are in God's hands." At that moment two shots were heard away on their right, and two of the advancing bandits fell. An instant later, and Quashy bounded upon the scene with a high trumpet-shriek like a wild elephant. Pedro followed, brandishing the rifle which he had just discharged with such fatal effect. Lawrence joined them with a genuine British cheer, but their adversaries did not await the onset. They turned, fled, and speedily scattered themselves among the ruins. "T'ank God, massa, we's in time," said Quashy, wiping with his sleeve the perspiration that streamed from his face, as they returned quickly to Manuela. "We must not wait a moment here," said Pedro, hurriedly. "There may be more of the villains about. But you are wounded, Senhor Armstrong." "Not badly," said Lawrence. "It might have been worse, but the fellow was in such a hurry that the edge of his sabre turned, and I got only a blow with the side of it. If I had only had my good cudgel--by the way, it must be in the hole. It was in my hand when--Stay, I'll return in a few seconds." He ran back to his late tomb, and quickly returned in triumph with his favourite weapon. "Come, we must get away from this at once," said Pedro, turning to Manuela. "No time for explanations. Are you hurt?" "No; thank God. Let us go," replied the girl, who was pale and haggard, as she staggered towards them. "Take my arm," said Lawrence, presenting his wounded limb. The girl pointed with trembling hand to the blood. "It is nothing--a mere scratch," said Lawrence. In his anxiety he forgot to speak in Spanish. Manuela appeared as if about to sink with fear. He caught her, lifted her in his arms as if she had been a little child, and, following Pedro's lead, left the place which had been the scene of so many terrible events. In the outskirts of the town there was a large low building of mud or sun-dried bricks, which had not been overthrown by the earthquake. To this Pedro conducted his companions. They found room in the place, though it was nearly full of survivors in all conditions of injury,-- from those who had got mere scratches and bruises, to those who had been so crushed and mangled that life was gradually ebbing away. There seemed to be about fifty people in the room, and every minute more were being brought in. Here Lawrence set down his burden, who had by that time quite recovered, and turned quickly to the guide. "Come, Pedro," he said, "I can be of use here; but we must have my own wound dressed first. You can do it, I doubt not." Pedro professed to be not only able but willing. Before he did it, however, he whispered in a low tone, yet with much emphasis, to Manuela-- "Don't forget yourself! Remember!" As he whispered pretty loud, and in Spanish, Lawrence overheard and understood him, and puzzled himself, not only that day, but for many days and nights after, as to how it was possible that Manuela _could_ forget herself, and what it was she had to remember. But the more and the longer he puzzled over it, the less did he clear up his mind on the subject. When it became known that Lawrence was a doctor, there was a visible increase of hope in the expression and bearing of the poor wounded people. And the youth soon justified their trustful feelings, for, with Pedro and Quashy as assistant-surgeons, and Manuela as head-nurse, he went about setting broken bones, bandaging limbs, sewing up wounds, and otherwise relieving the sufferers around him. While this was going on the poor people were recounting many marvellous tales of terrible risks run, escapes made, and dangers evaded. During all this time, too, frequent shocks of earthquake were felt, of greater or less violence, and these afterwards continued daily for a month, so that the few buildings which had partially survived the first awful shock were finally levelled like the rest. When Lawrence with his assistants had gone the rounds of the extemporised hospital, he was so completely worn out that he could scarcely keep his eyes open. Swallowing a cup of hot coffee hastily, he flung himself on a heap of straw beside one of his patients, and almost instantly fell into a profound lethargic slumber. There was an unoccupied arm-chair in the room. Placing this beside the youth's couch, the Indian girl sat down with a fan, purposing, in her gratitude, to protect her preserver from the mosquitoes, which were having an unusual bout of revelry over the sufferers that night. Quashy, observing this as he lay down in a corner, shook his head sadly, and whispered to himself: "Ah! you brown gal, you's in lub wid massa. But it's useless. De ole story ob unrekited affection; for you know, pretty though you is, massa kin nebber marry a squaw!" Thus thinking, Quashy went sweetly to sleep. So did most of the others in that crowded place. But Manuela stuck to her colours nobly. She kept awake until her pretty black eyes became lustreless, until her pretty brown face became expressionless, until the effort to continue awake became hopeless. Then her little head fell back on the cushion of the chair, the little mouth opened, and the large eyes closed. The little hand which held the fan dropped by her side. The fan itself dropped on the floor, and, like the others, poor Manuela at length found rest and solace in slumber. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. A similar disaster, accompanied by dreadful scenes of lawlessness and horror, occurred in 1861, when the city of Mendoza was totally destroyed by an earthquake, and nine-tenths of the inhabitants perished. CHAPTER ELEVEN. OUTWITTED BY A BANDIT. Early next morning Pedro went round and quietly roused his friends. "We must start at once," he said in a low voice to Lawrence, when the wearied youth was sufficiently awake to understand. "Your wounded arm is better, I hope?" "It is only stiff and painful; happily, no bones are injured. But why such haste? I don't like to leave my poor patients in this fashion." "Will any of them die if you don't stay to nurse them?" asked the guide, with a grave, almost stern, expression. "Why, no; not exactly," returned Lawrence; "but many of them will want their wounds dressed, and all of them will be the better for a little more skilled attendance." "Will they not survive under ordinary attendance?" asked Pedro, with increasing severity of expression. "Doubtless they will, but--" "Would you like," interrupted the inflexible guide, "to have them all roused up at this early hour to hear a little farewell speech from you, explaining the absolute necessity for your going away, and your extreme regret at leaving them?" "Not if there is such necessity," returned Lawrence, yawning, and raising himself on one elbow. "There _is_ such necessity, senhor. I have been down to the village where my friend lives, and have got fresh horses. Manuela and Quashy are already mounted. I let you sleep to the last moment, seeing you were so tired. Don't forget your pistols; you may need them." Without waiting for a reply, he rose and left the room. The young doctor hesitated no longer. Regret at quitting the poor people around him was overborne by the fear of being left behind, for he had by that time begun to entertain a vague suspicion that the stern and peculiar man by whom he was led would not permit any object whatever to stand in the way of what he believed to be his duty. In a few seconds he issued from the hut, armed with his pair of double-barrelled pistols and the faithful cudgel. The cavalry sabre, however, had been lost, not much to his regret. The grey light of dawn was just sufficient to give a ghostly appearance to what may be truly termed the ghastly ruins around them, and to reveal in undefined solemnity the neighbouring mountains. Smoke still issued from the half-smothered fires, and here and there a spectral figure might be seen flitting silently to and fro. But all was profoundly still and quiet, even the occasional tremors of the earth had ceased for a time, when they issued from the enclosure of the hut. Without speaking, Lawrence mounted the horse which stood ready for him, and they all rode silently away, picking their steps with great care through the upheaved and obstructed streets. It was a scene of absolute and utter ruin, which Lawrence felt could never be effaced from his memory, but must remain there burned in deeply, in its minutest details, to the end of time. When they had passed the suburbs, however, and reached the country beyond, the depressing influences passed away, and, a certain degree of cheerfulness returning with the sun, they began to chat and to explain to each other their various experiences. "Of course, when I felt the earthquake," said Pedro to Lawrence, "I knew that, although little damage was done to the village to which I had gone in search of my friends, it must have been very severe on the town with its spires and public buildings; so I saddled up at once, and set off on my return. I met Quashy just as I left the village, and we both spurred back as fast as we could. When we came in sight of it, we saw at once that the place was destroyed, but, until we reached it, had no idea of the completeness of the destruction. We could not even find the road that led to the inn where we had left you and Manuela; and it was not till the following morning that we found the inn itself, and came up, as you know, just in time to help you, though we had sought diligently all night." "Das so, massa," broke in Quashy, who had listened with glittering eyes to Pedro's narrative, which of course was much more extended and full, "an' you's got no notion how we's banged about our poor shins among dese ruins afore we founded you. S'my b'lief but for de fires we'd nebber hab founded you at all. And dem scoundrils--oh! dem scoundrils--" Quashy's feelings at this point failed to find vent in words sufficiently expressive, so he relieved them to some extent by shaking his fist at scoundreldom in general, and grinding his teeth. No words could have expressed his feelings half so well. By way of changing a subject that appeared to be almost too much for him, he turned abruptly to the Indian girl; and said, in Spanish quite as bad as that of Lawrence-- "But where were _you_, senhorina, all the time?" "Ay, Manuela, let's hear how it was that you escaped," said Pedro quickly, in Indian. "I escaped through the mercy of God," replied the girl, in a low voice. "True, Manuela, true," replied the guide, "you never said a truer word than that; but by what means was His mercy displayed?" "I can scarcely tell," returned the girl; "when the earthquake came I was sitting on my bed. Then the wall of the room seemed to fall on me, and my senses were gone. How long I lay so, I cannot tell. When I recovered my mind I felt as if buried alive, but I could breathe, and although unable to rise, I could move. Then I heard cries, and I replied; but my strength was gone, and I think no one heard me. Then I prayed, and then, I think, I slept, but am not sure. At last I heard a spade striking the earth above me. Soon an opening was made, and I was dragged rudely out. The rest you know." On this being interpreted to her companions, Quashy gave it as his decided opinion that a miracle had been performed for her special deliverance; but Lawrence thought that, without miraculous interference, God had caused a mass of wall to fall over and protect her in much the same way that he himself had been protected. While they were talking thus, and slowly descending one of the numerous richly-wooded, though rugged, paths which traverse the lower slopes of the Andes, they encountered a party of horsemen from the Pampas. They were well-armed, and from their looks might have been another troop of banditti, coming like human vultures from afar to swoop down on the carcass of the unfortunate town. To have shown the slightest hesitancy or fear--supposing them to have been what they looked--would have been to invite attack, but, as the reader knows, our travellers were not the men to betray themselves thus. Before starting, they had carefully examined their weapons, and had bestowed them about their persons somewhat ostentatiously. Pedro had even caused Manuela to stick a brace of small pistols and a large knife in her belt; and, as Indian women are sometimes known to be capable of defending themselves as vigorously as men, she was by no means a cipher in the effective strength of the party. With a dignified yet free-and-easy air that would have done credit to a Spanish Don of the olden time, Pedro saluted the party as he rode past. His aspect, and the quiet, self-possessed air of the huge Englishman, with the singularity of his cudgel, coupled with the look of graceful decision about the Indian maiden, and the blunt bull-doggedness of the square negro, were sufficient to ensure a polite response, not only from that party, but from several other bands of the same stamp that were met with during the day. Diverging from the main road in order to avoid these bands, they followed a track well-known to the guide. Towards the afternoon, from the top of a rising ground, they descried a solitary foot traveller wending his way wearily up the hill. He was a man of middle age, and powerfully-built, but walked with such evident difficulty that it seemed as if he were either ill or exhausted. Pedro eyed him with considerable suspicion as he approached. In passing, he begged for assistance. As he spoke in French, Lawrence, whose sympathies, like those of Quashy, were easily roused, asked in that tongue what was the matter with him. He had been robbed, he said, by that villainous bandit, Conrad of the Mountains, or some one extremely like him, and had been nearly killed by him. He was on his way to San Ambrosio, where his wife and family dwelt, having heard that it had been greatly damaged, if not destroyed, by an earthquake. "It has been utterly destroyed, my poor fellow," said Lawrence, in a tone of pity; "but it may be that your family has escaped. A good number of people have escaped. Here are a few dollars for you. You will need them, I fear. You can owe them to me, and pay them when next we meet." The gift was accompanied with a look of pleasantry, for Lawrence well knew there was little chance of their ever meeting again. Pedro sat regarding them with a grim smile. "You are a stout fellow," he said, in a tone that was not conciliatory, after the beggar had accepted the dollars with many expressions of gratitude; "from all I have heard of Conrad of the Mountains, you are quite a match for him, if he were alone." "He was not alone, senhor," replied the beggar, with a look that told of a temper easily disturbed. To this Pedro replied contemptuously, "Oh, indeed!" and, turning abruptly away, rode on. "You doubt that man?" said Lawrence, following him. "I do." "He looked honest." "Men are not always to be judged by their looks." "Das a fact!" interposed Quashy; "what would peepil judge ob _me_, now, if dey hoed by looks?" "They'd say you were a fine, genial, hearty, good-natured blockhead," said Lawrence, laughing. "True, massa, you's right. I'm all dat an' wuss, but not _always_ dat. Sometimes I'm roused; an' I'm _awrful_ w'en I'm roused! You should see me w'en my back's riz. Oh _my_!" The negro opened his eyes and mouth so awfully at the mere idea of such a rising that his companions were fain to seek relief in laughter. Even the grave Manuela gave way to unrestrained merriment, for if she failed to thoroughly understand Quashy's meaning, she quite understood his face. That night they found welcome shelter in a small farm. "Did you fall in with the notorious bandit, Conrad of the Mountains?" asked their host, after the ceremonious reception of his guests was over. "No, senhor," answered Pedro. "Is that fellow in this neighbourhood just now?" "So it is said, senhor. I have not seen him myself, and should not know him if I saw him, but from descriptions I should think it must be he. I have a poor fellow--a peon--lying here just now, who has been robbed and nearly murdered by him. Come, he is in the next room; you can speak to him." Saying this, the host introduced Pedro and Lawrence into an inner chamber, where the wounded man lay, groaning horribly. He was very ready, indeed eager, to give all the information in his power. Fear had evidently given the poor fellow an exaggerated idea of the appearance of the man who had waylaid him; nevertheless, from his description our travellers had no difficulty in recognising the poor bereaved beggar whom they had met and assisted. "Was he a large man?" asked Pedro. "Yes, yes, senhor; tremendous!--seven feet or more, and _so_"-- indicating about three feet--"across the shoulders. Rough black head, huge black beard and moustache, hawk nose, with such awful eyes, and the strength of a tiger! I could never have been so easily overcome by one man if he had not been a giant." "You see," said Pedro in English, turning to Lawrence with a smile, "the description tallies exactly, making due allowance for this poor fellow's alarm. He must be a clever fellow this Conrad of the Mountains, for he has not only frightened a peon out of his wits, but roused the pity of an Englishman by asserting that he had been robbed by _himself_! Your charity, you see, was ill bestowed." "So, it seems we might have made this noted bandit prisoner if we had only known!" exclaimed Lawrence, who seemed more distressed at missing the chance of becoming an amateur thief-catcher than at misdirected charity. "But do you really think the fellow was Conrad of the Mountains?" "I am certain he was not," said Pedro. "How do you know?" "I have several grounds for my belief, but, even if I had not, I might easily judge from appearances. Conrad is said to be kind to women and children. The scoundrel we met with could not be kind to any one. Moreover, there is no clear proof that Conrad _is_ a bandit, while this man certainly is one." "I'm sorry you seem so sure, because I should like much to be able to say I had seen this notorious fellow about whom every one appears to hear so much and to know so little." Although the bandit of whom we have just made mention was not Conrad of the Mountains, it may interest the reader to know that he was in truth a sufficiently notorious villain, named Fan, the captain of a band of twenty assassins, most of whom were escaped criminals from the prisons of Chili and Peru. Among other exploits, Fan once attacked the armed escort of a troop of mules conveying silver in bars from the mines to Chili. Fan and his men attacked them in a ravine so suddenly, and with such a deadly fire of musketry, that the few who survived laid down their arms at once, on the promise being made that their lives should be spared. Banditti do not usually regard promises as binding. It would be surprising if they did. Fan made the survivors lie down on their faces, and was about to plunder the mules, when he changed his mind, and shot all the rest of the convoy in cold blood, except the last, who, seeing the fate that awaited him, leaped over a precipice, rolled down a steep slope many hundred feet deep, and, strange to say, escaped with his life. He then procured a dozen or two well-armed men, and returned to the scene of the robbery, but found that the robbers had flown with as much silver as they could carry, the remainder being scattered about on the road. These miscreants were afterwards captured, but, owing to disputes between the Peruvian and the Chilian Governments, the former of whom had hold of, while the latter claimed, the robbers, they all escaped their merited punishment, and were set at large. CHAPTER TWELVE. THICK WOODS, HEAT, CHANGE OF SCENE, AND SAVAGES. We must change the scene now, and transport our reader to one of those numerous streams which convey the surplus waters of the Andes to the warmer regions of Bolivia, and thence, through many a wild, luxuriant wilderness and jungle, to the Parana river, by which they ultimately find their way to the sea. It was approaching the afternoon of a very sultry day when Lawrence awoke from his midday siesta under an algaroba-tree, and slowly opened his eyes. The first object they rested upon was the brown little face of Manuela, reposing on a pillow formed of leopard skin. In those regions it was the practice, when convenient, to sling a network hammock between two trees, and enjoy one's siesta in that. The Indian girl lay in her hammock, with her eyes shut, and her little mouth open,--not undignifiedly open, but just sufficiently so to permit of one seeing something of the teeth and tongue inside. Fascinated apparently by the sight, a mite of a blue-bird with a golden head sat on the edge of the hammock close to the little mouth, and looked in. Evidently it was a bird of an inquiring disposition, for, having gazed for a considerable time with one eye, it turned its head, and gazed a longer time with the other. Quashy lay close to Lawrence, with his back towards him. The latter, observing that the cheek of the former was more lumpy and prominent than usual, raised himself on one elbow to look at him, and found that the lump was the result of an expansion of the mouth from ear to ear. He was wide awake, gloating over the proceedings of that little blue-bird, but he heard Lawrence move, and turning his head slightly round, whispered-- "Dat am berry funny--i'n't it?" The whisper slightly roused Manuela. She drew a long breath, vented a deep sigh, and effectually blew the blue-bird away. At the same moment the whole party was roused by a wild and indescribable scream, followed by a magnificent flash of what seemed to be coloured fire. In his half-sleeping condition, Lawrence, believing it to be the war-whoop of wild Indians, leaped up and grasped his cudgel, but nothing was to be seen save the grinning face of Quashy and the amused looks of Manuela and Pedro. "Purrits," remarked the negro, by way of explanation. "What do you mean by purrits?" demanded Lawrence, half ashamed of his alarm. "I mean what I says, massa,--purrits." "He means parrots," said Pedro, with a grave smile, as he rose, and proceeded to fold up the poncho on which he had lain. "We've had many a song from these screamers, but I don't remember ever seeing such a big flock come so near us, or scream so loud, before. They must have been attracted by your pretty face, Manuela, and could not help shouting with surprise at finding you asleep." Manuela laughed lightly as she stepped out of her hammock. "They've just roused us in good time," continued Pedro, looking up between the tree-tops at the sky, "for the hut of the tiger-hunter is a long way off, and I'm anxious to reach it before dark." In a few minutes the hammock and other camp equipage was conveyed to one of the native canoes, which lay close to the river's bank, our travellers embarked, and ere long were far from the spot where the siesta had been taken. In the afternoon they stopped for a little to refresh themselves with roasted parrot, chocolate, and biscuit. Parrots are found everywhere and in great numbers in those regions between the Atlantic and Pacific. They live and travel in large flocks, and, as every one knows, they are remarkably fond of using their discordant voices, much to the annoyance of sensitive travellers. Fortunately such travellers do not often go to the wild regions of South America,--when they do, they soon become un-sensitive. When parrots assemble in a flock on the trees, they keep fluttering their wings with a tremulous motion, bending down their heads and chattering, young and old, without regard to each other or to harmony. Each seems bent on giving his own opinion in the loudest key, and pays no regard whatever to the opinions of others. There is something almost human in this! It is a curious fact that, while the plumage of the parrots' breasts is always gaudy and brilliant in the extreme, that of their backs is usually the colour of the general tone of the region they inhabit. In woods, where the bark of trees is chiefly bright yellow and green, their backs are of these colours. In the plains they are a mixture of green and brown, so that when skimming over a country they are not easily distinguished, but if they chance to come unexpectedly on travellers, they sheer off with a shriek, and expose their gaudy breasts to view. The large flock that had so suddenly come on our friends while taking their siesta had turned off thus with a horrible scream, and revealed their gay breasts, on which the sun chanced to shine at the moment with great power, thus producing, as we have said, a splendid flash of colour. "Massa," inquired Quashy, as they sat in the canoe enjoying the cold meal and floating slowly with the stream, "which you likes best,--ros' purrit or ros' monkey?" "Really, I'm not quite sure," replied Lawrence; "it depends very much on appetite. If I'm very hungry, I prefer the one that comes first to hand. Which do _you_ like best?" "Well, I's not kite sure needer. I t'ink sometimes dat monkey is best, but I can't easy git ober de face." "How so, Quashy?" "'Cause it am so like eatin' a bit o' my great-gran'moder." "Indeed!" "Yes. You's no notion how like dey all is to dat ole lady. You see, she was uncommon old. She come ob a long-lib race. Das whar' it is. My moder was eighty-two, an' my gran'moder was ninety-siven, an' my great-gran'moder was a hun'r'd an' sixteen, an' dey was all alive togidder, an' at fuss you couldn' tell which was de oldest. Dey run neck an' neck for a long time, but arter de great-gran' one pass de hunr' milestone--oh! she hoed ahead like a rattlesnake. De wrinkles an' de crows' foots, an' de--de colour--jes' like bu'nt leather! She lef' de oders far behind, an' looked like nuffin so much as dat poor little blear-eyed monkey you shot de oder day, what Senhorina Manuela say was _so_ nice to eat. What! you un'erstan' Ingliss?" added the negro, looking at the Indian girl, who had given vent to a half-suppressed giggle. "Yes--leetil," replied Manuela, without attempting further to restrain her mirth. Quite pleased that his remarks should afford amusement, Quashy was about to launch out extensively on the "great-gran'moder" theme, when an exclamation from the guide checked him. "Look, Senhor Armstrong," he said, arresting the progress of the canoe by a slight turn of his paddle. "Yonder is a mode of fishing which no doubt is new to you." Pedro pointed as he spoke to a canoe which a sharp bend of the stream had just revealed to them. Its occupants were Indians. They were almost naked, and so intent on their occupation that the arrival of our travellers had not been observed. One of the Indians, a splendid specimen of muscular strength, stood up in the canoe with a bow and arrow in his hands and one foot on the gunwale, quite motionless. Suddenly he drew the bow, the arrow pierced the water without causing a ripple, and next moment a transfixed fish was struggling on the surface. The fish was barely secured when the presence of strangers was discovered. An exclamation followed. Instantly the dark savage bent his bow, with the arrow pointed this time full at the breast of Pedro. That worthy did not, however, seem much alarmed. He at once pushed out into the stream, and gave a shout which induced the savage not only to lower his bow, but to fling it into his canoe and throw up his arms with exclamations of surprise and joy. "He knows you?" said Lawrence, looking back at Pedro, who sat in the stern of their canoe. "Yes, he knows me. I am pretty well-known to most people in these regions. This is the tiger-hunter of whom I have spoken. His dwelling is not far-off." The meeting of the two friends was remarkably cordial, and it was evident to both Lawrence and Quashy that the white man and the brown were not only old friends, but more than usually fond of each other. After the first salutations, both canoes were run to the bank of the stream, and when they had all landed, Pedro presented his friend to Lawrence, who shook hands with him in the English fashion. "You have not mentioned your friend's name," said Lawrence. "His name!" replied Pedro, with a laugh, "well, it is almost unpronounceable. Perhaps you had better call him by the name he goes by among his friends--Spotted Tiger, or, more briefly--Tiger." "Tell Spotted Tiger, then," said Lawrence, "that I am happy to make his acquaintance." When the guide had translated this, and the Indian had returned a complimentary rejoinder, they continued to converse in the Indian tongue with much animation, and, on the part of Spotted Tiger, with some excitement. Of course Lawrence understood nothing, but he continued to watch the expressive features of the savage with interest, and observed, when their glances showed they were talking of Manuela, that Tiger first raised his eyebrows in surprise, and then smiled peculiarly. "Strange," thought Lawrence, "what can he mean by that? Perhaps he knows the chief, her father, but why look surprised and smile on that account? I wish Pedro was not so secretive. However, it's his business, not mine!" Consoling himself with this philosophic thought, Lawrence re-embarked with his friends, and, accompanied by Tiger, proceeded down stream till they came to a beautiful spot where the banks widened out into a small lake or pond. On its shores, under the cool shade of many trees, stood the hut of the savage. The scenery here was more than usually beautiful, being diversified not only in form, but in its wealth and variety of trees, and twining parasites and graceful ferns, with, in one place, groves of tall trees covered with balls of wild cotton, as large as an orange, and, elsewhere, inextricable entanglements of gorgeously flowering creepers, such as the most vivid imagination would fail to invent or conceive. Behind one part of the scene the setting sun shone with intense light, turning all into dark forms, while in other parts the slanting rays fell upon masses of rich foliage, and intensified its colour. In front of the hut a handsome Indian woman stood awaiting the arrival of her husband. She held in her arms a naked little ball of whitey-brown fat, which represented the youngest Tiger-cub of the family. Other cubs, less whitey, and more brown, romped around, while up in the trees several remembrancers of Quashy's great-great-grandmother sat grinning with delight, if not indignation, at the human beings below. After being hospitably entertained by the Indian with fish, alligator soup, roast parrot, and young monkey, the party assembled round a fire, kindled outside the hut more for the purpose of scaring away wild beasts than cooking, though the little Tiger-cubs used it for the latter purpose. Then Pedro said to Lawrence-- "Now, Senhor Armstrong, I am going to ask you to exercise a little patience at this point in our journey. The business I have in hand requires that I should leave you for two or three days. I fully expect to be back by the end of that time, and meanwhile I leave you and Quashy and Manuela in good company, for my friend Spotted Tiger is true as steel, though he _is_ an Indian, and will perhaps show you a little sport to prevent your wearying." "Very good, Pedro. I am quite willing to wait," said Lawrence. "You know I am not pressed for time at present. I shall be very glad to remain and see what is to be seen here, and learn Spanish from Manuela." "Or teach her Angleesh," suggested the girl, bashfully. "Certainly. Whichever pleases you best, Manuela," returned Lawrence. "But s'pose," said Quashy, with a look of awful solemnity at Pedro--"s'pose you nebber comes back at all! S'pose you gits drownded, or killed by a tiger, or shot by a Injin. What den?" "Suppose," retorted the guide, "that an earthquake should swallow up South America, or that the world should catch fire--what then?" "Why den, we no care a buttin for not'ing arter _dat_," replied the negro, promptly, "but if you don' return, we nebber reach Buenos Ayres." "Never fear, Quashy. If I don't return, Spotted Tiger will guide you safely there." That night Pedro and his friend left the hut in a canoe, lighted by a brilliant moon. Before morning the latter returned alone. Meanwhile Lawrence had slung Manuela's hammock between two trees, with a fire on either side, yet screened from the chief camp-fire by a thick bush, so that though close at hand, and under his protection, she occupied, as it were, a separate chamber of her own. His own hammock and that of Quashy--for they all used hammocks--were hung side by side a little nearer to the large fire. Mr and Mrs Tiger, with all the little Tigers, finding their hut rather warm, came outside, and also made their beds beside their visitors. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. DEALS WITH SPOTTED TIGER'S HOME, AND A HUNTING EXPEDITION. In spite of howling jaguars, and snarling pumas, and buzzing mosquitoes, and the whole host of nocturnal abominations peculiar to those regions, our weary travellers lay peacefully in their hammocks, and slept like humming-tops. In regard to Quashy, we might more appropriately say like a buzzing-top. Once or twice during the night Quashy rose to replenish the fires, for the jaguars kept up a concert that rendered attention to this protection advisable; but he did it with half-closed eyes, and a sort of semi-wakefulness which changed into profound repose the instant he tumbled back into his hammock. Lawrence, not being so well accustomed to the situation, lay awake a short time at first, having his loaded pistols under his pillow; but, as we have said, he soon slumbered, and it is probable that all the jaguars, pumas, peccaries, tapirs, alligators, and wild cats in that district might have walked in procession under his hammock without disturbing him in the least, had they been so minded. As for Manuela, with that quiet indifference to mere prospective danger that usually characterises her race, she laid her head on her tiger-skin pillow, and slept the sleep of innocence-- having absolute faith, no doubt, in the vigilance and care of her protectors. It might have been observed, however, that before lying down the Indian maiden knelt beside her hammock and hid her face in her hands. Indeed from the first it had been seen by her fellow-travellers that Manuela thus communed with her God, and on one occasion Lawrence, remarking on the fact, had asked Pedro if she were a Christian. "She is a Christian," was Pedro's reply, but as he manifested an evident intention not to be communicative on the subject, Lawrence forbore to put further questions, although he felt his interest in the girl as well as his curiosity increasing, and he longed to know how and when she had been turned from heathen worship to the knowledge of Christ. When daylight began to glimmer in the east, the bird, beast, and insect worlds began to stir. And a wonderful stir do these worlds make at that hour in the grand regions of Central South America; for although nocturnal birds and beasts retire and, at least partially, hide their diminished heads at daylight, the myriad denizens of the forests bound forth with renewed life and vigour to sing a morning hymn of praise to their Maker--involuntarily or voluntarily, who can tell which, and what right has man to say dogmatically that it cannot be the latter? Thousands of cooing doves, legions of chattering parrots, made the air vocal; millions of little birds of every size and hue twittered an accompaniment, and myriads of mosquitoes and other insects filled up the orchestra with a high pitched drone, while alligators and other aquatic monsters beat time with flipper, fin, and tail. Breakfast, consisting of excellent fish, eggs, maize, jaguar-steak, roast duck, alligator-ragout, and chocolate, was prepared outside the Indian hut. The hut itself was unusually clean, Tiger being a peculiar and eccentric savage, who seemed to have been born, as the saying is, in advance of his generation. He was a noted man among his brethren, not only for strength and prowess, but for strange ideas and practices, especially for his total disregard of public opinion. In respect of cleanliness, his hut differed from the huts of all other men of his tribe. It was built of sun-dried mud. The furniture consisted of two beds, or heaps of leaves and skins, and several rude vessels of clay. The walls were decorated with bows, arrows, blow-pipes, lances, game-bags, fishing-lines, and other articles of the chase, as well as with miniature weapons and appliances of a similar kind, varying its size according to the ages of the little Tigers. Besides these, there hung from the rafters--if we may so name the sticks that stretched overhead--several network hammocks and unfinished garments, the handiwork of Mrs Tiger. That lady herself was a fat and by no means uncomely young woman, simply clothed in a white tunic, fastened at the waist with a belt--the arms and neck being bare. Her black hair was cut straight across the forehead, an extremely ugly but simple mode of freeing the face from interference, which we might say is peculiar to all savage nations had not the highly civilised English of the present day adopted it, thus proving the truth of the proverb that "extremes meet"! The rest of her hair was gathered into one long heavy plait, which hung down behind. Altogether, Madame Tiger was clean and pleasant looking--for a savage. This is more than could be said of her progeny, which swarmed about the place in undisguised contempt of cleanliness or propriety. Stepping into the hut after kindling the fire outside, Quashy proceeded to make himself at home by sitting down on a bundle. The bundle spurted out a yell, wriggled violently, and proved itself to be a boy! Jumping up in haste, Quashy discommoded a tame parrot on the rafters, which, with a horrible shriek in the Indian tongue, descended on his head and grasped his hair, while a tame monkey made faces at him and a tame turtle waddled out of his way. Having thus as it were established his footing in the family, the negro removed the parrot to his perch, receiving a powerful bite of gratitude in the act, and invited the wife of Spotted Tiger to join the breakfast-party. This he did by the express order of Lawrence, for he would not himself have originated such a piece of condescension. Not knowing the dialect of that region, however, he failed to convey his meaning by words and resorted to pantomime. Rubbing his stomach gently with one hand, he opened his mouth wide, pointed down his throat with the forefinger of the other hand, and made a jerky reference with his thumb to the scene of preparations outside. Madame Tiger declined, however, and pointed to a dark corner, where a sick child claimed her attention. "O poor t'ing! what's de matter wid it?" asked Quashy, going forward and taking one of the child's thin hands in his enormous paw. The little girl must have been rather pretty when in health, but there was not much of good looks left at that time, save the splendid black eyes, the lustre of which seemed rather to have improved with sickness. The poor thing appeared to know that she had found in the negro a sympathetic soul, for she not only suffered her hand to remain in his, but gave vent to a little squeak of contentment. "Stop! You hold on a bit, Poppity," said Quashy, whose inventive capacity in the way of endearing terms was great, "I'll fetch de doctor." He ran out and presently returned with Lawrence, who shook his head the moment he set eyes on the child. "No hope?" inquired Quashy, with solemnity unspeakable on his countenance. "Well, I won't say that. While there is life there is hope, but it would have been more hopeful if I had seen the child a week or two sooner." After a careful examination, during which the father, who had come in, and the mother looked on with quiet patience, and Manuela with some anxiety, he found that there was still room for hope, but, he said, turning to Quashy, "she will require the most careful and constant nursing, and as neither Tiger nor his wife understands what we say, and Pedro may not be back for some days, it will be difficult to explain to them what should be done. Can you not speak their dialect even a little?" he added in Spanish to Manuela. She shook her head, but said quietly-- "Me will nurse." "That's very kind of you, and it will really be a charity, for the child is seriously ill. She is a strangely attractive little thing," he continued, bending over her couch and stroking her hair gently. "I feel quite as if I had known her a long time. Now, I will give you instructions as well as I can as to what you have to do. Shall I give them in Spanish or English?" Quite gravely the Indian girl replied, "Angleesh." "Very well," said he, and proceeded to tell Manuela how to act as sick-nurse. When he had finished, the girl at once stepped up to Tiger's wife with a winning smile, patted her shoulder, kissed her forehead, and then, pointing to the little invalid with a look of profound intelligence, went out of the hut. Presently she returned with some of the gravy of the alligator-ragout, sat down beside the little one, and began to administer it in small quantities. Evidently the child was pleased both with the food and the angel of mercy who had found her, for she nestled in a comfortable way close to Manuela's side. Lawrence observed, when the latter looked round for something she wanted, that her eyes were full of tears. "I knew I was right," he muttered to himself as he returned to the fire, where Quashy had already spread out the breakfast, "she certainly _must_ be a princess of the Incas. They were notoriously celebrated for their gentle and amiable qualities, even at the time of Pizarro's conquest." What more passed in his mind we cannot tell, for he ceased to mutter, and never revealed his subsequent thoughts to any one. "Now, Quashy," said Lawrence, when breakfast was over, "we are left here in what we may style difficulties. The Indians don't understand Spanish or English, so until Pedro returns we shall have to get along as best we can by signs." "Bery well, massa, I hope you knows how to talk by signs, for its more dan dis nigger do." As he spoke he threw an ear of maize at a monkey which sat on a branch overhead gazing at the party with an expression of the most woebegone resignation. He missed his aim, but none the less did that monkey change its look into a glare of intense indignation, after which it fled shrieking, with hurt feelings, into the woods. "I'm not much up in the language of signs," said Lawrence, "but we must try our best." Saying which he arose, and, touching Tiger on the shoulder, beckoned him to follow. With the lithe, easy motions of the animal after which he was named, the Indian rose. Lawrence led him a few paces from the fire, and then, putting himself in the attitude of a man discharging an arrow from a bow, suddenly let the imaginary arrow fly, looked at the savage, touched his own breast, and smiled. So did Quashy, with compound interest. Spotted Tiger looked puzzled, shook his head, and also smiled. "He t'ink you wants him to shoot you," said Quashy. "No, no, that's not it," said Lawrence, with a somewhat abashed look at the Indian. "I want you to take us out shooting--hunting, you know--_hunting_." As Tiger did _not_ know the word "hunting" he continued to shake his head with a puzzled air. Every one who has tried it knows what a silly, almost imbecile, feeling comes over one when one attempts the communication of ideas in dumb show. Feelings of this sort affected our hero very keenly. He therefore, while continuing the pantomime, kept up a running or interjectional accompaniment in the English language. "Look here, Tiger," he said, impressively, taking up two sticks which he made to represent a bow and arrow, and placing them in position, "I want to go hunting with you--hunting--shooting the jaguar." "Yes, de jaguar--tiger, you know," said Quashy, who, in his anxiety to get the savage to understand, imitated his master's actions, and could not refrain from occasionally supplementing his speech. As a tiger-skin chanced to be hanging on a bush near to the fire, Lawrence completed his pantomime by throwing his mimic arrow against that. A gleam of intelligence suffused the face of the savage. Stalking into his hut, he returned with a bow considerably longer than himself, and an arrow, also of great length. Retiring to a distance from the jaguar-skin above referred to, he bent his bow quickly, and sent an arrow straight through the middle of it, thereafter raising himself with a look of pride. "Why, the fellow thinks I want him to show off his powers of shooting," said Lawrence. "So he do--de idjit!" said Quashy. With much anxiety of expression, great demonstration of vigorous action, and many painful efforts of inventive genius, the two men tried to convey their wishes to that son of the soil, but all in vain. At last in desperation Quashy suddenly seized the jaguar-skin, threw it over his own shoulders, placed a long pole in Lawrence's hands, and said-- "Now, massa, you look out, I's agwine to spring at you, and you stick me." He uttered a mighty roar as he spoke, and bounded towards his master, who, entering at once into the spirit of the play, received him on the point of his spear, whereupon the human jaguar instantly fell and revelled for a few seconds in the agonies of death. Then he calmly rose. "Now," said he, with a look of contempt, "if he no understan' dat, it's 'cause he hain't got no brains." At first the Indian had gazed at this little scene with a look of intense astonishment. When it was finished he burst into a fit of hearty laughter. Evidently it was the best piece of acting he had seen since he was born, and if he had been other than a savage, he must certainly have shouted "bravo!" perhaps "encore!" and clapped his hands. "Boh! he's a born idjit!" cried Quashy, turning away in disgust, but a new idea seemed to flash into his fertile brain. "Stop a bit!" he suddenly exclaimed, seizing a piece of flat bark that lay at his feet. On this, with the point of a charred stick, he drew a triangular form, with three dots in it for two eyes and a nose. An oval attached to this represented a body; at the other end a long waving line served for a tail; four short lines below indicated legs. This creature he covered all over with spots. "There," he cried, sticking it into a bush, and glaring at the Indian, "jaguar!--jaguar!" Catching up the pole which Lawrence had thrown down, he rushed at this jaguar, and pierced it through the heart. Thereafter, in hot haste, he picked up Tiger's bow and arrows, ran down to the river, put them into a small canoe, and thrust it into the water. Holding on with one hand, he waved with the other. "Ho! hi! come along, you stuppid idjit!" The "stuppid idjit" was enlightened at last. With a dignified smile, which would probably have been a frown if he had understood Quashy's words, he went up to his hut, and selected a lance and a bow, with which, and a quiver of arrows, he returned to the little hunting canoe. Seeing that they were now understood, Lawrence took his shot-gun and pistols; the negro also armed himself, and in a few minutes more they found themselves paddling gently down the sluggish current of the river. The scenery through which those curiously assorted hunters passed that day in their light canoe was singularly beautiful; and when, turning up one of the narrow streams that fed the main river, they came into a region of sweet, mellow twilight, caused by the over-arching trees, where the very aspect of nature suggested, though it could not create, coolness, Lawrence felt as if he had been at last transported into those famous regions of fairyland which, if they really existed, and we were in very deed to get into them, would, perchance, not equal, and certainly could not excel, our own actual world! Gigantic trees towered upwards till their heads were lost in the umbrageous canopy, while their stems were clasped by powerful snake-like creepers, or adorned with flowering parasites. The bushes grew so thick and tangled that it seemed as if neither man nor beast could penetrate them--which indeed was the case, as regards man, in many places; yet here and there unexpected openings permitted the charmed eyes to rest upon romantic vistas where creepers, convolvuli, and other flowers, of every shape, hue, and size, hung in festoons and clusters, or carpeted the ground. Fruit, too, was there in abundance. Everything seemed to bear fruit. The refreshing and not too luscious prickly pear; the oukli, an enormous cactus, not unlike the prickly pear but with larger fruit, whose delightful pulp was of a blood-red colour; the ancoche, with sweet-tasted pearl-like drops, and many others. There was plenty of animal life, also, in and around this stream, to interest the hunters, who were now obliged to exert themselves a little to make head against the sluggish current. Water-hens were innumerable, and other wild-fowl flew or paddled about, enjoying, apparently, a most luxuriant existence, while brown ant-hills were suggestive of exceedingly busy life below as well as above ground. There are many kinds of ants out there, some of them very large, others not quite so large, which, however, make up in vicious wickedness what they lack in size. At one bend in the stream they came suddenly on a boa-constrictor which was swimming across; at another turn they discovered a sight which caused Lawrence to exclaim-- "There's a breakfast for you, Quashy. What would you say to that?" "I'd like to hab 'im cooked, massa." The reference was to an alligator which was crossing the stream a few yards ahead of them, with a live boa in his jaws. The huge serpent was about twelve feet long, and wriggled horribly to escape, but the monster had it fast by the middle. Evidently its doom was fixed. Several tapirs and a band of grunting peccaries were also seen, but all these were passed without molestation, for the ambitions of our hunters that day soared to nothing less than the tiger of the American jungles-- the sneaking, lithe, strong, and much-dreaded jaguar. Spotted Tiger seemed to have at last become fully aware of the spirit of his companions, for he took no apparent note of the various animals seen as they passed along, and evidently was on the outlook for the monarch of the jungle. Having been told by Pedro that he was a celebrated hunter, Lawrence felt sure that he would lead them to success. "Why you no shoot de deer an' pepper de alligators, massa?" asked Quashy at last, after several of the creatures mentioned had been seen and passed. "Because I don't want them," returned Lawrence, "and I have no pleasure in useless destruction of life. Besides, I am anxious to shoot a jaguar, having a strong wish to take home the claws and skull of one-- the first for my friends, the last for a museum. When we want food I will shoot deer, or anything else that's eatable." Quashy remained silent. He seemed to be revolving his master's reply in a philosophical way, when something between a snarl and a growl turned his thoughts sharply into another channel. Tiger quietly prepared his bow and arrows and laid his spears so that they should be handy. Lawrence and the negro also got ready their weapons, and then they advanced with caution, dipping their paddles lightly, and gazing earnestly into the jungle on the right bank of the stream. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. THE HUNT CONTINUED; ONE OF THE HUNTERS ALMOST CONCLUDED. EXPLORATIONS INDULGED IN, AND A CAPTURE EFFECTED. "Dar, massa, dar he is," exclaimed Quashy, in a hoarse whisper, pointing into the bushes. "Nonsense, man," replied Lawrence, in a low voice, "it's only an ant-hill." Even in that moment of excitement, Lawrence could scarce refrain from laughter at the face of his humble follower, for Quashy's business in life had not accustomed him to much sport at any time; and the prospect of actually assisting at the slaughter of a jaguar or a puma had stirred every nerve and fibre of his black being into intense excitation, so that his eyes and nostrils were dilated to the utmost, and he panted vehemently--with hope, of course, not fear! Tiger, on the contrary, was cool and calm, though watchful. He paid no attention whatever to his companions, being too well acquainted with his work to stand in need of either advice or assistance from them. As guide, the savage occupied the bow of the canoe; Lawrence sat in the middle, and Quashy in the stern, for he understood how to steer. Having been admonished to hold his tongue, he crouched so as, if possible, to diminish his size. He also pursed his lips,--and what a tight rounding and projecting of superfluous flesh that pursing was no tongue can adequately tell. He also glared, and this "talking with the eyes" was a mute sermon in itself. Yet no jaguar could be seen. Silently, with dip of paddle that made no sound, and glide of craft through the water that produced only an oily ripple, they slowly ascended the stream. At first Lawrence had seized his fowling-piece, which was charged with ball for the occasion; but as time passed, and the Indian showed no intention of landing, he laid the gun down, and again took up his paddle. After a time, through some inadvertence of Quashy, the canoe was sent rather close in among the reeds and giant leaves of the bank. "That was stupid of you, Quash," said Lawrence, as he stood up to assist Tiger in backing out. "Das true, massa," said the negro, in profoundest humility of self-condemnation, "I's a black idjit." As the fore part of the canoe had touched on a mudbank, Lawrence seized one of the Indian's lances, and used the butt end as a pole with which to push off. Under this impulse the canoe was gradually sliding into deep water, when a rustling of the leaves was heard, and next instant a full-sized jaguar sprang upon the Indian with cat-like agility. Whether the brute had slipped on the muddy bank we cannot say, but it missed its aim, and, instead of alighting on the shoulders of the man, it merely struck him on the head with one of its paws in passing, and went with a tremendous splash into the water. Tiger fell forward insensible from the severe scalp-wound inflicted. Next instant the jaguar rose, grasped the edge of the canoe, and almost overturned it as it strove to climb in; and there is no doubt that in another moment it would have succeeded, for the attack was so sudden that Quashy sat paralysed, while Lawrence forgot his pistols, and his gun lay in the bottom of the canoe! Happily, however, he recovered enough of presence of mind to use the lance in his hands. Turning the point of the weapon to the jaguar's mouth, he thrust it in with such tremendous force that it passed right down its throat and into its very vitals. With a gasping snarl the monster fell back into the stream, and was quickly drowned as well as impaled. "Help me to haul him on board," cried Lawrence. Thus awakened, the negro, relieving his feelings by giving vent to a roar which partook somewhat of a cheer, seized the jaguar's tail. His master grasped its ears, and in another moment it lay in the bottom of the canoe. "Now, help to lay the poor fellow beside it," said Lawrence. "O massa!--he not dead, eh?" groaned the negro, as he assisted in the work. "No; nor likely to die yet a while," replied Lawrence, with much satisfaction, as he examined and bound up the scalp-wound. "It is not deep; he'll soon come round; but we must get him home without delay. Out with your paddle, Quashy, and use it well. I'll take the bow." The canoe, which, during these proceedings, had been floating slowly down stream, was now turned in the right direction, and in a short time was out upon the larger river. Here, however, they had to labour with energy against the stream, and it was far on in the afternoon before they came in sight of the Indian's hut. By that time Spotted Tiger had partially recovered, as Lawrence observed during a pause made for rest. On reaching an eddy, which carried the canoe in the right direction, they rested again. The cessation of paddling appeared to rouse the wounded man, for he sat up, and, with a half-dazed look, stared at the head of the dead jaguar, on the haunch of which his elbow leaned. Then he cast an inquiring look at Lawrence, who replied to him with a nod and a smile, and went on to indicate, by means of pantomime, what had occurred. He pointed to the animal's claws, and to Tiger's head; then to the bloody spear which lay at his side, and to the jaguar's blood-stained throat, after which he pointed to his own breast and nodded again. The Indian evidently understood him, for an expression of gratitude overspread his countenance as he extended his right hand--English fashion--for a shake. Our hero was not slow to grasp it, and the two exchanged a squeeze which told of lasting friendship and good-will. A few minutes later, and the canoe was run upon the bank in front of the hut, where all the children were assembled to receive them. It did not seem as if any of the family were deeply affected by the shaky appearance of the father as he stepped on shore, but the younger members evinced feelings of intense delight when the jaguar was lifted out; and two of them, seizing the tail as a tow-rope, passed it over their shoulders, and dragged the carcass up to the hut to show it to their mother. O mothers! loving repositories of childhood's joys and woes, ye are unquestionably the same in substance and in spirit all the world over! Tiger's wife was more affected than Lawrence expected she would have been by her husband's accident, and tended him with anxious care. By taking hold of him, and laying him gently down in a corner opposite to that of his sick child, Lawrence gave him to understand that it was his duty to take rest. To say truth, he did not require much persuasion, but at once laid his head on his pillow, and quietly went to sleep. "The hospital is filling rather quickly, Manuela," said Lawrence, when he had finished tending his new patient, "and your duties are increasing, I fear." "No fear. Me likes to nuss," replied the girl, with a look that puzzled the young doctor. It was Manuela's fascinating smile that came hardest on our poor hero. When she looked grave or sad, he could regard her as a mere statue, an unusually classical-looking bronze savage; but when she smiled, there was something so bewitchingly sweet in the lines of her little face that he felt constrained to shut his eyes, turn away, and groan in spirit, to think that she was brown, and a savage! "Was there _ever_ a case," he thought, "so mysteriously miserable, so singularly sad, as mine! If she were only white, I would marry her at once, (if she would have me), for the sake of her gentle spirit alone,-- ay, even though she were the child of a costermonger; but I cannot, I _do_ not, love a savage, the daughter of a savage chief, with a skin the colour of shoe leather! No, it is impossible! and yet, I am in love with her spirit. I know it. I feel it. I never heard of such a strange thing before,--a man in love with a portion of a woman, and that the immaterial portion!" The last word changed the current of his thoughts, for it suggested the idea of another "portion" belonging to some girls with which men are too apt to fall in love! "Massa, de grub's ready," said Quashy, entering the hut at that moment. "Go to work then, Quash. Don't wait. I'll be with you directly." But Quashy did wait. He was much too unselfish a son of ebony to think of beginning before his master. When they had seated themselves on the grass outside the hut, along with Manuela, who left her post of duty in order to dine, and had made a considerable impression on the alligator-ragout and tiger-steaks and other delicacies, Quashy heaved a deep sigh of partial satisfaction, and asked if Tiger would be well enough to go out hunting next day. "I think not," said Lawrence; "no doubt he may _feel_ able for it, but if he shows any disposition to do so, I shall forbid him." "How you forbid him, when you not can speak hims tongue?" asked Manuela, in a mild little voice, but with an arch look to which her arched black eyebrows gave intense expression. "Well," replied Lawrence, laughing, "I must try signs, I suppose, as usual." "No use, massa," said Quashy; "nebber make him understan'. I gib you a plan. See here. You tie him up hand an' foot; den we go off huntin' by our lone, an' let him lie till we comes back." Lawrence shook his head. "I fear he would kill us on our return. No, we must just go off early in the morning before he wakes, and get Manuela to try her hand at sign-language. She can prevail on him, no doubt, to remain at home." "I vill try," said Manuela, with a laugh. In pursuance of this plan, Lawrence and Quashy rose before broad daylight the following morning, launched the little canoe they had used the day before, put gun, spears, etcetera, on board, and were about to push off, when one of the boys of the family ran down, and seemed to wish to accompany them. "We'd better take him," said Lawrence; "he's not very big or old, but he seems intelligent enough, and no doubt knows something of his father's haunts and sporting customs." "You's right, massa," assented the negro. Lawrence made a sign to the lad to embark, and Quashy backed the invitation with-- "Jump aboord, Leetle Cub." Instead of obeying, Leetle Cub ran up into the bush, but presently returned with a long stick like a headless lance, a bow and arrows, and an instrument resembling a large grappling anchor, made of wood. Placing these softly in the canoe, the little fellow, who seemed to be about ten years of age, stepped in, and they all pushed off into the river--getting out of sight of the hut without having roused any one. Turning into the same stream which they had visited the day before, they pushed past the place where the jaguar had been killed, and entered on an exploration, as Lawrence called it. "I'm very fond of an exploration, Quashy," he said, dipping his paddle softly, and working gently, for there was so little current that it seemed more like the narrows of a lake than a stream. "Yes, I's bery fond ob 'sploration too, massa," replied the negro, with a self-satisfied nod. "It am so nice not to know whar you's gwine to, or whar you's comin' to, or who's dar, or who's not dar, or what fish'll turn up, or what beast'll turn down, or what nixt--oh! it _am_ so jolly! what you sniggerin' at, you dirty leetle cub?" The question was put to the Indian boy, who seemed much amused by something he saw up among the trees. Looking up they saw at least a dozen red monkeys grinning at them, and one of these--a small one--was hanging on by its father's tail. "Oh! shoot! shoot!" cried Quashy to Lawrence, opening his great eyes eagerly. "Dey's _so_ good to eat!" "No, Quash, I won't shoot. We have shot enough of fat ducks to feed us all for one or two days at least. Besides, I can't bear to kill monkeys. It feels so like committing murder." While he was yet speaking, Leetle Cub had taken up the long lance-like stick before mentioned and pointed it at the monkeys. It was a blow-pipe. Before Lawrence could interfere, the short arrow with which it was charged had sped on its mission with deadly aim, and the smallest monkey, relaxing its hold of the paternal tail, fell without even a cry into the water--shot through the heart. Lawrence said nothing, but, resolving that if the boy should attempt such another shot, he would disturb his aim, he dipped his paddle vigorously, and pushed up the river. Coming at last to an open space where the stream widened into something like a little pond, they observed an erection of timber on the bank which aroused their curiosity. It also seemed to arouse the Cub's interest, for he made somewhat excited signs that he wished to land there. Willing to humour him, they ran the canoe on the beach. Leetle Cub jumped out at once, and, taking up the anchor-like piece of wood before mentioned, went with it towards the timber erection. "I do believe it is an alligator-hook," said Lawrence. "Das a fact," said Quashy, "we'll washum," (by which he meant, "we'll watch him!") It was indeed interesting to watch that little fellow--who was evidently in all respects a thorough chip of the old block--as he went about his work, quietly, yet with an undercurrent of excitement which he was not entirely able to conceal. He took his bow and arrows, as well as the blow-pipe, on shore, and laid them at his side, so as to be ready at hand in case of emergency, while he baited the alligator-hook with the dead monkey. The hook was simple. It consisted of four pieces of tough hard wood, about a foot long, and the thickness of a man's thumb. These were tied to the end of a stout rope made of raw hide, and so arranged that their points were directed backwards, and curved somewhat outwards--thus forming as it were four huge barbs. The dead monkey was placed on and around this horrible hook--if we may so term it. The delicate morsel was then attached to the end of a pole which stretched over the stream, so that the bait, when fixed, remained suspended just above the water. The slack of the rope was then made fast to a tree. Thus the arrangement was such as to compel the alligator to raise himself well out of the water to obtain his mouthful. While Leetle Cub was engaged in erecting this cumbrous machine, a young alligator, about a foot long, crawled out from under some leaves on the bank close to him. The urchin saw it instantly, seized his bow, and in a moment transfixed it with an arrow. The fury of the little creature, infant though it was, seemed tremendous. It turned round, snapping viciously at the arrow, and would probably have escaped with it into the water if another shot from the same unerring hand had not terminated its career. After setting his line, the Cub carried the little alligator to the canoe, and put it carefully therein. "Das what dey make de soup ob," said Quashy. "The ragout, you mean." "Dun' know what's a ragoo, massa. We calls it soup. Anyhow, it's bery good." "Yes, Quash, it's not bad. But look there, our daring and expert young hunter evidently wants us to land, for he is pointing to the bush. Shall we go?" "P'r'aps it's as well, massa. Ob course no alligator's sitch a fool as swaller dat little mout'ful when we's a-lookin' at it. I s'pose Leetle Cub wants us to go away, an' gib 'em a chance." Having made up their minds to gratify the little fellow, they landed and accompanied him into the woods. He seemed quite to expect that they would do so and follow his lead. He set off at a smart pace in advance of them, carrying his bow on his shoulder. Lawrence was well repaid by this walk, because it led him into and through scenery of a more striking and beautiful character than he had yet seen of its kind. In many places the trees formed long aisles and vaulted colonnades and arches so regular that it seemed as though they had been planted by the hand of man. Elsewhere the chaos of tree and shrub, flower and fern and twining root was so indescribable, that it seemed as if chance and haphazard had originated it all; but the mind of our hero was cast, if we may say so, in too logical a mould to accept such an absurd origin for anything. "My Father made it all," he said, mentally, with a glow of enthusiasm; "and although, like a little child gazing at an intricate machine, I see not the order or arrangement, certain am I that both _must_ be there." Between the tree-stems they saw ant-hills fully five or six feet high. From the trees hung thousands of orchids of various colours, and so attractive was the aspect of things overhead, that Lawrence was more than once tripped up by the long tangled grasses through which, in some parts, they had to push their way. Of course, there were plenty of parrots and monkeys and other creatures to make the forest lively. Indeed, in some parts there seemed a prospect of its becoming still more lively, for their little guide pointed out in soft places the footprints of tapirs and jaguars, which seemed to be quite fresh. Lizards innumerable crossed their path at every point; snakes were seen gliding out of their way--a fortunate tendency on the part of most snakes!--and the woods resounded with the singing of the yapu, a bird something like a blackbird, with yellow tips to its wings, and somewhat like the mocking-bird in that it imitated every other bird in the forest. Whether there is jealousy between the yapu and the parrot we have not been able to ascertain, but if birds are like men in their sentiments, we fear it is more than probable. Unlike man, however, the yapu prefers to sing upside-down, swinging the while from the branch of a tree, and ruffling its plumage. "Hallo! massa. Look dar!" said Quashy, pointing with intense surprise at a neighbouring tree-stem. "Did you ebber see a crab climbin' up a tree?" "I certainly never did," replied Lawrence, as he looked in the direction indicated, where he saw, not a crab indeed, but a monstrous hairy spider as large as a goodly-sized crab. Stepping forward to examine the creature, he was surprised to have his hat twitched off his head, and found that it was the web of the said spider which had done it! Afterwards he learned that the spider in question subsists by catching little birds, and that its bite is not so venomous as that of a smaller kind which abounds in the woods there. Not being desirous of testing the creature's power in that way at the time, he contented himself with inspecting it, and listening to a learned dissertation on spiders in general from Quashy, as he afterwards walked on. Good fortune seemed to smile on them that day, for they had not advanced a hundred yards further when two large jaguars crossed their path. It is probable that they did not see the hunters, for they did not look up, but, gliding cat-like into the jungle, quickly disappeared. Perhaps it was fortunate that Lawrence and his man recovered their presence of mind when too late, for if they had fired hastily and only wounded the creatures, it might have brought to an abrupt end their terrestrial career. As it was. Quashy recovered with a gasp, drew his two double-barrelled pistols, which in his eagerness he neglected to cock, and, with one in each hand, rushed yelling after the jaguars. Lawrence cocked his gun and followed at a smart, though more sedate, pace. Leetle Cub, who probably thought them both fools, ran after them with a broad grin on his dingy countenance. We need scarcely say that the pursuit was useless. Quashy returned in a few minutes with labouring breath, and streaming at every pore. Lawrence, scarcely less blown, sat down on a fallen tree and laughed when his lungs permitted. Of course he was joined by the sympathetic black, echoed by the small boy, and imitated--not badly--by a number of parrots which wisely availed themselves of the rare opportunity to learn a lesson from man! As they advanced the path became more encumbered and difficult to traverse, so they determined to return. Their little guide, however, seemed to object very strongly, and made wonderful gesticulations in his efforts to induce them to go on. Lawrence, however, remained firm. Seeing at last that his followers had determined to rebel, the Cub gave up trying to influence them, scooped a quantity of wild honey out of a hole in a tree, and, sitting down in a half-sulky mood, sought to console himself by eating the same. "Come, we'll follow you in that, at all events," said Lawrence, seating himself beside the child and regaling himself with the sweet food. Quashy followed his example with right good-will. When their modest meal was over they returned to the river. The little boy, on nearing it, ran anxiously forward in advance, and soon they perceived by his frantic gesticulations and shouts that something of interest awaited them there. "He's cotched!" cried Quashy, and darted off as if shot from a catapult. Lawrence followed, using his long legs to such advantage that he was not far behind his man; for although gifted with greater powers of self-restraint than Quashy, our hero was not a whit behind him in strong enthusiasm. They found that an alligator--not, indeed, of the largest size, but nevertheless about six or seven feet long--had swallowed the monkey, and was tugging at the rope like a mad thing--turning round and round in its rage, and smacking the water with its resounding tail. Instantly they all laid hold of the rope, and began to drag it towards the bank. "How shall we manage to kill it?" said Lawrence, as the monster came close in. "Stick 'im! shot 'im! hang 'im. Nebber mind dat. Git 'im fust,--kill 'im arter," gasped the negro, as he strained at the rope, ably seconded by his comrades. It was a hard tussle, and might have been unsuccessful if Lawrence and Quashy had not possessed more than average physical strength. As it was, they pulled the monstrous animal just near enough to get his head clear of the water, and then, putting several balls into him, killed him outright. "Plenty ragoo now, massa!" exclaimed the negro, with a broad grin, after they had stowed the carcass in the canoe. "Yes, Quash, more than enough." Leetle Cub seemed to have his mind running in the same direction, for he eyed the alligator with longing looks, and licked his lips expressively as they re-entered the canoe, shoved off, and directed the bow homeward. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. AN UNEXPECTED ATTACK AND AN UNLOOKED-FOR ARRIVAL. Thus excitingly, and, we presume, pleasantly, passed the time at Tiger's hut during three days. In that period the Indian hunter quite recovered from his wounds, and his little girl, Manca by name, began to show decided signs of amendment under Manuela's careful nursing. During that period, also, Spotted Tiger conducted his visitors to many scenes of beauty, where the young doctor not only shot a variety of game, large and small, feathered and furred, but made acquaintance with many quite new species of plants. He collected and preserved a few of the rarest of these, but owing to the style of travelling, both past and prospective, he had to deny himself much in that respect. Likewise, during those three days, he made acquaintance with the numerous pets of Tiger's household--not the human pets, (although he became a great favourite with these also), but the lower-animal pets-- the turtle, and the noisy parrot already mentioned, a fat little guinea-pig, a most melancholy red monkey, a young jaguar, a very juvenile tapir, a flamingo, and other creatures. The tapir was about the size of a six months' old pig. Instead of the blackish brown hair peculiar to the adult tapir, its coat was striped longitudinally with black, grey, and yellow, and was so brilliant in colour that the animal was quite a dazzling pet! besides which, it was an affectionate little thing, and particularly susceptible to the pleasure of being tickled. The tame jaguar, however, was a very different style of animal. It did indeed like to be caressed, but it had gradually grown too large to be a safe plaything, and there was an occasional gleam in its eye which rendered Lawrence uneasy when he saw the Indian children playing with it. It was about the size of a small Newfoundland dog, but had grown up so gradually with the family that they appeared not to realise the danger attending its great strength. Spotted Tiger himself had indeed perceived something of it, for at the time we write of he had tied the animal to a stake with a stout rope, which was long enough to permit of his ranging in a wide circle. Little did Lawrence dream of the part that peculiar pet was to play before the period of three days closed. It was on the evening of the third day. They were all seated round a fire at supper, in front of the hut. Lawrence sat beside Manuela, as usual, and was taking much pains to teach her the correct pronunciation of an English word, of which she made a wonderful bungle, and seemed to derive much amusement from the fact, to judge from her occasional peals of silvery laughter. We use the word advisedly, in deference to the feelings of our hero, who thought and called the laughter silvery! Tiger sat on the girl's other side, and Quashy was seated opposite, with Little Cub and several of the lesser cubs beside him. The pet jaguar crouched close to its stake, glaring at them. There was nothing unusual either in the attitude or the glare to cause anxiety, yet Lawrence did not like it, and while engaged in imparting the difficult lesson referred to, kept his eye on the brute. Suddenly, without warning or roar, the dangerous pet sprang at Manuela! Why it selected her we cannot imagine, unless it was that, being a brute of good taste, it chose her as the tenderest of the party. The strong cord by which it was fastened snapped like a piece of thread, but Lawrence threw himself in front of the girl, caught the animal by the throat, and held him with both hands, as if in a vice. Instantly every claw of the four paws was buried in the flesh of his legs and arms, and he would certainly have been fearfully rent by his powerful antagonist if Tiger had not, with lightning stroke, buried his long keen knife in the animal's heart. So swiftly and effectually was the deed done, that the jaguar next moment hung limp and dead in our hero's grasp. Dropping it on the ground, he turned up his sleeves to examine the wounds. "Deep enough, but not lacerated, thank God," he said. "They won't give me much trouble. Come, Quash, into the bush, and help me to look at the other scratches and dress them. I must appoint you assistant-surgeon for the occasion!" Manuela murmured her thanks in a deep, tremulous voice that said much for her power of gratitude, and, timidly taking the youth's hand as he passed, humbly touched it with her lips. The wounds were soon dressed, and, thanks to Tiger's promptitude, they did not afterwards give much trouble. That night, as they were about to retire to their several hammocks, Lawrence went up to the Indian girl, and, for the first time, held out his hand for a shake in the white man's fashion. "I'm glad, Manuela," he said, as she frankly grasped it, "that it has pleased God to make me the instrument of--of--protecting you." "Twice," replied the girl quickly, and then paused, with a confused look,--"how you say, twice--or two times?" "Say which you like," replied Lawrence, with a hearty laugh; "the words will sound equally well from _your_ lips, but `twice' is the right way." "Well, twice you have save me. I am gratitude. My father will be gratitude." "Tell me, Manuela," returned Lawrence, earnestly, "is your father a chief?" "Yes,--a great chief." There was a peculiar smile on the girl's lips as she said this that disconcerted him. We have said that he was naturally shy. He had intended to follow up his first question by asking if her father was descended from the Incas, but the peculiar smile checked him. He bade her good-night, and turned abruptly away. While he was sitting by the fire meditating on this matter, he heard a step in the bushes. Tiger, who had already retired to his hammock, also heard it, and bounded to his feet. Next instant Pedro glided into the circle of light and saluted them. He appeared to be worn out with exhaustion, for, flinging himself on the ground beside the fire, he rested his head in silence for a few minutes on a poncho. Then, observing a piece of manioca cake that had been dropped by some one at supper, he took it up and ate it almost ravenously. "Why, you seem to be starving, Pedro," said Lawrence, earnestly "Not so bad as that," returned Pedro with a faint smile. "A man can scarcely be said to starve with so many of the fruits of the earth around him. But I've been hard pressed since early morning, and--" "Stay," interrupted Lawrence, "before you say another word, I will go and fetch you some food." "No need, senhor. My old friend Spotted Tiger has forestalled you." This was true. The Indian, having seen at a glance how matters stood, had gone up to the hut without speaking. He now returned with a bowl of boiled maize, a bunch of bananas, and a jar of water. While his friend was busy with these, he asked a few questions, which Pedro answered briefly. From the expression of the Indian's face, Lawrence gathered that these replies caused him some anxiety. As the guide's appetite became gradually appeased his loquacity increased, but he made few remarks to Lawrence until the meal was finished. Then, turning to him with a sigh of contentment, he said-- "I've been slightly wounded, senhor, but I doubt not that you can soon put me all right." Taking off his poncho as he spoke, and pushing aside his light cotton shirt, he revealed the fact that his left breast was bound with a piece of blood-stained calico. Lawrence at once examined the wound. "A slight wound, indeed," he said, "but vigorously dealt. I can see that,--and you've had a narrow escape, too. Half an inch higher up would have been fatal." "Yes, it was meant to kill," was Pedro's quiet rejoinder; "but, thank God, I had a friend near who meant to save, and he turned the knife aside in time. Sit down now, I'll tell you how it happened. "My business required me to visit a certain tribe of Indians at a considerable distance from here, where the country is somewhat disturbed, and the white inhabitants are threatening to cut each other's throats by way of mending political affairs. They took me for a spy. It is not the first time that I have been taken for a spy, and I suppose it won't be the last," continued Pedro, with a grave smile. "Of course I protested my innocence, explained my object, and showed that my visit was one of peace. They would have let me go if an enemy had not been in the camp. You see, Senhor Armstrong, I have many enemies as well as friends everywhere." "That is always the case with men who hold decided principles, and try to act up to them with vigour," returned Lawrence. "So I have found it," rejoined Pedro, looking earnestly at his young friend. "You have had a more varied experience of life than I. Has that been your experience too?" "It has. But I suspect that my experience of life has not been so much varied as yours, Pedro, for it has been chiefly among civilised communities until now. Still, I have observed that it is only those who swim with the current of public opinion, and jostle nobody, who manage to keep friends with everybody. When a man ventures to think for himself,--as he ought to do,--and take action, he is sure to have enemies as well as friends,--supposing, of course, that he is a man of any power or influence." "Well, I suppose it is because I _try_ to have influence," rejoined Pedro, "that I manage to have plenty of friends and foes,--the last being sometimes unreasonably bitter." "That proves your influence to be powerful," said Lawrence. "H'm! it may be so. I know not. Time will show. At all events, this enemy of mine stirred up a number of men like himself in the camp to such an extent that they seized me, and carried me to the banks of their river, with the purpose of throwing me to the alligators. Some of those who were in my favour ran along with them, and among them I observed one man who I knew would be willing to risk his life for me. This gave me hope; but my enemy did not approve of the mode of my execution; he thought--rightly--that a chance of escape was involved in it; so, to make sure, I suppose, he came close up, and when they were on the point of throwing me into the river, he drew his knife and made a plunge at my heart. My friend must have suspected something of the sort, for he had also pushed close to me, and I saw him give the would-be murderer the jostle that turned his knife aside. "Next moment I was in the river. I knew that it swarmed with alligators, and felt an uncomfortable thrill as I went in head foremost; but I knew also that I was a strong and swift swimmer, so I struck out for my life to the opposite bank, which was not more than forty yards off. I splashed as much as I could, for you know, senhor, that splashing tends to keep alligators off, though it is not always successful. Before I had made half a dozen strokes, however, I felt my flesh creep. Do you know what it feels like to have your flesh creep?" "No, not exactly," replied Lawrence; "but I have a pretty good guess as to what you mean." "Well," resumed the guide, "I felt my flesh creep, for I heard a most awful puffing and splashing close behind me. At the same time I heard a wild cheer on the bank, as if my foes were rejoicing at the prospect of my being eaten up! I looked back quickly, expecting to see the terrible jaws and the long rows of teeth; but, to my great surprise, I saw only my friend pursuing me with his knife in his teeth, as if he wanted to finish me. I understood the thing at once. The good fellow knew that two could make a better splashing than one, and he also hoped, no doubt, that his comrades would give him credit for extreme bravery in thus jumping into such danger for the sake--as they would suppose--of killing an enemy! The cheer they gave him showed what they thought on that point. "We both gained the opposite bank--I a few yards in advance. You may be sure I was not slow in bounding up the bank. I could hear the howl of rage with which the villains saw the failure of their plan. What is more, I could both hear and see the arrows that were sent after me, but, through God's blessing, none of them touched me, and I was soon in the shelter of the woods. I could also hear my friend panting at my heels. "I'm a pretty fair runner," continued Pedro, "but my friend is a better. He passed me like a deer. `Come on,' he cried, `you've no time to lose.' From which I knew he meant that the blackguards would cross the river in canoes and pursue me. He led me across a spit of jungle-land where the river took a sudden bend, and came out on the bank at the head of a long rapid. On reaching the bank he pulled out a small canoe which had been concealed there, and told me to jump in. `You'll have to run the rapid. It's not much of a chance, but it's your only one.' I squeezed his hand, thanked him hastily, and was soon paddling quickly with the current. In a few moments I heard my friend shouting with rage and brandishing his knife. He was acting, I knew. Looking back I saw that a number of men had joined him, and again the arrows began to drop around me, but I was soon beyond their reach and battling with the rapid. "Well was it for me that I have been much used to canoeing, for the words of my friend, `It's not much of a chance,' were literally true. For some minutes I was whirled about by eddies and shoots in such a way that it seems to me now a miracle that I escaped being dashed to pieces several times. I forgot all about my pursuers, so great was the danger; but when at last I ran out of the lowest shoot into the water below the rapids, I saw, on looking back, that they were still following me along the banks. I was going faster, however, than they were, so I felt easier in my mind, till I saw them jump into several canoes and push off in chase. By that time I had more than a mile of start, and the sun was setting. `Now, Pedro,' said I to myself, `it's a fair race for your life; so bend your back to it, my boy.' I went on till it grew so dark that I could hardly see twenty yards ahead of me. Then I put ashore, hauled the canoe up among the reeds, climbed into a tree and went to sleep, for well I knew that it would be death both to them and me if we continued descending a stream like that in the dark. "Well, I slept like a top, for I was dead beat; but two or three times I awoke with a tremendous start under the impression that I was falling. I've always found it so when obliged to spend the night in the branches of a tree. Did you ever sleep so, Senhor Armstrong?" Lawrence confessed that he had never yet indulged in such bird-like repose. "Well, it's not so difficult as you might think," continued Pedro, with a meditative gaze at the fire, "especially if you're very tired, hard pressed for time, and in some danger. Under these circumstances it's wonderful what a fellow can do to make the best of his opportunities. You find out, somehow, the securest way to twine your legs and arms in among the branches, and twist your feet and fingers into the forks and twigs--don't you know?" Yes, Lawrence knew well; at least, if he did not know exactly, he had a powerful imagination! "Well, then, long before daylight I was up and off, feeling my way as best I could in the first grey glimpses of dawn, so that I got a good start--at least I thought so; but soon I found my pursuers had also started early and were overhauling me; and no wonder, seeing that their canoes were large and well manned. I now felt that I had no chance of escaping by water, but I had by that time got into a part of the country with which I was well acquainted, and knew that if I could only reach a certain point before being caught, I might take to the bush and cross overland to my friend's hut here. That was early this morning. The only trouble I had was that my wound was beginning to give me considerable pain, and I felt losing strength for want of food. I had scarce time to cat, much less to search for food, they pressed me so hard. However, a man makes a hard struggle for life, so I tightened my belt, and set to work with such good will, that I was soon a long way ahead of them, and got out of sight at a place where the river takes a number of bends and is full of small islands. At last, about noon, I reached the desired point, paddled carefully in among the reeds, so as to prevent the savages seeing where I had landed, jumped ashore, hid the canoe, stepped out as hard as I could, and--here I am." "But," exclaimed Lawrence, with some excitement, "if you left the Indians so recently, won't they be close on your heels?" "No fear. I came here in a straight line overland. By the windings of the river they cannot be here, even at the soonest, before the afternoon of to-morrow. But they will probably give up the chase long before getting this length. Besides, if they did arrive, they would find a warm reception from four well-armed men, instead of catching one poor unarmed fugitive. But we won't give them the chance. We will be up and away by daybreak. Tiger here has agreed to join us in our trip to Buenos Ayres. He will take his wife and family down stream to his father-in-law's tribe, where they will be safe till his return. Are you all well, and ready for a start?" "Yes, all well--and shall be ready as soon as you please." "That's right. Where's Quashy?" "Close alongside. Don't you hear him?" Lawrence referred to a sound like the drone of a giant mosquito, which proceeded from the negro's nose, for that worthy was a heavy sleeper-- when not in danger--and had not been disturbed by the arrival of the guide. Giving vent to a prolonged yawn, Pedro rose and stretched himself. Then he went up to the sleeping Quashy and took him by the nose, at the same time putting his hand on his mouth to smother the inevitable yell in its birth. When sufficiently awake to be released with safety, the amiable negro was permitted to raise himself, and when aware of who had grasped him, he beamed with good-will, and gleamed with surprise. "Get up, Quashy, and help them to pack," said Pedro, curtly, "we start at daybreak." Quashy was on his feet in a moment. "Don't rouse me till it's time to start," added Pedro, who thereupon rolled into the vacant hammock, and was asleep--perchance in the land of dreams--almost as soon as his wearied head reposed on the negro's pillow. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. TELLS OF ABSURD, AS WELL AS EVIL, DOINGS, AND WINDS UP WITH A HORRID SURPRISE. Whether Pedro's pursuers continued the chase as far as the Indian hunter's hut we cannot tell, for long before noon of the following day our travellers were far from the hunting-grounds of the gallant savage. Soon after the usual midday siesta, the canoe, which contained the whole of the hunter's worldly wealth, was run on the beach near to the spot where dwelt his father-in-law with many members of his tribe. That worthy old man, in a light evening costume consisting of a cotton shirt and straw hat, came down to receive his children, who landed amid much noise with their boys and girls and household gods, including the red monkey, the parrot, the flamingo, the fat guinea-pig, the turtle, and the infant tapir. The old chief was quite willing to take care of the family during the absence of his son-in-law, and was very pressing in his offers of hospitality to the white travellers, but Pedro refused to delay more than an hour at the village. The old man also evinced a considerable amount of curiosity in regard to Manuela, and made one or two attempts to engage her in conversation, but on being informed by Pedro that she belonged to a tribe living half-way between his hunting-grounds and the regions of Patagonia, and that she did not understand his dialect at all, he forbore to question her, and satisfied himself with simply gazing. After a farewell which was wonderfully affectionate for savages, Spotted Tiger embarked in Pedro's canoe, and, pushing off into the river, bade the Indians adieu. The canoe in which the party now travelled belonged to Tiger, and was larger as well as more commodious than that in which they had hitherto journeyed, having a gondola-like cabin constructed of grasses and palm-leaves, underneath which Manuela found shelter from the sun. In the evenings Pedro could lie at full length on the top of it and smoke his cigarette. They were floating with the current, you see, and did not require to labour much at the paddles at that time. It would weary the reader were we to continue our description of the daily proceedings of our adventurers in journalistic form. To get on with our tale requires that we should advance by bounds, and even flights--not exactly of fancy, but over stretches of space and time, though now and then we may find it desirable to creep or even to stand still. We request the reader to creep with us at present, and quietly listen while Pedro and Tiger talk. Pedro lies extended on his back on the roof of the gondola-like cabin, his hands under his head, his knees elevated, and a cigarette in his mouth. Lawrence and Quashy are leaning in more or less lazy attitudes on the gunwale of the canoe, indulging now and then in a few remarks, which do not merit attention. Manuela, also in a reclining attitude, rests under the shade of the erection on which Pedro lies, listening to their discourse. Tiger is the only one on duty, but his labour is light: it consists merely of holding the steering oar, and guiding the light craft along the smooth current of the river. Pedro lies with his head to the stern, so that his talk with the Indian is conducted, so to speak, upside-down. But that does not seem to incommode them, for the ideas probably turn right end foremost in passing to and fro. Of course their language is in the Indian tongue. We translate. "Tiger," said Pedro, sending a long whiff of smoke straight up towards the bright blue sky, where the sun was beginning to descend towards his western couch, "we shan't make much, I fear, of the men of this part of the country." "I did not expect that you would," replied the Indian, giving a gentle turn to his oar in order to clear a mudbank, on which a number of alligators were basking comfortably. "Why so, Tiger? Surely peace and good government are as desirable to them as to others." "No doubt, but many of them do not love peace. They are young. Their blood is hot, and they have nothing to do. When that is so, war is pleasant to them. It is natural. Man must work, or play, or fight. He cannot lie still. Those who are killed cannot return to tell their comrades what fools they have been, so those that remain are greater fools than ever." "I agree with you, Tiger; but you see it is not the young men who have the making of war, though they generally get all the doing of it, and the poor women and children take the consequences; it is the governors, whom one would expect to show some sort of wisdom, and recognise the fact that union is strength, and that respect for Law is the only hope of the land." "Governors," returned Tiger, in a deep voice, "are not only fools, but villains--tyrants!" The Indian spoke with such evidence of suppressed indignation that Pedro tried to look at him. The aspect of his frowning countenance upside-down was not conducive to gravity. "Come, Tiger," said Pedro, with a tendency to laugh, "they are not all tyrants; I know one or two who are not bad fellows." "_I_ know one who is a fool and a robber." "Indeed. What has he done to make you so bitter?" asked Pedro. "Made us wear spectacles!" replied the Indian, sternly. "What do you mean?" "Have you not heard about it?" "No; you know I have been away in Chili for some time, and am ignorant of much that has been going on in these parts." "There is in Spain a white man, I know not who," said Tiger, with an expression of ineffable contempt, "but he must be the chief of the fools among the white men, who seem to me to be all fools together." "Thank you for the compliment," said Pedro, with a laugh. "This white fool," continued Tiger, paying no regard to his friend's interruption, "thought that he would send out here for sale some spectacles--glass things, you know, that old white men look through when they cannot see. We Indians, as you know, never need such things. We can see well as long as we live. It is supposed that a mistake was made by some one, for something like a canoe-load of spectacles was sent out--so many that in a hundred years the white men could not have used them up. The trader knew not what to do. There was no sale for them. He applied to the governor--that robber of whom I have spoken. He said to the trader, with a wink of his eye--that sort of wink which the white fool gives when he means to pass from folly to knavery--`Wait,' he said, `and you shall see.' Then he issued an order that no Indian should dare to appear in his district, or in church during festival-days, _without spectacles_! The consequence was that the spectacles were all sold. I know not the price of these foolish things, but some white men told me they were sold at an enormous profit." Although Pedro sympathised heartily with his brown friend in his indignation, he could not quite repress a smile at the ridiculous ideas called up. Fortunately the Indian failed to interpret an upside-down smile, particularly with the moustache, as it were, below instead of above the mouth, and a cigarette in the lips. It was too complicated. "And were _you_ obliged to buy and wear a pair of these spectacles, Tiger?" asked Pedro, after a few silent puffs. "Yes--look! here they are," he replied, with inconceivable bitterness, drawing forth the implements of vision from his pouch and fixing them on his nose with intense disgust. Then, suddenly plucking them off; he hurled them into the river, and said savagely--"I was a Christian once, but I am not a Christian _now_." "How? what do you mean?" asked Pedro, raising himself on his elbow at this, so as to look straightly as well as gravely at his friend. "I mean that the religion of such men must be false," growled the Indian, somewhat defiantly. "Now, Tiger," returned his friend in a remonstrative tone, "that is not spoken with your usual wisdom. The religion which a man professes may be true, though his profession of it may be false. However, I am not unwilling to admit that the view of our religion which is presented in this land is false--very false. Nevertheless, Christianity is true. I will have some talk with you at another time on this subject, my friend. Meanwhile, let us return to the point from which we broke off--the disturbed state of this unhappy country." Let us pause here, reader, to assure you that this incident of the spectacles is no fiction. Well would it be for the South American Republics at this day, as well as for the good name of Spain, if the poor aborigines of South America had nothing more serious to complain of than the arbitrary act of the dishonest governor referred to; but it is a melancholy fact that, ever since the conquest of Peru by Pizarro, the Spaniards have treated the Indians with brutal severity, and it is no wonder that revenge of the fiercest nature still lingers in the breasts of the descendants of those unfortunate savages. Probably our reader knows that the Peruvian region of the Andes is rich in gold and silver-mines. These the Spanish conquerors worked by means of Indian slave labour. Not long after the conquest a compulsory system of personal toil was established, whereby a certain proportion of the natives of each district were appointed by lot to work in the mines. Every individual who obtained a grant of a mine became entitled to a certain number of Indians to work it, and every mine which remained unwrought for a year and a day became the property of any one who chose to claim and work it. As there were many hundreds of mines registered in Peru alone, it may be imagined what a host of Indians were consequently condemned to a degraded state of slavery. The labour of the mines was so dreadful that each unfortunate on whom the lot fell considered it equivalent to his death-warrant. And that there was ground for this belief is proved by the fact that not more than one in six of the Indians condemned to the mines survived the treatment there inflicted. Each mitayo, or conscript, received nominally two shillings a day. But he never actually received it. On his fate being fixed by lot, the poor fellow carried his wife and children to the mines with him, and made arrangements for never again returning home. His food and lodging, being supplied by his employers, (owners?) were furnished at such an extravagant rate that he always found himself in debt at the end of his first year--if he outlived it. In that case he was not allowed to leave until his debt was paid, which, of course, it never was. Usually, however, the bad air and heavy labour of the mines, coupled with grief, told so much on men accustomed to the fresh air and free life of the wilderness, that death closed the scene before the first year of servitude was out. It is said that above eight millions of natives have perished thus in the mines of Peru. We have shown briefly one of the many phases of tyrannical cruelty practised by the conquerors of the land. Here is another specimen. At first there were few merchants in Peru, therefore privilege was granted to the Spanish corregidors, or governors of districts, to import goods suitable for Indians, and barter them at a fair price. Of course this permission was abused, and trade became a compulsory and disgraceful traffic. Useless and worthless articles and damaged goods--razors, for instance, silk stockings, velvets, etcetera--were forced on Indians who preferred naked feet and had no beards. The deeds of the soldiers, miners, and governors were but too readily copied by the priests, many of whom were rapacious villains who had chosen the crucifix as their weapon instead of the sword. One priest, for instance, besides his regular dues and fees, received during the year as _presents_, which he _exacted_ at certain festivals, 200 sheep, 6000 head of poultry, 4000 guinea-pigs, and 50,000 eggs, and he would not say mass on those festival-days until a due proportion of the presents was delivered. And this case of extortion is not told of one of the priests of old. It occurred in the second quarter of the present century. Another priest summoned a widow to make declaration of the property left her by her husband, so that he might fix the scale of his burial fees! He made a high demand. She implored his mercy, reminding him of her large family. He was inexorable, but offered to give up his claim if she would give him her eldest son--a boy of eight--to be sold as a slave or given away as a present. (It seems that the senhoras of those lands want such boys to carry their kneeling carpets.) The civil authorities could not be appealed to in this case. There was no redress, so the widow had to agree to give up her son! Doubtless both in camp and in church there may have been good men, but if so, they form an almost invisible minority on the page of Peruvian history. In short, tyranny in every form was, and for centuries has been, practised by the white men on the savages; and it is not a matter of wonder that the memory of these things rankles in the Indian's bosom even at the present time, and that in recent books of travel we read of deeds of diabolical cruelty and revenge which we, in peaceful England, are too apt to think of as belonging exclusively to the days of old. But let us return to our friends in the little canoe. "To tell you the truth," said Pedro to the Indian, "I am deeply disappointed with the result of my mission. It is not so much that men do not see the advantages and necessity for union, as that they are heartless and indifferent--caring nothing, apparently, for the welfare of the land, so long as the wants and pleasures of the present hour are supplied." "Has it ever been otherwise?" asked Tiger, with grave severity of expression. "Well, I confess that my reading of history does not warrant me to say that it has; but my reading of the good Creator's Word entitles me to hope for and strive after better times." "I know not," returned the Indian, with a far-off, pensive look, "what your histories say. I cannot read. There are no books in my tongue, but my memory is strong. The stories, true stories, of my fathers reach very far back--to the time before the white man came to curse the land,--and I remember no time in which men did not desire each other's property, and slay each other for revenge. It is man's nature, as it is the river's nature to flow down hill." "It is man's fallen, not his first, nature," said Pedro. "Things were as bad in England once. They are not quite so bad now. God's law has made the difference. However, we must take things here as we find them, and I'm sorry to think that up to this point my mission has been a failure. Indeed, the last effort, as you know, nearly cost me my life." "And what will you now do?" asked Tiger. "I will visit a few more places in the hope that some of the people may support us. After that, I'll mount and away over the Pampas to Buenos Ayres; see the colonel, and deliver Manuela to her father." "The white-haired chief?" asked Tiger. "Even so," replied Pedro. During the foregoing conversation Quashy had thrust his fat nose down on a plank and gone to sleep, while Lawrence and Manuela, having nothing better to do, taught each other Spanish and English respectively! And, strange though it may appear, it is a fact that Manuela, with all her quick-witted intelligence, was wonderfully slow at learning English. To Lawrence's intense astonishment and, it must be confessed, to his no small disappointment, the Indian maiden not only made the same blunders over and over again, and seemed to be incapable of making progress, but even laughed at her own stupidity. This somewhat cooled his admiration of her character, which coolness afforded him satisfaction rather than the reverse, as going far to prove that he was not really, (as how could he be?) _in love_ with the brown-skinned, uneducated, half-savage girl, but only much impressed with her amiable qualities. Poor fellow, he was much comforted by these thoughts, because, had it been otherwise, how terrible would have been his fate!--either, on the one hand, to marry her and go and dwell with her savage relations--perhaps be compelled to paint his visage scarlet with arabesque devices in charcoal, and go on the war-path against the white man; or, on the other hand, to introduce his Indian bride into the _salons_ of civilisation, with the certainty of beholding the sneer of contempt on the face of outraged society; with the probability of innumerable violations of the rules of etiquette, and the possibility of Manuela exhibiting the squaw's preference for the floor to a chair, fingers to knives and forks, and--pooh! the thing was absurd, _utterly_ out of the question! Towards sunset they came to a part of the river where there were a good many sandbanks, as well as extensive reaches of sand along shore. On one of these low-lying spits they drew up the canoe, and encamped for that night in the bushes, close enough to the edge to be able to see the river, where a wide-spreading tree canopied them from the dews of night. Solemn and inexpressibly sad were the views of life taken by Lawrence that night as he stood by the river's brink in the moonlight, while his companions were preparing the evening meal, and gave himself up to the contemplation of things past, present, and to come,--which is very much like saying that he thought about nothing in particular. What he felt quite sure of was that he was horribly depressed--dissatisfied with himself, his companions and his surroundings, and ashamed in no small degree of his dissatisfaction. As well he might be; for were not his companions particularly agreeable, and were not his surroundings exquisitely beautiful and intensely romantic? The moon in a cloudless sky glittered in the broad stream, and threw its rippling silver treasures at his very feet. A gentle balmy air fanned his cheek, on which mantled the hue of redundant health, and the tremendous puffs and long-drawn sighs of the alligators, with the growl of jaguars, croak and whistle of frogs, and the voice of the howling monkey, combined to fill his ear with the music of thrilling romance, if not of sweetness. "What more could I wish?" he murmured, self-reproachfully. A tremendous slap on the face--dealt by his own hand, as a giant mosquito found and probed some tenderer spot than usual--reminded him that some few things, which he did not wish for, were left to mingle in his cup of too great felicity, and reduce it, like water in overproof whisky, to the level of human capacity. Still dissatisfied, despite his reflections, he returned to the fire under the spreading tree, and sat down to enjoy a splendid basin of turtle soup,--soup prepared by Tiger the day before from the flesh of a turtle slain by his own hand, and warmed up for the supper of that evening. A large tin dish or tureen full of the same was placed at his elbow to tempt his appetite, which, to say truth, required no tempting. Manuela, having already supped, sat with her little hands clasped in her lap, and her lustrous eyes gazing pensively into the fire. Perhaps she was attempting to read her fortune in the blazing embers. Perchance engaged in thinking of that very common subject--nothing! If Pedro had smoked the same thing, it would have been better for his health and pocket; but Pedro, thinking otherwise, fumigated his fine moustache, and disconcerted the mosquitoes in the region of his nose. Quashy, having just replenished the fire until the logs rose two feet or more from the ground, turned his back on the same, warmed his hands behind him, and gazed up through the over-arching boughs at the starry sky with that wistfully philosophical expression which negroes are apt to assume when their thoughts are "too deep," or too complex, "for utterance." Spotted Tiger continued to dally with the turtle soup, and seemed loath to give in as he slowly, with many a pause between, raised the huge iron spoon to his lips. No one seemed inclined to break the silence into which they had sunk, for all were more or less fatigued; and it seemed as if the very brutes around sympathised with them, for there was a perceptible lull in the whistling of the frogs, the howling monkeys appeared to have gone to rest, and the sighing alligators to have subsided and sunk, so that the breaking of a twig or the falling of a leaf was perceptible to the listening ear. Things were in this state of profound and peaceful calm when a slight rustling was heard among the branches of the tree above them. The instant glare of Quashy's eyes; the gaze of Manuela's; the cock of Pedro's ear, and the sudden pause of our hero's spoon on its way to his lips, were sights to behold! The Indian alone seemed comparatively indifferent to the sound, though he looked up inquiringly. At that moment there burst forth an ear-splitting, marrow-shrivelling blood-curdling yell, that seemed to rouse the entire universe into a state of wild insanity. There could be no mistaking it--the peculiar, horrid, shrieking, only too familiar war-whoop of the painted savage! Quashy staggered back. He could not recover himself, for a log had caught his heel. To sit down on the fire he knew would be death, therefore he bounded over it backwards and fell into Lawrence's lap, crushing that youth's plate almost into the region where the soup had already gone, and dashing his feet into the tureen! Lawrence roared; Manuela shrieked; Pedro sprang up and seized his weapons. So did Lawrence and his man, regardless of the soup. Tiger alone sat still, conveying the iron spoon slowly to his lips, but with a peculiar motion of his broad shoulders which suggested that the usually grave savage was convulsed with internal laughter. "Ghosts and crokidiles!--what's dat?" gasped Quashy, staring up into the tree, and ready to fire at the first visible object. Tiger also looked up, made a peculiar sound with his mouth, and held out his hand. Immediately a huge bird, responding to the call, descended from the tree and settled on his wrist. Quashy's brief commentary explained it all. "Purrit!" It was indeed the Indian's faithful pet-parrot, which he had taught thus to raise the war-cry of his tribe, and which, having bestowed its entire affections on its master, was in the habit of taking occasional flights after him when he went away from home. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. IN WHICH INGENUITY, COMICALITY, FEROCITY, ECCENTRICITY, FECUNDITY, AND SOME OTHER "ITIES" IN MAN AND BEAST ARE MENTIONED. Plain sailing, fair weather, perpetual calm and sunshine are not the lot of any man or woman here. The weather, that fertile source of human intercourse, is occasionally boisterous as well as serene in the regions of Peru and Bolivia. A day or two after the events recounted in the last chapter our travellers experienced a sudden change. We have said that they had come to a part of the river where there were occasional stretches of sand, and here they had evidence of the improvident nature of Indians, in the number of turtle-shells found lying on the sands with parts of the animals still adhering to them. On one particular spot they found a space, of about seventy yards in diameter completely covered with the upper and under shells of turtles. These had evidently been cut asunder violently with hatchets, and reddish-brown furrows in the sands told where streams of blood had flowed during the massacre. "What wanton slaughter!" exclaimed Lawrence, as he and his friends stood looking at the scene. "And it is not long since it was done," said Pedro, "for the flesh--at least what's left of it--is still fresh." "Ugh, you brutes!" exclaimed Quashy, referring to a number of urubu vultures which stood on the shells, all more or less gorged, some still tearing sleepily at the meat, others standing in apoplectic apathy, quite unable to fly. They counted upwards of three hundred dead turtles, and this carnage, it was afterwards ascertained, had been the work of only a dozen or so of Indians--not for food, but for the sake of the fine yellow fat covering the intestines, which formed an article of commerce at the time between the red men and the white. That night after supper time the party busied themselves in making mosquito-curtains out of a small quantity of green muslin obtained from Spotted Tiger's father-in-law, who had received it from the missionaries. The supply being quite insufficient to make curtains for them all, Quashy had set his fertile brain to work and devised a species of net which, having never been seen in that country before, deserves special notice. It may serve as a hint to other mortals similarly situated and tormented. "You mus' know," remarked Quashy to his friends, who watched him while he fabricated the first of these curtains, "dat my gran'fadder was a injineer, an' some ob his geenus comed down to me. Dat's why I's so clebber wid my hands. Has you got dem hoops tied, massa?" "All right, Quashy, I'm just finishing the last one. There--are these the right sizes?" "Das right, massa. Biggest two one futt six in dameter; oder two leetle ones, one futt. Now, you looks here, ladies an' gen'lemen. See, I's made a bag ob dis muzzlin 'bout two futt six long an' 'bout two futt wide. Well, one end ob de bag is close up--as you see. 'Tother end am open--as you b'hold. Vwalla! as de Frenchman says. Now, I puts into de closed end one small hoop--so. Den de two large hoops--so--'bout six inches apart. Den de leetle hoop--so. Which makes my bag into what you may call a gauze-barrel, wid de hoops inside 'stead ob outside. Nixt, I puts it ober my head, lets de bottom hoop rest on my shoulders, shoves de slack ob de veil--I calls it a veil, not a curtin,--down my neck under my poncho, so's nuffin can git inside, an' dere you are. No skeeters git at me now!" "But, Quash," said Lawrence, who had watched the making of this ingenious device, as well as lent assistance, "there are mosquitoes inside it even now; and with such swarms as are about us, how will you keep them out while putting the thing on." "Don' call it a `t'ing,' massa," said Quashy, with a dignified look, "call it a `veil.' Dere's nuflin easier. See here." He rose, took off the veil, and flattened the hoops down on each other, so as to drive out all that might be inside. Then he stepped to leeward of the fire, held his breath for a few seconds while in the smoke, quickly adjusted his novel head-piece, and stood up fully armed against the "skeeters." "But," still objected Lawrence, "how can you lay your head on your pillow with such a thing--beg pardon, such a veil on?" "Nuffin easier, massa." He illustrated his point by rolling over into one of the nearest hammocks--which had already been hung--and laying his head down, when, of course, the machine bulged away from his black face, and the discomfited millions kept thrusting their probosces--and, doubtless, making faces at him--ineffectually. "But how if you should want to roll about in your sleep?" asked Pedro. "_Don't_ want to roll about in your sleep!" replied the negro, curtly. It is right to say that, in spite of the advice thus firmly given, Quashy _did_ roll in his sleep that night, with the result that his nose at last got close to the veil and pressed against it. No malignant foe ever took advantage of an enemy's weak point more promptly than did the "skeeters" of Quashy's nocturnal trumpet. They settled on its point with a species of triumphant hum. They warred with each other in their bloodthirsty desire to seize on the delicate but limited morsel. It was "cut and come again"--at least it was "cut away and let others come on"--as long as the chance lasted. And the consequence was that Quashy rose next morning with two noses! His natural nose being a mere lump of fat and the lump raised on it being much the same in form and size with the original, we feel justified in saying that he had two noses--nearly. Notwithstanding, it is but fair to add that the veils were afterwards pronounced a great success. But to return. That night, after the veils in question had been made and put on by all except Tiger, who was skeeto-proof, and the happy wearers were steeped in blissful repose, a tremendous hurricane burst upon them, with thunder, lightning, and rain. The wind came in furious gusts which tore away some of the veils, overturned the hammocks, scattered the bedding, extinguished the fire, drenched them to the skin, and otherwise rendered them supremely miserable. Retiring to a thicker part of the jungle, they cut down branches and made a temporary erection which they covered with ponchos and blankets; but as everything had to be done in the dark, it was a wretched affair, and, at the best, only a partial protection. Into the furthest extremity of this hut poor Manuela crept. The others followed, and there they all sat or reclined, shivering, till morning. About daybreak Lawrence heard Pedro and the Indian girl conversing in the Indian language and in unusually earnest tones, which were interrupted once or twice by slight laughter. He wondered much what they found to laugh at, but having become by that time accustomed to the guide's little touches of mystery, and being very sleepy, he did not trouble himself about it long. The storm happily was short-lived, and when the sun appeared, enabling them to dry their garments, and a good breakfast had been eaten, the discomforts of the past night were forgotten, and Quashy even ceased to growl at the "skeeters" and lament his double nose. Hitherto they had met with few Indians, and these few were friendly, being acquainted either personally or by report with Spotted Tiger, for the man's reputation as a jaguar and puma slayer had extended far beyond his own tribe. That day, however, several native canoes were passed, and in the evening they found that the place on which Tiger had made up his mind to encamp was in possession of Indians. "Friendly?" asked Pedro, as they approached the shore. "Yes, friendly," replied Tiger. "Would it not be better to go a little further and encamp away from them?" asked Lawrence, who retained unpleasant memories of the dirtiness of Indian encampments. "Tiger wishes to speak to them," said Pedro, as the canoe was run on shore. It was found that the party consisted of several families of Indians who were out on a turtle-hunting expedition, for the season had arrived when turtles lay their eggs. This laying season of the turtle sets the whole population of those regions, civilised and savage, in motion, searching in the sands for eggs, and capturing or killing the animals. The Indians now met with were on the latter business. Upon the weather depends the commencement of this season of unwonted activity among the turtles and wild excitement among the river-side Indians, for the snows must cease to fall on the summits of the Andes, and the rivers must decrease in volume so as to lay bare vast spaces of sand, before the eggs can be laid. No alderman in London city ever equalled--much less excelled--a South American savage of that region in his love of turtle, or in his capacity for devouring it. But the savage goes immeasurably further than the alderman! He occupies altogether a higher and more noble position in regard to the turtle, for he not only studies, with prolonged care and deep interest, its habits and manners, but follows it, watches it, catches it, kills it, and, finally, cooks it with his own hands, before arriving at the alderman's comparatively simple and undignified act of eating it. So exact are these Indians in their observations and knowledge of the turtle question, that they can tell almost to a day when and where their unsuspecting victims will land and lay. There was an extensive stretch of flat sand close to the spot where our voyageurs put ashore, on which the Indians had observed numerous claw-marked furrows, which had been traced by the turtles. Here, therefore, they had called a halt, built a number of ajoupas, or leafy sheds, about two hundred yards from the edge of the river, under the shelter of which to sit at night and watch for their prey. The turtles, it was found, were expected to land that night. Meanwhile, the savages were regaling themselves with a splendid dish, or rather jar, containing hundreds of turtles' eggs, mixed with bananas. These they hospitably shared with their visitors. The mess was very palatable, though "heavy," and our travellers did justice to it-- especially the negro, whose gastronomic powers were equal to all emergencies. "How do they know," asked Lawrence, as he and Pedro busied themselves in tying up the hammocks in a suitable part of the jungle, "when to expect the turtles?" "Who can tell?" said Pedro. "Instinct, I suppose." "But dey not stink at all," objected Quashy, "anyhow, not till arter dey's dead, so't can't be dat." "It's not that kind of stink I mean, Quashy; quite another sort," said Pedro, who felt unequal to the task of explanation. "But look sharp; we must lend the Indians a helping hand to-night." "But I don't know nuffin about it," said Quashy, "an' a man what don't know what to do is on'y in de way ob oder peepil." "You take a just view of things, boy," returned Pedro, "but you won't find it difficult to learn. Five minutes looking at what the Indians do will suffice, for they only turn the turtles." "How you mean? Turn 'im upside-down, or outside in--w'ich?" "You'd find it hard to do the last, Quashy. No, you've only to turn them over on their backs, and let them lie; that's all." While the negro was thus gathering useful knowledge, the Indians amused themselves in various ways until darkness should call them forth to the business of the hour. Some, with that amazing tendency to improve their personal appearance, which is common alike to civilised and savage, plucked out the little beard with which nature had endowed them by means of tweezers, deeming it no doubt wiser on the whole to pluck up the beard by the roots than to cut it off close thereto, as indeed it was, seeing that the former process did not need regular repetition. Others were still busy with the turtle-egg ragout, unable, apparently to decide whether or not appetite was satisfied. Two somewhat elderly but deeply interested savages whiled away the time with a game of cup-and-ball, turn and turn about, with imperturbable gravity. This game was different from that of Europe to the extent of being played on precisely opposite principles. It was not he who caught the ball on the point of the sharp stick that won, but he who failed to catch it, for failure was more difficult to achieve than success! The explanation is simple. The handle was a piece of pointed wood, about the thickness of a ramrod, and a yard or so in length. To this, by a piece of string made from fibres of the palm, was attached the ball, which was formed of the skull of a turtle, carefully scraped. There was no "cup" in the game. It was all point, and the great point was to touch the ball a certain number of times without catching it, a somewhat difficult feat to accomplish owing to the dozen or more natural cavities with which the skull-ball was pierced, and into one of which the point was almost always pretty sure to enter. At last the shades of night descended on the scene, and the Indians, laying aside ragout, tweezers, cup-and-ball, etcetera, went down to the sand-flats, and crouched, kneeled, or squatted under the leafy ajoupas. Of course their visitors accompanied them. It was a profoundly dark night, for during the first part of it there was no moon, and the stars, although they lent beauty and lustre to the heavens, did not shed much light upon the sands. There is a weird solemnity about such a scene which induces contemplative thought even in the most frivolous, while it moves the religious mind to think more definitely, somehow, of the near presence of the Creator. For some time Lawrence, who crouched in profound silence beside Pedro, almost forgot the object for which he was waiting there. The guide seemed to be in a similarly absent mood, for he remarked at last in a low voice-- "How striking would be the contrasts presented to us constantly by nature, if we were not so thoroughly accustomed to them! Storm, and noise, and war of elements last night,--to-night, silence, calm, and peace! At present, darkness profound,--in half an hour or so the moon will rise, and the sands will be like a sheet of silver. This moment, quiet repose,--a few moments hence, it may be, all will be turmoil and wildest action--that is, if the turtles come." "True," assented Lawrence, "and we may add yet another illustration: at one moment, subjects of contemplation most sublime,--next moment, objects the most ridiculous." He pointed as he spoke to Quashy, whose grinning teeth and glaring eyes alone were distinctly visible in the background of ebony. He was creeping on his hands and knees, by way of rendering himself, if possible, less obtrusive. "Massa," he said, in a hoarse yet apologetic whisper, "I's come to ax if you t'ink de turtles am comin' at all dis night." "How can I tell, Quash, you stupid fellow? Get away to your own ajoupa, and keep quiet. I wonder the Indians haven't let fly a poisoned arrow at you. Go,--and have patience." Poor Quashy shut his mouth and his eyes--it was as if three little lights had gone out--while his dusky frame melted into its native gloom. No sound was to be heard on the sand-flats after that until about midnight, when the moon appeared on the horizon. Just then a sound was heard on the river. "Here they come," whispered Pedro. The sound increased. It was like a swirling, hissing noise. Soon they could see by the increasing light that the water of the river seemed actually to boil. Immediately afterwards, thousands of turtles came tumbling clumsily out of the water, and spread themselves over the flats. Evidently egg-laying was no joke with them. The well-known sluggishness of the creatures was laid aside for this great occasion, and wonderful activity marked their every movement from first to last. You see, they had to manage the business in a wholesale sort of fashion, each turtle having from thirty to forty eggs, or more, to deposit in the sand,--on which sand, in conjunction with the sun, devolved the duty of subsequent maternal care. That the creatures acted on pre-arranged principles was evident from the fact that they worked in separate detachments, each working-party devoting its energies to the digging of a trench two feet deep, four feet broad, and sometimes 200 yards long. Their zeal was amazing; as well it might be, for they allowed themselves less than an hour in which to do it all. Each animal dug like a hero with its fore-feet, and sent the sand flying about it to such an extent that the whole flat appeared to be enveloped in a thick fog! When satisfied that their trench was deep enough they stopped work, deposited their soft-shelled eggs, and, with their hind feet, soon filled up the trench. So great was their eagerness and hurry, that during the operation more than one turtle, tumbling over her companions, rolled into the trench and was buried alive. No sooner was the stupendous work accomplished than they made a disorderly rush for the river, as if aware of the fate which threatened them. And now at last came the opportunity of the savage. The Iron Duke's "Up, guards, and at 'em!" could not have been more promptly or gladly obeyed than was the signal of the red-skinned chief. Like statues they had awaited it. Like catapults they responded to it, with yells of mingled madness and joy. But there was method in their madness. To have run between the shelly host and the river, so as to cut off its retreat, would have been sheer lunacy, at which Luna herself--by that time shining superbly--would have paled with horror, for the men would have certainly been overthrown and trampled under foot by the charging squadrons. What the Indians did was to rush upon the flanks of the host, seize the animals' tail, and hurl them over on their backs, in which position they lay flapping helplessly. Before the retreating "miserables" reached the river, hundreds of captives were thus obtained. You may be sure that Lawrence and Pedro and Spotted Tiger acted their part well that night, and that Quashy was not long in learning his lesson! The first tail the negro grasped slipped through his hands, so mighty was his effort, and, as a consequence, he sat down with that sudden involuntary flop which one associates irresistibly with nurseries. Jumping up, and rendered wise, he took a better grip next time, turned the turtle over, and fell on the top of it, receiving a tremendous whack on the cheek from its right flipper as a reward for his clumsiness. But practice makes perfect. Even in the brief space of time at his disposal, Quashy managed to turn ten turtles with his own hands, besides turning himself over six times, if not more. Rendered wild by success, and desperate with anxiety, as the fugitives neared the river, the negro fixed his glittering eyes on a particularly huge turtle, which was scuttling along in almost drunken haste. With an impromptu war-howl, Quashy charged down on it, and caught it by the tail. With a heave worthy of Hercules he lifted his foe some inches off the sand, but failed to turn it. Making a second effort, he grasped the edge of the creature's shell with his left hand, and the tail more firmly with the right. "Huyp!" he shouted, and made a Herculean heave. A second time he would have failed, if it had not been that he was on the edge of a part of the trench which the turtles had not had time to fill up. The weight of the creature caused a fore-leg to break off part of the edge, and over it went, slowly, on its side,--almost balancing thus, and flapping as it went. To expedite the process Quashy seized it by the neck and gave another heave and howl. Unfortunately, the edge of the trench again gave way under one of his own feet, and he fell into it with a cry of distress, for the turtle fell on the top of him, crushing him down into the soft watery sand! Well was it for Quashy that night that Lawrence Armstrong had good ears, and was prompt to respond to the cry of distress, else had he come to an untimely and inglorious end! Hearing the cry, Lawrence looked quickly round, guessed the cause, shouted to Pedro, who was not far-off, and was soon on the spot,--yet not a moment too soon, for poor Quashy was almost squashy by that time. They dragged the turtle off, dug the negro out, and found that he had become insensible. Raising him gently in their arms, they bore him up to the camp, where they found Manuela ready to minister to him. "Dead!" exclaimed the horrified girl when she saw the negro laid down, and beheld the awful dirty-green colour of his countenance. "I hope not," replied Lawrence, earnestly. "I's sh---squeesh!--_sure_ not!" exclaimed Quashy himself, with a sneeze, as he opened his eyes. And Quashy, we need scarcely add, was right. He was not dead. He did not die for many years afterwards. For aught that we know, indeed, he may be living still, for he came of a very long-lived race. His accident, however, had the useful effect of preventing his giving way to too exuberant felicity, and rendered him a little more careful as to the quantity of turtle-egg ragout which he consumed that night for supper. It would be pleasant to end our chapter here, but a regard for facts compels us to refer to the slaughter of the unfortunate turtles next morning. There is in the interior of the turtle a quantity of yellow fat, which is said to be superior in delicacy to the fat of the goose, and from which is obtained a fine oil, highly prized as an article of commerce. To secure this fat, the animals which had been "turned" were killed at daylight the following morning. The axes of the Indians caused the shells to fly in splinters; the intestines were then torn out and handed to the Indian women, whose duty it was to remove from them the precious fat, after which the carcasses were left to the vultures and fisher-eagles, which flocked from afar to the scene of carnage with that unerring instinct which has so often been commented on by travellers, but which no one can understand. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. PEDRO BECOMES COMMUNICATIVE; MANUELA VOCAL; LAWRENCE PREPOSTEROUS; QUASHY AND TIGER VIOLENT--THE WHOLE ENDING IN A GRAND CATASTROPHE. "Senhor Armstrong," said Pedro, the evening after that on which the capture of turtles took place, "I have received some bad news--at least unsatisfactory news--which will necessitate a change in our style of travelling, and a more rapid progress towards our journey's end." "I'm sorry for that," Lawrence answered, "for, to my mind, our style of travelling is very agreeable, and the rate quite fast enough, especially for one who has no definite purpose in view." "That may be so, senhor," returned Pedro, with a grim smile, "but as _I_ have something of a definite purpose in view, the case is different." "True, Pedro,--true. I do not object to any change in your plans; I merely comment on the very pleasant time we are having, and shall be ready to act as you desire; so, you see, I am as I promised to be--an obedient follower. But where got you this news from? I have seen no one arrive in the camp since we came. What may the nature of the news be, if I may venture to ask of one who is so--so very reticent?" The guide pondered some time before replying to these questions. Then, with the air of one who has made up his mind on an uncertain point, said-- "I had no intention of rousing your curiosity by needless secrecy. I have not very many or very profound secrets. Only, in a disturbed country it behoves a man to hold his tongue in regard to his affairs. But I feel that you are a friend, Senhor Armstrong, who may be trusted; not that I have much to trust to you,--and yet, my doings are so mixed up with the affairs of other people that to some extent I am tongue-tied. I may tell you, however, that I am a secret agent of the government, to which I have volunteered my services solely because I love peace and hate war, and am desirous of doing all I can to promote the first and abate the last. The idea may appear to you Quixotic, but--" "Pardon me, Senhor Pedro," interrupted Lawrence, promptly. "I think you the reverse of Quixotic. I honour you for your sentiments, and sympathise with you most heartily. Do I not remember that it is written, `Blessed are the peacemakers,' and also, `Scatter thou the people that delight in war?'" "Yes, I have gathered from your conversation that such are your sentiments, but do not misunderstand me. I am not of those who would have peace at any price. I believe in the right of self-defence. I recognise the right of oppressed nations to rise up and draw the sword in order to free themselves from tyrants; in short, I believe that there are some things that are worse even than war; but while I concede so much, I hold that most of the wars recorded in history have been undertaken without just cause, many of them without any real or obvious cause at all, too many of them with a distinctly bad cause. Even in the present day, and among Christian nations, there is far too little tendency to appeal to arbitration, which is the only legitimate way for _reasonable_ men to settle any dispute or quarrel. Does your sympathy go with me thus far?" Lawrence, with a glow of enthusiasm on his face, extended his hand, and, grasping that of his companion, shook it warmly. "I go with you in every word, Pedro. You are a man after my own heart; and I say, God prosper you in your good work wherever you go!" Manuela, who was standing near at the time, looked up at the enthusiastic youth quickly. Her knowledge of English must have been improving, despite the badness of her pronunciation, for she seemed to understand the conversation, and to regard Lawrence with profound interest. The youth was so carried away with his feelings, however, that he did not observe the girl's look or expression. "That is well," Pedro said, with a pleased look, as he returned his friend's grasp; "but I fear you won't find many of our way of thinking in this unhappy country. You are aware, no doubt, that it is frequently--I might almost say every three or four years--disturbed by factious quarrels which too often end in riot and bloodshed, though these are not often on so large a scale as to be styled civil war. Well, there is a party of peace-lovers even here, who do their best to bring about a better state of things, and a more settled and powerful government. Some of the men of influence at Buenos Ayres, and some even of the military men, are of this party. I am, as I have said, their secret agent--secret, because if I were to attempt the thing openly, or as a government agent, I should be treated with ridicule by some, or be murdered perhaps by others, in either of which cases my influence would be gone. Of course, as you have seen, I run considerable risk in travelling through the land on my mission, for I have been several times taken for a spy, but I don't object to run risk, the cause being a good one. "As to the news, which I have received by mere chance from a passing Indian, it is another outbreak in the San Juan district which makes a change in the disposition of troops necessary; and as I have particular business with one of the officers, I must change my route and make for Buenos Ayres as straight as possible. That is all the mystery about it; so you see, as I said, it is not very profound." "It is very interesting, however," returned Lawrence, "and you may depend on my falling in with your plans, whatever they are." "Well, then," returned the guide, "the first part of my plan is simple enough--merely to start off to-morrow by the first peep of day. Will you go, therefore, and tell Quashy to get ready, while I have a talk with Manuela?" We do not intend to inflict on the reader the whole of the conversation that took place in the Indian tongue between the little brown maiden and the guide. A small portion of it will suffice. "I repeat, Manuela," said the latter, in a remonstrative tone, "that you are not wise." "My kind protector forgets," replied the girl, with a modest look, "that I have never set up any claim to wisdom." "But what will your father say?" "I really cannot guess what he will say," she answered, with one of her prettiest little smiles. "But you may be quite sure that the thing is impossible. Consider the immense difference between you, and, forgive me, Manuela, but I think it is not fair." "Now my protector forgets _himself_," returned the maiden, drawing herself up and bestowing a look on the guide which was quite worthy of an Inca princess--supposing Lawrence to have been right in his conjecture on that point! "Well, well, please yourself, Manuela," returned Pedro, with a laugh, in which exasperation slightly mingled, "but do me the justice to tell your father when you meet that I fairly remonstrated with and warned you. After all, nothing would please me better,--if it should ever come about." He turned on his heel and went off, with a mingling of expressions on his handsome face, to look after the canoe and make preparations for an early start in the morning. Canoe travelling appears to be rather slow work while it is going on, even when descending the current of a river. Each point of land seems to be reached and passed so gradually; every vista of the river seems so extensive, and the trees on shore drop so leisurely astern, that when you think of the hundreds of miles which lie in advance, you are apt to feel as if the journey or voyage would never come to an end. But when you forget the present and reflect on the past, when you think how many hundreds of miles now lie behind, although it seems but yesterday that you set out on the journey, then you realise the fact that the "power of littles," of steady, daily unremitting perseverance, has had too little weight with you in your estimates, and that, just as fast as your starting-point recedes from you, exactly so fast does your goal approach, although those misleading factors, your feelings, may have induced you to think otherwise. Five days after the occurrence of the events on what we may style Turtle-beach, Lawrence found himself wondering at what appeared to be the far-off-ness of the spot, considering the slowness of the hourly progress, yet at the same time wondering if they should _ever_ traverse the nine hundred or a thousand miles that yet intervened between him and Buenos Ayres. To do Lawrence Armstrong justice, however, he was by no means impatient. He was quite satisfied that things should go as slowly as they pleased, for was he not travelling through the most interesting of countries, in which the flora and the fauna and the geological features furnished abundant--ay, superabundant--food for the satisfaction of his scientific appetite, while his companions were of the pleasantest character? Pedro, since the opening up of his heart to him, had laid aside much-- though not all--of his reserve, and shown himself to be a man of extensive information and profound thought. Spotted Tiger was a splendid specimen, physically and mentally, of the sons of the soil, in the contemplation of whom he could expend whatever smattering he possessed of ethnological science. Then Quashy--was not that negro the very soul and embodiment of courage, fidelity, and good-humour, the changes of whose April face alone might have furnished rich material for the study of a physiognomist or a Rembrandt. And as for Manuela--we cannot analyse his thoughts about her. It is probable that he could not have expounded them himself. Take the following sample of them, as overheard by us one day when he had strayed into the wild woods alone, and was seated on the roots of a mighty tree, pencil in hand, attempting unsuccessfully to make a sketch. "I do believe," he murmured, with a gesture of impatience--for he had drawn a small convolvulus, hanging from a tree, with such disregard for the rules of linear perspective that it was the proportionate size of an omnibus--"I do believe that that girl has come between me and my wits. Of course it is not love. That is quite out of the question. A white man _could_ not fall in love with a black woman." Yes, he did the poor girl the injustice, in his perplexed indignation with himself, to call her black, although it must have been obvious to the most careless observer that she was only reddish-brown, or, to speak more correctly, brownish-red. "I can't understand it," he continued to murmur in that low, slow, absent far-away tone and manner characteristic of artists when at work. "No doubt her nose is Grecian, and her mouth small, as well as exquisitely formed, her chin full and rounded, her teeth faultless, her eyes gorgeous, and her whole contour perfect, but--but--she's black--at least," (correcting himself with a touch of compunction), "she's brown. No; I see what it is--it's--(well that's more like a balloon than a water-lily)--yes, it _must_ be that I am in love with her spirit. That's it! I've said so before, and--and--I say it again." He drew back his head at this point, and looked critically--even sternly--at the sketch. There was room both for criticism and indignation, for the display, in so small a compass, of bad drawing, vile composition, ridiculous chiaro-oscuro, and impossible perspective, could only have been justified by the supposition that his intellect had been warped through the heart, in consequence of an unheard of perplexity connected therewith. "Yes," he continued, resuming his work with the air of an invincible man, "there is something distinctly and exasperatingly wrong here. I am in love with her spirit, and not with her person! Is it possible that the human race, descending from Adam and Eve, should have reached the nineteenth century without such a case ever having been heard of before, and that I--I should be the first wretched example--or--or victim! It is like loving the jewel without caring for the cas--no, that's a bad simile, for one could throw away a casket and keep the jewel, which could not conveniently be done in this case. I wonder what it is that makes the rules of perspective so difficult, and the practice so im--" His meditations were checked at this point by a sound so sweet that his heart almost stood still, his pencil remained suspended over the sketch, and the half-formed word remained in the half-opened mouth. It was as if an angel had come to earth, and were warbling the airs of paradise. Peeping through the bushes, Lawrence saw that it was Manuela! She was sauntering along pensively, humming as she went. He sat still, amazed and silent. From what cause we know not, but the Indian girl had not until that day opened her mouth in song. The youth's surprise was increased when she came near enough to let him hear that the words were Spanish; but suddenly remembering that English girls sometimes learned Italian songs by rote, like parrots, his surprise partly abated--why should not an Indian girl learn Spanish songs by rote? Manuela passed close to the tree behind which our hero sat. On observing him she stopped, and blushed intensely red. Evidently she had thought herself quite alone, and experienced the usual dislike of humanity to being caught in the act of singing to itself! In a burst of great enthusiasm Lawrence sprang up, overturned his drawing materials, seized the girl's hand, and dropped it again as if it had burnt him, as he exclaimed-- "I wish--oh! I _wish_, Manuela, that I were your _brother_!" The lightning flash is said to be quick, and we suppose, relatively speaking, it is so, but we are quite sure that lightning cannot hold a candle to thought in this respect. Lawrence, as the reader has doubtless observed, was not a man of much more than average intelligence, or action of mind, yet between the first "wish" and the word "brother," he had perceived and condemned the impropriety of exhibiting strong feeling in thus grasping Manuela's hand; the unmanliness of doing or saying anything to her that had the remotest approach to love-making while in circumstances where the poor girl could not get out of his way, however much she might wish to do so, and the meanness, not to say absurdity, of showing anything like a lover's affection for a spirit which could only make itself known through the medium of a brown visage. Hence Lawrence, who was the soul of honour and gallantry, got out of the dilemma by suddenly conceiving and expressing the above intense wish to be Manuela's brother! It did not occur to him that the gratification of his wish might have involved war-paint and feathers, a semi-nude body, a wild unlettered life, and a predilection for raw meat and murder. No, rapid though thought is, it did not convey these ideas to his mind. His one desire-- after the first unguarded "exclamation" and impulsive grasp of the hand, was to escape from his false position without committing himself, and without giving pain or annoyance to the unprotected girl. And his success was in proportion to his boldness, for Manuela burst into a hearty laugh, and said-- "Why you wants be my brudder?" "Brother, Manuela, not brudder," replied Lawrence, joining in the laugh, and much relieved in mind. "The word is spelt with t-h, not with two d's. The reason is that I should then have the right to order you to sit at my feet and sing me these pretty songs whenever I liked. And I fear I should be a very tyrannical brother to you, for I would make you sing all day." "What--is--t'rannical?" asked the girl, whose tendency to laugh was evidently not yet quite subdued. "Hallo! hi! Quashy!" came the guide's strong voice at that moment, ringing through the arches of the forest, and preventing the explanation, that might have been, of "t'rannical." But Quashy replied not. It was the end of the noontide siesta. While Lawrence, as we have seen, had taken to sketching and Manuela to singing, the negro had gone off on his own account, and Pedro was now anxious to have his assistance in getting ready to start. As Lawrence hurriedly collected his pencils the Indian girl stood admiring his work--poor ignorant thing! Just then there arose in the forest a sound which filled them both with mingled surprise and alarm. It was a peculiar, dull sound, almost indescribable, but something like what one might expect to hear from a hundred spades or pickaxes working together in the depths of the forest. After a minute or two it ceased, and profound silence reigned. Dead silence in critical circumstances is even more alarming than definite noise, for then the imagination is allowed full play, and only those who have got the imagination powerfully developed know of what wild and terrifying vagaries it is capable! Lawrence and Manuela looked at each other. The former had often before admired the gorgeous black orbs of the latter, but he had not till then thought them to be so very large. Suddenly the earth trembled under their feet; it seemed as if a volcano were heaving underground. The memory of San Ambrosio rushed upon them, and they too trembled--at least the girl did. At the same time a shout arose which seemed to them not unfamiliar. The noise increased to something like the galloping of a distant squadron of cavalry. "Let me lift you into this tree," said Lawrence, quickly. Manuela did not object. He lifted her by the waist with his two large hands as if she had been a little child, and placed her on a branch that happened to be just within his reach. Scarcely had he done so when a host, a very army, of American wild-hogs, or peccaries, burst from the bushes like a tornado and bore down on them. They were so near that there was no time for Lawrence to climb up beside Manuela. He could only seize the branch with both hands and draw up his long legs. The living torrent passed under him in a few seconds, and thus--thanks to his gymnastic training at school--he escaped being ripped up in all directions by the creatures' tusks. It was these same tusks digging round trees for the purpose of grubbing up roots that had produced the strange sounds, and it was the shouts of Quashy and Tiger in pursuit that had awakened the echoes of the forest. On the heels of the large animals came galloping and squealing a herd of little ones, and close upon these followed the two hunters just named-- panting, war-whooping, and cheering. Several of the little pigs were speared; some were even caught by the tail, and a goodly supply of meat was obtained for at least that day and the next. But before noon of that next day an event of a very different and much more serious nature occurred. It was early morning at the time. They were traversing a wide sheet of water, both banks of which were high, richly-wooded, and all aglow with convolvuli and other flowers, and innumerable rope-like creepers, the graceful festoons and hanging tendrils of which gave inexpressible softness to the scene. In the middle of the lake-like expanse were numerous mud-flats, partly covered with tropical reeds and rushes of gigantic size. The course our voyagers had to pursue made it necessary to keep close under the right bank, which was unusually steep and high. They were all silent, for the hour and the slumbering elements induced quiescence. A severe thunderstorm accompanied by heavy rains had broken over that district two days before, and Lawrence observed that deep watercourses had been ploughed among the trees and bushes in several places, but every other trace of the elemental war had vanished, and the quiet of early morning seemed to him sweet beyond expression, inducing his earnest spirit to wish that the mystery of sin had never been permitted, and that it were still possible for man to walk humbly with his God in a world of peacefulness as real as that of inanimate nature around him. When the sun arose, a legion of living creatures came out from wood and swamp and reedy isle to welcome him. Flamingoes, otters, herons white and grey, and even jaguars, then began to set about their daily work of fishing for breakfast. Rugged alligators, like animated trunks of fallen trees, crawled in slimy beds or ploughed up the sands of the shore in deep furrows, while birds of gorgeous plumage and graceful-- sometimes clumsy--form audibly, if not always visibly, united to chant their morning hymn. Such were the sights on which our travellers' eyes rested, with a sort of quiet delight, when Pedro broke the silence in a low voice. "You'd better keep a little farther out into the stream," he said to Tiger. The Indian silently obeyed. It was well that he did so promptly, for, in less than a minute, and without the slightest premonition, the immense bank above them slid with a terrific rumbling noise into the river. The enormous mass of sand and vegetable detritus thus detached could not have been much, if at all, less than half a mile in extent. It came surging and hurling down-- trees and roots and rocks and mud intermingling in a chaos of grand confusion, the great cable-like creepers twining like snakes in agony, and snapping as if they were mere strands of packthread; timber crashing; rock grinding, sometimes bursting like cannon shots, and the whole plunging into the water and raising a great wave that swept the alligators from the mud-flats, and swallowed up the reeds and rushes, sending herons, kingfishers, and flamingoes screaming into the air, and dashing high into the jungle on the opposite shore. As we have said, the canoe got out of reach of the terrible avalanche just in time, but it could not escape the wave. The Indian, however, was prepared for that. It was not the first time he had seen such a catastrophe. Turning the bow of the canoe instantly towards the falling bank, he thus met the wave, as it were, in the teeth, and rode safely over it. If he had been less alive to the danger, or less prompt to meet it, or if he had under-estimated it, and allowed the wave to catch them on the side of the canoe, the adventures of our five friends had that day come to an abrupt close, and, what is probably of greater consequence to the reader, this faithful record would never have been written! CHAPTER NINETEEN. IN WHICH, AMONG OTHER THINGS, LAWRENCE REFUSES AN INVITATION, AND BIDS A FINAL FAREWELL TO MANUELA. A jump of several hundreds of miles at one mighty bound may seem difficult, perhaps impossible, but if the reader will kindly put on the grasshopper legs of imagination which we now provide, such a jump will be found not only possible, but, perchance, agreeable. We pass at one fell spring, then, from the thick forests of Bolivia to the wide rolling pampas, or plains, of South America. You are still within sight of the Andes, good reader. You may travel from north to south if you will--from the equatorial regions of the Mexican Gulf to the cold and stormy cape at Tierra del Fuego--without losing sight of that magnificent backbone of the grand continent. We have reached a frontier town which lies among the undulating hills at the base of the mountains, yet within sight of the outskirts of the grassy pampas. A small town it is, with little white houses and a church glittering in the sunshine. A busy town, too, with a mixed population fluttering in the streets in the variegated trappings and plumage of merchants, and priests, and muleteers, and adventurers, and dark-eyed senhoras, enveloped in all the mysterious witchery that seems inseparable from Spanish mantillas and fans. It was evening when our travellers arrived at the town. They were on horseback now, having, a considerable time previously, forsaken the rivers for the roads--if we may call by such a name those unmade highways which are merely marked out through the wilderness by the passage of men. Bells were ringing in the steeple as they entered the town, for some fete or holiday was in process of celebration, and the presence of a considerable number of men in uniform gave to the place the appearance of a garrison town. There were so many odd-looking and striking characters in the streets that the arrival of our party made no particular impression on the people, save that Manuela's elegant little figure and pretty brown face drew some attention--admiration on the part of the men, scorn on that of a few--a very few--of the senhoras. You see, in all parts of the world some people are found who seem to hold, (though they would find it difficult to say why), that God's creatures with brown and black skins ought to be looked down upon and held in contempt by His creatures who chance to have white skins! You will generally find that the people who think thus also hold the almost miraculous opinion that those who wear superfine clothing, and possess much money, have a sort of indefinable, but unquestionable, right to look down upon and lord it over those who own little money and wear coarse garments! You will carefully observe, unprejudiced reader, that we use the word "some" in speaking of those people. We are very far from pitting the poor against the rich. We are bound to recognise the fact that amongst both classes there are gems of brightest lustre, irradiated by rays from the celestial sun, while in both there are also found qualities worthy of condemnation. But when we record the fact that some of the white senhoras looked with jealousy and scorn upon our sweet little Indian heroine, we ought to recognise the undeniable truth that they themselves, (so long as actuated by such a spirit), were beneath contempt--fit subjects only for pity. As they passed along, much interested and somewhat excited by the comparatively novel sights around them, Pedro rode up to a mounted soldier and accosted him in Spanish. He returned to his party with a gleam of stronger excitement in his eyes than Lawrence had observed since they became acquainted. Riding alongside of Manuela, who was in advance, he entered into earnest and animated conversation with her. Then, reining back until he was abreast of Lawrence, he said-- "Part of the object of my journey has been accomplished sooner than I had expected, Senhor Armstrong." "Indeed? I hope it has been satisfactorily accomplished." "Well, yes, as far as it goes. The fact is, I find that there has been a raid of the Indians into this part of the country, and a body of troops has been sent to quell them under Colonel Marchbanks. Now this colonel, as his name will suggest, is an Englishman, in the service of the Argentine army, under whose orders I have been serving, and to communicate with whom was one of my chief reasons for undertaking this journey." "Will that, then, render your journey to Buenos Ayres unnecessary?" asked Lawrence, a slight feeling of anxiety creeping over him. "No, it won't do that, but it will greatly modify my plans. Among other things, it will oblige me to leave Manuela behind and push on alone as fast as possible. I suppose you will have no objection to a tearing gallop of several hundred miles over the Pampas?" said Pedro, while a smile of peculiar meaning played for an instant on his handsome face. "Objections!" exclaimed our hero, with great energy, "of course not. A tearing gallop over the Pampas is--a--most--" He stopped, for a strange, unaccountable feeling of dissatisfaction which he could not understand began to overwhelm him. Was it that he was really in love after all with this Indian girl, and that the thought of final separation from her--impossible! No, he could not credit such an idea for a moment. But he loved her spirit--her soul, as it were-- and he could not be blamed for being so sorry, so very sorry, to part with _that_ thus suddenly--thus unexpectedly. Yes, he was _not_ in love. It was a fraternal or paternal--a Platonic feeling of a strong type. He would just see her once more, alone, before starting, say good-bye, and give her a little, as it were, paternal, or fraternal, or Platonic advice. "Senhor Armstrong is in a meditative mood," said Pedro, breaking the thread of his meditations. "Yes, I was thinking--was wondering--that is--by the way, with whom will you leave Manuela?" "With a friend who lives in a villa in the suburbs." "You seem to have friends wherever you go," said Lawrence. "Ay, and enemies too," returned Pedro with a slight frown. "However, with God's blessing, I shall circumvent the latter." "When do you start?" asked Lawrence, with an air of assumed indifference. "To-morrow or next day, perhaps, but I cannot tell until I meet Colonel Marchbanks. I am not, indeed, under his command--being what you may call a sort of freelance--but I work with him chiefly, that is, under his directions, for he and I hold much the same ideas in regard to most things, and have a common desire to see something like solid peace in the land. Look, do you see that villa with the rustic porch on the cliff; just beyond the town?" "Yes--it is so conspicuous and so beautifully situated that one cannot help seeing and admiring it." "That is where the friend lives with whom I shall leave Manuela." "Indeed," said Lawrence, whose interest in the villa with the rustic porch was suddenly intensified, "and shall we find her there on our return?" "I was not aware that Senhor Armstrong intended to return!" said Pedro, with a look of surprise. Lawrence felt somewhat confused and taken aback, but his countenance was not prone to betray him. "Of course I mean, will _you_ find her there when you return? Though, as to my returning, the thing is not impossible, when one considers that the wreck of part of my father's property lies on the western side of the Andes." "Ah! true. I forgot that for a moment. Well, I suppose she will remain here till my return," said Pedro, "unless the Indians make a successful raid and carry her off in the meantime!" he added, with a quick glance at his companion. "And are we to stay to-night at the same villa?" "No, we shall stay at the inn to which we are now drawing near. I am told that the Colonel has his headquarters there." The conversation closed abruptly at this point, for they had reached the inn referred to. At the door stood a tall, good-looking young man, whose shaven chin, cut of whisker, and Tweed shooting costume, betokened him an Englishman of the sporting class. Addressing himself to this gentleman with a polite bow, Pedro asked whether Colonel Marchbanks was staying there. "Well--aw--I'm not quite sure, but there is--aw--I believe, a military man of--aw--some sort staying in the place." Without meaning to be idiotic, this sporting character was one of those rich, plucky, languid, drawly-wauly men, who regard the world as their special hunting-field, affect free-and-easy nonchalance, and interlard their ideas with "aw" to an extent that is absolutely awful. The same question, put to a waiter who immediately appeared, elicited the fact that the Colonel did reside there, but was absent at the moment. "Well, then," said Pedro, turning quickly to Lawrence, "you had better look after rooms and order supper, while I take Manuela to the villa." For the first time since they met, Lawrence felt inclined to disobey his friend. A gush of indignation seemed to surge through his bosom for a moment, but before he could reply, Pedro, who did not expect a reply, had turned away. He remounted his steed and rode off, meekly followed by the Indian girl. Quashy took the bridles of his own and his master's horse, and stood awaiting orders; while Spotted Tiger, who was not altogether inexperienced in the ways of towns, led his animal and the baggage-mules round to the stables. "So," thought Lawrence, bitterly, "I am ordered to look after things here, and Manuela goes quietly away without offering to say good-bye-- without even a friendly nod, although she probably knows I may have to start by daybreak to-morrow, and shall never see her again. Bah! what else could I expect from a squaw--a black girl! But no matter. It's all over! It was _only_ her spirit I admired, and I don't care even for that now." It will be observed that our poor hero did not speak like himself here, so grievous was the effect of his disappointment. Fortunately he did not speak at all, but only muttered and looked savage, to the amusement of the sportsman, who stood leaning against the door-post of the inn, regarding him with much interest. "Will you sup, senhor?" asked a waiter, coming up just then. "Eh! no--that is--yes," replied Lawrence, savagely. "How many, senhor?" "How many? eh! How should I know? As many as you like. Come here." He thundered off along a passage, clanking his heels and spurs like a whole regiment of dragoons, and without an idea as to whither the passage led or what he meant to do. "Aw--quite a wemarkable cweature. A sort of--aw--long-legged curiosity of the Andes. Mad, I suppose, or drunk." These remarks were partly a soliloquy, partly addressed to a friend who had joined the sportsman, but they were overheard by Quashy, who, with the fire of a free negro and the enthusiasm of a faithful servant, said-- "No more mad or drunk dan you'self--you whitefaced racoon!" Being unable conveniently to commit an assault at the moment, our free negro contented himself with making a stupendous face at the Englishman, and glaring defiance as he led the cattle away. As the reader knows, that must have been a powerful glare, but its only effect on the sportsman was to produce a beaming smile of Anglo-Saxon good-will. That night Lawrence Armstrong slept little. Next morning he found that Pedro had to delay a day in order to have some further intercourse with Colonel Marchbanks. Having nothing particular to do, and being still very unhappy--though his temper had quite recovered--he resolved to take a stroll alone. Just as he left the inn, a tall, powerfully-built, soldierly man entered, and bestowed on him a quick, stern glance in passing. He seemed to be between fifty and sixty, straight as a poplar, and without any sign of abated strength, though his moustache and whiskers were nearly white. Lawrence would have at once recognised a countryman in this old officer, even if the waiter had not addressed him by name as he presented him with a note. At any other time the sociable instincts of our hero would have led him to seek the acquaintance both of the Colonel and the awful sportsman; but he felt misanthropical just then, and passed on in silence. Before he had been gone five minutes, Quashy came running after him. "You no want _me_, massa?" "No, Quash, I don't." "P'r'aps," suggested the faithful man, with an excess of modesty and some hesitation,--"P'r'aps you'd like me to go wid you for--for-- company?" "You're very kind, Quash, and I should like to have you very much indeed; but at present I'm very much out of sorts, and--" "O massa!" interrupted the negro, assuming the sympathetic gaze instantly, and speaking with intense feeling, "it's not in de stummik, am it?" He placed his hand gently on the region referred to. "No, Quash," Lawrence replied, with a laugh, "it is not the body at all that affects me; it is the mind." "Oh! is dat all?" said the negro, quite relieved. "Den you not need to boder you'self. Nobody ebber troubled long wid dat complaint. Do you know, massa, dat de bery best t'ing for dat is a little cheerful s'iety. I t'ink you'll be de better ob me." He said this with such self-satisfied gravity, and withal seemed to have made up his mind so thoroughly to accompany his young master, that Lawrence gave in, and they had not gone far when he began really to feel the benefit of Quashy's light talk. We do not mean to inflict it all on the reader, but a few sentences may, perhaps, be advantageous to the development of our tale. "Splendid place dis, massa," observed the negro, after they had walked and chatted some distance beyond the town. "Yes, Quash,--very beautiful." "Lots ob nice shady trees an' bushes, and flowers, an' fruits, an' sweet smells ob oranges, an'--" He waved his arms around, as if to indicate a profusion of delights which his tongue could not adequately describe. "Quite true, Quash," replied Lawrence, who was content to play second violin in the duet. "Is you gwine," inquired Quashy, after a brief pause, "to de gubner's ball to-night?" "No. I did not know there was a governor, or that he intended to give a ball." The negro opened his eyes in astonishment. "You not know ob it!" he exclaimed; "why eberybody knows ob it, an' a'most eberybody's agwine--all de 'spectable peepil, I mean, an' some ob dem what's not zactly as 'spectable as dey should be. But dey's all agwine. He's a liberal gubner, you see, an' he's gwine to gib de ball in de inn at de lan'lord's expense." "Indeed; that's a curiously liberal arrangement." "Yes, an' a bery clebber 'rangement for de lan'lord. He's a cute man de lan'lord. I s'pose you's agwine?" "_No_, I am not going. I have received no invitation; besides, I have no evening dress." "Bless you, massa, you don't need no invitation, nor evenin' dress needer! You just go as you are, an' it's all right." "But I have no wish to go. I would rather prepare for an early start to-morrow." "Das a prutty house we's a-comin' to, massa," said Quashy, not hearing, or ignoring, the last remark. Lawrence looked up with a start. Unwittingly, quite unwittingly, he had rambled in the direction of the villa with the rustic porch! "An' dere's de missis ob de villa, I suppose," said Quashy. "No, she's on'y a redskin. Why, massa!" he continued, opening his eyes to their widest, "it's Manuela--or her ghost!" It was indeed our little Indian heroine, walking alone in the shrubbery. She had not observed her late companions, who were partly concealed by bushes. "Quashy," said Lawrence, impressively, laying his hand on the negro's shoulder, "get out of the way. I want to speak to her alone,--to say good-bye, you know, for we start early to-morrow." The negro promptly threw himself on the ground and nodded his head. "You go ahead, massa. All right. When you comes dis way agin, you'll find dis nigger am vanisht like a wreaf ob smoke." A few seconds more, and Lawrence suddenly appeared before Manuela. She met him without surprise, but with an embarrassed look. Instantly a dark chilling cloud seemed to settle down on the poor youth's spirit. Mingled with a host of other indescribable feelings, there was one, very strong, of indignation; but with a violent effort he controlled his features, so as to indicate no feeling at all. "This is an unexpected meeting, Manuela. I had hardly hoped for it, as we set off very early to-morrow; but I'm glad we have met, for I should never have got over the feeling that I had been unkind in going off without saying good-bye. Do you make out what I mean? I think you understand English better than my bad Spanish." "Yes--I understan'. I very sorry we part. Very, _very_ sorry. Good-bye." She put out her hand, and Lawrence mechanically took it. There was something so ridiculous in this prompt and cool way of parting, after having been so long together, that the youth could scarcely believe he was awake. Had this pretty little Inca princess, then, no feeling whatever--no touch of common tenderness, like other girls? Did the well-known stoicism of her race require that she should part for the last time from the man who had twice saved her life, with a simple "I'm very sorry. Good-bye?" He felt cured now, completely. Such a _spirit_, he thought, could not command esteem, much less affection. As neither body nor spirit was now left to him, he began to feel quite easy in his mind--almost desperately easy--and that paternal, fraternal Platonic interest in the child which we have before mentioned began to revive. "Well, Manuela," he said at last, with a stupendous sigh, as though he were heaving the entire Andes off his rugged old shoulders, yet with a brotherly smile as he patted the little brown hand, "you and I have had pleasant times together. I could have wished--oh! how I--well, hem! but no matter. You will soon, no doubt be among your own people again. All I would ask of you is sometimes, when far-away, to think of me; to think of me as perhaps, the presumptuous young fellow who did his best to make a long and rather trying journey agreeable to you. Think of me, Manuela, as a father, and I will think of you as my little Indian girl!" "I will fink," she said, dropping her grave eyes on the ground, and the stoicism of all the Incas seemed to be concentrated in her look and bearing at that moment, "t'ink of you as a fadder." "Good-bye," he said again. "Good-bye," she replied. He had intended to print a fatherly kiss on the little brown hand, but this parting was too much. He dropped her hand, and, turning abruptly away with a final "Farewell--God bless you," quickly left the spot, in a sort of bewildered amazement that a heartless Indian girl should ever have been able to obtain, even for a time, so powerful an influence over him. CHAPTER TWENTY. IS CUMULATIVELY ASTONISHING. There are, we suppose, in the lives of all men, critical periods-- testing-points, as it were--when their faith in everything true is shaken almost, if not quite, to the foundation, and when they are tempted to ask with more or less of bitterness, "Who will show us any good?" Well is it for such when, in the hour of trial, they can look up to the Fountain of all good and, in the face of doubt, darkness, difficulty, ay, and seeming contradiction, simply "believe" and "trust." When Lawrence Armstrong slowly sauntered back to the inn after his final interview with Manuela, it surprised even himself to find how strong had been his feelings, how profound his faith in the girl's goodness of heart, and how intensely bitter was his disappointment. "But it's all over now," he muttered, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, and frowning ferociously at some imaginary wrong, though he would have been puzzled, if required, to state exactly what the wrong was. "All over," he repeated, and then continued with an affected air of indifference, "and what of that? What matters it to me that I have been mistaken? I never was in love with the girl. How could I be with a black--well, a brown squaw. Impossible! It was only admiration--strong admiration I admit--of what I had fancied were rarely fine qualities, especially in a sav--an Indian; and I've been mistaken; that's all. That's all. But," (after a pause), "_have_ I been mistaken? Does this unaccountably callous indifference at saying good-bye to one who is nothing to her--who never can be anything to her--argue that all the good qualities I have admired so much are non-existent, or _bad_ qualities? Surely not! Let me consider. Let me look this perplexing matter straight in the face, and see what is to be made of it. What _are_ the good qualities that I seem to have been so mistaken about?" Frowning still more ferociously, as if with a view to constrain himself to the performance of a deed of impartial justice, our hero continued to mutter-- "Earnest simplicity--that's the first--no, that's two qualities. Be just, Lawrence, whatever you are, be just. Earnestness, then, that's the first point. Whatever else I may have been wrong about, there can be no mistake about that. She is intensely earnest. How often have I noticed her rapt attention and the eager flash of her dark eyes when Pedro or I chanced to tell any anecdote in which injustice or cruelty was laid bare. She is so earnest that I think sometimes she has difficulty in perceiving when one is in jest. She does not understand a practical joke--well, to be sure there was that upsetting of the coffee on Quashy's leg! But after all I _must_ have been mistaken in that. So much, then, for her earnestness. Next, simplicity. No child could be more simple. Utterly ignorant of the ways of the world--the nauseous conventionalities of civilised life! Brought up in a wigwam, no doubt, among the simple aborigines of the Pampas, or the mountains--yes, it must have been the mountains, for the Incas of Peru dwelt in the Andes." He paused here for a few minutes and sauntered on in silence, while a tinge of perplexity mingled with the frown. No doubt he was thinking of the tendency exhibited now and then by the aborigines of the Pampas and mountains to raid on the white man now and then, and appropriate his herds as well as scalp himself! "However, _she_ had nothing to do with that," he muttered, apologetically, "and cannot help the peculiarities of her kindred. Gentleness; that is the next quality. A man may mistake motives, but he cannot mistake facts. Her gentleness and sweetness are patent facts, and her modesty is also obvious. Then, she is a Christian. Pedro told me so. She never omits to pray, night and morning. Of course, _that_ does not constitute a Christian, but--well, then the Sabbath-day she has all along respected; and I am almost sure that our regular halts on that day, although ordered by Pedro, were suggested by Manuela. Of course, praying and Sabbath-keeping may be done by hypocrites, and for a bad end; but who, save a consummately blind idiot, would charge that girl with hypocrisy? Besides, what could she gain by it all? Pshaw! the idea is ridiculous. Of course there are many more good qualities which I might enumerate, but these are the most important and clearly pronounced--very clearly." He said this very decidedly, for somehow a counteracting suggestion came from somewhere, reminding him that he had twice saved the Indian girl's life; that he had tried with earnest devotion to help and amuse her in all their journeyings together, and that to be totally indifferent about final separation in these circumstances argued the absence of even ordinary gratitude, which is clearly one of the Christian virtues! "But, after all," he muttered, indignantly, "would not any young fellow have done the same for any woman in the circumstances? And why should she care about parting from _me_? I wouldn't care much about parting from myself just now, if I could. There, now, that's an end o' the matter. She'll go back to the wigwam of her father, and I'll go and have a jolly good splitting gallop across the Pampas with Pedro and Quashy." "Dat's just de bery best t'ing what you can do, massa." Lawrence turned round abruptly, and found that his faithful servant was hurrying after him, and grinning tremendously. "Why, you're always laughing, Quash," said the youth, a little sharply. "O massa!" exclaimed the negro, turning his mouth the other way. "I's nebber laugh no more if you don' like it." "Like it, my good fellow!" exclaimed Lawrence, himself giving way to a short laugh to conceal his feelings, "of course I like it, only you came on me unexpectedly, and, to say truth, I am--" "Still out ob sorts, massa?" "Yes, that's it--exactly." "Well, for a man out ob sorts, you walk most awrful irriglar--one time slow, noder time so quick. I was 'bleeged to run to obertake you." Further converse was checked by their arrival in the town. On reaching the hotel they found the place in considerable confusion and bustle owing to preparations for the governor's ball, about to take place that evening. They met Pedro at the door. "You'll go, I suppose?" he said to Lawrence, referring to the ball. "Indeed I will not. I've had no invitation, and have no evening dress." "Why, Senhor Armstrong forgets he is not now in England," said Pedro. "We require neither invitation nor evening dress in an out-o'-the-way place like this. You'll find all sorts of people there. Indeed, a few are likely to be of the class who prefer to dance with their coats off." "No matter, I'll not go. Nothing will induce me to go," returned Lawrence, firmly--almost testily. "Don't say that," rejoined Pedro, regarding his companion with a peculiar smile. "You may perhaps meet friends there." "You know that I have no friends here," returned our hero, who thereupon went off to his own room to meditate over his uncomfortable feelings. But when he had reached his room and shut his door, Pedro's reference to meeting with friends, coupled with his peculiar look, recurred to him. What could the fellow mean? What friends had he in the country except Pedro himself and Quashy and Spotted Tiger and--and--Manuela, but of course he could not refer to the last, for who ever heard of a governor inviting an unknown Indian girl to a ball! No; Pedro must have been jesting. He would _not_ go! But the longer he thought over the matter, the more were his perplexity and curiosity increased, until at last he wavered in his firm determination not to go, and when the ball was about to begin, of which the sounds of hurrying steps and musical instruments apprised him, he changed his mind. Combing his hair slightly, he tried to brush his rough garments with his hands, arranged his necktie and flannel collar a little, dusted his long boots with a towel, washed his hands, laid aside his weapons, and went off to the hall with the intention of at least looking in at the door to see what was going on. He met Pedro in the corridor. "Ha! Senhor Armstrong has changed his mind?" "Yes, I have." Lawrence said this in the slightly defiant tone of a man who gives in with a bad grace. He was altogether "out of sorts" and unlike himself, but Pedro, like a true friend, took no notice of that. "I'm glad you have given in, senhor," said Pedro, "for it saves me the trouble of dragging you there by force, in order that I may have the pleasure of seeing how you will look under the influence of a surprise." "A surprise, Pedro?" "Yes. But come; the ball is about to begin." At the end of the corridor they encountered the English sportsman, who at the same moment chanced to meet his friend, to whom he said-- "I say, just come and--aw--have a look at the company. All free and easy, no tickets required, no dress, no--aw--there goes the governor--" The remainder was lost in distance as the two sporting characters sauntered to the ballroom, where they stood near the door, looking on with condescending benignity, as men might for whose amusement the whole affair had been arranged. And truly there was much to be amused at, as Lawrence and his companion, standing just within the doorway, soon found. Owing to the situation of the little town near the base of the mountains, there were men there of many nations and tongues on their way to various mines, or on business of some sort in or on the other side of the mountains--Germans, French, Italians, English, Spanish, and Portuguese. All strangers were welcomed by the hospitable governor and landlord--the latter of whom felt, no doubt, that his loss on food was more than counterbalanced by his gain on drink. Among the guests there were Gauchos of the Pampas, and the head men of a band of peons, who had just arrived with a herd of cattle. As these danced variously, in camp-dresses, top-boots, silver spurs, ponchos, and shirt sleeves, and as the ladies of the town appeared in picturesque and varied costumes with mantillas and fans, Lawrence felt as if he were witnessing a fancy dress gathering, and soon became so absorbed as to forget himself and his companion entirely. He was aroused from his reverie by the drawling exclamation-- "Aw! indeed?" "Yes," replied the landlord to the sportsman, "the colonel's coming. He's a jolly old man, and likes to see other people enjoyin' a bit o' fun. An' what's more, he's goin' to bring his daughter with him, and another girl--a niece, I suppose. They say they're both splendid creatures." "Aw! indeed," languidly replied the sportsman, twisting his moustache. It was evident that the landlord had failed to arouse his interest. At that moment the first dance came to an end, and there was a stir at the upper end of the room, where was another door of entrance. "It's the colonel," exclaimed the landlord, hurrying forward. Colonel Marchbanks entered with a lady on either arm. He was a splendid old man--so tall that Lawrence could distinguish his fine bald head, with its fringe of white hair, rising high above the intervening guests. People became silent and fell away from him, as if to have a better look at him. "Come," said Pedro, suddenly, "I will introduce you." There was a strange gleam in Pedro's eyes, and unwonted excitement in his manner, as he pushed his way through the crowd. Lawrence followed in some surprise. Suddenly he heard a sharp, strange, indescribable shout. It was the voice of Pedro, who was only a few yards in advance of him. Our hero sprang forward and beheld a sight which filled him with surprise. One of the girls who leaned on the colonel's arm was a beautiful blonde of about fifteen, with flowing golden hair and rich brown eyes. She stood as if petrified, with the brown eyes gazing intensely at Pedro, who also stood transfixed returning the gaze with compound interest. "Mariquita!" he murmured, holding out both hands. "Yes," said the delighted colonel, "I felt quite sure she was your child, but said nothing about--" "Father!" burst from the girl, as, with a cry of joy, she bounded into Pedro's arms. "Just so," continued the colonel, "I didn't like to mention my suspicions for fear of raising false hopes, and thought the surest way would be to bring them face to face. Wasn't it so, Manuela?" Lawrence turned as if he had received an electric shock. He had been so absorbed in the scene we have just described, that he had not looked at the girl who leaned on the colonel's other arm. He now turned and beheld--not the Indian girl of his travels, but a fair-skinned, dark-eyed senhorina. Yet as he gazed, the blood seemed to rush to his brain, for these were the eyes of Manuela, and the slightly open little mouth was hers--the straight Grecian nose, and the graceful figure. It seemed as if his wildest dream were realised, and that Manuela had become white! He clasped his hands and gazed, as Pedro had just done, with such intensity that the sportsman, observing the rudeness, said to his friend-- "Aw--don't you think it would be as well to--aw--kick the fellow out of the room?" "Hallo! what's this?" exclaimed the old colonel, turning sharply on Lawrence with a magnificent frown. It was quite evident that _he_, as well as Pedro and our hero, had also received a most unexpected surprise, for, not only did the youth continue to stand gazing, with clasped hands, but the young lady did not seem in the least offended. On the contrary, she looked up at the colonel with an incomprehensible expression and a bewitching smile, as she said, in excellent English-- "He is not rude, father, only astonished. Let me introduce my friend and preserver, Mr Lawrence Armstrong." But Lawrence heard not, and cared nothing for the introduction. "It _is_ Manuela!" he exclaimed, with a hesitating step forward, and a look of unbelief still lingering in his eyes. She held out her little _white_ hand! He grasped it. The _same_ hand certainly! There could be no doubt about that. "'Pon my honour--aw--the most interesting _tableau vivant_ I ever--aw-- saw!" "Come, come," cried the colonel, whose pleased smile had given place to unimaginable astonishment. "You--you should have prepared me for this, Manuela. I--I'm obliged to you, senhor, of course, for--for saving my daughter; but--come, follow me!" He turned and left the room with rapid strides, and would have dragged Manuela after him, if that young lady had not been endued with a pace-- neat, active, and what is sometimes called "tripping,"--which kept her easily alongside of the ancient man of war. Lawrence followed mechanically. Pedro, with an arm round Mariquita's waist, brought up the rear. As they vanished through the doorway the people gave them a hearty cheer, and resumed dancing. The sportsman found himself so much overcome that he could only ejaculate, "aw!" But presently he recovered so far as to say, "Let's go an' have a ciga'," and he also melted from the scene. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. HOPES, FEARS, PERPLEXITIES, JOYS, AND EXPLANATIONS. Two conversations took place shortly after the scene in the ballroom, and to these we now draw attention. The first was in the hotel--in the private apartment of Colonel Marchbanks. Having got rid of the ladies, the fiery man of war led his victim--if we may so style him--into the apartment referred to, and shut the door. Without asking Lawrence to be seated, he stalked into the middle of the room. "Now, senhor," he said, wheeling round suddenly, and confronting Lawrence with a tremendous frown, "what do you mean by this?" The look and the tone were such as the youth would in ordinary circumstances have resented, but he was far removed from ordinary circumstances just then. He was a victim! As such he looked at his questioner with perplexity in his countenance, and said-- "I beg pardon?" "What do you mean by your conduct, I say?" repeated the colonel, fiercely; for he mistook and was rendered more irritable by the youth's apparent stupidity. "You have insulted my daughter in the ballroom--" "Your daughter?" said Lawrence, with the air of a man whose eyes are dazzled by some sudden burst of strong light which he does not quite understand. "Yes, sir. You know quite well what I mean," cried the colonel, waxing angrier. "It may be true, for all I know or care, that you have saved her life more than once, as Pedro tells me, but--" "I saved the life of an Indian girl," interrupted Lawrence, gently, and gazing wistfully in the colonel's angry face, as if he saw a distant landscape of marvellous beauty through it, "the daughter of a great chief, and a descendant of the Incas." "A descendant of the Hottentots, sir!" exclaimed the colonel, becoming furious, for he now thought the young man was attempting to jest; "the fact that my daughter--my daughter, sir, was persuaded to assume that useless and ridiculous disguise, and the fact that you rendered her assistance when so disguised, gives you no right to--to insult her in public, and--and--I have heard, sir, from Manuela herself, that--" "Manuela!" interrupted the victim, in a soft, unbelieving voice, and with an eager, wistful look at the exquisite landscape again,--"is it possible?" "Sir, you're a fool!" shouted the old soldier, unable to contain himself. "Pedro told me much about you, but he did not say you were a fool!" "Impossible! I knew it must be a dream," murmured Lawrence, as if to himself, "I was never called a fool before. No gentleman would have done it--least of all an English gentleman." This shot, although not aimed, hit the mark fairly. "Forgive me, senhor," said the colonel, modifying his tone, though evidently still much annoyed, "but your manners and language are so strange that, really--" He stopped, as a new light broke upon him. "Surely," he said, "you cannot have been in ignorance all this time that Manuela _is_ my daughter?" "Tell me," cried Lawrence, suddenly shaking off the dream of unbelief, advancing a step, and gazing so intensely into the colonel's eyes that the man of war made a quick, involuntary, motion with his right hand towards his sword,--"Tell me, Colonel Marchbanks--is Manuela, who, I thought, was an Inca princess, _really_ your daughter!" "I know nothing about the Inca princesses, senhor," replied the old man, sternly, but with a perplexed air; "all I know is that the disguised girl with whom you have been unfortunately travelling of late is _my_ daughter, and, although your ignorance of the fact accounts in some degree--" He got no further, for Lawrence gave a full, free, shout of joy, such as he had not vented since he was a schoolboy, raised himself to his full height, and threw up his arms, clearing off a very constellation of crystal gimcracks from a chandelier in the mighty stretch, and exclaimed-- "I'll have her: I'll have her! Yes, in spite of all--" The door opened at that moment and he stood transfixed, for there was Spotted Tiger--glaring horribly, and obviously charged with important tidings. "Come in," cried the colonel in Spanish. "Come out," cried the savage in some other language, which Lawrence did not understand, but which the colonel evidently did, for he clapped on his hat, and, without a word of explanation, hurried with Tiger out of the room, leaving Lawrence to solitary meditation. The other conversation that we have referred to was held in the garden of the hotel, under a thick overhanging tree, between Pedro and the lovely lady who had been the cause of Lawrence's little affair with the colonel. "What have you done with her, Pedro?" asked the lovely lady. "Taken her to the villa, where she will be well cared for." "But why so quickly? Why not wait for me?" The voice was in very truth that of Manuela, though the countenance was that of a Spanish senhorina! "Because time is precious. We have received news which calls for speedy action, and I must be in close attendance on your father, Manuela. As I am likely to have quarter of an hour to spare while he holds a palaver with Tiger, I have sought you out to ask an explanation, for I'm eager to know how and where my darling was found. I can wait as well as most men, but--" "Yes, yes, _I_ know," said Manuela, drawing her mantilla a little more closely over her now fair face. "You shall hear. Listen. You know that my father loves you?" Pedro smiled assent, and nodded. "His is a loving and loveable nature," resumed our heroine. ("So is his daughter's," thought Pedro, but he did not say so.) "And he never forgets a friend," continued Manuela. "He has often, often spoken to me about you, and your dear ones, and many a time in his military wanderings has he made inquiries about the dear child who was stolen so long ago--ten years now, is it not?" "Ay, not far short of eleven. She was just turned five when last I beheld her angel face--no, not _last_, thank God." "Well, Pedro, you may easily believe that we had many raisings of our hopes, like yourself, and many, many disappointments, but these last arose from our looking chiefly in wrong directions. It somehow never occurred to us that her lot might have fallen among people of rank and wealth. Yet so it was. One day when out on the Pampas not far from Buenos Ayres, visiting a friend, and never thinking of dear Mariquita, we saw a young girl coming towards us down the garden walk. "As she came near, my father stopped short, and laid his hand on my shoulder with such a grasp that I nearly cried out. I looked up in surprise, and never before saw such an expression of eager inquiry on his face. "`Manuela!' he said, in a low, tremulous voice, `if Mariquita is alive I see her now. I see our friend Pedro in every line of her pretty face.' "I looked, but could not see the likeness. You know how differently people seem to be affected by the same face. I failed to see in the sweet countenance framed in curling fair hair, and in the slight girlish figure of surpassing grace, my swarthy friend Pedro. She seemed startled at first by my father's abrupt manner. He questioned her. What was her name--`Mariquita,' she said. `I was sure of it,' rejoined my father. `Your surname, my girl?' "`Arnold, senhor,' she replied, with surprise. "My dear father is very impulsive. His hopes sank as fast as they had risen. `Of course,' he said afterwards, `Mariquita is a common name, and should not have raised my expectations so quickly, but the likeness, you see, staggered me.' "Dear father!" continued Manuela, casting down her eyes, and speaking in a pensive tone, "I _do_ love him so, because of his little imperfections. They set off his good points to so much greater advantage. I should not like to have a perfect father. Would you, Pedro?" She raised her eyes to the guide's face with an arch look--and those eyes had become wonderfully lustrous since the skin had lost its brown hue. "Really, Manuela," returned the impatient guide, "I have not yet considered what degree of perfection I should like in my father--but how about--" "Forgive me, yes--Mariquita. Well, finding that we were going to the house where she dwelt, Mariquita walked with us, and told us that she had lived with our English friends, Mr and Mrs Daulton, since she was a little child. Did she remember her parents? we asked. Yes, she remembered them perfectly, and tried to describe them, but we could make nothing of that for evidently she thought them handsomer, grander, and more beautiful than any other people in the world. She did not remember where they dwelt--except that it was in the woods and among mountains. "`That corresponds exactly,' cried my father, becoming excited. `Forgive me, child; I am an eccentric old fellow, but--did you quit your home amid fire and smoke and yells--' "My father was stopped at this point by our arrival at the house, and the appearance of our friends. But he was too much roused by that time to let the matter drop, so he carried Mrs Daulton off to the library, and learned from her that the child had been lent to her by a priest! "`Lent, my dear madam?' said my father. "`Yes, lent. The priest laughed when he presented her, but said the child was the orphan daughter of a distant relation of his who had left her to his care. He did not want her, or know what to do with her, and offered to _give_ her to us. My husband said he could not accept such a gift, but he would gladly accept her as a loan! We both disbelieved the priest, for he was a bad man; but, as we were much in want of a companion for our own little girl at the time, we accepted her, and brought her here. The priest died suddenly, and as there was no one else to claim her, we have kept her ever since, and right glad we are to have her.' "`You won't have her long,' said my sweet father, in his usual blunt and pleasant way. `I am convinced that I know her father. Of course Arnold is a name you gave her?' `No; when she came to us she said her name was Mariquita, but she knew of no other name. It was the priest who told, us her surname was Arnold.' "Well, Pedro, to bring my story to an end, my father told the Daultons all about you, and got them to lend Mariquita to us. That was two years ago. Since then she has dwelt with us as my very dear sister. My father knew you were in Peru at the time, and his purpose was to wait till you should return, and present Mariquita unexpectedly to you to see if you would recognise each other. Therefore he did not mention her when he wrote asking you so urgently to return here. Neither did he mention his suspicions to Mariquita herself. We just led her to understand that we found her company so pleasant that we wished her to remain with us for a long visit. Then came news of the illness of a dear relation of mine in Chili. I was sent by my father to see and nurse her. At parting he told me if I should by any chance meet with you, I was on no account to speak or even hint at this matter. Little did either of us think at the time that I was destined to make so long a journey under your care. And you know, Senhor Pedro, that I am not bad at keeping secrets. I not only obeyed my father in this matter, but I faithfully obeyed yourself when you imposed on me the necessity of keeping my disguise secret from Senhor Armstrong." "You did, Manuela, faithfully." "And it was very hard to do, let me assure you, as well as needless," returned Manuela, in a slightly hurt tone. "Over and over again I have been on the point of betraying myself. Why did you require me to maintain such secrecy, and afflict myself with such constant care and watchfulness?" "Because I knew full well," replied Pedro, with a twinkle in his eye, "that if poor Senhor Armstrong knew your true character, he would infallibly fall in love with you in spite of your brown skin." "And pray, senhor, why should you object to Senhor Armstrong, or any one else, falling in love with me in spite of my brown skin?" "You know very well, Manuela, that, your father being my friend, it is my duty in all circumstances to be faithful to him. You are also aware that your father entertains a strong objection to very young men, who have no money or prospects, presuming to think of marriage with his daughter, and that he would never consent to your being engaged to Senhor Armstrong in present circumstances. It was my simple duty, therefore, when I saw the danger, to warn and protect you. Indeed I saw, almost the first day after we met the youth, that I had made a great mistake in asking him to join us; but it was too late then to change, so I imposed secrecy on you, and admit that you have acted your part well; but my well-meant efforts have been utterly in vain." "How so!" "Why, because the poor wretch has fallen hopelessly in love with you in spite of your disguise--ay, and in spite of his own efforts to the contrary, for I have watched him carefully, and regard him as an uncommonly fine specimen of an amiable, self-denying, and honourable man. And now, as I had feared, your father is furious at his presuming even to think of you, though I have done my best to show him that he has acted nobly all through our journey; that, after all, he may not really care for you at all, and that at all events you have given him no encouragement whatever, and do not care a straw for _him_." Manuela flushed deeply at the last words, and there was the slightest possible contraction of her fine eyebrows as she replied, somewhat loftily-- "Senhor Pedro, you are a kind friend and a faithful guide, but you pretend to a greater knowledge of these matters than you possess. You do not understand my beloved father as well as I do, and you are totally ignorant of the state of my feelings. However, I believe you have done all for the best, and my earnest request now is that, having discharged what you conceive to be your duty on this point, you will say and do nothing more." "Your will would be law in this matter, even if I were not under such a deep debt of gratitude to you," returned Pedro, "and it is all the more easy to obey you now that I have handed you over to your father and am no longer responsible. Are you aware that we start immediately in pursuit of the Indians who have attacked and murdered the poor people of Rolland's Ranch?" "Yes, my father has told me all about it." "Has he told you that you and Mariquita are to accompany the force so far on the road, and that when we get beyond the disturbed district I am to carry you on with a small party to Buenos Ayres, while the main body pursues the savages?" "Yes, he told me that too," replied Manuela; "but," she added, with a little hesitation, "he did not say who was to go with our small detachment." The slightest possible twinkle in Pedro's eye indicated suppressed feeling as he replied that he also was ignorant on that point--the only things which he was quite sure of being, that Senhor Armstrong and Quashy were to go with the main body. "Indeed!" exclaimed the maiden in surprise. "I had thought Senhor Armstrong objected to fighting." Pedro laughed. "So he does, senhorina; but when the rescue of captive women and children is in the case, he holds fighting to be a duty, as you are aware. But I must go now," continued Pedro, becoming grave and earnest as he took the girl's hand. "Words can never express my feelings towards you and your father, dear Manuela. Indeed I have never been in the habit of saying much--least of all when I have felt much. Mariquita and I will bless you both to the latest hour of our lives. Adieu. We meet in the morning at the house in which you are staying-- Lawrence has named it the house with the rustic porch--and we start from there. You are all ready, I suppose?" "Yes. You know I have little luggage to look after," said Manuela, with a laugh, "and I shall continue to travel as an Indian girl--as an Inca princess!" "Indeed. Why so?" "That, Senhor Pedro, is a matter with which you have nothing whatever to do!" CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. COLONEL MARCHBANKS PROVES TO BE NOT SO GOOD A GENERAL AS HE GETS CREDIT FOR, AND LAWRENCE STANDS SELF-CONVICTED. It has been stated that our hero had agreed to join Colonel Marchbanks in the pursuit of the Indians, not because the troops sought to avenge the murders which had been committed, but because several women and children had been carried off, and the rescue of these formed the main object of the expedition. There can be no doubt, however, that the desire of Lawrence to join in such a praiseworthy adventure was not a little stimulated by the fact that Manuela was to accompany her father, at least a part of the way, and he naturally hoped to have some opportunities of speaking to her-- perhaps of riding beside her, as he had so often done when he imagined her to be a daughter of the Incas. But alas! the course of his love being true and deep--remarkably deep-- was doomed to run in its proverbially rugged course. Colonel Marchbanks, when leading his men to "glory"--or otherwise--like a true soldier, as he was, invariably moved with an advance and rear-guard. Like a cautious father, he placed Lawrence in the rear-guard, and arranged that there should be a considerable distance between it and the main body. We may remark in passing that when the first burst of the old gentleman's anger with Lawrence was over he had generously resolved, in consideration of what the young man had done for his daughter, to make no further allusion to the ballroom scene, but merely to hold the presumptuous youth politely at arm's-length, and take especial care that the two young people should not again have an opportunity of meeting alone. He laid no command on either of them, but simply trusted to his own wisdom and watchfulness. Being as it were a freelance, Lawrence, he knew, would naturally ride in the force very much where he pleased. He had therefore cleverly provided against the evil consequences that might flow from such freedom by making a little arrangement at a brief and final interview the evening before they set out. "Now, young senhor," he said, in his usual abrupt way, "although a volunteer in this expedition, and not versed in military matters, you must of course put yourself under my orders, and consider yourself one of my troopers." Oh! of course, of course, Lawrence had not the slightest objection to do so. He was quite ready to do whatever was required of him, if only he might assist in the rescue of hapless captives; and although he knew nothing of military matters, still, in the event of an engagement, he might prove himself useful as a surgeon. "Humph! We don't deal much in surgeons in this country. It is usually do or die with us," replied the colonel, with a grim smile. "However, we shall see. Meanwhile, I have appointed you to the charge of some of the baggage-mules. Your late experience must have made you somewhat expert in such matters, and your duty will be with the rear-guard. One of my officers will show you your position in the morning. Good-night." Lawrence left with a quiet "Good-night, colonel," and with a very unquiet feeling that somehow things might not turn out precisely as he had hoped. Later that night Manuela appeared before her stern father dressed in the old familiar costume of an Indian girl, and with her fair skin stained dark brown. Usually the old soldier met his child with a beaming smile, that lit up his rugged visage with tenderness, as a gleam of sunshine sometimes illumines the rugged peaks of the Andes, but on this occasion he received her with a frown compounded of love and annoyance. "How now, child? This is an unseasonable time for such foolery." "I want to travel in my old dress, father," she replied, with a winning smile that almost tore the old man's heart in twain;--and there are such smiles, reader, let us assure you, though you may not have had the good fortune to see them yet! "You certainly shall do nothing of the sort, my dear," returned the stern old man, as if he were laying down one of the Medo-Persic laws-- for he was very tough, you know, and had great power of control over his feelings, especially the softer ones. "Oh, I'm _so_ sorry you don't like it!" said the Inca princess, with a little look of humble disappointment which was infinitely more heartrending than the smile; "but do you know, father, I have ridden so long in this costume, and in the gentleman fashion, that I feel quite sure--at least, I think--I should be utterly knocked up the first day if I were to begin a long hard journey in the ladies' position. Then, you know, I could not dare to ride so in ordinary female dress and with a white face; the thing would look ridiculous--wouldn't it? And, of course, everybody knows that Pedro arrived here with an Indian girl in his band, so the thing will seem quite natural, and nobody will notice me, especially if I keep near to Pedro; and the soldiers will just think--if they think at all--that you have left your daughter behind." "Ah, well, that alters the case, Manuela," said the colonel, with most un-Medo-Persic hesitancy, and still frowning a little at his ink-bottle--not at his daughter. "Of course, if it had been merely one of your whims, _nothing_ would have induced me to let you go in such guise, but there is truth in what you say, and--yes--a good thought, you shall travel near Pedro. Good-night. Go to bed, love. You will need all the rest you can obtain between now and morning." "Good-night, darling father. I would kiss you if I had not just put on the stain." She retired, and soon after laid her pretty brown cheek on her pillow in placid contentment, while her grim father arranged his war plans so that Pedro should travel with the _advance-guard_. There was a soft, fresh, exhilarating breeze blowing from the Pampas as the troop issued from the little town at a gallop, when the first streak of dawn became visible. There was order, doubtless, in all the arrangements, but all seemed utter confusion to Lawrence as he assisted the young officer under whose special command he was placed to look after the mules. Some faint evidence of order, however, began to reveal itself to his uneducated mind when he observed that the confusion abated on the main body moving off and leaving him with a small band behind. His perception of order might have been still further though unpleasantly increased had he known that the advance-guard, with Manuela in its train, had started a considerable time previously. But he had not much time to think, for the command was almost immediately given to mount and ride. Quashy was beside him, for, being his servant, Colonel Marchbanks had said he might do with him as he pleased. But Quashy was silent, for his spirit was chafed. His master observed the fact after the first half-hour's gallop. "What ails you, Quash?" "I can't abide peepil," growled the negro, "what says `aw!'" "What do you mean?" "I mean that Aw's agwine wid us." "What--the sportsman--eh?" "Yes, massa. On'y I don't b'lieve he ever sported nuffin but a swagger, and--and--`aw!' W'en I git up dis mornin' I heerd 'im say to his friend: `I say, Jack, wouldn't it--aw--be dooced good fun to go and-- aw--hab a slap at de Injins?' If de Injins send a spear troo his libber--aw--he'll not t'ink it sitch fun!" "That's true, Quash, but the same may be said of ourselves." "Not so, massa, 'cause we nebber said it would be `dooced good fun.'" "There's something in that, Quash, but you shouldn't let feelings of ill-will to any one get the mastery of you. Men of his stamp are often very good fellows at bottom, though they do `aw' in a most ridiculous and unaccountable manner. Besides, he has done you no harm." "Done me no harm!" repeated the negro, indignantly, "didn't he say you was mad or drunk?" "Well, well," said Lawrence, laughing, "that was a very innocent remark. It did no harm to either of us." "You's wrong, massa," returned Quashy in a magnificently hurt tone. "It dood no harm to you, but it hurt my _feelin's_, an' dat's wuss dan hurtin' my body." At this point in the conversation the troop passed over the brow of an eminence, and beheld the wide rolling sea of the illimitable South American Pampas, or plains, stretching away on all sides to the horizon. During the whole morning they had been galloping through the region of the _Monte_, or bush, that border-land which connects the treeless plains with the tropical forests of the north, where thorny shrubs covered the ground in more or less dense patches, where groves of the algaroba--a noble tree of the mimosa species,--and trees laden with a peach-like but poisonous fruit, as well as other trees and shrubs, diversified the landscape, and where the ground was carpeted with beautiful flowering plants, among which were the variegated blossoms of verbena, polyanthus, and others. But now, all was changed. It seemed as if the party had reached the shores of a great, level, grassy sea, with only here and there a seeming islet, where a thicket grew, to break the sky-line of the horizon. For a few minutes the rear-guard drew up to collect the straggling baggage-mules, and then away they went with a wild shout, as if they were moved by the same glad feeling of freedom that affects the petrel when it swoops over the billows of the mighty ocean. The scene and the sensations were absolutely new to Lawrence and Quashy. Both were mounted on very good horses, which seemed to sympathise with their riders, for they required no spur to urge them over the grassy plain. The sun was bright, and Lawrence had been too long accustomed to the leaden skies of old England to quarrel with the sunshine, however hot it might be; besides, he rather enjoyed heat, and as for Quashy, heat was his native element. A pleasant air was blowing, too. In short, everything looked beautiful, especially to our hero, who knew--at least supposed--that a certain princess of the Incas was in the band immediately in front of him. He was not aware, you see, that she was with the advance-guard! "Das am mug-nifercent!" exclaimed Quashy, as his horse put his foot into a biscacho-hole, and only escaped a fall by making a splendid bound, where by its haunch, striking the negro's back, sent him plunging on to its neck. "Oh! I _does_ like to be shook like dat, massa." "If you get shook much worse than that," cried Lawrence, "I'll have to stop to pick you up." "No fear, massa. Howebber much I wobbles I nebber comes off." An islet of bushes at this point necessitated a slight detour. On the other side of it they found that the main body of the troop had halted for rest and food. Right glad was Lawrence to find that Colonel Marchbanks's humour was entirely changed, that the asperity of the previous night had passed away, and that the natural urbanity of his nature had returned. "A pleasant gallop, was it not, Senhor Armstrong?" he said, as our hero joined the group of officers around him. "Delightful, and quite new to me," said Lawrence. "I have often read of but never seen the Pampas till now." He looked furtively about as he spoke. The colonel marked the look, and with a somewhat grim smile observed that they should see more than enough of the Pampas for some days to come. "The sea of long yellow-brown grass and thistles," he added, "gets to be rather monotonous at last; but I never weary of the feeling of immensity and freedom which it inspires. Come, dine with us, senhor." Lawrence gladly accepted the invitation. "We make but a brief halt," said the colonel, "for time presses and distances are great. Our next shall be at the Estancia Algaroba, where we shall spend the night. Your friend Pedro will make arrangements for us. He is with the advance-guard." "Oh, indeed," said Lawrence; then, feeling that he ought to say something more, "I suppose his newly-found daughter is with him?" "Yes," replied the colonel, curtly, as he shot a suspicious glance at the youth from under his shaggy brows. After dining, Lawrence returned to the baggage-mules with an unaccountable depression of spirits upon him, and deeply absorbed with the question whether rear-guards ever overtook advance-guards, and what, if they did, usually became of intervening main bodies. With such puzzling military questions on his mind, the remainder of that day's journey was not equal to the first part, and even Quashy, the sympathetic, failed to interest him! The estancia, previously referred to by the colonel, stood on a slight eminence surrounded by the grove of algaroba-trees from which it derived its name. The fruit of this tree forms excellent food for cattle, and Lawrence found himself busily engaged during the first hour after arrival in procuring it for his mules, and otherwise looking after his charge. When this duty was done, feeling no disposition to join his comrades at supper, he sauntered into a garden in rear of the estancia, where he found a rustic seat under an algaroba-tree, and sat down to meditate. It was a calm, peaceful, moonlight night, with an air, so he felt, of sadness about it which harmonised with his melancholy thoughts. He now believed he saw through Colonel Marchbanks's plan, and had given up all hope of seeing Manuela again. In these circumstances, being a man of submissive spirit yet powerful will, he set himself resolutely to think of the important object in which he was engaged. Somewhat thus his meditations ran-- "I am no soldier, but I am a man, and I should be less than a man-- unworthy to live--if I were not ready to help in the rescue of women and children. Some of the girls, poor things, may be like Manu--that is--. Now, although I hate war, and do not approve of settling disputes by the sword, I feel that self-defence, or the defence of the helpless, justifies war,--ay, to the knife. Of course it does. Was I not thoroughly justified in fighting the robbers when Manu--. Well, then, let me think it out. A thing is not properly thought at all until it is thought out, and _found_ out. Talking of that, how fortunate that Pedro's little daughter was found out. It is most interesting! I delight to think of her. And she's so pretty, too--quite beautiful, though, of course, not so beautiful as Man--" "Bother Manuela!" he exclaimed aloud, starting up. As he spoke, Manuela herself--the princess of the Incas--stood before him! In order to account for this sudden miscarriage of the colonel's plans, we must turn aside to state that the princess, being of an active disposition, and not easily tired, had said to Pedro that evening, when his detachment was encamping under a group of trees not far from the estancia, that she would ride back to the main body to see her father. "But my strict orders are," said Pedro, "that I am to keep you with the advance-guard, and you know that your father is not a man to be disobeyed." "Quite true," returned the princess, looking with a solemn expression down at Pedro--for she was still on horseback, while he and his men were dismounted, preparing the camp. "You must on no account disobey my father, Pedro." "Well then, you see," returned the guide, with an amused look, "I cannot give you permission to leave us." "Of course not. That would be insubordination, Pedro, would it not? which, in time of war, is punishable, I think, with death. I would never think of asking permission, or tempting you to disobey. I will be sure to tell my father that you positively refused to let me go. Adieu, Senhor Pedro. A good appetite and sweet repose!" She touched her splendid horse with a switch, and next moment was flying over the Pampas at a pace that rendered pursuit useless. Dismounting and fastening her steed to a tree, she passed through the garden towards the house, and naturally, as we have seen, came upon Lawrence. "Manuela!" he exclaimed. "Si, senhor," she replied. He advanced a step with outstretched arms, and then, checking himself, clasped his hands. "Is it--can it be--a dream?" "What doos you dream, senhor?" asked the girl, in the old familiar broken English. "Manuela, dear girl, do not trifle with me. It seems like magic. Did I not see you--in the ballroom--white--the daughter of Colonel Marchbanks?" "Well, Senhor Armstrong," said Manuela, earnestly, and in good English, "I admit that I am the daughter of Colonel Marchbanks, but I did not-- indeed I did not _wish_ to deceive--" "Deceive!" interrupted Lawrence, quickly, "as well might you tell me that one of the unfallen angels did not mean to deceive. O dear one, forgive me! I know not how to tell it--but--but--_can_ you believe that a great stupid fellow like myself loves you so that--that--I--well--it's of no use. I'll never act wisely if I try to--to--" He seized her hand. She did not withdraw it. He drew her to him. She did not resist; and there followed a sound--a very slight sound; yet it was not so slight but that it sent a shock of alarm and anger to the soul of Colonel Marchbanks, who came up at that awkward moment. "Sir! sirrah! senhor,--rascal!" spluttered the old man, as Manuela ran away from the scene, "what--why--what do you mean?" Drawing himself up, Lawrence said, with a look of dignity-- "Colonel Marchbanks, I can look you honestly in the face, and say that neither in word nor deed have I done you or your daughter wrong." "No--have you _not_?" shouted the colonel. "Sir! rascal!--there is a looking-glass over the mantelpiece in the estancia. Go there, look _yourself_ in the face, and say, if you dare, that you have done me no wrong!" He wheeled about violently and strode away, fuming. Lawrence went to his chamber, wondering at such a display of wrath in one so genial. He glanced at the looking-glass in passing through the chief room of the estancia. The glance revealed to him the fact that there was a large rich brown patch in the region of his mouth and nose! CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. TREATS OF SAVAGES, CAPTIVES, CHASES, ACCIDENTS, INCIDENTS, AND PERPLEXITIES. Not unfrequently, in human affairs, evil consequences are happily averted by unforeseen circumstances. It was so on the present occasion. What Colonel Marchbanks's wrath might have led to no one can tell, for, a little before dawn on the following morning, there came a messenger in hot haste from Pedro stating that one of the scouts had come in with the news that the Indians were encamped with their captives and booty not half a day's ride in advance of them. The result was an immediate order to advance and to close up. It is interesting to consider how small a matter will cheer the spirits of some men. The order to mount and ride naturally produced some excitement in the breast of Lawrence Armstrong, being unaccustomed to the dash and whirl of troops eager to meet the foe; but the succeeding order to "close up" did more, it filled his heart with joy, for did it not imply that the advance and rear-guards must come nearer to each other? At least to his unmilitary mind it seemed so. In a brief space of time, and with marvellously little noise, the troops were in motion, and at dawn, sure enough, he saw the figures of the ladies galloping with the advance party, with Pedro leading the way--for he had been appointed to the responsible duty of guide. Venturing to push a little ahead of his special charge, Lawrence soon found himself with the main body, and heard the colonel order one of his officers to ride forward and tell the ladies to fall to the rear of the force. Hearing this, Lawrence, almost imperceptibly to himself, tightened his reins, but, before he had dropped many strides behind, the colonel turned his head slightly and summoned him by name. With something like a guilty feeling Lawrence rode forward. "We have heard of the whereabouts of the savages, Senhor Armstrong. You are a civilian, and as surgeon to the force it is your duty, of course, to keep as much out of danger as possible, but as brave men usually prefer the front, I absolve you from this duty. You are at liberty to go there if you choose." The blood rushed to our hero's face. He knew well what the old soldier meant. With a simple "Thank you, colonel," he put spurs to his steed, and was in a few seconds galloping alongside of Pedro. "You ride furiously, senhor," said the guide, with a twinkle in his eye which was characteristic of him when amused. Lawrence made no reply. Just then they overtopped a slight ridge or rising ground, and beheld a few mounted men on the horizon. These were evidently the scouts of the Indian band, for on seeing the soldiers they drew hastily together and stood in a group as if to consult for a few seconds. Then, turning, they galloped over the next rising ground and disappeared. The soldiers of course increased their speed. On gaining the top of the ridge, they beheld a large band of Indians mounting and galloping off in hot haste. Evidently they did not intend to give battle--at least at that time. With a mighty shout the soldiers bore down on them at their utmost speed--Lawrence, Pedro, the colonel, and Quashy leading, for they were the best mounted of the party. It was soon perceived that captives were with the Indians, for women in civilised dress were seen on horseback, and some of the savages had children in front of them. At this sight every thought of self fled from the warm heart of Lawrence Armstrong, and he was impressed with but one idea--"Rescue the helpless!" Urging his steed to its utmost, he was soon far ahead of the troop, closely followed by Quashy, whose eyes and teeth seemed to blaze with excitement. There was a savage straight ahead of them who carried something in his arms. It seemed to be a child. Fixing his eye on this man, Lawrence spurred on, and grasped his sword with deadly intent. Quashy, ever observant, did the same. The man, perceiving their intentions, diverged a little to the right of his comrades, probably thinking that his pursuers would be unwilling to quit the main band, and might thus be thrown off. He was mistaken, for Lawrence possessed, with immense power of will, a strong spice of recklessness. The more, therefore, that the savage diverged, the more did his pursuers diverge in their determination to have him. Finding himself hard pressed, he dropped his load. It proved to be only a sack, which, bursting, revealed, not a child, but a quantity of miscellaneous property! Enraged as well as disappointed by the discovery, our hero, being fallible, permitted evil feelings to enter his bosom, and spurred on with a tighter grasp of the sword under the influence of revenge, but the savage being now lightened held on with still greater speed, diverging more and more until, in a short time, he raced almost at right angles from his companions towards a part of the plain which was somewhat elevated above the surrounding level. It was a wise move on his part, for the place, he knew, was riddled with biscacho-holes. Among these he steered his course with consummate skill. Of course Lawrence's steed ere long put its foot into a hole and rolled over, sending its rider headlong to the ground, where he lay on his back insensible, alike to pity for captives and impulses of revenge. After lying thus for a considerable time he slowly opened his eyes, and, looking up, met the solemn gaze of Quashy. His head rested on the knee of his sable follower. "What's wrong, Quash?" was his first inquiry. "Nuffin's wrong, massa, now you talk. I was begin to t'ink your mout' was shut up for ebber." "Have they caught the rascals?" asked Lawrence, suddenly recollecting what had passed, and raising himself on one elbow. "I not know, massa. Nobody here to tell." "How--what--where are the troops?" "Dun know, massa; gone arter de Injins, I s'pose, an' de Injins gone arter deir own business, an' bof gone off de face ob de art' altogidder--so far as I can see." Lawrence started up in great anxiety, and although still giddy from the effects of his fall, could see plainly enough that neither troops nor Indians were to be seen--only a mighty sea of waving grass with a clear horizon all round, and nothing to break the monotony of the vast solitude save their two horses browsing quietly a few yards off. "Quashy, it strikes me that we shall be lost," said Lawrence, with anxious look. "'Smy opinion, massa, dat we's lost a'ready." "Come," returned Lawrence, rising with some difficulty, "let's mount and be off after them. Which way did they go--that is, at what point of the compass did they disappear?" Quashy's face assumed the countless wrinkles of perplexity. He turned north, south, east, and west, with inquiring glances at the blank horizon, and of course gave a blank reply. "You see, massa," he said, apologetically, "you hoed a-rollin' ober an' ober in sitch a way, dat it rader confused me, an' I forgits to look whar we was, an' den I was so awrful cut up for fear you's gone dead, dat I t'ink ob nuffin else--an' now, it's too late!" "Too late indeed," rejoined Lawrence, with a feeling of bitterness, "nevertheless, we must ride somewhere. Catch our horses, Quashy, and I will wait for you and think." Having applied himself to that most difficult process--thinking out a plan with insufficient material for thought--our hero resolved to ride in what he supposed--judging by the position of the sun--was an easterly direction, hoping to strike the trail of the pursuers and fugitives before night. "You see, Quashy," he remarked, as they galloped swiftly over the flowering plains, "we are almost sure to find the trail in a short time; for although neither you nor I have had much experience in following trails in the wilderness, we have got some sort of idea--at least I have, from books--of how the thing should be done, and even the most stupid white man could scarcely ride across the track of several hundred horsemen without observing it." "Das true, massa. Eben the stoopidist black man am equal to dat. But what if you's mistook de d'rection, an' we's ridin' west instead ob east?" "Why then, Quashy, we'd discover our mistake sooner or later by arriving at the Andes," returned Lawrence, with a bland smile. "Hi! I don' mean west," returned the negro, with a reciprocal grin; "you couldn't be so mistook as dat--but s'pose you'se go souf by mistake?" "Why, then the straits of Magellan would bring us up." "Ah--well, massa, I dun know whar de straits ob Majillum is, but it would be a comfort to be brought up anywhar, for den you couldn't go no farder. An' if we's on de right track, we're sure to come to de Atlantic at last, eben if we miss de Injins an' de sodjers altogidder. Das pleasant to t'ink on--i'n't it?" Apparently Lawrence did not think it remarkably pleasant, for he paid no further attention to the remarks of his companion, but proceeded along with a profound, almost stern, gravity, and with his eyes glancing keenly right and left after the most approved manner of the Indian brave or the backwoods scout. No track or trail, however, of any kind was to be seen. For more than an hour they sped along, down in the flowering hollows, over the grassy waves steering carefully past the riddled townships of the biscachos, now and then diverging a little to avoid some larger shrubs or tangled masses of herbage, sometimes uttering a word of comment on passing objects, and occasionally craning their necks on observing some buzzard or other bird on the horizon, but never drawing rein until they came to a rising ground, from the highest point of which they could have a commanding view of the region all round. Here they pulled up. "Quashy," said Lawrence, in a deep, solemn tone, "we are indeed lost." "It 'pears to me you's right, massa." "And yet we _must_ be on the right track," continued Lawrence, as if communing with himself, "unless, indeed, the Indians may have changed their direction and turned off to the south." "Or de nort'," suggested Quashy, in the same self-communing tone. "Come, there's nothing for it but to push on," cried Lawrence, galloping away. "Das so. Nuffin else," said Quashy, following. And so they continued on for another hour or more in grim silence, after which they rode, as it were, in grim despair--at least Lawrence did so, for he felt bitterly that he was now separated, perhaps for ever, from Manuela, and that he could render no further aid in rescuing the captives from the savages. As for the negro, despair was not compatible with his free and easy, not to say reckless, happy-go-lucky temperament. He felt deeply indeed for his young master, and sympathised profoundly; but for himself he cared little, and thought of nothing beyond the interests of the passing hour. Possibly if both horses had broken their legs and Lawrence had broken his neck, Quashy might have given way to despair, but it is probable that nothing less severe could have overcome his buoyant spirit. At last the sun began to descend behind the Andes, which were by that time turned into a misty range of tender blue in the far, far distance. The steeds also showed signs of declining power, for, in his anxiety to overtake the troops, Lawrence had pressed them rather harder than he would otherwise have done. Opportunely at that time they came in sight of a small clump of bushes, like a low islet in the sea of grass. "We will camp here," said Lawrence, brusquely, as he pulled up and dismounted. "The game is up. We are fairly lost, that's quite clear, and it is equally clear that we and our horses must rest." He spoke in a tone of cynical joviality, as if defying his misfortunes. The simple-minded Quashy, accepting it as genuine, said, "All right, massa," in a tone of cheerful satisfaction, as he slid off his steed and set about preparing the encampment. If our hero's mind had been more at ease, it is probable that he would have enjoyed his surroundings greatly, for, although lost on the wide Pampas, they had not begun yet to suffer physically from that misfortune. Their wallets were still supplied with food sufficient for at least three full meals, the weather was serene, and the situation, viewed in one aspect, was exceedingly romantic. From the top of the rising ground where the fire was burning and the steaks of mare's flesh roasting, the complete circle of the horizon could be seen, and the yellow-brown grass of the Pampas, at that time about a foot high, rolled with a motion that strangely resembled the waves of the liquid ocean itself. But poor Lawrence was incapable of enjoying the beauties of nature just then. After one long, anxious look round to see if any object should present itself which might raise the faintest echo of hope, he returned to the camp, and sat down on a mound with a profound sigh. "Chee' up, massa," said Quashy, raising his face, which glittered with his efforts to blow the fire into a glow. "You's git her in de long run." "Get who?" demanded Lawrence, in surprise, not unmingled with a touch of severity, for this was the first time that his humble follower had dared to touch on the theme that was uppermost in his mind. With a strange compound of what is well named "cheek" and humility, Quashy replied, "_Her_, you know, de Inca princess--Manuela. It's all right!" "And pray, Quashy, how do _you_ know that it's all right, or that I want anything to be all right. In short, what business have you to presume to--to--" "Oh, it's all right, massa," replied the negro, with a wink--and _what_ a wink that was!--"I knows all about it, bein' _zactly_ in de same state wid Sooz'n." Lawrence sought refuge from conflicting feelings in a loud laugh, and asked what hope Quashy could by any possibility entertain of ever seeing Susan again--she having, as it were, vanished from off the earth. "Oh, nebber fear," was Quashy's comfortable reply. "I's sure to find Sooz'n, for she no can git along widout me, no more nor I can git along widout her. We's sure to find one anoder in de long run." Envying his man's unwavering faith, Lawrence sat for some time silently contemplating the gorgeous sunset, when an exclamation drew his attention to the opposite side of the landscape. "Look, massa. Suffin movin' dar." There was indeed a moving speck--or rather two specks--on the horizon. As they drew nearer it was soon seen to be a Gaucho of the Pampas in full chase of an ostrich. They did not come straight towards our wanderers, but passed within half a mile of them. The picturesque hunter, bending over his steed's neck, with his scarlet poncho streaming behind him, and the bolas whirling round his head, was so eager in the pursuit that he either did not observe, or did not mind, the thin smoke of the camp-fire. The giant bird, stretching its long legs to the utmost and using its wings as additional propellers, seemed quite able to hold its own and test the powers of the horse. Gradually pursuer and pursued passed out of the range of vision, and were seen no more. "Just as well," remarked Lawrence, as he afterwards sat eating his mare-steak by the star-and-fire light, "that fellow might be one of the many robbers who are said to infest the plains; and although we could no doubt have protected ourselves from him, he might have brought a swarm of his comrades about our ears." "Yes, massa," was Quashy's brief reply, for he was engaged at that moment with a large and tough mouthful. A long ride, and a hearty though frugal supper, disposed both master and man for rest that night. When the last gleam of sunset had faded from the western sky, and the last scraps of mare's flesh had vanished from their respective bones; when the stars were twinkling with nocturnal splendour, and all nature was sinking to repose, Lawrence and Quashy lay down on the grass, spread their ponchos above them, pillowed their weary heads upon their saddles, and slept profoundly. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. LAWRENCE AND HIS MAN FALL IN WITH STRANGERS, HEAR GOOD NEWS, AND EXPERIENCE ROUGH USAGE. "Lost on the Pampas!" thought Lawrence, on awaking next morning. It was romantic, no doubt, but--well, he did not follow up the "but" with very definite conceptions. As he lifted his eyes towards the horizon, where the rays of the rising sun were suffusing the sky with a tinge of rosy light, his first feelings partook of gratitude for a night of unbroken rest, which had restored a bounding sensation of physical life and strength and energy. Awaking in such a condition of mind and body leads one, contradictory though it may seem, to spend the first few minutes of reviving consciousness in restful contemplation and enjoyment of one's surroundings. Raising himself on one elbow, our hero let his eyes wander dreamily over the vast plain. There was much monotony about it, no doubt, but the majesty of illimitable space neutralised that impression. On the horizon the intensifying tone of the rapidly increasing light harmonised with the varying greens and yellows of the herbage. Here and there one or two uplands in the far distance caught the sheen of day and relieved the prospect with streaks of varied hue. Still nearer a few clumps of low shrubbery increased this diversity a little. In the middle-distance the varied colours and forms of the grasses became distinct enough to invest the scene with character, while in the immediate foreground additional force and interest were given to the landscape by the person of Quashy lying flat on his back, with his great eyes closed and his huge mouth open. The state of dreamy contemplation did not last long. The stern realities of the situation seemed to rush in upon his mind with sudden power. Lost! lost! The captives perhaps still unrescued from the savages! Manuela in danger! It was a dreadful state of things. "Come, Quashy!" cried Lawrence, leaping up and giving the negro a rough shake that brought him instantly to a sitting and blinking condition. "Get up. We must be off. Saddle the horses--the hor--why, where _are_ the horses?" He finished the sentence in tones of anxiety, for no horses were visible. Bounding into the patch of bushes, on the edge of which they had passed the night, Lawrence ran through it hastily, followed by his man, who had shaken off lethargy in a moment. The patch was small. Moreover, the shrubs were barely tall enough to conceal a horse. In five minutes it became quite certain that the horses were not there. From the highest point of the rising ground they had a clear view of the plains all round, but after the keenest scrutiny not a speck resembling a horse was to be seen. The searchers looked at each other in dismay. "Lost! and our horses gone!" said Lawrence, in a voice which excess of alarm had reduced to a sort of low, hoarse whisper. "Most awrful!" murmured Quashy. Lawrence cleared his throat and paused, while his sympathetic servant gazed. "Now, Quashy," he said, "it seems to me quite impossible that our animals could have strayed in a few hours quite out of such an enormous circle of vision. They _must_ be somewhere about, though we can't see them." "Yes, massa, dey _must_ be somewhar, as you say." "Well, then, it follows that they must be concealed in one of the few clumps of bushes that lie around us. So we must search these instantly, for our only hope lies in finding the horses." "Das so, massa." Even our negro's elastic spirit seemed to be subdued to some extent by the prospect before them; for, apart from the fact that the bushy islets in the grassy sea were scarcely high enough to entirely conceal so large an object as a horse, they were scattered about at such immense distances from each other that a complete search of them implied toilsome labour for at least the whole of that day. Lawrence felt, however, that it had to be done, and arranged that his man should search towards the east, while he should take the west. To prevent the risk of their losing the mound on which they stood, one of their ponchos was thrown over the top of the highest bush and fixed there as a signal. So eager were they to begin, that both started off without a thought of breakfast. It is not necessary to follow the steps of each. In regard to Lawrence, it may suffice to say that he wandered during the whole of that sultry day over the boundless plain, wearily but persistently examining the few bush-islets that lay to the west of their bivouac without finding a trace of the lost steeds. As the sun began to decline towards the east he gave up in despair, and, with weary limbs and something like wolfish hunger, returned towards the rendezvous. Very different had been the experience of his sable servant. Starting off, as we have said, at the same time with his master, Quashy found the two horses, after a two hours' search, quietly grazing in a grassy hollow. A low shrub-covered mound lying close to this hollow intervened between it and the spot where our adventurers had spent the night, thus effectually concealing the lost steeds from view. The instant Quashy made the discovery he ran to the nearest elevation on the plain with the intention of shouting the news to his master, but by that time Lawrence was two or three miles away on the other side of the bivouac, quite beyond the range of sight and hearing. Quashy, therefore, ran back to the hollow with the intention of catching the horses, mounting his own, and driving the other before him to the camp. And now began that interesting but somewhat exhausting and heart-breaking process which may be styled coquetting with a free horse. Full of glad enthusiasm, the negro ran towards his own steed, holding out his right hand, and exclaiming, "Come along, Ole Scrubby." He had named the horse Ole Scrubby owing to some sort of facetious perversity of his own temperament, for the horse, instead of being "ole," was quite young, and, far from being scrubby, it was a remarkably fine animal. "Come now, Ole Scrubby," repeated the man, "we's got no time to waste. D'ee hear?" Evidently it heard, for, after allowing its master to advance within three feet of it, and even putting out its nose to smell his black hand, it gave a snort, turned round, tossed up its heels, and trotted away. Stopping short suddenly it turned again and looked at its master with a high head, as if to say, "There! what think you of that?" "You ole scoundril," growled the negro, with an injured look, "di'n't I say we's got no time to waste? eh! Come, now. Das enuff o' your fun." He had again approached to within three feet or so, and again the playful steed had protruded its nose and even touched his hand, but before that hand could grasp the halter, tail and heels were in the air, and away it went a second time. Indignation, intensified to the uttermost, sat on Quashy's countenance. "Scrubs," he said, solemnly--modifying the name a little, as he became more serious--"you nebber doo'd dat before! Come, sar, you 'bey orders, an' stan' still." But the horse refused to obey orders, and declined to stand still. His master began to lose temper--if we may so speak of one who only became a little less amiable than usual. Under the influence of the condition, however, whatever it was, he became unjust, and began to call his horse names. "What! you _not_ 'bey orders? you ole screw--you unnat'ral villin--you obs'nit lump o' hoss-flesh! Stan' still, I say!" Need we say that the horse refused to stand still? Again, and again, and over again, the negro tried to lay hands on the animal, and as often did he fail. Quashy, however, was not to be easily beaten. His was a resolute and persevering nature; but the misfortune on that occasion was that he had to do with a creature possessed of greater resolution and perseverance than himself. He spent hours over the effort. He coaxed the horse. He wheedled it. He remonstrated with and reproved it. He tried the effect of the most endearing entreaties, and assurances of personal esteem. Losing--no, becoming less amiable, he flew round to the other extreme, and accused it of ingratitude, indefensible even in an ass. Then he sought to bribe it with offers of free forgiveness. After that he tried to frighten it with threats of the most painful and every way horrible consequences; but whatever effect all these varied influences might have had upon the horse's mind, the one unvarying effect on its body was to send its tail and heels towards the sky, while it neighed joyously and trotted around. Poor Quashy went up to it smilingly--after that, frowningly; he cringed towards it; he advanced straightforwardly; he sidled slily; he ran at it; he rushed at it; he bounced at it; he yelled at it; he groaned at it; he perspired after it; he went nearly mad over it, and, finally, he sat down before it, and glared in deadly silence in its innocent face! Then the unfortunate man, having spent a very considerable part of the day thus, bethought him of trying to catch the other horse, but with it he was also unsuccessful--indeed, the failure was even more emphatic, for Lawrence's steed refused to let him come within even hopeful distance of it. At last, in the profoundest state of despair to which he was ever known to have sunk, he returned to camp. Lawrence had got there before him, saw him coming, and advanced to meet him. "Well, Quashy, I have failed," he said, with a sigh. "So's I," returned Quashy, with a growl. "This losing of our horses," remarked Lawrence, "is the worst that could have befallen us." "No, massa," said the negro, with more of sulkiness--or less of amiability--than he had exhibited since they first met on the western side of the Andes, "breakin' our legs would be wuss--smashin' our necks would be wusser still. But de hosses is _not_ lost. Dey's on'y spunkerblued." "How? What d'you mean?" "Dey's down dar," returned the negro, pointing with his finger, "down in dat holler--spunkerblued." "Not killed, I hope," asked Lawrence, anxiously. "Oh no, massa, on'y spunkerblued--stuffed to de muzzle wid deir own self-will." Lawrence received this explanation with a light laugh. "Come," he said, quickly, "lead the way, Quash, and I'll show you how to get them out of the spunkerblues." Comforted and reassured by his master's hearty tone and manner, the negro led the way to the spot where he had spent such a busy day. Now, we do not know whether we have made it obvious to the reader that Lawrence Armstrong's kindliness of nature embraced not only the human race but the whole animal kingdom. At all events it is true that wherever he came in contact with the lower animals he managed by some species of fascination to gain their affections. The mode of fascination began, no doubt, with their stomachs, but this does not alter the fact. Among other creatures Lawrence had gained the affections of Quashy's steed, and also of Manuela's and Pedro's horses, as well as his own, by means of sugar. With this simple appliance he went into the hollow, and held out his hand. "Come, Ole Scrubby," he cried, using Quashy's words. With a cheerful neigh the rebellious one trotted up, received the sugar, and suffered himself to be led once more into servitude. "Even among the brutes, Quash," he remarked, as he patted the nose of his own steed, "we are meant to `overcome evil with good.' Come, we must spend another night here, for it is too late to start off now; besides, I am tired out, and starving." "Massa," returned Quashy, as they mounted, "I's done up to dat extent, an' _so_ hungry, I could sleep on prickly pears, an' heat my wittles raw." In this condition of body and mind they galloped back to camp, and took particular care that the horses should not again stray. Next morning, after breakfasting on the remains of their food, they mounted, and, taking the sun as their guide, headed away eastward at full gallop. Silently and steadily for two hours or more they swept along over the Pampas waves, turning aside only a little once or twice to avoid ground that had been riddled and rendered unsafe by the biscachos. As noon approached Quashy gave a shout, and pointed to the horizon ahead of them, where living objects of some kind were seen moving along. "Ostriches," said Lawrence. "Dey's a noo kind ob ostriches wid four legs," returned the negro, "an' wid peepil on deir backs." "I believe you are right. A party of mounted men, apparently. Come, this is well. Whoever they are we shall at least be able to gather some information from them, and, at the worst, we can follow them to some inhabited spot." "True, massa, an' if dey's rubbers we kin fight dem." On drawing near they found that the riders belonged to a family of Gauchos. There were six of them--all fine-looking fellows, clad in the graceful, though ragged costume of the Pampas. One of their number was a little boy of about five years of age, who rode his horse with all the elegance and ease of a Spanish grandee, though only about the size of a large monkey. They turned out to be honest and friendly men, who said that they were returning home after assisting in a successful chase after Indians. Had they been assisted by troops in the chase, Lawrence asked, eagerly. Yes, they had--troops under a tall, white-haired colonel, and the captives had been rescued, the savages scattered, and the soldiers had gone off in the direction of Buenos Ayres. "So, Quashy, they've managed the job without our assistance," said Lawrence, on hearing this. "Now we must spur after the troops as hard as our steeds can go." On this being stated to the leading Gaucho he shook his head, and advised the senhor to go to their hut for the night. It was only a little way out of the line of march; there the travellers could feed and rest well, and start refreshed in the morning. Besides, a storm was coming on which would prevent all travelling for some hours. As he spoke he pointed to a part of the sky which had become dark with clouds, and, without further remark, galloped away, followed by his companions. Lawrence deemed it wise in the circumstances to accept the invitation. The day had been very sultry, and if our travellers had not been ignorant of the signs of the Pampas they might have known that the day was heavy with the presage of storm. Before the Gaucho home, to which they were hastening, appeared on the horizon, the whole sky had become overclouded and vivid forked lightning began to play. From the way in which the Gauchos spurred and the horses trembled it was clear that they feared being caught in the storm; and little wonder, for both men and beasts are filled with alarm when overtaken on the unsheltered Pampas by one of these terrific tempests. The blast, sweeping unchecked over hundreds of miles of wilderness, often acquires a force that drives all before it. Sometimes great herds of cattle have been driven bellowing before the gale, tumbling over each other in wild confusion till some swollen river has checked their flight and ended their career. Race, and spur, and shout as they might, however, the storm was too quick for them on this occasion. The wind seemed to rush down upon them with evil intent and fury, changing the temperature from sultry heat to sudden and bitter cold. Dust, too, was stirred up, and swept along so thickly that the day became as dark as night. Then the rain burst upon them like a waterspout, and, mingling with the flying dust overhead, came down in the form of mud, mixed with flying sticks and stones, and grass, and prickly thistle-heads. So fierce was the hurly-burly that it seemed as if man and horse must perish under it. Thunder also cracked and roared in terrific peals, while ever and anon the lightning flashed like gleaming steel through the darkness. In the midst of this elemental war the party reached the Gaucho huts. What they were like Lawrence could not tell. He had galloped like the rest wildly along, with his face buried in his poncho, and saw nothing-- save once or twice, when, raising his head slightly and opening one eye, he saw, or fancied he saw, the Gauchos, like dark phantoms, flying before him, and Quashy at his side, bending flat on his horse's neck. The stout negro seemed to care nothing for his body so long as his face was safe, for he had let his poncho go, and as it was fastened only at the neck, it flapped wildly above his head. Presently they passed through an opening in what seemed a mud wall. Then they stopped so suddenly that Lawrence almost went over his steed's head, while his man effectually did so, and, throwing a complete somersault, alighted by good fortune on his feet. They all tumbled promiscuously into a mud hut, and then, clearing their eyes, found that the Gaucho-leader and a woman, apparently his wife, were smiling welcome beside them; that the short-lived storm was already passing away, after having done its worst, and that they were drenched to the skin as well as covered with mud and thistle-heads from top to toe. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. BEGINS WITH GAUCHO HOMES AND DOMESTIC CONCERNS; CONTINUES WITH TWO FIGHTS, AND ENDS WITH A FRIEND AND A "PUZZLER." That a hard ride and a thorough soaking do not interfere much with the comfort of the young and healthy was proved that night in the Gaucho camp by the intense devotion paid by Lawrence and Quashy to the ample supper set before them, and by the profundity of their slumbers thereafter. True, the supper was not luxurious. It consisted of only one dish,-- roasted mare's flesh--and one beverage,--water; but, happily, the tastes of our adventurers were simple. The Gaucho hut in which they had found shelter was a very humble dwelling built of mud. It contained only one room, in which the whole family resided. Like other Gaucho huts--which are nearly all alike--it was covered with long yellow grass, and bore so strong a resemblance to the surrounding country, that, at a little distance, it might easily have been mistaken for a hillock. The kitchen of the establishment was a detached shed a few yards off. After sunset the hut was lighted by a feeble lamp, made of bullock's tallow, which brought into strong relief the bridles, spurs, bolas, and lassos which hung from bone pegs on the walls. Other objects of interest were revealed by the primitive lamp. In one corner a large dog lay sleeping. A naked negro child--a sort of ebony cupid--lay asleep beside it, with its little head pillowed on the dog's haunch. In another corner a hen was sitting on eggs, while its companions, guarded by a noble cock, roosted on one of the rafters, and several children, of ages ranging from four to sixteen, were seated or standing about awaiting supper. Last, but not least in importance, a Gaucho infant hung suspended from the rafters in a primitive cradle of bullock's skin, the corners of which were drawn together by four strips of hide. The place would have been insufferably close but for the fortunate circumstance that a number of holes in the dilapidated roof allowed free ventilation. They also allowed free entrance of rain in bad weather, but--Gauchos are not particular! Although indifferent as to appearances, those Gauchos of the Pampas-- many of whom are descendants of the "best" old families in Spain--retain much of the manners of their forefathers, being hospitable and polite not only to strangers but to each other. When supper was ready the great iron spit on which the beef had been roasted was brought in, and the point of it stuck into the dried mud floor. The master of the hut then stepped forward with the air of a hidalgo and offered Lawrence the skeleton of a horse's head to sit upon. Quashy having been provided with a similar seat, the whole household drew in their horse-heads, circled round the spit, and, drawing their long knives, began supper. They meant business. Hunger was the sauce. Water washed the viands down. There was little conversation, for large mouthfuls were the order of the evening. Lawrence and his man acquitted themselves creditably, and supper did not terminate till the roast was gone. Then they all spread their beds on the floor and retired for the night. Each covered his or her head with a poncho, or other garment-- nothing of the sleepers being left visible save their bare feet--after which silence reigned around. In summer, abodes of this kind are so animated with insect life that the inhabitants usually prefer to sleep on the ground in front of their dwellings, but in the present case the recent storm had rendered this luxury for the time impossible. Little cared Lawrence and his man for that. Where they lay down to repose, there they remained without motion till daylight. Then the magnificent cock overhead raised his voice, and proclaimed the advent of a new day. Quashy sat up, split his face across, displayed his internal throat, and rubbed his eyes. Immediately the cock descended on his woolly head, flapped its wings, and crowed again. The people began to stir, and Lawrence went out with Quashy to saddle their horses, being anxious to follow in the trail of the troops without delay. A prolonged search convinced them that their horses had either strayed or been stolen, for they were nowhere to be found. Returning to the hut, they observed that the Gauchos were exceedingly busy round their corral, or enclosure for cattle. "What can they be about?" said Lawrence, as they drew near. "Killin' pigs, I t'ink." "I think not; there seems too much excitement for that." There certainly was a considerable noise of piggish voices, and the Gauchos were galloping about in an unaccountable manner, but, as is usually the case, a little investigation explained the seemingly unaccountable. The men were engaged in driving some cattle into the enclosure, and as these were more than half wild and self-willed, the process entailed much energy of limb and noise. As to the porcine yells, the whole of the almost superhuman skirling arose from one little pig, which the ebony cupid before mentioned had lassoed by the hind leg. Gaucho children--after being delivered from the cradle before described, and after passing through the crawling period of infancy and attaining to the dignity of the stagger--begin to copy their seniors. With lassos and bolas made of twine, they practise on little birds, or on the dogs and fowls of home. Our ebony cupid, though not indeed a Gaucho, but a negro infant, partook of the Gaucho spirit, and, although little more than four years of age, had succeeded in catching his first pig. Violence seemed to have reached a white heat in the heart of that little pig! Besides giving vent to intensified shrieking, it dragged its captor along, in a state of blazing triumph, until it overturned him, snapped the twine, and got away. But cupid was not to be balked of his prey. With a staggering rush to where several horses were standing ready bridled, he caught hold of the tail of a meek-looking animal, and scrambled by means of that appendage on to its back. Seizing the bridle, he uttered a wild though tiny shout, and dashed away after the fugitive. Whether he recaptured it or not Lawrence never found out, for at that moment a subject of greater interest claimed his attention. Besides the hut in which they had spent the night, there were several other huts near the corral, and Lawrence now perceived that the place was a sort of hamlet, surrounded by a small ditch by way of defence. While our hero was glancing round him he observed that Quashy stopped suddenly, and gazed at something in front of him as if transfixed with a surprise which threw quite into the shade all his previous expressions of astonishment, and convinced his master that he had not yet fathomed half the depth of meaning that could be thrown into that sable countenance. Quashy bent slightly forward, extended his arms, spread out his ten fingers, opened his mouth, and tried to speak. "S-S-Soo--!" he began, and gasped. "S-Soo--Sooz'n!" he shouted. Yes, there she stood, in the doorway of a hut, as black as life, and with a glare of joyful surprise that was only surpassed by that of her admirer. A moment later they recovered. They rushed into each other's arms, and their lips met. Pistols and carbines! what a smack it was! In his joy Quashy lifted Susan fairly off her feet and danced with her until he was exhausted, then he set her down and danced round her. Susan had recovered her composure by that time. Whether Quashy's mode of treatment is characteristic of negroes of the Pampas we do not pretend to say, but the girl stood there with a modestly pleased expression of face, while Quashy continued to dance round her. Susan's modesty and blackness were alike set off by her costume, which consisted of a short white frock, while her simple adornments were a pair of gold ear-rings and a necklace of red coral. Alas for the fleeting nature of human joys! While Quashy was thus evincing his delight at the unexpected recovery of his betrothed, a wild shouting was heard, and several horsemen were seen flying over the plains towards the huts at a speed and with an action that betokened them the bearers of important news. They proved to be men of the village who had encountered a large band of Indians on their way to attack the place. Instantly all the men of the hamlet, amounting perhaps to about fifty, prepared for defence, placing the women and children in the huts for safety. Of course Lawrence and his man would have volunteered their services even if self-defence had not required that line of conduct. We have said that the hamlet was surrounded by a shallow ditch. This was backed by a hedge of prickly pears. Behind the hedge the men dispersed themselves, armed with several rusty flint-lock guns, some old swords, a few Indian spears, and other less warlike weapons. Lawrence and Quashy took up a position at the entrance to the little fortress, the opening of which was blocked by cactus-bushes. Their host of the previous night stood beside them. Light though such defences seemed, they were more effective than might have been supposed, for Indian horses as a rule will not leap even a shallow ditch, and cannot be made to burst through prickly pears, though, doubtless, there may be some exceptions. The defenders had not long to wait. Their preparations were barely completed when horsemen were descried on the horizon, and in a very brief space of time a band of above a hundred naked savages came thundering down on them, uttering terrific screams or yells, and brandishing long spears. They rode straight towards the opening in the defences. The chief Gaucho was evidently a man of courage, for although he knew well that capture meant death--perhaps with torture--he stood firm without blanching, his eyes fixed sternly on the approaching foe, and his strong hands grasping the stock of a rusty old musket, the very look of which might have caused anxiety to its handler. "Now Quash," whispered Lawrence, "don't fire till I do--and keep cool." "Yes, massa. I's cool as a lump o' hice." The savage who led the assailants was a tall, powerful fellow on a splendid horse. When within about sixty yards of the defences he levelled his spear and made a tremendous rush as if resolved to bear down all obstacles. The Gaucho chief--if we may so style him--presented his musket and pulled the trigger. It missed fire! "I'll try him with shot first," remarked Lawrence to Quashy, presenting his double-barrelled gun. At the distance of fifty yards or so the shot, when it entered the savage leader, was well scattered, so that horse and man were peppered all over. The latter dropped his lance and almost fell off, while the former, getting on its hind-legs, executed a pirouette which brought its tail to the rear and sent it charging wildly back upon its friends. The second in command, receiving the other barrel, at even shorter range, went through the same performance with greater impetuosity. At the same moment the old musket was prevailed on to go off, and Quashy delivered four pistol-shots in quick succession, with the result that several men and horses were wounded, and the entire body of Indians turned and fled in a state of frenzied surprise. They soon pulled up, however, and held a momentary consultation out of range. Then, being bold fellows, they charged again, but this time in two bands, one of which attacked the place in rear. As before, the band which attacked the front was vigorously repelled, but in rear the defenders were less successful. How it was managed Lawrence never found out, but he had barely succeeded in driving off the foe in front, and was congratulating Quashy on his coolness, when he found himself suddenly surrounded by yelling savages. The Gaucho chief made a desperate fight towards his own hut, which he gained and entered in safety. Lawrence and Quashy tried to follow, but were too much pressed by numbers. Back to back they fought, and Quashy used his sword with such agility and vigour that in a few seconds he sent several Indians bleeding to the rear. Lawrence, despising the weapons of civilised warfare, held his now empty gun in his left hand, using it as a sort of shield, and brandished his favourite cudgel with such effect that he quickly strewed the ground around him with crown-cracked men. Unfortunately a stone struck him on the temple, and he fell. Thus left unsupported, Quashy, after slicing the nose half off a too ardent savage, was struck from behind, and also fell. When our hero recovered consciousness, he found himself lying on the ground, afflicted with a strange inability to move hand or foot, and conscious, chiefly, of a splitting headache. Presently a voice beside him whispered-- "Is you bery bad, massa?" Lawrence turned his head with great difficulty and beheld his faithful follower lying like himself on the ground, firmly bound to a stout spar or pole. His own inability to move was at once explained, for he soon perceived that he was in the same bound condition. "D'you know what has happened, Quashy?" "Ho yes, massa. De reptiles has took de place, an' tied you an' me to sticks. What for I don' know, but I s'pose dey means to skin us alive, or roast us, p'r'aps, to 'muse deir women an' child'n." "More likely that they hope to have us ransomed," returned Lawrence, with a shudder. "What's ramsumd, massa?" "Try to get our friends to give them money for us. Have they killed many of the men--or got hold of the women and children?" asked Lawrence, anxiously. "Yes, dey's kill a few ob de men, but not many, for some hab got into de huts, an' some into de corral, an' dey'll fight to de last. De savages am holdin' a palaver jist now--see, dey's agwine to begin again. Screw your head roun' to de right an' you see." Lawrence obeyed, and saw the savages assembled on a knoll. After driving the defenders into the huts, they had held a brief consultation, and seemed on the eve of renewing the attack. Filled with deep anxiety for the fate of the poor women and children, our hero made a desperate struggle to snap his bonds. "No use, massa," remarked Quashy. "I's tried dat till I nearly bu'sted. Better lie still. P'r'aps dey forgit us." Lawrence groaned. He felt so helpless, and consequently hopeless, that he almost gave way to despair. The spot where they had been flung down after their capture was so covered with rank grass that they could not see far in any direction. What they did see, however, aroused curiosity, if it did not inspire hope, for the savages seemed suddenly to have changed their plans. They were talking excitedly together on the knoll, and pointing eagerly towards the horizon. "Das funny, massa," remarked the negro. "It is indeed. Perhaps they see some of their friends coming." "Or inimies," suggested Quashy. The latter was right. In a few minutes the Indians were seen to run down to the defences of the place. Our unfortunates lost sight of them in a few seconds, but they could hear the sound of horsemen approaching at full gallop. In a few minutes they heard shouting; then the yells, fearful cries, and imprecations of men in mortal combat. Soon after that a savage passed the place where they lay, at full speed. Then another and another. It became quickly evident that the defenders of the place were getting the worst of it. At last there was a general flight, and as the savages passed by, the new assailants appeared. It was easy to see that they were composed of all classes, a band of runaway soldiers and escaped convicts. "Banditti!" exclaimed Lawrence, bitterly. "Dey've got pris'ners. Look, massa." Our poor hero looked, and his hearts nearly stood still with horror, for he saw a horseman pass whose figure was strangely like to that of Colonel Marchbanks. His arms were bound, and a villainous-looking man led his horse. Immediately after another bandit-like fellow rode past with a female form seated in front of him. Of course it could be no other than Manuela, and in the agony of the moment Lawrence was about to renew his frantic effort to burst his bonds, when a man on foot ran close past him. Recognising him at once, Lawrence shouted-- "Ignacio!" The old hunter, for it was he, stopped abruptly, and listened. Another shout brought him to the side of our hero. "Good luck!" exclaimed Ignacio, heartily. "We have been bound by the scoundrels you are chasing," cried Lawrence, quickly; "cut us free, good Ignacio." The hunter drew his long knife and knelt with the apparent intention of releasing them, but suddenly paused. "No--better as you are," he muttered, hurriedly, "your friends are in danger--" "I know it," interrupted Lawrence, almost wild with anxiety and surprise; "why not, then, release us?" "There is no time to explain," said Ignacio, quickly, almost fiercely. "Listen. I and others are secret enemies in this band of outlaws. When you are free be silent, be wise. You will need all your manhood. You must not know me--be silent--wise, but--" The old hunter leaped up hastily, sheathed his knife and ran on, for at the moment he saw a group of the bandits running towards him. Diverging a little and hailing them, he drew them away from the spot where Lawrence and his man still lay bound. "Das a puzzler, massa," gasped Quashy, who had been rendered almost speechless by surprise, "if de bu'stin'-power what's in my heart just now would on'y go into my muscles, I'd snap dem ropes like Samson." As the bursting-power referred to declined to go into the muscles of either master or man, they were fain to lie still with as much patience as they could assume, and await the course of events. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. IN WHICH OLD FRIENDS AND ENEMIES TURN UP IN QUITE A SURPRISING MANNER, AND QUASHY'S JOY OVERFLOWS. They had not to wait long. A few minutes later and old Ignacio returned with several men, one of whom, from his manner and bearing, appeared to be a chief among the outlaws. "Who are you, and who bound you?" asked this chief, with a stern look. Answering in his best Spanish, Lawrence explained how he fell into the hands of the savages. The chief did not speak for a few seconds, but looked inquiringly at Ignacio. "It won't do to make more prisoners, you know," said the old hunter, replying to the look; "we have too many on our hands as it is. The troops are already on our track, and you may be sure they won't lose time. Besides, these men are unknown, and won't fetch a ransom." "What would you advise, then?" "Cut their throats," suggested Ignacio, coolly. "You old fool!" returned the outlaw, "what good would that do? Isn't it clear that these men are the enemies of the savages, and we want such to join us." "Ay," returned Ignacio, "but they may be friends of the troops, and you don't want _such_ to join _us_." "There's truth in that, old man. Well, we'll just let them lie. They're safe enough, as they are, not to do either good or evil. As you say, it is of no use burdening ourselves with prisoners who won't fetch a ransom. The colonel and his women will fetch a good price, but these--nothing. I suppose that is why Cruz has ordered Conrad to be shot before we leave the place." "Why, I thought," said Ignacio, with a look of surprise, "that Conrad of the Mountains was an outlaw like yourselves." "Not he. He's a spy, and he'll meet a spy's doom, if he has not met it already." "Come--I'll go and see this Conrad," said Ignacio, "I should like to see a spy get his deserts." He turned quickly and hurried away, followed by the outlaw. "Most awrful!" groaned Quashy, when they were gone. "Awful indeed, to think that Manuela and her father are in the hands of such villains!" returned Lawrence. "An' Sooz'n," said Quashy, with a deeper groan. "But, massa, what's come ober de ole hunter? He not in arnest, ob course." "Of course not," replied Lawrence, "that is our one ray of hope now. He is only acting a part. He will assuredly help us, and means us to help _him_, but he takes a strange way to do it." He ceased to speak, for at that moment a man was seen approaching. He moved about like one who was searching for something. At last he caught sight of the bound men, and ran towards them, drawing his knife as he did so. For one instant a feeling of horror shot through the hearts of Lawrence and Quashy, but next moment they were relieved, for they recognised in the approaching man the features of their old acquaintance of the Andes, the robber Antonio. "I come to pay my debt," he said, going down on one knee, and severing the cords which bound Lawrence, who heartily showered on him all the Spanish terms for thanks and gratitude that he could recall. Of course Quashy was also set free, and was equally profuse in his grateful expressions, but Antonio cut them both short. "Come, we must be quick," he said, and hurried away. As they crossed the spot where the recent fight with the Indians had taken place, Quashy picked up one of the spears which lay on the ground, and Lawrence, to his great satisfaction, discovered his favourite cudgel lying where he had been knocked down. He picked it up, almost affectionately, and hurried on. Antonio was in evident haste. Leading them through the hamlet, he went towards the corral, where, it could be seen, a party of the bandits were standing as if in wait. Suddenly they heard a noise behind them, and observed a party of men with muskets on their shoulders surrounding a prisoner. Antonio drew his companions into the shelter of a bush till they should pass. "It is Conrad of the Mountains," he whispered, while a fierce expression lighted up his eyes. "They go to shoot him. He _must_ not die!" As what seemed to be the firing-party advanced, followed by a straggling group of ruffians, Lawrence looked with profound interest and pity towards one of whom he had heard so much. The prisoner's head hung down as he approached the bush, but on passing it he looked up. The sight of his face sent a shock of surprise and consternation to the hearts of Lawrence and Quashy, for the doomed man was no other than their friend Pedro! Lawrence turned quickly to Antonio. "Conrad?" he asked, pointing to Pedro. "Si, senhor," replied the outlaw. When the procession had passed, Lawrence stepped from behind the bush, and quietly joined it without being recognised by Pedro. He had not at that moment the most remote idea of what he intended to do; but one feeling was powerfully dominant in his breast--namely, that Pedro must be saved at all hazards. Of course Quashy and Antonio followed him. The sudden appearance of the two strangers did not cause much surprise among the band who followed the prisoner, for, besides their being in the company of one whom they knew, the men who had been gathered together by Cruz on this occasion were not all known to each other. What they knew for certain was, that the country was up in arms because of some political convulsion, and that Cruz was a great leader, who knew how to make the most of such circumstances for the benefit of himself and his followers. In a state of feverish anxiety, but with a calm outward appearance, Lawrence marched on, quite incapable of forming any plan of rescue, but not incapable of prayer, or of forming a resolve to do _something_, though he should die in the attempt. On reaching the corral, he saw Cruz, and recognised him at once. The bandit chief was obviously in haste, for he at once ordered Conrad--or, as we still prefer to call him, Pedro--to be placed with his back against the corral, and the firing-party to draw up in front of him at about twenty yards distance. Pedro offered no resistance while being led towards the mud wall of the corral. There was neither bravado nor fear in his bearing. Evidently he had made up his mind to die like a Christian, and had given up all hope of deliverance from the foes by whom he was surrounded. But friends were near whom he little dreamed of. Having up to that point kept his eyes on the ground, he had not observed Lawrence; and the first intimation he had of his presence was on hearing his voice as he stepped forward, placed his tall and stalwart frame in front of him, and said sternly to the firing-party-- "Villains! you will have to send your bullets through _my_ breast before they harm Conrad!" "Yes, an' troo dis buzzum too," cried Quashy, planting himself in front of Lawrence, and glaring defiance in his own peculiar and powerful manner. "What! two more enemies?" exclaimed Cruz, with a look of pleased surprise and triumph; "seize them, men; but no,--stay, we can as easily kill the three birds at one shot. Ready!" The firing-party cocked and raised their guns, but were suddenly arrested by seeing the wall of the enclosure behind Pedro lined, as if by magic, with human heads, all of which carefully levelled an equal number of muskets. At the same moment Antonio, Ignacio, Spotted Tiger, Colonel Marchbanks, and the sporting Englishman sprang to the front, and the old hunter, cutting Pedro's bonds, put a musket into his hands. "Traitor!" exclaimed Cruz, grinding his teeth with passion, as he scowled at Antonio. "Fool! do you not know," retorted Antonio, contemptuously, "that traitors are the offspring of tyrants? I acknowledge you as father in this respect. But I am not here to bandy words. Colonel Marchbanks will speak." "Yes, Cruz," said the old colonel, stepping a pace to the front, "I will speak, and that to the purpose. You see those men?" (pointing to the heads looking over the corral wall)--"ten of the best shots among them have their weapons pointed at your heart. If a single musket is fired by your blackguards, you know what the result will be." Bold as Cruz undoubtedly was, this speech of the colonel had an obviously quieting effect on him, as well as on his followers, who, however, being numerous, and not wanting in courage, stood ready to obey orders. "Now, I will tell you in few words what I have got to say," continued the colonel, addressing Cruz. "When you locked the villagers here in their own huts, you forgot, or did not know, that, being a tyrant as well as a scoundrel, you had enemies among your own followers. These have not only set us, your prisoners, free, but have done the same good turn to the villagers, who have been persuaded to join us against you. And now, as our numbers are pretty equal, we give you the option of going away quietly wherever you please, or, if you prefer it, having a fair fight. I may add that if I were backed by my troops, instead of these villagers, I would not give you this option; but as I have no official right to command these men, I now make you the proposal either to retire quietly or fight." "Aw--just so," said the sporting Englishman. "And let me add, as a sort of--aw--freelance that I and my friend here hope sincerely that you will choose to fight." "You's a brick!" exclaimed Quashy, with emphasis, regarding the sportsman for the first time with favour. Cruz hesitated. He was swayed by a burning thirst for vengeance and a prudent regard for his personal safety. By way of hastening his decision, Colonel Marchbanks added-- "It may be well to remind you that when you unfortunately succeeded in decoying me and my friends into your snares, and captured us, you did not leave my troops without officers. The gentleman now in command will not lose time in following us up, and he is aided by Gauchos who could trace you out though you were to hide your rascally head in the darkest retreats of the Andes. So, you'd better be off at once, or come on." "Aw--yes. If I might advise--come on!" suggested the sportsman. "Das so. Come on!" urged Quashy. But Cruz refused their well-meant advice. Regarding discretion as the better part of valour, and resolving, no doubt, to "fight another day," he elected to "be off." Collecting his men in sulky silence, he speedily rode away. "Sorry he's so chicken-hearted," said the sportsman, forgetting even to "aw" in his disappointment. "You ought rather to be glad of it," remarked Lawrence; "you forget that there are women and children behind us, and that our defeat would have ensured their destruction." "Oh no!" replied the Englishman, who had recovered his quiet nonchalance, "I did not forget the women and children--dear creatures!-- but I confess that the idea of our defeat had not occurred to me." Colonel Marchbanks did not give his opinion at the time, but his air and expression suggested that, fire-eater though he was, he by no means regretted the turn events had taken. Holding out his hand to Lawrence, in a condescending manner, he thanked him for the service he had just rendered. "You have quite a talent for turning up unexpectedly in the nick of time," he added, with a peculiar smile, as he turned and walked off towards the huts, around which the men who had sided with Antonio were by that time assembling. Among them Lawrence, to his ineffable joy, found Manuela and Mariquita. He was too wise, however, in the presence of the colonel to take any demonstrative notice of her. He merely shook hands with both ladies, and congratulated them on their escape from the banditti. "You have rendered us good service, senhor," said Mariquita, with a brilliant smile--a smile that was indeed more brilliant than there seemed any occasion for. "I--I have been very fortunate," stammered Lawrence, glancing at Manuela. But that princess of the Incas, with an aspect of imperturbable gravity, kept her pretty eyes on the ground, though the brown of her little cheeks seemed to deepen a trifle in colour. "Now, Antonio," cried the colonel, coming forward at the moment, "what do you intend to do? If my men were here, you know, I should be under the necessity of making you and your fellows prisoners, notwithstanding your good services to-day. As it is, those of us who stick together must be off without delay eastward. I suppose you will rather take to the mountains." "Indeed no, Colonel Marchbanks. I am willing to give myself up and to take service under you if that may be allowed. And if you will take my advice, comrades," added Antonio, turning to his companions, "you'll do the same, for depend on it no good can come of our late style of life." Antonio's comrades did not feel disposed to take his advice. Indeed they had only rebelled against their late captain because of his tyrannical nature, but were by no means desirous of changing their mode of life. Seeing this, the colonel accepted Antonio's offer and gave his comrades a few words of serious warning and advice, mingled with thanks for the service they had rendered him, after which the two parties separated and went on their respective ways, leaving the Gauchos to fortify their village more carefully, and get into a better state of readiness to resist the attacks alike of outlaws and Indians. Before leaving, however, Quashy had a noteworthy interview with Susan. It occurred at the time that Antonio and his men were holding the above conversation with the colonel. The negro lovers were affectionately seated on a horse-skull in one of the huts, regardless of all the world but themselves. "Sooz'n, my lub," said Quashy, "I's agwine to carry you off wid me." "Quashy, my b'lubbed, I expecs you is," replied Susan, simply, passing her black fingers through her lover's very curly locks. "O Sooz'n, _how_ I lubs you! I know'd I'd find you. I always said it. I always t'ought it, an' now I's dood it." "Das so," returned Susan, with a bashfully pleased look. "I always know'd it too. I says, if it's poss'ble for me to be found in _dis_ worl', Quashy's de man to found me." "'Zactly so!" said the gratified negro. "Now, Sooz'n, tell me. Is you free to go 'way wid me?" "Yes. I's kite free. I's bin kotched by rubbers an' rescued by Gauchos, an' stole by Injins, an' I's runned away an' found myself here, an' dey's bin good to me here, but dey don't seem to want me much--so I's kite free--but I's awrful heaby!" "What's dat got to do wid it?" inquired the lover, tying a knot of perplexity on his eyebrows. "Why, you an' me's too heaby for one hoss, you know, an' you said you hab on'y one." "Das true," returned Quashy, entangling the knot with another. "Well, nebber mind," said Susan, with a little nod of assurance. "I's put it all right. I'll stole one." "Sooz'n!" exclaimed her lover, with inexpressible solemnity, "you'll do nuffin ob de sort. I b'longs to a good man now, so I knows better dan dat. You mus' nebber steal no more--_nebber_. But I'll get massa to buy you a hoss. Das what I'll do." Quashy had scarcely given utterance to his intentions, when a shout from Lawrence summoned him. The party under Colonel Marchbanks was about to start on their journey eastward. The negro soon informed his master of his difficulty. As he had anticipated, it was removed at once. Horse-flesh is cheap on the Pampas. A lady's wardrobe--especially a black lady's--does not take long to pack in those regions. In less than half an hour a passable steed was purchased from the Gauchos, and Susan mounted thereon. Her little all, in a bundle, was strapped to her true-lover's saddle, and she fell into the cavalcade, which soon afterwards left the village and rode out upon the illimitable plains. It was not a large band, but it was composed of rare and strong materials. Our friend Pedro--alias Conrad of the Mountains--alias the Rover of the Andes--of course took the lead. Colonel Marchbanks, Manuela, and the fair Mariquita followed. Antonio, Spotted Tiger, the sportsman and his friend came next, and Lawrence with Quashy and Sooz'n brought up the rear. In this order they set off at full gallop over the roadless plains, diverging a little here and there as the nature of the ground required, but otherwise steering a straight line in the direction of the rising sun. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. DESCRIBES SEVERAL INTERESTING AND SOMEWHAT VIOLENT PROCEEDINGS. Over the flowering plains! Oh, there is something soul-stirring in a free, furious, prolonged gallop, where obstructions are few, where the land is almost level, and Nature reigns unfettered by the influence of man! No fences, no ditches, no ploughed lands, no enclosed estates, nothing to check even for a moment the grand onward sweep through illimitable space save the capacity of endurance in steed and rider. Of course it has its drawbacks, but we will not pause to meditate on these. Life has its drawbacks everywhere, and if we were to attempt an enumeration of them our tale would become unreasonably long, and also somewhat unprofitable. Perhaps it adds to the zest of life the fact that many of its incidents are of such a nature that we find it difficult to say whether they are drawbacks or advantages. For instance, the jovial garrulity of Quashy was a drawback at times. At other times it was a decided advantage, and his friends and companions held such interchangeable opinions on the point that they could not readily have expressed them if called on to do so at a moment's notice. A runaway tendency in a horse is considered by most people a disadvantage. Yet there are some people whose nerves and spirits are so constituted that they have a sneaking fondness for a horse of this disposition. Strange though it may seem, Manuela belonged to this class. It is said that men whose characters form a contrast are more likely to draw towards each other than those whose characters are similar. May the same principle not operate between man and the lower animals? Was it not the gentleness, tenderness, womanliness, softness of Manuela which caused her to dote upon and delight in her steed, though it was a huge, high stepping, arch-necked, rearing, plunging animal--something between an Irish hunter and a Mexican warhorse? The steed in question had been purchased for her by her father from the Gauchos, who assured him that the animal was a remarkably good one to go. They told the simple truth, but not the whole truth, for sometimes it would "go" with its hind-legs doing double service in the way of kicking, and, at other times, it balanced that feat by giving its fore-legs a prodigious flourish while in the act of rearing. To do the creature justice, however, it could and did go ahead of its companions on the journey, and retained that position without fatigue, as was evinced by the flashing eye, distended nostril, pawing and snorting with which it received every proposal to halt. Being a splendid rider, Manuela managed this spanking charger with infinite grace and ease, all the more that it happened to have a tender mouth, and only succeeded in getting beyond her control when it chanced to get the bit between its teeth. At first her father and the others were alarmed, and offered to change her steed for another; but she refused to change, and when they saw how fearlessly she rode, they became reconciled--all except Lawrence. "It is the fearlessness of innocence combined with ignorance," he muttered to himself one afternoon, as Manuela's horse, without apparent provocation, presented first its tail and then its nose to the sky. The Inca princess patted the playful creature approvingly, and induced it to adopt a bounding, indiarubber-like pace. In a few minutes this was reduced to a springy walk. Lawrence could not resist the temptation to ride forward and offer his own horse, although Colonel Marchbanks rode alongside of his daughter like an inflexible guardian. "You will find my horse much easier to manage, Miss Marchbanks," he said, "and quite as strong and fleet as your own." The colonel frowned, and his daughter said, "No, t'ank you, senhor," with a little bow and a brilliant smile. It was one of Manuela's little fancies to revert sometimes to the broken English peculiar to her colour and costume. This was not at all relished by Lawrence. It seemed to argue a want of earnestness, which was not at all in harmony with the tremendous depth of his love for her! He drew rein immediately and fell behind, but at that moment Manuela's horse put its foot in a biscacho-hole and stumbled. Evidently it had received a violent surprise, for, after having a second time presented its tail and nose alternately to the skies, it gave vent to an indignant snort, performed what seemed to be a pirouette on one leg, took the bit in its teeth, and bolted. Of course the colonel put spurs to his steed, and gave chase. Instantly Lawrence did the same. As a consequence Quashy followed, and, not wishing to be left behind, the whole cavalcade went after them at full speed. The thunder of numerous hoofs acted as a sharp spur to the wild runaway. At once it became a fair race, in which each gradually took his place according to ability. The course was clear--from the Andes to the Atlantic, almost, and horses and riders were fresh! In a remarkably short time the party straggled, and the line extended. Soon it became evident that the colonel, Lawrence, Pedro, and Quashy were the best mounted of the troop, for these four drew far ahead of all the others; yet the runaway kept its advantage, despite the utmost efforts of Manuela's fair little arms to check it. Gradually Pedro and the colonel were left behind. Despite the utmost application of voice and spur, Quashy also dropped to the rear, and the race lay at last between our hero and the Inca princess! Mile after mile was passed as they flew like the wind over the rolling plains, scarcely impeded at all by the Pampas grass, which was not long at that season, but at last they came to a ridge on which there was a line of low bushes. By that time, by dint of hard spurring, Lawrence had managed to get up almost alongside of the girl, whose look of gleeful excitement was now changed to one of wild anxiety. "Try to pull just a little harder!" cried Lawrence, "your horse won't be able to jump it." Manuela tried, but she had already put forth all her strength, and if that had been twice what it was, the effect on the powerful creature would probably have been just the same. As the danger drew nearer, Lawrence made desperate efforts to increase his speed. He was so far successful that when they finally came to the line of bushes, the horses were almost abreast of each other. Horses of the Pampas are not usually jumpers, but Manuela's horse must have had a touch of the hunter in him, for he rose to the leap, and went up like a rocket. Lawrence, on the other hand, went crashing through the obstruction like the shot of an eighty-ton gun! The leap evidently took more time than the crash, which was fortunate, for it enabled Lawrence to get well alongside at the moment the fore-feet of Manuela's horse touched the ground, and just as the poor girl herself, unused to leaping, fairly lost her balance as well as her presence of mind and fell backward half fainting. She would have fallen to the ground if Lawrence had not caught her round the waist, and dragged her to the pommel of his own saddle. It was one of those cases of rescue which men are apt--perhaps justifiably so--to style providential, for no planning or judgment or energy on the part of Lawrence could have arranged that Manuela should have been at the apex of her leap when her powers failed, so that she should fall from that height, as it were, almost into his arms! A few bounds more and they were safe. As if it had understood this, and felt that further effort was needless, the runaway steed stopped abruptly, and, after looking round in unreasonable surprise, began quietly to crop the herbage at its feet. One by one the rest of the party came up, full of congratulations. "You dood dat well, massa," said Quashy, who was the first to arrive, grinning all over; "and dat _was_ a bu'ster," he added, surveying the gap in the bush through which Lawrence had crashed. "Please set me down before the others come up!" whispered Manuela, who, having, as we have said, half fainted, had allowed her head to fall on her rescuer's shoulder. Lawrence wished that circumstances might have admitted of his continuing the journey as they were then situated, but propriety required him to say-- "Here, Quash,--lend a hand." The negro vaulted to the ground, and received Manuela into his arms just as Pedro and the colonel galloped up. "Thank you, Senhor Armstrong, thank you heartily," said the latter, as he dismounted, and, sitting down on a mound, drew his child to his side. "I'm not hurt, not a bit," sighed Manuela, with a slight attempt at a smile. "Thank God for that, but you are shaken a little," returned the old soldier with an anxious look. "Here Pedro, Quashy, fetch me the flask from my saddle." By the time a cup of the flask's contents was administered to Manuela, Mariquita and Susan were kneeling beside her, and the rest were standing round. "A splendid leap!--aw--couldn't have been much better done if--aw--it had been an English hunter," remarked the sportsman in an undertone to his friend. "But, I say, don't it strike you that the colonel is uncommonly--aw--sweet on that little Indian girl." "She's no more an Indian girl than you are," replied his friend, with a laugh. "Aw--you don't say so?" returned the sportsman, with a slight elevation of his eyebrows. "Let us go," said Manuela, rising; "I am much better, only a little shaken by such a leap. But--but I should like another--" "Yes, to be sure, another horse," interrupted the colonel; "who will exchange?--a quiet one, of course." "Here you is, kurnel," said Quashy, with a beaming countenance, as he led forward his horse. "Quiet as a lamb, 'cept when you aggrawates him. Nebber goes no faster dan you wants him to,--sometimes not so fast! an' wouldn't run away even if you was to ax him on your knees." "After such recommendation," said the colonel, turning to Manuela, "I suppose you will accept of this steed." The Inca princess accepted it with a beam of gratitude to Quashy, who thereupon mounted the runaway horse, and in a few minutes the whole cavalcade was sweeping over the plain as swiftly as ever. Afternoon brought them to a solitary Gaucho hut. They came first upon the corral rather suddenly, for it was concealed in a hollow. It was an enclosure of strong rough posts stuck into the ground, on many of which were perched a number of gorged vultures and hawks. The ground around it was covered with bones, bullocks' horns, wool, carcasses of horses, and other refuse, which induced the travellers to keep carefully to windward of it. On a slight rising ground, close at hand, stood the mud hut of the family to which it belonged. Although living in a state little short of savagery, this family, being descended from one of the best old families of Spain--at least, so they believed--maintained much of the dignity, good manners, and ceremony that characterised the old Spaniards. It comprised several generations, of whom a great-great-grandfather, blind, deaf, and benignant, formed the head, and a baby, fat, wide awake, and uproarious, formed the tail. Between these there was a band of men, women, girls, and boys, whom we will not even attempt to describe, further than to say that they were all black-eyed, sunburnt, and more or less pretty and handsome. The travellers rode up to the door of the mud mansion, and, according to Pampas etiquette, awaited permission to dismount. This was quickly given with much urbanity by a handsome middle-aged man, who was the active head of the household. The intention of Colonel Marchbanks was to take a hasty meal here, and push on as far as possible before night. Finding that the Gauchos were engaged at that time in breaking in some young horses, he ordered his party to off-saddle, and went with Pedro, Lawrence, and some others towards the corral while food was being prepared. Quashy--ever mindful of the welfare of others, and ever thoughtful in regard to what he esteemed the most important things of life--hung behind to advise a daughter of the house to prepare a specially tender fowl for Susan, Manuela, and Mariquita. He even remained a few minutes to receive from the damsel a lesson in cookery. This daughter of the Pampas whispered something to a very small brother beside her, who was remarkable chiefly for the size of his gorgeous eyes and the scantiness of his costume. With ready obedience the urchin unhooked a miniature lasso from the wall, and lassoed a large hen. How the brother and sister executed that hen was not obvious. It was, however, quickly and effectively done between them. Then the sister took the bird to a pot of water, which chanced to be boiling at the time, and put it therein, feathers and all. To civilised people this might have seemed rather a savage process, but it was not so. The object was merely to simplify the plucking. After scalding, the feathers came off with wonderful facility, and also stuck to the girl's wet hands with equally wonderful tenacity. Washing her hands, she next cut off the wings and legs of the fowl, and then separated the breast from the back. These portions she put into a small pot with some suet and water, and threw the rest away. "Das bery good," remarked Quashy, nodding his head in approval, after which he advised the girl to treat another fowl or two in a similar manner, and then followed his master to the corral. Here a very animated scene was being enacted. Half a dozen young horses were about to be mounted for the first time and broken in. What modern horse-trainers of the tender school would have said to the process we cannot tell. Having had no experience in such matters, one way or another, we hazard no opinion. We merely state the facts of the case. The father of the family, mounted on a strong and steady horse, commenced the business by riding into the corral, and throwing his lasso over the head of a young horse, which he dragged forcibly to the gate. Every step of the process was forcible. There was nothing equivalent to solicitation or inducement from beginning to end. Opposition, dogged and dire, was assumed as a matter of course, and was met by compulsion more dogged and more dire! At the gate of the corral the end of the lasso was received by the eldest son of the family, a tall, strapping, and exceedingly handsome youth, of about twenty-three, who had been named Pizarro,--no doubt after the conqueror of Peru. He certainly resembled his namesake in courage, vigour, and perseverance, if in nothing else. The young horse displayed great unwillingness at first to quit its companions,--shaking its magnificent mane, and flourishing its voluminous tail in wild disdain as it was dragged out. But the moment it found itself outside the corral, its first idea was to gallop away. A jerk of the lasso checked him effectually. Another member of the household then deftly threw his lasso in such a manner that the prancing steed put its feet in it, and was caught just above the fetlocks. With a powerful twitch of this second lasso its legs were pulled from under it, and it fell with tremendous violence on its side. Before it could rise the young Gaucho forced its head to the ground and held it there, then drew his long knife, and therewith, in a few seconds, cut off its mane. Another Gaucho performed the same operation on the hair of its tail--both acts being done, as they explained, to indicate that the horse had been once mounted. Meanwhile Pizarro quickly put a strong hide halter on the animal's head, and a piece of hide in his mouth to serve as a bit. He also girthed a saddle on him, and, when all was ready, ordered the men who held him to let go. At the same moment he sprang into the saddle and held on. Holding on was the point on which Pizarro had to concentrate all his attention and power during the next few minutes, for the way in which that outraged and intensely fierce creature strove to unseat him is alike beyond the power of description and conception. Jumping, plunging, kicking, rearing, bounding, and pirouetting are all sufficiently expressive terms in their way, but they are mild words with which to describe the proceedings of that creature of the Pampas while under the influence of temporary insanity. With ears flat on its neck, nostrils distended, and eyes emitting something almost like flames, the young horse absolutely screamed in its fury; but all was in vain. As well might it have tried to shake off its own tail as Pizarro! Suddenly it changed its plan, and stretched out its sinewy length to its longest stride. Pizarro fell in with the idea, encouraged it with his long sharp spurs and heavy lash, and away they went over the mighty plain like a streak of personified lightning. It is useful sometimes to let wilful people not only have their way, but compel them to continue it. John Gilpin's spirit, when he said-- "'Twas for your pleasure you came here; You shall go back for mine." is not unknown on the Pampas and the prairie: After sailing away over the plain, like a ship going out to sea, until it was a mere speck on the horizon, Pizarro's horse thought it time to reduce its pace; but here Pizarro did not agree with it. He applied whip and spur until his steed was quite exhausted. Then he turned homewards, and galloped back to the corral, into which he turned the animal in a very broken and humble state of mind. There it found several young friends who had just been subdued in a similar manner, and it is not altogether improbable that they spent the remainder of that evening in comparing notes! "A roughish method, but--aw--effective," remarked the sportsman to his friend. This was true. Perhaps Quashy's remark to Lawrence was equally true:-- "Dat dood it pritty slick, massa; but I've seed it as well dood, p'r'aps better, by kindness." There is this, at all events, to be said in regard to the rough system, that no man but an athlete could endure the fatigue of the process, while any man--or even woman--has physical strength sufficient to conquer by love, if only he, or she, possess the requisite patience and milk of human kindness. CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. TREATS OF A GAUCHO YOUTH. From these Gauchos Colonel Marchbanks learned that his troops had been seen searching for him by the eldest son, Pizarro, and that handsome youth professed himself willing to guide the party to the place where the soldiers were likely to be found. Without delay, therefore, they resumed their journey after supper, and that night encamped on the open plain. While the party was busy making arrangements for the night, Pedro sauntered to the top of a neighbouring knoll to have what he styled a look round. It was a clear moonlight night, and Lawrence, recognising the figure of the guide, followed him. "Pedro," he said, on overtaking him, "how is it possible that Pizarro can guide us to where the troops are, seeing that it is some time since he saw them, and he did not know in what direction they meant to travel? Besides, they may have changed their intentions and their route several times." "You forget, senhor, that troops leave a broad trail, and you do not yet, I see, fully appreciate the wonderful powers of some Gauchos in tracking out men. This Pizarro, although so young, is already celebrated in that way." "You know him, then? Why, you seem to know everybody!" "I know every one of note," replied the guide, "for my travels have been extensive, and my memory is pretty strong. Let me give you one or two instances of Pizarro's powers. I was in this part of the country two years ago. Having occasion to pass this way, I fell in with Pizarro, and we travelled together a short time. One forenoon we were riding over the plains, when he stopped suddenly, pointed to a footprint, and said, `That is the little grey horse that was stolen from my father three years ago!' `Are you sure?' said I, almost laughing at him. `Sure!' said he, `of course I am; moreover, I'm certain that the horse passed here not more than half an hour ago.' `Let's follow it up, then,' said I, more in jest than earnest. But we did follow it up, and recovered the little grey horse that same evening." "A wonderful power of observation indeed, as well as memory," said Lawrence, looking with increased interest at the young Gaucho, who could be seen, by the light of the neighbouring camp-fire, moving about in a graceful, free and easy manner, assisting in the preparation of supper. "It was pretty well in its way," returned Pedro, "but he did a sharper thing than that last year. A gold escort was attacked somewhere in the west, and the robbers, after killing most of the men, escaped with the bags of gold. The authorities being very anxious to trace out and punish the robbers, offered a high reward for any useful information as to their whereabouts. Now it chanced that Pizarro was moving about the country at that time, and, hearing of the adventure and the reward, kept his eyes open and his wits about him a little more sharply than usual-- though he does that pretty well at all times by nature. One day he saw a little child leading a mule laden with raw hides along a narrow path. This is a common enough sight, in no way calculated to attract particular attention; nevertheless it did attract the attention of Pizarro. I don't pretend to understand the workings of a Gaucho's mind. Perhaps it was the extreme smallness of the child that struck him, causing him to think that as no father or mother would risk such a little thing with the charge of a loaded mule without a special reason, it would be as well to find out what that special reason might be. Perhaps it was something else. Anyhow, suspicion being awakened, he followed the mule for a short distance, and soon observed that it stepped as if it carried a much heavier weight than a mere pack of hides. At once the stolen gold flashed into Pizarro's mind. He stopped the mule, cut the bandages off the hides, and there, concealed among them, found the stolen bags!" "After that," said Lawrence, "I have no doubt whatever that he will soon find the troops." "Neither have I," returned Pedro; "but Pizarro, and men like him, can do much more than I have told you. By a flight of birds they can tell of an approaching band of men before they are in sight, and by the cloud of dust they make when they appear they can form a close estimate of their numbers. When the Indian hordes are about to make a raid, Gauchos are warned of it by the ostriches and llamas and other timid beasts of the Pampas all travelling in one direction, and in many other ways that seem little short of miraculous they act the part of wilderness-detectives." While continuing their journey next day, Lawrence resolved to have a chat with the Gaucho youth. Riding up alongside, he saluted him, and received a reply and a graceful bow that would have done credit to a Spanish grandee. He discovered ere long that the young man's mind, like his body, had been cast in a noble mould, and that, although ignorant of almost everything beyond his own wild plains, he was deeply imbued with reverence for Truth and Justice in all the relations of life. Indeed, his sense of these attributes of God was so strong that the constant violation of them by those around him roused in him occasional bursts of hot indignation, as Lawrence very soon found when he touched on a recent revolution which had taken place in the province of San Juan. "Are the troops we search for sent out to aid the government of Mendoza?" demanded Pizarro, turning an earnest and frowning glance on his companion. "I believe not," answered Lawrence; "at least I have not heard the colonel talk of such an object; but I am not in his confidence, and know nothing of his plans." Pizarro made no rejoinder, and Lawrence, seeing by the continued frown that the youth's spirit was somewhat stirred, sought for further information by asking about Mendoza. "Do you not know," said the Gaucho, with increased vehemence, and a good deal of fine action, "that the people of San Juan have deposed their governor, because he is a bad man?" "I had not heard of it," said Lawrence, "but what has that to do with Mendoza?" "You shall hear, senhor. The governor of San Juan is dishonest. He is bad in every way, and in league with the priests to rob the people. His insolence became so great lately that, as I have said, the people arose, asserted their rights, and deposed him. Then the government of Mendoza sent troops to reinstate the governor of San Juan; but they have not yet succeeded! What right," continued the youth, with grand indignation,--"What right has the government of Mendoza to interfere? Is not the province of San Juan as free to elect its own governor as the province of Mendoza? Have its men not brains enough to work out their own affairs?--ay, and they have arms strong enough to defend their rights, as the troops shall find when they try to force on the people a governor of whom they do not approve." Lawrence felt at once that he was in the presence of one of those strong, untameable spirits, of which the world has all too few, whose love of truth and fair-play becomes, as it were, a master-passion, and around whom cluster not only many of the world's good men, but-- unfortunately for the success of the good cause--also multitudes of the lower dregs of the world's wickedness, not because these dregs sympathise with truth and justice, but simply because truth-lovers are sometimes unavoidably arrayed against "the powers that be." "I don't know the merits of the case to which you refer," said Lawrence, "but I have the strongest sympathy with those who fight or suffer in the cause of fair-play--for those who wish to `do to others as they would have others do to them.' Do the people of San Luis sympathise with those of San Juan?" "I know not, senhor, I have never been to San Luis." As the town referred to lay at a comparatively short distance from the other, Lawrence was much surprised by this reply, but his surprise was still further increased when he found that the handsome Gaucho had never seen any of the towns in regard to which his sense of justice had been so strongly stirred! "Where were you born, Pizarro?" he asked. "In the hut where you found me, senhor." "And you have never been to Mendoza or San Juan?" "No, senhor, I have never seen a town or a village--never gone beyond the plains where we now ride." "How old are you, Pizarro?" "I do not know, senhor." As the youth said this with a slightly confused look, Lawrence forbore to put any more personal questions, and confined his conversation to general topics; but he could not help wondering at this specimen of grand and apparently noble manhood, who could neither read nor write, who knew next to nothing of the great world beyond his own Pampas, and who had not even seen a collection of huts sufficiently large to merit the name of village. He could, however, admirably discern the signs of the wilderness around him, as he showed by suddenly pointing to the sky and exclaiming-- "See! there is a lion!" "Lions have not wings, Pizarro," said Lawrence, with a smile, as he looked upward; "but I see, very high in the air, a flock of vultures." "Just so, senhor, and you observe that they do not move, but are hovering over one spot?" "Yes, I see that; what then?" "A lion is there, senhor, devouring the carcass from which he has driven the vultures away." In a short time the correctness of the youth's observation was proved by the party coming upon, and driving away, a puma which had previously disturbed the vultures at their banquet on the carcass of an unfortunate ox. The next morning Pizarro's capacity for tracking the wilderness was proved by the party coming on the broad trail of the troops. Soon afterwards they discovered the men themselves taking their midday siesta. Not long after that the united party came within scent of the Atlantic, and on the afternoon of the same day galloped into the town of Buenos Ayres. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. DESCRIBES SEVERAL MYSTERIOUS MEETINGS AND CONVERSATIONS. Descriptions, however graphic or faithful, are for the most part misleading and ineffective. Who ever went to a town or a region, and found it to resemble the picture of it which had been previously painted on his imagination by description? For an account of Buenos Ayres we refer the inquiring reader to other books. Our business at present is with Quashy and "Sooz'n." That sable and now united couple stand under the shade of a marble colonnade watching with open-mouthed interest the bustle of the street in which men and women of many nations--French, Italian, Spanish, English, and other--are passing to and fro on business or pleasure. This huge, populous town was not only a new sight, but an almost new idea to the negroes, and they were lost alike in amusement and amazement. "Hi!" exclaimed Quashy in his falsetto, "look, look dar, Sooz'n--das funny." He pointed to a little boy who, squatted like a toad on a horse's back, was galloping to market with several skins of milk slung on either side of the saddle, so that there was no room for his legs. "O Quash!" exclaimed the bride, "dar's pumpkins for you. Look!" They were indeed notable pumpkins--so large that five of them completely filled a wagon drawn by two oxen. "But come, Sooz'n, da'ling," said Quashy, starting as if he had just recollected something, "you said you was gwine to tell me suffin as would make my hair stan' on end. It'll be awrful strong if it doos dat, for my wool am stiff, an' de curls pritty tight." "Yes, I comed here wid you a-purpose to tell you," replied the bride, "an' to ax your 'pinion. But let's go ober to dat seat in de sun. I not like de shade." "Come along, den, Sooz'n. It's all one to me where we goes, for your eyes dey make sunshine in de shade, an' suffin as good as shade in de sunshine, ole gurl." "Git along wid your rubbish!" retorted Susan as they crossed the street. It was evident, however, that she was much pleased with her gallant spouse. "Now, den dis is what I calls hebben upon art'," said Quashy, sitting down with a contented sigh. "To be here a-frizzlin' in de sunshine wid Sooz'n a-smilin' at me like a black angel. D'you know, Sooz'n," he added, with a serious look, "it gibs me a good deal o' trouble to beliebe it." "Yes, it _am_ awrful nice," responded Susan, gravely, "but we's not come here to make lub, Quashy, so hol' your tongue, an' I'll tell you what I heared." She cleared her throat here, and looked earnest. Having thus reduced her husband to a state of the most solemn expectancy, she began in a low voice-- "You know, Quashy, dat poor Massa Lawrie hab found nuffin ob his fadder's fortin." "Yes, I knows dat, Sooz'n," replied her husband, with an expression of the deepest woe. "Well, den--" "No, Sooz'n, it's _ill_ den." "Quashy!" (remonstratively.) "Yes?" (interrogatively.) "Hol' your tongue." "Yes, da'ling." "Well, den," began Susan again, with serious emphasis, "don' 'trupt me agin, or I'll git angry. Well, massa, you know, is so honoribic dat he wouldn't deceive nobody--not even a skeeter." "I knows _dat_, Sooz'n, not even a nigger." "Ob course not," continued Susan; "so what does massa do, but goes off straight to Kurnel Muchbunks, an' he says, says he, `Kurnel, you's a beggar.'" "No, Sooz'n, he di'n't say dat. Dough you says it wid your own sweet lips, I don' beliebe it." "Right, Quashy. You's allers right," returned the bride, with a beaming smile. "I made a 'stake--das all. I should hab said dat massa he said, says he, `Kurnel Muchbunks,' says he, `I's a beggar.'" "Dat was a lie, Sooz'n," said Quashy, in some surprise. "I's afeard it was," assented Susan, gravely. "Well, an' what says de kurnel to dat?" asked the saddened negro, with a sigh. "Oh! he beliebed it, an' he says, says he, `I's griebed to hear it, Mis'r Amstrung, an' ob course you cannot 'spect me to gib my consent to my darter marryin' a beggar!' O Quash, w'en I hears dat--I--bu'sted a'most! I do beliebe if I'd bin 'longside o' dat kurnel at dat momint I hab gib him a most horrible smack in de face." "De skownril!" muttered Quashy between his clenched teeth. "But what happen arter dat, Sooz'n?" "Nuffin happen. Only poor massa he look bery sad, an' says, says he, `Kurnel, I's come to say farewell. I would not t'ink ob asking your consent to such a marriage, but I do ask you to hold out de hope dat if I ebber comes back agin wid a kumpitincy, (don' know 'zactly what dat is, but dat's what he called it)--wid a kumpitincy, you'll not forbid me payin' my 'dresses to your darter.' What he wants to pay her dresses for, an' why he calls dem _his_ dresses, is more nor I can guess, but das what he say, an' de kurnel he says, says he, `No, Mis'r Amstrung, I'll not hold out no sich hope. It's time enough to speak ob dat when you comes back. It's bery kind ob you to sabe my darter's life, but--' an' den he says a heap more, but I cou'n't make it rightly out, I _was_ so mad." "When dey was partin', he says, says he, `Mis'r Amstrung, you mus' promise me not to 'tempt to meet my darter before leaving.' I know'd, by de long silence and den by de way he speak dat Massa Lawrence no like dat, but at last he says, says he, `Well, kurnel, I do promise dat I'll make no 'tempt to meet wid her,' an' den he hoed away. Now, Quashy, what you t'ink ob all dat?" "I t'ink it am a puzzler," replied the negro, his face twisted up into wrinkles of perplexity. "I's puzzled to hear dat massa tell a big lie by sayin' he's a beggar, an' den _show_ dat it's a lie by offerin' to pay for de kurnel's darter's dresses. It's koorious, but white folk _has_ sitch koorious ways dat it's not easy to understan' dem. Let's be t'ankful, Sooz'n, you an' me, that we're bof black." "So I is, Quash, bery t'ankful, but what's to be dooed? Is massa to go away widout sayin' good-bye to Miss Manuela?" "Cer'nly not," cried the negro, with sudden energy, seizing his wife's face between his hands, and giving her lips a smack that resounded over the place--to the immense delight of several little Gaucho boys, who, clothed in nothing but ponchos and pugnacity, stood gazing at the couple. Quashy jumped up with such violence that the boys in ponchos fled as he hurried along the street with his bride, earnestly explaining to her as he went, his new-born plans. At the same moment that this conversation was taking place, Lawrence Armstrong and Pedro--_alias_ Conrad of the Mountains--were holding equally interesting and perhaps more earnest converse over two pots of coffee in a restaurant. "I have already told you, senhor," said Pedro, "that old Ignacio followed us thus hotly, and overtook us as it happened so opportunely, for the purpose of telling me of a piece of good fortune that has just been sent to me." "True," returned Lawrence, "and in the bustle of the moment when you told me I forgot to congratulate you, whatever the good fortune may be. What was it?" "Good old Ignacio little knew," continued Pedro, sipping his coffee with an air of supreme contentment, "what glad news I had in store for himself about my little Mariquita--the light of my eyes, the very echo of her mother! The good fortune he had to tell me of was but as a candle to the sun compared with what I had to reveal to _him_, for what is wealth compared with love? However, the other piece of good news is not to be sneezed at." "But what _is_ this good news, Pedro?" asked Lawrence, with a touch of impatience, for his curiosity was aroused, and Pedro's mode of communicating glad tidings was not rapid. Before he could reply their attention was attracted by the noisy and self-assertive entrance of two jovial British sailors, who, although not quite drunk, were in that condition which is styled by some people "elevated"--by others, debased. Whatever view may be taken of their condition, there could be only one opinion as to their effusive good-humour and universal good-will--a good-will which would probably have expanded at once into pugnacity, if any one had ventured to suggest that the couple had had more than enough of strong drink. "Now then, Bill," cried one, smiting the other with facetious violence on the back, "what'll you have?" Then, without waiting for a reply, he added, to the waiter, "Let's have some brary-an'-warer!" The brandy and water having been supplied, Bill nodded his head, cried, "Here's luck, Jim," and drained his first glass. Jim responded with the briefer toast, "Luck!" and followed the other's draining example. "Now, I'll tell you wot it is, Jim," said Bill, setting down his glass and gazing at the brandy bottle with a solemnly virtuous look, "I wouldn't go for to see another bull-fight like that one we saw just before we left Monte Video, no, not if you was to give me a thousan' pound down." "No more would I," responded Jim, regarding the water-jug with a virtuously indignant air. "Such dis-_gusting_ cruelty," continued Bill. "To see two strong men stand up o' their own accord an' hammer their two noses into somethin' like plum duff, an' their two daylights into one, ain't more nor a or'nary seaman can stand; but to see a plucky little bull set to gore an' rip up a lot o' poor blinded horses, with a lot o' cowardly beggars eggin' it on, an' stickin' darts all over it, an' the place reekin' wi' blood, an' the people cheerin' like mad--why--it--it made me a'most sea-sick, which I never was in my life yet. Bah! Pass the bottle, Jim." "You're right, Bill," assented Jim, passing the bottle, "an' it made poor young Ansty sick altogether. Leastwise, I saw his good-lookin' face turn a'most green as he got up in a hurry like an' left the place, for you know, big an' well made as he is, an' able to hold his own wi' the best, Dick Ansty has the heart of a woman for tenderness. His only fault is that he's a tee-totaller." "Ay, a g-great fault that," said Bill, pouring out and spilling most of another glass. "I wouldn't give much for him." "You couldn't help likin' him, though, if you'd sailed with him as I've done," returned Jim. "He's a reg'lar brick, though he don't smoke neither." "Don't smoke?" exclaimed Bill, aghast. "Then he ain't fit for _this_ world! Why, what does he think 'baccy was made for?" "I dun know as to that, Bill, but I do know that he's goin' to leave us. You see, he's only a sort of half-hand--worked his passage out, you know, an' well he did it too, though he is only a land-lubber, bein' a Cornishman, who's bin lookin' arter mines o' some sort ever since he was a boy. He says he's in great luck, havin' fallen in wi' a party as is just agoin' to start for the west under a feller they call Conrad o' the Mountains." Lawrence and Pedro, who had been trying to ignore the presence of the sailors, and to converse in spite of their noise, became suddenly interested at this point, and the former glanced inquiringly at the latter. "Listen," said Pedro, in a low voice, and with a nod of intelligence. "It's a queer story," continued Jim. "I heard all about it this very mornin' from himself. He'd bin givin' some on us a lot o' good advice. You see, he's a sort of edicated chap, an' got a tremendjous gift o' the gab, but none of us could take offence at 'im, for he's such a quiet, modest feller--although he _is_ big! Well, you must know that--that-- what was I sayin'?" "P-pash th' bottle," said Bill. "No, that's not what I was--Oh yes, I was goin' to say he'd bin givin' us good advice, `because you must know, shipmates,' says he, `that I've bin in good luck on shore, havin' fallen in with a most interestin' man, whose right name I don't know yet, because everybody speaks of him as Conrad of the Mountains, though some calls him Pedro, and others the Rover of the Andes, and a good lot say he's a robber. But I don't care twopence what they say, for I've seen him, and believe him to be a first-rate feller. Anyhow, he's a rich one, and has bin hirin' a few men to help him to work his silver-mine, and as I know somethin' about mining, he has engaged me to superintend the underground work.' "You may be sure we was surprised as well as pleased to hear all this, an' we pumped him, in course, a good deal, an' he told us that the mine was in the Andes somewheres, at a place called Murrykeety Valley, or some such name. This Conrad had discovered the mine a good while ago, and had got an old trapper an' a boy to work it, but never made much of it till a few months back, when the old man an' the boy came suddenly on some rich ground, where the silver was shovelled up in buckets. In course I don't rightly know what like silver is when first got hold on. It ain't in ready-made dollars, I dare say, but anyhow, they say this Conrad'll be as rich as a nabob; an' he's got a pretty darter too, as has bin lost the most of her life, and just turned up at the same time wi' the silver. I don't rightly know if they dug her up in the mine, but there she is, an' she's goin' up to the mountains too, so young Ansty will be in good company." "Jim," said Bill at this point, looking with unsteady solemnity at his comrade, and speaking slowly, "I d-don' b-b'lieve a single word on't. Here, give us a light, an'--an'--pash th' borle." Rising at this point, Lawrence and Pedro left those jovial British tars to their elevating occupations. "Well, senhor," said the latter as they walked away, "you have heard it all, though not just in the way I had intended!" "But tell me, Pedro, is this all true?" "Substantially it is as you have heard it described, only I have had more people than old Ignacio and his boy to work my silver-mine. I have had several men at it for a long time, and hitherto it has paid sufficiently well to induce me to continue the works; but when Ignacio visited it a few weeks ago, in passing on his way here to meet me, he found that a very rich lode had been found--so rich, indeed, and extensive, that there is every reason to expect what men call `a fortune' out of it. There is a grave, as you know, which dims for me the lustre of any fortune, but now that it has pleased the Almighty to give me back my child, I will gladly, for her sake, try to extract a little more than the mere necessaries of life out of my silver-mine. Now, my friend," added Pedro, suddenly stopping and confronting our hero with a decided air, and an earnest look, "will you join me in this venture? I would not give up my life's work here for all the mines in Peru. In order to raise the people and improve the condition of this land, I must continue to be a Rover of the Andes to the end of my days. So, as I cannot superintend extensive mining operations at the same time, I must have a manager, and I know of no one whom I should like to have associated with me half so well as Senhor Lawrence Armstrong. Will you go with me to the Mariquita Valley?" Lawrence paused a minute, with his eyes on the ground, before answering. "I am flattered by your good opinion, Pedro," he said at length, "and will give you an answer to-morrow, if that will do. I never take any important step in haste. This afternoon I have an appointment with Quashy, and as the hour is near, and I promised to be _very_ punctual, you will excuse my leaving you now." "Certainly--to-morrow will do," said Pedro, "I hope to take Quashy also with me. He is a queer fellow." "He is particularly queer just now," returned Lawrence. "I think his marriage with Susan has turned his brain. So, good-bye, Pedro--till to-morrow." They shook hands heartily, and parted. That same afternoon Quashy paid a formal visit to Manuela at her father's residence in the suburbs of Buenos Ayres, and told her, with a visage elongated to the uttermost, and eyes in which solemnity sat enthroned, that a very sick man in the country wanted to see her immediately before he died. "Dear me, Quashy," said Manuela, an expression of sympathy appearing at once on her fine eyebrows, "who is it? what is his name? and why does he send for me?" "I can't tell you his name, miss. I's not allowed. But it's a bad case, an' it will be awrful if he should die widout seein' you. You'd better be quick, miss, an' I'll promise to guide _you_ safe, an' take great care ob you." "That I know you will, Quashy. I can trust you. I'll order my horse im--" "De hoss am at de door a'ready, miss. I order 'im afore I come here." Manuela could not restrain a little laugh at the cool presumption of her sable friend, as she ran out of the room to get ready. A few minutes more and the pair were cantering through the streets in the direction of the western suburbs of the town. CHAPTER THIRTY. THE LAST. We regret to have to record the fact that Quashy's deep-laid schemes in behalf of Manuela and the "sick man" miscarried. That same night, by the light of the full moon, he revealed to Susan his account of the affair, with a visage in which the solemnity of the wondering eyes seemed to absorb the expression of all the other features. "Sooz'n," he said, "de white folk is past my compre'nshin altogidder, an' I ha'n't got words to tell you how t'ankful I am dat you an' me was born black." "Das true, Quash. We's got reasin to rejoice. But what went wrong?" "What went wrong? why, my lub, eberyt'ing went wrong. Look here, dis was de way ob it. When me an' Miss Manuela got to de place whar I had fix on, dar was de lub-sick man sure 'nuff, an' you may b'liebe he look 'stonished to see Manuela, but he wasn't half so 'stonished as me at de way dey hoed on. What d'ee t'ink dey dooed, Sooz'n?" "Dun know. S'pose dey run into each oder's arms, an' hab a dance round--like me an' you." "Nuffin ob de sort. I wouldn't hab bin suprised at dat at all. No, arter de fust look o' suprise, Massa Lawrence looked orkerd, an' Miss Manuela looked orkerder!" "It had bin in my mind," continued Quashy, "arter I had bring 'em togidder, to turn about, an' enter into conbersation wid my hoss--what's pritty well used to my talk by dis time--but when I see how t'ings went, I forgot to turn about, so ob course I heard an' saw'd." "You wasn't innercent _dat_ time, Quashy." "I di'n't say I was, Sooz'n, but I cou'n't help it. Well, Massa Lawrence, who's too much of a man to remain orkerd long, goes up to Miss Manuela wid a leetle smile, an' holds out his hand. She shakes it quite gently-like, zif dey was on'y noo acquaintances jest interdooced. Ob course I di'n't hear rightly all dey said--" "Ha! wantin' to keep up a _leetle_ innercence?" "Jest so, Sooz'n, but I couldn't help hearin' a good deal--somet'ing like dis:-- "Says Massa Lawrence, says he, `Arternoon, Miss Muchbunks.' `Ditto to you, sir,' says Manuela--" "No, she didn't say dat," interrupted Susan, with decision. "Well, no, p'r'aps not 'zactly dat, Sooz'n, but suffin wid de same meanin'. You know it i'n't possible for me to speak like dem. An' dey bof seemed to hab got deir go-to-meetin' langwidge on--all stiff an' stuck up grammar, same zif dey was at school. Well, arter de speech about de wedder, dey bof blushed--I could see dat, dough I was tryin' hard not to look,--and dey was so long silent dat I begin to t'ink ob offerin' to help, when Massa Lawrence he plucked up heart all ob a suddent, an' went in like a good un. "`Manuela,' says he, quite bold-like, `I promised your fadder dat I would not make any 'tempt to meet you before leabing for de mountains, an' I hab fait'fully striben to keep dat promise. It is by mere chance, I assure you, dat I hab meet you here now, and I would not, for all de wurl' break my word to your fadder. But as chance _hab_ t'rown you in my way, it cannot be wrong to tell you--what you knows a'ready--dat I lub you, and dat, God permittin', I will return ere long to Buenos Ayres. Farewell.' "Wid dat he wheel round, zif he was afraid to trust hisself to say more, an' went off at full gallop." "An' what did Miss Manuela say?" asked Susan. "She say not'ing--not one word--on'y she smile a leetle, an' kiss her hand to him when he hoed away. It passes my compre'nshin, kite. An' as we rode home she says to me, says she, `Quashy, you's a good boy!' I bery near say to her, `Manuela, you's a bad gurl,' but I di'n't feel kite up to dat." "Quashy, you're a fool," said Susan, abruptly. "Das no news," returned the amiable man, "I's said dat ob myself ober an' ober again since I's growed up. De on'y time I feel kite sure I wasn't a fool was de time I falled in lub wid you, Sooz'n." As the negro's account of this inflecting and parting was substantially correct, we feel indisposed to add more to it, except to say that our hero stuck manfully to his resolve, and finally went off to the distant valley in the Andes without again meeting the Inca princess. He was accompanied by Pedro and his daughter, Quashy and Susan, Ignacio, the old hunter, and his boy, as well as Spotted Tiger. In addition to these there was a pretty large following--some engaged in the service of Pedro, others taking advantage of the escort. Among them were Dick Ansty, the Cornish youth, Antonio, the ex-bandit, and the English sportsman with--aw--his friend. It is not our purpose to drag the patient reader a second time over the rolling Pampas, or to introduce him to the mysteries of silver-mining in the Andes. Our end shall be sufficiently explained by stating the fact that as Lawrence was faithful to his promise to Colonel Marchbanks, he was not less faithful to his promise to the daughter. A year had barely elapsed when he found himself once again in Buenos Ayres, with the faithful Quashy at his side, and presented himself before the old colonel, not now as a beggar, but as part owner of one of the richest silver-mines in Peru. Colonel Marchbanks, although a prudent man, was by no means avaricious. "The chief bar which prevented my listening to your proposal," he said to Lawrence at their first interview, "is now removed, but I have yet to learn from my daughter's own lips that she will have you. I have carefully avoided the subject from the very first, because I have no faith whatever in forcing, or even leading, the affections of a young girl. And let me tell you flatly, young senhor, that your being the richest man in Peru, and the greatest man as well, would not influence me so much as the weight of a feather, if Manuela does not care for you. So, you will prepare yourself to abide as well as you can by her final decision." "I am prepared to abide by Manuela's decision," replied Lawrence, with what may be termed a modest smile. "'Pon my word, young man, you seem to be unwarrantably sure of your position," said the colonel, somewhat sternly. "However, you have heard all I mean to say on the subject just now. Leave me, and return here in the evening." When Lawrence was gone, the old soldier found his daughter in a tastefully arranged closet which she called her boudoir, the miniature glass-door of which opened on a luxuriant garden, where wood, water, sunshine, and herbage, wild and tame, seemed to revel for the mastery. "That young fellow Armstrong has come back," said the old man, abruptly. "I know it," was Manuela's brief reply. She did not look up, being too busily engaged at the moment in the hideously commonplace act of darning the smallest possible hole in one of her dear little stockings. "You know it, child?" "Yes, father." "Do you also know that he has just been here, and formally asked your hand in marriage?" "Yes, father, I know it." "Why, child, how could you know that? You surely have not been tempted to--to condescend to eavesdropping?" "No, father, I have not condescended to that, but I have heard it on the best authority. Have you not yourself just told me?" "Oh--ah--well," exclaimed the stern man, relaxing into a smile in spite of himself, as he observed the calm, quiet, earnest way in which that princess of the Incas applied herself to the reparation of that little hole. "Now Manuela, my darling," continued the colonel, changing his tone and manner suddenly as he sat down beside her and put a hand lovingly on her shoulder, "you know that I would not for all the world permit, or induce you to do anything that would risk your happiness. I now come to ask you seriously if you--if you are in--in short, if you admire this young fellow." Instead of answering, Manuela, while searching carefully for any other little hole that might have been made, or that was on the eve of being made, by any other little toe, asked the astounding question-- "Is he rich, father?" A mixture of surprise and annoyance marked the old man's tone and look as he replied-- "Why, what has _that_ got to do with it?" "Have you not over and over again warned me, father, to beware of those gay young fellows who haven't got two sixpences to rub against each other, but have presumption enough to trifle with the affections of all the silly girls in the world. And are you sorry that I should have laid your lessons to heart?" "Tut, child, don't talk nonsense. Whether he is rich or poor is a mere matter of moonshine. The question I have to settle just now is--Are you fond of him?" "Well, no, father, I can't exactly say that I--" "I knew it! I was _sure_ of it! The presumptuous puppy!" shouted the old man of war, jumping up, overturning a work-table with its innumerable contents, and striding towards the door. "Stay, father!" said Manuela, in a tone that military discipline forbade him to disobey, and holding out both her hands with an air and grace that love forbade him to resist. "I _don't_ admire him, and I'm _not_ fond of him," continued the Inca princess, vehemently, as she grasped her parent's hands; "these terms are ridiculously inadequate. I love him, father--I _adore_ him--I--" She stopped abruptly, for a noise at the glass-door caused her to turn her eyes in that direction. It was Quashy, who stood there staring at them with all his eyes, and grinning at them with more than all his mouth--to say nothing of his ears! "You black baboon!" shouted the colonel, when able to speak. "Oh, nebber mind me, kurnel," said Quashy, with a deprecatory air, "'skuse me. I's on'y habin' a stroll in de gardin an' come here kite by haxidint. Go on wid your leetle game, an' nebber mind me. I's on'y a nigger." Colonel Marchbanks could not decide whether to laugh or storm. Manuela decided the question for him by inviting the negro to enter, which he did with humble urbanity. "Shake hands with him, father. He's only a nigger, as he says, but he's one of the very best and bravest and most faithful niggers that _I_ ever had to do with." "You's bery good, Miss--a'most as good as Sooz'n." "Oh, well, have it all your own way," cried the colonel, becoming reckless, and shaking the negro's hand heartily; "I surrender. Lawrence will dine with us this evening, Manuela, so you'd better see to having covers laid for three--or, perhaps, for four. It may be that Senhor Quashy will honour us with--" "T'ankee, kurnel, you's bery kind, but I's got a prebious engagement." "A previous engagement, eh?" repeated the colonel, much tickled with the excuse. "Yes, kurnel; got to 'tend upon Massa Lawrence; but if you'll allow me to stan' behind his chair an' _wait_, I'll be much pleased to listen to all you says, an' put in a word now an' den if you chooses." And so, good reader, all things came about as the little princess of the Incas had arranged, long before, in her own self-willed little mind. Shall we trouble you with the details? Certainly not. That would be almost an insult to your understanding. But we will trouble you to mount one of the fleetest steeds of the Pampas and fly with us over the mighty plains into the wildest regions of the Andes. Though wild, we need not tell you that it is a lovely region, for you have been there already. It is the Mariquita Valley. No longer a silent wilderness, however, as when we saw it last, for, not very long after the events which we have just described, Lawrence Armstrong and his blooming bride, accompanied by the white-haired colonel and the irrepressible Quashy, and another band of miners and selected emigrants, entered that valley in a sort of triumphal procession, and were met and escorted to the head of it by another triumphal procession, which was under the command of Conrad of the Mountains, whose pretty daughter was the first to welcome Manuela to her new home. But now dismount. Put on these wings and soar with us to the brow of yonder cliff, from which we can have a grand bird's-eye view of the vale almost from its entrance to the point where it is lost and absorbed in the majestic recesses of the higher Andes. See you yon cottage-like edifice, close to Pedro's old home, with the rustic porch in front, and the well-stocked garden around? That is the residence of the overseer of the silver-mine, Lawrence Armstrong, Esquire. The residence as well as the garden is well-stocked; for we have ventured to gallop with you over Time as well as Space--one result being that there are at least three descendants of the Incas, (by the mother's side), romping in the garden. On that mound a little way on the other side of Pedro's cottage stands another building. It resembles the home of Lawrence, but with enough of difference to afford the charm of variety. It is the home of the fine young Cornish youth who worked his way across the sea as a sailor, and accompanied Pedro to the mountains. That trip effectually settled _his_ business, and resulted in the conversion of Mariquita into Mrs Ansty. The change may not strike ordinary readers as being very romantic, but it was attended with much felicity. In the small clump of wood just behind Pedro's cottage--where you see the lakelet or tarn glittering in the sunlight, and sending its infant waters to brawl over the neighbouring precipices and scamper down the valley--stands a group of huts. These form the homes of Ignacio, the old hunter, and Spotted Tiger with his family. Ignacio, you see,--still tough and straight, as though he had made up his mind to live and hunt for ever--has a strange power of attracting men to him, and has induced his Indian friend to forsake his old home in the low grounds and dwell with him in the mountains. Of course Spotted Tiger has brought his wife with him, and Leetle Cub, (no longer little), and all the other cubs, including poor Manca, the sick girl, who--thanks to Dr Armstrong's skill, and change of scene, and God's blessing on all--is no longer sick, but, on the contrary, robust and grateful. Strange to say, our English sportsman is living with Ignacio just now, with several sporting friends. He has been back to England and out again since we last saw him, and goes aw-ing all over the settlement with as much nonchalance and latent vigour as ever--when not better engaged with Ignacio and Spotted Tiger, and Leetle Cub, in the mountains. In Lawrence's garden, among the romping descendants of the Incas, (by the mother's side), may be seen four whitey-brown creatures. These are the children of Quashy and Susan. Two of them are little Quashys and two are little "Sooz'ns." They are not, of course, all named so, but Quashy says if he had "fifty little bustin' gurls he'd regard 'em all as little Sooz'ns," and Susan retorts that if she had "five hundred little bad boys she'd call 'em all Quashys." They dwell in a small hut in rear of the cottage of Massa Lawrence, for Quashy is his gardener and "_Sooz'n_" his washerwoman, and the little Quashys and "Sooz'ns" are playmates of the little Incas, (by the mother's side). Antonio, the ex-bandit, is assistant gardener to the Armstrongs, and it is said that that once ferocious man has become so changed under the influence of Christian treatment, that he not only serves his master faithfully, but has even made more than one attempt to rescue an old enemy named Cruz from his evil ways. He has not yet been successful, but he is strong in faith and hope. Colonel Marchbanks, who has finally retired from the army, dwells with the Armstrongs, and has organised the miners and settlers into a local force of which he is the chief. For the place has grown much of late in importance as well as in numbers, and in such a wild region there is need for defensive arrangements. It has other arrangements, also, of a much more important kind in which the Word of God plays the chief part, and Conrad of the Mountains lends a helping hand. That earnest rover has built a church and a schoolhouse, and, when at home, does what in him lies to advance the cause of true religion and education. But he has not ceased to wander in the mountains. True to his instincts as a reformer and lover of mankind, he visits with ceaseless activity the great and widely separated centres of population in South America, never losing sight of the great object he has set before him in the amelioration of the condition of the people. Most people think him a mysterious madman. Some, who know him well, think him an over-sanguine enthusiast, but all agree in regarding him as a calm, gentle, amiable man, with a determination of purpose that nothing can turn aside, and with an intense desire for the welfare and advancement of the country which Mariquita the elder called her native land. Indeed it is thought by some that Pedro must have made to his wife some pledge or promise with reference to that subject, but no one can ascertain the truth of that now. There is ground for this belief, however, for, as we sit on our perch, overlooking the valley, we see this Pedro, this Conrad of the Mountains, seated in the bower on the mound behind his dwelling, resting contemplatively at the well-loved spot, after one of his periodical returns. Mariquita the younger is beside him. They are both looking earnestly at the grave, and conversing about the time when they shall once again meet the lost one by the side of Jesus in the better land. Till that day came, Pedro continued unflinchingly to prosecute his self-imposed task, whatever it might be. Whether or what success attended his efforts we cannot tell; yet have we reason to hope that his labour was not in vain. But of this much we are certainly sure, that, to the end of his days on earth he continued to be known as the Rover of the Andes; and when Death--at last--overtook him and arrested his benignant course, it found him advancing with trembling steps towards the old place, and closed with him, finally, as he pillowed his head on Mariquita's grave. THE END. 
37993	----	CLIMBING IN THE BRITISH ISLES _ENGLAND_ CLIMBING IN THE BRITISH ISLES _3 vols. 16mo. Sold separately._ I. ENGLAND. II. WALES. _In preparation._ III. SCOTLAND. _In preparation._ LONDON AND NEW YORK: LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. CLIMBING IN THE BRITISH ISLES _I.--ENGLAND_ BY W.P. HASKETT SMITH, M.A. MEMBER OF THE ALPINE CLUB WITH TWENTY-THREE ILLUSTRATIONS BY ELLIS CARR MEMBER OF THE ALPINE CLUB AND FIVE PLANS LONDON LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16th STREET 1894 _All rights reserved_ CONTENTS Introduction The headings, for convenience of reference, are arranged in one continuous alphabetical series, comprising the following classes of subject: I. COUNTIES AND DISTRICTS WHICH ARE OF INTEREST TO THE MOUNTAINEER (_e.g._ Cumberland, Cornwall, Derbyshire, Ennerdale) II. PLACES WHICH ARE CONVENIENT AS CLIMBING CENTRES (_e.g._ Keswick, Patterdale, Wastdale Head) III. MOUNTAINS AND ROCKS WHICH AFFORD CLIMBS (_e.g._ Dow Crag, Pillar, Scafell) IV. CLIMBS OF REPUTATION, WITH DIRECTIONS FOR FINDING AND ACCOMPLISHING THEM (_e.g._ Deep Gill, Mickledoor, Napes Needle) V. TECHNICAL TERMS AND EXPRESSIONS (_e.g._ back-and-knee, chimney, toe-scrape) VI. LOCAL NAMES FOUND AMONG THE HILLS, WITH OCCASIONAL NOTES ON THEIR ORIGIN AND MEANING (_e.g._ bink, clough, gill, hause, hope) INTRODUCTION For some years past there has been a remarkably rapid increase in the number of men who climb for climbing's sake within the bounds of the British Isles. When any young and active Englishman sees a rock and is told that the ascent of it is regarded as a kind of feat, there is no doubt what he will want to do. He will obey what has been the instinct of the race at any time this forty years. But lately there has been a change. What was formerly done casually and instinctively has for the last dozen years or so been done systematically and of set purpose, for it is now recognised that hill-climbing in these islands may form part of a real mountaineering education. Many might-be mountaineers have missed their vocation because they were in the position of the prudent individual who would not go into the water until after he should have learned to swim: they did not become Alpine because they were afraid that they should make fools of themselves if they went on the Alps. Yet, had they only known it, they might have found without crossing the sea many a place which might have been to their undeveloped instincts what the little pond at the end of the garden has been to many a would-be skater--a quiet spot where early flounderings would be safe from the contemptuous glances of unsympathetic experts. Icemanship can only be acquired through a long apprenticeship, by tramping many a weary mile helplessly tied to the tail of a guide. But one principal charm of hill-climbing lies in the fact that it may be picked up by self-directed practice and does not demand the same preliminary subjection. The course of Alpine instruction can only be considered complete when Mr. Girdlestone's ideal of 'The High Alps without Guides' is realised (an ideal, be it clearly understood, which for fully ninety-nine out of every hundred climbers it would be downright madness to attempt to carry into practice); whereas, while rock-climbing may be enjoyed by amateurs without incurring the reproach of recklessness, they at the same time experience the exquisite pleasure of forming their own plans of attack, of varying the execution of them according to their own judgment, and finally of meeting obstacles, as they arise, with their own skill and with their own strength, and overcoming them without the assistance of a hired professional. Nowhere can the mere manual dexterity of climbing be better acquired than among the fells of Cumberland; excellent practising-ground presents itself on nearly every hill. Compared with real mountains the crags of Cumberland are but toys, but small as they are, they have made many and many a fine climber; and the man who has gone through a course of training among them, who has learnt to know the exact length of his own stride and reach, and to wriggle up a 'chimney' in approved style with shoulder, hip and knee, may boldly fly at higher game, and when he proceeds to tackle the giants of the Alps or Caucasus has no cause to be afraid of the result. As if with the express object of increasing their educational value to the mountaineer, the hilly parts of Great Britain are peculiarly subject to atmospheric changes. No one who has not experienced their effects would believe the extent to which mist, snow, and even rain can change the appearance of landmarks among the mountains; and, where landmarks are less abundant or less striking, even the buffeting of violent wind may cause an inexperienced man to change his direction unconsciously. Valuable experience in things of this kind may be gained even in summer, but in winter the conditions become more Alpine, and splendid practice may be had in the use of the axe and rope. Not that the latter should be neglected on difficult rocks at any time of the year. Even in places where it gives the leader no security and to some extent actually impedes him, the moral effect of it is good. It wonderfully increases those feelings of united and ordered effort, of mutual dependence and mutual confidence, and finally of cheery subordination of self, which are not the least of the virtues or the joys of mountaineering. How these opportunities may be used the novice will readily learn from Mr. Charles Pilkington's admirable chapters in the Badminton 'Mountaineering,' and from Dr. Claude Wilson's excellent little handbook on the same subject. It is the aim of the present work to enable him to find suitable places where the principles so admirably laid down by those authorities may be tested and applied, and to understand the descriptions--often involving difficult technical and local terms--which have been published of them. When anyone with climbing instincts finds himself in a strange place his first desire is to discover a climb, his second to learn what its associations are; what is it called, and why? has anyone climbed it, and what did he think of it? To such questions as these this book endeavours to provide an answer. It offers, in short, to the would-be climber a link, with the guidebook on the one hand and the local specialist on the other. It must always be remembered that a very fine rock may be a very poor climb. It may be impossible or it may be too easy, or, again, the material maybe dangerously rotten; and thus, though there are many places where men can and do obtain useful climbing practice, there is only one part of England to which resort is made simply for the sake of its climbing. In consequence of this fact the greater part of the book is devoted to the English Lakes, and especially to the south-west portion of them, where the best climbs of all are to be found. But in that district the art has been highly elaborated, and the standard of difficulty and dexterity is even dangerously high. If men would be content to serve an apprenticeship and to feel their way gradually from the easier climbs onward, they would excite less apprehension in the minds of those who know what these climbs are. If, on the other hand, they rush, as too many do, straight from the desk in a crowded city, with unseasoned lungs and muscles, in the cold and the wet, to attack alone or with chance companions whatever climb enjoys for the moment the greatest notoriety, frightful accidents are certain to occur. The books, too, which are kept specially for climbing records at some places in the Lakes, such as Dungeon Gill, Buttermere, and, notably, Wastdale Head, are misleading, owing to the widely different standards of difficulty among the various writers. Printed accounts are so few that this objection hardly applies to them. The most noteworthy beyond all doubt are the two articles written for _All the Year Round_, in November 1884, by Mr. C.N. Williamson, the late editor of _Black and White_. It would be hard to exaggerate the effect which these articles had in making the Lake climbs known. The same writer had previously contributed articles of less permanent value to the _Graphic_ and the _Daily News_. In 1837 two articles had appeared in the _Penny Magazine_ (see _Lord's Rake_); in 1859 the late Professor Tyndall had written of _Mickledoor_ in the _Saturday Review_, and more recently articles have appeared in the _Pall Mall Gazette_, by Mr. W. Brunskill and by Mr. H. A. Gwynne. The present writer contributed an article to the _Alpine Journal_ of August 1892, and one containing very clear illustrations of 'back-and-knee' work and of an episode in the long climb on the Pillar Rock to the pages of _Black and White_, in June 1892, while numerous articles have appeared from time to time in such local papers as the _Whitehaven News_ and the _West Cumberland Times_, and in the Manchester, Leeds, and Bradford press. Of guidebooks the only one of any value to climbers is Mr. Herman Prior's 'Pedestrian Guide.' Any value which the present book may have is largely due to the excellent drawings of Mr. Ellis Carr, who most kindly came forward to fill the place left by the lamented death of Professor A.M. Marshall. Much assistance has been derived from sketches and photographs kindly lent, those of Mr. Abraham, of Keswick, being especially useful. For the valuable article on 'Chalk' I am indebted to Mr. A.F. Mummery, whose knowledge of the subject is unrivalled; while Mr. J.W. Robinson, of Lorton, has zealously assisted in all matters connected with Cumberland; and I must gratefully acknowledge help given in other ways by Mr. J.E. Morris and the Rev. C.J. Buckmaster. CLIMBING IN THE BRITISH ISLES ENGLAND =Alum Pot=, the name of which is also found in such forms as _Allen_ and _Hellan_, lies just west of the Midland Railway, about halfway between Horton and Ribblehead stations, and on the north-east side of Ingleborough. It is one of the most striking and most famous of the Yorkshire potholes, being an elliptical opening in the limestone, 120 ft. long and 40 ft. wide, with a perpendicular depth of 200 ft. The exploration of it was begun by Mr. Birkbeck of Anley in 1847, who, assisted by Prof. Boyd Dawkins and a large party including three ladies, made a complete examination in 1870. =Angler's Crag=, on the south side of Ennerdale Water. The steep portion is about 300 ft. There are also some similar crags on _Grike_ and _Revelin_, close by; but none of them are worth a long walk, and the only resting-place near is the Angler's Inn, at the foot of Ennerdale Water. =Apron-strings.=--Throughout Scotland and the North of England the traditional explanation of large heaps of stones is that while some one (generally the Devil or Samson) was carrying the stones in his apron the strings broke and the stones fell in a heap. Many such heaps are to be found, bearing the name of 'apronful' or 'bratful,' which means the same thing. A good instance of the latter form is _Samson's Bratful_, in Cumberland, between the rivers Bleng and Calder. For another good instance see what is said about Wade's Causeway in _Murray's Handbook for Yorkshire_, at p. 206. =Aron.=--So Wilkinson (in his 'Select Views') calls _Great End_. It may be that he misunderstood his guide, who was, perhaps, speaking at the time of _Aaron Crags_, which are on _Sprinkling Fell_, and would be in the line of sight to any one coming up from _Borrowdale_. In fact, the path to _Sty Head_ passes not only _Aaron Crags_ on the left, but also _Aaron Slack_ on the right. It is, of course, tempting to suggest that Aron was the original Keltic name of Great End; but in Wales the name Aran is generally applied to mountains of very different appearance to _Great End_. =Arrowhead=, a prominent rock in the _Napes_ of _Great Gable_, being part of the ridge immediately west of _Eagle's Nest_. It was climbed on April 17, 1892, by a large party, including Messrs. Horace Walker, Baker, Slingsby, and others. In the following year, on the last day of March, this climb was repeated by Messrs. Solly, Schintz, Brant, and Bowen, who continued it right on to the top of the ridge. They kept rather more on the ridge itself than the former party had done on the way to the _Arrowhead_, and from that point the climb is along the crest of the ridge. It is not a difficult climb for an experienced party. The ridge has been called the _Arrowhead Ridge_. [Illustration: THE ARROWHEAD (South side of Great Gable)] =Ash Crag=, a rock in _Ennerdale_, near the _Black Sail_ end of the _Pillar Fell_. It is the writer's belief that this is the rock which the poet Wordsworth, in 'The Brothers,' has confused with the _Pillar Rock_. At least a lad belonging to an old Ennerdale family, the Bowmans of Mireside, was killed by falling from this rock at a date closely corresponding to that indicated in the poem. =Attermire=, one of the most picturesque limestone scars in Yorkshire. It is reached from Settle on the Midland Railway, and may be seen on the way to Malham Cove. =Back-and-knee=: the process of supporting or raising the body in a 'chimney' by pressure against opposite sides with back and knees, or, more usually, back and feet. =Band.=--This word forms part of many hill names in the North of England, and is also found in Scotland. Dr. Murray deals with it in the 'New English Dictionary,' but not in a satisfactory manner. He defines it as 'a long ridge-like hill of minor height or a long narrow sloping offshoot from a hill or mountain,' but it would be easy to adduce instances where this could have no application. The word is used by Douglas in his translation of Virgil to represent the Latin word 'jugum': Himself ascendis the hie _band_ of the hill; and from this Jamieson concluded that the word meant simply 'top of a hill'--a definition almost as unsuitable as the last. The late Mr. Dickinson, the leading authority on the Cumberland dialect, gave to the word the meaning of 'a boundary on high uninclosed land,' and indeed the frequent association of the word with personal names (often of clearly Scandinavian character) seems to indicate some territorial significance. =Bannerdale Crag= (C. sh. 57) may be taken on the way up _Saddleback_ from Troutbeck station on the line between Keswick and Penrith. About three miles up the stream is _Mungrisdale_, and still farther up along the course of the stream one fork leads to _Scales Tarn_ and another to _Bannerdale_, where there is a lead mine just north of the crags. There is a rocky face some 600 ft. to 800 ft. high, offering climbing, which is steep, but by no means first-rate. =Barf.=--From the southern shore of Bassenthwaite Water there is a fine steep scramble up this hill. On a bright winter's day it is rather inspiriting, and the views are good. The name is more frequent in Yorkshire, where, according to Phillips, it has the meaning of 'a detached low ridge or hill.' =Beachy Head=, close to Eastbourne, in Sussex, is a very fine bold chalk cliff, the first ascent of which is made about once in every two years, if we may believe all that we see in the papers. The truth is that there is a treacherous incline of some 600 ft., formed of chalk and grass, both very steep and often dangerously slippery; and during the Eastbourne season the coastguards at the top find their principal occupation in supplying mechanical assistance to exhausted clamberers; but for difficulty these cliffs will not for a moment compare with those of half the height which carry on the line westward to _Birling Gap_. The tops of these in many places literally overhang the sea, and there are few points where a climber could make the slightest impression upon them. On Beachy Head there is a dangerous-looking pinnacle, which was climbed (by dint of cutting a step or two) in April 1894, by Mr. E.A. Crowley. =Bear Rock=, a queerly-shaped rock on _Great Napes_, which in the middle of March 1889 was gravely attacked by a large party comprising some five or six of the strongest climbers in England. It is a little difficult to find, especially in seasons when the grass is at all long. =Beck.=--In the North of England (except in Northumberland and Durham, where 'burn' prevails) this is the usual word for a brook. It differs from a 'gill' in being more open, and having banks less rocky and a stream somewhat more copious. A gill may contain only a few drops of water, or none at all, and still preserve its self-respect, but not so a beck. Camden speaks of 'Beakes and Brookes.' =Bell= enters into many North Country hill-names. It is commonly said to indicate spots which were specially devoted to the worship of Baal, and many arguments have been based upon its occurrence and distribution. If there is anything in this assertion, the 'high places' for the worship of Baal must have been most capriciously selected. My own belief is that the term is purely descriptive and is applied to a convexity in the slope of a hill. In Lowland Scotch the phrase 'bell of the brae' is not uncommon and has the same significance. =Bell Rib End=, a short drop on the narrow south ridge of _Yewbarrow_. Though on a very small scale, it is not without interest, and was a favourite with Mr. Maitland, one of the early explorers of Wastdale. =Bield.=--This word not only occurs frequently in place names, but is still part of living speech in North England and South Scotland. It means shelter of any kind for man or beast, and in the latter case especially a fox or a sheep. It is also used as a verb; in fox hunting, for instance, the animal when run to earth is said to be 'bielded.' =Bink=: a long narrow grassy ledge. (N. of Eng.) =Black Sail.=--It has been suggested that this name, now borne by the pass from Wastdale to Ennerdale between Pillarfell and Kirkfell, may have originally been named from the mountain it crossed, and so may possibly now preserve an older name of one of those two mountains. Dr. Murray, writing to a local paper some years ago, did not hesitate to affirm positively that Pillar Fell is entirely due to the Ordnance surveyors, and that the original name was Black Sail, a fact which he said could be proved by historical evidence. It would be extremely interesting to see this evidence, but the name 'Pillar' certainly appears in maps published long before that of the Ordnance. (See _Sail_.) The pass (1,750 ft.) is very familiar to all climbing folk, being the ordinary way of reaching the Pillar Rock from Wastdale Head. It is generally preferred to _Wind Gap_ on account of greater variety of view and better 'going,' and some make use of it even for the purpose of reaching the Ennerdale side of _Great Gable_. The route, however, has one disadvantage. It is hot. It is no uncommon thing to hear enthusiastic frequenters of the Lakes complaining of the popular misapprehension that the sun never shines there, and urging that people are so unreasonable as to notice the wet but to disregard the warmth. Among these traducers of the Cumberland climate the frequenters of the Black Sail route are not found. Argue not with such; but some fair morning, when the reviler is most rampant, lead him gently into Mosedale and watch with calm delight while he pants painfully up the pass, trying his utmost to look cool, with the sun, which he has maligned, beating down squarely upon his back and exacting a merciless revenge. Many a time will he turn about and feign rapture at the taper cone of Yewbarrow and the bold outline of Scafell; often will his bootlace strangely come untied before his reverted glance catches the welcome gleam of Burnmoor Tarn; but long before that time his heart within him will have melted even as wax, and he will have registered a vow that, when next the Cumberland sunshine is discussed, the seat of the scornful shall know him no more. Mr. James Payn, having occasion to allude to 'dry weather' in the Lakes, adds demurely, 'which is said to have occurred about the year 1824'; but, from his own description of Black Sail, it is clear that he deeply rued the sarcasm: 'You will begin to find your pass quite sufficiently steep. Indeed, this is the severest pull of any of the cols in the District, and has proved the friend of many a gallant with his ladylove. To offer a young woman your hand when you are going up Black Sail is in my mind one of the greatest proofs of attachment that can be given, and, if she accepts it, it is tantamount to the everlasting "Yes!"' We may be sure that, before he reached the top, the witty novelist experienced remarkably 'dry weather,' and also some of those symptoms which elsewhere he has himself described with such scientific accuracy: 'Inordinate perspiration and a desperate desire for liquids; if the ascent be persisted in, the speech becomes affected to the extent of a total suspension of conversation. The temper then breaks down; an unseemly craving to leave our companion behind, and a fiendish resolution not to wait for him if his bootlace comes undone, distinguish the next stage of the climbing fever; all admiration of the picturesque has long since vanished, exuded, I fancy, through the pores of the skin: nothing remains but Selfishness, Fatigue, and the hideous reflection that the higher we go the longer will be our journey down again. The notion of malignant spirits occupying elevated regions--Fiends of the Fell--doubtless arose from the immoral experiences of the Early Climbers.' Green's _Guide_ (1819) records a touching instance of a husband's attentions surviving a test which we saw above, that even lovers find severe: 'This is a steep and craggy ascent, and so laborious to man that it might be imagined horses could not travel it; yet Mr. Thomas Tyson, of Wasdale Head, has conducted Mrs. Tyson over this stony ground while sitting on the back of her horse.' In Switzerland one might look back after a day's work, and fairly forget ups and downs so slight as Black Sail; but many of the guide books speak of it in terms which might apply to the Adler or the Felik Joch. For instance, _Black's Picturesque Guide_ (ed. 1872) says: 'The _hardy_ pedestrian with _very minute_ instructions _might_ succeed in finding his way over the mountains, yet every one who has crossed them will beware of the danger of the attempt and of the _occasional fatal consequences_ attending a diversion from the proper path.' This is highly encouraging; and the enterprising traveller who only breaks his neck two or three times in the course of the journey will be of good cheer, for he is making rather a prosperous expedition than otherwise. =Blea Crag=, an isolated square stone on the left of the path to the _Stake_, a long mile up _Longstrath_. It is climbed on the side which looks down the valley. Messrs. Jones and Robinson recorded their ascent of it in September 1893, but it seems that four or five years ago there were traces on it of a previous ascent. 'Crag' is not very commonly used of a single stone, as it is here and in the case of _Carl Crag_. =Borrowdale.=--'Divers Springes,' says old Leland in his 'Itinerary,' 'cummeth owt of Borodale, and so make a great _Lowgh that we cawle a Poole_.' The 'Lowgh' is, of course, Derwentwater, and Borrowdale is the heart of the finest scenery and the best climbing in England. It may be said to stretch from _Scafell_ to _Skiddaw_, and excellent headquarters for climbers may be found in it at _Lowdore_, _Grange_, _Rosthwaite_, and _Seatoller_. With the aid of its wad mines and its _Bowder Stone_, it probably did more during last century than anything else to arouse public interest in the Lake country. The natives were not famed for their intelligence, and many stories are told in support of their nickname of 'Borrowdale gowks.' There is another _Borrowdale_ in Westmorland, and _Boredale_ is perhaps the same name. =Bowder Stone= in _Borrowdale_ was already a curiosity about a century and a half ago, when it was visited by Mr. George Smith, the correspondent of the _Gentleman's Magazine_. Clarke, writing some years later, says it bore the alternative names of _Powderstone_ and _Bounderstone_; and being 'thirty-one yards long by eight yards high, must therefore weigh over 600 tons, and is said to be the largest self-stone in England.' It is not really a 'boulder' at all, but the word is rather loosely used in Cumberland. =Bow Fell= (2,960 ft.).--The name is probably the same as that of _Baugh Fell_, also called _Bow Fell_, in Yorkshire. This graceful peak, standing as it does at the head of several important valleys--_Eskdale_, _Langdale_, _Dunnerdale_, and _Borrowdale_--is a great feature in Lake scenery. There is not much rock-work on it, but a good deal of rough walking and scrambling. From _Borrowdale_ or _Wastdale_ it is approached by way of _Esk Hause_. On this side there is no climbing, except that _Hanging Knot_, as the N. end of Bow Fell is called, descends to _Angle Tarn_ in a long, steep, rocky slope which offers a pleasant scramble. On the _Eskdale_ side there is a gully or two which might be worth exploring. By inclining to the right hand on emerging at the top of _Hell Gill_, or to the left hand from the pony-track at the foot of _Rossett Gill_ we reach _Flat Crags_, huge glacier-planed slopes of rock, overlooked by what in winter is a fine _couloir_ of most alpine appearance. When Messrs. J. & A.R. Stogdon ascended it (_Alpine Journal_, v. p. 35) the inclination of the snow increased from 30° at the foot to 63° after 350 ft. or more, and there was a large cornice at the top. In the account which the same party inserted at the time in the Wastdale Head Book steeper angles are given. In summer it is merely an open scree-gully; but the insignificant-looking chimney just N. of it, and only separated from it by a narrow ridge, is quite worthy of attention, though it has but one pitch in it after the one at the foot. The descent is harder than the ascent, and takes about twenty minutes. There is a fine rocky walk along the S. ridge, called _Shelter Crags_ and _Crinkle Crags_, which descends towards the head of Dunnerdale, but it is extremely unfrequented. =Bram Crag= and _Wanthwaite Crag_ flank the coach road between _Threlkeld_ and _Grasmere_ on the east. The best part is rather more than two miles south of Threlkeld station. The climbing is somewhat similar to that about _Swarthbeck_ on Ullswater, but on better and sounder rock, and there is more of it. A good day's work will be found among these crags, and a fine specimen of a 'sledgate' is deserving of notice. =Brandreth= is between _Borrowdale_ and the head of _Ennerdale_. The name, which occurs elsewhere in the neighbourhood, denotes a tripod (literally a 'grate,' usually made with three legs). The meeting-point of three boundaries of counties, parishes, &c. is often so named. Brandreth has only one short bit of bold rock--one of the many _Raven Crags_. It is hardly worth a special journey, but may very easily be taken by any one who attacks _Great Gable_ from _Borrowdale_. =Brimham Rocks=, in Yorkshire, are very easily visited from Harrogate or from Pateley Bridge. From the latter they are only four miles to the eastward. The station for those who come from Harrogate is Dacre Banks, from which the Rocks may be reached in an hour's walking. They are of millstone grit and well deserve a visit, for nowhere are the grotesque forms which that material delights to assume more remarkable. Some resemble the sandstone forms common about Tunbridge Wells, and many might very well stand for Dartmoor Tors; but others at first sight seem so evidently and unmistakably to suggest human handiwork that one can feel no surprise at the common notion that they were fashioned by the ingenuity of the Druids. Several of them, though very small, can only be climbed with considerable difficulty. =Broad Stand=--a term commonly but, in my opinion, incorrectly used to denote a particular route by which the crags of _Scafell_ may be ascended direct from _Mickledoor_. There are numerous other places within a few miles of this into the names of which this word 'stand' enters, and a consideration of them leads me to the belief that it signifies 'a large grassy plot of ground awkward of access.' This is exactly what we find here. A break in the cliffs produces a large open space which is the key to the ascent by the _Mickledoor Chimney_, to that by the _North Climb_, and to that which, being the oldest, easiest, and most frequented, has arrogated to itself as distinctive the name of a feature which it should only share with the other two. Really all three routes are merely different ways of reaching the Broad Stand. One of the earliest recorded ascents is that of Mr. C.A.O. Baumgartner in September 1850, an account of which was sent by one of the people of the dale to the local paper in these terms: 'The Broad Stand, _a rocky and dangerous precipice_, situated between _Scaw Fell_ and the _Pikes_, an ascent which is perhaps more difficult than even that of the _Pillar Stone_.' The late Professor Tyndall climbed it in 1859, and described it in the _Saturday Review_ of that year. It evidently had a great reputation then, which was not, in his opinion, entirely deserved. It seems to have been known in 1837 (see the _Penny Magazine_) to the shepherds; and even in Green's time, at the beginning of the century, one or two daring spirits had accomplished the feat. =Buckbarrow= (C. sh. 79).--_Broadcrag_ (more north-east) is really part of it, and about 400 ft. high. Buckbarrow rises near the foot of Wastwater, opposite the best part of the Screes. When approached from the head of the lake it appears as two huge rocky steps; but, as in the case of _Eagle Crag_ in _Greenup_, the steps are not really in the same plane. Seen from the slopes of _Lingmell_, it forms the boundary between the mountains and the plain, to which it sinks in one very graceful concave curve. It is not lofty--there are perhaps some 400 ft. of rock--but by the shepherds it is reputed inaccessible. This is only true in the sense that there are stiff bits on it which have to be evaded. It is haunted by both the fox and the buzzard--connoisseurs on whose taste in rocks the climber can generally rely. There is also climbing in the whole line of rock (Broad Crag) which stretches away towards _Greendale_. Since 1884, when the writer first became acquainted with it, Buckbarrow has become rather popular, considering its remoteness from _Wastdale Head_.--At Christmas 1891 a strong party, led by Messrs. Robinson, Hastings, and Collie, ascended it 'from the fox's earth to the hawk's nest,' and on April 15, 1892, a party containing several of the same members climbed 'the first main gully on this [the north] side. There are two short chimneys at the end of this little gill--one in each corner, about ten to twelve yards apart.' The left one, up which Mr. Brunskill led, was considered the harder. Afterwards Dr. Collie led two of the party up the face of the cliff to the right of the next gully on the west, which is marked by a pitch of about fifty feet low down. To a house near the foot of Buckbarrow old Will Ritson and his wife retired, after giving up the inn which they had kept for so many years and made so famous at _Wastdale Head_. =Buresdale=, the proper name of the valley between Thirlmere and Threlkeld. Hutchinson, for instance, says: 'At the foot of _Wythburn_ is _Brackmere_ [i.e. Thirlmere], a lake one mile in length ... from the N. end of this mere issues the river Bure, which falls into Derwent below Keswick.' He also mentions Buresdale in connection with _Layswater_, yet another equivalent for Thirlmere. Guidebook writers seem to have conspired together to obliterate this name from the map, and to substitute for it the name _Vale of St. John_, which Sir Walter Scott made famous. To revive the name of the river would be an act of only posthumous justice, now that the Manchester waterworks have taken away all its water; but the valley is still there, and ought to be called by its genuine old name, which is of Scandinavian origin; compare with it the Bure river in Norfolk, and fishermen will recall similar names in Norway. =Burn=: the Scotch word for a brook is hardly found south of the river Wear. In Wythburn, Greenburn, and other cases it probably represents _borran_ (stone heap). =Buttermere=, a pleasant stopping-place from which many of the Cumberland fells can be explored. It is a good centre for _Grassmoor_, _Melbreak_ and the _Red Pike_ range, while _Borrowdale_ and _Ennerdale_ are quite within reach. Once a day the Keswick waggonettes swoop upon the place, bringing trippers by the score, but at other times it is a quiet and enjoyable spot. =Calf (The)= (2,220 ft.), in Yorkshire, near _Sedbergh_. _Cautley Crag_, on the E. side of it, is very steep. In this corner of the county the Yorkshire climber experiences the intense relief of seeing rocks which are neither chalk, limestone, nor millstone grit. =Camping.=--Camping out by rivers has always been more popular in England than the same form of airy entertainment among the mountains. The labour of carrying tents or sleeping-bags acts as the chief deterrent. It is true that some thirty years ago a distinguished member of the Alpine Club applied to Scafell Pike, and one or two other spots where England is loftiest, the practice, which he has carried out on many of the higher peaks of the Alps and Pyrenees, of watching sunset and sunrise from the loftiest possible _gîte_ which the mountain can afford. Mr. Payn, too, has given us a most humorous narrative of how he and his friends encamped on Fairfield. Also, about twenty years ago, four stalwart climbers from Penrith made a regular camping tour of the Lakes. Their tent was pitched on these spots: Penrith Beacon, Red Tarn on Helvellyn, in Langdale under Pike o' Stickle, Sty Head, in Ennerdale under Gable Crag, and on Honister. It weighed only 5-1/2 lbs., and yet had a floor space of 8 ft. by 8 ft. It may be that, just as bicyclists suffered by the scathing definition 'cads on casters,' so the enthusiasm of the camper may have received a check when he heard himself described with cruel terseness as 'a fool in a bag.' Perhaps, again, our climate is not one which offers much encouragement to any but the hardiest of campers. In the Lakes by far the most popular (and probably, therefore, the most convenient) place is the shore of Ullswater, where tents have been seen even in the depth of winter. =Carl Crag= lies on the sea-shore in Drigg parish. Mr. Jefferson says that it is of syenite, and measures in feet twelve by nine by five and a half, but it is deep in the sand. The legend is that while Satan was carrying it in his apron to make a bridge over to the Isle of Man, his _apron strings (q. vid.)_ broke and let it fall. It is probably an erratic. With the name compare _Carlhow_, _Carlwark_, &c. =Carrs=, in Lancashire, in the _Coniston_ range, north of the _Old Man_. It is craggy on the east side. In _Far Easdale_ there is a line of crag which bears the same name. Clearly neither can have anything to do with 'carrs' in its usual sense in the north, viz. 'low marshy ground.' =Castle Rock= (C. sh. 64).--This rock in _Borrowdale_ is said to have been crowned by a Roman fort. The west side is craggy for a couple of hundred feet. It may serve to occupy a few odd hours for any one stopping at _Grange_, _Rosthwaite_, or _Seatoller_. =Caw Fell= (C. sh. 73).--The name is possibly the same as _Calf_, _Calva_; compare also _Caudale_, _Codale_, &c. On the north side there is a craggy bit about 200 ft. high. =Chalk.=--Though this can hardly be regarded as a good rock for climbing, much excellent practice can be gained on it. As a general rule, it is only sufficiently solid for real climbing for the first twenty feet above high-water mark, though here and there forty feet of fairly trustworthy rock may be found. These sections of hard chalk are invariably those which at their base are washed by the sea at high tide; all others are soft and crumbly. [Illustration: CHALK CLIFFS NEAR DOVER] Whilst any considerable ascent, other than up the extremely steep slopes of grass which sometimes clothes the gullies and faces, is out of the question, traverses of great interest and no slight difficulty are frequently possible for considerable distances. A good _objectif_ may be found in the endeavour to work out a route to the various small beaches that are cut off from the outer world by the high tide and cliffs. The best instances of this sort of work are to be found along the coast to the eastward of Dover (between that town and St. Margaret's). Between the ledges by which these traverses are in the main effected, and the beach below, scrambles of every variety of difficulty may be found, some being amongst the hardest _mauvais pas_ with which I am acquainted. Owing to the proximity of the ground, they afford the climber an excellent opportunity of ascertaining the upper limit of his powers. Such knowledge is a possession of extreme value, yet in most other places it is undesirable to ascertain it too closely. Chalk, it must be remembered, is extremely rotten and treacherous, very considerable masses coming away occasionally with a comparatively slight pull. In any place where a slip is not desirable, it is unwise to depend exclusively on a single hold, as even the hardest and firmest knobs, that have stood the test of years, give way suddenly without any apparent reason. The flints imbedded in the chalk are similarly untrustworthy; in fact, if they project more than an inch or so, they are, as a rule, insecure. The surface of the chalk is smooth and slimy if wet, dusty if dry, and does not afford the excellent hold obtained on granite. As a whole it may be regarded as a treacherous and difficult medium, and one which is likely to lead those practising on it to be very careful climbers. To the westward of Dover (between it and Folkestone) a great amount of climbing on grass and crumbly chalk slopes can be obtained; almost every gully and face can be ascended from the sea, or the S.E. Railway, to the top. It is desirable to remember that in dry weather the grass and the earth which underlies it is of the consistency of sand, and great care is requisite; after rain the grass is of course slippery; but the underlying material adheres more firmly to the cliff. It is unnecessary to add that a slip on any of these slopes would almost certainly prove fatal. On the face of _Abbot's Cliff_, and to the westward (about halfway between Dover and Folkestone), some traverses may be effected at a height of 200 ft. or more above the base; they do not, however, compare for climbing with the traverses on the other side of Dover. As one goes westwards, the angle of the cliffs becomes less, and from _Abbot's Cliff_ towards Folkestone it is rarely necessary to use one's hands, though very nice 'balance' is essential, as the results of a slip would usually be serious. Above the _Warren_, still nearer Folkestone, the slopes become easy, and after heavy snow afford excellent _glissades_. The cliffs between Dover and St. Margaret's vary from 200 to 350 ft., whilst those between Dover and Folkestone vary from 250 to 500 ft. in height. In Sussex the chalk is well developed at and near _Beachy Head_, where it attains a height of some 600 ft. Just west of this come several miles of cliffs, lower indeed (about 300 ft.), but amazingly vertical. About _Flamborough Head_, in Yorkshire, this formation attains fine proportions, while as far west as Devonshire _Beer Head_ is upwards of 400 ft. high. =Chimney=: a recess among rocks resembling the interior of a chimney open on one side. (See _Back-and-knee_.) =Chockstone=: a northern word for a stone wedged between the sides of a gully. A short word for this is greatly needed, and I would suggest that it might be called a 'chock,' simply. =Clapham=, a station on the Midland Railway, is an excellent centre for _Ingleborough_ and the _Potholes_. =Clark's Leap=, near _Swirl's Gap_ on Thirlmere, is a jutting rock, so called from a suicide which took place there over 100 years ago. It is one of many local absurdities of the novel called 'The Shadow of a Crime' that this name is brought in as an antiquity in the eyes of characters supposed to be living two centuries ago. =Clough= (_Cleugh_, _Cloof_, _Cluff_, _Clowe_) is a North of England word for a kind of valley formed in the slope of a hill. The first cut in carving a shoulder of mutton produces a typical 'clough.' There is seldom any climbing about a genuine clough, because it implies soil rather than rock. Dr. Murray tells us that the word has no connection with the Icelandic 'klofi,' yet assigns to the latter word the origin of 'cloof,' in the sense of the fork of a tree, or of the human body. To a layman in such matters the two words bear a singular resemblance, both in sound and in sense. =Collier's Climb= on _Scafell_ was made by Messrs. Collier and Winser on April 2, 1893, and a very severe climb it is. It begins from the _Rake's Progress_ at a point 105 ft. west from the _North Climb_. After a direct ascent of about 40 ft., a grassy platform on the right (facing the wall) is reached. From here a narrow and somewhat awkward traverse leads back to above the first part of the climb. This traverse could probably be avoided by climbing directly upwards. There follows an easy ascent for 30 ft. still directly upwards. By traversing broad grassy ledges to the right--i.e. towards _Moss Gill_--one of the inclined cracks so plainly seen on the face of the cliff is reached, and the rest of the ascent made in it. The only severe difficulties in the climb are: 1. at the beginning, in leaving _Rake's Progress_; 2. at one point in the crack where there is not much handhold for 10 or 15 ft. =Combe Gill=, a fine gill in the north end of _Glaramara_. The climb is a little over two miles from _Rosthwaite_, and about a mile less from _Seatoller_. A very fine mass of rock (one of the many _Eagle Crags_) stands at the head of the little valley, and up the centre of this crag lies the way. It was climbed on September 1, 1893, by Messrs. J.W. Robinson and W.A. Wilson, whose account of it is as follows: 'This very fine gorge has three good-sized pitches in the lower part. These were passed by climbing the right-hand edge of the gill--interesting work. A return on to the floor of the gill was made near the top of the third pitch, when a little scrambling led to a very fine waterfall more than 100 ft. high. Here climb in the water as little as you can; then diverge slightly on to the right-hand wall of the gill just where the water spouts over a small recess; next traverse across a rather difficult slab into the cave under the final boulder, which is climbed on the left-hand and is the last difficulty.' =Coniston=, having the advantage of both railway and steamboat, is very accessible, and, notwithstanding this, it is agreeably free from the rush of excursionists. Practically it has one fine mountain--the _Old Man_--and no more, though _Bow Fell_ and the _Langdale Pikes_ are not entirely out of reach. There is much good scrambling in the rocks which fringe the _Old Man_ and _Wetherlam_, and superb climbing in _Dow Crag_. =Coniston Old Man.=--Quarrymen and miners have between them done an immense deal towards spoiling a very fine mountain. They have converted to base industrial uses the whole east side of the mountain, which Nature intended for climbers. They have not yet invaded _Doe Crag_ (q.v.), which is really part of it, but practically no one goes up the _Old Man_ proper, except for the sake of the view, which is magnificent, and no one ascends except from Coniston, varied in a few cases by working north along the summit ridge and descending via _Grey Friars_ on to the pass of _Wrynose_. =Copeland.=--Camden says of Cumberland: 'The south part of this shire is called _Copeland_ and _Coupland_, for that it beareth up the head aloft with sharpedged and pointed hilles, which the Britans tearme _Copa_.' Leland alludes to this when he makes a ludicrously pedantic suggestion: 'Capelande, part of Cumbrelande, may be elegantly caullid Cephalenia.' _Cop_ is found in Derbyshire also, as a hill-name, and hunting men will not need to be reminded of the Coplow in Leicestershire. [Illustration: CONISTON AND DOE CRAG] =Cornwall.=--To the true-souled climber, who can enjoy a tough bit of rock, even if it is only fifty, aye, or twenty feet high, the coast of Cornwall with its worn granite cliffs and bays has much to offer. It is interesting almost the whole way round the coast. Granite prevails, but at _Polperro_ we have cliffs belonging to the Lower Devonian period, and for some ten or twelve miles going west from _Chapel Point_ we find rocks of the Silurian order. At many points round the _Lizard Promontory_ there are remarkable rocks; but some of the finest cliff scenery in England is to be found between the _Logan Rock_ and the _Land's End_. These are on the regular tourist tracks, and conveniently reached from good hotels; but the north coast of Cornwall is here easy of access. There are fine cliffs about _Gurnard's Head_ and _Bosigran_, which are well worth a visit, from St. Ives or Penzance (7 or 8 miles). There is a small inn at _Gurnard's Head_. _Bedruthan Steps_ are well-known, and _Trevose Head_, _Pentire_ (Padstow), _Tintagel_ and _Penkenner Point_ are only a few of the many grand rock-scenes on this coast. =Coterine Hill.=--Leland, in his 'Itinerary,' says that Ure, Sawle, and Edon rise in this hill, and that 'the Hedde of Lune River by al Aestimation must be in _Coterine Hill_, or not far fro the Root of it,' adding that, in the opinion of Mr. Moore of Cambridge, the river Lune 'risith yn a hill cawlled _Crosho_, the which is yn the egge of Richemontshire.' There is _Cotter-dale_ on the Yorkshire slope of the hill in which these rivers rise, and the celebrated Countess of Pembroke, in 1663, when she crossed from _Wensleydale_ to _Pendragon Castle_, calls her journey 'going over _Cotter_, which I lately repaired,' the last words showing that it was a recognised pass. In all probability Leland's form represents '_Cotter End_,' by which name, though not given in most of the maps, part of the hill is still known. =Cove=: often means 'cave' in Yorkshire and Scotland, but as a rule it is a large recess in a hill-side. =Craven=--_Camden_ remarks that the country lying about the head of the river Aire is called in our tongue _Craven_, 'perchance of the British word _Crage_, that is a _Stone_. For the whole tract there is rough all over, and unpleasant to see to; which [with?] craggie stones, hanging rockes, and rugged waies.' Modern climbers, however, find it hardly rocky enough for them, at least above ground, and have been driven to invent a new variety of climbing--the subterranean. Exploration of the numerous _potholes_ which honeycomb the limestone hills has of late years become a favourite pastime, and, in truth, it combines science with adventure to a marked degree. Any one who tarries for any length of time among these Yorkshire dales should read Mr. H. Speight's handsome volume, which gives a very complete account of the beauties and the curiosities which they have to show. =Cross Fell=, in Cumberland, long enjoyed the reputation being one of the highest mountains in England, and as late as 1770 its height was calculated at 3,390 ft., which is some 500 ft. more than it is entitled to. It was earlier than most English mountains in becoming the object of scientific curiosity, and an account of it will be found in the _Gentleman's Magazine_ for 1747. It is chiefly celebrated for the Helm Wind originating from it. =Cumberland= is the premier climbing county. The best centres are _Wastdale Head_, _Rosthwaite_ or _Seatoller_, _Buttermere_, _Keswick_ and _Eskdale_. The cream of the climbing is on those fells which are composed of rocks belonging to what is called 'the Borrowdale Series,' such as _Scafell Pillar_, _Gable_, _Bowfell_, and as a rule the finest climbs are found on the sides which face the north and east. _Cross Fell_ does not belong to the same mountain-system as those just mentioned, and offers little climbing. The best cliffs on the coast are about _St. Bees_ Head. =Cust's Gully=, on Great End.--To the large and increasing number of men who visit the Lakes in winter, perhaps no climb is better known than this. In the spring of 1880, a party, including one of the greatest of lady mountaineers, and over twenty members of the Alpine Club, ascended this 'very interesting chimney or couloir, which, being filled with ice and snow, gave unexpected satisfaction. There is a very remarkable natural arch in this couloir, which Mr. Cust claims to have been the first to discover, and he was therefore entrusted with the guidance of the party.' The orthodox approach is by way of Skew Gill, which is conspicuous at the right hand on nearing Sty Head from Wastdale. A short distance beyond the head of this gill our gully is seen rising on the right, marked by the conspicuous block of stone. Being, as the Scotch say, 'back of the sun,' this gully often holds snow till comparatively late in the season. Indeed, in winter, it is sometimes so much choked with snow that the arch disappears, and it is even said that self-respecting climbers, who recognise that a gully ought to be followed with strictness, have felt bound to reach the block by tunnelling, instead of walking over the top. In the spring of 1890 there was a tremendous fall of stones, by which the gully was nearly filled. Except in snow time, loose stones are an objection, and many find it more interesting to ascend by a small gully, almost a branch of 'Cust's,' on the right hand. As climbs neither of them will compare with the more eastern gullies. =Dale=: curiously used in Derbyshire for each separate section of a river valley, which elsewhere would form only one dale. =Dalegarth Force=, in Cumberland, near Boot, in Eskdale. The wall on the north side of this extremely pretty little fall is very low; but, being granite, offers one or two problems to the climber. _Stanley Gill_ is another name for the same place. =Dartmoor=, a high upland moor, forming a vast reservoir, from which most of the Devonshire rivers are fed. It is curious rather than beautiful, and more interesting to the geologist, the antiquary, and the fisherman than it is to the mountaineer. Yet it is instructive even to him, for the frequency of rain and mist and the paucity of landmarks which can be seen more than a few yards off, coupled with the necessity of constantly watching the ground, render it one of the easiest places in the world in which to lose one's way in any but the finest weather. There are no true hills, but here and there a gradual rise of the ground is seen, with a lump or two of granite grotesquely planted on the top of it. These are the _Tors_. As a rule they are very small, but often present problems to the climber, and are seldom without interest of some sort. A great many may be reached from Tavistock or the little inn at _Merivale Bridge_. =Dead Crags= (C. sh. 56) are lofty but disappointing rocks on the north side of Skiddaw. There is perhaps 500 ft. of steep crumbly rock, something like _Hobcarton_. =Deep Gill.=--The name is not infrequent; for example, there is one on the south side of _Great Gable_, east of the _Napes_, but now it is always called _Hell Gate_. The Deep Gill is on _Scafell_, and falls into the _Lord's Rake_. The first mention of it was made in August 1869 by Mr. T.L. Murray Browne, who wrote in the Visitors' Book at Wastdale Head: 'The attention of mountaineers is called to a rock on Scafell on the right (looking down) of a remarkable gill which cleaves the rocks of Scafell and descends into Lingmell Gill. It looks stiff.' The rock alluded to is the _Scafell Pillar_ and the gill is _Deep Gill_. It is well described by Mr. Slingsby in the _Alpine Journal_, vol. xiii. p. 93: 'After a couple of hundred steps had been cut in the snow in Lord's Rake and at the bottom of Deep Gill, which joins the former at right angles, we reached the first block--a large rock perhaps 15 ft. square--which overhangs the gill, and so forms a cave. Below the rock the snow was moulded into most fantastic shapes by occasional water-drips from above. At the right hand of the big rock a few small stones are jammed fast between it and the side of the ravine, and they afford the only route up above the rock. These stones can be reached from the back of the little cave, and occasionally from the snow direct. Hastings--who is a very powerful fellow and a brilliant climber--and I got on the stones, as we did last year. He then stood on my shoulder, and, by the aid of long arms and being steadied by me, he reached a tiny ledge and drew himself up. Mason and I found it no child's play to follow him with the rope. Some two hundred more steps in hard snow brought us to the only place where we could attack the second block. Here three fallen rocks stop the way, and on the left hand is the well-nigh ledgeless cliff which terminates far away overhead in the Sca Fell Pinnacle, or Sca Fell Pillar. On the right a high perpendicular wall effectually cuts off the gill from the terraces of Lord's Rake. On the left hand of the gill a small tongue of rock, very steep, juts out perhaps 40 ft. down the gully from the fallen block nearest to the Pinnacle wall, and forms a small crack, and this crack is the only way upward. From a mountaineer's point of view the stratification of the rocks here is all wrong. The crack ends in a chimney about 20 ft. high, between the wall and a smoothly polished boss of rock. Hastings, still leading, found the crack to be difficult, but climbed it in a most masterly way. All loose stones, tufts of grass and moss, had to be thrown down, and, in the absence of hand and foot hold, the knees, elbows, thighs, and other parts of the body had to do the holding on, whilst, caterpillar-like, we drew ourselves upward bit by bit. The chimney is best climbed by leaning against the Pinnacle wall with one's back and elbows, and, at the same time, by walking with the feet fly-like up the boss opposite. From the top of the boss a narrow sloping traverse, perhaps 12 ft. long, leads into the trough of the gill. With a rope this is an easy run; without one it would not be nice. A stone thrown down from here falls over both blocks and rolls down the snow out of the mouth of Lord's Rake on to the screes far away below. The crack, chimney, and traverse, short distance though it is, took us about an hour to pass. The climb from Deep Gill to the gap from which the Pinnacle is ascended is a very good one, which two men can do much better than one. The Pinnacle itself from the gap is perhaps 25 ft. high, and is really a first-rate little climb, where the hands and the body have to do the bulk of the work.' [Illustration: DEEP GILL, SCAFELL (The Lower Pitch)] The date of Mr. Slingsby's attempt was March 2, 1885, and that of his successful ascent March 28, 1886: but as early as 1882 this climb had been made, piecemeal, by the present writer, who, however, never, so far as he can remember, blended the different items into a continuous climb until the summer of 1884, when he descended the whole length of the gill in company with Mr. Chr. Cookson, of C.C.C., Oxford. A yet earlier descent of the gill had been made at Easter 1882 by Messrs. Arnold Mumm and J.E. King, of the same college, who found such a phenomenal depth of snow that the obstacles were buried, and they were able to walk from end to end without using their hands. The same thing happened again in January 1887, when Messrs. Creak and Robinson were able to walk up over both pitches without having even to cut a step. The lower pitch may also be passed by using a recess resembling one half of a funnel in the red rock of the vertical south wall of the gill. The worst part of this is where you leave the funnel and begin to coast round in order to re-enter the gill. The space comprised between the two pitches can be entered very easily by passing round the foot of the _Scafell Pillar_, or with much more difficulty down the vertical south wall. The upper pitch may be passed in two ways, besides the incline. One is by means of a narrow side gully, the upper stage of which is most easily passed by following the ridge which divides it from the main gill. The third way is the most direct and the most difficult, lying between the incline and the great block. Mr. Owen Jones seems to have invented it in the year 1892, and took up a party by it on that occasion with the assistance of a good deal of snow, and another party in the month of August 1893, when there was no snow at all. There is no more fashionable winter climb than _Deep Gill_, and about Christmas time the clink of the axe echoes among its crags from dawn to dusk. It is reached from Wastdale Head in about an hour and a half. The shoulder of _Lingmell_ has first to be rounded, and it makes little difference either in time or fatigue whether this be done comparatively high up or by taking the high road to the bridge near the head of the lake or by an intermediate course. At any rate, a long grind up _Brown Tongue_, in the hollow between _Lingmell_ and _Scafell_, cannot be avoided, and when the chaos called _Hollow Stones_ is reached a vast outburst of scree high up on the right hand indicates the mouth of _Lord's Rake_. After a laborious scramble up this scree the rake is entered, and only a few yards further the lower pitch of Deep Gill is seen on the left hand. =Deep Gill Pillar.=--See _Deep Gill_ and _Scafell Pillar_. =Derbyshire= is well endowed in point of rock scenery, but it is not really a climber's country. The rocks are of two kinds--the Limestone, of which Dovedale may be taken as a type, and the Millstone Grit, which prevails further north. The former shows many a sharp pinnacle and many a sheer cliff, but is often dangerously rotten, while the latter assumes strange, grotesque forms, and, when it does offer a climb, ends it off abruptly, just as one thinks the enjoyment is about to begin. It is, nevertheless, much more satisfactory than the limestone, and many pleasing problems may be found on it, especially in the neighbourhood of the _Downfall_ on _Kinder Scout_. For this Buxton or Chapel-en-le-Frith is of course a better centre than Matlock. =Devonshire.=--The inland climbing in this county is very limited. Of granite there are the _Tors_ of Dartmoor and the Dewerstone near Plymouth, and there is a remarkably fine limestone ravine at Chudleigh, but there is little else worthy of mention. But the coast of Devonshire is exceptionally fine, and perhaps no other county can show such a variety of fine cliffs. At _Beer Head_ we have chalk; at _Anstis Cove_, _Torbay_, and _Berry Head_ limestone; at _Start Point_ and _Stoke Point_ slate. For bold cliff scenery few parts of the Channel can rival the piece between _Start Point_ and _Bolt Tail_. On the north coast of Devon there are many striking cliffs. Among them may be noticed _Heddon's Mouth_, _Castle Rock_ (at Lynton), some rocks about Ilfracombe, the granite cliffs of _Lundy_, _Hartland Point_; in fact much of the coast from Clovelly right away to Bude in Cornwall is remarkably fine. =Dixon's Three Jumps=, on Blea Water Crag (High Street, Westmorland), so called from the famous fall here of a fox-hunter about the year 1762. Perhaps no one ever fell so far and yet sustained so little permanent injury. As an instance of 'the ruling passion strong in death,' or at least in appalling proximity to death, it may be mentioned that, on arriving at the bottom, he got on his knees and cried out, 'Lads, t' fox is gane oot at t' hee eend. Lig t' dogs on an' aa'l cum syun.' He then fell back unconscious, but recovered, and lived many years after. Another Dixon fell while fox-hunting on Helvellyn in 1858, but was killed. There is a monument to him on Striding Edge. =Dodd=: a round-topped hill. The word is common in the Lowlands and in the North of England. It is often said to mean a limb of a larger mountain, but Dodd Fell in Yorkshire would alone refute this, being the highest hill in its neighbourhood. =Doe Crag=, in Eskdale (C. sh. 74), is a bold rock, long reputed inaccessible, low down on the north side of the approach to _Mickledoor_ from the east. The Woolpack in Eskdale is the nearest inn. The rock, as a climb, is very inferior to its namesake at Coniston (see _Dow Crag_). =Door Head=, the _col_ between _Yewbarrow_ and _Red Pike_. There is capital scree here, and a very rapid descent into Mosedale may be made by it. Men who have spent the day on the Pillar sometimes return to Wastdale Head round the head of Mosedale, and wind up by racing down these screes from the _col_ to the stream below. The distance is about 650 yards, and the perpendicular drop about 1,200 ft. Anything less than five minutes is considered very 'good time.' =Doup=: any semicircular cavity resembling half an egg-shell (N. of Eng.). =Dow= (or =Doe=) =Crag=, in Lancashire, lies just west of _Coniston Old Man_, being only divided from it by _Goat's Water_. The climbing here is second to none. There are three or four superb gullies. Perhaps the best is in a line with the head of the tarn and the cairn on the _Old Man_, and another scarcely, if at all, inferior is nearly opposite a very large stone in the tarn. The first ascent of one was made by Mr. Robinson and the writer in the year 1886; that of the other by a party including Messrs. Slingsby, Hastings, E. Hopkinson, and the writer in July 1888. The last-mentioned (with indispensable aid from the rope) afterwards descended an intermediate gully of terrific aspect. [Illustration: DOE CRAG, CONISTON The lowest pitch of the central gully. The top of the wedged block is reached by mounting the shallow scoop on the left of the picture, and then coasting round into the gully again.] Towards the foot of the tarn the gullies are much less severe. Above is an illustration of the first pitch of the gully climbed in 1888. Mr. Hastings led up the shallow crevice seen on the left of the picture, and on reaching the level of the top of the pitch contoured the intervening buttress into the chimney again. This is no easy matter and required great care. =Dunald Mill Hole.=--One of the earliest descriptions of a '_Pothole_' will be found in the 'Annual Register' for 1760, where this curiosity is treated of at some length. It is a good specimen of a common type, and lies between Lancaster and Carnforth. =Dungeon Gill=, in Langdale, deserves mention in any treatise on British climbing, inasmuch as the poet Wordsworth has made it the scene of an early deed of daring performed by an idle shepherd boy-- Into a chasm a mighty block Hath fallen and made a bridge of rock, The gulf is deep below. The gulf and the mighty block are both there still; but there is more pleasure in seeing the former than there is excitement in crossing by the latter. =Eagle Crag.=--Rocks of this name are pretty numerous in the North of England, and, like the 'Raven Crags,' are, as might be expected, always bold and precipitous. _On Helvellyn._--Canon Butler, in his article on the Lakes in 1844, which appeared in _Longman's Magazine_, describes in an amusing manner an adventure which he had on this rock. It is on the right-hand side of the track from Patterdale to Grisedale Hause. _In Easdale_ (W. sh. 17).--This is easily found by following up the stream which runs into Easdale Tarn. There is not more than 200-300 ft. of crag, and much of it is very rotten, but with pretty bits of climbing here and there. Grasmere is the only place from which it is conveniently reached. _In Greenup_ (C. sh. 75) is as noble a rock as can be found in England. As seen from Borrowdale near Rosthwaite it has the appearance of two huge steps of rock, but the steps are really separate rocks, one behind the other--Eagle Crag and Pounsey Crag. Large portions of each of them are quite unclimbable, and much of them is too easy to be worth doing, so that the amount of interesting climbing to be met with is less than might be expected. Close by is Longstrath, where there is a little work which may be combined with this (see _Blea Crag_ and _Serjeant Crag_). The foot of Eagle Crag is reached from Rosthwaite or Seatoller in less than an hour. =Eagle's Nest=--one of the ridges of the _Napes_ lying between the _Needle_ and the _Arrowhead_. On April 15, 1892, Messrs. Slingsby, Baker, Solly, and Brigg ascended it and found it extremely difficult for 150 ft. At one point, about on a level with the top of the _Needle_, there is room for one person to sit down, and here the second man on the rope joined the leader and gave him a shoulder up. To this place they gave the name of the _Eagle's Nest_, and it is almost the only point at which any material help can be given to the leader. The part just above this they considered the stiffest part of the climb; but when they reached a patch of grass just below a slanting chimney the difficulties moderated. From the bottom to where the ridge joins the _Needle Ridge_ they took two hours and ten minutes. =Eel Crag.=--The word 'Eel,' we are told, is identical with 'Ill,' which is seen in _Ill Bell_ and the numerous _Ill Gills_, and means 'steep.' If so the name ought to be more frequent in the Lake country than it is, and it might be suggested that in some cases 'eagle' may have been worn down to 'eel.' There are two crags of the name in Cumberland, not very far apart. _In Coledale._--These rocks are steep, but too much broken up to be really worth a visit on their own account. However, after _Force Crag_ has been tried, these are conveniently near. _In Newlands_ (C. sh. 70).--Among the rocks which flank Newlands on the east much good material may be found. One is reminded a little of the Wastwater Screes, but of course these are not on anything approaching that scale. The greatest height of the craggy part is only about 400 ft. =Eight-foot Drop.=--On the Pillar Rock is the passage from the ridge of the _Curtain_ down onto the lower part of the _Steep Grass_. It figures in some of the earlier accounts as a formidable feature of the ascent. Nowadays it is known how much easier it is to keep on the flank of the curtain, and only leave it when at the top of the chimney which runs up from the head of _Steep Grass_. No 'drop' is, in fact, necessary; but the climb, though not in any sense difficult, is generally regarded as a good test of neatness of style. =Ennerdale.=--For a valley which not only is one of the largest and most impressive in the Lake country, but contains moreover a share of the most perfect mountain in broad England--Great Gable--and all of the most famous rock--the Pillar--singularly little is popularly known of Ennerdale. But, when we consider that the place is one which is, or should be, hallowed to all devout Wordsworthians as the scene of one of the finest productions of their poet, the thing becomes incomprehensible. To begin with, the guide-books have never done it justice. In area of paper covered with descriptions of it English Lakeland is probably many square miles ahead of any equal portion of the earth's surface. But guide-book writers love to stand upon the ancient ways; and any one who takes the trouble to compare West or Otley with the works of to-day must admit that, except in matters of detail, the advance has been incredibly small. The public are better judges of accuracy than of enterprise, and what pleases the public pays. These gentlemen, therefore, worthy and painstaking as they are, share to some extent in the narrow aspirations of the hireling, and, indeed, we are tempted to believe that their motives in shunning Ennerdale were not wholly foreign to the character of him who 'fleeth because he is afraid,' for they have brought up a terrible report of the dale. If, however, this has been a wise precaution on their part, a means of deterring any inquirer from exposing their want of energy, it has been rewarded with a large measure of success. Here is an inviting prospect for a timid traveller: 'Ennerdale Lake ... is so wild in the character of its shores and in its position among the mountains as to have caused more terrors and disasters to strangers than any other spot in the district. At every house from Wastdale Head to Ennerdale Bridge stories may be heard of adventures and escapes of pedestrians and horsemen in Mosedale and the passes of Black Sail and Scarf Gap' (Whellan's 'History of Cumberland,' 1860). Can it be wondered at that, in the face of such terrors as this, very few people find their way into Ennerdale, except those who with fear and trembling cross the head of it on their way between Buttermere and Wastdale Head? Every guide-book, indeed, mentions Ennerdale and the Pillar by name, because it gives an opportunity for quoting the well-worn lines from 'The Brothers,' after which a few meagre remarks may be expected to follow on the 'Pillar Mountain,' the 'Pillar Rock,' and 'Ennerdale Lake,' expressions of which not one, strictly speaking, is correct, for the proper name of the first is beyond all doubt 'Pillar _Fell_,' 'mountain' being an innovation of tourists and guide-book writers, who between them have made 'Pillar _Rock_' sound more familiar than the genuine name 'Pillar _Stone_,' and have almost ousted 'Broadwater' in favour of 'Ennerdale Lake.' Printed authorities are scanty, because Ennerdale is of very recent discovery. The early guide-books simply know nothing about it. West (1778) does not mention it, and the gifted authoress of that touching poem 'Edwina' did not even know how to spell its name: But chiefly, Ennersdale, to thee I turn, And o'er thy healthful vales heartrended mourn, Vain do thy riv'lets spread their curving sides While o'er thy glens the summer zephyr glides. And yet Mrs. Cowley was by no means indifferent to such points. Indeed, we owe the origin of this exquisite poem to her etymological zeal and to her desire to immortalise the brilliant suggestion that the name 'Wotobank' was derived from some one having once said, 'Woe to this bank!' It may even be that the spelling is a symbolical subtlety--a kind of refinement on 'word-painting' intended to shadow forth to less poetic minds, by the sinuosity of the superfluous 's,' the unique manner in which the rivulets of this happy valley are wont to 'spread their curving sides.' One of the earliest visitors to Ennerdale appears to have been the artist Smith, of Derby (1767), who sketched the lake, as did also Wilkinson in 1810. Wordsworth had been there before 1800, and Green's description shows that he was much struck by the scenery of upper Ennerdale. But, though visitors to Ennerdale have been and still are few, most of these few speak highly of its beauties, 'partly perhaps,' says Mr. Payn, 'in consequence of their having endured certain inconveniences (with which they are anxious that you should also become acquainted) when belated in that lovely spot.' The dale is not without its associations. Formerly it was a deer forest, the property of the Crown by forfeiture from the father of the ill-fated Lady Jane Grey. The Sandford manuscript speaks enthusiastically of 'the montaines and fforest of Innerdale, wher ther is reed dear and as great Hartts and Staggs as in any part of England. The bow-bearer is a brave gentleman.' But it is now many years since the last of the herd was destroyed, and no one living can remember the days when Ennerdale could show--what in almost any landscape is a crowning beauty--the stately figure of a great red stag. Certainly an element of romance has here been lost; but how can that be felt so long as here and there some aged man survives to keep green among the dalesmen the memory of 't' girt wild dog'? The stories told of this remarkable animal would fill volumes and form a highly interesting study in contemporary mythology; and yet, when we consider the state of unparalleled excitement into which the whole countryside was thrown at the time, and the assiduity with which it has ever since been talking over the events of that stirring period, we shall find cause to wonder, not that the story in some of its details should have acquired a slight legendary flavour, but rather that the great bulk of the incidents narrated should be so thoroughly well authenticated. Certainly it is a lesson in faith, and makes it easier to credit stories such as that which Ovid tells with so much spirit of the Calydonian boar; for if in the days of modern firearms a dog can defy a large district and kill a couple of sheep a day for nearly half a year together, there is less reason for doubting that in old days an amount of destruction and devastation which would not discredit a modern minister could be wrought by the unaided exertions of one malevolent pig. For months the dog was hunted and shot at, but seemed to lead a charmed life; in the excitement farming operations were terribly neglected, until at last, in the person of John Steel of Asby, arose the modern Meleager. Many a story is told of that exciting time, and one especially has hit the fancy of the dale. Until recently the custom was that fox-hunts should take place on one particular day of the week--a day the selection of which for a Southern meet would, however convenient, be regarded with considerable surprise. Possibly this custom was held to govern dog-hunting also; for one Sunday, as the Rev. Mr. Ponsonby (probably the identical 'homely priest' who is mentioned in 'The Brothers') was conducting Divine Service, the attentive cars of the congregation caught the sound of some commotion without, followed by the rush of hounds and the panting of human lungs. There could be no mistaking these signs. A faint murmur passed round the sacred building, 'T' girt dog!' and in an instant the reverend gentleman was the only male within the walls. A moment's pause, and then female sympathy and female curiosity triumphed, and the other and better half of the congregation disappeared. The story goes in Ennerdale (but for this we decline to vouch) that the aged pastor, casting a sorrowful glance upon the empty benches, hastily adjusted the robes of his office, and ere the last petticoat had fluttered from the porch was in full career to join the headlong hunt. For five months Ennerdale had been in a state of convulsive excitement, for the first and last time, it is said, 'syn t' Flud'; the honour of having enlivened the dale is fairly divided between the Deluge and the Dog. To see Ennerdale as it should be seen, and to get a clear idea of the surrounding district, there is no better plan than to mount from Buttermere to Red Pike--the Rigi of Cumberland--and from there follow with eye and, if necessary, map the following account of a 'run,' telling how 'oald Jobby o' Smeathat tallyho't a fox ya Sunday mworning, just as day brak, oot ov a borran o' steeans, abeunn Flootern Tarn, i' Herdas end; an' hoo it teukk ower be t' Cleugh gill an' t' hoonds viewt him sa hard 'at he teuk t' Broadwater an' swam 'cross t' hee end on't, an t' dogs went roond an' oop t' Side Wood ... an' they whisselt him oop be t' Iron Crag, an' be t' Silver Cwove an then throo t' Pillar, an' a gay rough bit o' grund it is. Hoo he shakt 'em off a bit theer, an' they at him agean an' meadd o' ring amang t' rocks. Hoo they ran him roond be Black Sail, an' Lizza hee faulds an' clam oot be t' Scarf Gap an' on to t' Wo' heead an' they beeldit 'am onder t' Brock Steeans an' he was seaff aneugh theer.' With or without the fox-hunt this view from Red Pike is magnificent, yet there are several others which run it very close. What, for instance, can be better, just at the clearing of a shower, than the look-out from the Pillar Fell on the opposite side of the valley? From the gloom and grandeur around it the eye travels right along to the smiling green of the open country beyond the lake bordered by a line of glittering sea. This view has one drawback in that you cannot at one time be looking both from the Pillar and at it; but then it is hardly possible to enter Ennerdale at all without seeing this rock, the real glory of the valley, from many effective points; and, moreover, no day there is complete without a quiet half-hour spent in floating on the lake about sunset; for, whether it be due to the westerly lie of the dale or to some other cause, the fact remains that the Ennerdale sunsets are not to be beaten among the Lakes. By the early morning light the upper part of the valley should be explored, and the marvellous view enjoyed from Haystacks: from the 'bulky red bluff of Grasmoor' on the right to the dark recess of Mosedale half seen upon the left all is beautiful; separated from Crummock and Buttermere, which are both well seen, by the steep Red Pike range, Broadwater throws in a dash of life to relieve the desolation of upper Ennerdale, while the richly coloured screes of Red Pike sweep down in striking contrast to the forbidding frown of the Pillar Fell. We have seen a fine water-colour sketch which renders this view with great fidelity. It has additional interest as the work of the first amateur who ever scaled the Pillar Stone--Lieut. Wilson, R.N. The scenery of Ennerdale, however, would not long have remained beautiful if the Ennerdale Railway Bill, promoted in 1883 and 1884, had been suffered to pass into law. That scheme was happily defeated, and the only modern touches added to the dale have been the galvanised wire railings recently erected along the sky-line, and the blue indicators set up on the Black Sail and Scarf Gap track. =Eskdale.=--There are two dales of the name in Cumberland, but the only one which is of interest to mountaineers is reached by the little railway from Ravenglass. Lodgings, largely used by Whitehaven people, are to be had, but the most convenient inn is the Woolpack, about a mile up the valley from the terminus of the line. From no place can _Scafell_, _The Pikes_, or _Bow Fell_ be more easily explored, while the Coniston range is quite within reach, and the Wastwater _Screes_ are more accessible than they are from Wastdale Head. The valley itself is only second to Borrowdale, and there are grand falls and deep pools in the Esk. There are also some good rocks, though not quite equal to the description of Hutchinson, who says that 'Doe Cragg and Earn Cragg are remarkable precipices, whose fronts are polished as marble, the one 160 perpendicular yards in height, the other 120 yards.' Both of these will be seen on the way up to _Mickledoor_, the former standing on the right-hand side at the foot of the steep ascent. It is strange that so few climbers ever go to this valley. =Esk Pike=, a name given by the shepherds to a peak of 2,903 ft., which stands at the head of the Esk valley. Being left nameless by the Ordnance six-inch map, it has attracted to itself the nearest name it could find, and is very commonly called _Hanging Knot_, which, in strictness, applies only to the north shoulder of Bow Fell, where it hangs over Angle Tarn. It would save some confusion if this name had a wider currency than it has. At the head of Eskdale there is a rather good gully, which was climbed at the end of September 1892 by Messrs. Brunskill and Gibbs, whose account of it is that 'its direction is W.N.W., and it consists first of a short pitch of about 10 ft.; then a slope of 20 ft. at an angle of 60°-65°, the holds in which are fairly good; and, last, another pitch at a somewhat similar angle, with an awkward corner of rock to round. Above this to the top is an easy scramble.' =Fairfield= (2,863 ft.), in Westmorland, sometimes called Rydal Head in old books, stretches down to Grasmere and Ambleside; but it is from Patterdale that it should be seen and climbed. One of the best things on it is _Greenhow End_, which stands at the head of Deepdale. The steep part, which is not wholly crag, is 400 or 500 ft. high, and faces N.E. This is the mountain which Miss Martineau so greatly longed to ascend, and every one knows Mr. Payn's account of how he encamped upon it. There is another _Fairfield_ in the Coniston Fells. =Falcon Crag=, a couple of miles from Keswick, beside the road to Borrowdale, is not more than 150 or 200 ft. high, but at many points so vertical as to be quite unclimbable. The steepest side is also the most exposed to the public gaze. On the south side there is a deep gully in which excellent scrambling is to be had. =Fellpole= is a much better word than its foreign equivalent, 'alpenstock'. Except in the depth of winter on the highest fells it is of much more use than an axe, which is, of course, indispensable when there is much snow or ice. On difficult rocks either axe or pole is a great incumbrance; but where there is much scree, or steep grass, or broken ground, all three of which abound on the Fells, a pole is a very great comfort on the descent. Of course, while being used for this purpose, it must be kept behind the body. On the steep nose of _Fleetwith_ a fatal accident occurred to a young woman solely in consequence of her attempting to descend with her stick held improperly in front of her. This is a fault which nearly all beginners commit. Nevertheless, it is perfectly legitimate to use the pole in that way if it is to break the force of an abrupt drop from rest to rest--as, for instance, when a slope is broken into binks separated by drops of from three to six feet. In such cases a jump is often dangerous, and the life of Mr. Pope, lost on _Great Gable_ in 1882, is only one of many which have been similarly sacrificed. =Force Crag= is reached from Keswick by way of Braithwaite station and the long _Coledale_ valley. Here the track of the disused mining tram is a well-engineered road direct to the foot of the crag, where the fragments of the baryta mine are littered about. The best climb is up to the basin, into which pours the force, and then, leaving the force on the right, ascend a steep, dry gully. The rock is very treacherous, being not only loose, but covered with long fringes of rotten heather. It is very difficult to get out, as the top part steepens rapidly. The force is very fatal to sheep. On one occasion the writer counted no less than six of their carcasses in the basin. =Froswick.=--It is most easily reached from Staveley or Windermere by following up the valley of the Kent, or from Ambleside by crossing the Garbourn Pass into the same valley. This hill resembles _Ill Bell_ and _Rainsborrow Crag_ in character, and has a very steep face towards the north-east, 300 or 400 ft. high. It is on sheet 20 of the Ordnance map of Westmorland. =Gaping Gill Hole=, in Yorkshire, on the south side of _Ingleborough_, is most easily got at from Clapham, on the Midland Railway. It lies higher up than the well-known _Clapham_ or _Ingleborough Cave_, and both should be visited in the same expedition. The actual funnel is about 8 ft. by 20 ft., and Mr. Birkbeck, of Settle, partly descended it many years ago. There is a ledge of rock about 190 ft. down, from which a plumb-line drops a further distance of 166 ft. Strangers often pass close to the place without finding it. =Gash Rock.=--We are indebted to Colonel Barrow for this name, which he bestowed on _Blea Crag_ in Langstrath apparently for no better reason than that he knew a man called Gash, who did not know the name of the rock, or how to climb it. This rock is the 'spy fortalice' spoken of in Prior's Guide. It is an upstanding block of squarish outline, conspicuous on the left hand as one ascends Langstrath from Borrowdale. It is climbed from the side which faces down the valley, and is rather a stiff little rock of its inches. It was climbed by Mr. Owen Jones and Mr. Robinson on September 6, 1893, but there is some doubt whether it had not been done before (see _Blea Crag_). =Gavel=--apparently the local form in the North of England of the Southern 'Gable.' In the older maps 'Great Gable' is usually spelt in this way, and for part of that mountain the name _Gavel Neese_ (i.e. nose) still lingers among the shepherds. Generally speaking, in the less frequented parts, where the names are used only by the shepherds, we find this form. Thus we have _Gavel Fell_ between Loweswater and Ennerdale, _Gavel-pike_ on St. Sunday Crag, _Gavelcrag_ on the south end of _High Street_, and again on _Seat Sandal_, and this form is used in the Lowlands of Scotland, while on the more frequented _Skiddaw_ we get _Gablegill_. In Icelandic, 'gafl' is said to mean 'the end of a house or of a ship.' =Gill= (or _Ghyll_).--In a large part of the North of England this is the regular word for a stream flowing between walls of rock. It is by many regarded as a test-word for Scandinavian settlements, and it is certainly more abundant in such districts, but notice should be taken of the fact that in Kent it is applied to the steep wooded slopes of a brook-valley. There is good authority for both spellings, but the less romantic of the two is to be preferred. =Gimmer Crag=, just behind the inns at _Dungeon Gill_ in _Langdale_, has good scrambling on it. Mr. Gwynne says of it: 'Between _Harrison Stickle_ and the _Pike O' Stickle_, commonly called the _Sugarloaf_, there is a splendid crag that is full of opportunities. This fine piece of rock, although it has the appearance of being easy, has the disadvantage of being wet, and therefore more or less dangerous. However, there are times even in the Lake District when the rain ceases and the sun shines, and it is then that the climber should gambol upon this crag.' =Glaramara=--a long broken hill stretching from Stonethwaite along the east side of Borrowdale to Esk Hause. Its name is only less disguised than its nature in the description given of it in the 'Beauties of England,' p. 65: 'Glamarara is a perpendicular rock of immense height.' Sir W. Scott has confused it with _Blencathra_. It contains very little climbing, but _Combe Gill_ and _Pinnacle Bield_ may be mentioned. =Gordale Scar=--a magnificent limestone ravine near _Malham Cove_, in Yorkshire, on the line of the great Craven Fault. Bell Busk is the nearest station, but Settle (6 miles) is generally more convenient. It has been prosaically compared to a winding street between enormously high houses, with a river falling out of the first-floor window of one of them. It is easy to pass out at the head, leaving the water on the right hand; but on the other side of the water there is quite a little climb, which, however, the writer has seen a lady do without assistance. =Goyal.=--This west-country word for a gully will not require explanation for readers of Mr. Blackmore's 'Lorna Doone.' =Grain=: the northern word for a prong, and hence the usual name for the branches of a stream. =Grassmoor= (2,791 ft.) in the older maps and guide-books (such as Robinson's) is often called Grasmere or Grasmire. The only climbs which it presents are on the side which drops steeply down towards the foot of Crummock Water, and the only inns within a convenient distance are at Scale Hill (1 mile) and Buttermere (3 miles). There are two gullies which furrow the mountain side nearly from top to bottom. The more southerly of these has two pitches in it close to the foot, and the upper of the two is generally thought as hard as anything on the mountain. The approved method of doing it is to keep the back to the rock until the top of the pitch is nearly reached, and then to break out on the south side. Above this pitch the gully is of little interest. The north gully is of more sustained merit, but, as seen from below, less prominent, and therefore easily overlooked. It may, however, be recognised by its liberal output of scree. It has three pitches near the foot, and in all three the hold is somewhat scanty. The first forms a narrow gully rising from left to right, and is the highest and hardest. Higher up than these a broad wall of rock some 40 ft. high cuts across the gully and gives a pretty climb. Above the wall there is a branch to the left containing one little pitch, but the main channel continues. Loose stones are now the only source of excitement, and climbers are recommended to get out to the right and finish the ascent along the rocky ridge of the bank. It is very safe climbing on this face, yet full of interest and instruction, and for the initiation of a 'young hand' nothing could be better. =Great End= (2,984 ft.) has not received justice at the hands of the Government map-makers, who have scamped their work most shockingly. The six-inch map would lead the innocent, stranger to imagine that he could ascend from Sprinkling Tarn by a smooth and gradual slope. The cliffs are on the right-hand side on the way from Sty Head to Esk Hause, and are reached from Wastdale or Borrowdale by way of Sty Head, and from Langdale by Rossett Gill. The best general view is from Sprinkling Tarn. Col. Barrow, when citing Great End in his book as an instance of a mountain with one impossible side, no doubt refers to these cliffs, which, however, long before he wrote, had been climbed in every direction. He might reasonably object to _Cust's Gully_, invented in 1880, as being quite at the end of the cliff; but from a point some way below the foot of that gully there is an easy passage, sloping up the face of the cliff very much like Jack's Rake on _Pavey Ark_, and this passage was descended by Mr. Cust in the same year that he discovered the gully. A little later a couple of ardent fox-hunters got into difficulties in one of the main gullies, and so drew more attention to these rocks. The whole face was pretty thoroughly explored by the present writer in the summer of 1882. Two very fine gullies face Sprinkling Tarn. _Great or Central Gully_, the nearer of the two to _Cust's_, is also the wider, but not quite so long as the other. It has a copious scree at the foot, and more than half-way up it divides into three. The central fork is grassy, that to the right is more abrupt, while the left-hand way lies for several yards up a wet slide of smooth and very steep rock. On the slide itself there is hold enough for comfort; but on getting off it at the head to the left hand there comes a bit on a disgustingly rotten buttress which even good climbers have often found very unpleasant. Above this the gully is more open and very easy, but splendid climbing may be had on either side of it. [Illustration: GREAT END FROM SPRINKLING TARN A, Position of _Brigg's climb_ (not seen); B, The east gully; C, The great central gully; D, _Cust's gully_.] _The South-East Gully_, as it is usually called, has its mouth only some 20 yards east from that of the last. Being much narrower, it is bridged by numerous 'choke-stones,' and, while less fine than the other in snow time, offers in summer a better and rather longer climb. Half-way up or less there is a fork, the dividing ridge forming quite a sharp _arête_. Above it the forks coalesce, and as it nears the top the climb can be varied a good deal. _Brigg's_ (or _Holmes'_) _Pitch_, of which a photograph will be found in the Climbers' Book at Wastdale Head, is still nearer to Esk Hause, which it faces. Mr. Holmes and the Messrs. Brigg, who climbed it on Easter Monday 1893, describe the difficulty as consisting in a cave formed quite at the foot of the cliff by a jammed stone, the top of which is reached by way of the rocks on the north side of it. =Great Gable= (2,949 ft.) may be ascended with equal ease from Wastdale or the head of Borrowdale, and is within easy reach of Buttermere. The simplest way up is by Sty Head, from which half an hour's rough walking lands one on to the top. The only alternative for Wastdale is 'Moses Sledgate,' alias _Gavel Neese_, a ridge of rather steep grass, which offers a very direct way. There is a bit of scrambling on White Napes, a rocky mass which tops the Neese. Beyond this _Westmorland's Cairn_ is left on the right hand and the summit cairn comes into sight. People coming from Buttermere usually go round the head of Ennerdale over Green Gable, and this is the way generally taken by Borrowdale visitors for the return journey. The climbing on this mountain is quite first-class. The _Napes_, _Napes Needle_, and _Kern Knotts_ are separately described, but in addition to these there are grand crags overlooking Ennerdale. These are referred to in Col. Barrow's book in the passage where he defies the Alpine Club to ascend the most difficult side of certain Lake mountains. [Illustration: PLAN OF GREAT GABLE A, _Westmorland's Cairn_; B, _White Napes_; C, E, _Little and Great Hell Gate_; D, _Great Napes_; F, _Napes Needle_.] [Illustration: GREAT GABLE FROM THE SOUTH-EAST A, _Kirkfell_; B, _Beckhead_; C, _White Napes_; D, _Great Napes_; E, _Westmorland's Cairn_; F, Summit; G, _Tom Blue_; H, _Kern Knotts_. The path to _Sty Head_ is seen mounting from left to right.] No one seems even to have looked at these crags till in 1882 Mr. Pope met his death on this side of the mountain. In that year the writer found that it was an easy matter to coast along the face of the cliff at about two-thirds of the height of it, and a year or two later that for all the ferocious appearance of these rocks there is a natural passage by which a mountain sheep of ordinary powers might ascend them. Close to this are the remains of a sort of hut of loose stones, evidently the refuge of some desperate fugitive of half a century or more ago. Local tradition speaks of a notorious distiller of illicit whisky, who was known to have a 'hide' somewhere in this wild neighbourhood. The top of the easy passage bears by prismatic compass 23° from the highest cairn, and is marked by a large stone. To the east of this spot there is fine climbing, the rocks being on a grand scale and difficult on that account. At intervals large masses are detached by such agencies as frost, and heavy falls result. One of these carried with it a slab pinnacle which, though only about 15 ft. high, was remarkably difficult. The writer, and Messrs. Hastings and Robinson gave themselves the trouble of climbing it, and consequently heard of its untimely departure with deep regret. In April 1890 Mr. J.W. Robinson greatly assisted subsequent climbers by inserting a sketch in the Wastdale Head book, and this sketch has been the usual basis of later work. Gable has the threefold excellence of being splendid to look at, splendid to look from, and splendid to climb; and one can easily understand the enthusiasm of Mr. F.H. Bowring, who has ascended it over one hundred times. =Green Crag.=--A good piece of rock, though not as sound as it might be, at the head of _Warnscale_, the recess between _Fleetwith_ and _Scarf Gap_. It is reached from Buttermere by way of Gatesgarth, and then by the quarry track which goes up on the south side of Fleetwith to _Dubs_. There is a fine gully in the crag which is unmistakable. A note of the ascent of it was made by Messrs. J.W. Robinson and W.A. Wilson in August 1889. =Griff=--a valley-name in east Yorkshire, probably connected with 'greave,' which is common in Derbyshire. Phillips says that the Yorkshire word means 'a narrow, rugged valley.' =Gurnard's Head=, in Cornwall, not far from St. Ives, is a fine promontory on which there is good climbing. It is here that the greenstone ends and the granite begins, prevailing from this point practically right on to the Land's End. =Hanging Knot.=--See also _Esk Pike_. The steep breast above Angle Tarn contains no continuous climb, but there are several good bits in the rocks and gullies which connect the terraces. =Hard Knot.=--'Eske,' says Camden, 'springeth up at the foote of _Hardknot_, an high steepe mountaine, in the top whereof were discovered of late huge stones and foundations of a castle not without great wonder, considering it is so steepe and upright that one can hardly ascend up to it.' This refers of course to the Roman camp, which is nowhere near the top. The 'mountaine' scarcely deserves the name; it is not high, and though rugged offers no climbing. Writers much later than Camden refer to it as if it were one of the highest hills in England. Even Gray, in his _Journal_, says 'Wrynose and Hardknot, two great mountains, rise above the rest.' [Illustration: HANGING KNOT FROM ANGLE TARN] The usually accurate West introduces in the funniest way both 'the broken ridge of Wrynose' and 'the overhanging cliff of Hardknot' into his description of the view from Belle Isle on Windermere, and says that they, with others,'form as magnificent an amphitheatre, and as grand an assemblage of mountains, as ever the genius of Poussin,' &c.; and then adds a note to say that they 'are named as being in the environs, and are in reality not seen from the island.' =Harrison Stickle=, 'the next neighbour of _Pavey Ark_, is another happy hunting-ground for beginners. There are at least four good routes up. There is one to the north-east which is fairly difficult. Due south there are two or three rather steep gills, that may be climbed with a certain amount of ease. But in no case should the climber, even on the easiest of these routes, omit to use the rope and take every precaution against preventable accidents.' Thus speaks Mr. Gwynne in the _Pall Mall Gazette_, and to his remarks little need be added, except that it must be borne in mind nothing on this group is quite in the same class as _Pavey Ark_. The obvious starting-point for either is Dungeon Gill at the very foot, where there are two inns, but Grasmere is within easy reach, being only about an hour further off. =Hause= (_hass_, _horse_, _-ourse_, _-ose_): used in the North for a pass. The word means 'neck' or 'throat,' the latter being the sense most felt in local names, where it refers more to lateral contraction than to vertical depression, being thus parallel to _gorge_ rather than to _col_. =Haystacks=, just east of Scarf Gap, has one craggy bit on it where, as appears from the curious map published in the _Gentleman's Magazine_ for 1751, eagles then built. The name is often quoted as an instance of the Norse word which occurs in _Stack Polly_, and frequently on the Scotch coast, but West says it was called _Hayrick_ (_sic_) on account of its shape. =Hell Gate.=--A channel on _Great Gable_, just by the east end of the _Napes_. It is the outlet for immense quantities of scree. The older name, _Deep Gill_, has during the last twenty years being quite supplanted. The present name, if less pretty, is more precise, and saves confusion with the better known _Deep Gill_ on _Scafell_. =Hell Gill.=--There are many gills and becks bearing this name. Speaking of one in Yorkshire, Leland says it is 'a Bek called Hell Gill because it runnithe in such a deadely place. This Gill commithe to Ure.' The idea is amplified by Camden: 'Where Richmondshire bordereth upon Lancashire amongst the mountaines it is in most places so vast, solitary, unpleasant and unsightly, so mute and still also that the borderers dwelling thereby have called certaine riverets creeping this waie "Hellbecks." But especially that about the head of the river Ure, which having a bridge over it of one entier stone falleth downe such a depth, that it striketh in a certaine horror to as many as looke downe.' The best known Hell Gill, which at one time had considerable reputation as a climb, is quite near the foot of _Bowfell_ on the Langdale side. Though on a small scale, it is highly picturesque. The south fork is hardly passable in ordinary weather owing to a small waterfall, below which is a deep pool flanked by perpendicular walls of rock, and except in very dry seasons it is necessary to crawl up the red rotten slabs, steep, slimy, and wet, which form the north fork. The gill should be visited more often than it is, as it is directly on one of the best ways up the mountain from Dungeon Gill and Langdale generally. =Helm Crag.=--Colonel Barrow, speaking of this hill, observes that climbing among these rocks requires care. There are places quite as dangerous and as difficult as on any rock-work on the Alps. He was deterred from climbing the rock which is supposed to resemble a mortar, by a slab of rock slanting sideways, but in his opinion there was no great difficulty, except that arising from the absence of hold for hand and foot--an exception of some importance. =Helvellyn.=--A mountain which belongs equally to Grasmere and to Patterdale, though the latter has by far the finest side of it. _Striding Edge_ on this side was at one time considered to present terrors such as the hardy mountaineer was not likely to encounter elsewhere. This side is cut up into deep coves, which are exceedingly steep and afford many opportunities for scrambling, and near the path in Grisedale there is one of the numerous _Eagle Crags_. On the west side there is no climbing on the mountain itself, but on the range of _Dodds_, which runs away to the north, there is capital work to be found; see _Bram Crag_ and _Wanthwaite Crags_. It was in connection with Helvellyn that Colonel Barrow issued his famous challenge to the Alpine Club. After stating that he had ascended the mountain by every possible way of getting up it, and that it is the easiest of mountains to ascend from any direction that is possible, he continues: 'No one, I think, will venture the impossible, which may be found on all the highest mountains in the Lake District. They have their precipitous sides for adventurous climbers, who, I promise, will never get up them even if they have a mind to try--viz., these, _Great Gable_, _Great End_, _Helvellyn_, _Fairfield_, &c. Most of the difficult things in the Alps have been accomplished. Here is a new field for any of the adventurous climbers of our club: let them try these precipitous sides!' Helvellyn was long regarded as the loftiest of the Lake mountains, the height assigned to it by West being 3,324 ft., and even its tame grassy slopes towards _Wythburn_ were thought very terrible indeed. In the 'Beauties of England' Thirlmere is described as 'a scene of desolation which is much heightened by the appearance of the immense craggy masses, that seem to hang on the sides of Helvellyn, from whose slopes they have apparently been severed, but arrested in their tremendous progress down the mountain by the impulse of gravitation. Huge and innumerable fragments of rocks hang pendant from its sides, and appear ready to fall and overwhelm the curious traveller who dares to ascend its wild and fantastic heights.' =Heron Crag=, Eskdale.--A rock in _Eskdale_ (q.v.) which was long reputed inaccessible. It was supposed to be 120 yards high, and to have a front like polished marble. It will be found north of the Esk river, not far from _Throstlegarth_ (Cumberland, sheet 79). =High Level.=--This name was bestowed about the year 1880 on a particular route, by means of which the north-east foot of the _Pillar Rock_ may be reached from _Black Sail_ along the face of the mountain, thus avoiding the descent into Ennerdale and the subsequent laborious ascent to the rock. The saving in time is very considerable, but the way is so easily missed in thick weather that a stranger who attempted it would probably gain nothing but an exciting walk. After reaching the slight hollow between _Lookingstead_ and _Pillar Fell_, _Green Cove_ is seen below. Here a descent may be made at once, but it is better to proceed westward till about two dozen uprights of the iron railing are passed, and then to descend, keeping as much to the left as the cliffs will allow. The whole art of choosing a line along this face is to cross each successive cove as high up as may be done without getting impeded by rocky ground. The ridges which separate the coves mostly form small headlands, and just above each headland a strip of smooth grass crosses the ridge. Economy in time is usually of more importance at the end than at the beginning of a day, and it is well to know that, whereas from the foot of the rock to _Black Sail_ by way of the valley would take up the greater part of an hour, Mr. Hastings and the writer once timed themselves on the _High Level_, and found that they reached _Lookingstead_ in 18 minutes and the ford in Mosedale in seven minutes more. =High Stile=, in Cumberland, between Ennerdale and Buttermere, has a height of 2,643 ft., and on its north-west side a few good crags. It is best reached by following up the course of _Sour Milk Gill_ from the foot of Buttermere to _Bleaberry Tarn_, which can be reached from any of the inns in an hour's walking. In a note made in the Wastdale Head book in August 1887, Mr. Robinson called attention to these rocks, and he it is who has done most of the exploration here. The principal climbing is in and about a gully in the centre. A course may be taken up very steep grassy binks with the gully on the right hand. The gully itself was climbed direct in September 1893 by Messrs. Jones, Robinson and Wilson, and they found the second pitch very difficult. The same party also ascended 'a short, black-looking chimney away round on the left of the great crag, and nearer the top of the mountain.' The very hard upper pitch was passed on the right hand, and the final pull was by the arms alone. Both climbs are in full view from Rigg's Buttermere Hotel. The mountain is called _High Steel_ in some early maps, and in that of the Ordnance it comes on sheet 69. =High Street=, with the Roman road running all along its ridge, lies between Patterdale and Mardale Green, in Westmorland. It has a fine precipitous side towards the latter place at Blea Water (see _Dixon's Three Jumps_), and at the south end of it, about Gavel Crag and Bleathwaite Crag, there are some good rocky faces, which can be readily found by following up the course of the beck from Kentmere. =Hobcarton Crags= have a considerable repute, which they have only retained by reason of their not being very easily got at. The simplest way of reaching them from Keswick is to take the train to Braithwaite, then go up the straight Coledale until Force Crag is passed, then trace the stream which comes down the hill on the right. Hobcarton is just over the ridge, and the crags are on the left-hand side of the valley. A descent may be made of a ridge which forms the right bank of a gill, which runs from near the col where you are now standing; the gill itself is too rotten. The _Crags_ are very steep and very rotten; but there is one curiosity about them, in the shape of a continuous sloping ledge, growing very narrow indeed towards the top. It rises gradually in the direction of _Hopegillhead_. The crags are picturesque, but can be traversed in any direction without difficulty, and present no definite climb. Another way of reaching them from Keswick is by crossing Whinlatter Pass, and on the far side turning up the first valley to the left hand. =Honister=, one of the grandest crags in Cumberland, is reached from either Buttermere or Borrowdale. It is one of the chief attractions of the 'Buttermere Round' made by the breaks from Keswick. If quarrymen could only have been persuaded to let it alone, it would have been a delightful climbing ground; as things are, we can only look and long. Apart from the great crag there is a fine view of the lakes below from the summit (called _Fleetwith Pike_). Owing to its position near the black-lead mines, this was one of the earliest Lake mountains of which we have a recorded ascent. It was made before the middle of last century, and, so far as can be made out, these early mountaineers ascended from Seathwaite and passed to the northward of _Grey Knotts_, and so to the top of Fleetwith. 'The precipices were surprisingly variegated with apices, prominencies, spouting jets of water, cataracts and rivers that were precipitated from the cliffs with an alarming noise' [Sourmilkgill]. On reaching the apparent top, they were astonished to perceive a large plain to the west, and from thence another craggy ascent, which they reckoned at 500 yards. 'The whole mountain is called _Unnisterre_ or, as I suppose, Finisterre, for such it appears to be.' In about another hour two of the party gained this summit--'the scene was terrifying--the horrid projection of vast promontories, the vicinity of the clouds, the thunder of the explosions in the slate quarries, the dreadful solitude, the distance of the plain below, and the mountains heaped on mountains that were lying around us desolate and waste, like the ruins of a world which we only had survived excited such ideas of horror as are not to be expressed. We turned from this fearful prospect, afraid even of ourselves, and bidding an everlasting farewell to so perilous an elevation. We descended to our companions, repassed the mines, got to Seathwayte, were cheerfully regaled by an honest farmer in his _puris naturalibus_, and returned to Keswic about nine at night.' =Hope= (_-hop_, _-up_): used by Leland as equivalent to 'brook,' but usually taken to mean a retired upland valley. The Icelandic 'hop' is applied to landlocked bays. =Hough=--a hill name in east Yorkshire. Phillips says that it is equivalent to 'barf,' and means 'a detached hill.' It is pronounced 'hauf.' If this be the exact sense, it can hardly be the same word as 'heugh,' which is used further north for 'crag' or 'precipice,' and it is perhaps merely another form of 'how' or 'haugh.' =How= (_-oe_, _-ah_, _-a_, _-haw_): a Norse word for a burial mound, found all over the North of England. =Ice-axe.=--On the high Fells in time of snow an axe is a safeguard of vital importance. Quite apart, too, from the comfort and security which it alone can give, it is an implement which can only be properly manipulated after long practice, and consequently a beginner should eagerly avail himself of every opportunity of acquiring dexterity in the use of it. From Christmas to Easter there is nearly always snow enough on the fells of Cumberland to give excellent practice in step-cutting. =Ill Bell.=--A Westmorland hill forming a series of three with _Froswick_ and _Rainsborrow Crag_. Its north or north-easterly face is very steep for a height of about 300 ft. Staveley is perhaps the best starting-point for these three; but they can be managed quite easily from Ambleside or Mardale Green. _Ill Bell_ is on sheet 20 of the Ordnance map of Westmorland. =Ingleborough=, 2,361 ft., one of the most striking of the Yorkshire mountains, of which the poet Gray spoke as 'that huge creature of God.' Readers of the 'Heart of Midlothian' will remember how it reminded Jeannie Deans of her 'ain countrie.' The most exaggerated ideas of its height formerly prevailed. Even in 1770 it was commonly reckoned at 3,987 ft., and Hurtley actually gives 5,280 ft. Its top is only about four miles from Clapham, and ponies can go all the way. It is ascended far and away more frequently than any other Yorkshire hill, and consists mainly of limestone cliffs and slopes of shale, with a certain amount of millstone grit. Here are some very remarkable caves (see _Alum Pot_ and _Gaping Gill Hole_), and of some of these there is an early description by Mr. Adam Walker in the _Evening General Post_ for September 25, 1779, which is quoted by West, and an account of an ascent of it made in the year 1761 is also extant. =Jack's Rake= is a natural passage across the face of _Pavey Ark_ in Langdale. The first notice ever taken of it by any but shepherds was a note in the visitors' book belonging to the inn at Dungeon Gill by Mr. R. Pendlebury, who spoke highly of it, considering it to be a striking yet simple excursion among magnificent rock scenery. After a time the world came to look at _Pavey Ark_, and seeing an impossible-looking combination of ravine and precipice, concluded, not unnaturally, that it must be what Mr. Pendlebury had found a pleasant yet simple stroll. Under this delusion, they began to try to climb what is now known as the Great Gully in _Pavey Ark_, and did not expect to find a place anything like the real _Jack's Rake_. Mr. Gwynne, in 1892, says of it: 'Along the face of the cliff there runs a ledge that looks from below hardly wide enough for a cat to stand upon. However, if an attempt is made to climb it, it will be found wide enough for two fat men walking abreast. Towards the top it tapers off again, and the climber will have to do a bit of scrambling to get on to the summit of the precipice. This is a climb which offers no difficulty whatever, unless the climber is given to attacks of giddiness, and if that is the case there will hardly be any need to tell him that he has no business there at all. This ledge, however, offers a multitude of good opportunities to the climber. It runs obliquely across the face of the precipice, but it need not necessarily be followed throughout its length by the mountaineer who wishes for something a little more exciting. 'About halfway up there runs on to the ledge a chimney which, when it is not a small waterfall, forms a pleasant climb to some broken rock above, whence the summit is easily reached. If, however, the water in the chimney makes it uncomfortable and unpleasant for the climber, he may still arrive at the top of it by choosing a long bit of steep smooth rock to the left. There are two cliffs which afford fairly good hand and foot holds, and from there the top of the chimney is attained.' It is remarkable that a gallery more or less resembling this is found on many of the chief precipices in the Lakes. There is a steeper one on the Ennerdale Crags of _Great Gable_; there are two on the Ennerdale face of the _Pillar Rock_, and on _Scafell_ the _Rake's Progress_ and _Lord's Rake_ in their mutual relation closely resemble this rake and the wide gully at the north end of it. [Illustration: PAVEY ARK AND STICKLE TARN A, Narrow gully; B, Big gully; C, D, Smaller gullies; E, Wide scree gully. From the foot of E to A runs _Jack's Rake_.] =Kern Knotts= are on the south side of _Gable_, close to the _Sty Head_. There is a short but difficult gully here on the side facing Wastdale, which was climbed by Messrs. Owen Jones and Robinson in 1893, but described by them under the name of _Tom Blue_, a rock much higher up the mountain. =Keswick.=--Though rather too distant from the very best climbing, this is an excellent centre in point of variety. Of _Skiddaw_ and _Saddleback_ it enjoys a monopoly, while _Helvellyn_, _Gable_ and _Scafell Pikes_ are all within the compass of a day's work. The railway is a convenience, of course, but not as useful as one might expect in extending the field of operations, because most of the places to which it goes are of little interest. The town is very well supplied with driving facilities, such as coaches, breaks and omnibuses. The clay-slate of which the Skiddaw and Grassmoor groups are composed provides climbing of smaller quantity and inferior quality to that found among the harder rocks of what is called the 'Borrowdale Series,' but there are a few good scrambles west of Derwentwater, such as _Eel_ (or _Ill_) _Crag_, _Force Crag_, and _Hobcarton_. The nearest good rocks are in the neighbourhood of _Wallow Crag_, but there is no pleasure in climbing with a crowd of gaping excursionists below. A much pleasanter day may be spent in a visit to _Wanthwaite_. Of Keswick itself an early writer says that the poorer inhabitants subsist chiefly by stealing or clandestinely buying of those who steal the black-lead, which they sell to Jews and other hawkers; but whatever changes the character of the people has or has not undergone, it is not easy to believe that the scenery is the same as that which the early writers describe. Camden's tone is neutral: 'Compassed about with deawy hilles and fensed on the North side with that high mountaine _Skiddaw_ lieth _Keswike_;' but two centuries later, when the place began to be fashionable, this description would not have satisfied any one. The great characteristic of the scenery was considered to be its power of inspiring terror. Dr. Brown in his famous 'Letter' dwells upon the 'rocks and cliffs of stupendous height hanging broken over the lake in horrible grandeur, some of them a thousand feet high, the woods climbing up their steep and shaggy sides, where mortal foot never yet approached. On these dreadful heights the eagles build their nests, ... while on all sides of this immense amphitheatre the lofty mountains rise round, piercing the clouds in shapes as spiry and fantastic as the very rocks of Dovedale.... The full perfection of Keswick consists of three circumstances, _beauty_, _horror_ and _immensity_ united.' =Kirkfell= has two fine buttresses of rock at the back, facing Ennerdale, but they are broken up and so only fit for practice climbs. They are, however, not unfrequently assailed by climbers who imagine themselves to be scaling the crags of Great Gable. The direct ascent from Wastdale is one of the steepest lengths of grass slope to be found among these hills. The only gully on this fell is _Illgill_, which faces _Lingmell_ and contains two or three severe pitches. It is rather seldom visited, and is exposed to falling stones. =Lancashire.=--Though some of the rough country which borders on Yorkshire contains a rocky bit here and there, Lancashire climbing has no real interest except in that part of it which belongs to the Lake country. The climax of this part is reached in the neighbourhood of _Coniston_. South of the Lakes there are some limestone crags of striking form. The impression produced on Defoe by what we consider the exceptionally beautiful scenery of the Lune valley is curious. 'This part of the country seemed very strange and dismal to us (nothing but mountains in view and stone walls for hedges; sour oatcakes for bread, or clapat-bread as it is called). As these hills were lofty, so they had an aspect of terror. Here were no rich pleasant valleys between them as among the Alps; no lead mines and veins of rich ore as in the Peak; no coal-pits as in the hills about Halifax, but all barren and wild and of no use either to man or beast.' =Langdale.=--(See _Bowfell_, _Pavey Ark_ and _Pike o'Stickle_, _Gimmer Crag_, _Harrison Stickle_, _Oak How_.) By many thought the finest valley in Westmorland; the name is often written Langden or Langdon by old authorities. Dungeon Gill has always been a favourite haunt of climbing folk, and from this base strong walkers can easily manage to reach _Scafell_, _Gable_, _Coniston_, _Old Man_, or _Helvellyn_ in the day. =Limestone= is abundant in Derbyshire and Yorkshire, and forms the fine cliffs of Cheddar in Somerset, Berry Head in Devon, Anstis Cove and others; indeed most of the south coast of Devon and Cornwall east of Penzance is of this material. Chudleigh Rock and Morwell Rocks on the river Tamar are very striking. West, speaking of this rock in Lancashire, says, 'The whiteness and neatness of these rocks take off every idea of _horror_ that might be suggested by their bulk or form.' In England it is very rare to find limestone which is a satisfactory material on which to climb. =Lingmell=, called _Lingmoor_ by Wilkinson, is a mere shoulder of Scafell Pike. It has, however, some fine cliffs facing those of _Great Napes_ on Gable; between these two Housman thought a collision imminent. These used to be thought inaccessible, but were climbed by Mr. Bowring about 1880. There is a striking view of them from near Sty Head. The eye looks right along the dark ravine of Piers Gill, which is apparently overhung by the long line of these crags, rising from tongues of rock divided by huge fan-shaped banks of scree. There is a good deal of chance about the climbing here. It may be exciting, or you may just happen to avoid what difficulties there are. It is a very treacherous rock, especially low down, where curious long stone pegs are lightly stuck in the ground and come away at the first touch. A few feet below the top stands a curious pinnacle of forbidding appearance, of which a sensational photograph has been taken; but Mr. Robinson found one side from which the top is reached with ridiculous ease. Further west there are gullies facing Kirkfell which are worth climbing, though there is much unsound rock. (See also _Piers Gill_.) [Illustration: LINGMELL AND PIERS GILL] =Lingmoor=, rather over a mile south-east of Millbeck Inn, and near Oak How, is a little pinnacle of which a photograph and a description by Mr. H.A. Gwynne will be found in the Climbers' book at that place. In old maps the name is sometimes found applied to _Lingmell_. [Illustration: LORD'S RAKE AND RAKE'S PROGRESS A, The foot of _Moss Gill_; B, The foot of _Steep Gill_; C-D, _Lord's Rake_; C-A, Part of _Rake's Progress_.] =Lord's Rake.=--A well-known scree-shoot in the north face of Scafell, for the ascent of which from Mickledoor it offers an easy route without climbing. The earliest account of its being used for this purpose is in the _Penny Magazine_ for 1837 at p. 293: 'It is very laborious and looks dangerous, but in fact there is no risk except that of a sprained ankle. It is through the Lord's Rake, a shaft between two vertical walls of rock about five yards across all the way up, and twenty or twenty-five minutes' hard climbing on all fours up a slope of about 45°. The place must have been cut out by a watercourse, but is now dry and covered with light shingle. It looks right down into Hollow Stones (the deep vale between the Pikes and Scafell), and most fearful it does look, but it is not dangerous. When we reached the inn at Eskdale over Scafell my shepherd was very proud of having brought me through the Lord's Rake, and the people were much surprised. It seems to be rather a feat in the country. It is the strangest place I ever saw. It may be recommended to all who can bear hard labour and enjoy the appearance of danger without the reality.' 'Prior's Guide' contained the first good description of this rake. =Luxulion=, in Cornwall, is of interest to the mineralogist and the travelled mountaineer on account of its enormous block. According to Mr. Baddeley, this is the largest block in Europe, larger than any of the famous boulders at the head of the Italian lakes, and it may take rank with the largest known, the Agassiz blocks in the Tijuca mountains near Rio Janeiro. He gives the dimensions as 49 feet by 27 feet with 72 feet girth, yet makes no allusion to the _Bowder Stone_ in _Borrowdale_, which in another work he describes as being 60 feet long, 30 feet high, and weighing 1,900 tons. It would appear, therefore, that the _Bowder Stone_ is considerably larger than the largest stone in Europe without being so remarkable for size as another stone in England. =Malham Cove.=--A fine example of the limestone scenery of the Craven Fault. The river Aire gushes forth from the base of the cove, which can easily be seen in the same excursion as _Gordale Scar_. The nearest town is Skipton-in-Craven and the nearest station Bell Busk, but Settle is very little farther and will generally be found the most convenient starting-point. =Mardale Green=, at the head of Hawes Water, is a delightful and little visited spot. In the way of climbing it commands _High Street_, _Harter Fell_, _Froswick_, _Ill Bell_, and _Rainsborrow Crag_. The best near climbs are about _Bleawater_ and _Riggindale_. =Mellbreak.=--One of the few Cumberland fells which the indefatigable Colonel Barrow seems to have left unvisited; yet no one who stops at Scale Hill or Buttermere will consider wasted a day spent upon it. The proper course is to begin at the end which faces Loweswater village and ascend by _Frier's Gill_, a nice little climb. Having reached the top of the gill and then the summit plateau, proceed to the hollow about the middle of the mountain, and from there descend the highly curious _Pillar Rake_, which gradually slopes down towards the foot of Crummock Water. It is not a climb, but any one who is not content with the study of mountain form can find climbing in the little gullies which ascend the rocks above the rake. Sheet 63 of the Ordnance map of Cumberland contains it. =Mickledoor Chimney=, in the cliffs of Scafell, is not the easiest, but the most obvious point at which to attack them. It is conspicuous from the _Pikes_, and would probably be selected by any experienced stranger as the most vulnerable point. It was visited about the year 1869 by Mr. C.W. Dymond, who contributed to 'Prior's Guide' the earliest and best description of it. He says that, 'leaving _Mickledoor_ Ridge, you pass the fissure leading to _Broad Stand_, and continue descending steeply for two minutes, which brings you to a narrow gully in the rock, with a thread of water trickling down it over moss. This is the _cheminée_ to be ascended, and there is no special difficulty in it until you are near the top. Here the gully, of which the 'chimney' forms the lower section, is effectually blocked for some distance, and the only alternative is to climb out of it by the rock which forms the right wall, and which is about 12 ft. high, the lower six vertical and the upper a steep slant. This, which can only be scaled _à la_ chimney-sweep, is exceedingly difficult, as is also the gymnastic feat of escaping to _terra firma_ from the narrow shelf on which the shoulder-and-hip work lands you.' This is very clear and in the main correct, but there is another and easier exit much lower down called 'the Corner,' and there is a third exit only a few feet from the mouth of the chimney. All these are on the right hand, for the opposite bank is not only much higher and much smoother, but would lead to nothing if it were surmounted. It is not really necessary to enter the chimney at all, for the edge presented where the bank cuts the wall bounding the screes is quite assailable, and just right of it there is a point which may even be called easy; but two terrible accidents which have occurred at this spot prove the necessity of care. Until the extraordinarily dry season of 1893 the moss-grown block at the very head of the chimney had never been climbed. It was accomplished on the 12th of September by Mr. W.H. Fowler. By standing on the shoulders of a tall man he was able to reach a slight hold and to establish himself on a rough rectangular block forming the floor of a recess big enough to hold one man. The block above it was holdless, and overhanging and loose stones were a great nuisance. =Micklefell.=--The highest mountain in Yorkshire, but except on that account it possesses no special attraction. The best starting-point is the High Force Inn in Teesdale, 5 miles from Middleton. By making the round of the mountain from High Force to Appleby some very fine rock-scenery may be enjoyed. =Millstone grit.=--A material which is very abundant in Yorkshire and Derbyshire. It is fairly firm, but seldom affords a climb of any sustained interest. Few kinds of rock weather into such eccentric forms, and of this propensity _Brimham Rocks_ are a good example. It forms most of the 'Edges' in Derbyshire, and generally speaking a precipice at the top of a hill is of this material, while those at the foot are of limestone. =Moses' Sledgate= is a curious track, which has evidently been engineered with considerable care, running from near Seatoller in Borrowdale at the back of _Brandreth_, round the head of Ennerdale below _Green_ and _Great Gable_, and then over Beck Head and down Gavel Neese into Wastdale. The question is, who made it and for what purpose was it used? A few years ago, the writer, while climbing with two friends among the crags on the Ennerdale side of _Great Gable_, stumbled quite by chance on something which seemed to throw a side-light on the question. This was a ruined hut thickly overgrown with moss, and showing no trace of any wood having been employed in its construction. The spot had evidently been chosen primarily with a view to concealment, and the result of enquiries kindly made since then by one of my friends has been to elicit proof of certain traditions still lingering among the older inhabitants of these dales concerning a noted distiller of illicit spirits, who flourished and defied the law among these wild retreats. At the same time it is not easy to believe that a smuggler would have undertaken the construction of such a path as this. In the South of England, it is true that the smugglers were considerable roadmakers; but that was at a time when smuggling was a great and well-organised institution, and it seems much more probable in this case that Moses made use of an old path constructed for some purpose which had at that time been abandoned. The terms 'Moses' Path' and 'Moses' Trod' are also used to describe this track. It is not noticed in the guide-books, but something is said about it by Mrs. Lynn Linton. =Moss Gill=, on Scafell, is the next gully on the east or _Mickledoor_ side of _Steep Gill_. The name _Sweep Gill_ ('from the probable profession of the future first climber of its extraordinary vertical chimneys') was suggested for it by Mr. Gilson shortly after its discovery, but that name has been entirely superseded. The first mention of it in the Wastdale Head book is a note by the present writer in June 1889, recommending it to any one in search of a new and difficult climb. His party on that occasion was repulsed after reaching the great blocks, which have only been passed since by the aid of the artificial step subsequently cut in the rock. It was tried again a fortnight later by a party under Mr. R.C. Gilson, which got very nearly, but not quite as far. Two days later the same party explored the gill from above and descended in it for a considerable distance. It was not, however, till three and a half years later, at Christmas, 1892, that the climb was accomplished by Dr. J.N. Collie, G. Hastings, and J.W. Robinson, and their account of it is: [Illustration: MOSS GILL AND STEEP GILL A, _Moss Gill_ (Collie's exit); B, _Moss Gill_ (Collier's exit): C, Top of _Steep Gill_. Just below the point to which A and B converge is the artificial step.] 'The chief points in this climb are, First--to begin on the rock wall to the right of the foot of the gill and not in the very foot of the chimney itself, then enter the gill just below the first great pitch, which may be turned by climbing the wall on the right hand on to a grass ledge of considerable size, called the "_Tennis Court_"; enter the gill from here again, and pass into the cavern under the great boulder.' 'We found,' says Dr. Collie, 'that below the great slab which formed the roof, another smaller one was jammed in the gully, which, stretching across from side to side, formed the top of a great doorway. Under this we passed and clambered up on to the top of it. Over our heads the great rock roof stretched some distance over the gill. Our only chance was to traverse straight out along the side of the gill, till one was no longer overshadowed by the roof above, and then, if possible, climb up the face of rock and traverse back again above the obstacle into the gill once more. This was easier to plan than to carry out; absolutely no hand-hold, and only one little projecting ledge jutting out about a quarter of an inch and about two inches long to stand on, and six or eight feet of the rock wall to be traversed. I was asked to try it. Accordingly, with great deliberation, I stretched out my foot and placed the edge of my toe on the ledge. Just as I was going to put my weight on to it, off slipped my toe, and if Hastings had not quickly jerked me back, I should instantly have been dangling on the end of the rope. But we were determined not to be beaten. Hastings' ice-axe was next brought into requisition, and what followed I have no doubt will be severely criticised by more orthodox mountaineers than ourselves. As it was my suggestion I must take the blame. _Peccavi! I hacked a step in the rock_--and it was very hard work. But I should not advise any one to try and do the same thing with an ordinary axe. Hastings' axe is an extraordinary one, and was none the worse for the experiment. I then stepped across the _mauvais pas_, clambered up the rock till I had reached a spot where a capital hitch could be got over a jutting piece of rock, and the rest of the party followed. We then climbed out of the gill on the left, up some interesting slabs of rock. A few days later the gill was again ascended by a party led by Mr. J. Collier. They did not follow our track to the left after the overhanging rock had been passed, but climbed straight up, using a crack which looks impossible from down below, thus adding an extra piece of splendid climbing to the expedition.' Only four days after Dr. Collie, a party of five climbers, led by Dr. J. Collier, made the second ascent of Moss Gill. The description given by their precursors was of great assistance, and except that the gill was entered much lower, the same line was followed up to the traverse from the great boulder. Here, instead of climbing out to the sky line on the left side, the ascent of the gill itself was completed by climbing the vertical moss-grown wall on the right. This part was entirely new, and Dr. Collier's note of his variation, or we may say correction, for his climb is the more direct of the two, is that the ascent of the wall was made by using the cleft of the gill for about 15 ft., when a resting place was reached. Above this point they climbed about 15 ft., and then traversed out on the face of the wall for about 8 ft. by some ledges which afforded just sufficient hold. They then ascended vertically about 6 or 8 ft., re-entering the cleft above a small platform of jammed stones ('Sentry Box'). This gave a starting-point for the completion of the ascent, which was made by climbing out on to the face of the wall to enable the jammed stones at the top of the pitch to be turned. These last stones did not appear to be secure and were avoided. From this point the gill continues upward at an easy slope, with one pitch of about 15 ft. to the back of the small summit on the left of _Deep Gill_. Two days later the ascent was repeated by Dr. Collier in company with Professor H.B. Dixon and the late Professor A.M. Marshall, the latter of whom inserted in the Climbers' book a remarkably bold and effective outline sketch of the gill, with explanatory notes. Speaking of the climb, he said that Mr. Collier led throughout, and that the success of the climb was due entirely to him. The climb is a very fine one, and, except for the leader, is entirely free from danger. At the very awkward return from Tennis Court Ledge into the gully, the leader can by a short traverse fix himself directly above the rest of the party. During the traverse from the 'window' the leader can fix the rope over the 'belaying-pin.' In the great chimney the _Sentry Box_ is a place of absolute safety. The climb is difficult, but no part of the chimney is harder than the short rock face leading up to Tennis Court Ledge, and the most awkward traverse (if covered with snow) is the one from Tennis Court Ledge back into the gully. For a party of three 80 ft. of rope would be enough; 100 ft. perhaps better. On January 9, 1893, Mr. O.G. Jones attacked this formidable climb entirely by himself, following Mr. Collier's route up to the foot of the Great Chimney, and then Mr. Hastings' exit to the left. Heavy snow had fallen since the previous ascents and the climb appeared to be exceedingly difficult. Almost every hold had to be cleared of snow; essential precautions rendered the climb of five hours' duration, and it was not completed till after dark (5.45 p.m.). While clearing snow from the more remote portions of the _Collie traverse_ from the _window_, in search of the third step, the difficulty of balancing proved too great, and he fell into the gully below. A rope had been secured round the _window_ and thus prevented his passing beyond the snow patch on which he fell. The _window_ 'sill,' already loose, was on the verge of falling, and was therefore pushed over into the gully. Returning two days later, he found that the two lowest chimneys in the gill could be taken straight up, and that the simplest way of reaching Tennis Court Ledge is by 'backing up' the chimney till the level of the recess in the right-hand face is reached. 'The recess is near enough to be taken with a stride. It would seem that the Tennis Court Ledge and traverse back into the gully may be entirely dispensed with by continuing up the chimney, the small jammed stones being firm enough to render the necessary assistance. While making these suggestions concerning small details in the climb, it may be mentioned that at the _Collie traverse_, which the writer's experience leads him to think is the most dangerous piece in the gill, an axe may be of much help to a party. A man fixed on the _window sill_ may press the point of the axe into a conveniently placed notch in the slab facing him, so that the lower end of the handle shall supply a firm hand-hold for any one stretching round the third step. _Heights calculated by Mr. Jones._ Foot of Gill on Rake's Progress 2,625 ft. Snow Patch below Tennis Court Ledge 2,805 " Tennis Court Ledge 2,840 " Foot of jammed stone pitch 2,870 " Window in jammed stones 2,895 " Snow patch above 2,920 " Top of left-hand exit 3,140 " Top of Moss Gill proper 3,170 " It must, however, be borne in mind that these measurements, though useful for the purposes of comparison, cannot be absolutely correct, seeing that Scafell itself is only 3,162 ft. high. On February 11 Messrs. Slingsby, Woolley, and R. Williams found the gully very difficult owing to ice, and recorded an emphatic protest against any one following their example by attempting it, 'except when the rocks are dry and quite free from ice.' On the last day of March Messrs. Brunskill and Gibbs followed, with a slight improvement, Dr. Collier's route, and made the subjoined observations, taken apparently with greater care than those by Mr. Jones: Foot of Gill at Rake's Progress 2,570 ft. Snow Patch above jammed stones 2,865 " Top of Great Chimney or Moss wall 2,965 " Top of Gill (neck leading to Deep Gill Pisgah) 3,065 " It will be seen that while the points are all made lower than Mr. Jones's table, the height between the commencement of the climb and the snow patch above the jammed stones is exactly the same--295 ft. In this case an observation was taken at the cairn on the top of Scafell, and the aneroid stood at almost exactly the correct figure, which somewhat confirms the figures now given. =Napes.=--A collection of fine rocks, starting up like a stack of organ pipes on the south side of _Great Gable_. The extremity of them nearest to _Kirkfell_ is called _White Napes_, and sometimes Gable Horn. East of this is a gap known as _Little Hell Gate_. East of this comes _Great Napes_, and east of them again is _Great Hell Gate_, which is called Deep Gill in the Ordnance map. In September, 1884, a note by the present writer in the book at Wastdale Head drew attention to these excellent rocks. They are now one of the most favourite climbs in Wastdale, and contain the well-known _Needle_, the _Bear Rock_, and the _Arrowhead_, with their respective gullies and _arêtes_. Just west of _Hell Gate_ there is a considerable width of very large and steep rock, which continues nearly to the _Needle Ridge_, with only a few steep and shallow gullies, in which the grass is very rotten. West of this ridge there is a deep gully, grassy, but exceedingly steep. The ridge beyond this was ascended in April, 1892, by Messrs. Slingsby, Baker, Solly, and Brigg, who called it the _Eagle's Nest_ (q.v.). The narrow gully west of this ridge is apparently that which was climbed on December 29, 1890, by Mr. R.C. Gilson. He describes it as 'the gully on the left as you face the mountain of the gully coming down left of the _Needle_.' He proceeds to say that it presented no special difficulty, except at a point about one-third of the way up, where there was a large boulder and a smooth slab thinly glazed with ice. It was claimed as a first ascent when climbed on April 17, 1892, by Messrs. Solly and Schintz. West again of this is the ridge of the _Arrowhead_ (q.v.). We are here getting near the end of _Great Napes_, which are separated on the west from _White Napes_ by the scree gully which is called _Little Hell Gate_. =Napes Needle.=--A rock of very striking form, which, by an eminent mountaineer, has been compared to a violon-cello. It stands at the foot of the _Needle Ridge_ in the _Napes_, and was first climbed by the writer about the end of June, 1886. The second ascent was made on March 17, 1889, by Mr. G. Hastings, and the third by Mr. F. Wellford on June 22, Mr. J.W. Robinson following on August 12 in the same year. [Illustration: NAPES NEEDLE FROM THE WEST A, _Needle Ridge_; B is reached from below by means of a deep crack which goes right through the rock. In order to get to C from B it is necessary to pass round behind to the crack seen at D, along which one may pass to C, and thence direct to the top.] Miss Koecher (March 31, 1890) was apparently the first lady to ascend. It was first climbed from the west; the way on the opposite side is perhaps less severe, but longer and more varied. The rock is frequently photographed, and an illustrated article on it appeared in the _Pall Mall Budget_ of June 5, 1890. =Needle Ridge= is that ridge of the _Napes_ on _Great Gable_ which is immediately behind the _Napes Needle_. It was discovered in 1884 by the writer and Mr. Robinson, and ascended by them in a somewhat desultory fashion; that is to say, they cut in from the east side nearly at the top of the difficult face which forms its lower extremity, and also avoided the topmost piece by passing over on to the easy terrace on the west side of the ridge. The _arête_ was climbed in a strict and conscientious manner for the first time by the writer in 1886. This was a descent, and apparently the first strict ascent was made by Messrs. Slingsby, Hastings Hopkinson, and a brother of the writer. =North Climb.=--The first to describe this climb on Scafell was Mr. Seatree, who says: 'From the ridge we traversed a ledge of grass-covered rock [the Rake's Progress] to the right, until we reached a detached boulder, stepping upon which we were enabled to get hand-hold of a crevice 6 or 7 ft. from where we stood. To draw ourselves up so as to get our feet upon this was the difficulty; there is only one small foot-hold in that distance, and to have slipped here would have precipitated the climber many feet below. Having succeeded in gaining this foot-hold, we found ourselves in a small rectangular recess, with barely room to turn round. From here it was necessary to draw ourselves carefully over two other ledges into a small rift in the rocks, and then traverse on our hands and knees another narrow ledge of about 8 ft. to the left, which brought us nearly in a line with Mickledoor Ridge. From here all was comparatively smooth sailing.' This climb had been made many years before (1869) by Major Ponsonby Cundill, R.E., who left his stick in the deep crack behind the ledge which Mr. Seatree traversed on his hands and knees. The stick was found in 1884 by Mr. Chas. Cookson. This ledge, by the way, should certainly be walked or at least sidled in an upright attitude, otherwise ungainly gambollings are necessary when the time comes for stepping off at the other end. The descent of the _North Climb_ is decidedly difficult, unless the ascent has been made just previously, and the climb whether up or down is an excellent test of style. A couple of yards to the left there is an alternative to the 'rectangular recess,' and it is known as the 'Rift.' It is to be done by a wild struggle. It was at one time the wetter and harder of the two ways, but the conditions are now reversed. =Old Wall.=--On the east side of the Pillar Rock a natural line of rock runs down to the head of _Walker's Gully_, having, however, a narrow passage by means of which sheep may reach the Low Man. A hundred years ago or more, the shepherds built a wall of loose stones to stop the sheep, and though little of the wall remains, the name clings to the spot. At one time the _North-east Route_ was usually spoken of as the _Old Wall Way_. =Patriarch.=--By this name the Rev. James Jackson, of Sandwith in Cumberland, was very widely known. It is an abbreviation of one which he himself invented and assumed--'Patriarch of the Pillarites.' Some considerable mention of him is made by Mr. Williamson, but his readers will be glad to have further particulars, for this was a man of no ordinary stamp. Born at Millom just before the series of naval victories which closed the eighteenth century, he passed his boyhood in the thick of the Buonaparte struggle and shared in it personally when a mere lad. However, he soon changed the colour of his coat and entered the Church; but long before his connection with the Pillar he had ceased to take any active part in his profession. Thenceforward he lived at his ease, amusing himself by rambles and scrambles far and near among the fells. 'I have knocked about,' he said himself, 'among the mountains ever since, till I may almost say "I knaw iv'ry craag."' That he was somewhat of an egotist cannot be denied. In his letters as in his poems his own feats form the burden of his song. To this point all topics converged with the same certainty that all roads are said to lead to Rome. He was never tired of relating how, for instance, in his sixty-ninth year he had one day walked 46 miles in 14-1/2 hours, on the third day following 56 miles in 18 hours, and after a similar interval 60 miles in less than 20 hours, thus accomplishing within one week three walks, any one of which might well knock up many a man of half his age; how, on another occasion, he had found two brethren of his own cloth struggling feebly to surmount the difficulties of Rossett Gill; how, taking pity upon their tender years, he had transferred their knapsacks to his own venerable shoulders and, striding on before, encouraged them to complete their weary task. A man aged between sixty and seventy might fairly plume himself on such an exploit. He also rejoiced greatly in the fact that he had been the first student of St. Bees College--a distinction of which, as he justly said, no one could ever deprive him. But the feat on which he especially prided himself was one of bodily activity. During the third part of a century he held the living of Rivington, near Bolton-le-Moors. It chanced that the weathercock of his church had become loose, and the masons rather shrank from the risk of going up to secure it. Here was an opportunity which our friend could not forego; and Rivington witnessed the unwonted spectacle of a beneficed clergyman of the Church of England solemnly swarming up his own steeple and making fast the vane 'under circumstances of terror which made the workmen recoil from the task, and the gazing rustics turn sick with horror at the sight!' While walking proudly back to his parsonage he composed a commemorative epigram which will bear quotation: Who has not heard of Steeple Jack, That lion-hearted Saxon? Though I'm not he, he was my sire, For I am 'Steeple Jackson'! Indeed, his fancy was as lively as his limbs were supple. He was ever on the watch for some analogy or antithesis; ever producing some new alliteration or epigram expressive of such contrasts as that between his age and his activity. His favourite description of himself was 'senex juvenilis'--an idea which he frequently put into English, e.g.: If this in your mind you will fix When I make the Pillar my toy, I was born in 1, 7, 9, 6, And you'll think me a nimble old boy. On the late Mr. Maitland, a well-known climber, as only second to himself in age and ardour, he bestowed the title 'Maitland of Many Mounts' and 'Patriarch Presumptive of the Pillarites.' There is nothing strange in his thus designating a successor and bestowing titles of honour; for these are matter of royal privilege, and he looked upon himself as the Mountain Monarch and always expected climbers to attend his mimic court and pay him homage. But he had many a high-flown alias besides. When Mr. Pendlebury came under his notice he contrasted himself with the Senior Wrangler, rather neatly, as the 'Senior Scrambler'; after his ascent of the Pillar he dubbed himself 'St. Jacobus Stylites'; and many other titles are introduced into the occasional poems on which he expended much of his ingenuity. His bodily powers were not allowed to rust away. 'My adopted motto,' he said, 'is "Stare nescio,"' and some idea of his boundless love of enterprise may be formed from one of his letters: 'I have been twelve months afloat on the wide, wide sea. I have been beneath the falls of Niagara. I have sung "God save the King" in the hall of St. Peter's; I have ascended Vesuvius in the eruption of 1828; I have capped Snowdon in Wales and Slieve Donard in Ireland, and nearly all the hills in this district.... It only remains for me to mount the Pillar Rock!' Before the end of the following May this hope was gratified, and a proud moment it was for this veteran climber when, seated serenely on the summit, he was able to record in a Greek inscription (written, as he carefully notes, 'without specs') his ascent of the famous rock. Think of the life, the energy, the determination that must have been in him! Years seemed to be powerless to check the current of his blood. Where are we to look for another of his age--he was now in his eightieth year--showing any approach to the same combination of enterprise, pluck and bodily vigour? It cannot be wondered at that his success filled him with the keenest delight. He wrote off at once in high glee to his friends and felt quite injured if, in their reply or their delay in replying, he detected any sign of indifference to his exploit. But true to his motto 'Stare nescio,' he was not content with this. Within a month we find him expressing a fear that his title 'Patriarch of the Pillarites' might not be acknowledged by 'the Western division of the Order,' and announcing his intention of climbing the Pillar from the west also in order to secure his claim. He playfully proposes, moreover, that while he, 'the aged errant knight,' with his faithful squire toiled up from the west, a certain fair Pillarite should arrive at the summit from the east and crown his success on the spot by the bestowal on him of her hand and heart. According to all approved precedent the 'aged errant knight' ought to have bound his lady's favour around his clerical hat and ranged the mountains extorting from the passing tourist at the point of his alpenstock a confession of her peerless beauty; or for her sake betaken himself to the Rock and there passed nights of vigil and days of toil assisting distressed damsels in the terrible passage of the 'Slab.' Whatever he did, he made no attempt on the west route. Perhaps despair of the reward had cooled his zeal--zeal conditional like that of the Hindoo teacher who, when asked whether he professed the creed which he was anxious to teach, naïvely replied, 'I am not a Christian; but I expect to be one shortly--if sufficient inducement offers.' There is a sad and sharp contrast in turning from his high spirits and playful fancy to his sudden death. It has been described elsewhere. Though fourscore and two was (as he himself expressed it on the very day of his death) the 'howdah' on his back, it cannot be said that the ever-growing howdah had crushed its bearer. His vigour was unimpaired. Like Walter Ewbank, To the very last, He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale. Indeed, the same thing might have happened to a boy. It was an accident; but it might be rash to say that it was a misfortune, or that he would himself have regarded any other death as preferable. His life had already been longer and more varied than falls to ordinary men; but the change could not long have been delayed. A few months would have seen his faculties failing and his powers decayed. To a man of his habits and temperament inaction would have been the most terrible affliction, and though he might have dragged on for years, his strength would truly have been labour and sorrow. Two years before he had stood close to this very spot. 'Almost all the mountains,' he said, 'which I had known in youth, in manhood, and in old age were visible, and seemed to give me a kindly greeting "for auld lang syne." In the fervour of admiration I might have chanted, "Nunc dimittis, Domine, servum tuum in pace."' We may well believe that, had the old man foreseen his fate, he would have gladly welcomed it, and have found for it no fitter place among all his beloved mountains than this quiet cove almost within the shadow of the majestic rock. =Patterdale= is a place where a climber may spend a week or two with much enjoyment, though the quality of the rocks is by no means first-rate. It is the best centre for _Helvellyn_, _Fairfield_, and _St. Sunday Crag_, and convenient for _Swarthbeck_ and the whole _High Street_ range. On _Place Fell_, fine as it looks, there is not much worth climbing. _Deepdale_ and _Dovedale_ are both worth exploring. =Pavey Ark=, one of the Langdale Pikes, is easily reached in three-quarters of an hour from Dungeon Gill. On it will be found some splendid climbing, including the _Big Gully_, the _Little Gully_, _Jack's Rake_ (q.v.), and many minor points of interest. The two chief gullies stand on either side of a buttress of rock, the top of which forms a tooth on the sky line. The _Little Gully_ is on the south side of it, and is V-shaped, giving a very straightforward but pleasant climb. But the _Great Gully_ has two considerable difficulties, one low down and the other near the top. The lower is caused by a huge block covering a considerable cavern. The way is either right through the cavern and out again through a narrow hole, or up a high grassy bank on the right hand. In either case a narrow place is reached, walled in between the big block and a smaller one on the right hand. Here the difficulty is that the walls nearly meet towards the top, so that it is necessary, in order to get room for the head, to go rather 'outside.' However, a second man with a rope can hold the leader very securely, and a piece of rock having come away, the headroom is much more commodious than it used to be. Just below the level of _Jack's Rake_ there are some very 'brant and slape' inclines of wet or muddy rock, which most people consider the worst part of the climb. There is very little hold, and what there is was on the occasion of the first ascent lubricated by a film of fine mud. On reaching _Jack's Rake_ several variations may be made, and straight ahead there is a very neat little chimney. These upper rocks are of splendid gripping quality; rough as a cow's tongue, it would be quite difficult to make a slip on them. The Big Gully was climbed by the writer in the summer of 1882, and the small one in June 1886. In March 1887 Mr. Slingsby made a note about the former in the Wastdale Head book. He says that it took his party two hours and forty minutes, but his estimate of the height of the gully at 1,300 ft. is more than double of the truth, and must be due to a slip of the pen. [Illustration: PAVEY ARK (NEAR VIEW) A, Narrow gully; B, Big gully; C, D, Smaller gullies; E, Wide scree gully. From the foot of E to A runs _Jack's Rake_.] In the book at Millbeck there is a note by the same distinguished climber, dated May 30, 1887, in which he records an ascent of this gully made by Miss Mabel Hastings, and gives the height of it as 600 or 650 ft. =Penyghent.=--The sixth in height of the Yorkshire hills, but long supposed, on account of its finer shape, to be the highest of them all. As late as 1770 it was reckoned at 3,930 ft. It can be ascended from Horton station in little over an hour. Celtic scholars revel in the name; they practically agree that it means 'head of something,' but cannot accept each other's views as to what that something is. When Defoe was in this neighbourhood he saw 'nothing but high mountains, which had a terrible aspect, and more frightful than any in Monmouthshire or Derbyshire, especially _Pengent Hill_.' =Piers Gill=, in Wastdale, on the north front of _Lingmell_, has a vast literature of its own. As a rock ravine, not in limestone, it is only second to _Deep Gill_ on _Scafell_ and the great gully in the Wastwater _Screes_, both of which are far less easy of access than this, which can be reached from Wastdale Head in half an hour. The difficulties depend entirely on the quantity of water. One, the 'cave pitch,' may be passed at the cost of a wetting almost at any time; but above it is another, known as the 'Bridge Fall,' from a vast column of fallen rock which spans the stream a few yards above it, which is at all times difficult, and in nineteen seasons out of twenty wholly impossible. Until the unprecedented drought of 1893 it had never been climbed. Even then a less brilliant climber than Dr. Collier would scarcely have succeeded. His ascent was made on April 29, 1893, and his companions were Messrs. Winser, W. Jones, and Fairbairn. The big pitch was found to be 40 or 50 ft. high, the lowest part of it apparently overhanging. The first few feet were climbed about three feet to the right of the falling water, after which the leader was able to reach the other side of the gill by stretching his left foot across it just outside the water. By this means this great and hitherto insuperable difficulty was overcome. Unless we are entering on a cycle of dry seasons, the exploit is one which will not be repeated for some time. Various accidents and minor mishaps have taken place in Piers Gill. One is described by Mr. Payn, and the injured man was, I believe, a shepherd called Tom Hale. Mr. W.O. Burrows had a bad fall above the bridge, and people descending from the _Pikes_ are often pounded about the same spot. Some years ago a tourist had to pass the night in the gill without food, but protested that he was 'quite consoled by the beautiful scenery.' The discovery of the route up the east side of the _Pillar Rock_ was within an ace of being delayed for years, owing to the band of bold explorers who were to work it out becoming entangled in _Piers Gill_ while on their way to _Wastdale Head_. The name is spelt 'Pease' by Mr. Payn and by most of the early authorities, and judging by the analogy of other places in the North of England this would appear to be more correct. =Pike o' Stickle=, also known as _Steel Pike_ and sometimes as the _Sugarloaf_, drops into Langdale from the north in one continuous slope, which for length and steepness has not many rivals in England. The top piece of the hill is curiously symmetrical, and resembles a haycock or a thimble. It is not easy to find satisfactory climbs on it. Mr. Gwynne says of it: 'A very fine peak, that, viewed from the valley, has very much the appearance of the Mönch. It runs down towards the _Stake_ Pass in a spur, which must be the starting-point of most of the climbs on this mountain. There is a curious gully here, too, which is worthy of the climber's attention. It does not run from top to bottom, but suddenly begins about the middle of the crag. The difficulty is to get at this gully, and some pretty climbing can be obtained in the attempt.' =Pillar Rock.=--There are but three directions from which the _Pillar_ is commonly approached--namely, Ennerdale (Gillerthwaite), Buttermere, and Wastdale Head. In each case the guide-books (except Baddeley's) exhibit a suspicious shyness of specifying any time for the walk. Wherever the present writer gives times, they must be understood to be the quickest of which he happens to have made any note; for the best test of times is a 'reductio ad minima.' A journey may be indefinitely prolonged, but it cannot be shortened beyond a certain limit; thus, _Scafell Pike_ cannot be reached from Wastdale Head in much less than 60 minutes of hard going, while the walk up the Pillar Fell cannot be cut down much below 75 minutes. This supplies us with a trustworthy comparison, although for a hot day that pace is not to be recommended; in each case double the time is not more than a fair allowance. Never let yourself be hurried at starting, come home as hard as ever you like; it is the chamois-hunter's system, and by far the best. Baddeley seems to reverse the principle, for he allows 2 to 2-1/2 hours for the ascent via Black Sail, and says that it is shorter by Wind Gap; yet for the _descent_ from Wind Gap (which is, say, 20 minutes short of the summit) he gives as a fair allowance 2 to 3 hours. Perhaps he preferred conforming to what is apparently the approved fox-hunting style: [Illustration: PILLAR ROCK A, B, Summits of Shamrock; C, Shamrock gully; D, Pisgah; E, High Man; G, Curtain; H, Steep Grass; I, Foot of Great Chimney; I, K, Walker's gully; J, Low Man; L, J, West route; M, Waterfall; N, I, East Scree.] Harkaway! See, she's off! O'er hill and through whol We spank till we're gaily nar done, Than, hingan a lip like a motherless fwol, _Sledder heàmmward, but nit in a run_. [Illustration: PILLAR ROCK FROM THE NORTH A, _High Man_; B, _Low Man_; C, _Shamrock_; D, _Walker's gully_; E, Below this is the _waterfall_. The _terrace_ runs past the foot of Walker's gully to the foot of the _waterfall_.] [Illustration: PILLAR ROCK FROM THE SOUTH A, Top of rock and of _West Jordan climb_; B, Top of _Central Jordan climb_; C, Top of _East Jordan climb_; D, G, The _Curtain_; E, The _Notch_; F, The _Ledge_. The mass of rock in the foreground is _Pisgah_.] _From Ennerdale_: From Gillerthwaite, a farmhouse nearly a mile and a half above the lake, the Pillar is not far distant; but the direct way is exceedingly rough, and it will be found best to make use of the path up _Wingate Cove_, skirting round the mountain, when by that means a considerable height has been gained. The way is so rough that many people think it an economy of labour to go right on up the gap, and then left over the summit of the mountain. One of the best ways of approaching the Pillar is to sleep at the little inn at the foot of the lake and row up from there to the water head. For walking the whole way from the inn to the fell-top Baddeley allows 3 to 3-1/2 hours. _From Buttermere_: After crossing _Scarf Gap_ some keep to the track as far as the summit of the Black Sail Pass, and then turn to the right up the ridge of the Pillar Fell, while others adopt the more laborious plan of working upwards after descending the valley until nearly opposite the Rock, which in this way is certainly seen to much greater advantage. If the return be made by way of the mountain ridge, some little time may be saved by descending into Ennerdale down _Green Cove_, nearly half a mile short of Black Sail and 250 ft. higher; for Black Sail, being much nearer the head of the valley than either Scarf Gap or the Pillar, can only be used for going from one to the other at the expense of making a considerable _détour_. For the ascent, however, Green Cove is not so decidedly recommended, as many will prefer to make the round by the regular pass for the sake of the more gradual rise. _From Wastdale_: The vast majority of visitors come from this direction, and almost all follow the same track, plodding up from Mosedale to the top of _Black Sail_ and then turning left along the ridge of the mountain. Mosedale, by the way, must not be confused with any of the numerous other valleys of the same name: it sometimes appears in the form 'Moresdale' or 'Mossdale' (Moos-thal, near Laibach in Austria, is exactly parallel), and generally indicates scenery of a dreary character; for such valleys are often, as in this case, the half-drained beds of ancient lakes, by the loss of which the scenery has seriously suffered. [Illustration: PILLAR FELL] Ladies who ascend by Black Sail will find it best to keep to the path as long as possible, i.e. as far as the top of the pass, but others may save something by breasting the hill on the left soon after reaching _Gatherstone Head_, apparently a glacier mound, which rises just beyond where the track crosses the stream (Gatherstone Beck) which comes down from the pass. On reaching the ridge it is no doubt safer, especially if there be mist about, for those who are not familiar with the way to go right on to the flat top of the mountain; the proper point from which to commence the descent is easily found, in all weathers, by following the compass-needle from the cairn to the edge of the mountain; a rough and steep descent of 400 ft. follows, which in winter demands considerable care. At first the course is to the right, but it soon strikes a small ridge which curves down to the Rock. It is, however, a waste of labour to ascend to the summit of the mountain at all. The ridge of the mountain is divided into steps, and at the foot of the uppermost of these a deep cove called _Great Doup_ is seen on the right. It may be recognised even in a mist, as it is just beyond a curious rock running out with a narrow edged top many feet from the hill-side. Less than 100 yards down the Doup the falling scree has nearly buried the cairn and iron cross erected to the memory of the Rev. James Jackson. Beyond this, as soon as the big rocks on the left permit, the track skirts round, and after one or two ups and downs comes into full view of the famous Rock. If, however, the object be to reach the north or lowest side of the Rock, it is not necessary to descend into Ennerdale from Black Sail; for there is the _High Level_, a fine scramble all along the breast of the mountain from _Green Cove_--the first large hollow on the right, just beyond _Lookingsteads_; but the way is rather intricate, and unless properly hit off involves considerable fatigue and loss of time. At the very least half an hour will be required in either direction, and a stranger will certainly take much longer. Those who are anxious to pursue 't' bainest rwoad' may save ten minutes or more in the walk from Wastdale by making use of _Wind Gap_ at the head of Mosedale. Hard work it undeniably is, but more shady than Black Sail, and--when the way is familiar, though no one can go very far wrong, unless he clings to the main valley too long and goes up to _Blackem_ (Black Combe) _Head_--quicker also, occupying about ninety minutes. Mr. James Payn calls it (poetically) 'a sort of perpendicular shaft--a chimney such as no sweep would adventure, but would use the machine--which is said to be the dalesman's pass into Ennerdale; you may thank your stars that it is not _your_ pass.' It really adds little to the labour of this way and affords a far finer walk if the complete circuit of Mosedale be made along the hill-tops. Ascending behind the inn and keeping round just under _Stirrup Crag_--the north end of _Yewbarrow_, _Dore Head_ is soon reached, and it is easy walking by the _Chair_, _Red Pike_, _Black Crag_ and _Wind Gap_ on to the _Pillar Fell_. For the return to Wastdale _Wind Gap_ is very rough and hardly to be recommended. Mr. Baddeley is not very consistent about it, for he says, 'the best descent is by _Windy Gap_'; but again, 'the descent from _Windy Gap_ to Wastdale is, for reasons stated before, unsatisfactory'; and thereupon he recommends Black Sail. The latter gives a rapid descent--the inn may be reached in twenty-five minutes from the top of the pass; but a quicker return may be made by crossing the ridge after emerging from Great Doup, and shooting down _Wistow Crags_ into Mosedale by a large gully filled with deliciously fine scree. Should it be preferred to make the circuit of Mosedale on the return journey, an equally fine glissade may be enjoyed from _Dore Head_; but the screes require judicious selection and dexterity on the part of the slider. [Illustration: PILLAR ROCK FROM THE WEST A, Summit of _High Man_; B, _Pisgah_; C, _Low Man_; D, _Jordan Gap_. The _West route_ ascends from this side to the depression between A and C.] It may here be said that stout walkers may visit all the mountains of Wastdale Head in one day comfortably, and in few places is a finer walk to be found. Start, say, at 10 A.M. for Scafell; then, by Mickledoor, the Pike, Great End, Sty Head, Great Gable and Kirkfell to the Pillar, returning in the manner described above in time for dinner. In June 1864, as Ritson's Visitors' Book records, J.M. Elliott, of Trin. Coll. Camb., made this round, including Steeple and Yewbarrow, and found that it took eight and a half hours; probably, however, he came over Stirrup Crag and not Yewbarrow _top_, which would entail something like three miles extra walking. He approached Scafell by way of Mickledoor, returning from it to the same point, and those who do not know the Broad Stand well had better follow his example; for it is a bit of a climb, and the descent especially is not easy to find. By going to Mickledoor first (and there is no shorter way to Scafell) each man can see what he has before him, and decide for himself whether it would not be better to leave Scafell out of his programme. Before entering into the history of the Pillar it is almost indispensable to give a short general description of its main features in order to assist the comprehension of the facts narrated. Difficult as it must always be to find an image which shall supply a stranger with any clear idea of a mass so irregular and unsymmetrical as this, yet its general appearance and the arrangement of its parts may be roughly apprehended in the following manner:--Imagine a large two-gabled church planted on the side of a steep hill. From the western and loftier gable let there rise, at the end nearest the mountain, a stunted tower. Finally let the building be shattered and all but overwhelmed under an avalanche of _débris_. What will be the effect? Naturally the stream of stones will be much deeper above than below, and, while nearly burying the tower and upper ends of the roof, will flow along between the two gables and run off, as rainwater would do, at the far end. Angular fragments, however, remain at rest unless the slope is very steep, and consequently a long talus will be formed sloping down to the brink of the sudden drop at an angle of something like 45 degrees. Here we have a fair representation of the Pillar mass: the tower will be the High Man, and the gable from which it rises the Low Man. It will be readily understood that the second gable may be a source of some confusion to those who are ignorant that there is more than one, and from some points may disguise or altogether conceal the tower. This is why it is called the _Sham Rock_; but it is only from below that it would be recognised as part of the Pillar mass, for from above it is wholly insignificant. When viewed from immediately below, the tower is concealed behind the gable from which it rises, and the whole mass of rock bears a rough resemblance to the letter =M=; but from above, the High Man, with which alone the climber from the east side has to reckon, is also the only part of the rock which he is likely to observe. The result is that, when the Low Man is mentioned to anyone who knows only the Easy Way, the reply is usually on the model of the poet Wordsworth's only joke: 'Why, my good man, till this moment I was not even aware that there _was_ a Low Man!' Yet the Low Man is by far the finer object of the two, and its cliffs are at least six times as high as those of what is called the High Man. The only side from which the latter shows a respectable elevation is the west, where the scree lies much lower, because it has a free escape, instead of being pent up between the two gables like the east scree. In winter-time, when the inequalities are all smoothed over with a sheet of hard snow, both sides of the rock are rather dangerous, but especially the eastern, where a man who slipped would have the greatest difficulty in stopping himself before he shot over the precipitous gully at the end. This gully (occupying, as it were, the place of the water-pipe) is known, in allusion to an accident which occurred there in 1883, as _Walker's Gully_. When the question arises of how to climb the _High Man_, it is obvious that the scree just above it will be the nearest point to the summit; but equally obvious that the climb, though short, would be nearly vertical. The plan which at once suggests itself for getting to the top is to work round to the back of the rock and climb it from the top of the ridge behind. The ridge may be reached from either side, and in this fact we have the secret of two of the most important climbs. So much for the general appearance of the Pillar; but the part which admits of the easiest and most varied attack is the east wall of the _High Man_, and of this side it is necessary to give a more detailed description. This part of the rock is the only one which is at all well known to the general public, and its chief features, being well marked, have for the most part received, by common consent of climbers, distinctive names. In order to see the formation of the rock properly it is well worth the climber's while to descend for a few yards and mount the _Sham Rock_ on the other side of the east scree. The peculiar structure of the opposite wall may now be clearly seen. [Illustration: PILLAR ROCK FROM THE SOUTH-EAST A, _Pisgah_; B, _Jordan_; C, Summit; D, Top of _Curtain_; E, Corner between the _Curtain_ and the main rock.] On our left hand, between the mountain and the rock, is seen an outlying mass severed from the High Man by a deep square-cut gap. When the Pillar is looked at from the direction of the mountain-top, this gap is entirely concealed by the outlying piece, which then appears to present a fairly easy way direct to the summit. 'The climber (says Mr. Williamson) mounts gaily and with confidence, only to find himself cut off from the High Man by an impassable cleft.' He sees it indeed with his eyes, but he cannot go up thither. Hence the names--_Pisgah_ for the false rock, and _Jordan_ for the chasm. A very well-known Pillarite once proposed to bridge the cleft with a plank or ladder and hold a tea-party on the top. This very original idea was not carried into execution, but certainly, without some such application, the passage of _Jordan Gap_ is a formidable undertaking; for the north wall is only less vertical than the other, and though barely 60 ft. high--not much more, that is, than half as much as must be climbed by any other route--this is decidedly one of those cases in which the longer way round will prove to be the shorter way up. On the extreme right--and rather below us--is the nearly level top of the Low Man; while not far from where broken cliffs lead up to the higher rock a curious natural post standing on the ridge marks the point from which a small deep channel is seen to come down towards _Walker's Gully_. This channel is of small importance, except that high up on the southern bank of it the glacier markings are most distinctly to be seen. The channel itself soon curves more towards the north and plunges over the fearful cliff which faces the Liza, forming the key to the great climb on that face. From the foot of _Jordan Gap_ a broad smooth slope of rock runs horizontally along the face of the High Man, giving to it somewhat the formation of the 'pent-house wall' of a tennis court. The steepness of the scree, which runs down from left to right before our feet, makes the drop from this slope much greater at the Low Man end; but it will give no false idea of this side to say that, roughly speaking, the cliff is broken into three fairly equal portions, of about 60 ft. each, namely, a vertical wall above, connected with a steep and rugged part below by a smooth stretch sloping at an angle not far short of 40 degrees. The importance of this 'pent-house' is very great; for, as it gives an easy passage right across this face of the rock, every climb which is possible from below may be cut into from the side, and thus more than half the labour of the ascent is saved. Indeed, any mountain which allows its entire front to be traversed in this way by a passable ledge exposes every weak point in so reckless a manner that the attack becomes marvellously simplified. Lastly should be noticed two rough curtains of rock which run down from the top of the Stone near the centre, and enclose between them what is called the _Great Chimney_. This chimney is the key to the climb on this side. The curtain on the south of it is the only one which is at all complete, and as it forms a kind of _arête_ running up to the summit, it is known indifferently by either name--the _Curtain_ or the _Arête_. The easiest way to picture to oneself the features of the Great Chimney is to imagine a huge armchair, the 'seat' of which measures 20 yards from back to front and is tipped uncomfortably forward and downward at an angle of nearly 45 degrees. The _Curtain_ forms the right 'arm,' and from a level with the top of the 'back,' which is 50 ft. high, runs down very nearly but not quite as far as the front edge of the 'seat.' In the narrow space thus left lies the _Ledge_, which makes it possible to pass round under the end of the arm and gain the 'seat,' which is called the _Steep Grass_. The same point may also be reached by climbing, as an alternative to the _Ledge_, over the lower part of the 'arm' through a deep nick--the _Notch_; and in either case the joint between 'arm' and 'back,' being badly cracked, offers an easy way (the 'small chimney' or 'jammed-stone chimney') of reaching the top of the back, which is the edge of a small plateau forming the summit of the High Man. Lastly, it should be noticed that the _Steep Grass_ can only be reached from below by a severe climb of 70 ft.--the _Great Chimney_ climb. The side from which the Pillar is commonly climbed is not that by which the summit was first attained. The first successful attempt was made from the West, and it is doubtful whether for a quarter of a century any other route was known. But on the discovery of the Easy Way the older route was forgotten, and now enjoys a reputation for difficulty which is not deserved: it is looked upon as some little distinction to have accomplished it. In the preface to one of Wordsworth's poems the year 1826 is mentioned as the date of the first ascent. This is confirmed by a comparison of the second and third editions of Otley's 'Guide' (1825 and 1827), in the former of which the rock is declared unclimbable, while the latter mentions the victory of 'an adventurous shepherd.' The successful climber was not, however, a shepherd, but a cooper, named Atkinson, and living at Croftfoot, in Ennerdale. It is likely that his adventurous soul may have been fired by Otley's declaration that the rock was inaccessible. The perseverance of a friend has hunted out a contemporary notice of the ascent in the county paper, which remarks that, 'though the undertaking has been attempted by _thousands_, it was always relinquished as hopeless.' This proves, at all events, that even then the rock had a reputation. Subjoined is a list of those who have followed on Atkinson's track, so far as is known, up to 1873: J. Colebank (shepherd); W. Tyson (shepherd), and J. Braithwaite (shepherd); Lieut. Wilson, R.N.; C.A.O. Baumgartner; M. Beachcroft and C. Tucker. Summarising the various methods of ascending the rock, we may say that the west side first yielded in 1826; the east side probably about 1860; the south side in 1882, and the north side in 1891. The _Easy Way_ (as it is generally called) on the east side was discovered in 1863 by a party of Cambridge men led by Mr. Conybeare, and Mr. A.J. Butler, the late editor of the _Alpine Journal_. Mr. Leslie Stephen had visited the rock earlier in that year without finding a way up it, but in 1865 he was more successful, and wrote an account of it in Ritson's book; the account, as usual, was first defaced and afterwards stolen. The _Northeast_, or _Old Wall_, _way_ was discovered by Matthew Barnes, the Keswick guide, while with Mr. Graves, of Manchester. The central and western climbs from _Jordan_ were done by the writer in 1882, as was the eastern one in 1884, the last being scarcely justifiable under any circumstances, and especially without a rope. The direct climb of the _Great Chimney_ (starting on the south wall of it) was done about the same time, and curiously enough--for it is safe and comparatively easy--does not appear to have been done since. The long climb on the north face was accomplished by Messrs. Hastings, Slingsby, and the writer in 1891. It has been described in an illustrated article in _Black and White_ (June 4, 1892), and by Mr. Gwynne in the _Pall Mall Budget_. It should not be touched except by experienced climbers. =Pinnacle Bield=, on the east side of _Glaramara_, is a rocky part of the mountain and a famous stronghold for foxes. On the way up from _Langstrath_ there is a very steep bit for about 500 ft. =Pisgah.=--A name given in 1882 to the outlying rock on the south side of the Pillar Rock, from which it is severed by an all but impassable chasm, not seen until it bars the way. The term has in subsequent years been applied almost generically. =Pitch=: any sudden drop in the course of a rock gully, usually caused by some large stone choking the channel and penning back the loose stones behind it. Such a stone is then said to be 'jammed,' 'wedged,' or 'pitched,' and is sometimes called a 'chockstone' (q.v.). =Pot-holes= are frequent in the Yorkshire limestone. The rivers for considerable distances have underground courses. At each spot where the roof of one of these tunnels happens to fall in a 'pot-hole' is produced. They are very numerous about Settle and Clapham. Some are of very great depth and can only be explored with the aid of much cordage and many lights. The explorer of pot-holes has to face all the perils of severe rock climbing, and, moreover, to face them for the most part in the dark. It would be hard to imagine anything more weird than one of these darksome journeys, rendered doubly impressive by the roar of unseen waters and the knowledge that abrupt pitches of vast depth are apt to occur in the course of the channel without the slightest warning. (See _Alum Pot_, _Dunald Mill Hole_, _Gaping Gill Hole_.) =Pow=: a sluggish rivulet. =Professor's Chimney.=--A name bestowed by Messrs. Hopkinson on the exit most towards the left hand as one comes up _Deep Gill_ on _Scafell_. Out of this chimney, again to the left, diverges that which leads up to the neck between the _Scafell Pillar_ and its Pisgah. To this latter chimney the name is erroneously applied by many, though, indeed, they might urge with some reason that if it comes to a scramble for one name between two gullies the more frequented ought to get it. =Rainsborrow Crag.=--A noble rock in Kentdale, Westmorland. It is, perhaps, most easily got at from Staveley, but from Ambleside it is only necessary to cross the Garbourne Pass, and the crag is at once conspicuous. It is of the same type as _Froswick_ and _Ill Bell_, but finer and more sheer than either of them. =Rake=: a word common in Derbyshire, Yorkshire, and the Lakes, which has been much misunderstood. It usually happens to be a scree-gully, but the fundamental idea is straightness. =Rake's Progress.=--This is a natural gallery on the face of the Mickledoor crags of _Scafell_. It has been best described by Mr. Williamson, who says: '_Mickledoor_ may be reached by scrambling up the steeply sloping screes which form its Wastdale slope; but the easier and more romantic approach is by the grassy ledge, which will be seen projecting from the face of the Scafell precipice. This ledge or shelf is in but few places less than four feet wide. In places it is composed of shattered heaps of rock, which seem barely to keep their equilibrium; but though there is a precipice of considerable height on the left hand, the passage along the ledge is free from risk so long as the rock wall on the right is closely hugged. By one who watched from below the passage along the ledge of some of the early pioneers of lake climbing it was christened the _Rake's Progress_, and the name appears apt when it is remembered that the ledge leads from the lower limb of the _Lord's Rake_ to the _Mickledoor Ridge_.' The first published description of the _Rake's Progress_ is contained in a letter by the late Mr. Maitland to one of the local papers in October 1881. He there states that he had recently traversed it for the fifth time, but had not previously to that occasion visited Deep Gill. Several grand climbs start from the _Progress_, including _North Climb_, _Collier's Climb_, _Moss Gill_, _Steep Gill_, and the _Scafell Pillar_. =Raven Crag.=--This name is generally the sign of a hard, if not of a good, climb. One of the finest stands on the west side of Thirlmere, near the foot, or what used to be the foot of it before Manchester took it in hand; a second is on the _Pillar Fell_ just east of the rock; a third and fourth on _Brandreth_ and _Gable_, and indeed there is one on almost every fell. =Red Pike=, in Cumberland, overlooking Buttermere, is a syenite hill, and commands a glorious view, especially strong in lakes, but there is next to no climbing to be had on it. The best way up it is to follow the course of Ruddy Beck from the southernmost corner of Crummock Water, but the rocky amphitheatre in which Bleaberry Tarn lies is better seen if the somewhat rougher route by Sourmilkgill and its east bank be followed. =Red Pike=, also in Cumberland, is a Wastdale fell, and lies between _Yewbarrow_ and the _Steeple_. The north side of it has abundance of small climbs, which, with the exception of _Yewbarrow_, are, perhaps, more easily reached than any others from the inn at Wastdale Head; but they are little visited, because everyone wants to fly at the highest game and do the climbs which are most talked about. This fell is sometimes called _Chair_, from the fact of there being a curious stone seat on it near the ridge, and not far from _Door Head_. =Red Screes=, in Westmorland (2,541 ft.), are very steep in the direction of the Kirkstone (after which the pass of that name is said to be called), falling about 1,000 ft. in a horizontal distance of a quarter of a mile; but the ascent is not more than an exhilarating scramble. There is a well-known view from the top. =Rope.=--Some remarks on the use of the rope as a safeguard in climbing will be found in the Introduction. =Rossett Gill.=--A rough pass just over 2,000 ft. in height, which is the only approach from Langdale to Scafell, Gable, and the Wastdale fells generally. On the Langdale side you cannot go far wrong, but it is very rugged, so rugged that Mr. Payn has caustically observed that all expeditions in this region admit of being made by driving, by riding, or by walking, 'except Rossett Gill, which must be done on all fours.' On the Eskhause side the walking is perfectly easy, but mistakes are very liable to occur. On this high ground mists are extremely frequent, and blinding rain is abundant. The result is that people making for Langdale are surprised at having to mount again after the long descent to Angle Tarn, and often end by going away to the left down Langstrath, and find themselves to their great surprise in Borrowdale. The only safeguard is, of course, to bear clearly in mind that the ups and downs hereabout are considerable, and to arm oneself with map and compass. =Saddleback= (2,847 ft.) was at one time thought to be higher than its neighbour Skiddaw. To Mrs. Radcliffe, on the summit of the latter in 1795, the former was 'now preeminent over Skiddaw.' 'The Beauties of England' informs us that 'the views from the summit are exceedingly extensive, but those immediately under the eye on the mountain itself so tremendous and appalling that few persons have sufficient resolution to experience the emotions which those awful scenes inspire.' We have a very full account of an ascent made in 1793. The narrator says: 'When we had ascended about a mile, one of the party, on looking round, was so astonished with the different appearance of objects in the valley so far beneath us that he declined proceeding. We had not gone much further till the other companion (of the relator) was suddenly taken ill and wished to loose blood and return.' The great feature of the mountain is its southern front, which is cut away to form enormous cloughs, divided by narrow ridges. The latter are the Edges of Saddleback. Narrow Edge (as _Halls Fell top_ is now generally called) is the finest and most romantic. It runs up from Threlkeld, where there is a convenient station. The proper name of Broad Edge is _Gategill Fell_. Part of _Middle Tongue_ straight behind the lead-mine is also very narrow. A writer in the _Penny Magazine_ for 1837 speaks of 'the serrated precipices above Threlkeld,' and adds, 'One of these is called _Razor Edge_.' That name, however, has now for many years at least been used as the equivalent of _Sharp Edge_, which is on the east side of the mountain and on the north side of _Scales Tarn_, and at one time enjoyed a tremendous reputation as a perilous climb. The name of the mountain itself has been jeered at as a post-boy's name, and romantically-minded people use the name Blencathara, for which many Celtic etymons have been suggested. The most usual form seems to have been Blenkarthur, and only the more northern of the two peaks was so called. The quickest ascent of the mountain is from Threlkeld up _Narrow Edge_, but if the return is to Keswick, it should be made along the shoulder towards Skiddaw, and so by Brundholme Wood. =Sail.=--This word, in the opinion of Dr. Murray, the learned editor of the new 'English Dictionary,' signifies 'a soaring dome-shaped summit.' It occurs as a hill-name in the Grassmoor group, near Buttermere in Cumberland; but the characteristics required by the above definition are, to say the least, not conspicuously evident either there or in the other cases where this element is found in fell-country place-names. (See _Black Sail_.) =St. Bees.=--In Cumberland, on the west coast. Several accidents have occurred on the cliffs here. They are of sandstone, and incline to be rotten. The best are about _Fleswick Bay_. The height is only about 200 ft. The Rev. James Jackson--the Patriarch (q.v.)--lived at Sandwith close by, and was fond of climbing about on these cliffs. =St. John's Vale.=--A name of modern invention, which has ousted _Buresdale_ (q.v.). It is used in an article in the _Gentleman's Magazine_ for 1754, and also in 'Gray's Journal,' which possibly misled Sir Walter Scott, whose poem caused it to meet with general acceptance. =St. Sunday Crag=, in Westmorland (sheet 19 of the Ordnance map), is of far more importance than _Helvellyn_ to the views of and from Ullswater. Moreover, it has some capital crags facing north-west, among which many a good rock-problem may be found. They were long a favourite scrambling-ground with Major Cundill, R.E., the inventor of the _North Climb_ on _Scafell_, and are within easy reach of Patterdale. =Scafell= (3,162 ft.) presents some fine rocks to Eskdale, but the grandest rocks, both to look at and to climb, are towards _Mickledoor_. As a climbing-ground it is perhaps even more popular than the _Pillar_, especially in winter. In consequence of this the ground has been gone over very closely by climbers of exceptional skill, and climbing of a somewhat desperate character has occasionally been indulged in. This applies mainly to the west side of Mickledoor. The other side is easier, and has long been more or less well known. Mr. Green says of it: 'The crags on the south-west [of Mickledoor], though seeming frightfully to oppose all passage, have been ascended as the readiest way to the top of Scafell, and, amongst other adventurers, by Mr. Thomas Tyson, of Wastdale Head, and Mr. Towers, of Toes [in Eskdale]; but Messrs. Ottley and Birkett contented themselves by proceeding for some distance in the direction of Eskdale, to a deep fissure, through which they scrambled to the top of Scafell.' It might be thought that this 'fissure' was 'Mickledoor Chimney,' but it is more likely that it was another and easier gully a good way farther down. Mr. Herman Prior's excellent 'Pedestrian Guide' (3rd edition, p. 194) has a very clear and accurate account of it from the pen of Mr. C.W. Dymond, who visited it about 1869, and another in Mr. C.N. Williamson's second article in _All the Year Round_ for November 8, 1884; and in the local press scores of descriptions have appeared. [Illustration: SCAFELL CRAGS A, Top of _Broad Stand_; B, _Pisgah_; C, _Scafell Pillar_; D, Head of _Deep Gill_.] The beginning of the climb is very easily overlooked by a stranger, being just a vertical slit about eighteen inches wide, by means of which it is easy to walk three or four yards straight into the mountain. It will be found by descending the Eskdale slope from Mickledoor ridge for twenty-one yards, and disregarding a much more promising point which presents itself midway and is noticed both by Professor Tyndall and Mr. Dymond. The floor of the proper 'adit' rises slightly towards the inner end, and consequently allows an easy exit to be made on the left-hand side. From this point three large steps in the rock, each 7 ft. to 10 ft. high have to be mounted, and many will be reminded of the ascent of the Great Pyramid. What builders call the 'riser' of each step is vertical, but the 'tread' of the two upper ones becomes very steep and smooth, and when there is ice about it, this is the chief danger of the climb. If a fall took place it would probably be to the left hand, in which direction the rock is much planed away, and forms a steep and continuous slope almost to the foot of the Mickledoor Chimney. [Illustration: PLAN OF SCAFELL A, _Broad Stand_; B, _Mickledoor Ridge_; C, _Scafell Pillar_; D, _Lord's Rake_; F, _Pikes Crag_; G, _Deep Gill_.] This slope is climbable, but far from easy. At the top of the steps the Broad Stand proper begins, at the head of which there is one little bit to climb, and then a walk among huge blocks of stone leads out on to the ridge of Scafell, close to the head of Deep Gill. The way is not easy to miss, but in descending--especially in misty weather--mistakes are often made, either in finding the entrance at the top or the steps at the bottom. The latter difficulty is the more serious, but may be obviated by keeping close to the foot of the cliff on the left hand and making straight for Mickledoor ridge; when further progress is barred, the exit is reached by a short descent to the right. =Scafell Pikes=--the highest mountain in England (3,210 ft.). Curiously enough the name seems to be very modern. Till quite the end of last century it was always known as 'The Pikes,' and it was only when careful surveys promoted it that it became necessary to add the name of its finer-shaped and better-known neighbour, to show what 'Pikes' were being spoken of. The present name, therefore, and the older form, 'Pikes of Scafell,' really mean 'The Pikes near Scafell.' On the Eskdale side there are a few climbs, including _Doe Crag_; but the best are on the side of _Great End_ and _Lingmell_, which are merely buttresses of it. [Illustration: SCAFELL PILLAR (SEEN ACROSS DEEP GILL)] =Scafell Pillar= stands between _Deep Gill_ and _Steep Gill_. It has a short side close to the summit ridge of _Scafell_, and a long side towards the _Rake's Progress_. The first ascent was made on the short side by the writer on September 3, 1884, and the first from the Rake's Progress by Mr. Robinson and the writer on the 20th of the same month. [Illustration: SCAFELL PILLAR AND THE UPPER PITCH OF DEEP GILL] They climbed by way of _Steep Gill_ on to the Low Man, and thence to the High Man. On July 15, 1888, a way was made up the outside of the rock from near the foot of _Steep Gill_ by Messrs. Slingsby, Hastings, E. Hopkinson, and the writer. Miss Corder made the first lady's ascent by the short way (August 1887), and Miss M. Watson the first by the outside route (June 1890), both ladies having the advantage of Mr. Robinson's escort. Marvellous feats of climbing and engineering have been performed by the brothers Hopkinson in their endeavours to make a way direct into _Deep Gill_, in which they have not entirely succeeded. =Scree=: the _débris_ of decaying rocks, forming a talus on the lower parts of a mountain. It is the Icelandic 'skrida.' =Screes (The).=--A long range flanking Wastwater on the south-west. They are often called the 'Wastdale' Screes, but it appears from Hutchinson that they were in his time known as the 'Eskdale' Screes, and--like most hills at that period--were said to be a mile high. Apparently in those days they thought less of the climbs on it than of the sheep-runs, which latter are in Eskdale. The rock is of very loose construction and comes away at a touch, or without one, sometimes many tons at a time; but it improves towards the foot of the lake, and the great bastion opposite Wastdale Hall is full of magnificent climbing. The writer, at the suggestion of Mr. G. Musgrave, tried the great gully both alone and in good company, namely, that of two of the party which ultimately succeeded. Dr. Collie contributed a vivid account of the first ascent to the _Scottish Mountaineering Journal_, a publication which should be better known to climbers. The party found no difficulty till they were in the left-hand branch above the point where the gully divides, and the first pitch gave them some trouble, as the stream, being frozen, formed a cascade of ice, and they were forced on to the buttress which divides the two gullies. Hastings was sent on to prospect, whilst I had to back him up as far as possible. With considerable trouble he managed to traverse back to the left into the main gully, using infinitesimal knobs of rock for hand and foot hold. We then followed him, and found ourselves in a narrow cleft cut far into the side of the hill. Perpendicular walls rose on either side for several hundred feet; above us stretched cascade after cascade of solid ice, always at a very steep angle, and sometimes perpendicular. Up these we cut our way with our axes, sometimes being helped by making the steps close to the walls on either side, and using any small inequalities on the rock-face to steady us in our steps. At last we came to the final pitch. Far up above at the top, the stream coming over an overhanging ledge on the right had frozen into masses of insecure icicles, some being 20 ft. to 30 ft. long. Obviously we could not climb up these. However, at the left-hand corner at the top of the pitch a rock was wedged, which overhung, leaving underneath a cave of considerable size. We managed to get as far up as the cave, in which we placed Robinson, where he hitched himself to a jammed boulder at the back. I was placed in a somewhat insecure position; my right foot occupied a capacious hole cut in the bottom of the icicles, whilst my left was far away on the other side of the gully on a small, but obliging, shelf in the rock-face. In this interesting attitude, like the Colossus of Rhodes, I spanned the gulf, and was anchored both to the boulder and to Robinson as well. Then Hastings, with considerable agility, climbed on to my shoulders. From that exalted position he could reach the edge of the overhanging stone underneath which Robinson was shivering, and was thus enabled to pull himself up on to the top. Robinson and I afterwards ascended this formidable place by means of the moral support of the rope alone. But I know that in my case, if that moral support had not been capable of standing the strain produced by a dead weight of about ten stone, I should probably have been spoiling a patch of snow several hundreds of feet lower down the gill. Above this pitch the climbing is easier as the gully opens out.' [Illustration: WASTWATER AND THE SCREES A, A long gully, not very difficult; B, The great gully, extremely difficult; C, A minor gully, also very difficult.] =Sergeant Crag.=--About half a mile up the valley of Longstrath, which bounds Glaramara on the east as Borrowdale does on the west, there is a line of crag on the left hand. The part nearest to Eagle Crag is called Sergeant Crag, and is some 300 ft. higher than the other, which is Bull Crag. In these rocks there is a very fine gully, discovered in 1886 by Mr. Robinson and the writer, for whom a high wet slab of smooth slate proved too difficult. In September last the former returned to the attack accompanied by Mr. O.G. Jones, who, taking a different and to all appearance more difficult way to the right, forced his way over the two stones which form the pitch. His companion followed by working out of the gill to the right and in again above the obstacle, and this way has commended itself to later climbers. 'There are six large pitches and several small ones. The total climb must be 500 ft., and the climbing is of exceptional interest all the way.' =Shamrock=, in Cumberland, stands just east of the _Pillar Rock_, divided from it only by _Walker's Gully_. Seen from _Scarf Gap_ it looks very well, and its outline can with difficulty be distinguished from that of the main rock. It derives its name (bestowed on it about 1882) from this deceptive character. The face of it towards the north affords a good climb, and on the east side there is a gully, which is choked near the top by a block, which makes one of the stiffest pitches in all Cumberland. It was first climbed, with the aid of deep snow, by a party led by Messrs. Hastings and E. Haskett Smith in March 1887, and in December 1890 Mr. Hastings succeeded in repeating his ascent without any snowdrift to help him, as did Dr. Collier exactly two years later. =Sharp Edge=, on Saddleback, runs along the north side of Scales Tarn. Mr. Prior's 'Guide' observes: 'The ascent (or descent) by this Edge is considered something of an exploit, but without sufficient reason. To a giddy head, indeed, it is unquestionably several degrees worse than Striding Edge, which it somewhat resembles; possibly, to a head so constituted, just without the limits of safety, as Striding Edge is decidedly well within them. The main difficulty lies in the descent of the cliff above the "Edge," and in the two or three rocky knolls by which this cliff connects itself with the latter, and from which there is an unpleasant drop on each side.... Excepting _head_, however, no other quality of a cragsman is required for Sharp Edge; the footing is ample, and the hands would be less called into requisition than even on Striding Edge.' This is a very just estimate, but it need hardly be said that not only Sharp Edge but also those on the Threlkeld side undergo marvellous changes in winter, and then give splendid chances of real mountaineering practice. =Shuttenoer= is mentioned by more than one of the old authorities as one of the rocks at Lowdore between which the water falls. My belief is that the intelligent travellers of that date, not having mastered the 'Cummerlan' mak o' toak,' mistook for the name of the rock what was merely intended for a casual description of it, namely, 'Shuttan' ower'--'shooting over,' 'projecting.' =Sike=: a rill in marshy ground. =Silver Howe= (1,345 ft.), near Grasmere, is only notable as being the scene of the annual fell race, or 'Guides' race,' as it is sometimes called, though there are few guides, and of them very few would have any chance of success in this race. The course is uphill to a flag and down again. The time is generally about ten minutes to go up and something less than five minutes to come down. It is a pretty race to watch, but the scientific interest for mountaineers would be increased if the course were free from all obstacles and of accurately measured height and length. =Skew Gill.=--A curious deep channel in the Wastdale side of Great End, giving a convenient approach to the foot of the gullies on the other side. To go by Grainy Gill and this one, and so up Cust's Gully, has for many years been the regulation expedition for the first day of a winter sojourn at Wastdale Head. =Skiddaw= (Cumberland, sh. 56) is 3,058 ft. high, 'with two heads like unto _Parnassus_,' as old Camden observed, and Wordsworth and others have repeated it after him. On this characteristic, which is not very strongly marked, many derivations of the name have been based. In older writings, however, the word much more commonly ends in _-ow_, a termination which in countless instances represents the well-known word 'how.' Whatever its name may signify, Skiddaw is not a mountaineer's mountain, and no amount of snow and ice can make it so. As a local bard has truly sung: Laal brag it is for any man To clim oop Skidder side; Auld wives and barns on Jackasses To tippy twop ma ride. It is true that there are great facilities for procuring gingerbeer on the way, but even that luxury is scarcely an adequate compensation for the complete absence of anything like a respectable rock on the mountain. Keswick has Skiddaw almost entirely to itself, and on the matter of routes it will be enough to say that by the back of Latrigg and the gingerbeer shanties is the easiest way, and by Millbeck and Carlside is the shortest and quickest, being made up of two miles of good road and of two of steep fell as against five miles of easy hillside. The mountain used to enjoy a great reputation, and is put first in Camden's 'Byword': Skiddaw, Lauvellin and Casticand Are the highest hills in all England, and the early climbers of it were deeply impressed with the importance of their adventurous undertaking. Mrs. Radcliffe, in 1795, ascended 'this tremendous mountain,' and says that when they were still more than a mile from the summit 'the air now became very thin,' and 'the way was indeed dreadfully sublime.' On reaching the top they 'stood on a pinnacle commanding the whole dome of the sky,' but unluckily 'the German Ocean was so far off as to be discernible only like a mist.' Even Hutchinson remarks that, on the top, 'the air was remarkably sharp and thin compared with that of the valley, and respiration seemed to be performed with a kind of oppression.' Skiddaw reserves what little natural ferocity it has for _Dead Crags_ on the north side, but there are also a few rocky bits on the side which faces Bassenthwaite Water. =Smoking Rock= is at the head of _Great Doup_, east of the _Pillar Stone_ and level with the ridge of the _Pillar Fell_. For fear of the name being adduced as a proof of recent volcanic action it is well to say that it is so called not as itself smoking, but because a well-known climber of the old school loved to smoke an evening pipe upon it. It affords a pleasant climb taken on the outside straight up from the foot. This was done by a party of four, of whom the writer was one, on June 5, 1889. See a note in the Wastdale Head Visitors' Book at p. 250. =Somersetshire= has little to attract the mountaineer, except the very remarkable limestone scenery on the south side of the Mendips at Cheddar, Ebber and Wookey. There are magnificent cliffs and pinnacles, especially at the first-named place, but not many bits of satisfactory climbing. The cliffs are rotten at one point, unclimbably vertical at another, and perhaps at a third the climber is pestered by clouds of angry jackdaws. Ebber Rocks are rather more broken, but on the whole the climbing is not worth much at either place, though the scenery both above ground and below it is such as no one ought to miss. =Stand.=--See under _Broad Stand_. =Steep Gill.=--On Scafell, forming the boundary of the Scafell Pillar on the Mickledoor side. It contains a very striking vertical chimney more than 50 ft. high, the upper part of which is rather a tight fit for any but the slimmest figures. At the foot of this chimney on the right-hand side there is an exit by which either the ridge of the Scafell Pillar can be reached or the chimney circumvented. The Gill becomes very wet and steep just below the top, and extreme care is necessary in following it out on to the neck between Scafell Pillar and the mountain. Except in dry weather this bit may be considered a little dangerous. It is usual and more interesting to work out here by a grass ledge on the right on to the Low Man. The Gill was discovered by the writer, and first climbed by him and Mr. Robinson in September 1884. A note by the former in the Visitors' Book at Wastdale Head describes it as 'a chimney of unusual steepness and severity.' The name is quite recent. =Steeple.=--In Cumberland, separated from _Pillar Fell_ by _Wind Gap_. There are some grand scrambles on the Ennerdale side of it, and it is extremely interesting to the student of mountain structure to note the points of parallelism between this group and that of _Scafell_, _Wind Gap_, of course, representing _Mickledoor_. =Stirrup Crag=, on the north end of Yewbarrow, is probably the very nearest climb to Wastdale Head, and may therefore be useful in cases when a wet day clears up towards evening and exercise within easy reach is required. The quickest way to it is to cross the beck by the bridge behind the inn and go up the hill straight to the rectangular clump of larches, and then on beyond it in the same direction. There is a nice little climb on an isolated bit of rock, noted by Mr. Robinson in the Wastdale book, at Easter in 1888. The little rock should be crossed from north to south and the same course continued up to the open fell above, after which a short descent towards Door Head, keeping rather to the left hand, will bring to light several small but pretty rock-problems. =Striding Edge=, a ridge on the east side of _Helvellyn_, is called in one of the old maps _Strathon Edge_. The difficulties of it have been absurdly exaggerated. Miss Braddon wrote amusingly about the exploits upon it of a certain gallant colonel, identified by Colonel Barrow with himself. In winter it is sometimes an exciting approach to _Helvellyn_, in summer just a pleasant walk. The idea of its danger probably arose from the celebrity given to the death of Charles Gough by the poems of Scott and Wordsworth. =Sty Head.=--This name applies to the top only of the pass from Borrowdale to Wastdale, though often incorrectly used to designate the whole way from Seathwaite to Wastdale Head. The natives always speak of the whole pass as _The Sty_ or _The Stee_. Hutchinson says, and the statement has been repeated by Lord Macaulay, that this was at one time the only road between Keswick and the West Coast. It has lately been proposed to construct a driving road across it, but the project is not likely to be carried out for some time. The way is not easy to find on a really dark night. Some years ago two tourists who had been benighted on the pass wrote a most amusing account of their experiences in the _Graphic_, and it is only a year or two since two well-known Cumberland climbers were caught in the same ignominious fashion. =Swarthbeck=, in Westmorland, and on the east shore of Ullswater and the west slope of _Arthur's Pike_, would appear to be identical with the 'chasm' noticed by Mr. Radcliffe in 1795. 'Among the boldest fells that breast the lake on the left shore are _Holling Fell_ and _Swarth Fell_, now no longer boasting any part of the forest of Martindale, but showing huge walls of naked rock and scars which many torrents have inflicted. One channel only in this dry season retained its shining stream. The chasm was dreadful, parting the mountain from the summit to the base.' It occurred to Messrs. T. and E. Westmorland, of Penrith, to explore it, and they found it to be a capital little climb. They published a bright and vigorous account of their climb in a Penrith paper, in consequence of which a good sprinkling of climbers have been induced to visit it. The writer has cause to remember the steepness of this gill, for on one occasion, just as the last few feet of the climb were being done, the alpenstocks, which had been a great impediment all the way up, slipped and fell, and were afterwards found on the scree at the very bottom. The steamers stop at Howtown, about a mile further up the lake, and the inn at that place is much the most convenient place to start from. =Tarn Crag= (Cumberland, sh. 57) is a precipitous bit of not very sound rock, perhaps 200 to 300 ft. in height, rising on the south-west side of Bowscale Tarn. There is a better-known crag of this name just by Scales Tarn on Saddleback, and, in fact, they are exceedingly numerous, which is natural enough, seeing that it is essential to every genuine tarn that it should be more or less under a precipice of some sort. =Toe-scrape.=--May be defined as 'foot-hold at or below its minimum.' =Tors=, on _Dartmoor_ (q.v.).--The word is also found in Derbyshire, though not there applied to quite the same kind of rock. The Ordnance also give it in some instances in the North of England; but there it is by no means clear that they have taken pains to distinguish it from the sound of the word 'haw' when there is a final _t_ in the preceding word. What, for instance, they call Hen Tor may be in reality Hent Haw. In Scotland _tor_ is, of course, a common component in place names. A few of the more interesting _tors_ are-- _Belliver Tor._--Turn squarely to the right two miles from Two Bridges on the Moreton Hampstead Road. _Blackingstone Rock._--A true tor, though not on Dartmoor. It is a fine piece of rock two miles east of Moreton Hampstead. It is of loaf-like form, and gave a difficult climb until a staircase of solid and obtrusive construction was put there. _Brent Tor._--A curious cone of volcanic rock a long mile south-west of Brentor Station, and fully four miles north of Tavistock. _Fur Tor._--About six miles in a northerly direction from Merivale Bridge, Two Bridges, or Princetown. _Hey Tor._--Four miles west of Bovey Tracy; was quite a nice climb, but has been spoilt by artificial aids. [Illustration: A TYPICAL TOR (HEY TOR, DARTMOOR)] _Links (Great) Tor._--About two miles east of Bridestow station. _Longaford Tor._--Strike off to the left about halfway between Two Bridges and Post Bridge. _Mis Tor (Great and Little)._--Two miles north from Merivale Bridge. They are fine objects, especially the larger. _Row Tor._--On the West Dart some four miles north of Two Bridges. It has a very striking block of granite on it. _Sheep's Tor._--About two miles east of Dousland Station. It is finely shaped. _Shellstone Tor._--Near Throwleigh, about halfway between Chagford and Oakhampton. _Staple Tor._--Under a mile north-west from Merivale Bridge, and four miles east of Tavistock. _Vixen Tor._--One mile from Merivale Bridge, or four miles north from Dousland Station. It is near the Walkham River, and is almost the only tor which has a distinct reputation as a climb. It is got at by means of the cleft shown in the illustration. Here it is usual to 'back up.' The struggles of generations of climbers are said to have communicated a high polish to the surface of the cleft. _Watern Tor._--Five or six miles west of Chagford, on the left bank of the North Teign. It has three towers of friable granite much weathered. _Yar Tor._--Halfway between Two Bridges and Buckland-in-the-Moor; it has a curiously fortified appearance. =Vixen Tor.=--One of the finest of the Devonshire _Tors_ (q.v.). [Illustration: VIXEN TOR (DARTMOOR)] =Walker's Gully= is the precipice in which ends the East Scree, between the _Pillar Rock_ and the _Shamrock_. It is named after an unfortunate youth of seventeen who was killed by falling over it on Good Friday, 1883. He had reached the rock with four companions, and found there two climbers from Bolton, who had been trying for nearly three hours to find a way up, and were apparently then standing in or near Jordan Gap. Seeing Walker, they shouted to him for advice as to the ascent. He thereupon endeavoured to join them by sliding down on the snow; but he had miscalculated the pace, and when he reached the rock at which he had aimed, it was only to find that his impetus was too powerful to be arrested. He shot off to one side, rolled over once or twice, and then darted away down the steep East Scree, passing the Bolton men, who could not see him owing to that position, and disappeared over the precipice. =Wallow Crag=, a long mile south of Keswick, is abrupt but not high, and somewhat incumbered by trees. It contains _Lady's Rake_, and _Falcon Crag_ is really a continuation of it. Both are too near Keswick to please climbers, who do not enjoy having their every movement watched by waggon-loads of excursionists. =Wanthwaite Crags= (Cumberland, sh. 64) rise on the east side of the stream which flows, or used to flow, from Thirlmere. There is good climbing in them, and they are easily reached from Keswick (1 hour), or Grasmere, taking the Keswick coach as far as the foot of Thirlmere; and Threlkeld station is nearer still (half an hour). The rocky part has a height of 600 to 700 ft. Bram Crag, just a little south, is really part of it. =Wastdale.=--There are two valleys of this name, one near Shap in Westmorland, and the other and more famous in Cumberland, at the head of Wastwater. It is the Chamouni of England, and would be the Zermatt also, only it lacks the charm of a railway. Fine climbs abound among the various fells which hem it closely in. (See under the heads of _Scafell_, _Lingmell_, _Great Gable_, _Pillar_, _Yewbarrow_, _Steeple_, _Red Pike_, and _Great End_.) A well-filled 'Climbing book' is kept at the inn, where also are some fine rock-views and a very complete set of large-scale maps. Men with luggage must drive up from Drigg Station; those who have none can walk over _Burnmoor_ from Boot Station in one hour and a half or less. =Westmorland=, as a climber's county, is second only to Cumberland. Langdale is perhaps the pick of it, but about Patterdale, Mardale, and Kentdale abundant work may be found, and there are few parts of the whole county which have not small local climbs of good quality set in the midst of charming scenery. Defoe's account of it is extremely amusing: 'I now entered _Westmorland_, a county eminent only for being the wildest, most barren, and frightful of any that I have passed over in _England_ or in _Wales_. The west side, which borders on _Cumberland_, is indeed bounded by a chain of almost unpassable Mountains, which in the language of the country are called _Fells_.... It must be owned, however, that here are some very pleasant manufacturing towns.' The notion of lake scenery being rendered tolerable by manufacturing towns is one which may be recommended to the Defence Society; but Mr. Defoe has not done yet: 'When we entered at the South Part of this County, I began indeed to think of the mountains of Snowden in North Wales, seeing nothing round me in many places but unpassable Hills whose tops covered with snow seemed to tell us all the pleasant part of England was at an end.' =Westmorland's Cairn= is a conspicuous object at the edge nearest to Wastwater of the summit plateau of _Great Gable_. There is a wide-spread impression that this cairn, which is built in a style which would do credit to a professional 'waller,' was intended to celebrate a climb; but Messrs. T. and E. Westmorland, of Penrith, who built it in July 1876, wished to mark a point from which they 'fearlessly assert that the detail view far surpasses any view from _Scafell Pikes_, _Helvellyn_, or _Skiddaw_, or even of the whole Lake District.' At the same time the short cliff on the edge of which the cairn stands is full of neat 'problems,' and it is customary to pay it a visit on the way to Gable Top after a climb on the _Napes_. =Wetherlam=, in Lancashire, is about 2,500 ft., and has some crags on the north side among which here and there good climbing may be found. They can be reached in about an hour and a half from either Coniston or the inn at Skelwith Bridge. In an article signed 'H.A.G.' (i.e. Gwynne), which appeared in the _Pall Mall Gazette_ in April 1892, the following description of a part of it is given: 'On the west face there is a bold cliff that stands between two steep gullies. The cliff itself can be climbed, and in winter either of the gullies would afford a good hour's hard step-cutting. Just now, after the late snowstorm, the mountaineer would have the excitement of cutting through a snow-cornice when he arrives at the top. The precipice itself is fairly easy. I happened to find it in very bad condition. All the rocks were sheeted with ice and extremely dangerous. In one part there was a narrow, steep gully ending in a fall. It was full of snow and looked solid. I had scarcely put my foot on it when the snow slipped away with a hiss and left me grabbing at a knob of iced rock that luckily was small enough for my grasp. This climb, however, in ordinary weather is by no means difficult.' =Whernside=, in Yorkshire, was considered even as late as 1770 to be the highest mountain in England, 4,050 ft. above the sea. =White Gill=, in Langdale, Westmorland, nearly at the back of the inn at _Millbeck_, derives its chief interest from the loss of the two Greens there, so graphically described by De Quincey. This and the other gills between it and _Stickle Tarn_ afford good climbing up the walls by which they are enclosed. =Winter Climbs.=--Only a few years ago a man who announced that he was going to the Lakes in the depth of winter would have been thought mad. Exclamations of this kind are even now not unfrequently called forth at that season of the year; yet they seem to have little or no effect in diminishing the number of those who year by year find themselves somehow attracted to the little inns which lie at the foot of Snowdon or of Scafell Pikes. On Swiss mountains winter excursions have been made even by ladies, and perhaps the British public was first rendered familiar with the idea by Mrs. Burnaby's book on the subject. But, in truth, the invention is no new one, and those bold innovators who first dared to break through the pale of custom and to visit North Wales or the Lakes in mid-winter were richly repaid for their audacity; for there is hardly any time of year at which a trip to Lakeland is more thoroughly enjoyable. In the first place, there is no crowd. You can be sure that you will get a bed, and that the people of the house will not be, as they too often are in the summer time, too much overworked to have time to make you comfortable, or too full of custom to care much whether you are comfortable or not. Out of doors there is the same delightful difference. You stride cheerily along, freed for a time from the din of toiling cities, and are not harassed at every turn by howling herds of unappreciative 'trippers.' The few who do meet on the mountains are all bent on the same errand and 'mean business'; half-hearted folk who have not quite made up their minds whether they care for the mountains or not, people who come to the Lakes for fashion's sake, or just to be able to say that they have been there, are snugly at home coddling themselves before the fire. You will have no companions but life-long lovers of the mountains, and robust young fellows whose highest ambition is to gain admission to the Alpine Club, or, having gained it, to learn to wield with some appearance of dexterity the ponderous ice-axes which are indispensable to the dignity of their position. Then what views are to be had through the clear, frosty air! How different are the firm outlines of those distant peaks from the hazy indistinctness which usually falls to the lot of the summer tourist! What sensation is more delightful than that of tramping along while the crisp snow crunches under foot, and gazing upward at the lean black crags standing boldly out from the long smooth slopes of dazzling white! There is no great variety of colour; for the rocks, though a few are reddish, are for the most part of grey in varying shades; yet there is no monotony. It is true that January days have one fault; they are too short. Or shall we not rather say that they seem so because--like youth, like life itself--they are delightful? They would not be too short if they were passed (let us say) in breaking stones by the roadside. After all, the hills hereabouts are not so big but that in eight or nine hours of brisk exertion a very satisfactory day's work can be accomplished. In short, youth and strength (and no one can be said to have left these behind who can still derive enjoyment from a winter's day on the Fells) can hardly find a more delightful way of spending a week of fine frosty weather. =Wrynose.=--The pass between Dunnerdale and Little Langdale, and the meeting-point of the three counties of Cumberland, Westmorland, and Lancashire. It would seem that we are poorer than our ancestors by one mountain, for all the old authorities speak of this as a stupendous peak. _Defoe's Tour_ (1753) says: 'Wrynose, one of its highest Hills, is remarkable for its three Shire Stones, a Foot Distance each.' The name properly understood would have put them right. The natives pronounce it 'raynus,' and I have not the least doubt that it represents 'Raven's Hause.' Indeed, in early charters the form 'Wreneshals' is actually found, and the intermediate form 'Wrenose' is found in a sixteenth-century map. =Yewbarrow= (2,058 ft.; Cumberland sh. 74) is a narrow ridge a couple of miles long, which, seen end-on from the shore of Wastwater, has all the appearance of a sharp peak. There is climbing at the north end about _Door Head_ and _Stirrup Crag_, while towards the south end there are two very interesting square-cut 'doors' in the summit ridge, apparently due to 'intrusive dykes,' and beyond them the little climb called Bell Rib End. =Yorkshire= (see _Attermire_, _Calf_, _Craven_, _Gordale_, _Ingleborough_, _Malham_, _Micklefell_, _Penyghent_, _Pot-holes_, _Whernside_)--a county whose uplands fall naturally into three great divisions, only one of which, however, demands the attention of the mountaineer. The chalk _Wolds_ in the East Riding, and the moorland group formed by the _Hambleton_ and _Cleveland Hills_, may be dismissed here with a mere mention. The third division, which constitutes a portion of the _Pennine Chain_, and, entering the county from Westmorland and Durham on the north, stretches in an unbroken line down its western border to Derbyshire on the south, approaches more nearly to the mountain standard. Even in this division, however, only that portion which lies to the north of Skipton attains to any considerable importance. It is in this latter district--in _Craven_, that is, and in the valleys of the Yore, the Swale, and the Tees--that we must look for the finest hill scenery in Yorkshire. Most of these mountains consist of limestone, capped in many cases by millstone grit, and of such summits some twenty-five or thirty rise to a height of 2,000 ft. Very few of them, however, exhibit individuality of outline, and, with the exception of the low lines of limestone precipice which occasionally girdle them, and of the wasting mill-stone bluffs which, as in the case of _Pen-hill_ or _Ingleborough_, sometimes guard their highest slopes, they are altogether innocent of crag. If any climbing is to be found at all, it will probably be among the numerous 'pot-holes,' or on the limestone 'scars,' such as _Attermire_ or _Gordale_, which mark the line of the Craven Fault. The _Howgill Fells_, north of Sedburgh, form an exception to the above remarks. (See _Calf_.) Although the climber may find little opportunity to exercise his art among the Yorkshire mountains, yet the ordinary hill-lover will discover ample recompense for the time spent in an exploration of these hills and dales. The ascent of _Micklefell_, of _Great Whernside_, of _Penyghent_, or of _Ingleborough_, whilst not lacking altogether the excitement of mountain climbing, will introduce him to many scenes of novel character and of astonishing beauty. It is only fair to mention that the Yorkshire waterfalls are second to few in the kingdom. It is necessary to add a word or two with regard to the coast. The rapidly wasting cliffs to the south of Flamborough are too insignificant for further notice. Flamborough Head, where the chalk attains to a height of 436 ft., is noticed elsewhere. (See _Chalk_.) The line of coast from Flamborough to Saltburn, passing Filey, Scarborough, and Whitby, presents an almost unbroken stretch of cliff, which, however, will find greater favour with the landscape-lover than the climber. These cliffs, which consist chiefly of the oolite and lias series, are throughout crumbling and insecure, and are very frequently composed of little more than clay and shale. _Rockcliff_, or _Boulby Cliff_, however, near Staithes, merits a certain amount of attention. In addition to not a little boldness of outline, it enjoys--or, at any rate, enjoyed--the reputation of being the highest cliff (660 ft.) on the English coast. PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE LONDON THE BADMINTON LIBRARY. Edited by the DUKE OF BEAUFORT, K.G. and A.E.T. WATSON. ATHLETICS AND FOOTBALL. By MONTAGUE SHEARMAN. With an Introduction by SIR RICHARD WEBSTER, Q.C. M.P. With 51 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ BIG GAME SHOOTING. By CLIVE PHILLIPPS-WOLLEY. With Contributions by Sir SAMUEL W. BAKER, W.C. OSWELL, F.J. JACKSON, WARBURTON PIKE, F.C. SELOUS, LIEUT.-COL. R. HEBER PERCY, ARNOLD PIKE, Major ALGERNON C. HEBER PERCY, W.A. BAILLIE-GROHMAN, &c. Vol. I. Africa and America. With 20 Plates and 57 Illustrations in the Text. Crown 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ Vol. II. Europe, Asia, and the Arctic Regions. With 17 Plates and 56 Illustrations in the Text. Crown 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ BOATING. By W.B. WOODGATE. With an Introduction by the Rev. EDMOND WARRE, D.D. and a Chapter on 'Rowing at Eton' by R. HARVEY MASON. With 49 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ COURSING AND FALCONRY. By HARDING COX and the Hon. GERALD LASCELLES. With 76 Illustrations. Cr. 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ CRICKET. By A.G. STEEL and the Hon. R.H. LYTTELTON. With Contributions by ANDREW LANG, R.A.H. MITCHELL, W.G. GRACE, and F. GALE. With 64 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ CYCLING. By VISCOUNT BURY, K.C.M.G. (the Earl of Albemarle), and G. LACY HILLIER. With 89 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ DRIVING. By His Grace the DUKE OF BEAUFORT, K.G. With 65 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ FENCING, BOXING, and WRESTLING. By WALTER H. POLLOCK, F.O. GROVE, C. PREVOST, E.B. MITCHELL, and WALTER ARMSTRONG. With 42 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ FISHING. By H. CHOLMONDELEY-PENNELL. With Contributions by the MARQUIS OF EXETER, HENRY R. FRANCIS, Major JOHN P. TRAHERNE, FREDERIC M. HALFORD, G. CHRISTOPHER DAVIES, R.B. MARSTON, &c. Vol. I. Salmon and Trout. With 158 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ Vol. II. Pike and other Coarse Fish. With 133 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ GOLF. By HORACE G. HUTCHINSON, the Right Hon. A.J. BALFOUR, M.P. Sir WALTER G. SIMPSON, Bart. LORD WELLWOOD, H.S.C. EVERARD, ANDREW LANG, and other Writers. With 89 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ HUNTING. By the DUKE OF BEAUFORT, K.G. and MOWBRAY MORRIS. With Contributions by the EARL OF SUFFOLK AND BERKSHIRE, Rev. E.W.L. DAVIES, DIGBY COLLINS, Sir MARTEINE LLOYD, GEORGE H. LONGMAN, J.C. GIBBONS, and ALFRED E.T. WATSON. With 60 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ MOUNTAINEERING. By C.T. DENT, with Contributions by W.M. CONWAY, D.W. FRESHFIELD, C.E. MATHEWS, C. PILKINGTON, Sir F. POLLOCK, H.G. WILLINK, and an Introduction by Mr. JUSTICE WILLS. With 108 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ RACING AND STEEPLE-CHASING. _Racing_: By the EARL OF SUFFOLK AND BERKSHIRE and W.G. CRAVEN. With a Contribution by the Hon. F. LAWLEY. _Steeple-chasing_: By ARTHUR COVENTRY and ALFRED E.T. WATSON. With 58 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ RIDING AND POLO. By Captain ROBERT WEIR, Riding Master, R.H.G. and J. MORAY BROWN. With Contributions by the DUKE OF BEAUFORT, the EARL OF SUFFOLK AND BERKSHIRE, the EARL OF ONSLOW, E.L. ANDERSON, and ALFRED E. T. WATSON. With 59 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ SHOOTING. By LORD WALSINGHAM and Sir RALPH PAYNE-GALLWEY, Bart. With Contributions by LORD LOVAT, LORD CHARLES LENNOX KERR, the Hon. G. LASCELLES, and A.J. STUART-WORTLEY. Vol. I. Field and Covert. With 105 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 10_s._6_d._ Vol. II. Moor and Marsh. With 65 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ SKATING, CURLING, TOBOGGANING, and other ICE SPORTS. By J.M. HEATHCOTE, C.G. TEBBUTT, T. MAXWELL WITHAM, the Rev. JOHN KERR, ORMOND HAKE, and HENRY A. BUCK. With 284 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ SWIMMING. By ARCHIBALD SINCLAIR and WILLIAM HENRY, Hon. Secs. of the Life-Saving Society. With 119 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ TENNIS, LAWN TENNIS, RACKETS, and FIVES. By J.M. and C.G. HEATHCOTE, E.O. PLEYDELL-BOUVERIE, and A.C. AINGER. With Contributions by the Hon. A. LYTTELTON, W.C. MARSHALL, Miss L. DODD, H.W.W. WILBERFORCE, H.F. LAWFORD, &c. With 79 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ YACHTING. By Sir EDWARD SULLIVAN, LORD BRASSEY, R.T. PRITCHETT, the EARL OF ONSLOW, LEWIS HERRESHOFF, &c. With 309 Illustrations. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ each. London: LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO. ... Transcriber's note: Inconsistent hyphenation is as in the original. ... 
21720	----	CHARLIE TO THE RESCUE, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE. CHAPTER ONE. INTRODUCES THE HERO. To be generally helpful was one of the chief points in the character of Charlie Brooke. He was evidently born to aid mankind. He began by helping himself to everything in life that seemed at all desirable. This was natural, not selfish. At first there were few things, apparently, that did seem to his infant mind desirable, for his earliest days were marked by a sort of chronic crossness that seemed quite unaccountable in one so healthy; but this was eventually traced to the influence of pins injudiciously disposed about the person by nurse. Possibly this experience may have tended to develop a spirit of brave endurance, and might perhaps account for the beautiful modifications of character that were subsequently observed in him. At all events, sweet, patient amiability was a prevailing feature in the boy long before the years of infancy were over, and this heavenly aspect of him was pleasantly diversified, in course of time, by occasional displays of resolute--we might almost say heroic--self-will, which proved a constant source of mingled pride and alarm to his widowed mother. From a very early period of life little Charlie manifested an intense desire, purpose, and capacity for what may be called his life-work of rescuing human beings from trouble and danger. It became a passion with him as years rolled on, and was among the chief means that brought about the changes in his chequered career. Appropriately enough he began--almost in babyhood--by rescuing himself! It happened thus. One day, when he had reached the immature age of five, he was left in the nursery for a few moments in company with a wash-tub, in which his mother had been cleansing the household linen. Mrs Brooke, it may be remarked, although in the middle ranks of life, was very much below the middle ranks in financial prosperity, and had therefore to perform much household drudgery. Charlie's earnest desire to please and obey his mother constantly came into collision with that self-will to which we have referred. Separately, these qualities may perhaps work quietly, at least as regards their possessor, but unitedly they form a mixture which is apt to become explosive in early youth. "Don't touch the tub, Charlie; I'll be back directly," said Mrs Brooke, as she was leaving the nursery. "Don't even go near it." "No, muvver, I won't." He spoke with much decision, for he adored water--not to drink but to play with--and seemed to realise the danger of his position, and the necessity for self-control. The temptation to avail himself of the chance, however, was almost too much for him. Feeling that an internal conflict was pending, he toddled to the fire, turned his back to it _a la_ paterfamilias, and glared at the tub, resolved, come what might, to be "dood." But fate was against him! Suddenly he became aware that something more than radiated heat was operating in rear. He glanced behind. His cotton tunic was in flames! In the twinkling of an eye he was seated in the wash-tub, his hands clasped in horror as he thought of his guilt, and the flames thoroughly extinguished! The solemn glare and pursed mouth with which he met his mother's look of blank amazement may be imagined but cannot be described--he looked so quiet, too, and so evidently contented, for the warm water was congenial! "O Charlie! did I not say that--" "Yes, muvver, but I'm bu'nt." The fearsome and dripping black patch which presented itself to the agonised mother when she lifted him out of the tub sufficiently enlightened her and exonerated the child, but her anxiety was not relieved till she had stripped him naked and ascertained for certain that no scrap of his fair skin had been injured. This may be said to have been the real commencement of Charlie Brooke's career. We mention it chiefly to show that our hero was gifted with some power of ready resource even in childhood. He was also gifted with a fearless and daring disposition, a quietly enthusiastic spirit, a modest mien, and a strong muscular body. Of course these admirable qualities were not fully developed in childhood, but the seeds were there. In due time the plants came up and the flowers bloomed. We would here caution the reader--especially the youthful reader-- against supposing that from this point our hero was engaged in rescue-work, and continued at it ever after without intermission. Like Samson, with his great strength, he exercised his powers only now and then--more than half unconscious of what was in him--and on many occasions without any definite purpose in view. His first act of heroism was exercised, when he had reached the age of nine, in behalf of a kitten. It was on a magnificent summer day, soon after he had been sent to the village school, that the incident occurred. Charlie was walking at the time with one of his school-fellows named Shank Leather. Shank was a little older than himself, and a good enough fellow in his way, but much given to boasting, and possessed of very few of the fine qualities that characterised our hero. The two were out for a holiday-ramble, a long way from home, and had reached a river on the banks of which they sat down to enjoy their mid-day meal. The meal was simple, and carried in their pockets. It consisted of two inch-and-a-half-thick slices of bread, with two lumps of cheese to match. "I wish this river was nearer home," said Shank Leather, as they sat down under a spreading oak to dine. "Why?" asked his companion, with a felicitous brevity and straightforwardness which occasionally marked his conversation. "Because then I would have a swim in it everyday." "Can you swim?" asked Charlie, a slight elevation of the eyebrows indicating surprise not unmingled with admiration--for our hero was a hero-worshipper. He could not well have been a hero otherwise! "Of course I can swim," returned Shank; "that is to say, a little; but I feel sure that I'll be a splendid swimmer some day." His companion's look of admiration increased. "What'll you take to drink?" asked Shank, drawing a large flask from the pocket in which he had concealed it up to that moment with the express purpose of giving his companion a pleasant surprise. It may be well to add that the variety of dunks implied in his question was imaginary. Shank had only one flask, but in the exuberance of convivial generosity he quoted his own father--who was addicted to "the bottle." "What is it?" asked Brooke, in curious expectancy. "Taste and see," said his friend, uncorking the flask. Charlie tasted, but did not "see," apparently, for he looked solemn, and tasted again. "It's liquorice-water," said Shank, with the look of one who expects approval. "I made it myself!" Nauseous in the extreme, it might have served the purpose of an emetic had not the digestion of the boys been ostrich-like, but, on hearing how it came into existence, Charlie put it a third time to his lips, took a good gulp, and then, nodding his head as he wiped his mouth with his cuff, declared that it was "wonderful." "Yes, isn't it? There's not many fellows could make stuff like that." "No, indeed," assented the other heartily, as he attacked the bread and cheese. "Does your father know you made it?" "Oh yes, and he tasted it too--he'd taste anything in the shape of drink--but he spat it out, and then washed his mouth with brandy an' water. Mother took some too, and she said she had tasted worse drinks; and she only wished that father would take to it. That made father laugh heartily. Then I gave some to little May, and she said it was `So nice.'" "Ay. That was like little May," remarked Charlie, with a quiet laugh; "she'd say that a mess o' tar an' shoe-blacking was nice if _you_ made it. But I say, Shank, let's see you swim. I'd give anything if I could swim. Do, like a brick as you are. There's a fine deep hole here under the bank." He pointed to a pool in the river where the gurgling eddies certainly indicated considerable depth of water, but his friend shook his head. "No, Charlie," he said, "you don't understand the danger as I do. Don't you see that the water runs into the hole at such a rate that there's a tree-mendous eddy that would sweep any man off his legs--" "But you're goin' to swim, you know," interrupted his friend, "an' have got to be off your legs anyhow!" "That's all _you_ know," returned the other. "If a man's swept round by an eddy, don't you know, he'll be banged against things, and then the water rushes out of the hole with _such_ a gush, an' goes thunderin' down below, over boulders and stones, and--an'--don't you see?" "That's true, Shank; it does look dangerous, even for a man that can swim." He put such emphasis on the "man" that his comrade glanced sharply at him, but the genuine innocence of our hero's face was too obvious to suggest irony. He simply saw that the use of the word _man_ pleased his friend, therefore he used it. Conversation was cut short at this point by the sudden appearance on the scene of two strangers--a kitten and a dog. The assertion that "dogs delight to bark and bite" is, perhaps, too sweeping, but then it was made by a poet and poets have an acknowledged licence--though not necessarily a dog-licence. Certain it is, however, that this dog--a mongrel cur--did bark with savage delight, and display all its teeth, with an evident desire to bite, as it chased a delirious tortoise-shell kitten towards the river. It was a round, soft, lively kitten, with the hair on its little body sticking straight out, its heart in its mouth, and horror in its lovely eyes. It made straight for the tree under which the dinner was going on. Both boys started up. Enemies in front and rear! Even a human general might have stood appalled. Two courses were still open--right and left. The kitten turned right and went wrong, for that was the river-side. No time for thought! Barking cur and yelling boys! It reached the edge of the pool, spread out all its legs with a caterwaul of despair, and went headlong into the water. Shank Leather gazed--something like glee mingled with his look of consternation. Not so our hero. Pity was bursting his bosom. With one magnificent bound he went into the pool, caught the kitten in his right hand, and carried it straight to the bottom. Next moment he re-appeared on the surface, wildly beating the water with one hand and holding the kitten aloft in the other. Shank, to do him justice, plunged into the river up to his waist, but his courage carried him no further. There he stuck, vainly holding out a hand and shouting for help. But no help was near, and it seemed as if the pair of strugglers were doomed to perish when a pitiful eddy swept them both out of the deep pool into the foaming rapid below. Shank followed them in howling despair, for here things looked ten times worse: his comrade being tossed from billow to breaker, was turned heels over head, bumped against boulders, stranded on shallows, overturned and swept away again--but ever with the left arm beating wildly, and the right hand with the kitten, held high in air. But the danger, except from being dashed against the boulders, was not really as great as it seemed, for every time that Brooke got a foothold for an instant, or was driven on a rock, or was surged, right-end-up, on a shoot of water, he managed to gasp a little air--including a deal of water. The kitten, of course, had the same chances, and, being passive, perhaps suffered less. At the foot of the rapid they were whirled, as if contemptuously, into an eddy. Shank was there, as deep as he dared venture. He even pushed in up to the arm-pits, and, catching his comrade by the hair, dragged him to bank. "O Charlie, I've saved ye!" he exclaimed, as his friend crawled out and sat down. "Ay, an' you've saved the kitten too!" replied his friend, examining the poor animal. "It's dead," said Shank; "dead as mutton." "No, only stunned. No wonder, poor beast!" With tender care the rescuer squeezed the water from the fur of the rescued. Then, pulling open his vest and shirt, he was about to place the kitten in his bosom to warm it. "No use doin' that," said Leather. "You're as wet an' nigh as cold as itself." "That's true. Sit down here," returned Brooke, in a tone of command which surprised his comrade. "Open your shirt." Again Shank obeyed wonderingly. Next moment he gave a gasp as the cold, wet creature was thrust into his warm bosom. "It makes me shiver all over," he said. "Never mind," replied his friend coolly, as he got up and wrung the water out of his own garments. "It's beginning to move, Charlie," said Shank, after a few minutes. "Give it here, then." The creature was indeed showing feeble symptoms of revival, so Brooke-- whose bosom was not only recovering its own heat, but was beginning to warm the wet garments--thrust it into his own breast, and the two friends set off homeward at a run. At the nearest house they made inquiry as to the owner of the kitten, but failed to find one. Our hero therefore resolved to carry it home. Long before that haven was reached, however, his clothes were nearly dry, and the rescued one was purring sweetly, in childlike innocence-- all the horrors, sufferings, and agonies of the past forgotten, apparently, in the enjoyment of the present. CHAPTER TWO. THE SHIPWRECK. We have no intention of carrying our reader on step by step through all the adventures and deeds of Charlie Brooke. It is necessary to hasten over his boyhood, leaving untold the many battles fought, risks run, and dangers encountered. He did not cut much of a figure at the village school--though he did his best, and was fairly successful--but in the playground he reigned supreme. At football, cricket, gymnastics, and, ultimately, at swimming, no one could come near him. This was partly owing to his great physical strength, for, as time passed by he shot upwards and outwards in a way that surprised his companions and amazed his mother, who was a distinctly little woman--a neat graceful little woman--with, like her stalwart son, a modest opinion of herself. As a matter of course, Charlie's school-fellows almost worshipped him, and he was always so willing to help and lead them in all cases of danger or emergency, that "Charlie to the rescue!" became quite a familiar cry on the playground. Indeed it would have been equally appropriate in the school, for the lad never seemed to be so thoroughly happy as when he was assisting some boy less capable than himself to master his lessons. About the time that Charlie left school, while yet a stripling, he had the shoulders of Samson, the chest of Hercules, and the limbs of Apollo. He was tall also--over six feet--but his unusual breadth deceived people as to this till they stood close to him. Fair hair, close and curly, with bright blue eyes and a permanent look of grave benignity, completes our description of him. Rowing, shooting, fishing, boxing, and swimming seemed to come naturally to him, and all of them in a superlative degree. Swimming was, perhaps, his most loved amusement and in this art he soon far outstripped his friend Leather. Some men are endowed with exceptional capacities in regard to water. We have seen men go into the sea warm and come out warmer, even in cold weather. Experience teaches that the reverse is usually true of mankind in northern regions, yet we once saw a man enter the sea to all appearance a white human being, after remaining in it upwards of an hour, and swimming away from shore; like a vessel outward bound, he came back at last the colour of a boiled lobster! Such exceptional qualities did Charlie Brooke possess. A South Sea Islander might have envied but could not have excelled him. It was these qualities that decided the course of his career just after he left school. "Charlie," said his mother, as they sat eating their mid-day meal alone one day--the mother being, as we have said, a widow, and Charlie an only child--"what do you think of doing, now that you have left school? for you know my income renders it impossible that I should send you to college." "I don't know what to think, mother. Of course I intend to do something. If you had only influence with some one in power who could enable a fellow to get his foot on the first round of any sort of ladder, something might be done, for you know I'm not exactly useless, though I can't boast of brilliant talents, but--" "Your talents are brilliant enough, Charlie," said his mother, interrupting; "besides, you have been sent into this world for a purpose, and you may be sure that you will discover what that purpose is, and receive help to carry it out if you only ask God to guide you. Not otherwise," she added, after a pause. "Do you _really_ believe, mother, that _every_ one who is born into the world is sent for a purpose, and with a specific work to do?" "I do indeed, Charlie." "What! all the cripples, invalids, imbeciles, even the very infants who are born to wail out their sad lives in a few weeks, or even days?" "Yes--all of them, without exception. To suppose the opposite, and imagine that a wise, loving, and almighty Being would create anything for _no_ purpose seems to me the very essence of absurdity. Our only difficulty is that we do not always see the purpose. All things are ours, but we must ask if we would have them." "But I _have_ asked, mother," said the youth, with an earnest flush on his brow. "You know I have done so often, yet a way has not been opened up. I believe in _your_ faith, mother, but I don't quite believe in my own. There surely must be something wrong--a screw loose somewhere." He laid down his knife and fork, and looked out at the window with a wistful, perplexed expression. "How I wish," he continued, "that the lines had been laid down for the human race more distinctly, so that we could not err!" "And yet," responded his mother, with a peculiar look, "such lines as _are_ obviously laid down we don't always follow. For instance, it is written, `Ask, and it shall be given you,' and we stop there, but the sentence does not stop: `Seek, and ye shall find' implies care and trouble; `Knock, and it shall be opened unto you' hints at perseverance, does it not?" "There's something in that, mother," said Charlie, casting another wistful glance out of the window. "Come, I will go out and `seek'! I see Shank Leather waiting for me. We agreed to go to the shore together, for we both like to watch the waves roaring in on a breezy day like this." The youth rose and began to encase his bulky frame in a great pilot-cloth coat, each button of which might have done duty as an afternoon tea-saucer. "I wish you would choose any companion to walk with but young Leather," said the widow, with a sigh. "He's far too like his father to do you any good." "Mother, would you have me give up an old playmate and school-fellow because he is not perfect?" asked the youth in grave tones as he tied on a sou'-wester. "Well, no--not exactly, but--" Not having a good reason ready, the worthy woman only smiled a remonstrance. The stalwart son stooped, kissed her and was soon outside, battling with the storm--for what he styled a breezy day was in reality a wild and stormy one. Long before the period we have now reached Mrs Brooke had changed her residence to the sea-coast in the small town of Sealford. Her cottage stood in the centre of the village, about half-a-mile from the shore, and close to that of her bosom friend, Mrs Leather, who had migrated along with her, partly to be near her and partly for the sake of her son Shank, who was anxious to retain the companionship of his friend Brooke. Partly, also, to get her tippling husband away from old comrades and scenes, in the faint hope that she might rescue him from the great curse of his life. When Charlie went out, as we have said, he found that Shank had brought his sister May with him. This troubled our hero a good deal, for he had purposed having a confidential talk with his old comrade upon future plans and prospects, to the accompaniment of the roaring sea, and a third party was destructive of such intention. Besides, poor May, although exceedingly unselfish and sweet and good, was at that transition period of life when girlhood is least attractive--at least to young men: when bones are obtrusive, and angles too conspicuous, and the form generally is too suggestive of flatness and longitude; while shyness marks the manners, and inexperience dwarfs the mind. We would not, however, suggest for a moment that May was ugly. By no means, but she had indeed reached what may be styled a plain period of life--a period in which some girls become silently sheepish, and others tomboyish; May was among the former, and therefore a drag upon conversation. But, after all, it mattered little, for the rapidly increasing gale rendered speech nearly impossible. "It's too wild a day for you, May," said Brooke, as he shook hands with her; "I wonder you care to be out." "She _doesn't_ care to be out, but I wanted her to come, and she's a good obliging girl, so she came," said Shank, drawing her arm through his as they pressed forward against the blast in the direction of the shore. Shank Leather had become a sturdy young fellow by that time, but was much shorter than his friend. There was about him, however, an unmistakable look of dissipation--or, rather, the beginning of it--which accounted for Mrs Brooke's objection to him as a companion for her son. We have said that the cottage lay about half-a-mile from the shore, which could be reached by a winding lane between high banks. These effectually shut out the view of the sea until one was close to it, though, at certain times, the roar of the waves could be heard even in Sealford itself. Such a time was the present, for the gale had lashed the sea into wildest fury, and not only did the three friends hear it, as, with bent heads, they forced their way against the wind, but they felt the foam of ocean on their faces as it was carried inland sometimes in lumps and flakes. At last they came to the end of the lane, and the sea, lashed to its wildest condition, lay before them like a sheet of tortured foam. "Grand! isn't it?" said Brooke, stopping and drawing himself up for a moment, as if with a desire to combat the opposing elements. If May Leather could not speak, she could at all events gaze, for she had superb brown eyes, and they glittered, just then, like glowing coals, while a wealth of rippling brown hair was blown from its fastenings, and flew straight out behind her. "Look! look there!" shouted her brother with a wild expression, as he pointed to a part of the rocky shore where a vessel was dimly seen through the drift. "She's trying to weather the point," exclaimed Brooke, clearing the moisture from his eyes, and endeavouring to look steadily. "She'll never weather it. See! the fishermen are following her along-shore," cried young Leather, dropping his sister's arm, and bounding away. "Oh! don't leave me behind, Shank," pleaded May. Shank was beyond recall, but our hero, who had also sprung forward, heard the pleading voice and turned back. "Here, hook on to me," he cried quickly, for he was in no humour to delay. The girl grasped his arm at once, and, to say truth, she was not much of a hindrance, for, although somewhat inelegant, as we have said, she was lithe as a lizard and fleet as a young colt. A few minutes brought them to the level shore where Brooke left May to shelter herself with some fisher-women behind a low wall, while he ran along to a spot where a crowd of fishermen and old salts, enveloped in oil-skins, were discussing the situation as they leaned against the shrieking wind. "Will she weather it, Grinder, think you?" he asked of an elderly man, whose rugged features resembled mahogany, the result of having bid defiance to wind and weather for nigh half a century. "She may, Mr Brooke, an' she mayn't," answered the matter-of-fact man of the sea, in the gruff monotone with which he would have summoned all hands to close reef in a hurricane. "If her tackle holds she'll do it. If it don't she won't." "We've sent round for the rocket anyhow," said a smart young fisherman, who seemed to rejoice in opposing his broad chest to the blast, and in listening to the thunder of the waves as they rolled into the exposed bay in great battalions, chasing each other in wild tumultuous fury, as if each were bent on being first in the mad assault upon the shore. "Has the lifeboat coxswain been called?" asked Charlie, after a few minutes' silence, for the voice of contending elements was too great to render converse easy or agreeable. "Yes, sir," answered the man nearest to him, "but she's bin called to a wreck in Mussel Bay, an' that brig will be all right or in Davy Jones's locker long afore th' lifeboat 'ud fetch round here." Silence again fell on the group as they gazed out to sea, pushing eagerly down the beach until they were ankle-deep in the foam of each expended wave; for the brig was by that time close on the point of rocks, staggering under more sail than she could carry with safety. "She'll do it!" exclaimed the smart young fisherman, ready to cheer with enthusiastic hope. "Done for! Lost!" cried one, while something like a groan burst from the others as they saw the brig's topmasts go over the side, and one of her sails blown to ribbons. She fell away towards the rocks at once. Like great black teeth these rocks seemed to leap in the midst of the foam, as if longing to grasp the ill-fated vessel, which had, indeed, all but weathered the dangerous point, and all might have been well if her gear had only held; but now, as if paralysed, she drifted into the bay where certain destruction awaited her. Just at that moment a great cheer arose, for the rocket-cart, drawn by the men of the Coast-Guard, was seen rattling over the downs towards them. Anxiety for the fate of the doomed brig was now changed into eager hope for the rescue of her crew. The fishermen crowded round the Coast-Guard men as they ran the cart close down to the water's edge, and some of them--specially the smart young fellow already mentioned--made eager offer of their services. Charlie Brooke stood aloof, looking on with profound interest, for it was the first time he had ever seen the Manby rocket apparatus brought into action. He made no hasty offer to assist, for he was a cool youth--even while burning with impatient enthusiasm-- and saw at a glance that the men of the Coast-Guard were well able to manage their own affairs and required no aid from him. As the brig was coming straight in they could easily calculate where she would strike, so that the rocket men could set up their triangle and arrange their tackle without delay. This was fortunate, for the wreck was carried shoreward with great rapidity. She struck at last when within a short distance of the beach, and the faces of those on board could be distinctly seen, and their cries heard, as both masts snapped off and were swept over the side, where they tore at the shrouds like wild creatures, or charged the hulk like battering-rams. Instantly the billows that had borne the vessel on their crests burst upon her sides, and spurted high in air over her, falling back on her deck, and sweeping off everything that was moveable. It could be seen that only three or four men were on deck, and these kept well under the lee of the bulwarks near the stern where they were strongest. "No passengers, I think," said one of the fishermen; "no women, anyhow." "Not likely they'd be 'lowed on deck even if there was," growled Grinder, in his monotone. "Now, then, out o' the way," cried the leader of the Coast-Guard men, as he laid a rocket in its place. "Line all clear, Fred?" "All clear." Next moment there was a burst of flame, a crash, and a vicious whizz as the powerful projectile leaped from its stand and sped out to sea, in grand defiance of the opposing gale, with its light line behind it. A cheer marked its flight, but a groan told of its descent into the boiling sea, considerably to the left of the wreck. "_What_ a pity!" cried Shank Leather, who had come close to his friend when the rocket-cart arrived. "No matter," said Brooke, whose compressed lips and flashing eyes told of deep but suppressed feelings. "There are more rockets." He was right. While he was speaking, another rocket was placed and fired. It was well directed, but fell short. Another, and yet another, rose and fell, but failed to reach its mark, and the remainder of the rockets refused to go off from some unknown cause--either because they had been too long in stock or had become damp. Meantime the brig was tossed farther and farther in, until she stuck quite fast. Then it became evident that she must soon break up, and her crew perish. Hasty plans and eager advice were proposed and given. Then the smart young fisherman suddenly sprang forward, and threw off his oil-coat and sou'-wester. "Here! hold on!" he cried, catching up the end of the rocket line, and fastening it round his waist, while he kicked off his heavy boots. "You can't do it, Bill," cried some. "Too far to swim," cried others. "The seas 'll knock the life out o' ye," said Grinder, "afore you're clear o' the sand." Despite these warnings the brave young fellow dashed into the foam, and plunged straight into the first mighty breaker that towered over his head. But he was too much excited to act effectively. He failed to time his plunge well. The wave fell upon him with a roar and crushed him down. In a few seconds he was dragged ashore almost insensible. Example, whether good or bad, is infectious. Another strapping young fellow, stirred to emulation, ran forward, and, seizing the rope, tied it round his own waist, while they helped poor Bill up the beach and seated him on a sand-bank. The second youth was more powerful than the first--and cooler. He made a better attempt, but only got past the first wave, when his comrades, seeing that he was exhausted, drew him back. Then a third--a broad burly youth--came forward. At this point the soul of Shank Leather took fire, for he was by no means destitute of generous impulses, and he tried to get hold of the rope. "Out o' the way," cried the burly youth, giving Leather a rough push that almost sent him on his back; "we don't want no land-lubbers for this kind o' work." Up to this point Charlie Brooke, although burning with eager desire to take some active part in the rescue, had restrained himself and held back, believing, with characteristic modesty, that the fishermen knew far better than he did how to face the sea and use their appliances; but when he saw his friend stagger backward, he sprang to the front, caught hold of the line, and, seizing the burly fisherman by the arm, exclaimed, "You'll let _this_ land-lubber try it, anyhow," and sent him spinning away like a capsized nine-pin. There was a short laugh, as well as a cheer at this; but next moment all were gazing at the sea in breathless anxiety, for Brooke had rushed deep into the surf. He paused one moment, as the great wave curled over him, then went through it head-first with such force that he shot waist-high out of the sea on the other side. His exceptional swimming-powers now served him well, for his otter-like rapidity of action enabled him to avoid the crushing billows either by diving through them at the right moment, or holding back until they fell, and left him only the mad swirling foam to contend with. This last was bad enough, but here his great muscular strength and his inexhaustible caloric, with his cork-like power of flotation, enabled him to hold his own without exhaustion until another opportunity of piercing an unbroken wave offered. Thus he gradually forced his way through and beyond the worst breakers, which are always those nearest shore. Had any one been close to him, and able calmly to watch his movements, it would have been seen that, great as were the youth's powers, he did not waste them in useless battling with a force against which no man could effectively contend; that, with a cool head, he gave way to every irresistible force, swimming for a moment, as it were, with the current--or, rather, floating easily in the whirlpools--so as to conserve his strength; that, ever and anon, he struck out with all his might, rushing through foam and wave like a fish, and that, in the midst of it all, he saw and seized the brief moments in which he could take a gasping inhalation. Those who watched him with breathless anxiety on shore saw little of all this as they paid out the line or perched themselves on tiptoe on the few boulders that here and there strewed the sand. "Haul him back!" shouted the man who was farthest out on the line. "He's used up!" "No, he's not, I know him well!" roared Shank Leather. "Pay out, men-- pay out line!" "Ay, ease away," said Grinder, in a thunderous growl. "He's a rigler walrus, he is. Niver see'd sich a feller since I left the southern seas. Ease away, boys." A cheer followed his remark, for at that moment it was seen that our hero had reached the tail of the eddy which was caused by the hull of the wreck, and that one of her crew had darted from the cover of the vessel's bulwarks and taken shelter under the stump of the mainmast. His object was seen in a moment, for he unhooked a coil of rope from the belaying-pins, and stood ready to heave it to the approaching swimmer. In making even this preparation the man ran very great risk, for the stump was but a partial shelter--each wave that burst over the side sweeping wildly round it and leaping on the man higher than his waist, so that it was very difficult for him to avoid being torn from his position. Charlie's progress was now comparatively easy. A few vigorous strokes brought him under the lea of the wreck, which, however, was by no means a quiet spot, for each divided wave, rushing round bow and stern, met there in a tumult of foam that almost choked the swimmer, while each billow that burst over the wreck poured a small Niagara on his head. How to get on board in such circumstances was a subject that had troubled Charlie's mind as he drew near, but the action of the sailor unhooking the coil of rope at once relieved him. The moment he came within reach, the sailor, watching his opportunity between waves, threw out the coil. It was aimed by an accustomed hand and fell on the rescuer's head. Another minute and young Brooke stood on the deck. Without waiting an instant he leaped under the shelter of the stump of the mainmast beside the seaman. He was only just in time, for a wave burst in thunder on the weather side of the quivering brig, and, pouring over the bulwarks, almost dragged him from the belaying-pins to which he clung. The instant the strain was off, he passed a rope round his waist and gave the end of it to the sailor. "Here, make it fast," he said, beginning to haul with all his might on the line which he had brought from shore. "You're the skipper--eh?" "Yes. Don't waste your breath in speech. I know what to do. All's ready." These few words were an unspeakable relief to our hero, who was well aware that the working of the rocket apparatus required a slight amount of knowledge, and who felt from his manner and tone that the skipper was a thorough man. He glanced upwards as he hauled in the line, assisted by his companion, and saw that a stout rope with two loops on it had been fixed to the stump of the mast. Just as he noted this with satisfaction a large block with a thin line rove through it emerged from the boiling sea. It had been attached by the men on shore to the rocket line which Charlie had been hauling out with so much energy. Its name was indicated by the skipper. "Here comes the _whip_," he cried, catching hold of the block when it reached him. "Hold me up, lad, while I make it fast to them loops." While Charlie obeyed he saw that by fixing the tail-lines of the block quickly to the loops prepared for them, instead of winding them round the mast,--a difficult process in such a sea--much time was saved. "There, _our_ part o' the job is done now," said the skipper, pulling off his sou'-wester as he spoke and holding it up as a signal to the men on shore. Meanwhile those to whom he signalled had been watching every movement with intense eagerness, and with the expressions of men whose gaze has to penetrate with difficulty through a haze of blinding spray. "They've got the block now," cried one man. "Does that young feller know about fixin' of it?" asked another. "Clap a stopper on your mugs; they're a-fixin' of it now," said old Grinder. "There's the signal! Haul away, lads!" We must explain here that the "whip" above mentioned was a double or endless line, passing through the block which had been hauled out to the wreck by our hero. By means of this whip one end of a stout cable was sent off to the wreck, and on this cable a sling-lifebuoy was hung to a pulley and also run out to the wreck. The working of the apparatus, though simple enough to seamen, would entail a complicated, perhaps incomprehensible, description to landsmen: we therefore pass it by with the remark that, connection with the shore having been established, and the sling-lifebuoy--or life-saving machine--run out, the crew received it with what was meant for a hearty cheer, but which exhaustion modified to a feeble shout. "Now, lads," cried the skipper to his men, "look sharp! Let out the passengers." "Passengers?" exclaimed Charlie Brooke in surprise. "Ay--my wife an' little gurl, two women and an old gentleman. You don't suppose I'd keep 'em on deck to be washed overboard?" As he spoke two of the men opened the doors of the companion-hatch, and caught hold of a little girl of about five years of age, who was handed up by a woman. "Stay! keep her under cover till I get hold of her," cried the skipper. As he was passing from the mast to the companion a heavy sea burst over the bulwarks, and swept him into the scuppers. The same wave wrenched the child from the grasp of the man who held it and carried it right overboard. Like an eel, rather than a man, Charlie cleft the foam close behind her, caught her by the skirt and bore her to the surface, when a few strokes of his free arm brought him close under the lee of the wreck just in time to prevent the agonised father from leaping after his child. There was terrible suspense for a few minutes. At one moment our hero, with his burden held high aloft, was far down in the hollow of the watery turmoil, with the black hull like a great wall rising above him, while the skipper in the main-chains, pale as death but sternly silent held on with his left hand and reached down with his right--every finger rigid and ready! Next moment a water-spout, so to speak, bore the rescuer upward on its crest, but not near enough--they went downward again. Once more the leaping water surged upwards; the skipper's strong hand closed like the grip of death on the dress, and the child was safe while its rescuer sank away from it. "Help him!" shouted the skipper, as he staggered to the shelter of the companion. But Charlie required no help. A loose rope hanging over the side caught his eye: he seized it and was on deck again in a few seconds. A minute later and he was down in the cabin. There, terror-stricken, sat the skipper's wife, never venturing to move, because she had been told to remain there till called. Happily she knew nothing of the incident just described. Beside her sat the other women, and, near to them, a stern old gentleman, who, with compressed lips, quietly awaited orders. "Come, quick!" said Charlie, grasping by the arm one of the women. It was the skipper's wife. She jumped up right willingly and went on deck. There she found her child already in the life-buoy, and was instantly lifted in beside it by her husband, who looked hastily round. "Come here, Dick," he said to a little cabin-boy who clung to a stanchion near by. "Get in." The boy looked surprised, and drew back. "Get in, I say," repeated the skipper sternly. "There's more women, sir," said the boy, still holding back. "True--brave lad! but you're wanted to keep these from getting washed out. I am too heavy, you know." The boy hesitated no longer. He squeezed himself into the machine beside the woman and child. Then up at arm's-length went the skipper's sou'-wester as a signal that all was ready, and the fishermen began to haul the life-buoy to the shore. It was an awful trip! Part of the distance, indeed, the trio were borne along well out of the sea, though the waves leaped hungrily up and sent spray over them, but as they drew near the shore they were dipped again and again into the foam, so that the little cabin boy needed all his energy and knowledge, as well as his bravery and strength, to prevent his charge being washed out. Amid ringing cheers from the fishermen-- and a treble echo from the women behind the wall--they were at last safely landed. "My lass, that friend o' your'n be a braave cheeld," said an old woman to May Leather, who crouched beside her. "Ay, _that_ he is!" exclaimed May, with a gush of enthusiasm in tone and eyes that made them all turn to look at her. "Your brother?" asked a handsome, strapping young woman. "No--I wish he was!" "Hm! ha!" exclaimed the strapping young woman--whereat there was exchanged a significant laugh; but May took no notice of it, being too deeply engrossed with the proceedings on shore and sea. Again the fishermen ran out the life-buoy and soon hauled it back with another woman; then a third. After that came the old gentleman, quite self-possessed and calm, though very pale and dishevelled; and, following him, the crew, one by one, were rescued. Then came the hero of the hour, and last of all, as in duty bound, the skipper--not much too soon, for he had barely reached the land when the brig was overwhelmed and engulfed in the raging sea. CHAPTER THREE. "IT'S AN ILL WIND THAT BLAWS NAEBODY GUID." That many if not most names have originated in the character or condition of individuals seems obvious, else why is it that so many people take after their names? We have no desire to argue the question, but hasten on to remark that old Jacob Crossley was said to be--observe, we do not say that he was--a notable illustration of what we refer to. Jacob was "as cross as two sticks," if we are to believe Mrs Bland, his housekeeper--and Mrs Bland was worthy of belief, for she was an honest widow who held prevarication to be equivalent to lying, and who, besides having been in the old bachelor's service for many years, had on one occasion been plucked by him from under the feet of a pair of horses when attempting the more dangerous than nor'-west passage of a London crossing. Gratitude, therefore, rendered it probable that Mrs Bland spake truly when she said that her master was as cross as two sticks. Of course we admit that her judgment may have been faulty. Strange to say Mr Crossley had no reason--at least no very apparent reason--for being cross, unless, indeed, the mere fact of his being an old bachelor was a sufficient reason. Perhaps it was! But in regard to everything else he had, as the saying goes, nothing to complain of. He was a prosperous East India merchant--not a miser, though a cross old bachelor, and not a millionaire, though comfortably rich. His business was prosperous, his friends were numerous, his digestion was good, his nervous system was apparently all that could be desired, and he slept well! Standing one morning in the familiar British position before his dining-room fire in London, he frowningly contemplated his housekeeper as that indefatigable woman removed the breakfast equipage. "Has the young man called this morning?" "Not yet, sir." "Well, when he comes tell him I had business in the city and could wait no--" A ring and a sharp knock interrupted him. A few moments later Charlie Brooke was ushered into the room. It was a smallish room, for Mr Crossley, although well off, did not see the propriety of wasting money on unnecessary space or rent, and the doorway was so low that Charlie's hair brushed against the top as he entered. "I called, Mr Crossley, in accordance with the wish expressed in your letter. Although, being a stranger, I do not--" The young man stopped at this point and looked steadily at the old gentleman with a peculiarly questioning expression. "You recognise me, I see," said the old man, with a very slight smile. "Well--I may be mistaken, but you do bear some resemblance to--" "Just so, I'm the man that you hauled so violently out of the cabin of the wreck last week, and shoved so unceremoniously into the life-buoy, and I have sent for you, first, to thank you for saving my life, because they tell me that, but for your swimming off with a rope, we should certainly have all been lost; and, secondly, to offer you aid in any course of life you may wish to adopt, for I have been informed that you are not at present engaged in any special employment." "You are very kind, sir, very kind," returned Charlie, somewhat embarrassed. "I can scarcely claim, however, to have saved your life, though I thankfully admit having had the opportunity to lend a hand. The rocket-men, in reality, did the work, for without their splendid working of the apparatus my swimming off would have been useless." Mr Crossley frowned while the youth was speaking, and regarded him with some suspicion. "You admit, I suppose," he rejoined sternly, "that if you had _not_ swum off, the rocket apparatus would have been equally useless." "By no means," returned Charlie, with that benignant smile that always accompanied his opposition in argument. "I do not admit that, because, if I had not done it, assuredly some one else would. In fact a friend of mine was on the point of making the attempt when I pulled him back and prevented him." "And why did you prevent him?" "Because he was not so well able to do it as I." "Oh! I see. In other words, you have a pretty high opinion of your own powers." "Possibly I have," returned the youth, somewhat sharply. "I lay claim to no exemption from the universal law of vanity which seems to affect the entire human race--especially the cynical part of it. At the same time, knowing from long experience that I am physically stronger, can swim better, and have greater power of endurance, though not greater courage, than my friend, it would be mere pretence were I to assume that in such matters I was his inferior. You asked me why I prevented him: I gave you the reason exactly and straightforwardly. I now repeat it." "Don't be so ready to fire up, young man," said Crossley, with a deprecating smile. "I had no intention of hurting your feelings." "You have not hurt them, sir," returned Charlie, with almost provoking urbanity of manner and sweetness of voice, "you have only misunderstood me." "Well, well, let it pass. Tell me, now, can I do anything for you?" "Nothing, thank you." "Eh?" exclaimed the old gentleman in surprise. "Nothing, thank you," repeated his visitor. "I did not save you for the purpose of being rewarded, and I refuse to accept reward for saving you." For a second or two Mr Crossley regarded his visitor in silence, with a conflicting mixture of frown and smile--a sort of acidulated-drop expression on his rugged face. Then he asked-- "What is the name of this friend whom you prevented from swimming off to us?" "Shank Leather." "Is he a very great friend of yours?" "Very. We have been playmates from childhood, and school-fellows till now." "What is he?--his profession, I mean?" "Nothing at present. That is to say, he has, like myself, been trained to no special profession, and the failure of the firm in the counting-house of which we have both served for some months has cast us adrift at the same time." "Would it give you much satisfaction if I were to find good employment for your friend?" "Indeed it would--the highest possible satisfaction," exclaimed Charlie, with the first symptom of enthusiasm in his tone and look. "What can your friend Shank Leather do?" asked the old man brusquely. "Oh! many things. He's capital at figures, thoroughly understands book-keeping, and--and is a hard-working fellow, whatever he puts his hand to." "Is he steady?" Charlie was silent for a few moments. "Well, one cannot be sure," he answered, with some hesitation, "what meaning you attach to the word `steady.' I--" "Yes, yes, I see," interrupted Crossley, consulting his watch. "No time to discuss meanings of words just now. Will you tell your friend to call on me here the day after to-morrow at six o'clock? You live in Sealford, I have been told; does he live near you?" "Yes, within a few minutes' walk." "Well, tell him to be punctual. Punctuality is the soul of business. Hope I won't find your friend as independent as you seem to be! You are quite sure, are you, that I can do nothing for you? I have both money and influence." The more determined that our hero became to decline all offers of assistance from the man who had misconstrued his motives, the more of urbanity marked his manner, and it was with a smile of ineffable good-nature on his masculine features that he repeated, "Nothing, thank you--quite sure. You will have done me the greatest possible service when you help my friend. Yet--stay. You mentioned money. There is an institution in which I am much interested, and which you might appropriately remember just now." "What is that?" "The Lifeboat Institution." "But it was not the Lifeboat Institution that saved _me_. It was the Rocket apparatus." "True, but it _might_ have been a lifeboat that saved you. The rockets are in charge of the Coast-Guard and need no assistance, whereas the Lifeboat Service depends on voluntary contributions, and the fact that it did not happen to save Mr Crossley from a grave in the sea does not affect its claim to the nation's gratitude for the hundreds of lives saved by its boats every year." "Admitted, my young friend, your reasoning is just," said the old gentleman, sitting down at a writing table and taking a cheque-book from a drawer; "what shall I put down?" "You know your circumstances best," said Charlie, somewhat amused by the question. "Most people in ordinary circumstances," returned the old man slowly as he wrote, "contribute a guinea to such charities." "Many people," remarked Charlie, with a feeling of pity rather than contempt, "contribute five, or even fifteen." "Ah, indeed--yes, well, Mr Brooke, will you condescend to be the bearer of my contribution? Fourteen Saint John Street, Adelphi, is not far from this, and it will save a penny of postage, you know!" Mr Crossley rose and handed the cheque to his visitor, who felt half disposed--on the strength of the postage remark--to refuse it and speak his mind somewhat freely on the subject, but, his eye happening to fall on the cheque at the moment, he paused. "You have made a mistake, I think," he said. "This is for five _hundred_ pounds." "I make no mistakes, Mr Brooke," returned the old man sternly. "You said something about five or fifteen. I could not well manage fifteen _hundred_ just now, for it is bad times in the city at present. Indeed, according to some people, it is always bad times there, and, to say truth, some people are not far wrong--at least as regards their own experiences. Now, I must be off to business. Good-bye. Don't forget to impress on your friend the importance of punctuality." Jacob Crossley held out his hand with an expression of affability which was for him quite marvellous. "You're a much better man than I thought!" exclaimed Charlie, grasping the proffered hand with a fervour that caused the other to wince. "Young sir," returned Crossley, regarding the fingers of his right hand somewhat pitifully, "people whose physique is moulded on the pattern of Samson ought to bear in mind that rheumatism is not altogether unknown to elderly men. Your opinion of me was probably erroneous to begin with, and it is certainly false to end with. Let me advise you to remember that the gift of money does not necessarily prove anything except that a man has money to give--nay, it does not always prove even that, for many people are notoriously prone to give away money that belongs to somebody else. Five hundred pounds is to some men not of much more importance than five pence is to others. Everything is relative. Good-bye." While he was speaking Mr Crossley rang the bell and politely opened the dining-room door, so that our hero found himself in the street before he had quite recovered from his astonishment. "Please, sir," said Mrs Bland to her master after Charlie was gone, "Cap'en Stride is awaitin' in the library." "Send him here," said Crossley, once more consulting his watch. "Well, Captain Stride, I've had a talk with him," he said, as an exceedingly broad, heavy, short-legged man entered, with a bald head and a general air of salt water, tar, and whiskers about him. "Sit down. Have you made up your mind to take command of the _Walrus_?" "Well, Mr Crossley, since you're so _very_ good," said the sea-captain with a modest look, "I had feared that the loss o'--" "Never mind the loss of the brig, Captain. It was no fault of yours that she came to grief. Other ship-owners may do as they please. I shall take the liberty of doing as _I_ please. So, if you are ready, the ship is ready. I have seen Captain Stuart, and I find that he is down with typhoid fever, poor fellow, and won't be fit for duty again for many weeks. The _Walrus_ must sail not later than a week or ten days hence. She can't sail without a captain, and I know of no better man than yourself; so, if you agree to take command, there she is, if not I'll find another man." "I'm agreeable, sir," said Captain Stride, with a gratified, meek look on his large bronzed face--a look so very different from the leonine glare with which he was wont to regard tempestuous weather or turbulent men. "Of course it'll come rather sudden on the missus, but w'en it blows hard what's a man got to do but make all snug and stand by?" "Quite true, Stride, I have no doubt that you are nautically as well as morally correct, so I leave it to you to bring round the mistress, and consider that matter as settled. By the way, I hope that she and your little girl have not suffered from the wetting and rough handling experienced when being rescued." "Not in the least, sir, thankee. In fact I incline to the belief that they are rather more frisky than usual in consekince. Leastwise _little_ Maggie is." "Glad to hear it. Now, about that young fellow." "By which I s'pose you mean Mr Brooke, sir?" "The same. He has just left me, and upon my word, he's about the coolest young fellow I ever met with." "That's just what I said to the missus, sir, the very night arter we was rescued. `The way that young feller come off, Maggie,' says I, `is most extraor'nar'. No fish that--'" "Yes, yes, Stride, I know, but that's not exactly what I mean: it's his being so amazingly independent that--" "'Zactly what I said, sir. `Maggie,' says I, `that young feller seemed to be quite independent of fin or tail, for he came right off in the teeth o' wind and tide--'" "That's not what I mean either, Captain," interrupted the old gentleman, with slight impatience. "It's his independent spirit I refer to." "Oh! I ax your pardon, sir." "Well, now, listen, and don't interrupt me. But first let me ask, does he know that I am the owner of the brig that was lost?" "Yes; he knows that." "Does he know that I also own the _Walrus_." "No, I'm pretty sure he don't. Leastwise I didn't tell him, an' there's nobody else down there as knows anything about you." "So far, good. Now, Stride, I want you to help me. The young goose is so proud, or I know not what, that he won't accept any favours or rewards from me, and I find that he is out of work just now, so I'm determined to give him something to do in spite of himself. The present supercargo of the _Walrus_ is a young man who will be pleased to fall in with anything I propose to him. I mean, therefore, to put him in another ship and appoint young Brooke to the _Walrus_. Fortunately the firm of Withers and Company does not reveal my name--I having been Company originally, though I'm the firm now, so that he won't suspect anything, and what I want is, that you should do the engaging of him-- being authorised by Withers and Company--you understand?" "I follow you, sir. But what if he objects?" "He won't object. I have privately inquired about him. He is anxious to get employment, and has strong leanings to an adventurous life on the sea. There's no accounting for taste, Captain!" "Right you are, sir," replied the Captain, with an approving nod. "That's what I said only this mornin' to my missus. `Maggie,' says I, `salt water hasn't a good taste, as even the stoopidest of mortals knows, but w'en a man has had to lick it off his lips at sea for the better part of half a century, it's astonishin' how he not only gits used to it, but even comes to like the taste of it.' `Pooh!' says she, `don't tell me you likes it, for you don't! It's all a d'lusion an' a snare. I hates both the taste an' the smell of it.' `Maggie,' says I, quite solemn-like, `that may be so, but you're not me.' `No, thank goodness!' says she--which you mustn't suppose, sir, meant as she didn't like _me_, for she's a true-hearted affectionate creetur--though I say it as shouldn't--but she meant that she'd have had to go to sea reg'lar if she had been me, an' that would have done for her in about six weeks, more or less, for the first time she ever went she was all but turned inside--" "If you're going citywards," interrupted Mr Crossley, again pulling out his watch, "we may as well finish our talk in the street." As Captain Stride was "quite agreeable" to this proposal, the two left the house together, and, hailing a hansom, drove off in the direction of the City. CHAPTER FOUR. DRIFTING ON THE ROCKS. On the sea-shore, not far from the spot where the brig had been wrecked, Charlie Brooke and Shank Leather walked up and down engaged in earnest conversation soon after the interviews just described. Very different was the day from that on which the wreck had taken place. It seemed almost beyond possibility that the serene sky above, and the calm, glinting ocean which rippled so softly at their feet, could be connected with the same world in which inky clouds and snowy foam and roaring billows had but a short time before held high revelry. "Well, Charlie," said his friend, after a pause, "it was very good of you, old boy, and I hope that I'll do credit to your recommendation. The old man seems a decent sort of chap, though somewhat cross-grained." "He is kind-hearted, Shank; I feel quite sure of that, and hope sincerely that you will get on well with him." "`With him!'" repeated Leather; "you don't seem to understand that the situation he is to get for me is _not_ in connection with his own business, whatever that may be. It is in some other City firm, the name of which he has not yet mentioned. I can't myself understand why he is so close!" "Perhaps because he has been born with a secretive nature," suggested Charlie. "May be so. However, that's no business of mine, and it doesn't do to be too inquisitive when a man is offering you a situation of two hundred a year. It would be like looking a gift-horse in the mouth. All I care about is that I'm to go to London next week and begin work--Why, you don't seem pleased to hear of my good fortune," continued Leather, turning a sharp look on his friend, who was gazing gravely at the sand, in which he was poking holes with his stick. "I congratulate you, Shank, with all my heart, and you know it; but--I'm sorry to find that you are not to be in connection with Mr Crossley himself, for there is more good in him than appears on the surface. Did he then make no mention of the nature of his own business?" "None whatever. To say truth, that mysteriousness or secrecy is the only point about the old fellow's character that I don't like," said Leather, with a frown of virtuous disapproval. "`All fair and above-board,' that's my motto. Speak out your mind and fear nothing!" At these noble sentiments a faint smile, if we may say so, hovered somewhere in the recesses of Charlie Brooke's interior, but not the quiver of a muscle disturbed the solemnity of his face. "The secrecy of his nature seems even to have infected that skipper with--or rather by--whom he was wrecked," continued Leather, "for when I asked him yesterday about the old gentleman, he became suddenly silent, and when I pressed him, he made me a rigmarole speech something like this: `Young man, I make it a rule to know nothin' whatever about my passengers. As I said only two days past to my missus: "Maggie," says I, "it's of no use your axin' me. My passengers' business is _their_ business, and my business is mine. All I've got to do is to sail my ship, an' see to it that I land my passengers in safety."' "`You made a pretty mess of your business, then, the last trip,' said I, for I was bothered with his obvious determination not to give me any information. "`Right you are, young man,' said he, `and it would have been a still prettier mess if your friend Mr Brooke hadn't come off wi' that there line!' "I laughed at this and recovered my temper, but I could pump nothing more out of him. Perhaps there was nothing to pump.--But now tell me, how is it--for I cannot understand--that you refused all offers to yourself? You are as much `out of work' just now as I am." "That's true, Shank, and really I feel almost as incapable of giving you an answer as Captain Stride himself. You see, during our conversation Mr Crossley attributed mean--at all events wrong--motives to me, and somehow I felt that I _could_ not accept any favour at his hands just then. I suspect I was too hasty. I fear it was false pride--" "Ha! ha!" laughed Leather; "`pride!' I wonder in what secret chamber of your big corpus your pride lies." "Well, I don't know. It must be pretty deep. Perhaps it is engrained, and cannot be easily recognised." "That last is true, Charlie. Assuredly it can't be recognised, for it's not there at all. Why, if you had been born with a scrap of false pride you and I could never have been friends--for I hate it!" Shank Leather, in saying this, had hit the nail fairly on the head, although he had not intelligently probed the truth to the bottom. In fact a great deal of the friendship which drew these young men together was the result of their great dissimilarity of character. They acted on each other somewhat after the fashion of a well-adjusted piece of mechanism, the ratchets of selfishness and cog-wheels of vanity in Shank fitting easily into the pinions of good-will and modesty which characterised his friend, so that there was no jarring in their intercourse. This alone would not, perhaps, have induced the strong friendship that existed if it had not been coupled with their intimacy from childhood, and if Brooke had not been particularly fond of Shank's invalid mother, and recognised a few of her good characteristics faintly reproduced in her son, while Shank fully appreciated in Charlie that amiable temperament which inclines its happy possessor to sympathise much with others, to talk little of self, to believe all things and to hope all things, to the verge almost of infantine credulity. "Well, well," resumed Charlie, with a laugh, "however that may be, I _did_ decline Mr Crossley's offers, but it does not matter much now, for that same worthy captain who bothered you so much has told me of a situation of which he has the gift, and has offered it to me." "You don't say so! Is it a good one?" "Yes, and well paid, I'm told, though I don't know the exact amount of the salary yet." "And have you accepted?" "I have. Mother agreed, after some demur, that it is better than nothing, so, like you, I begin work in a few days." "Well now, how strangely things do happen sometimes!" said Leather, stopping and looking out seaward, where the remains of the brig could still be distinguished on the rocks that had fixed her doom. "But for that fortunate wreck and our saving the people in her, you and I might still have been whistling in the ranks of the Great Unemployed--And what sort of a situation is it, Charlie?" "You will smile, perhaps, when I tell you. It is to act as supercargo of the _Walrus_, which is commanded by Captain Stride himself." Young Leather's countenance fell. "Why, Charlie," he said, "that means that you're going away to sea!" "I fear it does." "Soon?" "In a week or two." For some little time Leather did not speak. The news fell upon him with a shock of disagreeable surprise, for, apart from the fact that he really loved his friend, he was somehow aware that there were not many other young men who cared much for himself--in regard to which he was not a little surprised, for it never occurred to him that egotism and selfishness had anything to do with the coolness of his friends, or that none but men like our hero, with sweet tempers and self-forgetting dispositions, could by any possibility put up with him. "Who are the owners of the _Walrus_, Charlie?" he asked, as they turned into the lane that led from the beach to the village. "Withers and Company of London." "H'm--don't know them. They must be trustful fellows, however, to take a captain into their employ who has just lost his vessel." "They have not _taken_ him into their employ," said Charlie. "Captain Stride tells me he has been in their service for more than a quarter of a century, and they exonerate him from all blame in the loss of the brig. It does seem odd to me, however, that he should be appointed so immediately to a new ship, but, as you remarked, that's none of my business. Come, I'll go in with you and congratulate your mother and May on your appointment." They had reached the door of Shank Leather's house by that time. It was a poor-looking house, in a poor side street or blind alley of the village, the haunt of riotous children during the day-time, and of maddening cats at night. Stray dogs now and then invaded the alley, but, for the most part, it was to children and cats that the region was given over. Here, for the purpose of enabling the proverbial "two ends" to "meet," dwelt a considerable population in houses of diminutive size and small accommodation. A few of these were persons who, having "seen better days," were anxious to hide their poverty and existence from the "friends" of those better days. There was likewise a sprinkling of individuals and families who, having grown callous to the sorrows of earth, had reached that condition wherein the meeting of the two ends is a matter of comparative indifference, because they never met, and were never more expected to meet--the blank, annually left gaping, being filled up, somehow, by a sort of compromise between bankruptcy, charity, and starvation. To the second of these the Leather family belonged. They had been brought to their sad condition by that prolific source of human misery-- the bottle. To do the family justice, it was only the father who had succumbed. He had been a gentleman; he was now a sot. His wife--delicate owing to bad treatment, sorrow, and insufficient nourishment--was, ever had been, and ever would be, a lady and a Christian. Owing to the last priceless condition she was still alive. It is despair that kills, and despair had been banished from her vocabulary ever since she had laid down the arms of her rebellion and accepted the Saviour of mankind as her guide and consolation. But sorrow, suffering, toil had not departed when the demon despair fled away. They had, however, been wonderfully lightened, and one of the brightest gleams of hope in her sad life was that she might possibly be used as the means of saving her husband. There were other gleams of light, however, one of the brightest of them being that May, her only daughter, was loving and sympathetic--or, as she sometimes expressed it, "as good as gold." But there was also a very dark spot in her life: Shank, her only son, was beginning to show a tendency to tread in his father's steps. Many golden texts were enshrined in the heart of poor Mrs Leather, and not a few of these--painted by the hand of May--hung on the walls of their little sitting-room, but the word to which she turned her eyes in seasons of profoundest obscurity, and which served her as a sheet-anchor in the midst of the wildest storms, was, "Hope thou in God, for thou shalt _yet_ praise Him." And alongside of that text, whenever she thought of it or chanced to look at it, there invariably flashed another: "Immanuel, God with us." May and her mother were alone when the young men entered; the former was at her lessons, the latter busy with knitting-needles. Knitting was the means by which Mrs Leather, with constant labour and inexhaustible perseverance, managed to fill up the gap between the before-mentioned "two ends," which her dissolute husband failed to draw together. She could read or assist May with her lessons, while her delicate fingers, working below the table, performed miraculous gyrations with steel and worsted. To most male minds, we presume, this is utterly incomprehensible. It is well not to attempt the description of that which one does not understand. The good lady knitted socks and stockings, and mittens and cuffs, and comforters, and other things, in absolutely overwhelming quantities, so that the accumulation in the press in which she stored them was at times quite marvellous. Yet that press never quite filled up, owing to the fact that there was an incurable leak in it--a sort of secret channel--through which the products of her toil flowed out nearly as fast as she poured them in. This leak in the worsted press, strange to say, increased wonderfully just after the wreck described in a previous chapter, and the rivulet to which it gave rise flowed in the direction of the back-door of the house, emptying itself into a reservoir which always took the form of a little elderly lady, with a plain but intensely lovable countenance, who had been, perhaps still was, governess in a family in a neighbouring town where Mrs Leather had spent some of her "better days." Her name was Molloy. Like a burglar Miss Molloy came in a stealthy manner at irregular intervals to the back-door of the house, and swept the press of its contents, made them up into a bundle of enormous size, and carried them off on the shoulders of an appropriately disreputable blackguard boy--as Shank called him--whom she retained for the purpose. Unlike a burglar, however, Miss Molloy did not "bolt with the swag," but honestly paid for everything, from the hugest pair of gentlemen's fishing socks to the smallest pair of children's cuffs. What Miss Molloy did with this perennial flow of woollen work, whom she came from, where she went to, who discovered her, and why she did it, were subjects of inquiry which baffled investigation, and always simmered in the minds of Shank and May, though the mind of Mrs Leather herself seemed to be little if at all exercised by it. At all events she was uncommunicative on the point, and her children's curiosity was never gratified, for the mother was obdurate, and, torture being illegal at that time in England, they had no means of compelling disclosure. It was sometimes hinted by Shank that their little dog Scraggy-- appropriately named!--knew more than he chose to tell about the subject, for he was generally present at the half-secret interviews, and always closed the scene with a sham but furious assault on the ever contemptuous blackguard boy. But Scraggy was faithful to his trust, and revealed nothing. "I can't tell you how glad I am, Mrs Leather, about Shank's good fortune," said Charlie, with a gentle shake of the hand, which Mr Crossley would have appreciated. Like the Nasmyth steam-hammer, which flattens a ton of iron or gently cracks a hazel-nut, our Herculean hero could accommodate himself to circumstances; "as your son says, it has been a lucky wreck for _us_." "Lucky indeed for _him_," responded the lady, instantly resuming her knitting, which she generally kept down near her lap, well hidden by the table, while she looked at her visitor and talked, "but not very pleasant for those who have lost by it." "Pooh! mother, nobody has lost by it," said Shank in his free-and-easy style. "The owners don't lose, because of course it was insured; and the Insurance Companies can't be said to lose, for the value of a small brig will be no more felt by them than the losing of a pin would be felt by yourself; and the captain won't lose--except a few sea-garments and things o' that kind--for he has been appointed to another ship already. By the way, mother, that reminds me that Charlie has also got a situation through this lucky wreck, for Captain Stride feels so grateful that he has offered him the situation of supercargo in his new ship." For once Mrs Leather's knitting-needles came to a sudden stop, and she looked inquiringly at her young friend. So did May. "Have you accepted it?" "Well, yes. I have." "I'm _so_ sorry," said May; "I don't know what Shank will do without you." At that moment a loud knocking was heard at the door. May rose to open it, and Mrs Leather looked anxiously at her son. A savage undertoned growl and an unsteady step told all too plainly that the head of the house had returned home. With sudden interest in worsted fabrics, which he was far from feeling, Charlie Brooke turned his back to the door, and, leaning forward, took up an end of the work with which the knitter was busy. "That's an extremely pretty pattern, Mrs Leather. Does it take you long to make things of the kind?" "Not long; I--I make a good many of them." She said this with hesitation, and with her eyes fixed on the doorway, through the opening of which her husband thrust a shaggy dishevelled head, with dissipation stamped on a countenance which had evidently been handsome once. But Charlie saw neither the husband's head nor the poor wife's gaze, for he was still bending over the worsted-work in mild admiration. Under the impression that he had not been observed, Mr Leather suddenly withdrew his head, and was heard to stumble up-stairs under the guidance of May. Then the bang of a door, followed by a shaking of the slimly-built house, suggested the idea that the poor man had flung himself on his bed. "Shank Leather," said Charlie Brooke, that same night as they strolled on the sea-shore, "you gave expression to some sentiments to-day which I highly approved of. One of them was `Speak out your mind, and fear nothing!' I mean to do so now, and expect that you will not be hurt by my following your advice." "Well!" exclaimed Shank, with a dubious glance, for he disliked the seriousness of his friend's tone. "Your father--" began Charlie. "Please don't speak about _him_," interrupted the other. "I know all that you can say. His case is hopeless, and I can't bear to speak about it." "Well, I won't speak about him, though I cannot agree with you that his case is hopeless. But it is yourself that I wish to speak about. You and I are soon to separate; it must be for a good long while--it may be for ever. Now I must speak out my mind before I go. My old playmate, school-fellow, and chum, you have begun to walk in your poor father's footsteps, and you may be sure that if you don't turn round all your hopes will be blasted--at least for this life--perhaps also for that which is to come. Now don't be angry or hurt, Shank. Remember that you not only encouraged me, but advised me to speak out my mind." "Yes, but I did not advise you to form a false, uncharitable judgment of your chum," returned Leather, with a dash of bitterness in his tone. "I admit that I'm fond of a social glass, and that I sometimes, though rarely, take a little--a very little--more than, perhaps, is necessary. But that is very different from being a drunkard, which you appear to assume that I am." "Nay, Shank, I don't assume that. What I said was that you are _beginning_ to walk in your dear father's footsteps. No man ever yet became a drunkard without _beginning_. And I feel certain that no man ever, when beginning, had the most distant intention or expectation of becoming a drunkard. Your danger, dear old fellow, lies in your _not seeing_ the danger. You admit that you like a social glass. Shank, I candidly make the same admission--I like it,--but after seeing your father, and hearing your defence, the danger has been so deeply impressed on _me_, that from this hour I resolve, God helping me, never more to taste a social glass." "Well, Charlie, you know yourself best," returned his friend airily, "and if you think yourself in so great danger, of course your resolve is a very prudent one; but for myself, I admit that I see no danger, and I don't feel any particular weakness of will in regard to temptation." "Ah, Shank, you remind me of an eccentric old lady I have heard of who was talking with a friend about the difficulties of life. `My dear,' said the friend, `I do find it such a _difficult_ thing to resist temptation--don't you?' `No,' replied the eccentric old lady, `I don't, for I _never_ resist temptation, I always give way to it!'" "I can't quite make out how your anecdote applies to me, Charlie." "Don't you see? You feel no weakness of will in regard to temptation because you never give your will an opportunity of resisting it. You always give way to it. You see, I am speaking out my mind freely--as you have advised!" "Yes, and you take the whole of my advice, and fear nothing, else you would not risk a quarrel by doing so. But really, my boy, it's of no use your troubling your head on that subject, for I feel quite safe, and I don't mean to give in, so there's an end on't." Our hero persevered notwithstanding, and for some time longer sought to convince or move his friend both by earnest appeal and light pleasantry, but to all appearance without success, although he reduced him to silence. He left him at last, and went home meditating on the truth of the proverb that "a man convinced against his will is of the same opinion still." CHAPTER FIVE. ALL THINGS TO ALL MEN. Under the influence of favouring breezes and bright skies the _Walrus_ swept gaily over the ocean at the beginning of her voyage, with "stuns'ls slow and aloft, royals and sky-scrapers," according to Captain Stride. At least, if these were not the exact words he used, they express pretty well what he meant, namely, a "cloud of canvas." But this felicitous state of things did not last. The tropics were reached, where calms prevailed with roasting heat. The Southern Atlantic was gained, and gales were met with. The celebrated Cape was doubled, and the gales, if we may say so, were trebled. The Indian Ocean was crossed, and the China Seas were entered, where typhoons blew some of the sails to ribbons, and snapped off the topmasts like pipe-stems. Then she sailed into the great Pacific, and for a time the _Walrus_ sported pleasantly among the coral islands. During all this time, and amid all these changes, Charlie Brooke, true to his character, was the busiest and most active man on board. Not that his own special duties gave him much to do, for, until the vessel should reach port, these were rather light; but our hero--as Stride expressed it--"must always be doing." If he had not work to do he made it--chiefly in the way of assisting other people. Indeed there was scarcely a man or boy on board who did not have the burden of his toil, whatever it was, lightened in consequence of young Brooke's tendency to put his powerful shoulder voluntarily to the wheel. He took the daily observations with the captain, and worked out the ship's course during the previous twenty-four hours. He handled the adze and saw with the carpenter, learned to knot and splice, and to sew canvas with the bo's'n's mate, commented learnedly and interestingly on the preparation of food with the cook, and spun yarns with the men on the forecastle, or listened to the long-winded stories of the captain and officers in the cabin. He was a splendid listener, being much more anxious to ascertain exactly the opinions of his friends and mates than to advance his own. Of course it followed that Charlie was a favourite. With his insatiable desire to acquire information of every kind, he had naturally, when at home, learned a little rough-and-tumble surgery, with a slight smattering of medicine. It was not much, but it proved to be useful as far as it went, and his "little knowledge" was not "dangerous," because he modestly refused to go a single step beyond it in the way of practice, unless, indeed, he was urgently pressed to do so by his patients. In virtue of his attainments, real and supposed, he came to be recognised as the doctor of the ship, for the _Walrus_ carried no medical man. "Look here, Brooke," said the only passenger on board--a youth of somewhat delicate constitution, who was making the voyage for the sake of his health,--"I've got horrible toothache. D'you think you can do anything for me?" "Let's have a look at it," said Charlie, with kindly interest, though he felt half inclined to smile at the intensely lugubrious expression of the youth's face. "Why, Raywood, that is indeed a bad tooth; nothing that I know of will improve it. There's a cavern in it big and black enough to call to remembrance the Black Hole of Calcutta! A red-hot wire might destroy the nerve, but I never saw one used, and should not like to try it." "Horrible!" exclaimed Raywood. "I've been mad with pain all the morning, and can't afford to be driven madder. Perhaps, somewhere or other in the ship there may be a--a--thingumy." "A whatumy?" inquired the other. "A key, or--or--pincers," groaned Raywood, "for extracting--oh! man, couldn't you pull it out?" "Easily," said Charlie, with a smile. "I've got a pair of forceps-- always carry them in case of need, but never use them unless the patient is very bad, and _must_ have it out." Poor Raywood protested, with another groan, that his was a case in point, and it _must_ come out; so Charlie sought for and found his forceps. "It won't take long, I suppose?" said the patient rather nervously, as he opened his mouth. "Oh no. Only a moment or--" A fearful yell, followed by a gasp, announced to the whole ship's company that a crisis of some sort had been passed by some one, and the expert though amateur dentist congratulated his patient on his deliverance from the enemy. Only three of the ship's company, however, had witnessed the operation. One was Dick Darvall, the seaman who chanced to be steering at the time, and who could see through the open skylight what was being enacted in the cabin. Another was the captain, who stood beside him. The third was the cabin-boy, Will Ward, who chanced to be cleaning some brasses about the skylight at the time, and was transfixed by what we may style delightfully horrible sensations. These three watched the proceedings with profound interest, some sympathy, and not a little amusement. "Mind your helm, Darvall," said the Captain, stifling a laugh as the yell referred to burst on his ears. "Ay, ay, sir," responded the seaman, bringing his mind back to his duty, as he bestowed a wink on the brass-polishing cabin-boy. "He's up to everything," said Darvall in a low voice, referring to our hero. "From pitch-and-toss to manslaughter," responded the boy, with a broad grin. "I do believe, Mr Brooke, that you can turn your hand to anything," said Captain Stride, as Charlie came on deck a few minutes later. "Did you ever study doctoring or surgery?" "Not regularly," answered Charlie; "but occasionally I've had the chance of visiting hospitals and dissecting-rooms, besides hearing lectures on anatomy, and I have taken advantage of my opportunities. Besides, I'm fond of mechanics; and tooth-drawing is somewhat mechanical. Of course I make no pretension to a knowledge of regular dentistry, which involves, I believe, a scientific and prolonged education." "May be so, Mr Brooke," returned the captain, "but your knowledge seems deep and extensive enough to me, for, except in the matter o' navigation, I haven't myself had much schoolin', but I do like to see a fellow that can use his hands. As I said to my missus, not two days before I left 'er: `Maggie,' says I, `a man that can't turn his hands to anything ain't worth his salt. For why? He's useless at sea, an', by consequence, can't be of much value on land.'" "Your reasoning is unanswerable," returned Charlie, with a laugh. "Not so sure o' that," rejoined the captain, with a modestly dubious shake of his head; "leastwise, however unanswerable it may be, my missus always manages to answer it--somehow." At that moment one of the sailors came aft to relieve the man-at-the-wheel. Dick Darvall was a grave, tall, dark, and handsome man of about five-and-twenty, with a huge black beard, as fine a seaman as one could wish to see standing at a ship's helm, but he limped when he left his post and went forward. "How's the leg to-day, Darvall!" asked young Brooke, as the man passed. "Better, sir, thankee." "That's well. I'll change the dressing in half-an-hour. Don't disturb it till I come." "Thankee, sir, I won't." "Now then, Raywood," said Charlie, descending to the cabin, where his patient was already busy reading Maury's _Physical Geography of the Sea_, "let's have a look at the gum." "Oh, it's all right," said Raywood. "D'you know, I think one of the uses of severe pain is to make one inexpressibly thankful for the mere absence of it. Of course there is a little sensation of pain left, which might make me growl at other times, but that positively feels comfortable now by contrast!" "There is profound sagacity in your observations," returned Charlie, as he gave the gum a squeeze that for a moment or two removed the comfort; "there, now, don't suck it, else you'll renew the bleeding. Keep your mouth shut." With this caution the amateur dentist left the cabin, and proceeded to the fore-part of the vessel. In passing the steward's pantry a youthful voice arrested him. "Oh, please, sir," said Will Ward, the cabin-boy, advancing with a slate in his hand, "I _can't_ make out the sum you set me yesterday, an' I'm quite sure I've tried and tried as hard as ever I could to understand it." "Let me see," said his friend, taking the slate and sitting down on a locker. "Have you read over the rule carefully?" "Yes, sir, I have, a dozen times at least, but it won't come right," answered the boy, with wrinkles enough on his young brow to indicate the very depths of puzzlement. "Fetch the book, Will, and let's examine it." The book was brought, and at his teacher's request the boy read:-- "Add the interest to the principal, and then multiply by--" "Multiply?" said Charlie, interrupting. "Look!" He pointed to the sum on the slate, and repeated "multiply." "Oh!" exclaimed the cabin-boy, with a gasp of relief and wide-open eyes, "I've _divided_!" "That's so, Will, and there's a considerable difference between division and multiplication, as you'll find all through life," remarked the teacher, with a peculiar lift of his eyebrows, as he handed back the slate and went on his way. More than once in his progress "for'ard" he was arrested by men who wished hint to give advice, or clear up difficulties in reference to subjects which his encouragement or example had induced them to take up, and to these claims on his attention or assistance he accorded such a ready and cheerful response that his pupils felt it to be a positive pleasure to appeal to him, though they each professed to regret giving him "trouble." The boatswain, who was an amiable though gruff man in his way, expressed pretty well the feelings of the ship's company towards our hero when he said: "I tell you, mates, I'd sooner be rubbed up the wrong way, an' kicked down the fore hatch by Mr Brooke, than I'd be smoothed or buttered by anybody else." At last the fo'c'sl was reached, and there our surgeon found his patient, Dick Darvall, awaiting him. The stout seaman's leg had been severely bruised by a block which had fallen from aloft and struck it during one of the recent gales. "A good deal better to-day," said Charlie. "Does it pain you much?" "Not nearly as much as it did yesterday, sir. It's my opinion that I'll be all right in a day or two. Seems to me outrageous to make so much ado about it." "If we didn't take care of it, my man, it might cost you your limb, and we can't afford to bury such a well-made member before its time! You must give it perfect rest for a day or two. I'll speak to the captain about it." "I'd rather you didn't, sir," objected the seaman. "I feel able enough to go about, and my mates'll think I'm shirkin' dooty." "There's not a man a-board as'll think that o' Dick Darvall," growled the boatswain, who had just entered and heard the last remark. "Right, bo's'n," said Brooke, "you have well expressed the thought that came into my own head." "Have ye seen Samson yet, sir?" asked the boatswain, with an unusually grave look. "No; I was just going to inquire about him. No worse, I hope?" "I think he is, sir. Seems to me that he ain't long for this world. The life's bin too much for him: he never was cut out for a sailor, an' he takes things so much to heart that I do believe worry is doin' more than work to drive him on the rocks." "I'll go and see him at once," said our hero. Fred Samson, the sick man referred to, had been put into a swing-cot in a berth amidships to give him as much rest as possible. To all appearance he was slowly dying of consumption. When Brooke entered he was leaning on one elbow, gazing wistfully through the port-hole close to his head. His countenance, on which the stamp of death was evidently imprinted, was unusually refined for one in his station in life. "I'm glad you have come, Mr Brooke," he said slowly, as his visitor advanced and took his thin hand. "My poor fellow," said Charlie, in a tone of low but tender sympathy, "I wish with all my heart I could do you any good." "The sight of your kind face does me good," returned the sailor, with a pause for breath between almost every other word. "I don't want you to doctor me any more. I feel that I'm past that, but I want to give you a message and a packet for my mother. Of course you will be in London when you return to England. Will you find her out and deliver the packet? It contains only the Testament she gave me at parting and a letter." "My dear fellow--you may depend on me," replied Brooke earnestly. "Where does she live?" "In Whitechapel. The full address is on the packet. The letter enclosed tells all that I have to say." "But you spoke of a message," said Brooke, seeing that he paused and shut his eyes. "Yes, yes," returned the dying man eagerly, "I forgot. Give her my dear love, and say that my last thoughts were of herself and God. She always feared that I was trusting too much in myself--in my own good resolutions and reformation; so I have been--but that's past. Tell her that God in His mercy has snapped that broken reed altogether, and enabled me to rest my soul on Jesus." As the dying man was much exhausted by his efforts to speak, his visitor refrained from asking more questions. He merely whispered a comforting text of Scripture and left him apparently sinking into a state of repose. Then, having bandaged the finger of a man who had carelessly cut himself while using his knife aloft, Charlie returned to the cabin to continue an interrupted discussion with the first mate on the subject of astronomy. From all which it will be seen that our hero's tendencies inclined him to be as much as possible "all things to all men." CHAPTER SIX. DISASTER, STARVATION, AND DEATH. The least observant of mortals must have frequently been impressed with the fact that events and incidents of an apparently trifling description often lead to momentous--sometimes tremendous--results. Soon after the occurrence of the incidents referred to in the last chapter, a colony of busy workers in the Pacific Ocean were drawing towards the completion of a building on which they had been engaged for a long time. Like some lighthouses this building had its foundations on a rock at the bottom of the sea. Steadily, perseveringly, and with little cessation, the workers had toiled for years. They were small insignificant creatures, each being bent on simply performing the little bit of work which he, she, or it had been created to do probably without knowing or caring what the result might be, and then ending his, her, or its modest labours with life. It was when this marine building had risen to within eight or ten feet of the surface of the sea that the _Walrus_ chanced to draw near to it, but no one on board was aware of the existence of that coral-reef, for up to the period we write of it had failed to attract the attention of chart-makers. The vessel was bowling along at a moderate rate over a calm sea, for the light breeze overhead that failed to ruffle the water filled her topsails. Had the wind been stormy a line of breakers would have indicated the dangerous reef. As it was there was nothing to tell that the good ship was rushing on her doom till she struck with a violent shock and remained fast. Of course Captain Stride was equal to the emergency. By the quiet decision with which he went about and gave his orders he calmed the fears of such of his crew as were apt to "lose their heads" in the midst of sudden catastrophe. "Lower away the boats, lads. We'll get her off right a way," he said, in a quick but quiet tone. Charlie Brooke, being a strong believer in strict discipline, at once ran to obey the order, accompanied by the most active among the men, while others ran to slack off the sheets and lower the topsails. In a few minutes nearly all the men were in the boats, with hawsers fixed to the stern of the vessel, doing their uttermost to pull her off. Charlie had been ordered to remain on deck when the crew took to the boats. "Come here, Mr Brooke, I want you," said the Captain, leading his young friend to the taffrail. "It's pretty clear to me that the poor old _Walrus_ is done for--" "I sincerely hope not sir," said Charlie, with anxious looks. "A short time will settle the question," returned the Captain, with unwonted gravity. "If she don't move in a few minutes, I'll try what heaving out some o' the cargo will do. As supercargo, you know where it's all stowed, so, if you'll pint out to me which is the least valooable, an' at the same time heaviest part of it, I'll send the mate and four men to git it on deck. But to tell you the truth even if we do git her off I don't think she'll float. She's an oldish craft, not fit to have her bottom rasped on coral rocks. But we'll soon see." Charlie could not help observing that there was something peculiarly sad in the tone of the old man's voice. Whether it was that the poor captain knew the case to be utterly hopeless, or that he was overwhelmed by this calamity coming upon him so soon after the wreck of his last ship, Charlie could not tell, but he had no time to think, for after he had pointed out to the mate the bales that could be most easily spared he was again summoned aft. "She don't move," said the captain, gloomily. "We must git the boats ready, for if it comes on to blow only a little harder we'll have to take to 'em. So do you and the stooard putt your heads together an' git up as much provisions as you think the boats will safely carry. Only necessaries, of course, an' take plenty o' water. I'll see to it that charts, compasses, canvas, and other odds and ends are ready." Again young Brooke went off, without saying a word, to carry out his instructions. Meanwhile one of the boats was recalled, and her crew set to lighten the ship by heaving part of the cargo overboard. Still the _Walrus_ remained immovable on the reef, for the force with which she struck had sent her high upon it. "If we have to take to the boats, sir," said Charlie, when he was disengaged, "it may be well to put some medicines on board, for poor Samson will--" "Ay, ay, do so, lad," said the captain, interrupting; "I've been thinkin' o' that, an' you may as well rig up some sort o' couch for the poor fellow in the long-boat, for I mean to take him along wi' myself." "Are you so sure, then, that there is no chance of our getting her off?" "Quite sure. Look there." He pointed, as he spoke, to the horizon to windward, where a line of cloud rested on the sea. "That'll not be long o' comin' here. It won't blow very hard, but it'll be hard enough to smash the old _Walrus_ to bits. If you've got any valooables aboard that you'd rather not lose, you'd better stuff 'em in your pockets now. When things come to the wust mind your helm, an' look out as I used to say to my missus--" He stopped abruptly and turned away. Evidently the thought of the "missus" was too much for him just then. Charlie Brooke hurried off to visit the sick man, and prepare him for the sad change in his position that had now become unavoidable. But another visitor had been to see the invalid before him. Entering the berth softly, and with a quiet look, so as not to agitate the patient needlessly, he found to his regret, though not surprise, that poor Fred Samson was dead. There was a smile on the pale face, which was turned towards the port window, as if the dying man had been taking a last look of the sea and sky when Death laid a hand gently on his brow and smoothed away the wrinkles of suffering and care. A letter from his mother, held tightly in one hand and pressed upon his breast told eloquently what was the subject of his last thoughts. Charlie cut a lock of hair from the sailor's brow with his clasp-knife, and, taking the letter gently from the dead hand, wrapped it therein. "There's no time to bury him now. His berth must be the poor fellow's coffin," said Captain Stride, when the death was reported to him. "The swell o' the coming squall has reached us already. Look alive wi' the boats, men!" By that time the rising swell was in truth lifting the vessel every few seconds and letting her down with a soft thud on the coral reef. It soon became evident to every one on board that the _Walrus_ had not many hours to live--perhaps not many minutes--for the squall to which the Captain had referred was rapidly bearing down, and each successive thud became more violent than the previous one. Knowing their danger full well, the men worked with a will and in a few minutes three boats, well provisioned, were floating on the sea. The need for haste soon became apparent, for the depth of water alongside was so insufficient that the long-boat--drawing as she did considerably more water than the others--touched twice when the swells let her drop into their hollows. It was arranged that Charlie should go in the long-boat with the captain, Raywood the passenger, and ten men of the crew. The remainder were to be divided between the other two boats which were to be in charge of the first and second officers respectively. "Jump in, Brooke," cried the Captain, as he sat in the stern-sheets looking up at our hero, who was busily engaged assisting the first mate to complete the arrangements of his boat, "we've struck twice already. I must shove off. Is Raywood ready?" "He's in the cabin looking for something, sir; I'll run and fetch him." "Stay! We've touched again!" shouted the Captain. "You an' Raywood can come off with one o' the other boats. I'll take you on board when in deep water--shove off, lads." "Jump in with me, sir," said the first mate, as he hastily descended the side. "Come along, Raywood," shouted Charlie, as he followed. "No time to lose!" The passenger rushed on deck, scrambled down the side, and took his seat beside Charlie, just as the long threatened squall burst upon them. The painter was cut, and they drifted into deep water with the second mate's boat, which had already cast off. Fortunate was it for the whole crew that Captain Stride had provided for every emergency, and that, among other safeguards, he had put several tarpaulins into each boat, for with these they were enabled to form a covering which turned off the waves and prevented their being swamped. The squall turned out to be a very severe one, and in the midst of it the three boats were so far separated that the prospect of their being able to draw together again until evening was very remote. Indeed the waves soon ran so high that it required the utmost attention of each steersman to keep his craft afloat, and when at last the light began to fade the boats were almost out of sight of each other. "No chance, I fear, of our ever meeting again," remarked the mate, as he cast a wistful look at the southern horizon where the sail of the long-boat could be barely seen like the wing of a sea-gull. "Your lot has been cast with us, Mr Brooke, so you'll have to make the best of it." "I always try to make the best of things," replied Charlie. "My chief regret at present is that Raywood and I, being two extra hands, will help to consume your provisions too fast." "Luckily my appetite is a poor one," said Raywood, with a faint smile; "and it's not likely to improve in the circumstances." "I'm not so sure o' that sir," returned the mate, with an air that was meant to be reassuring; "fresh air and exposure have effected wonders before now in the matter of health--so they say. Another pull on the halyards, Dick; that looks like a fresh squall. Mind your sheets, Will Ward." A prompt "Ay, ay, sir" from Dick Darvall and the cabin-boy showed that each was alive to the importance of the duty required of him, while the other men--of whom there were six--busied themselves in making the tarpaulin coverings more secure, or in baling out the water which, in spite of them, had found its way into the boat. Charlie rose and seated himself on the thwart beside the fine-looking seaman Dick Darvall, so as to have a clearer view ahead under the sail. "Long-boat nowhere to be seen now," he murmured half to himself after a long look. "No, sir--nor the other boat either," said Darvall in a quiet voice. "We shall never see 'em no more." "I hope you are wrong," returned Charlie; "indeed I feel sure that the weather will clear during the night, and that we shall find both boats becalmed not far off." "Maybe so, sir," rejoined the sailor, in the tone of one willing to be, but not yet, convinced. Our hero was right as to the first, but not as to the second, point. The weather did clear during the night, but when the sun arose next morning on a comparatively calm sea neither of the other boats was to be seen. In fact every object that could arrest the eye had vanished from the scene, leaving only a great circular shield of blue, of which their tiny craft formed the centre. CHAPTER SEVEN. ADRIFT ON THE SEA. "You are ill, Will Ward," was Dick Darvall's first remark when there was sufficient daylight to distinguish faces. "You're another!" was the cabin-boy's quick, facetious retort, which caused Darvall to smile and had the effect of rousing the half-sleeping crew. "But you _are_ ill, my boy," repeated the seaman earnestly. "No, Dick, not exactly ill," returned Will, with a faint smile, "but I'm queer." Each man had spent that stormy night on the particular thwart on which he had chanced to sit down when he first entered the boat, so that all were looking more or less weary, but seamen are used to uncomfortable and interrupted slumbers. They soon roused themselves and began to look about and make a few comments on the weather. Some, recurring naturally to their beloved indulgence, pulled out their pipes and filled them. "Have 'ee a light, Jim?" asked a rugged man, in a sleepy tone, of a comrade behind him. "No, Jack, I haven't" answered Jim, in a less sleepy tone, slapping all his pockets and thrusting his hands into them. "Have _you_, Dick?" asked the rugged man in some anxiety. "No, I haven't," replied Darvall, in a very serious voice, as he also took to slapping his pockets; "no--nor baccy!" It was curious to note at this point how every seaman in that boat became suddenly sympathetic and wide awake, and took to hasty, anxious examination of all his pockets--vest jacket, and trousers. The result was the discovery of a good many clay pipes, more or less blackened and shortened, with a few plugs of tobacco, but not a single match, either fusee or congreve. The men looked at each other with something akin to despair. "Was no matches putt on board wi' the grub an' other things?" asked Jim in a solemn tone. "And no tobacco?" inquired the mate. No one could answer in the affirmative. A general sigh--like a miniature squall--burst from the sailors, and relieved them a little. Jim put his pipe between his lips, and meekly began, if we may say so, to smoke his tobacco dry. At an order from the mate the men got out the oars and began to pull, for there was barely enough wind to fill the sail. "No rest for us, lads, 'cept when it blows," said the mate. "The nearest land that I know of is five hundred miles off as the crow flies. We've got a compass by good luck, so we can make for it, but the grub on board won't hold out for quarter o' that distance, so, unless we fall in with a ship, or fish jump aboard of us, ye know what's before us." "Have we any spirits aboard?" asked the rugged man, in a growling, somewhat sulky, voice. "Hear--hear!" exclaimed Jim. "No, Jack," returned the mate; "at least not for the purpose o' lettin' you have a short life an' a merry one. Now, look here, men: it has pleased Providence to putt you an' me in something of a fix, and I shouldn't wonder if we was to have some stiffish experiences before we see the end of it. It has also pleased Providence to putt me here in command. You know I'm not given to boastin', but there are times when it is advisable to have plain speakin'. There _is_ a small supply of spirits aboard, and I just want to tell 'ee--merely as a piece of useful information, and to prevent any chance o' future trouble--that as I've got charge o' them spirits I mean to _keep_ charge of 'em." The mate spoke in a low, soft voice, without the slightest appearance of threat or determination in his manner, but as he concluded he unbuttoned his pilot-cloth coat and pointed to the butt of a revolver which protruded from one of his vest pockets. The men made no reply, but instinctively glanced at the two biggest and strongest men in the boat. These were Charlie Brooke and Dick Darvall. Obviously, before committing themselves further, they wished, if possible, to read in the faces of these two what they thought of the mate's speech. They failed to read much, if anything at all, for Charlie's eyes were fixed in dreamy expressionless abstraction on the horizon, and Dick was gazing up into the clouds, with a look of intense benignity--suggesting that he was holding pleasant intercourse with any celestial creatures who might be resident there. Without a word the whole crew bent to their oars, and resigned themselves to the inevitable. Perhaps if each man had expressed his true feelings at that moment he would have said that he was glad to know there was a firm hand at the helm. For there are few things more uncomfortable in any community, large or small, than the absence of discipline, or the presence of a weak will in a position of power. "But I say, Will," remarked Darvall, who pulled the stroke-oar, "you really do look ill. Is anything the matter with 'ee?" "Nothin', Dick; 'cept that I'm tired," answered the cabin-boy. "Breakfast will put that right" said our hero in an encouraging tone. "Let's feel your pulse. Hm. Well, might be slower. Come, Captain," he added, giving the mate his new title as he turned to him, "will you allow me to prescribe breakfast for this patient?" "Certainly, Doctor," returned the mate cheerily. "Come, lads, we'll all have breakfast together." In a few minutes the biscuit and salt junk barrels were opened, and the mate measured out an exactly equal proportion of food to each man. Then, following the example of a celebrated commander, and in order to prevent dissatisfaction on the part of any with his portion, he caused one of the men to turn his back on the food, and, pointing to one of the portions said, "Who shall have this?" "The Doctor, sir," returned the man promptly. The portion was immediately handed to Charlie Brooke amid a general laugh. Thus every portion was disposed of, and the men sat down to eat in good humour, in spite of the too evident fact that they had been at once placed on short allowance, for, when each had finished, he assuredly wished for more, though no one ventured to give expression to the wish. The only exception was the little cabin-boy, who made a brave attempt to eat, but utterly failed at the second mouthful. "Come, Will," said Charlie in a kindly tone, pretending to misunderstand the state of matters, "don't try to deceive yourself by prolonging your breakfast. That won't make more of it. See, here, I'm not up to eating much to-day, somehow, so I'll be greatly obliged if you will dispose of half of mine as well as your own. Next time I am hungry, and you are not, I'll expect you to do the same." But Will Ward could not be thus induced to eat. He was really ill, and before night was in a high fever. You may be sure that Dr Brooke, as every one now called him, did his best to help the little sufferer, but, of course, he could do very little, for all the medicines which he had prepared had been put into the long-boat, and, in a small open boat with no comforts, no medicines, and on short allowance of food, little could be done, except to give the boy a space of the floor on which to lie, to shield him from spray, and to cover him with blankets. For a week the boat was carried over the sea by a fresh, steady breeze, during which time the sun shone out frequently, so that things seemed not so wretched as one might suppose to the shipwrecked mariners. Of course the poor cabin-boy was an exception. Although his feverish attack was a slight one he felt very weak and miserable after it. His appetite began to return, however, and it was evident that the short daily allowance would be insufficient for him. When this point was reached Dick Darvall one day, when rations were being served out, ventured to deliver an opinion. "Captain and mates all," he said, while a sort of bashful smile played upon his sunburnt features, "it do seem to me that we should agree, each man, to give up a share of our rations to little Will Ward, so that he may be able to feed up a bit an' git the better o' this here sickness. We won't feel the want of such a little crumb each, an' he'll be ever so much the better for it." "Agreed," chorused the men, apparently without exception. "All right, lads," said the mate, while a rare smile lighted up for a moment his usually stern countenance; "when the need for such self-denial comes I'll call on ye to exercise it, but it ain't called for yet, because I've been lookin' after the interests o' Will Ward while he's been ill. Justice, you see, stands first o' the virtues in my mind, an' it's my opinion that it wouldn't be justice, but something very much the reverse, if we were to rob the poor boy of his victuals just because he couldn't eat them." "Right you are, sir," interposed Dick Darvall. "Well, then, holdin' these views," continued the mate, "I have put aside Will Ward's share every time the rations were served, so here's what belongs to him--in this keg for the meat, and this bag for the biscuit-- ready for him to fall-to whenever his twist is strong enough." There were marks of hearty approval, mingled with laughter, among the men on hearing this, but they stopped abruptly and listened for more on observing a perplexed look on their leader's face. "But there's something that puzzles me about it, lads," resumed the mate, "and it is this, that the grub has somehow accumulated faster than I can account for, considering the smallness o' the addition to the lot each time." On hearing this the men were a little surprised, but Charlie Brooke burst into a short laugh. "What!" he exclaimed, "you don't mean to say that the victuals have taken root and begun to grow, do you?" "I don't mean to _say_ anything," returned the mate quietly; "but I'm inclined to _think_ a good deal if you've no objection, Doctor." "How d'ee feel now, Will?" said Charlie, stooping forward at the moment, for he observed that the boy--whose bed was on the floor at his feet-- had moved, and was gazing up at him with eyes that seemed to have grown enormously since their owner fell sick. "I feel queer--and--and--I'm inclined to _think_, too," returned Will in a faint voice. Nothing more was said at that time, for a sudden shift in the wind necessitated a shift of the sail, but Dick Darvall nodded his head significantly, and it came to be understood that "Doctor" Brooke had regularly robbed himself of part of his meagre allowance in order to increase the store of the cabin-boy. Whether they were right in this conjecture has never been distinctly ascertained. But all attempts to benefit the boy were soon after frustrated, for, while life was little more than trembling in the balance with Will Ward, a gale burst upon them which sealed his fate. It was not the rougher motion of the boat that did it, for the boy was used to that; nor the flashing of the salt spray inboard, for his comrades guarded him to some extent from that. During the alarm caused by a wave which nearly swamped the boat two of the crew in their panic seized the first things that came to hand and flung them overboard to prevent their sinking, while the rest baled with cans and sou'-westers for their lives. The portion of lading thus sacrificed turned out to be the staff of life--the casks of biscuit and pork! It was a terrible shock to these unfortunates when the full extent of the calamity was understood, and the firmness of the mate, with a sight of the revolvers alone prevented summary vengeance being executed on the wretched men who had acted so hastily in their blind terror. Only a small keg of biscuit remained to them. This was soon expended, and then the process of absolute starvation began. Every nook and cranny of the boat was searched again and again in the hope of something eatable being found, but only a small pot of lard--intended probably to grease the tackling--was discovered. With a dreadful expression in their eyes some of the men glared at it, and there would, no doubt, have been a deadly struggle for it if the mate had not said, "Fetch it here," in a voice which none dared to disobey. It formed but a mouthful to each, yet the poor fellows devoured it with the greed of ravening wolves, and carefully licked their fingers when it was done. The little cabin-boy had three portions allotted to him, because Charlie Brooke and Dick Darvall added their allowance to his without allowing him to be aware of the fact. But the extra allowance and kindness, although they added greatly to his comfort, could not stay the hand of Death. Slowly but surely the Destroyer came and claimed the young life. It was a sweet, calm evening when the summons came. The sea was like glass, with only that long, gentle swell which tells even in the profoundest calm of Ocean's instability. The sky was intensely blue, save on the western horizon, where the sun turned it into gold. It seemed as if all Nature were quietly indifferent to the sufferings of the shipwrecked men, some of whom had reached that terrible condition of starvation when all the softer feelings of humanity seem dead, for, although no whisper of their intention passed their lips, their looks told all too plainly that they awaited the death of the cabin-boy with impatience, that they might appease the intolerable pangs of hunger by resorting to cannibalism. Charlie Brooke, who had been comforting the dying lad all day, and whispering to him words of consolation from God's book from time to time, knew well what those looks meant. So did the mate, who sat grim, gaunt and silent at his post, taking no notice apparently of what went on around him. Fortunately the poor boy was too far gone to observe the looks of his mates. There was a can of paraffin oil, which had been thrown into the boat under the impression that it was something else. This had been avoided hitherto by the starving men, who deemed it to be poisonous. That evening the man called Jim lost control of himself, seized the can, and took a long draught of the oil. Whether it was the effect of that we cannot tell, but it seemed to drive him mad, for no sooner had he swallowed it than he uttered a wild shout, drew his knife, sprang up and leaped towards the place where the cabin-boy lay. The mate, who had foreseen something of the kind, drew and levelled his revolver, but before he could fire Charlie had caught the uplifted arm, wrested the knife from the man, and thrust him violently back. Thus foiled Jim sprang up again and with a maniac's yell leaped into the sea, and swam resolutely away. Even in their dire extremity the sailors could not see a comrade perish with indifference. They jumped up, hastily got out the oars, and pulled after him, but their arms were very weak; before they could overtake him the man had sunk to rise no more. It was while this scene was being enacted that the spirit of the cabin-boy passed away. On ascertaining that he was dead Charlie covered him with a tarpaulin where he lay, but no word was uttered by any one, and the mate, with revolver still in hand, sat there--grim and silent-- holding the tiller as if steering, and gazing sternly on the horizon. Yet it was not difficult to divine the thoughts of those unhappy and sorely tried men. Some by their savage glare at the cover that concealed the dead body showed plainly their dreadful desires. Brooke, Darvall, and the mate showed as clearly by their compressed lips and stern brows that they would resist any attempt to gratify these. Suddenly the mate's brow cleared, and his eyes opened wide as he muttered, under his breath, "A sail!" "A sail! a sail!" shrieked the man in the bow at the same moment, as he leaped up and tried to cheer, but he only gasped and fell back in a swoon into a comrade's arms. It was indeed a sail, which soon grew larger, and ere long a ship was descried bearing straight towards them before a very light breeze. In less than an hour the castaways stood upon her deck--saved. CHAPTER EIGHT. INGRATITUDE. A year or more passed away, and then there came a cablegram from New York to Jacob Crossley, Esquire, from Captain Stride. The old gentleman was at breakfast when he received it, and his housekeeper, Mrs Bland, was in the act of setting before him a dish of buttered toast when he opened the envelope. At the first glance he started up, overturned his cup of coffee, without paying the least attention to the fact, and exclaimed with emphasis--"As I expected. It is lost!" "'Ow could you expect it, sir, to be anythink else, w'en you've sent it all over the table-cloth?" said Mrs Bland, in some surprise. "It is not that, Mrs Bland," said Mr Crossley, in a hurried manner; "it is my ship the _Walrus_. Of course I knew long ago that it must have been lost," continued the old gentleman, speaking his thoughts more to himself than to the housekeeper, who was carefully spooning up the spilt coffee, "but the best of it is that the Captain has escaped." "Well, I'm sure, sir," said Mrs Bland, condescending to be interested, and to ignore, if not to forget, the coffee, "I'm very glad to 'ear it, sir, for Captain Stride is a pleasant cheery sort of man, and would be agreeable company if 'e didn't use so much sea-langwidge, and speak so much of 'is missis. An' I'm glad to 'ear it too, sir, on account o' that fine young man that sailed with 'im--Mr Book, I think, was--" "No, Mrs Bland, it was Brooke; but that's the worst of the business," said the old gentleman; "I'm not quite sure whether young Brooke _is_ among the saved. Here is what the telegram says:-- "`From Captain Stride to Jacob Crossley. Just arrived, (that's in New York, Mrs Bland); _Walrus_ lost. All hands left her in three boats. "`Our boat made uninhabited island, and knocked to pieces. Eight months on the island. Rescued by American barque. Fate of other boats unknown. Will be home within a couple of weeks.'" "Why, it sounds like _Robinson Crusoe_, sir, don't it? which I read when I was quite a gurl, but I don't believe it myself though they do say it's all true. Young Mr Leather will be glad to 'ear the good noos of 'is friend--" "But this is _not_ good news of his friend; it is only uncertain news," interrupted the old gentleman quickly. "Now I think of it, Mrs Bland, Mr Leather is to call here by appointment this very morning, so you must be particularly careful not to say a word to him about this telegram, or Captain Stride, or anything I have told you about the lost ship--you understand, Mrs Bland?" "Certainly, sir," said the housekeeper, somewhat hurt by the doubt thus implied as to the capacity of her understanding. "Shall I bring you some more toast, sir?" she added, with the virtuous feeling that by this question she was returning good for evil. "No, thank you. Now, Mrs Bland, don't forget. Not a word about this to any one." "'Ooks an' red-'ot pincers wouldn't draw a syllable out of _me_, sir," returned the good woman, departing with an offended air, and leaving her master to understand that, in her opinion, such instruments might have a very different effect upon _him_. "Ass that I was to speak of it to her at all," muttered Mr Crossley, walking up and down the room with spectacles on forehead, and with both hands in his trousers-pockets creating disturbance among the keys and coppers. "I might have known that she could not hold her tongue. It would never do to let Mrs Brooke remain on the tenter-hooks till Stride comes home to clear the matter up. Poor Mrs Brooke! No wonder she is almost broken down. This hoping against hope is so wearing. And she's so lonely. To be sure, sweet May Leather runs out and in like a beam of sunshine; but it must be hard, very hard, to lose an only son in this way. It would be almost better to know that he was dead. H'm! and there's that good-for-nothing Shank. The rascal! and yet he's not absolutely good for nothing--if he would only give up drink. Well, while there's life there's hope, thank God! I'll give him another trial." The old man's brow was severely wrinkled while he indulged in these mutterings, but it cleared, and a kindly look beamed on his countenance as he gave vent to the last expression. Just then the door bell rang. Mr Crossley resumed the grave look that was habitual to hint and next minute Shank Leather was ushered into the room. The youth was considerably changed since we last met him. The year which had passed had developed him into a man, and clothed his upper lip with something visible to the naked eye. It had also lengthened his limbs, deepened his chest, and broadened his shoulders. But here the change for the better ended. In that space of time there had come over him a decided air of dissipation, and the freshness suitable to youth had disappeared. With a look that was somewhat defiant he entered the room and looked boldly at his employer. "Be seated, Mr Leather," said the old gentleman in a voice so soft that the young man evidently felt abashed, but he as evidently steeled himself against better feelings, for he replied-- "Thank you, Mr Crossley, I'd rather stand." "As you please," returned the other, restraining himself. "I sent for you, Mr Leather, to tell you that I have heard with sincere regret of your last outbreak, and--" "Yes, sir," said Shank, rudely interrupting, "and I came here not so much to hear what you have to say about my outbreak--as you are pleased to style a little jollification--as to tell you that you had better provide yourself with another clerk, for I don't intend to return to your office. I've got a better situation." "Oh, indeed!" exclaimed Crossley in surprise. "Yes, indeed," replied Shank insolently. It was evident that the youth was, even at that moment, under the influence of his great enemy, else his better feelings would have prevented him from speaking so rudely to a man who had never shown him anything but kindness. But he was nettled by some of his bad companions having taunted him with his slavery to his besetting sin, and had responded to Mr Crossley's summons under the impression that he was going to get what he styled a "wigging." He was therefore taken somewhat aback when the old gentleman replied to his last remark gently. "I congratulate you, Mr Leather, on getting a _better_ situation (if it really should turn out to be better), and I sincerely hope it may--for your mother's sake as well as your own. This therefore disposes of part of my object in asking you to call--which was to say that I meant to pass over this offence and retain you in my employment. But it does not supersede the necessity of my urging you earnestly to give up drink, _not_ so much on the ground that it will surely lead you to destruction as on the consideration that it grieves the loving Father who has bestowed on you the very powers of enjoyment which you are now prostituting, and who is at this moment holding out His hands to you and _waiting_ to be gracious." The old man stopped abruptly, and Shank stood with eyes fixed on the floor and frowning brow. "Have you anything more to say to me?" asked Mr Crossley. "Nothing." "Then good-morning. As I can do nothing else to serve you, I will pray for you." Shank found himself in the street with feelings of surprise strong upon him. "Pray for me!" he muttered, as he walked slowly along. "It never occurred to me before that he prayed at all! The old humbug has more need to pray for himself!" CHAPTER NINE. SHANK REVEALS SOMETHING MORE OF HIS CHARACTER. Taking his way to the railway station Shank Leather found himself ere long at his mother's door. He entered without knocking. "Shank!" exclaimed Mrs Leather and May in the same breath. "Ay, mother, it's me. A bad shilling, they say, always turns up. _I_ always turn up, therefore _I_ am a bad shilling! Sound logic that, eh, May?" "I'm glad to see you, dear Shank," said careworn Mrs Leather, laying her knitting-needles on the table; "you _know_ I'm always glad to see you, but I'm naturally surprised, for this visit is out of your regular time." "Has anything happened?" asked May anxiously. And May looked very sweet, almost pretty, when she was anxious. A year had refined her features, developed her mind and body, and almost converted her into a little woman. Indeed, mentally, she had become more of a woman than many girls in her neighbourhood who were much older. This was in all likelihood one of the good consequences of adversity. "Ay, May, something has happened," answered the youth, flinging himself gaily into an arm-chair and stretching out his legs towards the fire; "I have thrown up my situation. Struck work. That's all." "Shank!" "Just so. Don't look so horrified, mother; you've no occasion to, for I have the offer of a better situation. Besides--ha! ha! old Crossley-- close-fisted, crabbed, money-making, skin-flint old Crossley--is going to pray for me. Think o' that, mother--going to pray for me!" "Shank, dear boy," returned his mother, "don't jest about religious things." "You don't call old Crossley a religious thing, do you? Why, mother, I thought you had more respect for him than that comes to; you ought at least to consider his years!" "Come, Shank," returned Mrs Leather, with a deprecating smile, "be a good boy and tell me what you mean--and about this new situation." "I just mean that my friend and chum and old schoolfellow Ralph Ritson-- jovial, dashing, musical, handsome Ralph--you remember him--has got me a situation in California." "Ralph Ritson?" repeated Mrs Leather, with a little sigh and an uneasy glance at her daughter, whose face had flushed at the mention of the youth's name. "Yes," continued Shank, in a graver tone, for he had observed the flush on May's face. "Ralph's father, who is manager of a gold mine in California, has asked his son to go out and assist him at a good salary, and to take a clerk out with him--a stout vigorous fellow, well up in figures, book-keeping, carpenting, etcetera, and ready to turn his hand to anything, and Ralph has chosen me! What d'ee think o' that?" From her silence and expression it was evident that the poor lady's thoughts were not quite what her son had hoped. "Why don't you congratulate me, mother?" he asked, somewhat petulantly. "Would it not be almost premature," she replied, with a forced smile, "to congratulate you before I know anything about the salary or the prospects held out to you? Besides, I cannot feel as enthusiastic about your friend Ralph as you do. I don't doubt that he is a well-meaning youth, but he is reckless. If he had only been a man like your former friend, poor Charlie Brooke, it would have been different, but--" "Well, mother, it's of no use wishing somebody to be like somebody else. We must just take folk as we find them, and I find Ralph Ritson a remarkably fine, sensible fellow, who has a proper appreciation of his friends. And he's not a bad fellow. He and Charlie Brooke were fond of each other when we were all schoolboys together--at least he was fond of Charlie, like everybody else. But whether we like him or not does not matter now, for the thing is fixed. I have accepted his offer, and thrown old Jacob overboard." "Dear Shank, don't be angry if I am slow to appreciate this offer," said the poor lady, laying aside her knitting and clasping her hands before her on the table, as she looked earnestly into her son's face, "but you must see that it has come on me very suddenly, and I'm so sorry to hear that you have parted with good old Mr Crossley in anger--" "We didn't part in anger," interrupted Shank. "We were only a little less sweet on each other than usual. There was no absolute quarrel. D'you think he'd have promised to pray for me if there was?" "Have you spoken yet to your father?" asked the lady. "How could I? I've not seen him since the thing was settled. Besides, what's the use? _He_ can do nothing for me, an' don't care a button what I do or where I go." "You are wrong, Shank, in thinking so. I _know_ that he cares for you very much indeed. If he can do nothing for you _now_, he has at least given you your education, without which you could not do much for yourself." "Well, of course I shall tell him whenever I see him," returned the youth, somewhat softened; "and I'm aware he has a sort of sneaking fondness for me; but I'm not going to ask his advice, because he knows nothing about the business. Besides, mother, I am old enough to judge for myself, and mean to take the advice of nobody." "You are indeed old enough to judge for yourself," said Mrs Leather, resuming her knitting, "and I don't wish to turn you from your plans. On the contrary, I will pray that God's blessing and protection may accompany you wherever you go, but you should not expect me to be instantaneously jubilant over an arrangement which will take you away from me, for years perhaps." This last consideration seemed to have some weight with the selfish youth. "Well, well, mother," he said, rising, "don't take on about that. Travelling is not like what it used to be. A trip over the Atlantic and the Rocky Mountains is nothing to speak of now--a mere matter of a few weeks--so that a fellow can take a run home at any time to say `How do' to his people. I'm going down now to see Smithers and tell him the news." "Stay, I'll go with you--a bit of the way," cried May, jumping up and shaking back the curly brown hair which still hung in native freedom-- and girlish fashion--on her shoulders. May had a charming and rare capacity for getting ready to go out at a moment's notice. She merely threw on a coquettish straw hat, which had a knack of being always at hand, and which clung to her pretty head with a tenacity that rendered strings or elastic superfluous. One of her brother's companions--we don't know which--was once heard to say with fervour that no hat would be worth its ribbons that didn't cling powerfully to such a head without assistance! A shawl too, or cloak, was always at hand, somehow, and had this not been so May would have thrown over her shoulders an antimacassar or table-cloth rather than cause delay,--at least we think so, though we have no absolute authority for making the statement. "Dear Shank," she said, clasping both hands over his arm as they walked slowly down the path that led to the shore, "is it really all true that you have been telling us? Have you fixed to go off with--with Mr Ritson to California?" "Quite true; I never was more in earnest in my life. By the way, sister mine, what made you colour up so when Ralph's name was mentioned? There, you're flushing again! Are you in love with him?" "No, certainly not," answered the girl, with an air and tone of decision that made her brother laugh. "Well, you needn't flare up so fiercely. You might be in love with a worse man. But why, then, do you blush?" May was silent, and hung down her head. "Come, May, you've never had any secrets from me. Surely you're not going to begin now--on the eve of my departure to a foreign land?" "I would rather not talk about him at all," said the girl, looking up entreatingly. But Shank looked down upon her sternly. He had assumed the parental _role_. "May, there is something in this that you ought not to conceal. I have a right to know it, as your brother--your protector." Innocent though May was, she could not repress a faint smile at the idea of a protector who had been little else than a cause of anxiety in the past, and was now about to leave her to look after herself, probably for years to come. But she answered frankly, while another and a deeper blush overspread her face-- "I did not mean to speak of it, Shank, as you knew nothing, and I had hoped would never know anything about it, but since you insist, I must tell you that--that Mr Ritson, I'm afraid, loves _me_ at least he--" "Afraid! loves you! How do you know?" interrupted Shank quickly. "Well, he said so--the last time we met." "The rascal! Had he the audacity to ask you to marry him?--him--a beggar, without a sixpence except what his father gives him?" "No, Shank, I would not let him get the length of that. I told him I was too young to--to think about such matters at all, and said that he must not speak to me again in such a way. But I was so surprised, flurried, and distressed, that I don't clearly remember what I said." "And what did _he_ say?" asked Shank, forgetting the parental _role_ for a moment, and looking at May with a humorous smile. "Indeed I can hardly tell. He made a great many absurd protestations, begged me to give him no decided answer just then, and said something about letting him write to me, but all I am quite sure of is that at last I had the courage to utter a very decided _No_, and then ran away and left him." "That was too sharp, May. Ralph is a first-rate fellow, with capital prospects. His father is rich and can give him a good start in life. He may come back in a few years with a fortune--not a bad kind of husband for a penniless lass." "Shank!" exclaimed May, letting go her brother's arm and facing him with flashing eyes and heightened colour, "do you really think that a fortune would make me marry a man whom I did not love?" "Certainly not, my dear sis," said the youth, taking May's hand and drawing it again through his arm with an approving smile. "I never for a moment thought you capable of such meanness, but that is a very different thing from slamming the door in a poor fellow's face. You're not in love with anybody else. Ralph is a fine handsome young fellow. You might grow to like him in time--and if you did, a fortune, of course, would be no disadvantage. Besides, he is to be my travelling companion, and might write to you about me if I were ill, or chanced to meet with an accident and were unable to write myself--don't you know?" "He could in that case write to mother," said May, simply. "So he could!" returned Shank, laughing. "I never thought o' that, my sharp sister." They had reached the shore by that time. The tide was out; the sea was calm and the sun glinted brightly on the wavelets that sighed rather than broke upon the sands. For some distance they sauntered in silence by the margin of the sea. The mind of each was busy with the same thought. Each was aware of that, and for some time neither seemed able to break the silence. The timid girl recovered her courage before the self-reliant man! "Dear Shank," she said, pressing his arm, "you will probably be away for years." "Yes, May--at least for a good long time." "Oh forgive me, brother," continued the girl, with sudden earnestness, "but--but--you know your--your weakness--" "Ay, May, I know it. Call it sin if you will--and my knowledge of it has something to do with my present determination, for, weak though I am, and bad though you think me--" "But I _don't_ think you _bad_, dear Shank," cried May, with tearful eyes; "I never said so, and never thought so, and--" "Come, come, May," interrupted the youth, with something of banter in his manner, "you don't think me _good_, do you?" "Well, no--not exactly," returned May, faintly smiling through her tears. "Well, then, if I'm not good I must be bad, you know. There's no half-way house in this matter." "Is there not, Shank? Is there not _very_ good and _very_ bad?" "Oh, well, if you come to that there's pretty-good, and rather-bad, and a host of other houses between these, such as goodish and baddish, but not one of them can be a _half-way_ house." "Oh yes, one of them _can_--_must_ be." "Which one, you little argumentative creature?" asked Shank. "Why, middling-good of course." "Wrong!" cried her brother, "doesn't middling-bad stand beside it, with quite as good a claim to be considered half-way? However, I won't press my victory too far. For the sake of peace we will agree that these are semi-detached houses in one block--and that will block the subject. But, to be serious again," he added, stopping and looking earnestly into his sister's face, "I wanted to speak to you on this weakness--this sin--and I thank you for breaking the ice. The truth is that I have felt for a good while past that conviviality--" "Strong drink, brother, call it by its right name," said May, gently pressing the arm on which she leaned. "Well--have it so. Strong drink has been getting the better of me--mind I don't admit it _has_ got the better of me yet--only _is getting_--and convivial comrades have had a great deal to do with it. Now, as you know, I'm a man of some decision of character, and I had long ago made up my mind to break with my companions. Of course I could not very well do this while--while I was--well, no matter why, but this offer just seemed to be a sort of godsend, for it will enable me to cut myself free at once, and the sea breezes and Rocky Mountain air and gold-hunting will, I expect, take away the desire for strong drink altogether." "I hope it will--indeed I am _sure_ it will if it is God's way of leading you," said May, with an air of confidence. "Well, I don't know whether it is God who is leading me or--" "Did you not call it a god-send just now--" "Oh, but that's a mere form of speech, you know. However, I do know that it was on this very beach where we now stand that a friend led me for the first time to think seriously of this matter--more than a year ago." "Indeed--who was it?" asked May eagerly. "My chum and old school-fellow, poor Charlie Brooke," returned Shank, in a strangely altered voice. Then he went on to tell of the conversation he and his friend had had on that beach, and it was not till he had finished that he became aware that his sister was weeping. "Why, May, you're crying. What's the matter?" "God bless him!" said May in fervent yet tremulous tones as she looked up in her brother's face. "Can you wonder at my feeling so strongly when you remember how kind Charlie always was to you--to all of us indeed--ever since he was a little boy at school with you; what a true-hearted and steady friend he has always been. And you called him poor Charlie just now, as if he were dead." "True indeed, it is very, very sad, for we have great reason to fear the worst, and I have strong doubt that I shall never see my old chum again. But I won't give up hope, for it is no uncommon thing for men to be lost at sea, for years even, and to turn up at last, having been cast away on a desert island, like Robinson Crusoe, or something of that sort." The thoughts which seemed to minister consolation to Shank Leather did not appear to afford much comfort to his sister, who hung her head and made no answer, while her companion went on-- "Yes, May, and poor Charlie was the first to make me feel as if I were a little selfish, though that as you know, is not one of my conspicuous failings! His straightforwardness angered me a little at first, but his kindness made me think much of what he said, and--well, the upshot of it all is that I am going to California." "I am glad--so glad and thankful he has had so much influence over you, dear Shank, and now, don't you think--that--that if Charlie were with you at this moment he would advise you not to go to Mr Smithers to consult about your plans?" For a few moments the brother's face betrayed a feeling of annoyance, but it quickly cleared away. "You are right, May. Smithers is too much of a convivial harum-scarum fellow to be of much use in the way of giving sound advice. I'll go to see Jamieson instead. You can have no objection to him--surely. He's a quiet, sober sort of man, and never tries to tempt people or lead them into mischief--which is more than can be said of the other fellow." "That is a very negative sort of goodness," returned May, smiling. "However, if you must go to see some one, Jamieson is better than Smithers; but why not come home and consult with mother and me?" "Pooh! what can women know about such matters? No, no, May, when a fellow has to go into the pros and cons of Californian life it must be with _men_." "H'm! the men you associate with, having been at school and the desk all their lives up till now, must be eminently fitted to advise on Californian life! That did not occur to me at the first blush!" said May demurely. "Go home, you cynical baggage, and help mother to knit," retorted Shank, with a laugh. "I intend to go and see Jamieson." And he went. And the negatively good Jamieson, who never led people into temptation, had no objection to be led into that region himself, so they went together to make a passing call--a mere look in--on Smithers, who easily induced them to remain. The result was that the unselfish man with decision of character returned home in the early hours of morning--"screwed." CHAPTER TEN. HOME-COMING AND UNEXPECTED SURPRISES. Upwards of another year passed away, and at the end of that time a ship might have been seen approaching one of the harbours on the eastern seaboard of America. Her sails were worn and patched. Her spars were broken and spliced. Her rigging was ragged and slack, and the state of her hull can be best described by the word `battered.' Everything in and about her bore evidence of a prolonged and hard struggle with the elements, and though she had at last come off victorious, her dilapidated appearance bore strong testimony to the deadly nature of the fight. Her crew presented similar evidence. Not only were their garments ragged, threadbare, and patched, but the very persons of the men seemed to have been riven and battered by the tear and wear of the conflict. And no wonder; for the vessel was a South Sea whaler, returning home after a three years' cruise. At first she had been blown far out of her course; then she was very successful in the fishing, and then she was stranded on the reef of a coral island in such a position that, though protected from absolute destruction by the fury of the waves, she could not be got off for many months. At last the ingenuity and perseverance of one of her crew were rewarded by success. She was hauled once more into deep water and finally returned home. The man who had been thus successful in saving the ship, and probably the lives of his mates--for it was a desolate isle, far out of the tracks of commerce--was standing in the bow of the vessel, watching the shore with his companions as they drew near. He was a splendid specimen of manhood, clad in a red shirt and canvas trousers, while a wide-awake took the place of the usual seafaring cap. He stood head and shoulders above his fellows. Just as the ship rounded the end of the pier, which formed one side of the harbour, a small boat shot out from it. A little boy sculled the boat, and, apparently, had been ignorant of the ship's approach, for he gave a shout of alarm on seeing it, and made frantic efforts to get out of its way. In his wild attempts to turn the boat he missed a stroke and went backwards into the sea. At the same moment the lookout on the ship gave the order to put the helm hard a-starboard in a hurried shout. Prompt obedience caused the ship to sheer off a little, and her side just grazed the boat. All hands on the forecastle gazed down anxiously for the boy's reappearance. Up he came next moment with a bubbling cry and clutching fingers. "He can't swim!" cried one. "Out with a lifebelt!" shouted another. Our tall seaman bent forward as they spoke, and, just as the boy sank a second time, he shot like an arrow into the water. "He's all safe now," remarked a seaman quietly, and with a nod of satisfaction, even before the rescuer had reappeared. And he was right. The red-shirted sailor rose a moment later with the boy in his arms. Chucking the urchin into the boat he swam to the pier-head with the smooth facility and speed of an otter, climbed the wooden piles with the ease of an athlete, walked rapidly along the pier, and arrived at the head of the harbour almost as soon as his own ship. "That's the tenth life he's saved since he came aboard--to say nothin' o' savin' the ship herself," remarked the Captain to an inquirer, after the vessel had reached her moorings. "An' none o' the lives was as easy to manage as that one. Some o' them much harder." We will follow this magnificent seaman for a time, good reader. Having obtained permission to quit the South Sea whaler he walked straight to the office of a steam shipping company, and secured a fore-cabin passage to England. He went on board dressed as he had arrived, in the red shirt, ducks, and wide-awake--minus the salt water. The only piece of costume which he had added to his wardrobe was a huge double-breasted pilot-cloth coat, with buttons the size of an egg-cup. He was so unused, however, to such heavy clothing that he flung it off the moment he got on board the steamer, and went about thereafter in his red flannel shirt and ducks. Hence he came to be known by every one as Red Shirt. This man, with his dark-blue eyes, deeply bronzed cheeks, fair hair, moustache, and beard, and tall herculean form, was nevertheless so soft and gentle in his manners, so ready with his smile and help and sympathy, that every man, woman, and child in the vessel adored him before the third day was over. Previous to that day, many of the passengers, owing to internal derangements, were incapable of any affection, except self-love, and to do them justice they had not much even of that! Arrived at Liverpool, Red Shirt, after seeing a poor invalid passenger safely to his abode in that city, and assisting one or two families with young children to find the stations, boats, or coaches that were more or less connected with their homes, got into a third-class carriage for London. On reaching the metropolis he at once took a ticket for _Sealford_. Just as the train was on the point of starting, two elderly gentlemen came on the platform, in that eager haste and confusion of mind characteristic of late passengers. "This way, Captain," cried one, hailing the other, and pointing energetically with his brown silk umbrella to the Sealford carriages. "No, no. It's at the next platform," returned the Captain frantically. "I say it is _here_," shouted the first speaker sternly. "Come, sir, obey orders!" They both made for an open carriage-door. It chanced to be a third class. A strong hand was held out to assist them in. "Thank you," said the eldest elderly gentleman--he with the brown silk umbrella--turning to Red Shirt as he sat down and panted slightly. "I feared that we'd be late, sir," remarked the other elderly gentleman on recovering breath. "We are _not_ late, Captain, but we should have been late for certain, if your obstinacy had held another half minute." "Well, Mr Crossley, I admit that I made a mistake about the place, but you must allow that I made no mistake about the hour. I was sure that my chronometer was right. If there's one thing on earth that I can trust to as reg'lar as the sun, it is this chronometer (pulling it out as he spoke), and it never fails. As I always said to my missus, `Maggie,' I used to say, `when you find this chronometer fail--' `Oh! bother you an' your chronometer,' she would reply, takin' the wind out o' my sails--for my missus has a free-an'-easy way o' doin' that--" "You've just come off a voyage, young sir, if I mistake not," said Crossley, turning to Red Shirt, for he had quite as free-and-easy a way of taking the wind out of Captain Stride's sails as the "missus." "Yes; I have just returned," answered Red Shirt, in a low soft voice, which scarcely seemed appropriate to his colossal frame. His red garment, by the way, was at the time all concealed by the pilot-coat, excepting the collar. "Going home for a spell, I suppose?" said Crossley. "Yes." "May I ask where you last hailed from?" said Captain Stride, with some curiosity, for there was something in the appearance of this nautical stranger which interested him. "From the southern seas. I have been away a long while in a South Sea whaler." "Ah, indeed?--a rough service that." "Rather rough; but I didn't enter it intentionally. I was picked up at sea, with some of my mates, in an open boat, by the whaler. She was on the outward voyage, and couldn't land us anywhere, so we were obliged to make up our minds to join as hands." "Strange!" murmured Captain Stride. "Then you were wrecked somewhere-- or your ship foundered, mayhap--eh?" "Yes, we were wrecked--on a coral reef." "Well now, young man, that is a strange coincidence. I was wrecked myself on a coral reef in the very same seas, nigh three years ago. Isn't that odd?" "Dear me, this is very interesting," put in Mr Crossley; "and, as Captain Stride says, a somewhat strange coincidence." "_Is_ it so very strange, after all," returned Red Shirt, "seeing that the Pacific is full of sunken coral reefs, and vessels are wrecked there more or less every year?" "Well, there's some truth in that," observed the Captain. "Did you say it was a sunk reef your ship struck on?" "Yes; quite sunk. No part visible. It was calm weather at the time, and a clear night." "Another coincidence!" exclaimed Stride, becoming still more interested. "Calm and clear, too, when I was wrecked!" "Curious," remarked Red Shirt in a cool indifferent tone, that began to exasperate the Captain. "Yet, after all, there are a good many calm and clear nights in the Pacific, as well as coral reefs." "Why, young man," cried Stride in a tone that made old Crossley smile, "you seem to think nothing at all of coincidences. It's very seldom-- almost never--that one hears of so many coincidences happening on _this_ side o' the line all at once--don't you see." "I see," returned Red Shirt; "and the same, exactly, may be said of the _other_ side o' the line. I very seldom--almost never--heard of so many out there; which itself may be called a coincidence, d'ee see? a sort of negative similarity." "Young man, I would suspect you were jesting with me," returned the Captain, "but for the fact that you told me of your experiences first, before you could know that mine would coincide with them so exactly." "Your conclusions are very just, sir," rejoined Red Shirt, with a grave and respectful air; "but of course coincidences never go on in an unbroken chain. They _must_ cease sooner or later. We left our wreck in _three_ boats. No doubt you--" "There again!" cried the Captain in blazing astonishment, as he removed his hat and wiped his heated brow, while Mr Crossley's eyes opened to their widest extent. "_We_ left our wreck in _three_ boats! My ship's name was--" "The _Walrus_," said Red Shirt quietly, "and her Captain's name was Stride!" Old Crossley had reached the stage that is known as petrified with astonishment. The Captain, being unable to open his eyes wider, dropped his lower jaw instead. "Surely," continued Red Shirt, removing his wide-awake, and looking steadily at his companions, "I must have changed very much indeed when two of my--" "Brooke!" exclaimed Crossley, grasping one of the sailor's hands. "Charlie!" gasped the Captain, seizing the other hand. What they all said after reaching this point it is neither easy nor necessary to record. Perhaps it may be as well to leave it to the reader's vivid imagination. Suffice it to say, that our hero irritated the Captain no longer by his callous indifference to coincidences. In the midst of the confusion of hurried question and short reply, he pulled them up with the sudden query anxiously put-- "But now, what of my mother?" "Well--excellently well in health, my boy," said Crossley, "but woefully low in spirits about yourself--Charlie. Yet nothing will induce her to entertain the idea that you have been drowned. Of course we have been rather glad of this--though most of our friends, Charlie, have given you up for lost long ago. May Leather, too, has been much the same way of thinking, so she has naturally been a great comfort to your mother." "God bless her for that. She's a good little girl," said Charlie. "Little girl," repeated both elderly gentlemen in a breath, and bursting into a laugh. "You forget, lad," said the Captain, "that three years or so makes a considerable change in girls of her age. She's a tall, handsome young woman now; ay, and a good-looking one too. Almost as good-lookin' as what my missus was about her age--an' not unlike my little Mag in the face--the one you rescued, you remember--who is also a strappin' lass now." "I'm very glad to hear they are well, Captain," said Charlie; "and, Shank, what of--" He stopped, for the grave looks of his friends told him that something was wrong. "Gone to the dogs," said the Captain. "Nay, not quite gone--but going--fast." "And the father?" "Much as he was, Charlie, only somewhat more deeply sunk. The fact is," continued Crossley, "it is this very matter that takes us down to Sealford to-day. We have just had fresh news of Shank--who is in America--and I want to consult with Mrs Leather about him. You see I have agents out there who may be able to help us to save him." "From drink, I suppose," interposed our hero. "From himself, Charlie, and that includes drink and a great deal more. I dare say you are aware--at least, if you are not, I now tell you--that I have long taken great interest in Mrs Leather and her family, and would go a long way, and give a great deal, to save Shank. You know-- no, of course you don't, I forgot--that he threw up his situation in my office--Withers and Company. (Ay, you may smile, my lad, but we humbugged you and got the better of you that time. Didn't we, Captain?) Well, Shank was induced by that fellow Ralph Ritson to go away to some gold-mine or other worked by his father in California, but when they reached America they got news of the failure of the Company and the death of old Ritson. Of course the poor fellows were at once thrown on their own resources, but, instead of facing life like men, they took to gambling. The usual results followed. They lost all they had and went off to Texas or some such wild place, and for a long time were no more heard of. At last, just the other day, a letter came from Ritson to Mrs Leather, telling her that her son is very ill--perhaps dying--in some out o' the way place. Ritson was nursing him, but, being ill himself, unable to work, and without means, it would help them greatly if some money could be sent--even though only a small sum." Charlie Brooke listened to this narrative with compressed brows, and remained silent a few seconds. "My poor chum!" he exclaimed at length. Then a flash of fire seemed to gleam in his blue eyes as he added, "If I had that fellow Ritson by the--" He stopped abruptly, and the fire in the eyes died out, for it was no part of our hero's character to boast--much less to speak harshly of men behind their backs. "Has money been sent?" he asked. "Not yet. It is about that business that I'm going to call on poor Mrs Leather now. We must be careful, you see. I have no reason, it is true, to believe that Ritson is deceiving us, but when a youth of no principle writes to make a sudden demand for money, it behoves people to think twice before they send it." "Ay, to think three times--perhaps even four or five," broke in the Captain, with stern emphasis. "I know Ralph Ritson well, the scoundrel, an' if I had aught to do wi' it I'd not send him a penny. As I said to my--" "Does your mother know of your arrival?" asked Mr Crossley abruptly. "No; I meant to take her by surprise." "Humph! Just like you young fellows. In some things you have no more brains than geese. Being made of cast-iron and shoe-leather you assume that everybody else is, or ought to be, made of the same raw material. Don't you know that surprises of this sort are apt to kill delicate people?" Charlie smiled by way of reply. "No, sir," continued the old gentleman firmly, "I won't let you take her by surprise. While I go round to the Leathers my good friend Captain Stride will go in advance of you to Mrs Brooke's and break the news to her. He is accustomed to deal with ladies." "Right you are, sir," said the gratified Captain, removing his hat and wiping his brow. "As I said, no later than yesterday to--" A terrific shriek from the steam-whistle, and a plunge into the darkness of a tunnel stopped--and thus lost to the world for ever--what the Captain said upon that occasion. CHAPTER ELEVEN. TELLS OF HAPPY MEETINGS AND SERIOUS CONSULTATIONS. Whether Captain Stride executed his commission well or not we cannot tell, and whether the meeting of Mrs Brooke with her long-lost son came to near killing or not we will not tell. Enough to know that they met, and that the Captain--with that delicacy of feeling so noticeable in seafaring men--went outside the cottage door and smoked his pipe while the meeting was in progress. After having given sufficient time, as he said, "for the first o' the squall to blow over," he summarily snubbed his pipe, put it into his vest pocket, and re-entered. "Now, missus, you'll excuse me, ma'am, for cuttin' in atween you, but this business o' the Leathers is pressin', an' if we are to hold a confabulation wi' the family about it, why--" "Ah, to be sure, Captain Stride is right," said Mrs Brooke, turning to her stalwart son, who was seated on the sofa beside her. "This is a very, _very_ sad business about poor Shank. You had better go to them, Charlie. I will follow you in a short time." "Mr Crossley is with them at this moment. I forgot to say so, mother." "Is he? I'm _very_ glad of that," returned the widow. "He has been a true friend to us all. Go, Charlie. But stay. I see May coming. The dear child always comes to me when there is anything good or sorrowful to tell. But she comes from the wrong direction. Perhaps she does not yet know of Mr Crossley's arrival." "May! Can it be?" exclaimed Charlie in an undertone of surprise as he observed, through the window, the girl who approached. And well might he be surprised, for this, although the same May, was very different from the girl he left behind him. The angles of girlhood had given place to the rounded lines of young womanhood. The rich curly brown hair, which used to whirl wildly in the sea-breezes, was gathered up in a luxuriant mass behind her graceful head, and from the forehead it was drawn back in two wavy bands, in defiance of fashion, which at that time was beginning to introduce the detestable modern fringe. Perhaps we are not quite un-biassed in our judgment of the said fringe, far it is intimately associated in our mind with the savages of North America, whose dirty red faces, in years past, were wont to glower at us from beneath just such a fringe, long before it was adopted by the fair dames of England! In other respects, however, May was little changed, except that the slightest curl of sadness about her eyebrows made her face more attractive than ever, as she nodded pleasantly to the Captain, who had hastened to the door to meet her. "So glad to see you, Captain Stride," she said, shaking hands with unfeminine heartiness. "Have you been to see mother? I have just been having a walk before--" She stopped as if transfixed, for at that moment she caught sight of Charlie and his mother through the open door. Poor May flushed to the roots of her hair; then she turned deadly pale, and would have fallen had not the gallant Captain caught her in his arms. But by a powerful effort of will she recovered herself in time to avoid a scene. "The sight of you reminded me so strongly of our dear Shank!" she stammered, when Charlie, hastening forward, grasped both her hands and shook them warmly. "Besides--some of us thought you were dead." "No wonder you thought of Shank," returned Charlie, "for he and I used to be so constantly together. But don't be cast down, May. We'll get Shank out of his troubles yet." "Yes, and you know he has Ritson with him," said Mrs Brooke; "and he, although not quite as steady as we could wish, will be sure to care for such an old friend in his sickness. But you'd better go, Charlie, and see Mrs Leather. They will be sure to want you and Captain Stride. May will remain here with me. Sit down beside me, dear, I want to have a chat with you." "Perhaps, ma'am, if I make so bold," interposed the Captain, "Mr Crossley may want to have Miss May also at the council of war." "Mr Crossley! is _he_ with my mother?" asked the girl eagerly. "Yes, Miss May, he is." "Then I _must_ be there. Excuse me, dear Mrs Brooke." And without more ado May ran out of the house. She was followed soon after by Charlie and the Captain, and Mrs Brooke was left alone, expressing her thankfulness and joy of heart in a few silent tears over her knitting. There was a wonderful similarity in many respects between Mrs Brooke and her friend Mrs Leather. They both knitted--continuously and persistently. This was a convenient if not a powerful bond, for it enabled them to sit for hours together--busy, yet free to talk. They were both invalids--a sympathetic bond of considerable strength. They held the same religious views--an indispensable bond where two people have to be much together, and are in earnest. They were both poor--a natural bond which draws people of a certain kind very close together, physically as well as spiritually--and both, up to this time at least, had long-absent and semi-lost sons. Even in the matter of daughters they might be said, in a sense, to be almost equal, for May, loving each, was a daughter to both. Lastly, in this matter of similarity, the two ladies were good--good as gold, according to Captain Stride, and he ought to have been an authority, for he frequently visited them and knew all their affairs. Fortunately for both ladies, Mrs Brooke was by far the stronger-minded--hence they never quarrelled! In Mrs Leather's parlour a solemn conclave was seated round the parlour table. They were very earnest, for the case under consideration was urgent, as well as very pitiful. Poor Mrs Leather's face was wet with tears, and the pretty brown eyes of May were not dry. They had had a long talk over the letter from Ritson, which was brief and to the point but meagre as to details. "I rather like the letter, considering who wrote it," observed Mr Crossley, laying it down after a fourth perusal. "You see he makes no whining or discontented reference to the hardness of their luck, which young scapegraces are so fond of doing; nor does he make effusive professions of regret or repentance, which hypocrites are so prone to do. I think it bears the stamp of being genuine on the face of it. At least it appears to be straightforward." "I'm so glad you think so, Mr Crossley," said Mrs Leather; "for Mr Ritson is such a pleasant young man--and so good-looking, too!" The old gentleman and the Captain both burst into a laugh at this. "I'm afraid," said the former, "that good looks are no guarantee for good behaviour. However, I have made up my mind to send him a small sum of money--not to Shank, Mrs Leather, so you need not begin to thank me. I shall send it to Ritson." "Well, thank you all the same," interposed the lady, taking up her knitting and resuming operations below the table, gazing placidly all the while at her friends like some consummate conjuror, "for Ralph will be sure to look after Shank." "The only thing that puzzles me is, how are we to get it sent to such an out-o'-the-way place--Traitor's Trap! It's a bad name, and the stupid fellow makes no mention of any known town near to it, though he gives the post-office. If I only knew its exact whereabouts I might get some one to take the money to him, for I have agents in many parts of America." After prolonged discussion of the subject, Mr Crossley returned to town to make inquiries, and the Captain went to take his favourite walk by the sea-shore, where he was wont, when paying a visit to Sealford, to drive the Leathers' little dog half-mad with delight by throwing stones into the sea for Scraggy to go in for--which he always did, though he never fetched them out. In the course of that day Charlie Brooke left his mother to take a stroll, and naturally turned in the direction of the sea. When half-way through the lane with the high banks on either side he encountered May. "What a pleasant pretty girl she has become!" was his thought as she drew near. "Nobler and handsomer than ever!" was hers as he approached. The thoughts of both sent a flush to the face of each, but the colour scarcely showed through the bronzed skin of the man. "Why, what a woman you have grown, May!" said Charlie, grasping her hand, and attempting to resume the old familiar terms--with, however, imperfect success. "Isn't that natural?" asked May, with a glance and a little laugh. That glance and that little laugh, insignificant in themselves, tore a veil from the eyes of Charlie Brooke. He had always been fond of May Leather, after a fashion. _Now_ it suddenly rushed upon him that he was fond of her after another fashion! He was a quick thinker and just reasoner. A poor man without a profession and no prospects has no right to try to gain the affections of a girl. He became grave instantly. "May," he said, "will you turn back to the shore with me for a little? I want to have a talk about Shank. I want you to tell me all you know about him. Don't conceal anything. I feel as if I had a right to claim your confidence, for, as you know well, he and I have been like brothers since we were little boys." May had turned at once, and the tears filled her eyes as she told the sad story. It was long, and the poor girl was graphic in detail. We can give but the outline here. Shank had gone off with Ritson not long after the sailing of the _Walrus_. On reaching America, and hearing of the failure of the company that worked the gold mine, and of old Ritson's death, they knew not which way to turn. It was a tremendous blow, and seemed to have rendered them reckless, for they soon took to gambling. At first they remained in New York, and letters came home pretty regularly, in which Shank always expressed hopes of getting more respectable work. He did not conceal their mode of gaining a livelihood, but defended it on the ground that "a man must live!" For a time the letters were cheerful. The young men were "lucky." Then came a change of luck, and a consequent change in the letters, which came less frequently. At last there arrived one from Shank, both the style and penmanship of which told that he had not forsaken the great curse of his life--strong drink. It told of disaster, and of going off to the "Rockies" with a party of "discoverers," though what they were to discover was not mentioned. "From that date till now," said May in conclusion, "we have heard nothing about them till this letter came from Mr Ritson, telling of dear Shank being so ill, and asking for money." "I wish any one were with Shank rather than that man," said Charlie sternly; "I have no confidence in him whatever, and I knew him well as a boy." "Nevertheless, I think we may trust him. Indeed I feel sure he won't desert his wounded comrade," returned May, with a blush. The youth did not observe the blush. His thoughts were otherwise engaged, and his eyes were at the moment fixed on a far-off part of the shore, where Captain Stride could be seen urging on the joyful Scraggy to his fruitless labours. "I wish I could feel as confident of him as you do, May. However, misfortune as well as experience may have made him a wiser, perhaps a better, man. But what troubles me most is the uncertainty of the money that Mr Crossley is going to send ever reaching its destination." "Oh! if we only knew some one in New York who would take it to them," said May, looking piteously at the horizon, as if she were apostrophising some one on the other side of the Atlantic. "Why, you talk as if New York and Traitor's Trap were within a few miles of each other," said Charlie, smiling gently. "They are hundreds of miles apart." "Well, I suppose they are. But I feel so anxious about Shank when I think of the dear boy lying ill, perhaps dying, in a lonely place far far away from us all, and no one but Mr Ritson to care for him! If I were only a man I would go to him myself." She broke down at this point, and put her handkerchief to her face. "Don't cry, May," began the youth in sore perplexity, for he knew not how to comfort the poor girl in the circumstances, but fortunately Captain Stride caught sight of them at the moment, and gave them a stentorian hail. "Hi! halloo! back your to-o-o-ps'ls. I'll overhaul ye in a jiffy." How long a nautical jiffy may be we know not, but, in a remarkably brief space of time, considering the shortness and thickness of his sea-legs, the Captain was alongside, blowing, as he said, "like a grampus." That night Charlie Brooke sat with his mother in her parlour. They were alone--their friends having considerately left them to themselves on this their first night. They had been talking earnestly about past and present, for the son had much to learn about old friends and comrades, and the mother had much to tell. "And now, mother," said Charlie, at the end of a brief pause, "what about the future?" "Surely, my boy, it is time enough to talk about that to-morrow, or next day. You are not obliged to think of the future before you have spent even one night in your old room." "Not absolutely obliged, mother. Nevertheless, I should like to speak about it. Poor Shank is heavy on my mind, and when I heard all about him to-day from May, I--. She's wonderfully improved, that girl, mother. Grown quite pretty?" "Indeed she is--and as good as she's pretty," returned Mrs Brooke, with a furtive glance at her son. "She broke down when talking about Shank to-day, and I declare she looked quite beautiful! Evidently Shank's condition weighs heavily on her mind." "Can you wonder, Charlie?" "Of course not. It's natural, and I quite sympathised with her when she exclaimed, `If I were only a man I would go to him myself.'" "That's natural too, my son. I have no doubt she would, poor dear girl, if she were only a man." "Do you know, mother, I've not been able to get that speech out of my head all this afternoon. `If I were a man--if I were a man,' keeps ringing in my ears like the chorus of an old song, and then--" "Well, Charlie, what then?" asked Mrs Brooke, with a puzzled glance. "Why, then, somehow the chorus has changed in my brain and it runs--`I _am_ a man! I _am_ a man!'" "Well?" asked the mother, with an anxious look. "Well--that being so, I have made up my mind that _I_ will go out to Traitor's Trap and carry the money to Shank, and look after him myself. That is, if you will let me." "O Charlie! how can you talk of it?" said Mrs Brooke, with a distressed look. "I have scarcely had time to realise the fact that you have come home, and to thank God for it, when you begin to talk of leaving me again--perhaps for years, as before." "Nay, mother mine, you jump to conclusions too hastily. What I propose is not to go off again on a long voyage, but to take a run of a few days in a first-class steamer across what the Americans call the big fish-pond; then go across country comfortably by rail; after that hire a horse and have a gallop somewhere or other; find out Shank and bring him home. The whole thing might be done in a few weeks; and no chance, almost, of being wrecked." "I don't know, Charlie," returned Mrs Brooke, in a sad tone, as she laid her hand on her son's arm and stroked it. "As you put it, the thing sounds all very easy, and no doubt it would be a grand, a noble thing to rescue Shank--but--but, why talk of it to-night, my dear boy? It is late. Go to bed, Charlie, and we will talk it over in the morning." "How pleasantly familiar that `Go to bed, Charlie,' sounds," said the son, laughing, as he rose up. "You did not always think it pleasant," returned the good lady, with a sad smile. "That's true, but I think it uncommonly pleasant _now_. Good-night, mother." "Good-night, my son, and God bless you." CHAPTER TWELVE. CHANGES THE SCENE CONSIDERABLY! We must transport our reader now to a locality somewhere in the region lying between New Mexico and Colorado. Here, in a mean-looking out-of-the-way tavern, a number of rough-looking men were congregated, drinking, gambling, and spinning yarns. Some of them belonged to the class known as cow-boys--men of rugged exterior, iron constitutions, powerful frames, and apparently reckless dispositions, though underneath the surface there was considerable variety of character to be found. The landlord of the inn--if we may so call it, for it was little better than a big shanty--was known by the name of David. He was a man of cool courage. His customers knew this latter fact well, and were also aware that, although he carried no weapon on his person, he had several revolvers in handy places under his counter, with the use of which he was extremely familiar and expert. In the midst of a group of rather noisy characters who smoked and drank in one corner of this inn or shanty, there was seated on the end of a packing-case, a man in the prime of life, who, even in such rough company, was conspicuously rugged. His leathern costume betokened him a hunter, or trapper, and the sheepskin leggings, with the wool outside, showed that he was at least at that time a horseman. Unlike most of his comrades, he wore Indian moccasins, with spurs strapped to them. Also a cap of the broad-brimmed order. The point about him that was most striking at first sight was his immense breadth of shoulder and depth of chest, though in height he did not equal many of the men around him. As one became acquainted with the man, however, his massive proportions had not so powerful an effect on the mind of an observer as the quiet simplicity of his expression and manner. Good-nature seemed to lurk in the lines about his eyes and the corners of his mouth, which latter had the peculiarity of turning down instead of up when he smiled; yet withal there was a stern gravity about him that forbade familiarity. The name of the man was Hunky Ben, and the strangest thing about him-- that which puzzled these wild men most--was that he neither drank nor smoked nor gambled! He made no pretence of abstaining on principle. One of the younger men, who was blowing a stiff cloud, ventured to ask him whether he really thought these things wrong. "Well, now," he replied quietly, with a twinkle in his eye, "I'm no parson, boys, that I should set up to diskiver what's right an' what's wrong. I've got my own notions on them points, you bet, but I'm not goin' to preach 'em. As to smokin', I won't make a smoked herrin' o' my tongue to please anybody. Besides, I don't want to smoke, an' why should I do a thing I don't want to just because other people does it? Why should I make a new want when I've got no end o' wants a'ready that's hard enough to purvide for? Drinkin's all very well if a man wants Dutch courage, but I don't want it--no, nor French courage, nor German, nor Chinee, havin' got enough o' the article home-growed to sarve my purpus. When that's used up I may take to drinkin'--who knows? Same wi' gamblin'. I've no desire to bust up any man, an' I don't want to be busted up myself, you bet. No doubt drinkin', smokin', an' gamblin' makes men jolly--them at least that's tough an' that wins!--but I'm jolly without 'em, boys,--jolly as a cottontail rabbit just come of age." "An' ye look it, old man," returned the young fellow, puffing cloudlets with the utmost vigour; "but come, Ben, won't ye spin us a yarn about your frontier life?" "Yes, do, Hunky," cried another in an entreating voice, for it was well known all over that region that the bold hunter was a good story-teller, and as he had served a good deal on the frontier as guide to the United States troops, it was understood that he had much to tell of a thrilling and adventurous kind; but although the men about him ceased to talk and looked at him with expectancy, he shook his head, and would not consent to be drawn out. "No, boys, it can't be done to-day," he said; "I've no time, for I'm bound for Quester Creek in hot haste, an' am only waitin' here for my pony to freshen up a bit. The Redskins are goin' to give us trouble there by all accounts." "The red devils!" exclaimed one of the men, with a savage oath; "they're always givin' us trouble." "That," returned Hunky Ben, in a soft voice, as he glanced mildly at the speaker,--"that is a sentiment I heer'd expressed almost exactly in the same words, though in Capatchee lingo, some time ago by a Redskin chief--only he said it was pale-faced devils who troubled _him_. I wonder which is worst. They can't both be worst, you know!" This remark was greeted with a laugh, and a noisy discussion thereupon began as to the comparative demerits of the two races, which was ere long checked by the sound of a galloping horse outside. Next moment the door opened, and a very tall man of commanding presence and bearing entered the room, took off his hat, and looked round with a slight bow to the company. There was nothing commanding, however, in the quiet voice with which he asked the landlord if he and his horse could be put up there for the night. The company knew at once, from the cut of the stranger's tweed suit, as well as his tongue, that he was an Englishman, not much used to the ways of the country--though, from the revolver and knife in his belt, and the repeating rifle in his hand, he seemed to be ready to meet the country on its own terms by doing in Rome as Rome does. On being told that he could have a space on the floor to lie on, which he might convert into a bed if he had a blanket with him, he seemed to make up his mind to remain, asked for food, and while it was preparing went out to attend to his horse. Then, returning, he went to a retired corner of the room, and flung himself down at full length on a vacant bench, as if he were pretty well exhausted with fatigue. The simple fare of the hostelry was soon ready; and when the stranger was engaged in eating it, he asked a cow-boy beside him how far it was to Traitor's Trap. At the question there was a perceptible lull in the conversation, and the cow-boy, who was a very coarse forbidding specimen of his class, said that he guessed Traitor's Trap was distant about twenty mile or so. "Are you goin' thar, stranger?" he asked, eyeing his questioner curiously. "Yes, I'm going there," answered the Englishman; "but from what I've heard of the road, at the place where I stayed last night, I don't like to go on without a guide and daylight--though I would much prefer to push on to-night if it were possible." "Wall, stranger, whether possible or not," returned the cow-boy, "it's an ugly place to go past, for there's a gang o' cut-throats there that's kep' the country fizzin' like ginger-beer for some time past. A man that's got to go past Traitor's Trap should go by like a greased thunderbolt, an' he should never go alone." "Is it, then, such a dangerous place?" asked the Englishman, with a smile that seemed to say he thought his informant was exaggerating. "Dangerous!" exclaimed the cow-boy. "Ay, an will be as long as Buck Tom an' his boys are unhung. Why, stranger, I'd get my life insured, you bet, before I'd go thar again--except with a big crowd o' men. It was along in June last year I went up that way; there was nobody to go with me, an' I was forced to do it by myself--for I _had_ to go--so I spunked up, saddled Bluefire, an' sloped. I got on lovely till I came to a pass just on t'other side o' Traitor's Trap, when I began to cheer up, thinkin' I'd got off square; but I hadn't gone another hundred yards when up starts Buck Tom an' his men with `hands up.' I went head down flat on my saddle instead, I was so riled. Bang went a six-shooter, an' the ball just combed my back hair. I suppose Buck was so took by surprise at a single man darin' to disobey his orders that he missed. Anyhow I socked spurs into Bluefire, an' made a break for the open country ahead. They made after me like locomotives wi' the safety-valves blocked, but Bluefire was more'n a match for 'em. They kep' blazin' away all the time too, but never touched me, though I heard the balls whistlin' past for a good while. Bluefire an' me went, you bet, like a nor'-easter in a passion, an' at last they gave it up. No, stranger, take my advice an' don't go past Traitor's Trap alone. I wouldn't go there at all if I could help it." "I don't intend to go past it. I mean to go _into_ it," said the Englishman, with a short laugh, as he laid down his knife and fork, having finished his slight meal; "and, as I cannot get a guide, I shall be forced to go alone." "Stranger," said the cow-boy in surprise, "d'ye want to meet wi' Buck Tom?" "Not particularly." "An' are ye aware that Buck Tom is one o' the most hardened, sanguinacious blackguards in all Colorado?" "I did not know it before, but I suppose I may believe it now." As he spoke the Englishman rose and went out to fetch the blanket which was strapped to his saddle. In going out he brushed close past a man who chanced to enter at the same moment. The newcomer was also a tall and strikingly handsome man, clothed in the picturesque garments of the cow-boy, and fully armed. He strode up to the counter, with an air of proud defiance, and demanded drink. It was supplied him. He tossed it off quickly, without deigning a glance at the assembled company. Then in a deep-toned voice he asked-- "Has the Rankin Creek Company sent that account and the money?" Profound silence had fallen on the whole party in the room the moment this man entered. They evidently looked at him with profound interest if not respect. "Yes, Buck Tom," answered the landlord, in his grave off-hand manner; "They have sent it, and authorised me to pay you the balance." He turned over some papers for a few minutes, during which Buck Tom did not condescend to glance to one side or the other, but kept his eye fixed sternly on the landlord. At that moment the Englishman re-entered, went to his corner, spread his blanket on the floor, lay down, put his wide-awake over his eyes, and resigned himself to repose, apparently unaware that anything special was going on, and obtusely blind to the quiet but eager signals wherewith the cow-boy was seeking to direct his attention to Buck Tom. In a few minutes the landlord found the paper he wanted, and began to look over it. "The company owes you," he said, "three hundred dollars ten cents for the work done," said the landlord slowly. Buck nodded his head as if satisfied with this. "Your account has run on a long while," continued the landlord, "and they bid me explain that there is a debit of two hundred and ninety-nine dollars against you. Balance in your favour one dollar ten cents." A dark frown settled on Buck Tom's countenance, as the landlord laid the balance due on the counter, and for a few moments he seemed in uncertainty as to what he should do, while the landlord stood conveniently near to a spot where one of his revolvers lay. Then Buck turned on his heel, and was striding towards the door, when the landlord called him back. "Excuse my stopping you, Buck Tom," he said, "but there's a gentleman here who wants a guide to Traitor's Trap. Mayhap you wouldn't object to--" "Where is he?" demanded Buck, wheeling round, with a look of slight surprise. "There," said the landlord, pointing to the dark corner where the big Englishman lay, apparently fast asleep, with his hat pulled well down over his eyes. Buck Tom looked at the sleeping figure for a few moments. "H'm! well, I might guide him," he said, with something of a grim smile, "but I'm travelling too fast for comfort. He might hamper me. By the way," he added, looking back as he laid his hand on the door, "you may tell the Rankin Creek Company, with my compliments, to buy a new lock to their office door, for I intend to call on them some day soon and balance up that little account on a new system of 'rithmetic! Tell them I give 'em leave to clap the one dollar ten cents to the credit of their charity account." Another moment and Buck Tom was gone. Before the company in the tavern had quite recovered the use of their tongues, the hoofs of his horse were heard rattling along the road which led in the direction of Traitor's Trap. "Was that really Buck Tom?" asked Hunky Ben, in some surprise. "Ay--or his ghost," answered the landlord. "I can swear to him, for I saw him as clear as I see you the night he split after me," said the cowboy, who had warned the Englishman. "Why didn't you put a bullet into him to-night, Crux?" asked a comrade. "Just so--you had a rare chance," remarked another of the cow-boys, with something of a sneer in his tone. "Because I'm not yet tired o' my life," replied Crux, indignantly. "Back Tom has got eyes in the back o' his head, I do believe, and shoots dead like a flash--" "Not that time he missed you at Traitor's Trap, I think," said the other. "Of course not--'cause we was both mounted that time, and scurryin' over rough ground like wild-cats. The best o' shots would miss thar an' thus. Besides, Buck Tom took nothin' from me, an' ye wouldn't have me shoot a man for missin' me--surely. If you're so fond o' killin', why didn't you shoot him yourself?--_you_ had a rare chance!" Crux grinned--for his ugly mouth could not compass a smile--as he thought thus to turn the tables on his comrade. "Well, he's got clear off, anyhow, returned the comrade, an' it's a pity, for--" He was interrupted by the Englishman raising himself and asking in a sleepy tone if there was likely to be moonlight soon. The company seemed to think him moon-struck to ask such a question, but one of them replied that the moon was due in half an hour. "You've lost a good chance, sir," said Crux, who had a knack of making all his communications as disagreeably as possible, unless they chanced to be unavoidably agreeable, in which case he made the worst of them. "Buck Tom hisself has just bin here, an' might have agreed to guide you to Traitor's Trap if you'd made him a good offer." "Why did you not awake me?" asked the Englishman in a reproachful tone, as he sprang up, grasped his blanket hastily, threw down a piece of money on the counter, and asked if the road wasn't straight and easy for a considerable distance. "Straight as an arrow for ten mile," said the landlord, as he laid down the change which the Englishman put into an apparently well-filled purse. "I'll guide you, stranger, for five dollars," said Crux. "I want no guide," returned the other, somewhat brusquely, as he left the room. A minute or two later he was heard to pass the door on horseback at a sharp trot. "Poor lad, he'll run straight into the wolf's den; but why he wants to do it puzzles me," remarked the landlord, as he carefully cleaned a tankard. "But he would take no warning." "The wolf doesn't seem half as bad as he's bin painted," said Hunky Ben, rising and offering to pay his score. "Hallo, Hunky--not goin' to skip, are ye?" asked Crux. "I told ye I was in a hurry. Only waitin' to rest my pony. My road is the same as the stranger's, at least part o' the way. I'll overhaul an' warn him." A few minutes more and the broad-shouldered scout was also galloping along the road or track which led towards the Rocky mountains in the direction of Traitor's Trap. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. HUNKY BEN IS SORELY PERPLEXED. It was one of Hunky Ben's few weaknesses to take pride in being well mounted. When he left the tavern he bestrode one of his best steeds--a black charger of unusual size, which he had purchased while on a trading trip in Texas--and many a time had he ridden it while guiding the United States troops in their frequent expeditions against ill-disposed Indians. Taken both together it would have been hard to equal, and impossible to match, Hunky Ben and his coal-black mare. From the way that Ben rode, on quitting the tavern, it might have been supposed that legions of wild Indians were at his heels. But after going about a few miles at racing speed he reined in, and finally pulled up at a spot where a very slight pathway diverged. Here he sat quite still for a few minutes in meditation. Then he muttered softly to himself--for Ben was often and for long periods alone in the woods and on the plains, and found it somewhat "sociable-like" to mutter his thoughts audibly: "You've not cotched him up after all, Ben," he said. "Black Polly a'most equals a streak o' lightnin', but the Britisher got too long a start o' ye, an' he's clearly in a hurry. Now, if I follow on he'll hear your foot-falls, Polly, an' p'raps be scared into goin' faster to his doom. Whereas, if I go off the track here an' drive ahead so as to git to the Blue Fork before him, I'll be able to stop the Buck's little game, an' save the poor fellow's life. Buck is sure to stop him at the Blue Fork, for it's a handy spot for a road-agent, [a highwayman] and there's no other near." Hunky Ben was pre-eminently a man of action. As he uttered or thought the last word he gave a little chirp which sent Black Polly along the diverging track at a speed which almost justified the comparison of her to lightning. The Blue Fork was a narrow pass or gorge in the hills, the footpath through which was rendered rugged and dangerous for cattle because of the rocks that had fallen during the course of ages from the cliffs on either side. Seen from a short distance off on the main track the mountains beyond had a brilliantly blue appearance, and a few hundred yards on the other side of the pass the track forked--hence the name. One fork led up to Traitor's Trap, the other to the fort of Quester Creek, an out-post of United States troops for which Hunky Ben was bound with the warning that the Redskins were contemplating mischief. As Ben had conjectured, this was the spot selected by Buck Tom as the most suitable place for waylaying his intended victim. Doubtless he supposed that no Englishman would travel in such a country without a good deal of money about him, and he resolved to relieve him of it. It was through a thick belt of wood that the scout had to gallop at first, and he soon outstripped the traveller who kept to the main and, at that part, more circuitous road, and who was besides obliged to advance cautiously in several places. On nearing his destination, however, Ben pulled up, dismounted, fastened his mare to a tree, and proceeded the rest of the way on foot at a run, carrying his repeating rifle with him. He had not gone far when he came upon a horse. It was fastened, like his own, to a tree in a hollow. "Ho! ho!" thought Ben, "you prefer to do yer dirty work on foot, Mr Buck! Well, you're not far wrong in such a place." Advancing now with great caution, the scout left the track and moved through the woods more like a visible ghost than a man, for he was well versed in all the arts and wiles of the Indian, and his moccasined feet made no sound whatever. Climbing up the pass at some height above the level of the road, so that he might be able to see all that took place below, he at last lay down at full length, and drew himself in snake fashion to the edge of the thicket that concealed him. Pushing aside the bushes gently he looked down, and there, to his satisfaction, beheld the man he was in search of, not thirty yards off. Buck Tom was crouching behind a large mass of rock close to the track, and so lost in the dark shadow of it that no ordinary man could have seen him; but nothing could escape the keen and practised eye of Hunky Ben. He could not indeed make out the highwayman's form, but he knew that he was there and that was enough. Laying his rifle on a rock before him in a handy position he silently watched the watcher. During all this time the Englishman--whom the reader has doubtless recognised as Charlie Brooke--was pushing on as fast as he could in the hope of overtaking the man who could guide him to Traitor's Trap. At last he came to the Blue Forks, and rode into the pass with the confidence of one who suspects no evil. He drew rein, however, as he advanced, and picked his way carefully along the encumbered path. He had barely reached the middle of it, where a clear space permitted the moonbeams to fall brightly on the ground, when a stern voice suddenly broke the stillness of the night with the words-- "Hands up!" Charlie Brooke seemed either to be ignorant of the ways of the country and of the fact that disobedience to the command involved sudden death, or he had grown unaccountably reckless, for instead of raising his arms and submitting to be searched by the robber who covered him with a revolver, he merely reined up and took off his hat, allowing the moon to shine full on his countenance. The effect on Buck Tom was singular. Standing with his back to the moon, his expression could not be seen, but his arm dropped to his side as if it had been paralysed, and the revolver fell to the ground. Never had Buck Tom been nearer to his end than at that moment, for Hunky Ben, seeing clearly what would be the consequence of the Englishman's non-compliance with the command, was already pressing the trigger that would have sent a bullet into Buck Tom's brain, but the Englishman's strange conduct induced him to pause, and the effect on the robber caused him to raise his head and open wide his eyes--also his ears! "Ah! Ralph Ritson, has it come to this?" said Charlie, in a voice that told only of pity and surprise. For some moments Ralph did not speak. He was evidently stunned. Presently he recovered, and, passing his hand over his brow, but never taking his eyes off the handsome face of his former friend, he said in a low tone-- "I--I--don't feel very sure whether you're flesh and blood, Brooke, or a spirit--but--but--" "I'm real enough to be able to shake hands, Ritson," returned our hero, dismounting, and going up to his former friend, who suffered him to grasp the hand that had been on the point of taking his life. "But can it be true, that I really find you a--" "It is true, Charlie Brooke; quite true--but while you see the result, you do not see, and cannot easily understand, the hard grinding injustice that has brought me to this. The last and worst blow I received this very night. I have urgent need of money--not for myself, believe me--and I came down to David's store, at some personal risk, I may add, to receive payment of a sum due me for acting as a cow-boy for many months. The company, instead of paying me--" "Yes, I know; I heard it all," said Charlie. "You were only shamming sleep, then?" "Yes; I knew you at once." "Well, then," continued Buck Tom (as we shall still continue to style him), "the disappointment made me so desperate that I determined to rob you--little thinking who you were--in order to help poor Shank Leather--" "Does Shank stand in urgent need of help?" asked Charlie, interrupting. "He does indeed. He has been very ill. We have run out of funds, and he needs food and physic of a kind that the mountains don't furnish." "Does he belong to your band, Ritson?" "Well--nearly; not quite!" "That is a strange answer. How far is it to where he lies just now?" "Six miles, about." "Come, then, I will go to him if you will show me the way," returned Charlie, preparing to remount. "I have plenty of that which poor Shank stands so much in need of. In fact I have come here for the express purpose of hunting him and you up. Would it not be well, by the way, to ride back to the store for some supplies?" "No need," answered Buck Tom, stooping to pick up his revolver. "There's another store not far from this, to which we can send to-morrow. We can get what we want there." "But what have you done with your horse?" asked Charlie; "I heard you start on one." "It is not far off. I'll go fetch it." So saying the robber entered the bushes and disappeared. A few minutes later the clattering of hoofs was heard, and in another moment he rode up to the spot where our hero awaited him. "Follow me," he said; "the road becomes better half a mile further on." During all this time Hunky Ben had stood with his rifle ready, listening with the feelings of a man in a dream. He watched the robber and his victim ride quietly away until they were out of sight. Then he stood up, tilted his cap on one side, and scratched his head in great perplexity. "Well, now," he said at length, "this is about the queerest affair I've comed across since I was raised. It's a marcy I was born with a quiet spirit, for another chip off the small end of a moment an' Buck Tom would have bin with his fathers in their happy, or otherwise, huntin' grounds! It's quite clear that them two have bin friends, mayhap pards, in the old country. An' Buck Tom (that's Ritson, I think he called him) has bin driven to it by injustice, has he? Ah! Buck, if all the world that suffers injustice was to take to robbery it's not many respectable folk would be left to rob. Well, well, my comin' off in such a splittin' hurry to take care o' this Britisher is a wild-goose chase arter all! It's not the first one you've bin led into anyhow, an' it's time you was lookin' arter yer own business, Hunky Ben." While giving vent to these remarks in low muttering tones, the scout was quickly retracing his steps to the place where he had tied up Black Polly. Mounting her he returned to the main track, proceeded along it until he reached the place beyond the pass where the roads forked; then, selecting that which diverged to the left, he set off at a hard gallop in the direction of Quester Creek. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. THE HAUNT OF THE OUTLAWS. After riding through the Blue Fork Charlie and Buck Tom came to a stretch of open ground of considerable extent, where they could ride abreast, and here the latter gave the former some account of the condition of Shank Leather. "Tell me, Ritson," said Charlie, "what you mean by Shank `nearly' and `not quite' belonging to your band." The outlaw was silent for some time. Then he seemed to make up his mind to speak out. "Brooke," he said, "it did, till this night, seem to me that all the better feelings of my nature--whatever they were--had been blotted out of existence, for since I came to this part of the world the cruelty and injustice that I have witnessed and suffered have driven me to desperation, and I candidly confess to you that I have come to hate pretty nigh the whole human race. The grip of your hand and tone of your voice, however, have told me that I have not yet sunk to the lowest possible depths. But that is not what I mean to enlarge on. What I wish you to understand is, that after Shank and I had gone to the dogs, and were reduced to beggary, I made up my mind to join a band of men who lived chiefly by their wits, and sometimes by their personal courage. Of course I won't say who they are, because we still hang together, and there is no need to say what we are. The profession is variously named, and not highly respected. "Shank refused to join me, so we parted. He remained for some time in New York doing odd jobs for a living. Then he joined a small party of emigrants, and journeyed west. Strange to say, although the country is wide, he and I again met accidentally. My fellows wanted to overhaul the goods of the emigrants with whom he travelled. They objected. A fight followed in which there was no bloodshed, for the emigrants fled at the first war-whoop. A shot from one of them, however, wounded one of our men, and one of theirs was so drunk at the time of the flight that he fell off his horse and was captured. That man was Shank. I recognised him when I rode up to see what some of my boys were quarrelling over, and found that it was the wounded man wanting to shove his knife into Shank. "The moment I saw his face I claimed him as an old chum, and had him carried up to our headquarters in Traitor's Trap. There he has remained ever since, in a very shaky condition, for the fall seems to have injured him internally, besides almost breaking his neck. Indeed I think his spine is damaged,--he recovers so slowly. We have tried to persuade him to say that he will become one of us when he gets well, but up to this time he has steadily refused. I am not sorry; for, to say truth, I don't want to force any one into such a line of life--and he does not look as if he'd be fit for it, or anything else, for many a day to come." "But how does it happen that you are in such straits just now?" asked Charlie, seeing that Buck paused, and seemed unwilling to make further explanations. "Well, the fact is, we have not been successful of late; no chances have come in our way, and two of our best men have taken their departure--one to gold-digging in California, the other to the happy hunting grounds of the Redskin, or elsewhere. Luck, in short, seems to have forsaken us. Pious folk," he added, with something of a sneer, "would say, no doubt, that God had forsaken us." "I think pious people would not say so, and they would be wrong if they did," returned Charlie. "In my opinion God never forsakes any one; but when His creatures forsake him He thwarts them. It cannot be otherwise if His laws are to be vindicated." "It may be so. But what have I done," said Buck Tom fiercely, "to merit the bad treatment and insufferable injustice which I have received since I came to this accursed land? I cannot stand injustice. It makes my blood boil, and so, since it is rampant here, and everybody has been unjust to me, I have made up my mind to pay them back in their own coin. There seems to me even a spice of justice in that." "I wonder that you cannot see the fallacy of your reasoning, Ritson," replied Charlie. "You ask, `What have I done?' The more appropriate question would be, `What have I _not_ done?' Have you not, according to your own confession, rebelled against your Maker and cast Him off; yet you expect Him to continue His supplies of food to you; to keep up your physical strength and powers of enjoying life, and, under the name of Luck, to furnish you with the opportunity of breaking His own commands by throwing people in your way to be robbed! Besides which, have you not yourself been guilty of gross injustice in leading poor weak Shank Leather into vicious courses--to his great, if not irreparable, damage? I don't profess to teach theology, Ralph Ritson, my old friend, but I do think that even an average cow-boy could understand that a rebel has no claim to forgiveness--much less to favour--until he lays down his arms and gives in." "Had any other man but you, Charlie Brooke, said half as much as you have just said to me, I would have blown his brains out," returned the outlaw sternly. "I'm very glad no other man did say it, then," returned Charlie, "for your hands must be sufficiently stained already. But don't let anger blind you to the fact, Ralph, that you and I were once old friends; that I am your friend still, and that, what is of far greater importance, the Almighty is still your friend, and is proving His friendship by thwarting you." "You preach a strange doctrine," said Buck Tom, laughing softly, "but you must end your sermon here in the meantime, for we have reached the entrance to Traitor's Trap, and have not room to ride further abreast. I will lead, and do you follow with care, for the path is none o' the safest. My asking you to follow me is a stronger proof than you may think that I believe in your friendship. Most strangers whom I escort up this gorge are usually requested to lead the way, and I keep my revolver handy lest they should stray from the track!" The defile or gorge which they had reached was not inappropriately named, for, although the origin of the name was unknown, the appearance of the place was eminently suggestive of blackness and treachery. Two spurs of the mountain range formed a precipitous and rugged valley which, even in daylight, wore a forbidding aspect, and at night seemed the very portal to Erebus. "Keep close to my horse's tail," said Buck Tom, as they commenced the ascent. "If you stray here, ever so little, your horse will break his neck or legs." Thus admonished, our hero kept a firm hand on the bridle, and closed up as much as possible on his guide. The moon was by this time clouded over, so that, with the precipitous cliffs on either side, and the great mass of the mountains further up, there was only that faint sombre appearance of things which is sometimes described as darkness visible. The travellers proceeded slowly, for, besides the danger of straying off the path, the steepness of the ascent rendered rapid motion impossible. After riding for about three miles thus in absolute silence, they came to a spot where the track became somewhat serpentine, and Charlie could perceive dimly that they were winding amongst great fragments of rock which were here and there over-canopied by foliage, but whether of trees or bushes he could not distinguish. At last they came to a halt in front of what appeared to be a cliff. "Dismount here," said Buck in a low voice, setting the example. "Is this the end of our ride?" "It is. Give me the bridle. I will put up your horse. Stand where you are till I return." The outlaw led the horses away, leaving his former friend and schoolfellow in a curious position, and a not very comfortable frame of mind. When a man is engaged in action--especially if it be exciting and slightly dangerous--he has not time to think much about his surroundings, at least about their details, but now, while standing there in the intense darkness, in the very heart--as he had reason to believe--of a robber's stronghold, young Brooke could not help questioning his wisdom in having thus thrown himself into the power of one who had obviously deteriorated and fallen very low since the time when in England they had studied and romped together. It was too late, however, to question the wisdom of his conduct. There he _was_, and so he must make the best of it. He did not indeed fear treachery in his former friend, but he could not help reflecting that the reckless and perhaps desperate men with whom that friend was now associated might not be easy to restrain, especially if they should become acquainted with the fact that he carried a considerable sum of money about him. He was yet pondering his position when Buck Tom returned. "Ralph Ritson," he said, laying his hand on the arm of the outlaw, "you'll forgive my speaking plainly to you, I know. With regard to yourself I have not a shadow of doubt that you will act the part of an honourable host, though you follow a dishonourable calling. But I have no guarantee that those who associate with you will respect my property. Now, I have a considerable sum of money about me in gold and silver, which I brought here expressly for the benefit of our poor friend Shank Leather. What would you advise me to do in regard to it?" "Intrust it to my care," said Buck promptly. Charlie could not see the outlaw's face very clearly, but he could easily detect the half-amused half-mocking tone in which the suggestion was made. "My good fellow," said Charlie, in a hearty voice, "you evidently think I am afraid to trust you. That is a mistake. I do not indeed trust to any remnant of good that is in your poor human nature, but I have confidence in the good feeling which God is arousing in you just now. I will freely hand over the money if you can assure me that you can guard it from your comrades." "_This_ will make it secure from _them_," returned Buck, with a short defiant laugh. "Humph" exclaimed Charlie with a shrug. "I've not much confidence in _that_ safeguard. No doubt, in certain circumstances, and on certain occasions, the revolver is a most important and useful instrument, but, taking it all round, I would not put much store by it. When you met me at the Blue Fork to-night, for instance, of what use was my revolver to me? And, for the matter of that, after you had dropped it on the road of what use was yours to you? It only wants one of your fellows to have more pluck and a quicker eye and hand than yourself to dethrone you at once." "Well, none of my fellows," returned Buck Tom good-humouredly, "happen to have the advantage of me at present, so you may trust me and count this as one o' the `certain occasions' on which a revolver is a most important instrument." "I dare say you are right," responded Charlie, smiling, as he drew from the breast of his coat a small bag and handed it to his companion. "You know exactly, of course, how much is here?" asked Buck Tom. "Yes, exactly." "That's all right," continued Buck, thrusting the bag into the bosom of his hunting coat; "now I'll see if any o' the boys are at home. Doubtless they are out--else they'd have heard us by this time. Just wait a minute." He seemed to melt into the darkness as he spoke. Another minute and he re-appeared. "Here, give me your hand," he said; "the passage is darkish at first." Charlie Brooke felt rather than saw that they had passed under a portal of some sort, and were advancing along a narrow passage. Soon they turned to the left, and a faint red light--as of fire--became visible in the distance. Buck Tom stopped. "There's no one in the cave but _him_, and he's asleep. Follow me." The passage in which they stood led to a third and shorter one, where the light at its extremity was intense, lighting up the whole of the place so as to reveal its character. It was a corridor about seven feet high and four feet wide cut out of the solid earth; arched in the roof and supported here and there by rough posts to make it still more secure. Charlie at once concluded that it led to one of those concealed caverns, of which he had heard more than once while crossing the country, the entrances of which are made in zig-zag form in order to prevent the possibility of a ray of light issuing from the outside opening. On reaching the end of the third passage he found that his conjecture was right, for the doorway or opening on his left hand conducted into a spacious cave, also hollowed out of the earth, but apparently against a perpendicular cliff, for the inner end of it was of unhewn rock. The roof of the cave was supported by pillars which were merely sections of pine-trees with the bark left on. These pillars and the earthen walls were adorned with antlers, skulls, and horns of the Rocky mountain sheep, necklaces of grizzly-bear's claws, Indian bows and arrows, rifles, short swords, and various other weapons and trophies of the chase, besides sundry articles of clothing. At the inner end of the cave a large fireplace and chimney had been rudely built, and in this was roaring the pine-wood fire which had lighted them in, and which caused the whole interior to glow with a vivid glare that seemed to surpass that of noon-day. A number of couches of pine-brush were spread round the walls, and on one of these lay a sleeping figure. The face was turned towards the visitor, who saw at a glance that it was that of his former friend and playmate--but it was terribly changed. Hard toil, suffering, sickness, dissipation, had set indelible marks on it, and there was a slight curve about the eyebrows which gave the idea of habitual pain. Yet strange to say, worn and lined though it was, the face seemed far more attractive and refined than it had ever been in the days of robust health. Buck Tom went to the fire and began to stir the contents of a big pot that hung over it, while Charlie advanced and stood for some minutes gazing at the countenance of his friend, unwilling to disturb his slumbers, yet longing to cheer him with the glad news that he had come to succour him. He chanced, however, to touch a twig of the pine branches on which the sleeper lay, and Shank awoke instantly, raised himself on one elbow, and returned his friend's gaze earnestly, but without the slightest symptom of surprise. "O Charlie," he said at last in a quiet voice, "I wish you hadn't come to me to-night." He stopped, and Charlie felt quite unable to speak, owing to intense pity, mingled with astonishment, at such a reception. "It's too bad of you," Shank went on, "worrying me so in my dreams. I'm weary of it; and if you only knew what a _terrible_ disappointment it is to me when I awake and don't find you there, you wouldn't tantalise me so. You always look so terribly real too! Man, I could almost pledge my life that you are no deception this time, but--but I'm so used to it now that--" "Shank, my dear boy," said Charlie, finding words at last, "it _is_ no deception--" He stopped abruptly; for the intense look of eager anxiety, doubt, and hope in the thin expressive face alarmed him. "Charlie!" gasped, rather than said, the invalid, "you--you never _spoke_ to me before in my dreams, and--you never _touched_--the grip of your strong h--O God! _can_ it be true?" At this point Buck Tom suddenly left off his occupation at the fire and went out of the cave. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. LOST AND FOUND. "Try to be calm, Shank," said Charlie, in a soothing tone, as he kneeled beside the shadow that had once been his sturdy chum, and put an arm on his shoulder. "It is indeed myself _this_ time. I have come all the way from England to seek you, for we heard, through Ritson, that you were ill and lost in these wilds, and now, through God's mercy, I have found you." While Charlie Brooke was speaking, the poor invalid was breathing hard and gazing at him, as if to make quite sure it was all true. "Yes," he said at last, unable to raise his voice above a hoarse whisper, "lost--and--and--found! Charlie, my friend--my chum--my--" He could say no more, but, laying his head like a little child on the broad bosom of his rescuer, he burst into a passionate flood of tears. Albeit strong of will, and not by any means given to the melting mood, our hero was unable for a minute or two to make free use of his voice. "Come, now, Shank, old man, you mustn't give way like that. You wouldn't, you know, if you had not been terribly reduced by illness--" "Yes, I would! yes, I would!" interrupted the sick man, almost passionately; "I'd howl, I'd roar, I'd blubber like a very idiot, I'd do any mortal thing, if the doing of it would only make you understand how I appreciate your great kindness in coming out here to save me." "Oh no, you wouldn't," said Charlie, affecting an easy off-hand tone, which he was far from feeling; "you wouldn't do anything to please me." "What d'ye mean?" asked Shank, with a look of surprise. "Well, I mean," returned the other, gently, "that you won't even do such a trifle as to lie down and keep quiet to please me." A smile lighted up the emaciated features of the sick man, as he promptly lay back at full length and shut his eyes. "There, Charlie," he said, "I'll behave, and let you do all the talking; but don't let go my hand, old man. Keep a tight grip of it. I'm terrified lest you drift off again, and--and melt away." "No fear, Shank. I'll not let go my hold of you, please God, till I carry you back to old England." "Ah! old England! I'll never see it again. I feel that. But tell me,"--he started up again, with a return of the excited look--"is father any better?" "N-no, not exactly--but he is no worse. I'll tell you all about everything if you will only lie down again and keep silent." The invalid once more lay back, closed his eyes and listened, while his friend related to him all that he knew about his family affairs, and the kindness of old Jacob Crossley, who had not only befriended them when in great distress, but had furnished the money to enable him, Charlie, to visit these outlandish regions for the express purpose of rescuing Shank from all his troubles and dangers. At this point the invalid interrupted him with an anxious look. "Have you the money with you?" "Yes." "All of it?" "Yes. Why do you ask?" "Because," returned Shank, with something of a groan, "you are in a den of thieves!" "I know it, my boy," returned Charlie, with a smile, "and so, for better security, I have given it in charge to our old chum, Ralph Ritson." "What!" exclaimed Shank, starting up again with wide open eyes; "you have met Ralph, then?" "I have. He conducted me here." "And you have intrusted your money to _him_?" "Yes--all of it; every cent!" "Are you aware," continued Shank, in a solemn tone, "that Ralph Ritson is Buck Tom--the noted chief of the outlaws?" "I know it." "And you trust him?" "I do. I have perfect confidence that he is quite incapable of betraying an old friend." For some time Shank looked at his companion in surprise; then an absent look came into his eyes, and a variety of expressions passed over his wan visage. At last he spoke. "I don't know how it is, Charlie, but somehow I think you are right. It's an old complaint of mine, you know, to come round to your way of thinking, whether I admit it or not. In days of old I usually refused to admit it, but believed in you all the same! If any man had told me this morning--ay, even half an hour since--that he had placed money in the hands of Buck Tom for safe keeping, knowing who and what he is, I would have counted him an incurable fool; but now, somehow, I do believe that you were quite right to do it, and that your money is as safe as if it were in the Bank of England." "But I did not intrust it to Buck Tom, knowing who and what he _is_," returned Charlie, with a significant smile, "I put it into the hands of Ralph Ritson, knowing who and what he _was_." "You're a good fellow, Charlie," said Shank, squeezing the hand that held his, "and I believe it is that very trustfulness of yours which gives you so great power and influence with people. I know it has influenced me for good many a time in the past, and would continue to do so still if I were not past redemption." "No man is past redemption," said the other quietly; "but I'm glad you agree with me about Ralph, for--" He stopped abruptly, and both men turned their eyes towards the entrance to the cave. "Did you hear anything?" asked Shank, in a low voice. "I thought so--but it must have been the shifting of a log on the fire," said the other, in a similarly low tone. "Come, now, Charlie," said Shank, in his ordinary tones, "let me hear something about yourself. You have not said a word yet about what you have been doing these three years past." As he spoke a slight noise was again heard in the passage, and, next moment Buck Tom re-entered carrying a lump of meat. Whether he had been listening or not they had no means of knowing, for his countenance was quite grave and natural in appearance. "I suppose you have had long enough, you two, to renew your old acquaintance," he said. "It behoves me now to get ready some supper for the boys against their return, for they would be ill-pleased to come home to an empty kettle, and their appetites are surprisingly strong. But you needn't interrupt your conversation. I can do my work without disturbing you." "We have no secrets to communicate, Buck," returned Shank, "and I have no doubt that the account of himself, which our old chum was just going to give, will be as interesting to you as to me." "Quite as interesting," rejoined Buck; "so pray go on, Brooke. I can listen while I look after the cookery." Thus urged, our hero proceeded to relate his own adventures at sea--the wreck of the _Walrus_, the rescue by the whaler, and his various experiences both afloat and ashore. "The man, Dick Darvall, whom I have mentioned several times," said Charlie, in conclusion, "I met with again in New York, when I was about to start to come here, and as I wanted a companion, and he was a most suitable man, besides being willing to come, I engaged him. He is a rough and ready, but a handy and faithful, man, who had some experience in woodcraft before he went to sea, but I have been forced to leave him behind me at a ranch a good many miles to the south of David's store, owing to the foolish fellow having tried to jump a creek in the dark and broken his horse's leg. We could not get another horse at the time, and as I was very anxious to push on--being so near my journey's end--and the ranch was a comfortable enough berth, I left him behind, as I have said, with directions to stay till I should return, or to push on if he could find a safe guide." While Charlie Brooke was relating the last part of his experience, it might have been observed that the countenance of Buck Tom underwent a variety of curious changes, like the sky of an April day. A somewhat stern frown settled on it at last but neither of his companions observed the fact being too much interested in each other. "What was the name o' the ranch where your mate was left?" asked Buck Tom, when his guest ceased speaking. "The ranch of Roaring Bull," answered Charlie. "I should not wonder," he added, "if its name were derived from its owner's voice, for it sounded like the blast of a trombone when he shouted to his people." "Not only his ranch but himself is named after his voice," returned Buck. "His real name is Jackson, but it is seldom used now. Every one knows him as Roaring Bull. He's not a bad fellow at bottom, but something overbearing, and has made a good many enemies since he came to this part of the country six years ago." "That may be so," remarked Brooke, "but he was very kind to us the day we put up at his place, and Dick Darvall, at all events, is not one of his enemies. Indeed he and Roaring Bull took quite a fancy to each other. It seemed like love at first sight. Whether Jackson's pretty daughter had anything to do with the fancy on Dick's part of course I can't say. Now, I think of it, his readiness to remain behind inclines me to believe it had!" "Well, come outside with me, and have a chat about old, times. It is too hot for comfort here. I dare say our friend Shank will spare you for quarter of an hour, and the pot can look after itself. By the way, it would be as well to call me Buck Tom--or Buck. My fellows would not understand Ralph Ritson. They never heard it before. Have a cigar?" "No, thank you, I have ceased to see the advantage of poisoning one's-self merely because it is the fashion to do so." "The poison is wonderfully slow," said Buck. "But not less wonderfully sure," returned Charlie, with a smile. "As you will," rejoined Buck, rising and going outside with his visitor. The night was very still and beautiful, and, the clouds having cleared away, the moonbeams struggled through the foliage and revealed the extreme wildness and seclusion of the spot which had been chosen by the outlaws as their fortress. Charlie now saw that the approach to the entrance of the cave was a narrow neck of rock resembling a natural bridge, with a deep gully on either side, and that the cliff which formed the inner end of the cavern overhung its base, so that if an enemy were to attempt to hurl rocks down from above these would drop beyond the cave altogether. This much he saw at a glance. The minute details and intricacies of the place of course could not be properly seen or understood in the flickering and uncertain light which penetrated the leafy canopy, and, as it were, played with the shadows of the fallen rocks that strewed the ground everywhere, and hung in apparently perilous positions on the mountain slopes. The manner of the outlaw changed to that of intense earnestness the moment he got out to the open air. "Charlie Brooke," he said, with more of the tone and air of old familiar friendship than he had yet allowed himself to assume, "it's of no use exciting poor Shank unnecessarily, so I brought you out here to tell you that your man Dick Darvall is in deadly peril, and nothing but immediate action on my part can save him; I must ride without delay to his rescue. You cannot help me in this. I know what you are going to propose, but you must trust and obey me if you would save your friend's life. To accompany me would only delay and finally mar my plans. Now, will you--" A peculiar whistle far down the gorge caused the outlaw to cease abruptly and listen. The whistle was repeated, and Buck answered it at once with a look of great surprise. "These are my fellows back already!" he said. "You seem surprised. Did you, then, not expect them so soon?" "I certainly did not; something must have gone wrong," replied Buck, with a perplexed look. Then, as if some new idea had flashed upon him, "Now, look here, Brooke, I must ask you to trust me implicitly and to act a part. Your life may depend on your doing this." "The first I can do with ease, but as to the latter, my agreeing to do so depends on whether the action you require of me is honourable. You must forgive me, Rits--" "Hush! Don't forget that there is no such man as Ralph Ritson in these mountains. _My_ life may depend on your remembering that. Of course I don't expect you to act a dishonourable part,--all I want you to do just now is to lie down and pretend to go to sleep." "Truly, if that is all, I am ready," said Charlie; "at all events I will shut my eyes and hold my tongue." "A useful virtue at times, and somewhat rare," said Buck, leading his guest back into the cavern. "Now, then, Brooke, lie down there," pointing to a couch of pine-brush in a corner, "and try to sleep if you can." Our hero at once complied, stretched himself at full length with his face to the light, and apparently went to sleep, but with his left arm thrown over his forehead as if to protect his eyes from the glare of the fire. Thus he was in a position to see as well as hear all that went on. Buck Tom went to the sick man and whispered something to him. Then, returning to the fire, he continued to stir the big pot, and sniff its savoury contents with much interest. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. FRIENDS AND FOES--PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS--THE RANCH IN DANGER. In a few minutes the sound of heavy feet and gruff voices was heard in the outside passage, and next moment ten men filed into the room and saluted their chief heartily. Charlie felt an almost irresistible tendency to open his eyes, but knew that the risk was too great, and contented himself with his ears. These told him pretty eloquently what was going on, for suddenly, the noise of voices and clattering of footsteps ceased, a dead silence ensued, and Charlie knew that the whole band were gazing at him with wide open eyes and, probably, open mouths. Their attention had been directed to the stranger by the chief. The silence was only momentary, however. "Now, don't begin to whisper, pards," said Buck Tom, in a slightly sarcastic tone. "When will ye learn that there is nothing so likely to waken a sleeper as whisperin'? Be natural--be natural, and tell me, as softly as ye can in your natural tones, what has brought you back so soon. Come, Jake, you have got the quietest voice. The poor man is pretty well knocked up and needs rest. I brought him here." "Has he got much?" the sentence was completed by Jake significantly slapping his pocket. "A goodish lot. But come, sit down and out wi' the news. Something must be wrong." "Wall, I guess that somethin' _is_ wrong. Everything's wrong, as far as I can see. The Redskins are up, an' the troops are out, an' so it seemed o' no use our goin' to bust up the ranch of Roarin' Bull, seein' that the red devils are likely to be there before us. So we came back here, an' I'm glad you've got suthin' in the pot, for we're about as empty as kettledrums." "Humph!" ejaculated Buck, "didn't I tell you not to trouble Roarin' Bull--that he and his boys could lick you if you had been twenty instead of ten. But how came ye to hear o' this cock-and-bull story about the Redskins?" "We got it from Hunky Ben, an' he's not the boy to go spreadin' false reports." Charlie Brooke ventured at this point to open his eye-lids the smallest possible bit, so that any one looking at him would have failed to observe any motion in them. The little slit however, admitted the whole scene to the retina, and he perceived that ten of the most cut-throat-looking men conceivable were seated in a semicircle in the act of receiving portions from the big pot into tin plates. Most of them were clothed in hunters' leathern costume, wore long boots with spurs, and were more or less bronzed and bearded. Buck Tom, _alias_ Ralph Ritson, although as tall and strong as any of them, seemed a being of quite angelic gentleness beside them. Yet Buck was their acknowledged chief. No doubt it was due to the superiority of mind over matter, for those out-laws were grossly material and matter-of-fact! "There must be some truth in the report if Hunky Ben carried it," said Buck, looking up quickly, "but I left Ben sitting quietly in David's store not many hours ago." "No doubt that's true, Captain," said Jake, as he ladled the soup into his capacious mouth; "nevertheless we met Hunky Ben on the pine-river prairie scourin' over the turf like all possessed on Black Polly. We stopped him of course an' asked the news." "`News!' cried he, `why, the Redskins have dug up the hatchet an' riz like one man. They've clar'd out Yellow Bluff, an' are pourin' like Niagara down upon Rasper's Creek. It's said that they'll visit Roarin' Bull's ranch to-morrow. No time for more talk, boys. Oratin' ain't in my line. I'm off to Quester Creek to rouse up the troops.' Wi' that Hunky wheeled round an' went off like a runaway streak o' lightnin'. I sent a couple o' shots after him, for I'd took a fancy to Black Polly-- but them bullets didn't seem to hit somehow." "Boys," cried Buck Tom, jumping up when he heard this, "if Hunky Ben said all that, you may depend on't it's true, an' we won't have to waste time this night if we're to save the ranch of Roarin' Bull." "But we don't want to save the ranch of Roarin' Bull, as far as I'm consarned," said Jake rather sulkily. Buck wheeled round on the man with a fierce glare, but, as if suddenly changing his mind, he said in a tone of well-feigned surprise-- "What! _you_, Jake, of all men--such a noted lady-killer--indifferent about the fate of the ranch of Roaring Bull, and pretty Miss Mary Jackson in it at the mercy of the Redskins!" "Well, if it comes to that, Captain, I'll ride as far and as fast as any man to rescue a girl, pretty or plain, from the Redskins," said Jake, recovering his good-humour. "Well, then, cram as much grub as you can into you in five minutes, for we must be off by that time. Rise, sir," said Buck, shaking Charlie with some violence. "We ride on a matter of life an' death--to save women. Will you join us?" "Of course I will!" cried Charlie, starting up with a degree of alacrity and vigour that favourably impressed the outlaws, and shaking off his simulated sleep with wonderful facility. "Follow me, then," cried Buck, hastening out of the cave. "But what of Shank?" asked Charlie, in some anxiety, when they got outside. "He cannot accompany us; may we safely leave him behind?" "Quite safely. This place is not known to the savages who are on the warpath, and there is nothing to tempt them this way even if it were. Besides, Shank is well enough to get up and gather firewood, kindle his fire, and boil the kettle for himself. He is used to being left alone. See, here is our stable under the cliff, and yonder stands your horse. Saddle him. The boys will be at our heels in a moment. Some of them are only too glad to have a brush wi' the Redskins, for they killed two of our band lately." This last remark raised an uncomfortable feeling in the mind of Charlie, for was he not virtually allying himself with a band of outlaws, with intent to attack a band of Indians of whom he knew little or nothing, and with whom he had no quarrel? There was no time, however, to weigh the case critically. The fact that savages were about to attack the ranch in which his comrade Dick Darvall was staying, and that there were females in the place, was enough to settle the question. In a minute or two he had saddled his horse, which he led out and fastened to a tree, and, while the outlaws were busy making preparations for a start, he ran back to the cave. "Shank," said he, sitting down beside his friend and taking his hand, "you have heard the news. My comrade Darvall is in great danger. I must away to his rescue. But be sure, old fellow, that I will return to you soon." "Yes, yes--I know," returned Shank, with a look of great anxiety; "but, Charlie, you don't know half the danger you run. Don't fight with Buck Tom--do you hear?" "Of course I won't," said Charlie, in some surprise. "No, no, that's not what I mean," said Shank, with increasing anxiety. "Don't fight _in company with him_." At that moment the voice of the outlaw was heard at the entrance shouting, "Come along, Brooke, we're all ready." "Don't be anxious about me, Shank; I'll take good care," said Charlie, as he hastily pressed the hand of the invalid and hurried away. The ten men with Buck at their head were already mounted when he ran out. "Pardon me," he said, vaulting into the saddle, "I was having a word with the sick man." "Keep next to me, and close up," said Buck, as he wheeled to the right and trotted away. Down the Traitor's Trap they went at what was to Charlie a break-neck but satisfactory pace, for now that he was fairly on the road a desperate anxiety lest they should be too late took possession of him. Across an open space they went at the bottom of which ran a brawling rivulet. There was no bridge, but over or through it went the whole band without the slightest check, and onward at full gallop, for the country became more level and open just beyond. The moon was still shining although sinking towards the horizon, and now for the first time Charlie began to note with what a stern and reckless band of men he was riding, and a feeling of something like exultation arose within him as he thought on the one hand of the irresistible sweep of an onslaught from such men, and, on the other, of the cruelties that savages were known to practise. In short, rushing to the rescue was naturally congenial to our hero. About the same time that the outlaws were thus hastening for once on an honourable mission--though some of them went from anything but honourable motives--two other bands of men were converging to the same point as fast as they could go. These were a company of United States troops, guided by Hunky Ben, and a large band of Indians under their warlike chief Bigfoot. Jackson, _alias_ Roaring Bull, had once inadvertently given offence to Bigfoot, and as that chief was both by nature and profession an unforgiving man he had vowed to have his revenge. Jackson treated the threat lightly, but his pretty daughter Mary was not quite as indifferent about it as her father. The stories of Indian raids and frontier wars and barbarous cruelties had made a deep impression on her sensitive mind, and when her mother died, leaving her the only woman at her father's ranch--with the exception of one or two half-breed women, who could not be much to her as companions--her life had been very lonely, and her spirit had been subjected to frequent, though hitherto groundless, alarms. But pretty Moll, as she was generally called, was well protected, for her father, besides having been a noted pugilist in his youth, was a big, powerful man, and an expert with rifle and revolver. Moreover, there was not a cow-boy within a hundred miles of her who would not (at least thought he would not) have attacked single-handed the whole race of Redskins if Moll had ordered him to do so as a proof of affection. Now, when strapping, good-looking Dick Darvall came to the ranch in the course of his travels and beheld Mary Jackson, and received the first broadside from her bright blue eyes, he hauled down his colours and surrendered with a celerity which would have mightily amused the many comrades to whom he had said in days of yore that his heart was as hard as rock, and he had never yet seen the woman as could soften it! But Dick, more than most of his calling, was a modest, almost a bashful, man. He behaved to Mary with the politeness that was natural to him, and with which he would have approached any woman. He did not make the slightest attempt to show his admiration of her, though it is quite within the bounds of possibility that his "speaking" brown eyes may have said something without his permission! Mary Jackson, being also modest in a degree, of course did not reveal the state of her feelings, and made no visible attempt to ascertain his, but her bluff sagacious old father was not obtuse--neither was he reticent. He was a man of the world--at least of the back-woods world--and his knowledge of life, as there exhibited, was founded on somewhat acute experience. He knew that his daughter was young and remarkably pretty. He saw that Dick Darvall was also young--a dashing and unusually handsome sailor--something like what Tom Bowling may have been. Putting these things together, he came to the very natural conclusion that a wedding would be desirable; believing, as he did, that human nature in the Rockies is very much the same as to its foundation elements as it is elsewhere. Moreover, Roaring Bull was very much in want of a stout son-in-law at that time, so he fanned the flame which he fondly hoped was beginning to arise. This he did in a somewhat blundering and obvious manner, but Dick was too much engrossed with Mary to notice it and Mary was too ignorant of the civilised world's ways to care much for the proprieties of life. Of course this state of things created an awful commotion in the breasts of the cow-boys who were in the employment of Mary's father and herded his cattle. Their mutual jealousies were sunk in the supreme danger that threatened them all, and they were only restrained from picking a quarrel with Dick and shooting him by the calmly resolute look in his brown eyes, coupled with his great physical power and his irresistible good-nature. Urbanity seemed to have been the mould in which the spirit of this man-of-the-sea had been cast and gentleness was one of his chief characteristics. Moreover, he could tell a good story, and sing a good song in a fine bass voice. Still further, although these gallant cow-boys felt intensely jealous of this newcomer, they could not but admit that they had nothing tangible to go upon, for the sailor did not apparently pay any pointed attention to Mary, and she certainly gave no special encouragement to him. There was one cow-boy, however, of Irish descent, who could not or would not make up his mind to take things quietly, but resolved, as far as he was concerned, to bring matters to a head. His name was Pat Reilly. He entered the kitchen on the day after Dick's arrival and found Mary alone and busily engaged with the dinner. "Miss Jackson," said Pat, "there's a question I've bin wantin' to ax ye for a long time past, an' with your lave I'll putt it now." "What is it Mr Reilly?" asked the girl somewhat stiffly, for she had a suspicion of what was coming. A little negro girl in the back kitchen named Buttercup also had a suspicion of what was coming, and stationed herself with intense delight behind the door, through a crack in which she could both hear and see. "Mary, my dear," said Pat insinuatingly, "how would you like to jump into double harness with me an' jog along the path o' life together?" Poor Mary, being agitated by the proposal, and much amused by the manner of it, bent over a pot of something and tried to hide her blushes and amusement in the steam. Buttercup glared, grinned, hugged herself, and waited for more. Pat, erroneously supposing that silence meant consent, slipped an arm round Mary's waist. No man had ever yet dared to do such a thing to her. The indignant girl suddenly wheeled round and brought her pretty little palm down on the cow-boy's cheek with all her might--and that was considerable! "Who's a-firin' off pistles in de kitchen?" demanded Buttercup in a serious tone, as she popped her woolly head through the doorway. "Nobody, me black darlin'," said Pat; "it's only Miss Mary expressin' her failin's in a cheeky manner. That's all!" So saying the rejected cow-boy left the scene of his discomfiture, mounted his mustang, took his departure from the ranch of Roarin' Bull without saying farewell, and when next heard of had crossed the lonely Guadaloupe mountains into Lincoln County, New Mexico. But to return. While the troops and the outlaws were hastening thus to the rescue of the dwellers in Bull's ranch, and the blood-thirsty Redskins were making for the same point, bent on the destruction of all its inhabitants, Roaring Bull himself, his pretty daughter, and Dick Darvall, were seated in the ranch enjoying their supper, all ignorant alike of the movements of friend and foe, with Buttercup waiting on them. One messenger, however, was speeding on his way to warn them of danger. This was the cowboy Crux, who had been despatched on Bluefire by Hunky Ben just before that sturdy scout had started to call out the cavalry at Quester Creek. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. THE ALARM AND PREPARATIONS FOR DEFENCE. "From what you say I should think that my friend Brooke won't have much trouble in findin' Traitor's Trap," remarked Dick Darvall, pausing in the disposal of a venison steak which had been cooked by the fair bands of Mary Jackson herself, "but I'm sorely afraid o' the reception he'll meet with when he gets there, if the men are such awful blackguards as you describe." "They're the biggest hounds unhung," growled Roaring Bull, bringing one hand down on the board by way of emphasis, while with the other he held out his plate for another steak. "You're too hard on some of them, father," said Mary, in a voice the softness of which seemed appropriate to the beauty of her face. "Always the way wi' you wenches," observed the father. "Some o' the villains are good-lookin', others are ugly; so, the first are not so bad as the second--eh, lass?" Mary laughed. She was accustomed to her fathers somewhat rough but not ill-natured rebuffs. "Perhaps I may be prejudiced, father," she returned; "but apart from that, surely you would never compare Buck Tom with Jake the Flint, though they do belong to the same band." "You are right, my lass," rejoined her father. "They do say that Buck Tom is a gentleman, and often keeps back his boys from devilry--though he can't always manage that, an' no wonder, for Jake the Flint is the cruellest monster 'tween this an' Texas if all that's said of him be true." "I wish my comrade was well out o' their clutches," said Dick, with a look of anxiety; "an' it makes me feel very small to be sittin' here enjoyin' myself when I might be ridin' on to help him if he should need help." "Don't worry yourself on that score," said the host. "You couldn't find your way without a guide though I was to give ye the best horse in my stable--which I'd do slick off if it was of any use. There's not one o' my boys on the ranch just now, but there'll be four or five of 'em in to-morrow by daylight an' I promise you the first that comes in. They all know the country for three hundred miles around--every inch--an' you may ride my best horse till you drop him if ye can. There, now, wash down your victuals an' give us a yarn, or a song." "I'm quite sure," added Mary, by way of encouragement, "that with one of the outlaws for an old friend, Mr Brooke will be quite safe among them." "But he's _not_ an outlaw, Miss Mary," broke in Darvall. "Leastwise we have the best reason for believin' that he's detained among them against his will. Hows'ever, it's of no use cryin' over spilt milk. I'm bound to lay at anchor in this port till mornin', so, as I can't get up steam for a song in the circumstances, here goes for a yarn." The yarn to which our handsome seaman treated his audience was nothing more than an account of one of his numerous experiences on the ocean, but he had such a pleasant, earnest, truth-like, and confidential way of relating it and, withal, interlarded his speech with so many little touches of humour, that the audience became fascinated, and sat in open-eyed forgetfulness of all else. Buttercup, in particular, became so engrossed as to forget herself as well as her duties, and stood behind her master in an expectant attitude, glaring at the story-teller, with bated breath, profound sympathy, and extreme readiness to appreciate every joke whether good or bad. In the midst of one of the most telling of his anecdotes the speaker was suddenly arrested by the quick tramp of a galloping horse, the rider of which, judging from the sound, seemed to be in hot haste. All eyes were turned inquiringly on the master of the ranch. That cool individual, rising with quiet yet rapid action, reached down a magazine repeating rifle that hung ready loaded above the door of the room. Observing this, Dick Darvall drew a revolver from his coat-pocket and followed his host to the outer door of the house. Mary accompanied them, and Buttercup retired to the back kitchen as being her appropriate stronghold. They had hardly reached and flung open the door when Bluefire came foaming and smoking into the yard with Crux the cow-boy on his back. "Wall, Roaring Bull," cried Crux, leaping off his horse and coming forward as quietly as if there were nothing the matter. "I'm glad to see you OK, for the Cheyenne Reds are on the war-path, an' makin' tracks for your ranch. But as they've not got here yet, they won't likely attack till the moon goes down. Is there any chuck goin'? I'm half starved." "Ay, Crux, lots o' chuck here. Come in an' let's hear all about it. Where got ye the news?" "Hunky Ben sent me. He wasn't thinkin' o' you at first but when a boy came in wi' the news that a crowd o' the reds had gone round by Pine Hollow--just as he was fixin' to pull out for Quester Creek to rouse up the cavalry--he asked me to come on here an' warn you." While he was speaking the cow-boy sat down to supper with the air of a man who meant business, while the host and his sailor guest went to look after the defences of the place. "I'm glad you are here, Dick Darvall," said the former, "for it's a bad job to be obliged to fight without help agin a crowd o' yellin' Reds. My boys won't be back till sun-up, an' by that time the game may be played out." "D'ee think the Redskins 'll attack us to-night then?" asked the sailor as he assisted to close the gates of the yard. "Ay, that they will, lad. They know the value o' time better than most men, and, when they see their chance, are not slow to take advantage of it. As Crux said, they won't attack while the moon shines, so we have plenty of time to git ready for them. I wish I hadn't sent off my boys, but as bad luck would have it a bunch o' my steers have drifted down south, an' I can't afford to lose them--so, you see, there's not a man left in the place but you an' me an' Crux to defend poor Mary." For the first time in his life Dick Darvall felt a distinct tendency to rejoice over the fact that he was a young and powerful man! To live and, if need be, die for Mary was worth living for! "Are you well supplied with arms an' ammunition?" he asked. "That am I, and we'll need it all," answered the host as he led Dick round to the back of the yard where another gate required fastening. "I don't see that it matters much," said Dick in a questioning tone, "whether you shut the gates or not. With so few to defend the place the house will be our only chance." "When you've fought as much wi' Reds as I have, Dick, you'll larn that delay, even for five minutes, counts for a good deal." "Well, there's somethin' in that. It minds me o' what one o' my shipmates, who had bin in the London fire brigade, once said. `Dick,' said he, `never putt off what you've got to do. Sometimes I've bin at a fire where the loss of only two minutes caused the destruction of a store worth ten thousand pound, more or less. We all but saved it as it was--so near were we, that if we had bin _one_ minute sooner I do believe we'd have saved it. "`But when we was makin' for that fire full sail, a deaf old apple-woman came athwart our bows an got such a fright that she went flop down right in front of us. To steer clear of her we'd got to sheer off so that we all but ran into a big van, and, what wi' our lights an' the yellin', the horses o' the van took fright and backed into us as we flew past, so that we a'most went down by the starn. One way or another we lost two minutes, as I've said, an' the owners o' that store lost about ten thousand pounds--more or less.'" "That was a big pile, Dick," observed the ranchman, as they turned from the gate towards the house, "not easy to replace." "True--my shipmate never seemed to be quite sure whether it was more or less that was lost, but he thought the Insurance offices must have found it out by that time. It's a pity there's only three of us, for that will leave one side o' the house undefended." "All right Dick; you don't trouble your head about that for Buttercup fights like a black tiger. She's a'most as good as a man--only she can't manage to aim, so it's no use givin' her a rifle. She's game enough to fire it, but the more she tries to hit, the more she's sure to miss. However she's got a way of her own that sarves well enough to defend her side o' the house. She always takes charge o' the front. My Mary can't fight, but she's a heroine at loadin'--an' that's somethin' when you're hard pressed! Come, now, I'll show ye the shootin' irons an' our plan of campaign." Roaring Bull led the way back to the room, or central hall, where they had supped, and here they found that the debris of their feast had already been cleared away, and that arms of various kinds, with ammunition, covered the board. "Hospitable alike to friend and foe," said Jackson gaily. "Here, you see, Mary has spread supper for the Reds!" Darvall made no response to this pleasantry, for he observed that poor Mary's pretty face was very pale, and that it wore an expression of mingled sadness and anxiety. "You won't be exposed to danger, I hope," said Dick, in a low earnest tone, while Jackson was loudly discussing with Crux the merits of one of the repeating rifles--of which there were half-a-dozen on the table. "Oh no! It is not that," returned the girl sadly. "I am troubled to think that, however the fight goes, some souls, perhaps many, will be sent to their account unprepared. For myself, I shall be safe enough as long as we are able to hold the house, and it may be that God will send us help before long." "You may be quite sure," returned Dick, with suppressed emotion, "that no Redskin shall cross this threshold as long as we three men have a spark o' life left." A sweet though pitiful smile lighted up Mary's pale face for a moment, as she replied that she was quite sure of that, in a tone which caused Darvall's heart to expand, so that his ribs seemed unable to contain it, while he experienced a sensation of being stronger than Samson and bigger than Goliath! "And I suppose," continued Dick, "that the troops won't be long of coming. Is the man--what's his name, Humpy Ben--trustworthy?" "Trustworthy!" exclaimed the maiden, with a flush of enthusiasm; "there is not a more trustworthy man on this side of the Rocky mountains, or the other side either, I am quite sure." Poor Darvall's heart seemed suddenly to find plenty of room within the ribs at that moment, and his truthful visage must have become something of an index to his state of mind; for, to his surprise, Mary laughed. "It seems to me so funny," she continued, "to hear any one ask if Hunky--not Humpy--Ben is to be trusted." "Is he, then, such a splendid young fellow!" asked the seaman, with just the slightest touch of bitterness in his tone, for he felt as if a rock something like Gibraltar had been laid on his heart. "Well, he's not exactly young," answered Mary, with a peculiar expression that made her questioner feel still more uncomfortable, "yet he is scarcely middle-aged, but he certainly _is_ the most splendid fellow on the frontier; and he saved my life once." "Indeed! how was that?" "Well, it was this way. I had been paying a short visit to his wife, who lives on the other side of the--" "Come along, Darvall," cried Roaring Bull at that moment. "The moon's about down, an' we'll have to take our stations. We shall defend the outworks first to check them a bit and put off some time, then scurry into the house and be ready for them when they try to clear the fence. Follow me. Out wi' the lights, girls, and away to your posts." "I'll hear the end of your story another time, Miss Mary," said Dick, looking over his shoulder and following his host and Crux to the outer door. The seaman was conscious of a faint suspicion that Mary was wrestling with another laugh as he went off to defend the outworks, but he also, happily, felt that the Rock of Gibraltar had been removed from his heart! CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. DEFENCE OF THE RANCH OF ROARING BULL. Every light and every spark of fire had been extinguished in the ranch of Roaring Bull when its defenders issued from its doorway. They were armed to the teeth, and glided across the yard to the fence or stockade that enclosed the buildings, leaving the door slightly open so as to be ready for speedy retreat. It had been arranged that, as there was a large open field without bush or tree in the rear of the ranch, they should leave that side undefended at first. "They'll never come into the open as long as they can crawl up through the bush," Jackson had said, while making his final dispositions. "They're a'most sure to come up in front thinkin' we're all a-bed. Now, mind--don't stand still, boys, but walk along as ye fire, to give 'em the notion there's more of us. An' don't fire at nothin'. They'd think we was in a funk. An' when you hear me whistle get into the house as quick as a cotton-tail rabbit an' as sly as a snake." After the moon went down, everything in and around the ranch was as silent as the grave, save now and then the stamp of a hoof on the floor of a shed, where a number of horses stood saddled and bridled ready to mount at a moment's notice; for Jackson had made up his mind, if it came to the worst, to mount and make a bold dash with all his household through the midst of his foes, trusting to taking them by surprise and to his knowledge of the country for success. For a long time, probably two hours, the three men stood at their posts motionless and silent; still there was no sign, either by sight or sound, of an enemy. The outline of the dark woods was barely visible against the black sky in front of each solitary watcher, and no moving thing could be distinguished in the open field behind either by Crux or Darvall, to each of whom the field was visible. Jackson guarded the front. To Dick, unaccustomed as he was to such warfare, the situation was very trying, and might have told on his nerves severely if he had not been a man of iron mould; as it was, he had no nerves to speak of! But he was a man of lively imagination. More than fifty times within those two hours did he see a black form moving in the darkness that lay between him and the wood, and more than fifty times was his Winchester rifle raised to his shoulder; but as often did the caution "don't fire at nothin'" rise to his memory. The stockade was of peculiar construction, because its owner and maker was eccentric, and a mechanical genius. Not only were the pickets of which it was composed very strong and planted with just space between to permit of firing, but there was a planking of strong boards, waist high, all round the bottom inside, which afforded some protection to defenders by concealing them when they stooped and changed position. While matters were in this state outside, Mary Jackson and Buttercup were standing at an upper window just opposite the front gate, the latter with a huge bell-mouthed blunderbuss of the last century, loaded with buckshot in her hands. Mary stood beside her sable domestic ready to direct her not as to how, but where and when, to use the ancient weapon. "You must be _very_ careful, Buttercup," said Mary in a low voice, "_not_ to fire till I tell you, and to point only _where_ I tell you, else you'll shoot father. And _do_ keep your finger off the trigger! By the way, have you cocked it?" "O missy, I forgit dat," answered the damsel with a self-condemned look, as she corrected the error. "But don' you fear, Missy Mary. I's use' to dis yar blunn'erbus. Last time I fire 'im was at a raven. Down hoed de raven, blow'd to atims, an' down hoed me too--cause de drefful t'ing kicks like a Texas mule. But bress you, I don' mind dat. I's used to it!" Buttercup gave a little sniff of grave scorn with her flat nose, as though to intimate that the ordinary ills of life were beneath _her_ notice. We have said that all fires had been extinguished, but this is not strictly correct, for in the room where the two maidens watched there was an iron stove so enclosed that the fire inside did not show, and as it was fed with charcoal there were neither flames nor sparks to betray its presence. On this there stood a large cast-iron pot full of water, the bubbling of which was the only sound that broke the profound stillness of the night, while the watchers scarcely breathed, so intently did they listen. At last the patient and self-restraining Dick saw a dark object moving towards his side of the stockade, which he felt was much too real to be classed with the creatures of his imagination which had previously given him so much trouble. Without a moment's hesitation the rifle flew to his shoulder, and the prolonged silence was broken by the sharp report, while an involuntary half-suppressed cry proved that he had not missed his mark. The dark object hastily retreated. A neighbouring cliff echoed the sounds, and two shots from his comrades told the sailor that they also were on the alert. Instantly the night was rendered hideous by a series of wild yells and whoops, while, for a moment, the darkness gave place to a glare of light as a hundred rifles vomited their deadly contents, and the sound of many rushing feet was heard upon the open sward in front of the ranch. The three male defenders had ducked their heads below the protecting breast-work when the volley was fired, and then, discarding all idea of further care, they skipped along their respective lines, yelling and firing the repeaters so rapidly, that, to any one ignorant of the true state of things, it must have seemed as if the place were defended by a legion of demons. To add to the hullabaloo Buttercup's blunderbuss poured forth its contents upon a group of red warriors who were rushing towards the front gate, with such a cannon-like sound and such wonderful effect, that the rush was turned into a sudden and limping retreat. The effect indeed, was more severe even than Buttercup had intended, for a stray buckshot had actually taken a direction which had been feared, and grazed her master's left arm! Happily the wound was very slight, and, to do the poor damsel justice, she could not see that her master was jumping from one place to another like a caged lion. Like the same animal, however, he gave her to understand what she had done, by shouting in a thunderous bass roar that fully justified his sobriquet-- "Mind your eye, Buttercup! Not so low next time!" The immediate result of this vigorous defence was to make the Indians draw off and retire to the woods--presumably for consultation. By previous arrangement the negro girl issued from the house with three fresh repeaters in her arms, ran round to the combatants with them and returned with their almost empty rifles. These she and Mary proceeded to reload in the hall, and then returned to their post at the upper front window. The morning was by this time pretty well advanced, and Jackson felt a little uncertain as to what he should now do. It was still rather dark; but in a very short time, he knew, dawn would spread over the east, when it would, of course, be quite impossible to defend the walls of the little fort without revealing the small number of its defenders. On the other hand, if they should retire at once the enemy might find a lodgement within, among the outbuildings, before there was light enough to prevent them by picking off the leaders; in which case the assailants would be able to apply fire to the wooden wails of the house without much risk. "If they manage to pile up enough o' brush to clap a light to," he grumbled to himself in an undertone, "it's all up wi' us." The thought had barely passed through his brain, when a leaden messenger, intended to pass through it, carried his cap off his head, and the fire that had discharged it almost blinded him. Bigfoot, the chief of the savages, had wriggled himself, snake-fashion, up to the stockade unseen, and while Roaring Bull was meditating what was best to be done, he had nearly succeeded in rendering him unable to do anything at all. The shot was the signal for another onslaught. Once more the woods rang with fiendish yells and rattling volleys. Bigfoot, with the agility and strength of a gorilla, leaped up and over the stockade and sprung down into Jackson's arms, while Darvall and Crux resumed their almost ubiquitous process of defence, and Buttercup's weapon again thundered forth its defiance. This time the fight was more protracted. Bigfoot's career was indeed stopped for the time being, for Jackson not only crushed the life almost out of him by an unloving embrace, but dealt him a prize-fighter's blow which effectually stretched him on the ground. Not a moment too soon, however, for the white man had barely got rid of the red one, when another savage managed to scale the wall. A blow from the butt of Jackson's rifle dropped him, and then the victor fired so rapidly, and with such effect, that a second time the Reds were repulsed. Jackson did not again indulge in meditation, but blew a shrill blast on a dog-whistle--a preconcerted signal--on hearing which his two comrades made for the house door at full speed. Only one other of the Indians, besides the two already mentioned, had succeeded in getting over the stockade. This man was creeping up to the open door of the house, and, tomahawk in hand, had almost reached it when Dick Darvall came tearing round the corner. "Hallo! Crux," cried Dick, "that you?" The fact that he received no reply was sufficient for Dick, who was too close to do more than drive the point of his rifle against the chest of the Indian, who went down as if he had been shot, while Dick sprang in and held open the door. A word from Jackson and Crux as they ran forward sufficed. They passed in and the massive door was shut and barred, while an instant later at least half-a-dozen savages ran up against it and began to thunder on it with their rifle-butts and tomahawks. "To your windows!" shouted Jackson, as he sprang up the wooden stair-case, three steps at a time. "Fresh rifles here, Mary!" "Yes, father," came in a silvery and most unwarlike voice from the hall below. Another moment and three shots rang from the three sides of the house, and of the three Indians who were at the moment in the act of clambering over the stockade, one fell inside and two out. Happily, daylight soon began to make objects distinctly visible, and the Indians were well aware that it would now be almost certain death to any one who should attempt to climb over. It is well known that, as a rule, savages do not throw away their lives recklessly. The moment it became evident that darkness would no longer serve them, those who were in the open retired to the woods, and potted at the windows of the ranch, but, as the openings from which the besieged fired were mere loop-holes made for the purpose of defence, they had little hope of hitting them at long range except by chance. Those of the besiegers who happened to be near the stockade took shelter behind the breast-work, and awaited further orders from their chief-- ignorant of the fact that he had already fallen. From the loop-holes of the room which Jackson had selected to defend, the shed with the saddled horses was visible, so that no one could reach it without coming under the fire of his deadly weapon. There was also a window in this room opening upon the back of the house and commanding the field which we have before mentioned as being undefended while the battle was waged outside. By casting a glance now and then through this window he could see any foe who might show himself in that direction. The only part of the fort that seemed exposed to great danger now was the front door, where the half-dozen savages, with a few others who had joined them, were still battering away at the impregnable door. Dick, who held the garret above, could not see the door, of course, nor could he by any manoeuvre manage to bring his rifle to bear on it from his loop-hole, and he dared not leave his post lest more Indians should manage to scale the front stockade. Buttercup, in the room below, had indeed a better chance at her window, but she was too inexpert in warfare to point the blunderbuss straight down and fire with effect, especially knowing, as she did, that the sight of her arm in the act would be the signal for a prompt fusillade. But the girl was not apparently much concerned about that, or anything else. The truth is that she possessed in an eminent and enviable degree the spirit of entire trust in a leader. She was under orders, and awaited the word of command with perfect equanimity! She even smiled slightly--if such a mouth could be said to do anything slightly--when Mary left her to take fresh rifles to the defenders overhead. At last the command came from the upper regions, in tones that caused the very savages to pause a moment and look at each other in surprise. They did not pause long, however! "Now, Buttercup," thundered Roaring Bull, "give it 'em--hot!" At the word the girl calmly laid aside her weapon, lifted the big iron pot with familiar and businesslike facility, and emptied it over the window. The result is more easily imagined than described. A yell that must have been heard miles off was the prelude to a stampede of the most lively nature. It was intensified, if possible, by the further action of the negress, who, seizing the blunderbuss, pointed it at the flying crowd, and, shutting both eyes, fired! Not a buckshot took effect on the savages, for Buttercup, if we may say so, aimed too low, but the effect was more stupendous than if the aim had been good, for the heavy charge drove up an indescribable amount of peppery dust and small stones into the rear of the flying foe, causing another yell which was not an echo but a magnified reverberation of the first. Thus Buttercup had the satisfaction of utterly routing her foes without killing a single man! Daylight had fairly set in by that time, and the few savages who had not succeeded in vaulting the stockade had concealed themselves behind the various outhouses. The proprietor of the ranch began now to have some hope of keeping the Indians at bay until the troops should succour him. He even left his post and called his friends to a council of war, when a wild cheer was heard in the woods. It was followed by the sound of firing. No sooner was this heard than the savages concealed outside of the breastwork rose as one man and ran for the woods. "It's the troops!" exclaimed Dick hopefully. "Troopers never cheer like that," returned Jackson with an anxious look. "It's more like my poor cow-boys, and, if so, they will have no chance wi' such a crowd o' Reds. We must ride to help them, an' you'll have to ride with us, Mary. We daren't leave you behind, lass, wi' them varmints skulkin' around." "I'm ready, father," said Mary with a decided look, though it was evident, from the pallor of her cheek, that she was ill at ease. "Now, look here, Dick," said Jackson, quickly, "you will go down and open the front gate. I'll go with 'ee wi' my repeater to keep an eye on the hidden reptiles, so that if one of them shows so much as the tip of his ugly nose he'll have cause to remember it. You will go to my loophole, Crux, an keep your eyes open all round--specially on the horses. When the gate is open I'll shout, and you'll run down to the shed wi' the women.--You understand?" Crux nodded. Acting on this plan Dick ran to the gate; Jackson followed, rifle in hand, and, having reached the middle of the fort, he faced round; only just in time to see a gun barrel raised from behind a shed. Before he could raise his own weapon a shot was heard and the gun-barrel disappeared, while the Indian who raised it fell wounded on the ground. "Well done, Crux!" he exclaimed, at the same moment firing his own rifle at a head which was peeping round a corner. The head vanished instantly and Darvall rejoined him, having thrown the gate wide open. "Come round wi' me an' drive the reptiles out," cried Jackson. At the same time he uttered a roar that a bull might have envied, and they both rushed round to the back of the outhouses where three Indians were found skulking. At the sudden and unexpected onslaught, they fired an ineffectual volley and fled wildly through the now open gate, followed by several shots from both pursuers, whose aim, however, was no better than their own had been. Meanwhile Crux and the girls, having reached the shed according to orders, mounted their respective steeds and awaited their comrades. They had not long to wait. Jackson and Dick came round the corner of the shed at full speed, and, without a word, leaped simultaneously into their saddles. "Keep close to me, girls,--close up!" was all that Jackson said as he dashed spurs into his horse, and, sweeping across the yard and through the gate, made straight for that part of the woods where yells, shouts, and firing told that a battle was raging furiously. CHAPTER NINETEEN. THE RESCUE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. The ground in the neighbourhood of the ranch favoured the operations of an attacking party, for it was so irregular and so cumbered with knolls and clumps of trees that the defenders of the post scarce dared to make a sally, lest their retreat should be cut off by a detached party of assailants. Hence Jackson would never have dreamed of quitting his house, or ceasing to act on the defensive, had he not been under the natural impression that it was his own returning cow-boys who had been attacked and out-numbered by the Indians. Great, therefore, was his surprise when, on rounding a bluff and coming into view of the battle-field, the party engaged with the Indians, though evidently white men, were neither his own men nor those of the US troops. He had just made the discovery, when a band of about fifty warriors burst from the woods and rushed upon him. "Back to back, boys! girls, keep close!" shouted Jackson, as he fired two shots and dropped two Indians. He pulled at a third, but there was no answering report, for the magazine of his repeater was empty. Crux and Darvall turned their backs towards him and thus formed a sort of triangle, in the midst of which were the two girls. But this arrangement, which might have enabled them to hold out for some time, was rendered almost abortive by the ammunition having been exhausted. "So much for bein' in too great a hurry!" growled Jackson between his clenched teeth, as he clubbed his rifle and made a savage blow at the Indian who first came close to him. It was evident that the Indians were afraid to fire lest they should wound or kill the women; or, perhaps, understanding how matters stood, they wished to capture the white men alive, for, instead of firing at them, they circled swiftly round, endeavouring to distract their attention so as to rash in on them. Bigfoot, who had recovered from his blow and escaped from the ranch, made a sudden dash at Dick when he thought him off his guard, but Dick was not easily caught off his guard in a fight. While in the act of making a furious demonstration at an Indian in front, which kept that savage off, he gave Bigfoot a "back-handed wipe," as he called it, which tumbled the chief completely off his horse. Just then a turn of affairs in favour of the whites was taking place on the battle-field beyond. The party there had attacked the savages with such fury as to scatter them right and left and they were now riding down at racing speed on the combatants, whose fortunes we have followed thus far. Two men rode well in advance of the party with a revolver in each hand. "Why, it's Charlie Brooke! Hurrah!" yelled Darvall with delight. "An' Buck Tom!" roared Jackson in amazement. So sudden was the onset that the Indians were for a moment paralysed, and the two horsemen, firing right and left as they rode up, dashed straight into the very midst of the savages. In a moment they were alongside of their friends, while the rest of the outlaw band were already engaged on the outskirts of the crowd. The very danger of the white men constituted to some extent their safety; for they were so outnumbered and surrounded that the Indians seemed afraid to fire lest they should shoot each other. To add to the confusion, another party of whites suddenly appeared on the scene and attacked the "Reds" with a wild cheer. This was Jackson's little band of cow-boys. They numbered only eight; but the suddenness of their appearance tended further to distract the savages. While the noise was at its height a sound, or rather sensation, of many feet beating the earth was felt. Next moment a compact line was seen to wheel round the bluff where the fight was going on, and a stentorian "Charge!" was uttered, as the United States cavalry, preceded by Hunky Ben, bore down with irresistible impetuosity on the foe. But the Indians did not await this onset. They turned and fled, scattering as they went, and the fight was quickly turned into a total rout and hot pursuit, in which troopers, outlaws, travellers, ranch-men, scouts, and cow-boys joined. The cavalry, however, had ridden far and fast, so that the wiry little mustangs of the plains soon left them behind, and the bugle ere long recalled them all. It was found on the assembling of the forces that not one of the outlaws had returned. Whether they were bent on wreaking their vengeance still more fully on their foes, or had good reason for wishing to avoid a meeting with troops, was uncertain; but it was shrewdly suspected that the latter was the true reason. "But you led the charge with Buck Tom, sir," said Jackson to Charlie, in considerable surprise, "though how you came to be in _his_ company is more than I can understand." "Here's somebody that can explain, maybe," said one of the cow-boys, leading forward a wounded man whose face was covered with blood, while he limped as if hurt in the legs. "I found him tryin' to crawl into the brush. D'ye know him, boys?" "Why, it's Jake the Flint!" exclaimed several voices simultaneously; while more than one hand was laid on a revolver, as if to inflict summary punishment. "I claim this man as my prisoner," said the commander of the troops, with a stern look that prevented any attempt at violence. "Ay, you've got me at last," said the outlaw, with a look of scorn. "You've bin a precious long time about it too." "Secure him," said the officer, deigning no reply to these remarks. Two troopers dismounted, and with a piece of rope began to tie the outlaw's hands behind him. "I arrest you also," said the commander to Charlie, who suddenly found a trooper on each side of him. These took him lightly by each arm, while a third seized his bridle. "Sir!" exclaimed our hero, while the blood rushed to his forehead, "I am _not_ an outlaw!" "Excuse me," returned the officer politely, "but my duty is plain. There are a good many gentlemanly outlaws about at present. You are found joining in fight with a notorious band. Until you can clear yourself you must consider yourself my prisoner.--Disarm and bind him." For one moment Charlie felt an almost irresistible impulse to fell the men who held him, but fortunately the absurdity of his position forced itself on him, and he submitted, well knowing that his innocence would be established immediately. "Is not this man one of your band, Jake?" asked the officer quietly. "Yes, he is," replied the man with a malevolent grin. "He's not long joined. This is his first scrimmage with us." Charlie was so thunderstruck at this speech that he was led back to the ranch in a sort of dazed condition. As for Dick Darvall, he was rendered speechless, and felt disposed to regard the whole thing as a sort of dream, for his attempted explanations were totally disregarded. Arrived at the house, Charlie and Jake were locked up in separate rooms, and sentries placed beneath their windows--this in addition to the security of hand-cuffs and roped arms. Then breakfast was prepared for the entire company, and those who had been wounded in the fight were attended to by Hunky Ben--a self-taught surgeon--with Mary and Buttercup to act as dressers. "I say, Jackson," observed Darvall, when the worthy ranch-man found leisure to attend to him, "of course _you_ know that this is all nonsense--an abominable lie about my friend Brooke being an outlaw?" "Of course I do, Dick," said Jackson, in a tone of sympathy; "an' you may be cock-sure I'll do what I can to help 'im. But he'll have to prove himself a true man, an' there _are_ some mysteries about him that it puzzles me to think how he'll clear 'em up." "Mysteries?" echoed Dick. "Ay, mysteries. I've had some talk wi' Hunky Ben, an' he's as much puzzled as myself, if not more." "Well, then, I'm puzzled more than either of ye," returned Dick, "for my friend and mate is as true a man--all straight an' aboveboard--as ever I met with on sea or land." "That may be, boy, but there's some mystery about him, somehow." "Can ye explain what the mystery is, Jackson?" "Well, this is what Hunky Ben says. He saw your friend go off the other night alone to Traitor's Trap, following in the footsteps o' that notorious outlaw Buck Tom. Feelin' sure that Buck meant to waylay your friend, Hunky followed him up and overshot him to a place where he thought it likely the outlaw would lay in wait. Sure enough, when he got there he found Buck squattin' behind a big rock. So he waited to see what would turn up and be ready to rescue your friend. An' what d'ye think did turn up?" "Don' know," said Dick, with a look of solemn wonder. "Why, when Buck stepped out an' bid him throw up his hands, your friend merely looked at Buck and said somethin' that Hunky couldn't hear, an then Buck dropped his pistol, and your friend got off his horse, and they shook hands and went off as thick as thieves together. An' now, as you've seen an' heard, your friend turns up headin' a charge of the outlaws--an' a most notable charge it was--alongside o' Buck Tom. Jake the Flint too claims him for a comrade. Pretty mysterious all that, ain't it?" "May I ask," said Dick, with some scorn in his tone, "who is this Hunky Ben, that his word should be considered as good as a bank-note?" "He's the greatest scout an' the best an' truest man on the frontier," replied Jackson. "H'm! so Miss Mary seems to think too." "An' Mary thinks right." "An' who may this Jake the Flint be?" asked the sailor. "The greatest scoundrel, cattle and horse stealer, and cut-throat on the frontier." "So then," rejoined Dick, with some bitterness, "it would seem that my friend and mate is taken up for an outlaw on the word o' the two greatest men on the frontier!" "It looks like it, Dick, coupled, of course, wi' your friend's own actions. But never you fear, man. There must be a mistake o' some sort, somewhere, an' it's sure to come out, for I'd as soon believe my Mary to be an outlaw as your friend--though I never set eyes on him before the other day. The fact is, Dick, that I've learned physiognomy since--" "Fizzi-what-umy?" interrupted Dick. "Physiognomy--the study o' faces--since I came to live on the frontier, an' I'm pretty sure to know an honest man from a rogue as soon as I see him an' hear him speak--though I can't always prove myself right." Dick and his host were thus conversing, and the soldiers were regaling themselves in the hall, the commander of the troops and Hunky Ben were engaged in earnest conversation with Charlie Brooke, who gave an account of himself that quite cleared up the mystery of his meeting, and afterwards being found associated with, the outlaws. "It's a queer story," said Hunky Ben, who, besides being what his friends called a philosopher, was prone at times to moralise. "It's a queer story, an' shows that a man shouldn't bounce at a conclusion till he's larned all the ins an' outs of a matter." "Of course, Mr Brooke," said the officer, when Dick had finished his narration, "your companion knows all this and can corroborate what you have said?" "Not all," replied Charlie. "He is an old shipmate whom I picked up on arriving at New York, and only knows that I am in search of an old school-fellow who has given way to dissipation and got into trouble here. Of my private and family affairs he knows nothing." "Well, you have cleared yourself, Mr Brooke," continued the Captain, whose name was Wilmot, "but I'm sorry to have to add that you have not cleared the character of your friend Leather, whose name has for a considerable time been associated with the notorious band led by your old school-fellow Ritson, who is known in this part of the country as Buck Tom. One of the worst of this gang of highwaymen, Jake the Flint, has, as you know, fallen into my hands, and will soon receive his deserts as a black-hearted murderer. I have recently obtained trustworthy information as to the whereabouts of the gang, and I am sorry to say that I shall have to ask you to guide me to their den in Traitor's Trap." "Is it my duty to do this?" asked Charlie, with a troubled look at the officer. "It is the duty of every honest man to facilitate the bringing of criminals to justice." "But I have strong reason for believing that my friend Leather, although reckless and dissipated, joined these men unwillingly--was forced to do it in fact--and has been suffering from the result of a severe injury ever since joining, so that he has not assisted them at all in their nefarious work. Then, as to Ritson, I am convinced that he repents of his course of conduct. Indeed, I know that his men have been rebellious of late, and this very Jake has been aspiring to the leadership of the gang." "Your feelings regarding these men may be natural," returned the captain, "but my duty is to use you in this matter. Believing what you say of yourself I will treat you as a gentleman, but if you decline to guide me to the nest of this gang I must treat you still as a prisoner." "May I have a little time to think over the matter before answering?" "So that you may have a chance of escaping me?" replied the Captain. "Nothing was further from my thoughts," said Charlie, with a flush of indignation. "I believe you, Mr Brooke," rejoined the Captain with gravity. "Let me know any time before twelve to-day what course you deem it right to take. By noon I shall sound boot and saddle, when you will be ready to start. Your nautical friend here may join us if he chooses." Now, while this investigation into the affairs of one prisoner was going on, the other prisoner, Jake, was busily employed investigating his own affairs with a view to escape. How he fared in this investigation we reserve for another chapter. CHAPTER TWENTY. JAKE THE FLINT IN DIFFICULTIES. The man who, at the time we write of, was known by the name of Jake the Flint had acquired the character of the most daring and cruel scoundrel in a region where villains were by no means rare. His exploits indicated a spirit that was utterly reckless of life, whether his own or that of his fellow-men, and many were the trappers, hunters, and Redskins who would have given a good deal and gone far to have the chance of putting a bullet in his carcass. But, as is not unfrequently the case with such men, Jake seemed to bear a charmed life, and when knife, bullet, and rope, cut short the career of many less guilty men, Jake had hitherto managed to elude his captors--at one time by strategy, at another by a bold dash for life, and sometimes by "luck." No one had a kind word for Jake, no one loved, though many feared, admired, and hated him. This may seem strange, for it is usually found that even in the case of the most noted outlaws there is a woman or a man, or both--who cling to them with affection. Perhaps the fact that Jake was exceptionally harsh and cruel at all times, may account for this, as it accounted for his sobriquet of Flint. He was called by some of those who knew him a "God-forsaken man." We merely state the fact, but are very far from adopting the expression, for it ill becomes any man of mortal mould to pronounce his fellow-man God-forsaken. In the meantime we feel it to be no breach of charity to say that Jake had forsaken God, for his foul language and bloody deeds proved the fact beyond all question. He was deceitful as well as cruel, and those who knew him best felt sure that his acting under Buck Tom was a mere ruse. There is little doubt that he had done so for the purpose of obtaining an influence over a gang of desperadoes, ready to hand, as it were, and that the moment he saw his opportunity he would kill Buck Tom and take command. The only thing that had kept him from doing so sooner, it was thought, was the fact that Buck had the power to gain the affection of his men, as well as to cause them to fear him, so that Jake had not yet found the time ripe for action. After the outlaw had been put into the room by himself, as already stated, the door locked, and a sentry posted below the window, he immediately turned with all his energy to examine into his circumstances and prospects. First of all his wrists were manacled. That, however, gave him little concern, for his hands were unusually small and delicate, and he knew from experience that he could slip them out of any handcuffs that would close easily on his wrists--a fact that he had carefully concealed, and of which men were not yet aware, as he had not yet been under the necessity of availing himself of the circumstance. The rope with which he had been bound on the way to the ranch had been removed, the handcuffs being deemed sufficient. As the window of his prison was over thirty feet from the ground, and a sentinel with a carbine and revolver stood below, it was thought that the bird who had so frequently escaped his cage before was safe at last, and fairly on his way to the gallows. Not so thought Jake the Flint. Despair did not seem to be a possibility to him. Accordingly, he examined his prison carefully, and with a hopeful smile. The examination was soon completed, for the room presented no facilities whatever for escape. There was no bed from which to take the sheets and blankets to extemporise a rope. No mattress to throw over the window so as to break a heavy man's fall. No chimney by which to ascend to the roof, no furniture, indeed, of any kind beyond a deal chair and table. The door was of solid oak and bolted outside. Obviously the window was his only chance. He went to it and looked out. The depth was too much, he knew, for even his strong bones to stand the shock; and the sentinel paced to and fro underneath with loaded carbine. "If any one would only lay a feather-bed down there," thought Jake, "I'd jump an' take my chance." While he was gazing meditatively on the fair prospect of land and water that lay before him, one of the bolts of the door was withdrawn, then another, and the door slowly opened. For an instant the outlaw gathered himself up for a rush, with a view to sell his life dearly, and he had even begun to draw one of his hands out of the manacles, when the folly and hopelessness of the attempt struck him. He quickly checked himself, and met his jailor (one of the troopers) with a smiling countenance as he entered and laid a loaf and a jug of water on the table. The rattle of a musket outside told Jake that his jailor had not come alone. Without a word the man turned, and was leaving the room, when Jake, in a voice of great humility, asked him to stop. "You couldn't remove these things, could you?" he said, holding out his fettered hands. "No," answered the trooper, sharply. "Ah!" sighed Jake, "I feared it was agin the rules. You couldn't let me have the use of a file, could you, for a few minutes? What! agin' rules too? It's a pity, for I'm used to brush my teeth with a file of a mornin', an' I like to do it before breakfast." Jake interlarded his speech with a variety of oaths, with which we will not defile the paper, but he could extract no further reply from the trooper than a glance of scorn. Left to himself, Jake again went to the window, which was a small cottage one, opening inwards like a door. He opened it and looked out. The sentinel instantly raised his carbine and ordered him to shut it. "Hullo! Silas, is that you?" cried Jake in surprise, but paying no attention to the threat, "I thought you had quit for Heaven durin' the last skrimidge wi' the Reds down in Kansas? Glad to see you lookin' so well. How's your wife an' the child'n, Silas?" "Come now, Jake," said the trooper sternly, "you know it's all up with you, so you needn't go talkin' bosh like that--more need to say your prayers. Stand back and shut the window, I say, else I'll put a bullet through your gizzard." "Well now, Silas," said Jake, remonstratively, and opening the breast of his red shirt as he spoke, "I didn't expect that of an old friend like you--indeed I didn't. But, see here, if you raaly are goin' to fire take good aim an' keep clear o' the heart and liver. The gizzard lies hereabout (pointing to his breast) and easy to hit if you've a steady hand. I know the exact spot, for I've had the cuttin' up of a good bunch o' men in my day, an' I can't bear to see a thing muddled. But hold on, Silas, I won't put ye to the pain o' shootin' me. I'll shut the window if you'll make me a promise." "What's that?" demanded the trooper, still covering the outlaw, however, with his carbine. "You know I'm goin' to my doom--that's what poetical folk call it, Silas--an' I want you to help me wind up my affairs, as the lawyers say. Well, this here (holding up a coin) is my last dollar, the remains o' my fortin', Silas, an' this here bit o' paper that I'm rappin' round it, is my last will an' testimonial. You'll not refuse to give it to my only friend on arth, Hunky Ben, for I've no wife or chick to weep o'er my grave, even though they knew where it was. You'll do this for me, Silas, won't you?" "All right--pitch it down." Jake threw the coin, which fell on the ground a few feet in front of the trooper, who stooped to pick it up. With one agile bound the outlaw leaped from the window and descended on the trooper's back, which was broken by the crashing blow, and Jake rolled over him with considerable violence, but the poor man's body had proved a sufficient buffer, and Jake rose unhurt. Deliberately taking the carbine from the dead man's hand, and plucking the revolver from his belt, he sauntered off in the direction of the stables. These being too small to contain all the troop-horses, some of the animals were picketed in an open shed, and several troopers were rubbing them down. The men took Jake for one of the cow-boys of the ranch, for he passed them whistling. Entering the stable he glanced quickly round, selected the finest horse, and, loosing its halter from the stall, turned the animal's head to the door. "What are ye doin' wi' the captain's horse?" demanded a trooper, who chanced to be in the neighbouring stall. "The captain wants it. Hold his head till I get on him. He's frisky," said Jake, in a voice of authority. The man was taken aback and obeyed; but as Jake mounted he turned suddenly pale. The outlaw, observing the change, drew the revolver, and, pointing it at the trooper's head, said, in a low savage voice, "A word, a sound, and your brains are on the floor!" The man stood open-mouthed, as if petrified. Jake shook the reins of the fiery horse and bounded through the door-way, stooping to the saddle-bow as he went. He could see, even at that moment, that the trooper, recovering himself, was on the point of uttering a shout. Wheeling round in the saddle he fired, and the man fell with a bullet in his brain. The shot of course aroused the whole ranch. Men rushed into the yard with and without arms in wild confusion, but only in time to see a flying horseman cross the square and make for the gate. A rattling irregular volley was sent after him, but the only effect it had was to cause the outlaw to turn round in the saddle and wave his hat, while he gave vent to a yell of triumph. Another moment and he was beyond the bluff and had disappeared. "Boot and saddle!" instantly rang out at the ranch, and every preparation was made for pursuit, though, mounted as Jake was on the best horse of the troop, they could not hope to overtake him. Hunky Ben, at his own particular request was permitted to go on in advance. "You see, sir," he said to the captain, "my Black Polly an't quite as good as your charger, but she's more used to this sort o' country, an' I can take the short cuts where your horse could hardly follow." "Go, Ben, and good luck go with you! Besides, we can do without you, now that we have Mr Brooke to guide us." "Come wi' me, sir," said Hunky Ben, as he passed Charlie on his way to the stables. "Don't you hesitate, Mr Brooke, to guide the captain to the cave of Buck Tom. I'm goin' on before you to hunt up the reptiles-- to try an' catch Jake the Flint." The scout chuckled inwardly as he said this. "But why go in advance? You can never overtake the scoundrel with such a start and on such a horse." "Never you mind what I can or can't do," said Ben, entering the stable where the dead trooper still lay, and unfastening Black Polly. "I've no time to explain. All I know is that your friend Leather is sure to be hanged if he's cotched, an' I'm sure he's an innocent man--therefore, I'm goin' to save him. It's best for you to know nothin' more than that, for I see you're not used to tellin' lies. Can you trust _me_?" "Certainly I can. The look of your face, Ben, even more than the character you bear, would induce me to trust you." "Well then, Mr Brooke, the first sign o' trust is to obey orders without askin' questions." "True, when the orders are given by one who has a right to command," returned Charlie. "Just so, an' my right to command lies in the fact that the life o' your friend Leather depends on your obedience." "I'm your humble servant, then. But what am I to do?" "Do whatever Captain Wilmot orders without objectin', an' speak nothing but the truth. You don't need to speak the _whole_ truth, hows'ever," added the scout thoughtfully, as he led out his coal-black steed. "Your friend Leather has got a Christian name of course. Don't mention it. I don't want to hear it. Say nothin' about it to anybody. The time may come when it may be useful to drop the name of Leather and call your friend Mister whatever the tother name may be. Now mind what I've said to ye." As he spoke the last words the scout touched the neck of his beautiful mare, and in another minute was seen racing at full speed over the rolling plain. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. TELLS OF A CRUEL DEED, AND SHOWS HOW MYSTERIOUSLY HUNKY BEN BEHAVED. When Jake escaped from the ranch of Roaring Bull he tried the mettle of Captain Wilmot's charger to the uttermost, for well he knew that the pursuit would be instant and vigorous; that his late comrade Charlie Brooke could guide the troops to the cavern in Traitor's Trap, and that if his companions, who would doubtless ride straight back, were to escape, they must be warned in time. He also knew that the captain's charger was a splendid one. In order to accomplish his purpose, therefore, he would ride it to death. The distance between the ranch and the outlaws' cave was not so great but that any mustang in the plains could have traversed it in a day, but the cruel man had made up his mind that the captain's charger should do it in a few hours. It is not so much distance as pace that kills. Had any consideration whatever been extended to the noble creature by the ignoble brute who rode it, the good horse would have galloped to the head of the Trap almost without turning a hair. At first he strode out over the rolling prairie with the untiring vigour of a well-made frame and a splendid constitution, leaping the little cracks and inequalities of the ground in the exuberance of his strength; though there was no need to bound, and coursing over the knolls as easily as he cantered down the hollows, while his flashing eye betokened at once a courageous and a gentle spirit. But when the lower slopes of the hills were reached, and steepish gradients were met with here and there, the horse began to put back first one ear and then the other, and sometimes both, as if in expectation of the familiar "well done," or pat on the neck, or check of the rein with which the captain had been wont to sanction a slackening of the pace, but no such grace was allowed him. On the contrary, when the first symptom appeared of a desire to reduce speed Jake drove his cruel spurs into the charger's glossy side. With a wild snort and bound the horse stretched out again and spurned the ground as if in indignant surprise. Then the breath began to labour slightly; the sweat to darken his rich brown coat, and the white foam to fleck his broad chest. Still Jake pressed him on with relentless fury. It could not be expected that a man who cared not for his fellows would have much consideration for his beast. Murder of a deeper dye than that of a horse was seething in the outlaw's brain. This to him useless expedition, which had so nearly cost him his life, would be the last that Buck Tom should command. After blowing out _his_ brains he would warn the others of the impending danger and lead them away to other and more favourable fields of enterprise. At this point the good horse stumbled and almost threw his rider, who, with horrible curses, plied the spurs and tugged at the bit until blood was mingled with the flying foam. Never, save once--when Captain Wilmot was caught alone in the plains by Cheyenne Indians and had to fly for his life--had the good charger been urged to anything like such an effort as he was now called on to make, and _then_ there was no cruelty mingled with the urging. The very tone of his master's voice, as he patted the neck and shook the rein and gently touched him with the spur, must have convinced the intelligent creature that it was a matter of life or death--that there was a stern need-be for such haste. Turning at last into the gorge of the Trap, the charger gasped and sobbed with distress as he faced the steep ascent and tried, with the unabated courage of a willing heart, to pull himself together while the unmerciful monster still drove in the spurs and galled his tender mouth. But the brave effort was unavailing. Stumbling over a root that crossed the path, the horse plunged forward, and fell with a crash, sending his rider over his head. Jake, alighting on his face and right shoulder, lay stunned for a few seconds. Then he jumped up, displaying torn garments and a face covered with blood. Running to the horse's head he seized the rein and shook it savagely, kicking the animal's face with his heavy boots in his anxiety to make it rise, but the poor charger was beyond his cruelty by that time, for its neck had been broken by the fall. Oh! it was one of those sights which are fitted to make even thoughtless men recognise the need of a Saviour for the human race, and to reject with something like scorn the doctrine--founded on wholly insufficient evidence--that there is no future of compensation for the lower animals! The outlaw did not waste time in vain regrets. Bestowing a meaningless curse on the dead charger, he turned and went up the narrow glen at a smart pace, but did not overstrain himself, for he knew well that none of the troop-horses could have kept up with him. He counted on having plenty of time to warn his comrades and get away without hurry. But he reckoned without his host--being quite ignorant of the powers of Black Polly, and but slightly acquainted with those of her master Hunky Ben. Indeed so agile were the movements of Polly, and so thoroughly was the scout acquainted with the by-paths and short cuts of that region, that he actually passed the fugitive and reached the head of Traitor's Trap before him. This he managed by forsaking the roads, keeping a straighter line for the outlaws' cave, and passing on foot over the shoulder of a hill where a horseman could not go. Thus he came down on the cavern, about half-an-hour before Jake's arrival. Clambering to the crevice in the cliff against which the cave abutted, and sliding down into a hollow on its earthen roof, he cautiously removed a small stone from its position, and disclosed a hole through which he could both hear and see most of what took place inside. Lest any one should wonder at the facility with which the ground lent itself to this manoeuvre, we may as well explain that the bold scout possessed one of those far-reaching minds which are not satisfied without looking into _everything_,--seeing to the bottom of, and peering round to the rear of, all things, as far as possible. He always acted on the principle of making himself acquainted with every road and track and by-path, every stream, pond, river, and spring in the land. Hence he was well aware of this haunt of outlaws, and, happening to be near it one day when its owners were absent, he had turned aside to make the little arrangement of a peep-hole, in the belief that it might possibly turn out to be of advantage in course of time! The clump of shrubs and grass on the rugged bank, which formed the top of the cave, effectually concealed the natural hollow which he had deepened, and the overhanging mass of the rugged cliff protected it from rain and dew. What Hunky Ben saw on looking through his peep-hole filled him with surprise and pity, and compelled him to modify his plans. Almost below him on a brush couch, lay the tall form of Buck Tom, with the unmistakable hue of approaching death upon his countenance. Beside him, holding his head, kneeled the much-wasted figure of Leather--the reputed outlaw. Seated or standing around in solemn silence were six of the outlaws, most of whom bore tokens of the recent fight, in the form of bandage on head or limb. "I brought you to this, Leather; God forgive me," said the dying man faintly. "No, you didn't, Ralph," replied the other, calling him by his old familiar name, "I brought myself to it. Don't blame yourself, Ralph; you weren't half so bad as me. You'd never have been here but for me. Come, Ralph, try to cheer up a bit; you're not dying. It's only faint you are, from loss of blood and the long gallop. When you've had a sleep and some food, you'll feel stronger. We'll fetch a doctor soon, an' he'll get hold o' the bullet. Dear Ralph, don't shake your head like that an' look so solemn. Cheer up, old boy!" Leather spoke with a sort of desperate fervour, but Ralph could not cheer up. "No," he said sadly, "there is no cheer for me. I've thrown my life away. There's no hope--no mercy for me. I've been trying to recall the past, an' what mother used to teach me, but it won't come. There's only one text in all the Bible that comes to me now. It's this--`Be sure your sin will find you out!' That's true, boys," he said, turning a look on his comrades. "Whatever else may be false, _that's_ true, for I _know_ it." "That's so, dear Ralph," said Leather earnestly, "but it's no less true that--" Just then a noise was heard in the outer passage; then hurrying footsteps. Instinctively every man drew his revolver and faced the door. Next moment Jake entered. "Here, one of you; a drink--I'm fit to--ha!" His eyes fell on the figure of Buck and he shrank back for a moment in silent surprise. "Yes, Jake," said the dying man, with a glance of pity not unmingled with scorn, "it has come sooner than you or I expected, and it will save you some trouble--maybe some regret. I've seen through your little game, Jake, and am glad I've been spared the necessity of thwarting you." He stopped owing to weakness, and Jake, recovering himself, hastily explained the reason of his sudden appearance. "Fetch me a rag an' some water, boys," he continued. "It looks worse than it is--only skin deep. And we've not a moment to lose. Those who have a mind may follow _me_. Them that wants to swing may stop." "But how about Buck Tom?" asked one who was not quite so depraved as the others. "What's the use o' askin'?" said Jake. "It's all up with him, don't you see? Besides, he's safe enough. They'd never have the heart to hang a dying man." "An' Leather!" cried another. "We mustn't quit Leather. He's game for many a fight yet. Come, Leather; we'll help you along, for they're sure to string you up on the nearest tree." "Don't trouble yourself about me," said Leather, looking round, for he still kneeled beside his old friend, "I don't intend to escape. Look to yourselves, boys, an' leave us alone." "Unless you're all tired o' life you'll quit here an' skip for the woods," said Jake, as, turning round, he hurriedly left the place. The others did not hesitate, but followed him at once, leaving Buck Tom, and his friend to shift for themselves. During all this scene Hunky Ben had been intently gazing and listening-- chiefly the latter. When the outlaws filed past him he found it extremely difficult to avoid putting a bullet into the Flint, but he restrained himself because of what yet remained to be done. As soon as the outlaws were well out of sight Ben arose and prepared for action. First of all he tightened his belt. Then he pulled the hood of his coat well over his head, so that it effectually concealed his face, and, still further to accomplish the end in view, he fastened the hood in front with a wooden pin. Proceeding to the stable he found, as he had hoped and expected, that the outlaws had left one or two horse-cloths behind in their flight. In one of these he enveloped his person in such a way as to render it unrecognisable. Then he walked straight into the cave, and, without a word of warning, threw his strong arms a round Shank Leather and lifted him off the ground. Of course Leather shouted and struggled at first, but as well might a kitten have struggled in the grip of a grizzly bear. In his worn condition he felt himself to be utterly powerless. Buck Tom made a feeble effort to rise and help him, but the mere effort caused him to fall back with a groan of helpless despair. Swiftly his captor bore Leather up the side of the hill till he got behind a clump of trees, into the heart of which he plunged, and then set his burden down on his feet. At the same time, throwing back his hood and flinging away the horse-cloth, he stood up and smiled. "Hunky Ben, or his ghost!" exclaimed Shank, forgetting his indignation in his amazement. "You're right, young man, though you've only see'd me once that I know of. But most men that see me once are apt to remember me." "Well, Hunky," said Leather, while the indignation began to return, "you may think this very amusing, but it's mean of a big strong man like you to take advantage of a fellow that's as weak as a child from wounds an' fever. Lend me one o' your six-shooters, now, so as we may stand on somewhat more equal terms and--but a truce to boasting! I'm sure that you wouldn't keep smiling at me like a Cheshire cat if there wasn't something behind this." "You're right, Mr Leather," said Ben, becoming at once grave and earnest. "There _is_ somethin' behind it--ay, an' somethin' before it too. So much, that I have barely time to tell 'ee. So, listen wi' both ears. There's a bunch o' men an' troops close to the Trap even now, on their way to visit your cave. If they find you--you know what that means?" "Death," said Leather quietly. "Ay, death; though ye don't desarve it," said Ben. "But I _do_ deserve it," returned Shank in the same quiet voice. "Well, may-hap you do," rejoined the scout coolly, "but not, so far as I know, in connection wi' your present company. Now, there's Buck Tom--" "Ay, what of him?" asked Shank, anxiously. "Well, in the nat'ral course o' timings, death is comin' to him too, an' that'll save him from bein' strung up--for they're apt to do that sort o' thing hereaway in a loose free-an-easy style that's awkward sometime. I was within an inch of it myself once, all through a mistake--I'll tell 'ee about that when I've got more time, maybe. Well, now, I'm keen to save you an' Buck Tom if I can, and what I want you to understand is, that if you expect me to help you at a time when you stand considerable in need o' help, you'll have to do what I tell 'ee." "And what would you have me do?" asked Shank, with a troubled look. "Remain here till I come for 'ee, and when you meet me in company say nothin' about havin' met me before." "Can I trust you, Hunky Ben?" said Shank, looking at him earnestly. "If you _can't_ trust me, what d'ye propose to do?" asked the scout with a grin. "You're right, Ben. I _must_ trust you, and, to say truth, from the little I know of you, I believe I've nothing to fear. But my anxiety is for Ralph--Buck Tom, I mean. You're sure, I suppose, that Mr Brooke will do his best to shield him?" "Ay, sartin sure, an', by the way, don't mention your Christian name just now--whatever it is--nor for some time yet. Good-day, an' keep quiet till I come. We've wasted overmuch time a'ready." So saying, the scout left the coppice, and, flinging open his coat, re-entered the cave a very different-looking man from what he was when he left it. "Hunky Ben!" exclaimed Buck, who had recovered by that time. "I wish you had turned up half-an-hour since, boy. You might have saved my poor friend Leather from a monster who came here and carried him away bodily." "Ay? That's strange, now. Hows'ever, worse luck might have befel him, for the troops are at my heels, an' ye know what would be in store for him if he was here." "Yes, indeed, I know it, Ben, and what is in store for me too; but Death will have his laugh at them if they don't look sharp." "No, surely," said the scout, in a tone of real commiseration, "you're not so bad as that, are you?" "Truly am I," answered Buck, with a pitiful look, "shot in the chest. But I saw you in the fight, Ben; did you guide them here?" "That's what I did--at least I told 'em which way to go, an' came on in advance to warn you in time, so's you might escape. To tell you the plain truth, Ralph Ritson, I've bin told all about you by your old friend Mr Brooke, an' about Leather too, who, you say, has bin carried off by a monster?" "Yes--at least by a monstrous big man." "You're quite sure o' that?" "Quite sure." "An' You would know the monster if you saw him again?" "I think I would know his figure, but not his face, for I did not see it." "Strange!" remarked the scout, with a simple look; "an' you're sartin sure you don't know where Leather is now?" "Not got the most distant idea." "That's well now; stick to that an' there's no fear o' Leather. As to yourself--they'll never think o' hangin' you till ye can walk to the gallows--so cheer up, Buck Tom. It may be that ye desarve hangin', for all I know; but not just at present. I'm a bit of a surgeon, too--bein' a sort o' Jack-of-all-trades, and know how to extract bullets. What between Mr Brooke an' me an' time, wonders may be worked, if you're wise enough to keep a tight rein on your tongue." While the scout was speaking, the tramp of cavalry was heard outside, and a few minutes later Captain Wilmot entered the cave, closely followed by Charlie Brooke. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. The Cave of the Outlaws Invaded by Ghosts and US Troops. We need scarcely say that Buck Tom was wise enough to put a bridle on his tongue after the warning hint he had received from the scout. He found this all the easier that he had nothing to conceal save the Christian name of his friend Leather, and, as it turned out, this was never asked for by the commander of the troops. All that the dying outlaw could reveal was that Jake the Flint had suddenly made his appearance in the cave only a short time previously, had warned his comrades, and, knowing that he (Buck) was mortally wounded, and that Leather was helplessly weak from a wound which had nearly killed him, had left them both to their fate. That, just after they had gone, an unusually broad powerful man, with his face concealed, had suddenly entered the cave and carried Leather off, in spite of his struggles, and that, about half-an-hour later, Hunky Ben had arrived to find the cave deserted by all but himself. Where the other outlaws had gone to he could not tell--of course they would not reveal that to a comrade who was sure to fall into the hands of their enemies. "And you have no idea," continued the captain, "who the man is that carried your friend Leather so hurriedly away?" "Not the slightest," returned Buck. "Had my revolver been handy and an ounce of strength left in me, you wouldn't have had to ask the question." "Passing strange!" murmured Captain Wilmot, glancing at the scout, who was at the moment seated on a keg before the fire lighting his pipe, and with a look of simple benignant stolidity on his grave countenance. "Have _you_ no idea, Ben, where these outlaws have taken themselves off to?" "No more'n a lop-eared rabbit, Captain Wilmot," answered the scout. "You see there's a good many paths by which men who knows the place could git out o' the Trap, an' once out o' it there's the whole o' the Rockie range where to pick an' choose." "But how comes it, Ben, that you missed Jake? Surely the road is not so broad that you could pass him unseen! Yet you arrived here before him?" "That's true, sir, but sly coons like the Flint can retire into the brush when they don't want to be overhauled. That wasn't the way of it, however. With such a splendid animal as your poor horse, Captain, an' ridden to death as it was--an' as I 'spected it would be--I knowed I had no chance o' comin' up wi' the Flint, so I took advantage o' my knowledge o' the lay o' the land, an' pushed ahead by a straighter line--finishin' the last bit on futt over the ridge of a hill. That sent me well ahead o' the Flint, an' so I got here before him. Havin' ways of eavesdroppin' that other people don't know on, I peeped into the cave here, and saw and heard how matters stood. Then I thought o' harkin' back on my tracks an' stoppin' the Flint wi' a bullet but I reflected `what good'll that do? The shot would wake up the outlaws an' putt them on the scent all the same.' Then I tried to listen what their talk was about, so as I might be up to their dodges; but I hadn't bin listenin' long when in tramps the Flint an' sounds the alarm. Of course I might have sent him an p'r'aps one o' the others to their long home from where I stood; but I've always had an objection to shoot a man behind his back. It has such a sneakin' sort o' feel about it! An' then, the others--I couldn't see how many there was--would have swarmed out on me, an' I'd have had to make tracks for the scrub, an' larn nothin' more. So I fixed to keep quiet an' hear and see all that I could--p'r'aps find out where they fixed to pull out to. But I heard nothin' more worth tellin'. They only made some hurried, an' by no means kindly, observations about poor Buck an' Leather an' went off over the hills. I went into the woods a bit myself after that, just to be well out o' the way, so to speak, an' when I got back here Leather was gone!" "And you didn't see the man that carried him off?" "No, I didn't see him." "You'd have shot him, of course, if you had seen him?" "No, indeed, captain, I wouldn't." "No! why not?" asked the captain with a peculiar smile. "Well, because," answered the scout, with a look of great solemnity, "I wouldn't shoot such a man on any account--no matter what he was doin'!" "Indeed!" returned the other with a broadening smile. "I had no idea you were superstitious, Ben. I thought you feared neither man nor devil." "What I fear an' what I don't fear," returned the scout with quiet dignity, "is a matter which has never given me much consarn." "Well, don't be hurt, Hunky Ben, I don't for one moment question your courage, only I fancied that if you saw any one rescuing an outlaw you would have tried to put a bullet into him whether he happened to be a man or a ghost." "But I have told you," broke in Buck Tom with something of his old fire, "that Leather is _not_ an outlaw." "I have only _your_ word for that, and you know what that is worth," returned the captain. "I don't want to be hard on one apparently so near his end, and to say truth, I'm inclined to believe you, but we know that this man Leather has been for a long time in your company--whether a member of your band or not must be settled before another tribunal. If caught, he stands a good chance of being hanged. And now," added the captain, turning to a sergeant who had entered the cave with him, "tell the men to put up their horses as best they may. We camp here for the night. We can do nothing while it is dark, but with the first gleam of day we will make a thorough search of the neighbourhood." While the troopers and their commander were busy making themselves as comfortable as possible in and around the cave, the scout went quietly up to the clump of wood where Leather was in hiding, and related to that unfortunate all that had taken place since he left him. "It is very good of you, Hunky, to take so much interest in me, and incur so much risk and trouble; but do you know," said Leather, with a look of surprise, not unmingled with amusement, "you are a puzzle to me, for I can't understand how you could tell Captain Wilmot such a heap o' lies--you that has got the name of bein' the truest-hearted scout on the frontier!" "You puzzle me more than I puzzle you, Leather," returned the scout with a simple look. "What lies have I told?" "Why, all you said about what you saw and heard when you said you were eavesdroppin' must have been nonsense, you know, for how could you hear and see what took place in the cave through tons of rock and earth?" "How I saw and heard, my son Leather, is a private affair of my own, but it was no lie." Leather looked incredulous. "Then you said," he continued, "that you didn't see the man that carried me away." "No more I did, boy. I _never_ saw him!" "What! not even in a looking-glass?" "Not even in a lookin'-glass," returned Hunky. "I've seed his _reflection_ there many a time,--an' a pretty good-lookin' reflection it was--but I've never see'd himself--that I knows on! No, Leather, if Captain Wilmot had axed me if I saw _you_ carried off, I might ha' been putt in a fix, but he didn't ax me that. He axed if I'd seen the man that carried you off an' I told the truth when I said I had _not_. Moreover I wasn't bound to show him that he wasn't fit to be a lawyer-- specially when he was arter an innocent man, an' might p'r'aps hang him without a trial. It was my duty to guide the captain in pursuit of outlaws, an' it is my duty to shield an innocent man. Between the two perplexin' duties I tried to steer as straight a course as I could, but I confess I had to steer pretty close to the wind." "Well, Hunky, it is my duty to thank you instead of criticising you as I have done, but how do you come to be so sure that I'm innocent?" "P'r'aps because ye putt such an innocent question," replied Ben, with a little smile. "D'ye raily think, Leather, that an old scout like me is goin' to let you see through all the outs and ins by which I comes at my larnin'! It's enough for you to know, boy, that I know a good deal more about you than ye think--more p'r'aps than ye know about yerself. I don't go for to say that you're a born angel, wantin' nothin' but a pair o' wings to carry ye off to the better land--by no means, but I do know that as regards jinin' Buck Tom's boys, or takin' a willin' part in their devilish work, ye are innocent an' that's enough for me." "I'm glad you know it and believe it, Ben," said Leather, earnestly, "for it is true. I followed Buck, because he's an old, old chum, and I did it at the risk of my life, an' then, as perhaps you are aware, we were chased and I got injured. So far I am innocent of acting with these men, but, O Ben, I don't admit my innocence in anything else! My whole life--well, well--it's of no use talkin'. Tell me, d'ye think there's any chance o' Buck getting over this?" "He may. Nobody can tell. I'll do my best for him. I never lose hope of a man, after what I've see'd in my experience, till the breath is fairly out of him." "Thank God for these words, Ben." "Yes," continued the scout, "and your friend Brooke is at this moment sunk in the blue dumps because you have been carried off by a great mysterious monster!" "Then he doesn't know it was you?" exclaimed Leather. "In course not. An' he doesn't know you are within five hundred yards of him. An' what's more, you mustn't let him know it was me, for that must be kept a dead secret, else it'll ruin my character on the frontiers. We must surround it wi' mystery, my boy, till all is safe. But I didn't come up here to enjoy an evenin's conversation. You're not safe where you are, Leather. They'll be scourin' all round for you long before sun-up, so I must putt you where you'll be able to look on an' grin at them." "Where will that be?" asked Leather, with some curiosity. "You know the cliff about five hundred feet high that rises just over on the other side o' the valley--where the water-shoot comes down?" "Ay, it's likely I do, for I've seen it every mornin' for months past." "An' you remember the hole near the top o' the cliff?" "Yes--that looks about the size of a crow?" "Whatever it looks like it's three times the size of a man, an' it's the mouth of a cave," returned the scout. "Now, I'll lead you to the track that'll let you up to that cave. It's a splendid place, full of all sorts o' holes an' places where a man couldn't find you even if he know'd you was there. Once up, you may sit down, smoke your pipe in the mouth o' the cave, an' enjoy yourself lookin' on at the hunt arter yourself. Here's a bit o' chuck I've brought to keep you from wearyin', for they may keep it up all day. When all danger is past I'll come up for ye. You needn't show more o' yourself, however, than the top o' your head. A man can never be over-cautious when he's bein' hunted down. An' mind, don't leave the place till I come for you." Handing a cold roast fowl and a loaf to his companion, the scout got up and led him away to the spot which he had just described. It was by that time quite dark, but as Hunky Ben knew every inch of the ground he glided along almost as quickly as if it had been broad day, followed, with some difficulty, by poor Leather, who was still in a state of great prostration, partly because of his injury and partly in consequence of his previous dissipation. As the place, however, was not much more than half-a-mile distant his powers of endurance were not much tried. The scout led him across the narrow valley just above the outlaws' cave, and then, entering a steep rocky defile, he began to ascend a place that was more suitable for goats than men. After half-an-hour of upward toil they reached a plateau where the track--if it may be so styled--seemed to run in a zig-zag manner until it reached a small hole in the solid rock. Through this they entered and found themselves within a cavern and in total darkness. "We may rest a bit now," said the scout. "There's a ledge hereabouts. There you are. Sit down. I'll have to take your hand here lest you fall off the bridge into the holes on each side o' the track." "Are the holes dangerous?" asked Leather. "They're dangerous enough to be worth takin' care of, anyhow, for if ye was to tumble into one you'd never come out again. There, now, let's go on, for if I don't git back soon, they'll be wonderin' if the monster hasn't run away wi' me too, as well as you!" After advancing a short distance in total darkness--Ben feeling his way carefully step by step--they came suddenly to the hole in the front of the cave to which reference has been already made. The place had evidently been used before as a place of refuge and temporary abode, for, near this front-mouth of the cave was found a litter of pine branches which had plainly been used as a bed. "Sit ye down there, Leather," said the scout, "see, or, rather, hear-- for the eyes aren't of much use just now--I've set down the grub an' a flask o' water beside ye. Don't strike a light unless you want to have your neck stretched. Daylight won't be long o' lettin' ye see what's goin' on. You won't weary, for it'll be as good as a play, yourself bein' chief actor an' audience all at the same time!" Saying this the scout melted, as it were, into the darkness of the cavern, and, with noiseless moccasined feet, retraced his steps to the rear entrance. Left to himself the poor wanderer found both time and food for reflection, for he did not dare in the darkness to move from the spot where he had seated himself. At first an eerie feeling of indefinable fear oppressed him, but this passed away as the busy thoughts went rambling back to home and the days of comparative innocence gone by. Forgetting the dark surroundings and the threatening dangers, he was playing again on the river banks, drinking liquorice-water, swimming, and rescuing kittens with Charlie Brooke. Anon, he was wandering on the sea-beach with his sister, brown-eyed Mary, or watching the manly form of his old friend and chum buffeting the waves towards the wreck on the Sealford Rocks. Memory may not be always faithful, but she is often surprisingly prompt. In the twinkling of an eye Shank Leather had crossed the Atlantic again and was once more in the drinking and gambling saloons--the "Hells" of New York--with his profoundly admired "friend" and tempter Ralph Ritson. It was a wild whirl and plunge from bad to worse through which Memory led him now--scenes at which he shuddered and on which he would fain have closed his eyes if possible, but Memory knows not the meaning of mercy. She tore open his eyes and, becoming unusually strict at this point, bade him look particularly at all the minute details of his reckless life--especially at the wrecks of other lives that had been caused by the wreck of his own. Then the deepest deep of all seemed to be reached when he rose--or rather fell-- from the condition of tempted to that of tempter, and, somehow, managed for a time to lead even the far stronger-minded Ralph Ritson on the road to ruin. But he did not lead him long. The stronger nature soon re-asserted itself; seized the reins; led the yielding Leather to the cities of the far west; from gambling took to robbing, till at last the gay and handsome Ritson became transformed into the notorious Buck Tom, and left his weaker chum to care for himself. It was at this point--so Memory recalled to him--that he, Leather, was stopped, in mid and mad, career, by a man of God with the love of Jesus in his heart and on his lips. And at this point Memory seemed to change her action and proved herself, although unmerciful, pre-eminently faithful. She reminded him of the deep contrition that God wrought in his heart; of the horror that overwhelmed him when he thought of what he was, and what he had done; of the sudden resolve he had formed to follow Ritson, and try to stop him in the fearful career on which he had entered. Then came the memory of failure; of desperate anxieties; of futile entreaties; of unaccountably resolute perseverance; of joining the outlaw band to be near his friend; of being laughed to scorn by them all of being chased by US troops at the very commencement of his enterprise; of being severely wounded, rescued, and carried off during the flight by Buck Tom, and then--a long blank, mingled with awful dreams and scenes, and ribald songs, and curses--some of all which was real, and some the working of a fevered brain. So terribly vivid were these pictures of memory, that one of the shouts of dreamland absolutely awoke him to the fact that he had extended his wearied limbs on his couch of pine brush and fallen asleep. He also awake to the perception that it was broad daylight, and that a real shout had mingled with that of dreamland, for after he had sat up and listened intently for a few moments, the shout was repeated as if at no great distance. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. THE TROOPS OUTWITTED BY THE SCOUT AND HIS FRIENDS. Creeping quickly to the mouth of the cave Leather peeped cautiously out, and the scene that met his startled gaze was not calculated to restore that equanimity which his recent dreams had disturbed. The narrow and rugged valley which lay spread out below him was alive with horsemen, trotting hither and thither as if searching for some one, and several parties on foot were scaling gorges and slopes, up which a horseman could not scramble. The shout which had awakened the fugitive was uttered by a dismounted trooper who had climbed higher on the face of the cliff than his fellows, and wished to attract the attention of those below. "Hi! hallo!" he cried, "send Hunky Ben up here. I've found a track that seems to lead to somewhere, but it'll need the scout's nose to ferret it out." Leather's heart beat wildly, for, from the position of the man, he could not doubt that he had discovered the track leading up to the cave. Before he could think how he should act, a response came to the call from Hunky Ben. "Ay, ay," he shouted, in a voice so bold and resonant, that Leather felt it was meant to warn him of his danger, "Ay, ay. Hold on! Don't be in a hurry. The tracks branch out further on, an' some o' them are dangerous. Wait till I come up. There's a cave up there, I'll lead ye to it." This was more than enough for Leather. He turned hastily to survey his place of refuge. It was a huge dismal cavern with branching tunnels around that disappeared in thick obscurity, and heights above that lost themselves in gloom; holes in the sides and floor that were of invisible depth, and curious irregular ledges, that formed a sort of arabesque fringe to the general confusion. One of these ornamental ledges, stretching along the roof with many others, lost itself in the gloom and seemed to be a hopeful living-place--all the more hopeful that it was in the full blaze of light that gushed in through the front opening of the cave. This opening, it will be remembered, was on the face of the cliff and inaccessible. But Leather found that he could not reach the ledge. Hastening to the dark side of the cave, however, he saw that by means of some projections and crevices in the rocky wall he could reach the end of the ledge. Creeping along it he soon found himself close to the opening, surrounded by strong light, but effectually concealed from view by the ledge. It was as if he were on a natural rafter, peeping down on the floor below! As there was a multitude of such ledges around, which it would take several men many hours to examine, he began to breathe more freely, for, would the searchers not naturally think that a fugitive would fly to the darkest recesses of his place of refuge, rather than to the brightest and most accessible spot? He gave vent to a sigh of relief, and was congratulating himself upon his wisdom, when his eyes chanced to fall on the flask of water and cold roast fowl and loaf lying conspicuous in the full glare of light that flooded the front part of the cave! If the fowl had been thrust whole into his throat it could scarcely have added to the gush of alarm that choked him. He slipped incontinently from his arabesque ledge and dropped upon the floor. Securing the tell-tale viands with eager haste he dashed back into the obscurity and clambered with them back to his perch. And not much too soon, for he had barely settled down when the voice of the scout was heard talking pretty loudly. "Come along, Captain Wilmot," he said, "give me your hand, sir. It's not safe to walk alone here, even wi' a light." "Here, where are you? Oh! All right. Haven't you got a match?" asked the captain. "Nothin' that would burn more'n a few seconds. We're better without a light, for a gust o' wind might blow it out an' leave us worse than we was. Mind this step. There." "Well, I'm glad I didn't bring any of my men in here," said the Captain, as he kicked one of his heavy boots violently against a projection of rock. "Ay--'tis as well you didn't," returned the scout, in a tone suggestive of the idea that he was smiling. "For there's holes on both sides, an' if one o' your men went down, ye might read the funeral sarvice over him at once, an' be done with it. There's a glimmer o' daylight at last. We'll soon be at the other end now." "A horrible place, truly," said the Captain, "and one that it would be hard to find a fellow in even if we knew he was here." "Didn't I say so, Captain? but ye wouldn't be convinced," said Hunky Ben, leading his companion into the full light of the opening and coming to a halt close to the ledge above which the fugitive lay. "Besides, Leather could never have found his way here alone." "You forget," returned Wilmot, with a peculiar smile, "the monster might have shown him the way or even have carried him hither." "Ah, true," answered the scout, with solemn gravity. "There's somethin' in that." Wilmot laughed. "What a splendid view," he said, going forward to the opening--"and see, here is a bed of pine brush. No doubt the cave must have been used as a place of refuge by the Redskins in days gone by." "Ay, an' by the pale-faces too," said the scout. "Why, I've had occasion to use it myself more than once. And, as you truly obsarve, sir, there's small chance of findin' a man once he's in here. As well run after a rabbit in his hole." "Or search for a needle in a haystack," observed the Captain, as he gazed with curious interest around and above him. "Well, Ben, I give in. You were right when you said there was no probability of my finding any of the outlaws here." "I'm ginerally right when I speak about what I understand," returned the scout calmly. "So now, Captain, if you're satisfied, we may as well go an' have a look at the other places I spoke of." Assenting to this the two men left the place, but Leather continued to lie perfectly still for a considerable time after their footsteps had died away. Then, gliding from his perch, he dropped on the floor and ran to the opening where he saw the troopers still riding about, but gradually going farther and farther away from him. The scene was not perhaps, as the scout had prophesied, quite "as good as a play," but it certainly did become more and more entertaining as the searchers receded and distance lent enchantment to the view. When at last the troops had disappeared, Shank bethought him of the food which Hunky Ben had so thoughtfully provided, and, sitting down on the brush couch, devoted himself to breakfast with a hearty appetite and a thankful spirit. Meanwhile Captain Wilmot, having satisfied himself that the outlaws had fairly escaped him, and that Buck Tom was too ill to be moved, retired to a cool glade in the forest and held a council of war with the scout and Charlie Brooke. "Now, Ben," he said, dismounting and seating himself on a mossy bank, while a trooper took charge of the horses and retired with them to a neighbouring knoll, "it is quite certain that in the present unsettled state of the district I must not remain here idle. It is equally certain that it would be sudden death to Buck Tom to move him in his present condition, therefore some men must be left behind to take care of him. Now, though I can ill afford to spare any of mine, I feel that out of mere humanity some sacrifice must be made, for we cannot leave the poor fellow to starve." "I can relieve you on that point," said the scout, "for if you choose I am quite ready to remain." "And of course," interposed Charlie, "I feel it my duty to remain with my old friend to the end." "Well, I expected you to say something of this sort. Now," said the captain, "how many men will you require?" "None at all, Captain," answered Ben decisively. "But what if these scoundrels should return to their old haunt?" said Wilmot. "Let them come," returned the scout. "Wi' Mr Brooke, an' Dick Darvall, an' three Winchesters, an' half-a-dozen six-shooters, I'd engage to hold the cave against a score o' such varmin. If Mr Brooke an' Dick are willin' to--" "I am quite willing, Ben, and I can answer for my friend Dick, so don't let that trouble you." "Well, then, that is settled. I'll go off at once," said the captain, rising and signing to the trooper to bring up the horses. "But bear in remembrance, Hunky Ben, that I hold you responsible for Buck Tom. If he recovers you must produce him." The scout accepted the responsibility; the arrangements were soon made; "boots and saddles" was sounded, and the troopers rode away, leaving Charlie Brooke, Dick Darvall, Buck Tom, and the scout in possession of the outlaws' cave. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. THE MEETING OF OLD FRIENDS IN CURIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES. When the soldiers were safely away Hunky Ben returned to the cave and brought Leather down. Charlie Brooke's love for his old school-fellow and playmate seemed to become a new passion, now that the wreck of life and limb presented by Shank had awakened within him the sensation of profound pity. And Shank's admiration for and devotion to Charlie increased tenfold now that the terrible barrier of self had been so greatly eliminated from his own nature, and a new spirit put within him. By slow degrees, and bit by bit, each came to know and understand the other under the influence of new lights and feelings. But their thoughts about themselves, and their joy at meeting in such peculiar circumstances, had to be repressed to some extent in the presence of their common friend Ralph Ritson--_alias_ Buck Tom--for Charlie knew him only as an old school-fellow, though to Leather he had been a friend and chum ever since they had landed in the New World. The scout, during the first interval of leisure on the previous day, had extracted the ball without much difficulty from Buck's chest, through which it had passed, and was found lying close under the skin at his back. The relief thus afforded, and rest obtained under the influence of some medicine administered by Captain Wilmot, had brightened the poor fellow up to some extent; and Leather, seeing him look so much better on his return, began to entertain some hopes of his recovery. Buck himself had no such hope; but, being a man of strong will, he refused to let it be seen in his demeanour that he thought his case to be hopeless. Yet he did not act from bravado, or the slightest tincture of that spirit which resolves to "die game." The approach of death had indeed torn away the veil and permitted him to see himself in his true colours, but he did not at that time see Jesus to be the Saviour of even "the chief of sinners." Therefore his hopelessness took the form of silent submission to the inevitable. Of course Charlie Brooke spoke to him more than once of the love of God in Christ, and of the dying thief who had looked to Jesus on the cross and was saved, but Buck only shook his head. One afternoon in particular Charlie tried hard to remove the poor man's perplexities. "It's all very well, Brooke," said Buck Tom, "and very kind of you to interest yourself in me, but the love of God and the salvation of Christ are not for me. You don't know what a sinner I have been, a rebel all my life--all my life, mark you. I would count it mean to come whining for pardon now that the game is up. I _deserve_ hell--or whatever sort o' punishment is due--an' I'm willing to take it." "Ralph Ritson," said Brooke impressively, "you are a far greater sinner than you think or admit." "Perhaps I am," returned the outlaw sadly, and with a slight expression of surprise. "Perhaps I am," he repeated. "Indeed I admit that you are right, but--but your saying so is a somewhat strange way to comfort a dying man. Is it not?" "I am _not_ trying to comfort you. I am trying, by God's grace, to convince you. You tell me that you have been a rebel all your days?" "Yes; I admit it." "There are still, it may be, a few days yet to run, and you are determined, it seems, to spend these in rebellion too--up to the very end!" "Nay, I do not say that. Have I not said that I _submit_ to whatever punishment is due? Surely that is not rebellion. I can do nothing _now_ to make up for a mis-spent life, so I am willing to accept the consequences. Is not that submission to God--at least as far as lies in my power?" "No; it is _not_ submission. Bear with me when I say it is rebellion, still deeper rebellion than ever. God says to you, `You have destroyed yourself but in _me_ is your help.' He says, `Though your sins be as scarlet they shall be white as snow.' He says, `Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and you shall be saved,' and assures you that `whoever will' may come to Him, and that no one who comes shall be cast out--yet in the face of all that you tell me that the love of God and the salvation of Christ are not for you! Ralph, my friend, you think that if you had a chance of living your life over again you would do better and so deserve salvation. That is exactly what God tells us we cannot do, and then He tells us that He Himself, in Jesus Christ, has provided salvation from sin _for_ us, offers it as a free unmerited gift; and immediately we dive to the deepest depth of sin by deliberately refusing this deliverance from sin unless we can somehow manage to deserve it." "I cannot see it," said the wounded man thoughtfully. "Only God Himself, by His Holy Spirit, can enable you to see it," said his companion; and then, in a low earnest voice, with eyes closed and his hand on his friend's arm, he prayed that the outlaw might be "born again." Charlie Brooke was not one of those who make long prayers, either "for a pretence" or otherwise. Buck Tom smiled slightly when his friend stopped at the end of this one sentence. "Your prayer is not long-winded, anyhow!" he said. "True, Ralph, but it is comprehensive. It requires a good deal of expounding and explaining to make man understand what we say or think. The Almighty needs none of that. Indeed He does not need even the asking but He _bids_ us ask, and that is enough for me. I have seen enough of life to understand the value of unquestioning obedience whether one comprehends the reason of an order or not." "Ay," returned Buck quickly, "when he who gives the order has a right to command." "That is so much a matter of course," rejoined Charlie, "that I would not think of referring to it while conversing with an intelligent man. By the way--which name would you like to be called, by Ralph or Buck?" "It matters little to me," returned the outlaw languidly, "and it won't matter to anybody long. I should prefer `Ralph,' for it is not associated with so much evil as the other, but you know our circumstances are peculiar just now, so, all things considered, I had better remain Buck Tom to the end of the chapter. I'll answer to whichever name comes first when the roll is called in the next world." The conversation was interrupted at this point by the entrance of Hunky Ben bearing a deer on his lusty shoulders. He was followed by Dick Darvall. "There," said the former, throwing the carcass on the floor, "I told ye I wouldn't be long o' bringin' in somethin' for the pot." "Ay, an' the way he shot it too," said the seaman, laying aside his rifle, "would have made even a monkey stare with astonishment. Has Leather come back, by the way? I see'd him goin' full sail through the woods when I went out this mornin'." "He has not yet returned," said Charlie. "When I relieved him and sat down to watch by our friend here, he said he felt so much better and stronger that he would take his gun and see if he couldn't find something for the pot. I advised him not to trust his feelings too much, and not to go far, but--ah, here he comes to answer for himself." As he spoke a step was heard outside, and next moment Shank entered, carrying a brace of rabbits which he flung down, and then threw himself on a couch in a state of considerable exhaustion. "There," said he, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. "They've cost me more trouble than they're worth, for I'm quite done up. I had no idea I had become so weak in the legs. Ralph, my dear fellow," he added, forgetting himself for the moment as he rose and went to his friend's side, "I have more sympathy with you, now that I have found out the extent of my own weakness. Do you feel better!" "Yes, old boy--much--much better." "That's all right. I'm convinced that--hallo! why, who shot the deer!" "Hunky Ben has beat you," said Charlie. "Beat Leather!" exclaimed Darvall, "why, he beats all creation. I never see'd anything like it since I went to sea." "Since you came ashore, you should say. But come, Dick," said Charlie, "let's hear about this wonderful shooting. I'm sure it will amuse Buck--unless he's too wearied to listen." "Let him talk," said the invalid. "I like to hear him." Thus exhorted and encouraged the seaman recounted his day's experience. "Well, you must know, messmates," said he, "that I set sail alone this mornin', havin' in my pocket the small compass I always carry about me-- also my bearin's before startin', so as I shouldn't go lost in the woods--though that wouldn't be likely in such an narrow inlet as this Traitor's Trap, to say nothin' o' the landmarks alow and aloft of all sorts. I carried a Winchester with me, because, not bein' what you may call a crack shot, I thought it would give me a better chance to have a lot o' resarve shots in the locker, d'ye see? I carried also a six-shooter, as it might come handy, you know, if I fell in wi' a Redskin or a bear, an' got to close quarters. Also my cutlass, for I've bin used to that aboard ship when I was in the navy. "Well, away I went--makin' sail down the valley to begin with, an' then a long tack into the mountains right in the wind's eye, that bein' the way to get on the blind side o' game. I hadn't gone far when up starts a bird o' some sort--" "What like was it?" asked the scout. "No more notion than the man in the moon," returned the sailor. "What wi' the flutter an' scurry an' leaves, branches an' feathers--an' the start--I see'd nothin' clear, an' I was so anxious to git somethin' for the pot, that six shots went arter it out o' the Winchester, before I was quite sure I'd begun to fire--for you must know I've larned to fire uncommon fast since I come to these parts. Hows'ever, I hit nothin'--" "Not quite so bad as that, Dick," interrupted the scout gravely. "Well, that's true, but you better tell that part of it yourself, Hunky, as you know more about it than me." "It wasn't of much consequence," said the scout betraying the slightest possible twinkle in his grey eyes, "but Dick has a knack o' lettin' drive without much regard to what's in front of him. I happened to be more in front of him than that bird when he began to fire, an' the first shot hit my right leggin', but by good luck only grazed the bark. Of course I dropped behind a rock when the storm began and lay quiet there, and when a lull came I halloo'd." "Yes, he did halloo," said Dick, resuming the narrative, "an' that halloo was more like the yell of a bull of Bashan than the cry of a mortal man. It made my heart jump into my throat an' stick there, for I thought I must have killed a whole Redskin tribe at one shot--" "Six shots, Dick. Tell the exact truth an' don't contradic' yourself," said Hunky. "No, it wasn't," retorted the seaman stoutly. "It was arter the _first_ shot that you gave the yell. Hows'ever, I allow that the echoes kep' it goin' till the six shots was off--an' I can tell you, messmates, that the hallooin' an' flutterin' an' scurryin' an echoin' an' thought of Redskins in my brain all mixed up wi' the blatterin' shots, caused such a rumpus that I experienced considerable relief when the smoke cleared away an' I see'd Hunky Ben in front o' me laughin' fit to bu'st his sides." "Well, to make a long yarn short, I joined Hunky and allowed him to lead, seein' that he understands the navigation hereaway better than me. "`Come along,' says he, `an' I'll let you have a chance at a deer.' "`All right,' says I, an' away we went up one hill an' down another--for all the world as if we was walkin' over a heavy Atlantic swell--till we come to a sort o' pass among the rocks. "`I'm goin' to leave you here to watch,' says he, `an' I'll go round by the futt o' the gully an' drive the deer up. They'll pass quite close, so you've only to--' "Hunky stopped short as he was speakin' and flopped down as if he'd bin shot-haulin' me along wi' him. "`Keep quiet,' says he, in a low voice. `We're in luck, an' don't need to drive. There's a deer comin' up at this very minute--a young one. You'll take it. I won't fire unless you miss.' "You may be sure I kep' quiet, messmates, arter that. I took just one peep, an' there, sure enough, I saw a brown beast comin' up the pass. So we kep' close as mice. There was a lot o' small bushes not ten yards in front of us, which ended in a cut--a sort o' crack--in the hill-side, a hundred yards or more from the place where we was crouchin'. "`Now,' whispers Hunky to--" "I never whisper!" remarked the scout. "Well, well; he said, in a low v'ice to me, says he, `d'ye see that openin' in the bushes?' `I do,' says I. `Well then,' says he, `it's about ten yards off; be ready to commence firin' when it comes to that openin'.' `I will,' says I. An', sure enough, when the brown critter came for'id at a walk an' stopped sudden wi' a look o' surprise as if it hadn't expected to see me, bang went my Winchester four times, like winkin', an' up went the deer four times in the air, but niver a bit the worse was he. Snap I went a fifth time; but there was no shot, an' I gave a yell, for I knew the cartridges was done. By that time the critter had reached the crack in the hill I told ye of, an' up in the air he went to clear it, like an Indy-rubber ball. I felt a'most like to fling my rifle at it in my rage, when bang! went a shot at my ear that all but deaf'ned me, an' I wish I may niver fire another shot or furl another t'gallant-s'l if that deer didn't crumple up in the air an' drop down stone dead--as dead as it now lays there on the floor." By the time Dick Darvall had ended his narrative--which was much more extensive than our report of it--steaks of the deer were sputtering in a frying-pan, and other preparations were being made for a hearty meal, to which all the healthy men did ample justice. Shank Leather did what he could, and even Buck Tom made a feeble attempt to join. That night a strict watch was kept outside the cave--each taking it by turns, for it was just possible, though not probable, that the outlaws might return to their old haunt. No one appeared, however, and for the succeeding eight weeks the party remained there undisturbed, Shank Leather slowly but surely regaining strength; his friend, Buck Tom, as slowly and surely losing it; while Charlie, Dick, and Hunky Ben ranged the neighbouring forest in order to procure food. Leather usually remained in the cave to cook for and nurse his friend. It was pleasant work to Shank, for love and pity were at the foundation of the service. Buck Tom perceived this and fully appreciated it. Perchance he obtained some valuable light on spiritual subjects from Shank's changed tone and manner, which the logic of his friend Brooke had failed to convey. Who can tell? CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. SHOWS HOW THE SEAMAN WAS SENT ON A DELICATE MISSION AND HOW HE FARED. "Shank," said Charlie one day as they were sitting in the sunshine near the outlaws' cave, waiting for Dick and the scout to return to their mid-day meal, "it seems to me that we may be detained a good while here, for we cannot leave Ralph, and it is evident that the poor fellow won't be able to travel for many a day--" "If ever," interposed Shank sorrowfully. "Well, then, I think we must send down to Bull's Ranch, to see if there are any letters for us. I feel sure that there must be some, and the question arises--who are we to send?" "_You_ must not go, Charlie, whoever goes. You are the only link in this mighty wilderness, that connects Ralph and me with home--and hope. Weak and helpless as we are, we cannot afford to let you out of our sight." "Well, but if I don't go I can't see my way to asking the scout to go, for he alone thoroughly understands the ways of the country and of the Indians--if any should chance to come this way. Besides, considering the pledge he is under to be accountable for Buck Tom, I doubt if he would consent to go." "The question is answered, then," said Shank, "for the only other man is Dick Darvall." "True; and it strikes me that Dick will be very glad to go," returned Charlie with a smile of peculiar meaning. "D'ye think he's getting tired of us, Charlie?" "By no means. But you know he has a roving disposition, and I think he has a sort of fondness for Jackson--the boss of the ranch." It was found when the question was put to him, that Dick was quite ready to set out on the mission required of him. He also admitted his fondness for Roaring Bull! "But what if you should lose your way?" asked the scout. "Find it again," was Dick's prompt reply. "And what if you should be attacked by Indians?" "Fight 'em, of course." "But if they should be too many to fight?" "Why, clap on all sail an' give 'em a starn chase, which is always a long one. For this purpose, however, I would have to command a good craft so I'd expect you to lend me yours, Hunky Ben." "What! my Polly?" "Even so. Black Polly." The scout received this proposal gravely, and shook his head at first, for he was naturally fond of his beautiful mare, and, besides, doubted the sailor's horsemanship, though he had perfect faith in his courage and discretion. Finally, however, he gave in; and accordingly, one fine morning at daybreak, Dick Darvall, mounted on Black Polly, and armed with his favourite Winchester, revolvers, and cutlass, "set sail" down Traitor's Trap to visit his lady-love! Of course he knew that his business was to obtain letters and gather news. But honest Dick Darvall could not conceal from himself that his main object was--Mary Jackson! Somehow it has come to be supposed or assumed that a jack-tar cannot ride. Possibly this may be true of the class as a whole to which Jack belongs, but it is not necessarily true of all, and it certainly is not true of some. Dick Darvall was an expert horseman--though a sailor. He had learned to ride when a boy, before going to sea, and his after-habit of riding the "white horses" of the Norseman, did not cause him to forget the art of managing the "buckers" of the American plains. To use his own words, he felt as much at home on the hurricane deck of a Spanish pony, as on the fo'c'sl of a man-of-war, so that the scout's doubt of his capacity as a rider was not well founded. Tremendous was the bound of exultation which our seaman felt, then, when he found himself on the magnificent black mare, with the fresh morning air fanning his temples, and the bright morning sun glinting through a cut in the eastern range. Soon he reached the lower end of the valley, which, being steep, he had descended with tightened rein. On reaching the open prairie he gave the mare her head and went off with a wild whoop like an arrow from a bow. Black Polly required neither spur nor whip. She possessed that charmingly sensitive spirit which seems to receive an electric shock from its rider's lightest chirp. She was what you may call an anxiously willing steed, yet possessed such a tender mouth that she could be pulled up as easily as she could be made to go. A mere child could have ridden her, and Dick found in a few minutes that a slight check was necessary to prevent her scouring over the plains at racing speed. He restrained her, therefore, to a grand canter, with many a stride and bound interspersed, when such a thing as a rut or a little bush came in her way. With arched neck, glistening eyes, voluminous mane, and flowing tail she flew onward, hour after hour, with many a playful shake of the head, and an occasional snort, as though to say, "This is mere child's play; _do_ let me put on a spurt!" It may not be fair to credit such a noble creature with talking, or even thinking, slang, but Dick Darvall clearly understood her to say something of the sort, for after a while he reduced speed to a kind of india-rubber walk and patted her neck, saying-- "No, no, lass, you mustn't use up your strength at the beginning. We've got a longish trip before us, Polly, an' it won't do to clap on all sail at the beginnin' of the voyage." At David's store Dick stopped for a short time to obtain a little refreshment for himself and Polly. There he found a group of cow-boys discussing the affairs of their neighbours, and enlarging noisily on things in general under the brain-clearing and reason-inspiring influence of strong drink! To these he recounted briefly the incidents of the recent raid of the troops into Traitor's Trap, and learned that Jake the Flint had "drifted south into Mexico where he was plying the trade of cattle and horse stealer, with the usual accompaniments of that profession--fighting, murdering, drinking, etcetera." Some of the deeds of this notorious outlaw, as narrated by the cow-boy Crux, who happened to be there, made the blood of Dick run cold--and Dick's blood was not easily made to run otherwise than naturally by any one--except, of course, by Mary Jackson, who could at all events make it run hot, also fast or slow, very much according to her own sweet will! But the seaman had no time to lose. He had still a long way to go, and the day was advancing. Remounting Black Polly he was soon out again on the prairie, sweeping over the grassy waves and down into the hollows with a feeling of hilarious jollity, that was born of high health, good-nature, pleasant circumstances, and a free-and-easy mind. Nothing worthy of particular notice occurred after this to mar the pleasure of our sailor's "voyage" over the prairie until he reached a belt of woodland, through which for half a mile he had to travel. Here he drew rein and began to traverse the bit of forest at a quiet amble, partly to rest Polly, and partly that he might more thoroughly enjoy the woodland scenery through the umbrageous canopy of which the sun was sending his slanting rays and covering the sward with a confused chequer-work of green and gold. And here Dick Darvall became communicative; entered into conversation, so to speak, with himself. After a few minutes, however, this did not prove a sufficient outlet to his exuberant spirits. "Come, Dick," he exclaimed, "give us a song. Your voice ain't, perhaps, much to speak of as to quality, but there's no end of quantity. Strike up, now; what shall it be?" Without replying to the question he struck up "Rule Britannia" in tones that did not justify his disparaging remark as to quality. He reached the other end of the wood and the end of the song at the same time. "Britons," shouted he with unalterable determination--"Never, never, ne-ever, shall be--Redskins!" This unnatural termination was not an intentional variation. It was the result of a scene that suddenly burst upon his view. Far away on the prairie two riders were seen racing at what he would have styled a slant away from him. They were going at a pace that suggested fleeing for life. "Redskins--arter somethin'," murmured Dick, pulling up, and shading his eyes from the sun with his right hand, as he gazed earnestly at the two riders. "No-n-no. They're whites," he continued, "one o' them a man; t'other a woman. I can make that out, anyhow." As he spoke, the racing riders topped a far-off knoll; halted, and turned round as if to gaze back towards the north--the direction from which they had come. Then, wheeling round as if in greater haste than ever, they continued their headlong gallop and disappeared on the other side of the knoll. Dick naturally turned towards the north to see, if possible, what the two riders were flying from. He was not kept long in doubt, for just then a band of horsemen was seen topping the farthest ridge in that direction, and bearing down on the belt of woodland, along the edge of which they galloped towards him. There was no mistaking who they were. The war-whoop, sounding faint and shrill in the distance, and the wild gesticulations of the riders, told the story at once to our seaman--two pale-faces, pursued by a band of bloodthirsty savages! Unskilled though he was in backwoods warfare, Dick was not unfamiliar with war's alarms, nor was he wanting in common sense. To side with the weaker party was a natural tendency in our seaman. That the pursuers were red, and the pursued white, strengthened the tendency, and the fact that one of the latter was a woman settled the question. Instantly Dick shook the reins, drove his unarmed heels against the sides of Polly, and away they went after the fugitives like a black thunderbolt, if there be such artillery in nature! A wild yell told him that he was seen. "Howl away, ye land lubbers!" growled Dick. "You'll have to fill your sails wi' a stiffer breeze than howlin' before ye overhaul this here craft." Just then he reached the crest of a prairie billow, whence he could see the fugitives still far ahead of him. Suddenly a suspicion entered the seaman's mind, which made his heart almost choke him. What if this should be Mary Jackson and her father? Their relative size countenanced the idea, for the woman seemed small and the man unusually large. In desperate haste Dick now urged on his gallant steed to her best pace, and well did she justify the praises that had been often bestowed on her by Hunky Ben. In a very brief space of time she was close behind the fugitives, and Dick was now convinced that his suspicions as to who they were was right. He rode after them with divided feelings--tremblingly anxious lest Mary should fall into the hands of their ruthless foes-- exultantly glad that he had come there in time to fight, or die if need be, in her defence. Suddenly the male fugitive, who had only glanced over his shoulder from time to time, pulled up, wheeled round, and quickly raised his rifle. "Hallo! get on, man; don't stop!" Dick yelled, in a voice worthy of Bull himself. Taking off his hat he waved it violently above his head. As he spoke he saw the woman's arm flash upwards; a puff of smoke followed, and a bullet whistled close over his head. Next moment the fugitives had turned and resumed their headlong flight. A few more minutes sufficed to bring Dick and the black mare alongside, for the latter was still vigorous in wind and limb, while the poor jaded animals which Mary and her father rode were almost worn out by a prolonged flight. "Dick Darvall," exclaimed Jackson, as the former rode up, "I never was gladder to see any man than I am to see you this hour, though but for my Mary I'd surely have sent you to kingdom come. Her ears are better than mine, you see. She recognised the voice an' knocked up my rifle just as I pulled the trigger. But I'm afeared it's too late, lad." The way in which the man said this, and the look of his pale haggard face, sent a thrill to the heart of Dick. "What d'ye mean?" he said, looking anxiously at Mary, who with a set rigid expression on her pale face was looking straight before her, and urging her tired pony with switch and rein. "I mean, lad, that we've but a poor chance to reach the ranch wi' such knocked-up brutes as these. Of course we can turn at bay an' kill as many o' the red-devils as possible before it's all over wi' us, but what good would that do to Mary? If we could only check the varmins, there might be some hope, but--" "Jackson!" exclaimed the seaman, in a firm tone, "I'll do my best to check them. God bless you, Mary--good-bye. Heave ahead, now, full swing!" As he spoke, Dick pulled up, while the others continued their headlong flight straight for the ranch, which was by the only a few miles distant. Wheeling round, Dick cantered back to the knoll over which they had just passed and halted on the top of it. From this position he could see the band, of about fifty Indians, careering towards him and yelling with satisfaction, for they could also see him--a solitary horseman--clear cut against the bright sky. Dick got ready his repeating rifle. We have already mentioned the fact that he had learned to load and fire this formidable weapon with great rapidity, though he had signally failed in his attempts to aim with it. Being well aware of his weakness, he made up his mind in his present desperate extremity not to aim at all! He had always felt that the difficulty of getting the back and front sights of the rifle to correspond with the object aimed at was a slow, and, in his case, an impossible process. He therefore resolved to simply point his weapon and fire! "Surely," he muttered to himself even in that trying moment, "surely I can't altogether miss a whole bunch o' fifty men an' horses!" He waited until he thought the savages were within long range, and then, elevating his piece a little, fired. The result justified his hopes. A horse fell dead upon the plain, and its owner, although evidently unwounded, was for the time _hors de combat_. True to his plan, Dick kept up such a quick continuous fire, and made so much noise and smoke, that it seemed as if a whole company of riflemen were at work instead of one man, and several horses on the plain testified to the success of the pointing as compared with the aiming principle! Of course the fire was partly returned, and for a time the stout seaman was under a pretty heavy rain of bullets, but as the savages fired while galloping their aim was necessarily bad. This fusillade had naturally the effect of checking the advance of the Indians--especially when they drew near to the reckless man, who, when the snap of his rifle told that his last cartridge was off, wheeled about and fled as fast as Black Polly could lay hoofs to the plain. And now he found the value of the trustworthy qualities of his steed, for, instead of guiding her out of the way of obstacles, he gave her her head, held tight with his legs, and merely kept an eye on the ground in front to be ready for any swerve, bound, or leap, that might be impending. Thus his hands were set free to re-charge the magazine of his rifle, which he did with deliberate rapidity. The truth is, that recklessness has a distinct tendency to produce coolness. And there is no one who can afford to be so deliberate, and of whom other men are so much afraid, as the man who has obviously made up his mind to die fighting. While Dick was loading-up, Black Polly was encouraged by voice and heel to do her best, and her best was something to see and remember! When the charging was finished, Dick drew rein and trotted to the next knoll he encountered, from which point he observed with some satisfaction that the fugitives were still pressing on, and that the distance between them and their foe had slightly increased. But the seaman had not much time to look or think, for the band of Redskins was drawing near. When they came within range he again opened fire. But this time the savages divided, evidently with the intention of getting on both sides of him, and so distracting his attention. He perceived their object at once, and reserved his fire until they turned and with frantic yells made a simultaneous dash on him right and left. Again he waited till his enemies were close enough, and then opened fire right and left alternately, while the Indians found that they had outwitted themselves and scarcely dared to fire lest the opposite bands should hit each other. Having expended the second supply of ammunition, Dick wheeled round and took to flight as before. Of course the mare soon carried him out of range, and again he had the satisfaction of observing that the fugitives had increased their distance from the foe. "One more check o' this kind," thought Dick, "and they'll be safe--I think." While thus thinking he was diligently re-charging, and soon cantered to the top of a third knoll, where he resolved to make his final stand. The ranch was by that time dimly visible on the horizon, and the weary fugitives were seen struggling towards it. But Dick found, on halting and looking back, that the Indians had changed their tactics. Instead of directing their attention to himself, as on the previous occasions, they had spread out to the right and left and had scattered, besides keeping well out of range. "What are the sinners up to now?" muttered the seaman in some perplexity. He soon perceived that they meant to go past him altogether, if possible, and head towards the fugitives in separate groups. "Ay, but it's _not_ possible!" exclaimed Dick, answering his own thoughts as he turned swiftly, and stretched out after his friends. Seeing this, the savages tried to close in on him from both sides, but their already winded ponies had no chance against the grand Mexican mare, which having been considerately handled during the day's journey was comparatively fresh and in full vigour. Shooting ahead he now resolved to join his friends and a feeling of triumph began to rise within his breast as he saw them pushing steadily onward. The ranch, however, was still at a considerable distance, while the Indians were rapidly gaining ground. At that moment to Dick's horror, the pony which Mary Jackson rode stumbled and fell, sending its rider over its head. But the fair Mary, besides being a splendid horsewoman, was singularly agile and quick in perception. For some time she had anticipated the catastrophe, and, at the first indication of a stumble, leaped from the saddle and actually alighted on her feet some yards ahead. Of course she fell with some violence, but the leap broke her fall and probably saved her neck. She sprang up instantly, and grasping the reins, tried to raise her pony. It was too late. The faithful creature was dead. Jackson, pulling up, wheeled round and was back at her side instantly. Almost at the same moment Dick Darvall came up, threw the mare almost on her haunches, leaped from the saddle, and ran to Mary. As he did so, the crash of a pistol shot at his ear almost deafened him, and a glance showed him that Jackson had shot his horse, which fell dead close to his daughter's pony. "Kill your horse, Dick," he growled sharply, as he exerted his great strength to the utmost, and dragged the haunches of his own steed close to the head of the other. "It's our only chance." Dick drew his revolver, and aimed at the heart of Black Polly, but for the soul of him he could not pull the trigger. "No--I won't!" he cried, grasping the lasso which always hung at the saddle-bow. "Hobble the fore-legs!" There was such determination in the sailor's command, that Jackson felt bound to obey. At the same moment Dick bound the horse's hind-legs. He fully understood what Jackson intended, and the latter was as quick to perceive the seaman's drift. Seizing the reins, while his friend caught hold of the lasso, Dick cried, "Out o' the way, Mary!" and with a mighty effort the two men threw the mare on her side. "First-rate!" cried Jackson, while his companion held down the animal's head. "It couldn't have dropped better. Jump inside, Mary, an' lie down flat behind your pony. Let Mary have the reins, Dick. She knows how to hold its head down without showin' herself." Even while he was speaking, Jackson and Dick leaped into the triangle of horses thus formed, and, crouching low, disappeared from the sight of the savages, who now came on yelling with triumph, for they evidently thought themselves sure of their victims by that time. "Are ye a good shot, Dick?" asked Jackson, as he gazed sternly at the approaching foe. "No--abominably bad." "Fire low then. You may catch the horses if ye miss the Redskins. Anyhow you'll hit the ground if you aim low, an' it's wonderful what execution a bullet may do arter hittin' mother Earth." "I never aim," replied the sailor. "Only a waste o' time. I just point straight an' fire away." "Do it, then," growled roaring Bull, with something that sounded like a short laugh. At the same moment he himself took quick aim at the foe and fired; the leading horse and man immediately rolled upon the plain. As both men were armed with repeating rifles the fusillade was rapid, and most of the savages, who seldom fight well in the open, were repulsed. But several of them, headed apparently by their chief, rode on fearlessly until within pistol-shot. Then the two defenders of this peculiar fortress sprang up with revolvers in each hand. "Lie close, Mary," cried Jackson as he fired, and the chief's horse rolled over, almost reaching their position with the impetus of the charge. The chief himself lay beside his horse, for another shot had ended his career. As two other horses had fallen, the rest of the band wheeled aside and galloped away, followed by a brisk fire from the white men, who had again crouched behind their breast-work and resumed their rifles. Bullets were by that time flying over them in considerable numbers, for those Indians who had not charged with their chief had, after retiring to a safe distance, taken to firing at long range. At this work Dick's rifle and straight pointing were of little use, so he reserved his fire for close quarters, while Jackson, who was almost a certain shot at average ranges, kept the savages from drawing nearer. "Lie closer to the pony, Miss Mary," said Dick, as a shot passed close over the girl and whistled between him and his comrade. "Were you hurt in the fall?" "No, not in the least. Don't you think they'll hear the firing at the ranch, father?" "Ay, lass, if there's anybody to hear it, but I sent the boys out this mornin' to hunt up a bunch o' steers that have drifted south among Wilson's cattle, an' I fear they've not come back yet. See, the reptiles are goin' to try it again!" As he spoke, the remnant of the Redskins who pressed home the first charge, having held a palaver, induced the whole band to make another attempt, but they were met with the same vigour as before--a continuous volley at long range, which emptied several saddles, and then, when the plucky men of the tribe charged close, the white men stood up, as before, and plied them with revolvers so rapidly that they were fain to wheel aside and retire. "Ammunition's gettin' low," said Dick, in an anxious tone. "Then I'll waste no more," growled Jackson, "but only fire when I'm safe to hit." As he spoke a distant cheer was heard, and, looking back, they saw, with a rebound of hope, that a band of five or six cow-boys were coming from the ranch and galloping full swing to the rescue. Behind them, a few seconds later, appeared a line of men who came on at a swinging trot. "Troopers, I do believe!" exclaimed Jackson. "Thank God!" said Mary, with a deep sigh of relief as she sat up to look at them. The troopers gave a cheer of encouragement as they thundered past to the attack, but the Indians did not await the onset. At the first sight of the troops they fled, and in a few minutes pursued and pursuers alike were out of sight--hidden behind the prairie waves. "I can't tell you how thankful I am that I didn't shoot the mare," said Dick, as they unfastened the feet of Black Polly and let her rise. "I'd never have been able to look Hunky Ben in the face again arter it." "Well, I'm not sorry you spared her," said Jackson; "as for the two that are dead, they're no great loss--yet I've a kind o' regret too, for the poor things served us well." "Faithfully--even to death," added Mary, in a sorrowful tone as she stooped to pat the neck of her dead pony. "Will you mount, Miss Mary, and ride home?" asked the sailor. "Thank you--no, I'd rather walk with father. We have not far to go now." "Then we'll all walk together," said Jackson. Dick threw Black Polly's bridle over his arm, and they all set off at a smart walk for the ranch of Roaring Bull, while the troops and cow-boys chased the Redskins back into the mountains whence they had come. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. TREATS OF VARIOUS INTERESTING MATTERS, AND TELLS OF NEWS FROM HOME. Dick Darvall now learned that, owing to the disturbed state of the country, Captain Wilmot had left a small body of men to occupy Bull's ranch for a time; hence their presence at the critical moment when Jackson and his daughter stood so much in need of their assistance. He also found that there were two letters awaiting the party at Traitor's Trap--one for Charles Brooke, Esquire, and one for Mr S. Leather. They bore the postmarks of the old country. "You'd better not start back wi' them for three or four days, Dick," said Jackson, when they were seated that evening in the hall of the ranch, enjoying a cup of coffee made by the fair hands of Mary. Dick shook his head. "I'm acting post-boy just now" said he, "an' it would ill become me to hang off an' on here waitin' for a fair wind when I can beat into port with a foul one." "But if the Redskins is up all round, as some o' the boys have reported, it's not merely a foul wind but a regular gale that's blowin', an' it would puzzle you to beat into port in the teeth o' that." "I think," remarked Mary, with an arch smile, "that Mr Darvall had better `lay to' until the troops return to-night and report on the state of the weather." To this the gallant seaman declared that he would be only too happy to cast anchor altogether where he was for the rest of his life, but that duty was duty, and that, blow high or blow low, fair weather or foul, duty had to be attended to. "That's true, O high-principled seaman!" returned Jackson; "and what d'ye consider your duty at the present time?" "To deliver my letters, O Roarin' Bull!" replied Dick. "Just so, but if you go slick off when Redskins are rampagin' around, you'll be sure to get nabbed an' roasted alive, an' so you'll _never_ deliver your letters." "It's my duty to try," said Dick. "Hows'ever," he added, turning to Mary with a benignant smile, "I'll take your advice, Miss Mary, an' wait for the report o' the soldiers." When the troopers returned, their report was, that the Redskins, after being pretty severely handled, had managed to reach the woods, where it would have been useless to follow them so close upon night; but it was their opinion that the band, which had so nearly captured the boss of the ranch and his daughter, was merely a marauding band, from the south, of the same Indians who had previously attacked the ranch, and that, as for the Indians of the district, they believed them to be quite peaceably disposed. "Which says a good deal for them," remarked the officer in command of the troops, "when we consider the provocation they receive from Buck Tom, Jake the Flint, and such-like ruffians." "The moon rises at ten to-night, Dick," said Jackson, as they went together to the stables to see that the horses were all right. "That's so," said the sailor, who noticed something peculiar in the man's tone; "what may be the reason o' your reference to that bit of astronomy?" "Why, you see," returned the other, "post-boys in these diggin's are used to travellin' night an' day. An' the troopers' report o' the weather might be worse. You was sayin' somethin' about duty, wasn't you?" "Right, Jackson," returned Dick, "but Black Polly is not used to travellin' night an' day. If she was, I'd take her back to-night, for moonlight is good enough for a man that has twice taken soundin's along the road, an' who's well up in all the buoys, beacons, an' landmarks, but it would be cruelty to the good mare." "Duty first, Dick, the mare second. You don't need to trouble about her. I'll lend ye one o' my best horses an' take good care o' Black Polly till Hunky Ben claims her." "Thank 'ee, Jackson, but I'll not part wi' Black Polly till I've delivered her to her owner. I won't accept your invite to stop here three or four days, but neither will I start off to-night. I've too much regard for the good mare to do that." "Ho! ho!" thought his host, with an inward chuckle, "it's not so much the mare as Mary that you've a regard for, my young sailor!" But in spite of his name the man was much too polite to express this opinion aloud. He merely said, "Well, Dick, you know that you're welcome to squat here as long or as short a time as you like, an' use the best o' my horses, if so disposed, or do the postboy business on Black Polly. Do as ye like wi' me an' mine, boy, for it's only fair to say that but for your help this day my Mary an' me would have bin done for." They reached the stable as he was speaking, and Jackson at once turned the conversation on the horses, thus preventing a reply from Dick--in regard to which the latter was not sorry. In the stall the form of Black Polly looked grander than ever, for her head nearly touched the roof as she raised it and turned a gleaming eye on the visitors, at the same time uttering a slight whinny of expectation. "Why, I do believe she has transferred her affections to you, Dick," said Jackson. "I never heard her do that before except to Hunky Ben, and she's bin many a time in that stall." "More likely that she expected Ben had come to bid her good-night," returned the sailor. But the way in which the beautiful creature received Dick's caresses induced Jackson to hold to his opinion. It is more probable, however, that some similarity of disposition between Dick Darvall and Hunky Ben had commended itself to the mare, which was, as much as many a human being, of an amiable, loving disposition. She thoroughly appreciated the tenderness and forbearance of her master, and, more recently, of Dick. No doubt the somewhat rough way in which she had been thrown to the ground that day may have astonished her, but it evidently had not soured her temper. That night Dick did not see much of Mary. She was far too busy attending to, and providing for, the numerous guests at the ranch to be able to give individual attention to any one in particular--even had she been so disposed. Buttercup of course lent able assistance to her mistress in these domestic duties, and, despite her own juvenility--we might perhaps say, in consequence of it--gave Mary much valuable advice. "Dat man's in a bad way," said she, as, with her huge lips pouting earnestly, she examined the contents of a big pot on the fire. The black maiden's lips were so pronounced and expressive that they might almost be said to constitute her face! "What man?" asked Mary, who, with her sleeves tucked up to the elbows, was manipulating certain proportions of flour, water, and butter. "Why, Dick, oh course. He's de only man wuth speakin' about." Mary blushed a little in spite of herself, and laughed hilariously as she replied-- "Dear me, Butter, I didn't think he had made such a deep impression on you." "'S not on'y on me he's made a 'mpress'n," returned the maid, carelessly. "He makes de same 'mpress'n on eberybody." "How d'you know?" asked Mary. "'Cause I see," answered the maid. She turned her eyes on her mistress as she spoke, and immediately a transformation scene was presented. The eyes dwindled into slits as the cheeks rose, and the serious pout became a smile so magnificent that ivory teeth and scarlet gums set in ebony alone met the gaze of the beholder. "Buttercup," exclaimed Mary, stamping her little foot firmly, "it's boiling over!" She was right. Teeth and gums vanished. The eyes returned, so did the pout, and the pot was whipped off the fire in a twinkling, but not before a mighty hiss was heard and the head of the black maiden was involved in a cloud of steam and ashes! "I told you so!" cried Mary, quoting from an ancient Manuscript. "No, you di'n't," retorted her servitor, speaking from the depths of her own consciousness. We refrain from following the conversation beyond this point, as it became culinary and flat. Next day Dick Darvall, refreshed--and, owing to some quite inexplicable influences, enlivened--mounted Black Polly and started off alone for Traitor's Trap, leaving his heart and a reputation for cool pluck behind him. Of course he was particularly watchful and circumspect on the way up, but saw nothing to call for a further display of either pluck or coolness. On arriving at the cave he found his friends there much as he had left them. Buck Tom, owing to the skilled attentions which he had received from that amateur surgeon, Hunky Ben, and a long refreshing sleep--the result of partial relief from pain--was a good deal better; and poor Leather, cheered by the hope thus raised of his friend's recovery, was himself considerably improved in health and spirits. Fortunately for his own peace of mind, it never seemed to occur to Shank that a return to health meant for Buck Tom, death on the gallows. Perhaps his own illness had weakened Shank's powers of thought. It may be, his naturally thoughtless disposition helped to render him oblivious of the solemn fact, and no one was cruel enough to remind him of it. But Buck himself never forgot it; yet he betrayed no symptom of despondency, neither did he indicate any degree of hope. He was a man of resolute purpose, and had the power of subduing--at least of absolutely concealing--his feelings. To those who nursed him he seemed to be in a state of gentle, colourless resignation. Charlie Brooke and Hunky Ben, having been out together, had returned well laden with game; and Leather was busy at the fire preparing a savoury mess of the same for his sick friend when Dick arrived. "News from the old country!" he exclaimed, holding up the letters on entering the cave. "Two for Charles Brooke, Esquire, and one for Mister Leather!" "They might have been more polite to me. Hand it here," said the latter, endeavouring to conceal under a jest his excitement at the sight of a letter from home; for his wild life had cut him off from communication for a very long time. "One of mine is from old Jacob Crossley," said Charlie, tearing the letter open with eager interest. "An' mine is from sister May," exclaimed Shank. If any one had observed Buck Tom at that moment, he would have seen that the outlaw started and rose almost up on one elbow, while a deep flush suffused his bronzed countenance. The action and the flush were only momentary, however he sank down again and turned his face to the wall. Charlie also started and looked at Shank when the name of May was mentioned, and the eye of Hunky Ben was on him at the moment. But Hunky of course could not interpret the start. He knew little of our hero's past history--nothing whatever about May. Being a western scout, no line of his mahogany-looking face indicated that the start aroused a thought of any kind. While the recipients of the letters were busily perusing their missives, Dick Darvall gave the scout a brief outline of his expedition to the ranch, reserving the graphic narration of incidents to a more fitting occasion, when all the party could listen. "Dick, you're a trump," said the scout. "I'm a lucky fellow, anyhow," returned Dick. "In very truth ye are, lad, to escape from such a big bunch o' Redskins without a scratch; why--" "Pooh!" interrupted the sailor, "that's not the luck I'm thinkin' of. Havin' overhauled Roarin' Bull an' his little girl in time to help rescue them, that's what I call luck--d'ee see?" "Yes, I see," was Hunky Ben's laconic reply. Perhaps the scout saw more than was intended, for he probably observed the glad enthusiasm with which the bold seaman mentioned Roaring Bull's little girl. We cannot tell. His wooden countenance betrayed no sign, and he may have seen nothing; but he was a western scout, and accustomed to take particular note of the smallest signs of the wilderness. "Capital--first-rate!" exclaimed Charlie, looking up from his letter when he had finished it. "Just what I was going to say, or something of the same sort," said Leather, as he folded his epistle. "Then there's nothing but good news?" said Charlie. "Nothing. I suppose it's the same with you, to judge from your looks," returned Shank. "Exactly. Perhaps," said Charlie, "it may interest you all to hear my letter. There are no secrets in it, and the gentleman who writes it is a jolly old fellow, Jacob Crossley by name. You know him, Dick, as the owner of the _Walrus_, though you've never seen him." "All right. I remember; fire away," said Dick. "It is dated from his office in London," continued our hero, "and runs thus:-- "MY DEAR BROOKE,--We were all very glad to hear of your safe arrival in New York, and hope that long before this reaches your hand you will have found poor Leather and got him to some place of comfort, where he may recover the health that we have been given to understand he has lost. "I chanced to be down at Sealford visiting your mother when your letter arrived; hence my knowledge of its contents. Mrs Leather and her daughter May were then as _usual_. By the way, what a pretty girl May has become! I remember her such a rumpled up, dress-anyhow, harum-scarum sort of a girl, that I find it hard to believe the tall, graceful, modest creature I meet with now is the same person! Captain Stride says she is the finest craft he ever saw, except that wonderful `Maggie,' about whose opinions and sayings he tells us so much. "But this is a double digression. To return: your letter of course gave us all great pleasure. It also gave your mother and May some anxiety, where it tells of the necessity of your going up to that wild-west place, Traitor's Trap, where poor Leather is laid up. Take care of yourself, my dear boy, for I'm told that the red savages are still given to those roasting, scalping, and other torturing that one has read of in the pages of Fenimore Cooper. "By the way, before I forget it, let me say, in reference to the enclosed bill, it is a loan which I have obtained for Leather, at very moderate interest, and when more is required more can be obtained on the same terms. Let him understand this, for I don't wish that he should think, on the one hand, that he is drawing on his mother's slender resources, or, on the other hand, that he is under obligation to any one. I send the bill because I feel quite sure that you started on this expedition with too little. It is drawn in your name, and I think you will be able to cash it at any civilised town--even in the far west! "Talking of Captain Stride--was I talking of him? Well, no matter. As he is past work now, but thinks himself very far indeed from that condition, I have prevailed on him to accept a new and peculiar post arising out of the curious evolutions of the firm of Withers and Company which satisfies the firm completely and suits the captain to a T. As the work can be done anywhere, a residence has been taken for him in Sealford, mid-way between that of your mother and Mrs Leather, so that he and his wife and little girl can run into either port when so disposed. As Mrs L, however (to use his own phraseology), is almost always to be found at anchor in the Brooke harbour, he usually kills both with the same visit. I have not been to see him yet in the new abode, and do not know what the celebrated Maggie thinks of it. "When you find Leather, poor fellow, tell him that his mother and sister are very well. The former is indefatigable in knitting those hundreds of socks and stockings for poor people, about which there has been, and still is, and I think ever will be, so much mystery. The person who buys them from her must be very deep as well as honest, for no inquiries ever throw any fresh light on the subject, and he--or she, whichever it is--pays regularly as the worsted work is delivered--so I'm told! It is a little old lady who pays--but I've reason to believe that she's only a go-between--some agent of a society for providing cheap clothing for the poor, I fancy, which the poor stand very much in need of, poor things! Your good mother helps in this work--at least so I am told, but I'm not much up in in the details of it yet. I mean to run down to see them in a few days and hear all about it. "Stride, I forgot to say, is allowed to smoke a pipe in your mother's parlour when he pays her a visit. This is so like her amiability, for she hates tobacco as much as I do. I ventured on a similarly amiable experiment one day when the worthy Captain dined with me, but the result was so serious that I have not ventured to repeat it. You remember my worthy housekeeper, Mrs Bland? Well, she kicked over the traces and became quite unmanageable. I had given Stride leave to smoke after dessert, because I had a sort of idea that he could nor digest his food without a pipe. You know my feelings with regard to _young_ fellows who try to emulate chimneys, so you can understand that my allowing the Captain to indulge was no relaxation of my principles, but was the result of a strong objection I had to spoil the dinner of a man who was somewhat older than myself by cramming my principles down his throat. "But the moment that Mrs Bland entered I knew by the glance of her eye, as well as by the sniff of her nose, that a storm was brewing up--as Stride puts it--and I was not wrong. The storm burst upon me that evening. It's impossible, and might be tedious, to give you all the conversation that we had after Stride had gone, but the upshot was that she gave me warning. "`But, my good woman,' I began-- "`It's of no use good-womaning me, Mr Crossley,' said she, `I couldn't exist in a 'ouse w'ere smokin' is allowed. My dear father died of smokin'--at least, if he didn't, smokin' must 'ave 'ad somethink to do with it, for after the dear man was gone a pipe an' a plug of the nasty stuff was found under 'is piller, so I can't stand it; an' what's more, Mr Crossley, I _won't_ stand it! Just think, sir, 'ow silly it is to put a bit of clay in your mouth an' draw smoke through it, an' then to spit it out again as if you didn't like it; as no more no one _does_ on beginnin' it, for boys only smoke to look like men, an' men only smoke because they've got up the 'abit an' can't 'elp it. W'y, sir, you may git up _any_ 'abit. You may git the 'abit of walkin' on your 'ands an' shakin' your legs in the hair if you was to persevere long enough, but that would only prove you a fool fit for a circus or a lunatic asylum. You never see the hanimals smokin'. They knows better. Just fancy! what would you think if you saw the cab 'osses all a-settin' on their tails in the rank smokin' pipes an' cigars! What would you think of a 'oss w'en 'is cabby cried, "Gee-up, there's a fare a 'owlin' for us," an' that 'oss would say, "Hall right, cabby, just 'old on, hold man, till I finish my pipe"? No, Mr Crossley, no, I--' "`But, my good soul!' I burst in here, `do listen--' "`No use good-soulin' me, Mr Crossley. I tell you I won't stand it. My dear father died of it, an' I _can't_ stand it--' "`I _hate_ it, Mrs Bland, myself!' "I shouted this interruption in such a loud fierce tone that the good woman stopped and looked at me in surprise. "`Yes, Mrs Bland,' I continued, in the same tone, `I detest smoking. You know I always did, but now more than ever, for your reasoning has convinced me that there are _some_ evil consequences of smoking which are almost worse than smoking itself! Rest assured that never again shall the smell of the noxious weed defile the walls of this house.' "`Lauk, sir!' said Mrs Bland. "I had subdued her, Charlie, by giving in with dignity. I shall try the same role next breeze that threatens. "I almost feel that I owe you an apology for the length of this epistle. Let me conclude by urging you to bring poor Leather home, strong and well. Tell him from me that there is a vacant situation in the firm of Withers and Company which will just suit him. He shall have it when he returns--if God spares me to see him again. But I'm getting old, Charlie, and we know not what a day may bring forth." "A kind--a very kind letter," said Leather earnestly, when his friend had finished reading. "Why, he writes as if he were your own father, Brooke," remarked Buck Tom, who had been listening intently. "Have you known him long?" "Not long. Only since the time that he gave me the appointment of supercargo to the _Walrus_, but the little I have seen of him has aroused in me a feeling of strong regard." "My sister May refers to him here," said Leather, with a peculiar smile, as he re-opened his letter. "The greater part of this tells chiefly of private affairs which would not interest any of you, but here is a passage which forms a sort of commentary on what you have just heard:-- "`You will be amused to hear,' she writes, `that good Captain Stride has come to live in Sealford. Kind old Mr Crossley has given him some sort of work connected with Withers and Company's house which I can neither understand nor describe. Indeed, I am convinced it is merely work got up on purpose by Mr Crossley as an excuse for giving his old friend a salary, for he knows that Captain Stride would be terribly cast down if offered a _pension_, as that would be equivalent to pronouncing him unfit for further duty, and the Captain will never admit himself to be in that condition till he is dying. Old Jacob Crossley--as you used to call him--thinks himself a very sagacious and "deep" man, but in truth there never was a simpler or more transparent one. He thinks that we know nothing about who it is that sends the old lady to buy up all the worsted-work that mother makes, but we know perfectly well that it is himself, and dear mother could never have gone on working with satisfaction and receiving the money for it all if we had not found out that he buys it for our fishermen, who are said really to be very much in need of the things she makes. "`The dear old man is always doing something kind and considerate in a sly way, under the impression that nobody notices. He little knows the power of woman's observation! By the way, that reminds me that he is not ignorant of woman's powers in other ways. We heard yesterday that his old and faithful--though rather trying--housekeeper had quarrelled with him about smoking! We were greatly surprised, for we knew that the old gentleman is not and never was, a smoker. She threatened to leave, but we have since heard, I am glad to say, that they have made it up! "H'm! there's food for meditation in all that," said Dick Darvall, as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe and put it in his vest pocket. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. HUNKY BEN AND CHARLIE GET BEYOND THEIR DEPTH, AND BUCK TOM GETS BEYOND RECALL. While hunting together in the woods near Traitor's Trap one day Charlie Brooke and Hunky Ben came to a halt on the summit of an eminence that commanded a wide view over the surrounding country. "'Tis a glorious place, Ben," said Brooke, leaning his rifle against a tree and mounting on a piece of rock, the better to take in the beautiful prospect of woodland, river, and lake. "When I think of the swarms of poor folk in the old country who don't own a foot of land, have little to eat and only rags to cover them, I long to bring them out here and plant them down where God has spread His blessings so bountifully, where there is never lack of work, and where Nature pays high wages to those who obey her laws." "No doubt there's room enough here," returned the scout sitting down and laying his rifle across his knees. "I've often thowt on them subjects, but my thowts only lead to puzzlement; for, out here in the wilderness, a man can't git all the information needful to larn him about things in the old world. Dear, dear, it do seem strange to me that any man should choose to starve in the cities when there's the free wilderness to roam about in. I mind havin' a palaver once wi' a stove-up man when I was ranchin' down in Kansas on the Indian Territory Line. Screw was his name, an' a real kind-hearted fellow he was too--only he couldn't keep his hand off that curse o' mankind, the bottle. I mentioned to him my puzzlements about this matter, an' he up fist an' come down on the table wi' a crack that made the glasses bounce as if they'd all come alive, an' caused a plate o' mush in front of him to spread itself all over the place--but he cared nothin' for that, he was so riled up by the thowts my obsarvation had shook up. "`Hunky Ben,' says he, glowerin' at me like a bull wi' the measles, `the reason we stay there an' don't come out here or go to the other parts o' God's green 'arth is 'cause we can't help ourselves an' don't know how-- or what--don't know nothin' in fact!' "`That's a busted-up state o' ignorance, no doubt' said I, in a soothin' sort o' way, for I see'd the man was riled pretty bad by ancient memories, an' looked gittin' waxier. He wore a black eye, too, caught in a free fight the night before, which didn't improve his looks. `You said _we_ just now,' says I. `Was you one o' them?' "`Of course I was,' says he, tamin' down a little, `an' I'd bin one o' them yet--if not food for worms by this time--if it hadn't bin for a dook as took pity on me.' "`What's a dook?' says I. "`A dook?' says he. `Why, he's a _dook_, you know; a sort o' markis-- somewheres between a lord an' a king. I don't know zackly where, an hang me if I care; but they're a bad lot are some o' them dooks--rich as Pharaoh, king o' J'rus'lem, an' hard as nails--though I'm bound for to say they ain't all alike. Some on 'em's no better nor costermongers, others are _men_; men what keeps in mind that the same God made us all an' will call us all to the same account, an' that the same kind o' worms 'll finish us all off at last. But this dook as took pity on me was a true blue. He wasn't one o' the hard sort as didn't care a rush for us so long as his own stummick was full. Neether was he one o' the butter-mouths as dursen't say boo to a goose. He spoke out to me like a man, an' he knew well enough that I'd bin born in the London slums, an' that my daddy had bin born there before me, an that my mother had caught her death o' cold through havin' to pawn her only pair o' boots to pay my school fees an' then walk barefutt to the court in a winter day to answer for not sendin' her boy to the board school--_her_ send me to school!--she might as well have tried to send daddy himself; an' him out o' work, too, an' all on us starvin'. My dook, when he hear about it a'most bust wi' passion. I hear 'im arterwards talkin' to a overseer, or somebody, "confound it," says he--no, not quite that, for my dook he _never_ swore, only he said somethin' pretty stiff--"these people are starvin'," says he, "an' pawnin' their things for food to keep 'em alive, an' they can't git work nohow," says he, "an' yet you worry them out o' body an' soul for school fees!" I didn't hear no more, for the overseer smoothed 'im down somehows. But that dook--that good _man_, Hunky Ben, paid my passage to Ameriky, an' sent me off wi' his blessin' an' a Bible. Unfortnitly I took a bottle wi' me, an when I got to the other side I got hold of another bottle, an' another--an' there stands the last of 'em.' "An' wi' that, Mr Brooke, he fetched the bottle in front of him such a crack wi' his fist as sent it all to smash against the opposite wall. "`Well done, Screw!' cried the boy at the bar, laughin'; `have another bottle?' "Poor Screw smiled in a sheepish way, for the rile was out of him by that time, an', says he, `Well, I don't mind if I do. A shot like that deserves another!' "Ah me!" continued the scout, "it do take the manhood out of a fellow, that drink. Even when his indignation's roused and he tries to shake it off, he can't do it." "Well do I know that, Ben. It is only God who can help a man in such a case." The scout gravely shook his head. "Seems to me, Mr Brooke, that there's a screw loose some wheres in our theology, for I've heard parsons as well as you say that--as if the Almighty condescended to help us only when we're in bad straits. Now, though I'm but a scout and pretend to no book larnin', it comes in strong upon me that if God made us an' measures our movements, an' gives us every beat o' the pulse, an' counts the very hairs of our heads, we stand in need of His help in _every_ case and at _all_ times; that we can't save ourselves from mischief under any circumstances, great or small, without Him." "I have thought of that too, sometimes," said Charlie, sitting down on the rock beside his companion, and looking at him in some perplexity, "but does not the view you take savour somewhat of fatalism, and seek to free us from responsibility in regard to what we do?" "It don't seem so to me," replied the scout, "I'm not speakin', you see, so much of doin' as of escapin'. No doubt we are _perfectly_ free to _will_, but it don't follow that we are free to _act_. I'm quite free to _will_ to cut my leg off or to let it stay on; an' if I carry out my will an' _do_ it, why, I'm quite free there too--an' also responsible. But I ain't free to sew it on again however much I may will to do so-- leastwise if I do it won't stick. The consekinces o' my deed I must bear, but who will deny that the Almighty could grow on another leg if He chose? Why, some creeters He _does_ allow to get rid of a limb or two, an' grow new ones! So, you see, I'm responsible for my deeds, but, at the same time, I must look to God for escape from the consekinces, if He sees fit to let me escape. A man, bein' free, may drink himself into a drunkard, but he's _not_ free to cure _himself_. He can't do it. The demon Crave has got him by the throat, forces him to open his mouth, and pours the fiery poison down. The thing that he is free to do is to will. He may, if he chooses, call upon God the Saviour to help him; an' my own belief is that no man ever made such a call in vain." "How, if that be so, are we to account for the failure of those who try, honestly strive, struggle, and agonise, yet obviously fail?" "It's not for the like o' me, Mr Brooke, to expound the outs an' ins o' all mysteries. Yet I will p'int out that you, what they call, beg the question, when you say that such people `honestly' strive. If a man tries to unlock a door with all his might and main, heart and soul, honestly tries, by turnin' the key the wrong way, he'll strive till doomsday without openin' the door! It's my opinion that a man may get into difficulties of his own free-will. He can get out of them only by applyin' to his Maker." During the latter part of this conversation the hunters had risen and were making their way through the trackless woods, when the scout stopped suddenly and gazed for a few seconds intently at the ground. Then he kneeled and began to examine the spot with great care. "A footprint here," he said, "that tells of recent visitors." "Friends, Ben, or foes?" asked our hero, also going on his knees to examine the marks. "Well, now, I see only a pressed blade or two of grass, but nothing the least like a footprint. It puzzles me more than I can tell how you scouts seem so sure about invisible marks." "Truly, if they was invisible you would have reason for surprise, but my wonder is that you don't see them. Any child in wood-craft might read them. See, here is the edge o' the right futt making a faint impression where the ground is soft--an' the heel; surely ye see the heel!" "A small hollow I do see, but as to its being a heel-print I could not pronounce on that. Has it been made lately, think you?" "Ay, last night or this morning at latest; and it was made by the futt of Jake the Flint. I know it well, for I've had to track him more than once an' would spot it among a thousand." "If Jake is in the neighbourhood, wouldn't it be well to return to the cave? He and some of his gang might attack it in our absence." "No fear o' that," replied the scout, rising from his inspection, "the futt p'ints away from the cave. I should say that the Flint has bin there durin' the night, an' found that we kep' too sharp a look-out to be caught sleepin'. Where he went to arter that no one can tell, but we can hoof it an' see. Like enough he went to spy us out alone, an' then returned to his comrades." So saying, the scout "hoofed it" through the woods at a pace that tested Charlie Brooke's powers of endurance, exceptionally good though they were. After a march of about four miles in comparative silence they were conducted by the footprints to an open space in the midst of dense thicket where the fresh ashes of a camp fire indicated that a party had spent some time. "Just so. They came to see what was up and what could be done, found that nothin' partiklar was up an' nothin' at all could be done, so off they go, mounted, to fish in other waters. Just as well for us." "But not so well for the fish in the other waters," remarked Charlie. "True, but we can't help that. Come, we may as well return now." While Charlie and the scout were thus following the trail, Buck Tom, lying in the cave, became suddenly much worse. It seemed as if some string in his system had suddenly snapped and let the poor human wreck run down. "Come here, Leather," he gasped faintly. Poor Shank, who never left him, and who was preparing food for him at the time, was at his side in a moment, and bent anxiously over him. "D'you want anything?" he asked. "Nothing, Shank. Where's Dick?" "Outside; cutting some firewood." "Don't call him. I'm glad we are alone," said the outlaw, seizing his friend's hand with a feeble, tremulous grasp. "I'm dying, Shank, dear boy. You forgive me?" "Forgive you, Ralph! Ay--long, long ago I--" He could not finish the sentence. "I know you did, Shank," returned the dying man, with a faint smile. "How it will fare with me hereafter I know not. I've but one word to say when I get there, and that is--_guilty_! I--I loved your sister, Shank. Ay--you never guessed it. I only tell you now that I may send her a message. Tell her that the words she once said to me about a Saviour have never left me. They are like a light in the darkness now. God bless you--Shank--and--May." With a throbbing heart and listening ear Shank waited for more; but no more came. The hand he still held was lifeless, and the spirit of the outlaw had entered within the veil of that mysterious Hereafter. CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. CHASE, CAPTURE, AND END OF JAKE THE FLINT. It was growing dark when Brooke and the scout reached the cave that evening and found that Buck Tom was dead; but they had barely time to realise the fact when their attention was diverted by the sudden arrival of a large band of horsemen--cowboys and others--the leader of whom seemed to be the cow-boy Crux. Hunky Ben and his friends had, of course, made rapid preparations to receive them as foes, if need were; but on recognising who composed the cavalcade, they went out to meet them. "Hallo! Hunky," shouted Crux, as he rode up and leaped off his steed, "have they been here?" "Who d'ye mean?" demanded the scout. "Why, Jake the Flint, to be sure, an' his murderin' gang. Haven't ye heard the news?" "Not I. Who d'ye think would take the trouble to come up here with noos?" "They've got clear off, boys," said Crux, in a voice of great disappointment. "So we must off saddle, an' camp where we are for the night." While the rest of the party dismounted and dispersed to look for a suitable camping-ground, Crux explained the reason of their unexpected appearance. After the Flint and his companions had left their mountain fastness, as before described, they had appeared in different parts of the country and committed various depredations; some of their robberies having been accompanied with bloodshed and violence of a nature which so exasperated the people that an organised band had at length been gathered to go in pursuit of the daring outlaw. But Jake was somewhat Napoleonic in his character, swift in his movements, and sudden in his attacks; so that, while his exasperated foes were searching for him in one direction, news would be brought of his having committed some daring and bloody deed far off in some other quarter. His latest acts had been to kill and rob a post-runner, who happened to be a great favourite in his locality, and to attack and murder, in mere wanton cruelty, a family of friendly Indians, belonging to a tribe which had never given the whites any trouble. The fury of the people, therefore, was somewhat commensurate with the wickedness of the man. They resolved to capture him, and, as there was a number of resolute cow-boys on the frontier, to whom life seemed to be a bauble to be played with, kept, or cast lightly away, according to circumstances, it seemed as if the effort made at this time would be successful. The latest reports that seemed reliable were to the effect that, after slaying the Indians, Jake and his men had made off in the direction of his old stronghold at the head of Traitor's Trap. Hence the invasion by Crux and his band. "You'll be glad to hear--or sorry, I'm not sure which--" said the scout, "that Buck Tom has paid his last debt." "What! defunct?" exclaimed Crux. "Ay. Whatever may have bin his true character an' deeds, he's gone to his account at last." "Are ye sure, Hunky?" "If ye don't believe me, go in there an' you'll see what's left of him. The corp ain't cold yet." The rugged cow-boy entered at once, to convince himself by ocular demonstration. "Well," said he, on coming out of the cave, "I wish it had been the Flint instead. He'll give us some trouble, you bet, afore we bring him to lie as flat as Buck Tom. Poor Buck! They say he wasn't a bad chap in his way, an' I never heard of his bein' cruel, like his comrades. His main fault was castin' in his lot wi' the Flint. They say that Jake has bin carousin' around, throwin' the town-folk everywhere into fits." That night the avengers in search of Jake the Flint slept in and around the outlaws' cave, while the chief of the outlaws lay in the sleep of death in a shed outside. During the night the scout went out to see that the body was undisturbed, and was startled to observe a creature of some sort moving near it. Ben was troubled by no superstitious fears, so he approached with the stealthy, cat-like tread which he had learned to perfection in his frontier life. Soon he was near enough to perceive, through the bushes, that the form was that of Shank Leather, silent and motionless, seated by the side of Buck Tom, with his face buried in his hands upon his knees. A deep sob broke from him as he sat, and again he was silent and motionless. The scout withdrew as silently as he had approached, leaving the poor youth to watch and mourn over the friend who had shared his hopes and fears, sins and sorrows, so long--long at least in experience, if not in numbered years. Next morning at daybreak they laid the outlaw in his last resting-place, and then the avengers prepared to set off in pursuit of his comrades. "You'll join us, I fancy," said Crux to Charlie Brooke. "No; I remain with my sick friend Leather. But perhaps some of my comrades may wish to go with you." It was soon arranged that Hunky Ben and Dick Darvall should join the party. "We won't be long o' catchin' him up," said Crux, "for the Flint has become desperate of late, an' we're pretty sure of a man when he gets into that fix." The desperado to whom Crux referred was one of those terrible human monsters who may be termed a growth of American frontier life, men who, having apparently lost all fear of God, or man, or death, carry their lives about with hilarious indifference, ready to risk them at a moment's notice on the slightest provocation, and to take the lives of others without a shadow of compunction. As a natural consequence, such maniacs, for they are little else, are feared by all, and even brave men feel the necessity of being unusually careful while in their company. Among the various wild deeds committed by Jake and his men was one which led them into serious trouble and proved fatal to their chief. Coming to a village, or small town, one night they resolved to have a regular spree, and for this purpose encamped a short way outside the town till it should be quite dark. About midnight the outlaws, to the number of eight, entered the town, each armed with a Winchester and a brace of revolvers. Scattering themselves, they began a tremendous fusillade, as fast as they could fire, so that nearly the whole population, supposing the place was attacked by Indians, turned out and fled to the mountains behind the town. The Flint and his men made straight for the chief billiard room, which they found deserted, and there, after helping themselves to all the loose cash available, they began to drink. Of course they soon became wild under the influence of the liquor, but retained sense enough to mount their horses and gallop away before the people of the place mustered courage to return and attack the foe. It was while galloping madly away after this raid that the murderous event took place which ended in the dispersal of the gang. Daylight was creeping over the land when the outlaws left the town. Jake was wild with excitement at what had occurred, as well as with drink, and began to boast and swear in a horrible manner. When they had ridden a good many miles, one of the party said he saw some Redskins in a clump of wood they were approaching. "Did ye?" cried Jake, flourishing his rifle over his head and uttering a terrible oath, "then I'll shoot the first Redskin I come across." "Better not, Jake," said one of his men. "They're all friendly Injins about here." "What's the odds to me!" yelled the drunken wretch. "I'll shoot the first I see as I would a rabbit." At that moment they were passing a bluff covered with timber, and, unfortunately, a poor old Indian woman came out of the wood to look at the horsemen as they flew past. Without an instant's hesitation Jake swerved aside, rode straight up to the old creature, and blew out her brains. Accustomed as they were to deeds of violence and bloodshed, his comrades were overwhelmed with horror at this, and, fearing the consequences of the dastardly murder, rode for life away over the plains. But the deed had been witnessed by the relatives of the poor woman. Without sound or cry, fifty Red men leaped on their horses and swept with the speed of light along the other side of the bluff, which concealed them from the white men's sight. Thus they managed to head them, and when Jake and his gang came to the end of the strip of wood, the Red men, armed with rifle and revolver, were in front of them. There was something deadly and unusual in the silence of the Indians on this occasion. Concentrated rage seemed to have stopped their power to yell. Swift as eagles they swooped down and surrounded the little band of white men, who, seeing that opposition would be useless, and, perhaps, cowed by the sight of such a cold-blooded act offered no resistance at all, while their arms were taken from them. With lips white from passion, the Indian chief in command demanded who did the deed. The outlaws pointed to Jake, who sat on his horse with glaring eyes and half-open mouth like one stupefied. At a word from the chief, he was seized, dragged off his horse, and held fast by two powerful men while a third bound his arms. A spear was driven deep into the ground to serve as a stake, and to this Jake was tied. He made no resistance. He seemed to have been paralysed, and remained quite passive while they stripped him naked to the waist. His comrades, still seated on their horses, seemed incapable of action. They had, no doubt, a presentiment of what was coming. The chief then drew his scalping knife, and passed it swiftly round the neck of the doomed man so as to make a slight incision. Grasping the flap raised at the back of the neck, he tore a broad band of skin from Jake's body, right down his back to his waist. A fearful yell burst from the lips of the wretched man, but no touch of pity moved the hearts of the Red men, whose chief prepared to tear off another strip of skin from the quivering flesh. At the same moment the companions of the Flint wheeled their horses round, and, filled with horror, fled at full speed from the scene. The Red men did not attempt to hinder them. There was no feud at that time between the white men and that particular tribe. It was only the murderer of their old kinswoman on whom they were bent on wreaking their vengeance, and with terrible cruelty was their diabolical deed accomplished. The comrades of the murderer, left free to do as they pleased, scattered as they fled, as if each man were unable to endure the sight of the other, and they never again drew together. On the very next day Crux and his band of avengers were galloping over the same region, making straight for the town which the outlaws had thrown into such consternation, and where Crux had been given to understand that trustworthy news of the Flint's movements would probably be obtained. The sun was setting, and a flood of golden light was streaming over the plains, when one of the band suggested that it would be better to encamp where they were than to proceed any further that night. "So we will, boy," said Crux, looking about for a suitable spot, until his eye fell on a distant object that riveted his attention. "A strange-looking thing, that," remarked the scout who had observed the object at the same moment. "Somethin' like a man, but standin' crooked-like in a fashion I never saw a man stand before, though I've seen many a queer sight in my day." "We'll soon clear up the mystery," said Crux, putting spurs to his horse and riding straight for the object in question, followed by the whole cavalcade. "Ay, ay, bloody work bin goin' on here, I see," muttered the scout as they drew near. "The accursed Redskins!" growled Crux. We need scarcely say that it was the dead body of Jake they had thus discovered, tied to the spear which was nearly broken by the weight of the mutilated carcass. Besides tearing most of the skin off the wretched man's body, the savages had scalped Jake; but a deep wound over the region of the heart showed that they had, at all events, ended his sufferings before they left him. While the avengers--whose vengeance was thus forestalled--were busy scraping a shallow grave for the remains of the outlaw, a shout was raised by several of the party who dashed after something into a neighbouring copse. An Indian had been discovered there, and the cruelties which had been practised on the white man had, to a great extent, transferred their wrath from the outlaw to his murderers. But they found that the rush was needless, for the Indian who had been observed was seated on the ground beside what appeared to be a newly formed grave, and he made no attempt to escape. He was a very old and feeble man, yet something of the fire of the warrior gleamed from his sunken eyes as he stood up and tried to raise his bent form into an attitude of proud defiance. "Do you belong to the tribe that killed this white man?" said Hunky Ben, whose knowledge of most of the Indian dialects rendered him the fitting spokesman of the party. "I do," answered the Indian in a stern yet quavering voice that seemed very pitiful, for it was evident that the old man thought his last hour had come, and that he had made up his mind to die as became a dauntless Indian brave. At that moment a little Indian girl, who had hitherto lain quite concealed in the tangled grass, started up like a rabbit from its lair and dashed into the thicket. Swiftly though the child ran, however, one of the young men of the party was swifter. He sprang off in pursuit, and in a few moments brought her back. "Your tribe is not at war with the pale-faces," continued the scout, taking no notice of this episode. "They have been needlessly cruel." For some moments the old man gazed sternly at his questioner as if he heard him not. Then the frown darkened, and, pointing to the grave at his feet, he said-- "The white man was _more_ cruel." "What had he done?" asked the scout. But the old man would not reply. There came over his withered features that stony stare of resolute contempt which he evidently intended to maintain to the last in spite of torture and death. "Better question the child," suggested Dick Darvall, who up to that moment had been too much horrified by what he had witnessed to be able to speak. The scout looked at the child. She stood trembling beside her captor, with evidences of intense terror on her dusky countenance, for she was only too well accustomed to the cruelties practised by white men and red on each other to have any hope either for the old man or herself. "Poor thing!" said Hunky Ben, laying his strong hand tenderly on the girl's head. Then, taking her hand, he led her gently aside, and spoke to her in her own tongue. There was something so unexpectedly soft in the scout's voice, and so tender in his touch, that the little brown maid was irresistibly comforted. When one falls into the grasp of Goodness and Strength, relief of mind, more or less, is an inevitable result. David thought so when he said, "Let me fall now into the hand of the Lord." The Indian child evidently thought so when she felt that Hunky Ben was strong and perceived that he was good. "We will not hurt you, my little one," said the scout, when he had reached a retired part of the copse, and, sitting down, placed the child on his knee. "The white man who was killed by your people was a very bad man. We were looking for him to kill him. Was it the old man that killed him?" "No," replied the child, "it was the chief." "Why was he so cruel in his killing?" asked the scout. "Because the white man was a coward. He feared to face our warriors, but he shot an old woman!" answered the little maid; and then, inspired with confidence by the scout's kind and pitiful expression, she related the whole story of the savage and wanton murder perpetrated by the Flint, the subsequent vengeance of her people, and the unchecked flight and dispersion of Jake's comrades. The old woman who had been slain, she said, was her grandmother, and the old man who had been captured was her grandfather. "Friends, our business has been done for us," said the scout on rejoining his comrades, "so we've nothing to do but return home." He then told them in detail what the Indian girl had related. "Of course," he added, "we've no right to find fault wi' the Redskins for punishin' the murderer arter their own fashion, though we might wish they had bin somewhat more merciful--" "No, we mightn't," interrupted Crux stoutly. "The Flint got off easy in _my_ opinion. If I had had the doin' o't, I'd have roasted him alive." "No, you wouldn't, Crux," returned Ben, with a benignant smile. "Young chaps like you are always, accordin' to your own showin', worse than the devil himself when your blood's roused by indignation at cruelty or injustice, but you sing a good deal softer when you come to the scratch with your enemy in your power." "You're wrong, Hunky Ben," retorted Crux firmly. "Any man as would blow the brains out of a poor old woman in cold blood, as the Flint did, desarves the worst that can be done to him." "I didn't say nowt about what _he_ desarves," returned the scout; "I was speakin' about what _you_ would do if you'd got the killin' of him." "Well, well, mates," said Dick Darvall, a little impatiently, "seems to me that we're wastin' our wind, for the miserable wretch, bein' defunct, is beyond the malice o' red man or white. I therefore vote that we stop palaverin', 'bout ship, clap on all sail an' lay our course for home." This suggestion met with general approval, and the curious mixture of men and races, which had thus for a brief period been banded together under the influence of a united purpose, prepared to break up. "I suppose you an' Darvall will make tracks for Traitor's Trap," said Crux to Hunky Ben. "That's my trail to be," answered the scout. "What say you, Black Polly? Are ye game for such a spin to-night?" The mare arched her glossy neck, put back both ears, and gave other indications that she would have fully appreciated the remarks of her master if she had only understood them. "Ah! Bluefire and I don't talk in that style," said Crux, with a laugh. "I give him his orders an' he knows that he's got to obey. He and I will make a bee-line for David's Store an' have a drink. Who'll keep me company?" Several of the more reckless among the men intimated their willingness to join the toper. The rest said they had other business on hand than to go carousin' around. "Why, Crux," said one who had been a very lively member of the party during the ride out, "d'ye know, boy, that it's writ in the book o' Fate that you an' I an' all of us, have just got so many beats o' the pulse allowed us--no more an' no less--an' we're free to run the beats out fast or slow, just as we like? There's nothin' like drink for makin' 'em go fast!" "I don't believe that, Robin Stout," returned Crux; "an' even if I did believe it I'd go on just the same, for I prefer a short life and a merry one to a long life an' a wishy-washy miserable one." "Hear! hear!" exclaimed several of the topers. "Don't ye think, Crux," interposed Darvall, "that a long life an' a happy one might be better than either?" "Hear! _hear_!" remarked Hunky Ben, with a quiet laugh. "Well, boys," said one fine bright-looking young fellow, patting the neck of his pony, "whether my life is to be long or short, merry, wishy-washy or happy, I shall be off cow-punching for the next six months or so, somewhere about the African bend, on the Colorado River, in South Texas, an' I mean to try an' keep my pulse a-goin' _without_ drink. I've seen more than enough o' the curse that comes to us all on account of it, and I won't be caught in _that_ trap again." "Then you've bin caught in it once already, Jo Pinto?" said a comrade. "Ay, I just have, but, you bet, it's the last time. I don't see the fun of makin' my veins a channel for firewater, and then finishin' off with D.T., if bullet or knife should leave me to go that length." "I suppose, Pinto," said Crux, with a smile of contempt, "that you've bin to hear that mad fellow Gough, who's bin howlin' around in these parts of late?" "That's so," retorted Pinto, flushing with sudden anger. "I've been to hear J.B. Gough, an' what's more I mean to take his advice in spite of all the flap-jack soakers 'tween the Atlantic and the Rockies. He's a true man, is Gough, every inch of him, and men and women that's bin used chiefly to cursin' in time past have heaped more blessin's on that man's head than would sink you, Crux,--if put by mistake on _your_ head--right through the lowest end o' the bottomless pit." "Pretty deep that, anyhow!" exclaimed Crux, with a careless laugh, for he had no mind to quarrel with the stout young cow-boy whose black eyes he had made to flash so keenly. "It seems to me," said another of the band, as he hung the coils of his lasso round the horn of his Mexican saddle, "that we must quit talkin' unless we make up our minds to stop here till sun-up. Who's goin' north? My old boss is financially busted, so I've hired to P.T. Granger, who has started a new ranch at the head o' Pugit's Creek. He wants one or two good hands I know, an' I've reason to believe he's an honest man. I go up trail at thirty dollars per month. The outfit's to consist of thirty hundred head of Texas steers, a chuck wagon and cook, with thirty riders includin' the boss himself an' six horses to the man." A couple of stout-looking cow-boys offered to join the last speaker on the strength of his representations, and then, as the night bid fair to be bright and calm, the whole band scattered and galloped away in separate groups over the moonlit plains. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. THEY RETURN TO THE RANCH OF ROARING BULL, WHERE SOMETHING SERIOUS HAPPENS TO DICK DARVALL. When Dick Darvall and Hunky Ben returned from the expedition which we have just described, they found all right at the cave, except that a letter to Leather had been sent up from Bull's ranch which had caused him much grief and anxiety. "I have been eagerly awaiting your return, Ben," said Charlie Brooke, when he and the scout went outside the cave to talk the matter over, "for the news in this letter has thrown poor Leather back considerably, and, as he will continue to fret about it and get worse, something must be done." He paused for a few moments, and the scout gravely waited for him to resume. "The fact is," continued Charlie, "that poor Leather's father has been given far too much to the bottle during a great part of his life, and the letter just received tells us that he has suddenly left home and gone no one knows where. Now, my friend Leather and his father were always very fond of each other, and the son cannot forgive himself for having at various times rather encouraged his father in drinking, so that his conscience is reproaching him terribly, as you may well believe, and he insists on it that he is now quite able to undertake the voyage home. You and I know, Ben, that in his present state it would be madness for him to attempt it; yet to lie and fret here would be almost as bad. Now, what is your advice?" For some moments the scout stood silent with his eyes on the ground and his right hand grasping his chin--his usual attitude when engaged in meditation. "Is there enough o' dollars," he asked, "to let you do as ye like?" "No lack of dollars, I dare say, when needed," replied Charlie. "Then my advice," returned the scout promptly, "is to take Leather straight off to-morrow mornin' to Bull's ranch; make him comfortable there, call him Mister Shank,--so as nobody'll think he's been the man called Leather, who's bin so long ill along wi' poor Buck Tom's gang,-- and then you go off to old England to follow his father's trail till you find him. Leather has great belief in you, sir, and the feelin' that you are away doin' your best for him will do more to relieve his mind and strengthen his body than tons o' doctor's stuff. Dick Darvall could remain to take care of him if he has no objection." "I rather think he would be well pleased to do so," replied Charlie, with a laugh of significance, which the scout quietly subjected to analysis in what he styled his brain-pan, and made a note of the result in his mental memorandum book! "But I doubt if Leather--" "Shank," interrupted the scout. "Call him Shank from now, so's we may all git used to it; tho' p'r'aps it ain't o' much importance, for most o' the men that saw him here saw him in uncommon bad condition an' would hardly know him again, besides, they won't likely be at Bull's ranch, an' the captain an' troops that were here have been ordered down south. Still one can never be too careful when life and death may be i' the balance. Your friend niver was one o' the outlaws, but it mightn't be easy to prove that." "Well, then," resumed our hero, "I was going to say that I fear Shank won't be able to stand the journey even to the ranch." "No fear of that, sir. We'll carry him down to the foot o' the Trap, an' when we git out on the plain mount him on one o' the horses left by poor Buck--the one that goes along so quiet that they've given it the name o' the Wheelbarrow." "Should I speak to him to-night about our plan, Ben?" "No. If I was you I'd only say we're goin' to take him down to Bull's ranch i' the mornin'. That'll take his mind a bit off the letter, an' then it'll give him an extra lift when you tell him the rest o' the plan." In accordance with this arrangement, on the following morning a litter was made with two stout poles and a blanket between. On this the invalid was laid after an early breakfast; another blanket was spread over him, and the scout and Dick, taking it up between them, carried him out of Traitor's Trap, while Charlie Brooke, riding Jackson's horse, led the Wheelbarrow by the bridle. As for Black Polly, she was left to follow at her own convenience, a whistle from Hunky Ben being at any moment sufficient to bring her promptly to her master's side. On reaching the plain the litter was laid aside, the blankets were fastened to the horses, and Shank prepared, as Dick said, to board Wheelbarrow. "Now then, Shank," said the seaman, while helping his friend, "don't be in a hurry. Nothin' was ever done well in a hurry either afloat or ashore. Git your futt well into the stirrup an' don't take too much of a spring, else you'll be apt to go right over on the starboard side. Hup you go!" The worthy sailor lent such willing aid that there is little doubt he would have precipitated the catastrophe against which he warned, had not Hunky Ben placed himself on the "starboard side" of the steed and counteracted the heave. After that all went well; the amble of the Wheelbarrow fully justified the title, and in due course the party arrived at the ranch of Roaring Bull, where the poor invalid was confined to his room for a considerable time thereafter, and became known at the ranch as Mr Shank. One evening Charlie Brooke entered the kitchen of the ranch in search of his friend Dick Darvall, who had a strange fondness for Buttercup, and frequently held converse with her in the regions of the back-kitchen. "I dun know whar he is, massa Book," answered the sable beauty when appealed to, "he's mostly somewhar around when he's not nowhar else." "I shouldn't wonder if he was," returned Charlie with a hopeful smile. "I suppose Miss Mary's not around anywhere, is she?" "I shouldn't wonder if she wasn't; but she ain't here, massa," said the black maid earnestly. "You are a truthful girl, Butter--stick to that, and you'll get on in life." With this piece of advice Charlie left the kitchen abruptly, and thereby missed the eruption of teeth and gums that immediately followed his remark. Making his way to the chamber of his sick friend, Charlie sat down at the open window beside him. "How d'you feel this evening, my boy?" he asked. "A little better, but--oh dear me!--I begin to despair of getting well enough to go home, and it's impossible to avoid being worried, for, unless father is sought for and found soon he, will probably sink altogether. You have no idea, Charlie, what a fearful temptation drink becomes to those who have once given way to it and passed a certain point." "I don't know it personally--though I take no credit for that--but I have some idea of it, I think, from what I have seen and heard. But I came to relieve your mind on the subject, Shank. I wanted to speak with Dick Darvall first to see if he would fall in with my plan, but as I can't find him just now I thought it best to come straight to you about it. Hallo! There is Dick." "Where?" said Shank, bending forward so as to see the place on which his friend's eyes were fixed. "There, don't you see? Look across that bit of green sward, about fifty yards into the bush, close to that lopped pine where a thick shrub overhangs a fallen tree--" "I see--I see!" exclaimed Shank, a gleeful expression banishing for a time the look of suffering and anxiety that had become habitual to him. "Why, the fellow is seated beside Mary Jackson!" "Ay, and holding a very earnest conversation with her, to judge from his attitude," said Charlie. "Probably inquiring into the market-price of steers--or some absorbing topic of that sort." "He's grasping her hand now!" exclaimed Shank, with an expanding mouth. "And she lets him hold it. Really this becomes interesting," observed Charlie, with gravity. "But, my friend, is not this a species of eavesdropping? Are we not taking mean advantage of a pair who fondly think themselves alone? Come, Shank, let us turn our backs on the view and try to fix our minds on matters of personal interest." But the young men had not to subject themselves to such a delicate test of friendship, for before they could make any attempt to carry out the suggestion, Dick and Mary were seen to rise abruptly and hasten from the spot in different directions. A few minutes later Buttercup was observed to glide upon the scene and sit down upon the self-same fallen tree. The distance from the bedroom window was too great to permit of sounds reaching the observers' ears, or of facial contortions meeting their eyes very distinctly, but there could be no doubt as to the feelings of the damsel, or the meaning of those swayings to and fro of her body, the throwing back of her head, and the pressing of her hands on her sides. Suddenly she held out a black hand as if inviting some one in the bush to draw near. The invitation was promptly accepted by a large brown dog--a well-known favourite in the ranch household. Rover--for such was his name--leaped on the fallen tree and sat down on the spot which had previously been occupied by the fair Mary. The position was evidently suggestive, for Buttercup immediately began to gesticulate and clasp her hands as if talking very earnestly to the dog. "I verily believe," said Shank, "that the blacking-ball is re-enacting the scene with Rover! See! she grasps his paw, and--" "My friend," said Charlie, "we are taking mean advantage again! And, behold! like the other pair, they are flitting from the scene, though not quite in the same fashion." This was true, for Buttercup, reflecting, probably, that she might be missed in the kitchen, had suddenly tumbled Rover off the tree and darted swiftly from the spot. "Come now, Shank," said Charlie, resuming the thread of discourse which had been interrupted, "it is quite plain to Dick and to myself that you are unfit to travel home in your present state of health, so I have made up my mind to leave you here in the care of honest Jackson and Darvall, and to go home myself to make inquiries and search for your father. Will this make your mind easy? For that is essential to your recovery at the present time." "You were always kind and self-sacrificing, Charlie. Assuredly, your going will take an enormous weight off my mind, for you are much better fitted by nature for such a search than I am--to say nothing of health. Thank you, my dear old boy, a thousand times. As for Dick Darvall," added Shank, with a laugh, "before this evening I would have doubted whether he would be willing to remain with me after your departure, but I have no doubt now--considering what we have just witnessed!" "Yes, he has found `metal more attractive,'" said Charlie, rising. "I will now go and consult with him, after which I will depart without delay." "You've been having a gallop, to judge from your heightened colour and flashing eyes," said Charlie to Dick when they met in the yard, half-an-hour later. "N-no--not exactly," returned the seaman, with a slightly embarrassed air. "The fact is I've bin cruisin' about in the bush." "What! lookin' for Redskins?" "N-no; not exactly, but--" "Oh! I see. Out huntin', I suppose. After deer--eh?" "Well, now, that was a pretty fair guess, Charlie," said Dick, laughing. "To tell ye the plain truth, I have been out arter a dear--full sail-- an'--" "And you bagged it, of course. Fairly run it down, I suppose," said his friend, again interrupting. "Well, there ain't no `of course' about it, but as it happened, I did manage to overhaul her, and coming to close quarters, I--" "Yes, yes, _I_ know," interrupted Charlie a third time, with provoking coolness. "You ran her on to the rocks, Dick--which was unseamanlike in the extreme--at least you ran the dear aground on a fallen tree and, sitting down beside it, asked it to become Mrs Darvall, and the amiable creature agreed, eh?" "Why, how on earth did 'ee come for to know _that_?" asked Dick, in blazing astonishment. "Well, you know, there's no great mystery about it. If a bold sailor _will_ go huntin' close to the house, and run down his game right in front of Mr Shank's windows, he must expect to have witnesses. However, give me your flipper, mess-mate, and let me congratulate you, for in my opinion there's not such another dear on all the slopes of the Rocky Mountains. But now that I've found you, I want to lay some of my future plans before you." They had not been discussing these plans many minutes, when Mary was seen crossing the yard in company with Hunky Ben. "If Hunky would only stop, we'd keep quite jolly till you return," observed Dick, in an undertone as the two approached. "We were just talking of you, Ben," observed Charlie, as they came up. "Are you goin' for a cruise, Miss Mary?" asked the seaman in a manner that drew the scout's attention. "No," replied Mary with a little laugh, and anything but a little blush, that intensified the attention of the scout. He gave one of his quiet but quick glances at Dick and chuckled softly. "So soon!" he murmured to himself; "sartinly your sea-dog is pretty slick at such matters." Dick thought he heard the chuckle and turned a lightning glance on the scout, but that sturdy son of the forest had his leathern countenance turned towards the sky with profoundest gravity. It was characteristic of him, you see, to note the signs of the weather. "Mr Brooke," he said, with the slow deliberate air of the man who forms his opinions on solid grounds, "there's goin' to be a bu'st up o' the elements afore long, as sure as my name's Hunky." "That's the very thing I want to talk about with you, Ben, for I meditate a long journey immediately. Come, walk with me." Taking the scout's arm he paced with him slowly up and down the yard, while Dick and Mary went off on a cruise elsewhere. CHAPTER THIRTY. CHANGES THE SCENE SOMEWHAT VIOLENTLY, AND SHOWS OUR HERO IN A NEW LIGHT. The result of our hero's consultation with the scout was not quite as satisfactory as it might have been. Charlie had hoped that Hunky Ben would have been able to stay with Shank till he should return from the old country, but found, to his regret, that that worthy was engaged to conduct still further into the great western wilderness a party of emigrants who wished to escape the evils of civilisation, and to set up a community of their own which should be founded on righteousness, justice, and temperance. "You see, sir," said the scout, "I've gi'n them my promise to guide them whenever they're ready to start, so, as they may git ready and call for my services at any moment, I must hold myself free o' other engagements. To say truth, even if they hadn't my promise I'd keep myself free to help 'em, for I've a likin' for the good man--half doctor, half parson as well as Jack-of-all-trades--as has set the thing agoin'--moreover, I've a strong belief that all this fightin', an' scalpin', an' flayin' alive, an roastin', an' revenge, ain't the way to bring about good ends either among Red men or white." "I agree with you heartily, Ben, though I don't very well see how we are to alter it. However, we must leave the discussion of that difficulty to another time. The question at present is, what hope is there of your staying here even for a short time after I leave? for in Dick Darvall's present condition of mind he is not much to be depended on, and Jackson is too busy. You see, I want Shank to go out on horseback as much as possible, but in this unsettled region and time he would not be safe except in the care of some one who knew the country and its habits, and who had some sort of sympathy with a broken-down man." "All I can say, Mr Brooke, is that I'll stay wi' your friend as long as I can," returned the scout, "an' when I'm obleeged to make tracks for the west, I'll try to git another man to take my place. Anyhow, I think that Mr Reeves--that's the name o' the good man as wants me an' is boss o' the emigrants--won't be able to git them all ready to start for some weeks yet." Charlie was obliged to content himself with this arrangement. Next day he was galloping eastward--convoyed part of the way by the scout on Black Polly and Dick Darvall on Wheelbarrow. Soon he got into the region of railways and steam-boats, and, in a few weeks more was once again in Old England. A post-card announced his arrival, for Charlie had learned wisdom from experience, and feared to take any one "by surprise"--especially his mother. We need not describe this second meeting of our hero with his kindred and friends. In many respects it resembled the former, when the bad news about Shank came, and there was the same conclave in Mrs Leather's parlour, for old Jacob Crossley happened to be spending a holiday in Sealford at the time. Indeed he had latterly taken to spending much of his leisure time at that celebrated watering-place, owing, it was supposed, to the beneficial effect which the sea-air had on his rheumatism. But May Leather knew better. With that discriminating penetration which would seem to be the natural accompaniment of youth and beauty, she discerned that the old gentleman's motive for going so frequently to Sealford was a compound motive. First, Mr Crossley was getting tired of old bachelorhood, and had at last begun to enjoy ladies' society, especially that of such ladies as Mrs Leather and Mrs Brooke, to say nothing of May herself and Miss Molloy--the worsted reservoir--who had come to reside permanently in the town and who had got the "Blackguard Boy" into blue tights and buttons, to the amazement and confusion of the little dog Scraggy, whose mind was weakened in consequence--so they said. Second, Mr Crossley was remarkably fond of Captain Stride, whom he abused like a pick-pocket and stuck to like a brother, besides playing backgammon with him nightly, to the great satisfaction of the Captain's "missus" and their "little Mag." Third, Mr Crossley had no occasion to attend to business, because business, somehow, attended to itself, and poured its profits perennially into the old gentleman's pocket--a pocket which was never full, because it had a charitable hole in it somewhere which let the cash run out as fast as it ran in. Fourth and last, but not least, Mr Crossley found considerable relief in getting away occasionally from his worthy housekeeper Mrs Bland. This relief, which he styled "letting off the steam" at one time, "brushing away the cobwebs" at another, was invariably followed by a fit of amiability, which resulted in a penitent spirit, and ultimately took him back to town where he remained till Mrs Bland had again piled enough of eccentricity on the safety valve to render another letting off of steam on the sea-shore imperative. What Charlie learned at the meeting held in reference to the disappearance of old Mr Isaac Leather was not satisfactory. The wretched man had so muddled his brain by constant tippling that it had become a question at last whether he was quite responsible for his actions. In a fit of remorse, after an attack of delirium tremens, he had suddenly condemned himself as being a mean contemptible burden on his poor wife and daughter. Of course both wife and daughter asserted that his mere maintenance was no burden on them at all--as in truth it was not when compared with the intolerable weight of his intemperance-- and they did their best to soothe him. But the idea seemed to have taken firm hold of him, and preyed upon his mind, until at last he left home one morning in a fit of despair, and had not since been heard of. "Have you no idea, then, where he has gone?" asked Charlie. "No, none," said Mrs Leather, with a tear trembling in her eye. "We know, mother," said May, "that he has gone to London. The booking clerk at the station, you know, told us that." "Did the clerk say to what part of London he booked?" "No, he could not remember." "Besides, if he had remembered, that would be but a slight clue," said Mr Crossley. "As well look for a needle in a bundle of hay as for a man in London." "As well go to sea without rudder or compass," observed Captain Stride. "Nevertheless," said Charlie, rising, "I will make the attempt." "Hopeless," said Crossley. "Sheer madness," added Stride. Mrs Leather shook her head and wept gently. Mrs Brooke sighed and cast down her eyes. Miss Molloy--who was of the council, being by that time cognisant of all the family secrets--clasped her hands and looked miserable. Of all that conclave the only one who did not throw cold water on our hero was pretty little brown-eyed May. She cast on him a look of trusting gratitude which blew a long smouldering spark into such a flame that the waters of Niagara in winter would have failed to quench it. "I can't tell you yet, friends, what I intend to do," said Charlie. "All I can say is that I'm off to London. I shall probably be away some time, but will write to mother occasionally. So good-bye." He said a good deal more, of course, but that was the gist of it. May accompanied him to the door. "Oh! thank you--_thank you_!" she said, with trembling lip and tearful eyes as she held out her hand, "I feel _sure_ that you will find father." "I think I shall, May. Indeed I also feel sure that I shall--God helping me." At the ticket office he found that the clerk remembered very little. He knew the old gentleman well by sight, indeed, but was in the habit of selling tickets to so many people that it was impossible for him to remember where they booked to. In fact the only thing that had fixed Mr Leather at all in his memory was the fact that the old man had dropped his ticket, had no money to take another, and had pleaded earnestly to let him have one on trust, a request with which he dared not comply--but fortunately, a porter found and restored the ticket. "Is the porter you refer to still here?" asked Charlie. Yes, he was there; and Charlie soon found him. The porter recollected the incident perfectly, for the old gentleman, he said, had made a considerable fuss about the lost ticket. "And you can't remember the station he went to?" "No, sir, but I do remember something about his saying he wanted to go to Whitechapel--I think it was--or Whitehall, I forget which, but I'm sure it was white something." With this very slender clue Charlie Brooke presented himself in due time at Scotland Yard, at which fountain-head of London policedom he gave a graphic account of the missing man and the circumstances attending his disappearance. Thence he went to the headquarters of the London City Mission; introduced himself to a sympathetic secretary there, and was soon put in communication with one of the most intelligent of those valuable self-sacrificing and devoted men who may be styled the salt of the London slums. This good man's district embraced part of Whitechapel. "I will help you to the extent of my power, Mr Brooke," he said, "but your quest will be a difficult one, perhaps dangerous. How do you propose to go about it?" "By visiting all the low lodging-houses in Whitechapel first," said Charlie. "That will take a long time," said the City Missionary, smiling. "Low lodging-houses are somewhat numerous in these parts." "I am aware of that, Mr Stansfield, and mean to take time," returned our hero promptly. "And what I want of you is to take me into one or two of them, so that I may see something of them while under your guidance. After that I will get their streets and numbers from you, or through you, and will then visit them by myself." "But, excuse me, my friend," returned the missionary, "your appearance in such places will attract more attention than you might wish, and would interfere with your investigations, besides exposing you to danger, for the very worst characters in London are sometimes to be found in such places. Only men of the police force and we city missionaries can go among them with impunity." "I have counted the cost, Mr Stansfield, and intend to run the risk; but thank you, all the same, for your well-meant warning. Can you go round one or two this afternoon?" "I can, with pleasure, and will provide you with as many lodging-house addresses as I can procure. Do you live far from this?" "No, quite close. A gentleman, who was in your Secretary's office when I called, recommended a small lodging-house kept by a Mrs Butt in the neighbourhood of Flower and Dean Street. You know that region well, I suppose?" "Ay--intimately; and I know Mrs Butt too--a very respectable woman. Come, then, let us start on our mission." Accordingly Mr Stansfield introduced his inexperienced friend into two of the principal lodging-houses in that neighbourhood. They merely passed through them, and the missionary, besides commenting on all that they saw, told his new friend where and what to pay for a night's lodging. He also explained the few rules that were connected with those sinks into which the dregs of the metropolitan human family ultimately settle. Then he accompanied Charlie to the door of his new lodging and bade him good-night. It was a dingy little room in which our hero found himself, having an empty and rusty fire-grate on one side and a window on the other, from which there was visible a landscape of paved court. The foreground of the landscape was a pump, the middle distance a wash-tub, and the background a brick wall, about ten feet distant and fifteen feet high. There was no sky to the landscape, by reason of the next house. The furniture was in keeping with the view. Observing a small sofa of the last century on its last legs in a corner, Charlie sat down on it and rose again instantly, owing apparently to rheumatic complaints from its legs. "La! sir," said the landlady, who had followed him into the room, "you don't need to fear anythink. That sofar, sir, 'as bin in my family for three generations. The frame was renoo'd before I was born, an' the legs I 'ad taken off an' noo ones putt on about fifteen year ago last Easter as ever was. My last lodger 'ee went through the bottom of it, w'ich obliged me to 'ave that renoo'd, so it's stronger than ever it were. If you only keep it well shoved up agin the wall, sir, it'll stand a'most any weight--only it won't stand jumpin' on. You mustn't jump on it, sir, with your feet!" Charlie promised solemnly that he would not jump on it either with his feet or head, and then asked if he could have tea and a fire. On being informed that he could have both, he drew out his purse and said-- "Now, Mrs Butt, I expect to stay here for two or three weeks--perhaps longer. My name is Brooke. I was advised to come here by a gentleman in the offices of the City Mission. I shall have no visitors--being utterly unknown in this neighbourhood--except, perhaps, the missionary who parted from me at the door--" "Mr Stansfield, sir?" said the landlady. "Yes. You know him?" "I've knowed 'im for years, sir. I shall only be too pleased to 'ave any friend of 'is in my 'ouse, I assure you." "That's well. Now, Mrs Butt, my motive in coming here is to discover a runaway relation--" "La! sir--a little boy?" "No, Mrs Butt, a--" "_Surely_ not a little _gurl_, sir," said the landlady, with a sympathetic expression. "It is of no consequence what or who the runaway relation is, Mrs Butt; I merely mention the fact in order that you may understand the reason of any little eccentricity you may notice in my conduct, and not perplex your mind about it. For instance, I shall have no regular hours--may be out late or early--it may be even all night. You will give me a pass-key, and I will let myself in. The only thing I will probably ask for will be a cup of tea or coffee. Pray let me have one about an hour hence. I'm going out at present. Here is a week's rent in advance." "Shall I put on a fire, sir?" asked Mrs Butt. "Well, yes--you may." "Toast, sir?" "Yes, yes," said Charlie, opening the outer door. "'Ot or cold, sir?" "'Ot, and _buttered_," cried Charlie, with a laugh, as he shut the door after him and rendered further communication impossible. Wending his way through the poor streets in the midst of which his lodging was situated, our hero at last found an old-clothes store, which he entered. "I want a suit of old clothes," he said to the owner, a Jew, who came forward. The Jew smiled, spread out his hands after the manner of a Frenchman, and said, "My shop, sir, is at your disposal." After careful inspection Charlie selected a fustian coat of extremely ragged appearance, with trousers to match, also a sealskin vest of a mangy complexion, likewise a soiled and battered billycock hat so shockingly bad that it was difficult to imagine it to have ever had better days at all. "Are they clean?" he asked. "Bin baked and fumigated, sir," answered the Jew solemnly. As the look and smell of the garments gave some countenance to the truth of this statement, Charlie paid the price demanded, had them wrapped up in a green cotton handkerchief, and carried them off. Arrived at his lodging he let himself in, entered his room, and threw the bundle in a corner. Then he rang for tea. It was growing dark by that time, but a yellow-cotton blind shut out the prospect, and a cheery fire in the grate lighted up the little room brightly, casting a rich glow on the yellow-white table-cloth, which had been already spread, and creating a feeling of coziness in powerful contrast to the sensation of dreariness which had assailed him on his first entrance. When Mrs Butt had placed a paraffin lamp on the table, with a dark-brown teapot, a thick glass sugar-bowl, a cream-jug to match, and a plate of thick-buttered toast that scented the atmosphere deliciously, our hero thought--not for the first time in his life--that wealth was a delusion, besides being a snare. "`One wants but little here below,'" he mused, as he glanced round the apartment; "but he wants it longer than _that_," thought he, as his eyes wandered to the ancient sofa, which was obviously eighteen inches too short for him. "I 'ope you've found 'im, sir," said Mrs Butt anxiously, as she was about to retire. "Found who?" "Your relation, sir; the little boy--I mean gurl." "No, I have found neither the boy nor the girl," returned the lodger sharply. "Haven't even begun to look for them yet." "Oh! beg parding, sir, I didn't know there was _two_ of 'em." "Neither are there. There's only one. Fetch me some hot water, Mrs Butt, your tea is _too_ good. I never take it strong." The landlady retired, and, on returning with the water, found her lodger so deep in a newspaper that she did not venture to interrupt him. Tea over, Charlie locked his door and clothed himself in his late purchase, which fitted him fairly well, considering that he had measured it only by eye. Putting on the billycock, and tying the green cotton kerchief loosely round his neck to hide his shirt, he stepped in front of the looking-glass above the mantelpiece. At sight of himself he was prepared to be amused, but he had not expected to be shocked! Yet shocked he certainly was, for the transformation was so complete that it suddenly revealed to him something of the depth of degradation to which he _might_ fall--to which many a man as good as himself, if not better, _had_ fallen. Then amusement rose within him, for he was the very beau-ideal of a typical burglar, or a prize-fighter: big, square-shouldered, deep-chested, large-chinned. The only parts that did not quite correspond to the type were his straight, well-formed nose and his clear blue eyes, but these defects were put right by slightly drooping his eyelids, pushing his billycock a little back on his head, and drawing a lock of hair in a drunken fashion over his forehead. Suddenly an idea occurred to him. Slipping his latchkey into his pocket he went out of the house and closed the door softly. Then he rang the bell. "Is the gen'leman at 'ome?" he asked of Mrs Butt, in a gruff, hoarse voice, as if still engaged in a struggle with a bad cold. "What gentleman?" asked Mrs Butt eyeing him suspiciously. "W'y, the gen'leman as sent for me to give 'im boxin' lessons--Buck or Book, or some sitch name." "Brooke, you mean," said Mrs Butt still suspicious, and interposing her solid person in the doorway. "Ay, that's the cove--the gen'leman I mean came here this arternoon to lodge wi' a Missis Butt or Brute, or suthin' o' that sort--air you Mrs Brute?" "_Certainly_ not," answered the landlady, with indignation; "but I'm Mrs Butt." "Well, it's all the same. I ax yer parding for the mistake, but there's sitch a mixin' up o' Brutes an' Brookes, an' Butts an' Bucks, that it comes hard o' a man o' no edication to speak of to take it all in. This gen'leman, Mr Brute, 'e said if 'e was hout w'en I called I was to wait, an' say you was to make tea for two, an' 'ave it laid in the bedroom as 'e'd require the parlour for the mill." The man's evident knowledge of her lodger's affairs, and his gross stupidity, disarmed Mrs Butt. She would have laughed at his last speech if it had not been for the astounding conclusion. Tea in the bedroom and a mill in the parlour the first night was a degree of eccentricity she had not even conceived of. "Come in, then, young man," she said, making way. "You'll find Mr Brooke in the parlour at his tea." The prize-fighter stepped quickly along the dark passage into the parlour, and while the somewhat sluggish Mrs Butt was closing the door she overheard her lodger exclaim-- "Ha! Jem Mace, this is good of you--very good of you--to come so promptly. Mrs Butt," shouting at the parlour door, "another cup and plate for Mr Mace, and--and bring the _ham_!" "The 'am!" repeated Mrs Butt softly to herself, as she gazed in perplexity round her little kitchen, "_did_ 'e order a 'am?" Unable to solve the riddle she gave it up and carried in the cup and saucer and plate. "I beg your parding, sir, you mentioned a 'am," she began, but stopped abruptly on seeing no one there but the prize-fighter standing before the fire in a free-and-easy manner with his hands in his breeches pockets. The light of the street-lamps had very imperfectly revealed the person of Jem Mace. Now that Mrs Butt saw him slouching in all his native hideousness against her mantelpiece in the full blaze of a paraffin lamp, she inwardly congratulated herself that Mr Brooke was such a big strong man--almost a match, she thought, for Mace! "I thought you said the gen'leman was in the parlour, Mrs Brute?" said Mace inquiringly. "So 'e--_was_," answered the perplexed lady, looking round the room; "didn't I 'ear 'im a-shakin' 'ands wi' you, an' a-shoutin' for 'am?" "Well, Mrs Brute, I dun know what you 'eard; all I know is that I've not seed 'im yet." "'E must be in the bedroom," said Mrs Butt, with a dazed look. "No 'e ain't there," returned the prize-fighter; "I've bin all over it-- looked under the bed, into the cupboard, through the key'ole;--p'r'aps," he added, turning quickly, "'e may be up the chimbly!" The expression on poor Mrs Butt's face now alarmed Charlie, who instantly doffed his billycock and resumed his natural voice and manner. "Forgive me, Mrs Butt, if I have been somewhat reckless," he said, "in testing my disguise on you. I really had no intention till a few minutes ago of playing such a practical--" "Well, well, Mr Brooke," broke in the amazed yet amiable creature at this point, "I do assure you as I'd never 'ave know'd you from the worst character in W'itechapel. I wouldn't have trusted you--not with a sixpence. You was born to be a play-actor, sir! I declare that Jem Mace have given me a turn that--But why disguise yourself in this way, Mr Brooke?" "Because I am going to haunt the low lodging-houses, Mrs Butt and I could not well do that, you know, in the character of a gentleman; and as you have taken it so amiably I'm glad I tried my hand here first, for it will make me feel much more at ease." "And well it may, sir. I only 'ope it won't get you into trouble, for if the p'leece go lookin' for a burglar, or murderer, or desprit ruffian, where you 'appen to be, they're sure to run you in. The only think I would point out, sir, if I may be so free, is that your 'ands an' face is too clean." "That is easily remedied," said Charlie, with a laugh, as he stooped and rubbed his hands among the ashes; then, taking a piece of cinder, he made sundry marks on his countenance therewith, which, when judiciously touched in with a little water and some ashes, converted our hero into as thorough a scoundrel as ever walked the streets of London at unseasonable hours of night. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. FAILURE AND A NEW SCENT. Although our hero's plan of search may seem to some rather Quixotic, there was nothing further from his thoughts than merely playing at the game of amateur detective. Being enthusiastic and sanguine, besides being spurred on by an intense desire to rescue the father of May Leather, Charlie Brooke was thoroughly in earnest in his plan. He knew that it would be useless to attempt such a search and rescue in any other capacity than that of a genuine pauper, at least in appearance and action. He therefore resolved to conduct the search in character, and to plunge at once into the deepest pools of the slums. It is not our intention to carry the reader through the Arabian-night-like adventures which he experienced in his quest. Suffice it to say that he did not find the lost man in the pools in which he fished for him, but he ultimately, after many weeks, found one who led him to the goal he aimed at. Meanwhile there were revealed to him numerous phases of life--or, rather, of living death--in the slums of the great city which caused him many a heartache at the time, and led him ever afterwards to consider with anxious pity the condition of the poor, the so-called lost and lapsed, the depraved, degraded, and unfortunate. Of course he found--as so many had found before him--that the demon Drink was at the bottom of most of the misery he witnessed, but he also learned that whereas many weak and vicious natures dated the commencement of their final descent and fall from the time when they began to drink, many of the strong and ferocious spirits had begun a life of wickedness in early youth, and only added drink in after years as a little additional fuel to the already roaring flame of sin. It is well known that men of all stamps and creeds and classes are to be found in the low lodging-houses of all great cities. At first Charlie did not take note of this, being too earnestly engaged in the search for his friend, and anxious to avoid drawing attention on himself; but as he grew familiar with these scenes of misery and destitution he gradually began to be interested in the affairs of other people, and, as he was eminently sympathetic, he became the confidant of several paupers, young and old. A few tried to draw him out, but he quietly checked their curiosity without giving offence. It may be remarked here that he at once dropped the style of talk which he had adopted when representing Jem Mace, because he found so many in the lodging-houses who had fallen from a good position in society that grammatical language was by no means singular. His size and strength also saved him from much annoyance, for the roughs, who might otherwise have bullied him, felt that it would be wise to leave him alone. On one occasion, however, his pacific principles were severely tested as well as his manhood, and as this led to important results we must recount the incident. There was a little lame, elderly man, who was a habitual visitor at one of the houses which our hero frequented. He was a humorous character, who made light of his troubles, and was a general favourite. Charlie had felt interested in the man, and in ordinary circumstances would have inquired into his history, but, as we have said, he laid some restraint on his natural tendency to inquire and sympathise. As it was, however, he showed his goodwill by many little acts of kindness--such as making way for Zook--so he was called--when he wanted to get to the general fire to boil his tea or coffee; giving him a portion of his own food on the half pretence that he had eaten as much as he wanted, etcetera. There was another _habitue_ of the same lodging, named Stoker, whose temperament was the very opposite to that of little Zook. He was a huge, burly dock labourer; an ex-prize-fighter and a disturber of the peace wherever he went. Between Stoker and Zook there was nothing in common save their poverty, and the former had taken a strong dislike to the latter, presumably on the ground of Zook's superiority in everything except bulk of frame. Charlie had come into slight collision with Stoker on Zook's account more than once, and had tried to make peace between them, but Stoker was essentially a bully; he would listen to no advice, and had more than once told the would-be peacemaker to mind his own business. One evening, towards the close of our hero's search among the lodging-houses, little Zook entered the kitchen of the establishment, tea-pot and penny loaf in hand. He hastened towards the roaring fire that might have roasted a whole sheep, and which served to warm the entire basement storey, or kitchen, of the tenement. "Here, Zook," said Charlie, as the former passed the table at which he was seated taking his supper, "I've bought more than I can eat, as usual! I've got two red-herrings and can eat only one. Will you help me?" "It's all fish that comes to my net, Charlie," said the little man, skipping towards his friend, and accepting the herring with a grateful but exaggerated bow. We omitted to say that our hero passed among the paupers by his Christian name, which he had given as being, from its very universality, the best possible _alias_. A few minutes later Stoker entered and went to the fire, where loud, angry voices soon told that the bully was at his old game of peace-disturber. Presently a cry of "shame" was heard, and poor Zook was seen lying on the floor with his nose bleeding. "Who cried shame?" demanded the bully, looking fiercely round. "_I_ did not," said Charlie Brooke, striding towards him, "for I did not know it was you who knocked him down, but I _do_ cry shame on you now, for striking a man so much smaller than yourself, and without provocation, I warrant." "An' pray who are _you_?" returned Stoker, in a tone that was meant to be witheringly sarcastic. "I am one who likes fair play," said Charlie, restraining his anger, for he was still anxious to throw oil on the troubled waters, "and if you call it fair play for a heavy-weight like you to attack such a light-weight as Zook, you must have forgotten somehow that you are an Englishman. Come, now, Stoker, say to Zook you are sorry and won't worry him any more, and I'm sure he'll forgive you!" "Hear! hear!" cried several of the on-lookers. "Perhaps I _may_ forgive 'im," said Zook, with a humorous leer, as he wiped his bleeding nose--"I'd do a'most anything to please Charlie!" This was received with a general laugh, but Stoker did not laugh; he turned on our hero with a look of mingled pity and contempt. "No, Mister Charlie," he said, "I won't say I'm sorry, because I'd tell a big lie if I did, and I'll worry him just as much as I please. But I'll tell 'e what I'll do. If you show yourself as ready wi' your bunches o' fives as you are wi' yer tongue, and agree to fight me, I'll say to Zook that I'm sorry and won't worry 'im any more." There was dead silence for a minute after the delivery of this challenge, and much curiosity was exhibited as to how it would be taken. Charlie cast down his eyes in perplexity. Like many big and strong men he was averse to use his superior physical powers in fighting. Besides this, he had been trained by his mother to regard it as more noble to suffer than to avenge insults, and there is no doubt that if the bully's insult had affected only himself he would have avoided him, if possible, rather than come into conflict. Having been trained, also, to let Scripture furnish him with rules for action, his mind irresistibly recalled the turning of the "other cheek" to the smiter, but the fact that he was at that moment acting in defence of another, not of himself, prevented that from relieving him. Suddenly--like the lightning flash-- there arose to him the words, "Smite a scorner and the simple will beware!" Indeed, all that we have mentioned, and much more, passed through his troubled brain with the speed of light. Lifting his eyes calmly to the face of his opponent he said--"I accept your challenge." "No, no, Charlie!" cried the alarmed Zook, in a remonstrative tone, "you'll do nothing of the sort. The man's a old prize-fighter! You haven't a chance. Why, I'll fight him myself rather than let you do it." And with that the little man began to square up and twirl his fists and skip about in front of the bully in spite of his lameness--but took good care to keep well out of his reach. "It's a bargain, then," said Charlie, holding out his hand. "Done!" answered the bully, grasping it. "Well, then, the sooner we settle this business the better," continued Charlie. "Where shall it come off?" "Prize-fightin's agin the law," suggested an old pauper, who seemed to fear they were about to set to in the kitchen. "So it is, old man," said Charlie, "and I would be the last to engage in such a thing, but this is not a prize-fight, for there's no prize. It's simply a fight in defence of weakness against brute strength and tyranny." There were only a few of the usual inhabitants of the kitchen present at the time, for it was yet early in the evening. This was lucky, as it permitted of the fight being gone about quietly. In the upper part of the building there was an empty room of considerable size which had been used as a furniture store, and happened at that time to have been cleared out, with the view of adding it to the lodging. There, it was arranged, the event should come off, and to this apartment proceeded all the inhabitants of the kitchen who were interested in the matter. A good many, however, remained behind--some because they did not like fights, some because they did not believe that the parties were in earnest, others because they were too much taken up with and oppressed by their own sorrows, and a few because, being what is called fuddled, they did not understand or care anything about the matter at all. Thus it came to pass that all the proceedings were quiet and orderly, and there was no fear of interruption by the police. Arrived at the scene of action, a ring was formed by the spectators standing round the walls, which they did in a single row, for there was plenty of room. Then Stoker strode into the middle of the room, pulled off his coat, vest, and shirt, which he flung into a corner, and stood up, stripped to the waist, like a genuine performer in the ring. Charlie also threw off coat and vest, but retained his shirt--an old striped cotton one in harmony with his other garments. "I'm not a professional," he said, as he stepped forward; "you've no objection, I suppose, to my keeping on my shirt?" "None whatever," replied Stoker, with a patronising air; "p'r'aps it may be as well for fear you should kitch cold." Charlie smiled, and held out his hand--"You see," he said, "that at least I understand the civilities of the ring." There was an approving laugh at this as the champions shook hands and stood on guard. "I am quite willing even yet," said Charlie, while in this attitude, "to settle this matter without fighting if you'll only agree to leave Zook alone in future." This was a clear showing of the white feather in the opinion of Stoker, who replied with a thundering, "No!" and at the same moment made a savage blow at Charlie's face. Our hero was prepared for it. He put his head quickly to one side, let the blow pass, and with his left hand lightly tapped the bridge of his opponent's nose. "Hah! a hammytoor!" exclaimed the ex-pugilist in some surprise. Charlie said nothing, but replied with the grim smile with which in school-days he had been wont to indicate that he meant mischief. The smile passed quickly, however, for even at that moment he would gladly have hailed a truce, so deeply did he feel what he conceived to be the degradation of his position--a feeling which neither his disreputable appearance nor his miserable associates had yet been able to produce. But nothing was further from the intention of Stoker than a truce. Savages usually attribute forbearance to cowardice. War to the knife was in his heart, and he rushed at Charlie with a shower of slogging blows, which were meant to end the fight at once. But they failed to do so. Our hero nimbly evaded the blows, acting entirely on the defensive, and when Stoker at length paused, panting, the hammytoor was standing before him quite cool, and with the grim look intensified. "If you _will_ have it--_take_ it!" he exclaimed, and shot forth a blow which one of the juvenile bystanders described as a "stinger on the beak!" The owner of the beak felt it so keenly, that he lost temper and made another savage assault, which was met in much the same way, with this difference, that his opponent delivered several more stingers on the unfortunate beak, which after that would have been more correctly described as a bulb. Again the ex-pugilist paused for breath, and again the "hammytoor" stood up before him, smiling more grimly than ever--panting a little, it is true, but quite unscathed about the face, for he had guarded it with great care although he had received some rather severe body blows. Seeing this, Stoker descended to mean practices, and in his next assault attempted, and with partial success, to hit below the belt. This roused a spirit of indignation in Charlie, which gave strength to his arm and vigour to his action. The next time Stoker paused for breath, Charlie-- as the juvenile bystander remarked--"went for him," planted a blow under each eye, a third on his forehead, and a fourth on his chest with such astounding rapidity and force that the man was driven up against the wall with a crash that shook the whole edifice. Stoker dropped and remained still. There were no seconds, no sponges or calling of time at that encounter. It was altogether an informal episode, and when Charlie saw his antagonist drop, he kneeled down beside him with a feeling of anxiety lest he had killed him. "My poor man," he said, "are you much hurt?" "Oh! you've no need to fear for me," said Stoker recovering himself a little, and sitting up--"but I throw up the sponge. Stoker's day is over w'en 'e's knocked out o' time by a hammytoor, and Zook is free to bile 'is pot unmorlested in futur'." "Come, it was worth a fight to bring you to that state of mind, my man," said Charlie, laughing. "Here, two of you, help to take him down and wash the blood off him; and I say, youngster," he added, pulling out his purse and handing a sovereign to the juvenile bystander already mentioned, "go out and buy sausages for the whole company." The boy stared at the coin in his hand in mute surprise, while the rest of the ring looked at each other with various expressions, for Charlie, in the rebound of feeling caused by his opponent's sudden recovery and submission, had totally forgotten his _role_ and was ordering the people about like one accustomed to command. As part of the orders were of such a satisfactory nature, the people did not object, and, to the everlasting honour of the juvenile bystander who resisted the temptation to bolt with the gold, a splendid supper of pork sausages was smoking on the various tables of the kitchen of that establishment in less than an hour thereafter. When the late hours of night had arrived, and most of the paupers were asleep in their poor beds, dreaming, perchance, of "better days" when pork-sausages were not so tremendous a treat, little Zook went to the table at which Charlie sat. He was staring at a newspaper, but in reality was thinking about his vain search, and beginning, if truth must be told, to feel discouraged. "Charlie," said Zook, sitting down beside his champion, "or p'r'aps I should say _Mister_ Charlie, the game's up wi' you, whatever it was." "What d'you mean, Zook?" "Well, I just mean that it's o' no manner o' use your tryin' to sail any longer under false colours in this here establishment." "I must still ask you to explain yourself," said Charlie, with a puzzled look. "Well, you know," continued the little man, with a deprecatory glance, "w'en a man in ragged clo'se orders people here about as if 'e was the commander-in-chief o' the British Army, an' flings yellow boys about as if 'e was chancellor o' the checkers, an orders sassengers offhand for all 'ands, 'e _may_ be a gentleman--wery likely 'e is,--but 'e ain't a redooced one, such as slopes into lodgin'-'ouse kitchens. W'atever little game may 'ave brought you 'ere, sir, it ain't poverty--an' nobody will be fool enough in _this_ 'ouse to believe it is." "You are right, Zook. I'm sorry I forgot myself," returned Charlie, with a sigh. "After all, it does not matter much, for I fear my little game--as you call it--was nearly played out, and it does not seem as if I were going to win." Charlie clasped his hands on the table before him, and looked at the newspaper somewhat disconsolately. "It's bin all along o' takin' up my cause," said the little man, with something like a whimper in his voice. "You've bin wery kind to me, sir, an' I'd give a lot, if I 'ad it, an' would go a long way if I wasn't lame, to 'elp you." Charlie looked steadily in the honest, pale, careworn face of his companion for a few seconds without speaking. Poverty, it is said, brings together strange bed-fellows. Not less, perhaps, does it lead to unlikely confidants. Under a sudden impulse our hero revealed to poor Zook the cause of his being there--concealing nothing except names. "You'll 'scuse me, sir," said the little man, after the narrative was finished, "but I think you've gone on summat of a wild-goose chase, for your man may never have come so low as to seek shelter in sitch places." "Possibly, Zook; but he was penniless, and this, or the work-house, seemed to me the natural place to look for him in." "'Ave you bin to the work-'ouses, sir?" "Yes--at least to all in this neighbourhood." "What! in that toggery?" asked the little man, with a grin. "Not exactly, Zook, I can change my shell like the hermit crabs." "Well, sir, it's my opinion that you may go on till doomsday on this scent an' find nuthin'; but there's a old 'ooman as I knows on that might be able to 'elp you. Mind I don't say she could, but she _might_. Moreover, if she can she will." "How?" asked Charlie, somewhat amused by the earnestness of his little friend. "Why, this way. She's a good old soul who lost 'er 'usband an' 'er son--if I ain't mistaken--through drink, an' ever since, she 'as devoted 'erself body an' soul to save men an' women from drink. She attends temperance meetin's an' takes people there--a'most drags 'em in by the scruff o' the neck. She keeps 'er eyes open, like a weasel, an' w'enever she sees a chance o' what she calls pluckin' a brand out o' the fire, she plucks it, without much regard to burnin' 'er fingers. Sometimes she gits one an' another to submit to her treatment, an' then she locks 'em up in 'er 'ouse--though it ain't a big un--an' treats 'em, as she calls it. She's got one there now, it's my belief, though w'ether it's a he or a she I can't tell. Now, she may 'ave seen your friend goin' about--if 'e stayed long in Whitechapel." "It may be so," returned our hero wearily, for he was beginning to lose heart, and the prospect opened up to him by Zook did not on the first blush of it seem very brilliant. "When could I see this old woman?" "First thing to-morror arter breakfast, sir." "Very well; then you'll come and breakfast with me at eight?" "I will, sir, with all the pleasure in life. In this 'ere 'ouse, sir, or in a resterang?" "Neither. In my lodgings, Zook." Having given his address to the little man, Charlie bade him good-night and retired to his pauper-bed for the last time. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. SUCCESS AND FUTURE PLANS. Punctual to the minute Zook presented himself to Mrs Butt next morning and demanded audience. Mrs Butt had been forewarned of the impending visit, and, although she confessed to some uncomfortable feelings in respect of infection and dirt, received him with a gracious air. "You've come to breakfast, I understand?" "Well, I believe I 'ave," answered the little man, with an involuntary glance at his dilapidated clothes; "'avin' been inwited--unless," he added, somewhat doubtfully, "the inwite came in a dream." "You may go in and clear up that point for yourself," said the landlady, as she ushered the poor man into the parlour, where he was almost startled to find an amiable gentleman waiting to receive him. "Come along, Zook, I like punctuality. Are you hungry?" "'Ungry as a 'awk, sir," replied Zook, glancing at the table and rubbing his hands, for there entered his nostrils delicious odours, the causes of which very seldom entered his throat. "W'y, sir, I _know'd_ you was a gent, from the wery first!" "I have at least entered my native shell," said Charlie, with a laugh. "Sit down. We've no time to waste. Now what'll you have? Coffee, tea, pork-sausage, ham and egg, buttered toast, hot rolls. Just help yourself, and fancy you're in the lodging-house at your own table." "Well, sir, that _would_ be a stretch o' fancy that would strain me a'most to the bustin' p'int. Coffee, if you please. Oh yes, sugar an' milk _in course_. I never let slip a chance as I knows on. W'ich bread? well, 'ot rolls is temptin', but I allers 'ad a weakness for sappy things, so 'ot buttered toast--if you can spare it." "Spare it, my good man!" said Charlie, laughing. "There's a whole loaf in the kitchen and pounds of butter when you've finished this, not to mention the shops round the corner." It was a more gratifying treat to Charlie than he had expected, to see this poor man eat to his heart's content of viands which he so thoroughly appreciated and so rarely enjoyed. What Zook himself felt, it is impossible for well-to-do folk to conceive, or an ordinary pen to describe; but, as he sat there, opposite to his big friend and champion, stowing away the good things with zest and devotion of purpose, it was easy to believe that his watery eyes were charged with the tears of gratitude, as well as with those of a chronic cold to which he was subject. Breakfast over, they started off in quest of the old woman with teetotal proclivities. "How did you come to know her?" asked Charlie, as they went along. "Through a 'ouse in the city as I was connected with afore I got run over an' lamed. They used to send me with parcels to this old 'ooman. In course I didn't know for sartin' w'at was in the parcels, but 'avin' a nose, you see, an' bein' able to smell, I guessed that it was a compound o' wittles an' wursted work." "A strange compound, Zook." "Well, they wasn't 'zactly compounded--they was sometimes the one an' sometimes the other; never mixed to my knowledge." "What house was it that sent you?" "Withers and Company." "Indeed!" exclaimed Charlie in surprise. "I know the house well. The head of it is a well-known philanthropist. How came you to leave them? They never would have allowed an old servant to come to your pass-- unless, indeed, he was--" "A fool, sir, or wuss," interrupted Zook; "an' that's just what I was. I runned away from 'em, sir, an' I've been ashamed to go back since. But that's 'ow I come to know old Missis Mag, an' it's down 'ere she lives." They turned into a narrow passage which led to a small court at the back of a mass of miserable buildings, and here they found the residence of the old woman. "By the way, Zook, what's her name?" asked Charlie. "Mrs Mag Samson." "Somehow the name sounds familiar to me," said Charlie, as he knocked at the door. A very small girl opened it and admitted that her missis was at 'ome; whereupon our hero turned to his companion. "I'll manage her best without company, Zook," he said; "so you be off; and see that you come to my lodging to-night at six to hear the result of my interview and have tea." "I will, sir." "And here, Zook, put that in your pocket, and take a good dinner." "I will, sir." "And--hallo! Zook, come here. Not a word about all this in the lodging-house;--stay, now I think of it, don't go to the lodging-house at all. Go to a casual ward where they'll make you take a good bath. Be sure you give yourself a good scrub. D'ye hear?" "Yes, sir." He walked away murmuring, "More 'am and hegg an' buttered toast to-night! Zook, you're in luck to-day--in clover, my boy! in clover!" Meanwhile, Charlie Brooke found himself in the presence of a bright-eyed little old woman, who bade him welcome with the native grace of one who is a born, though not a social, lady, and beautified by Christianity. Her visitor went at once straight to the point. "Forgive my intrusion, Mrs Samson," he said, taking the chair to which the old woman pointed, "but, indeed, I feel assured that you will, when I state that the object of my visit is to ask you to aid in the rescue of a friend from drink." "No man intrudes on me who comes on such an errand; but how does it happen, sir, that you think _I_ am able to aid you?" To this Charlie replied by giving her an account of his meeting and conversation with Zook, and followed that up with a full explanation of his recent efforts and a graphic description of Isaac Leather. The old woman listened attentively, and, as her visitor proceeded, with increasing interest not unmingled with surprise and amusement. When he had concluded, Mrs Samson rose, and, opening a door leading to another room, held up her finger to impose silence, and softly bade him look in. He did so. The room was a very small one, scantily furnished, with a low truckle-bed in one corner, and there, on the bed, lay the object of his quest--Isaac Leather! Charlie had just time to see that the thin pale face was not that of a dead, but of a sleeping, man when the old woman gently pulled him back and re-closed the door. "That's your man, I think." "Yes, that's the man--I thank God for this most astonishing and unlooked-for success." "Ah! sir," returned the woman, sitting down again, "most of our successes are unlooked for, and, when they do come, we are not too ready to recognise the hand of the Giver." "Nevertheless you must admit that some incidents do seem almost miraculous," said Charlie. "To have found _you_ out in this great city, the very person who had Mr Leather in her keeping, does seem unaccountable, does it not?" "Not so unaccountable as it seems to you," replied the old woman, "and certainly not so much of a miracle as it would have been if you had found him by searching the lodging-houses. Here is the way that God seems to have brought it about. I have for many years been a pensioner of the house of Withers and Company, by whom I was employed until the senior partner made me a sort of female city-missionary amongst the poor. I devoted myself particularly to the reclaiming of drunkards-- having special sympathy with them. A friend of mine, Miss Molloy, also employed by the senior partner in works of charity, happened to be acquainted with Mr Leather and his family. She knew of his failing, and she found out--for she has a strange power, that I never could understand, of inducing people to make a confidant of her,--she found out (what no one else knew, it seems) that poor Mr Leather wished to put himself under some sort of restraint, for he could not resist temptation when it came in his way. Knowing about me, she naturally advised him to put himself in my hands. He objected at first, but agreed at last on condition that none of his people should be told anything about it. I did not like to receive him on such conditions, but gave in because he would come on no other. Well, sir, you came down here because you had information which led you to think Mr Leather had come to this part of the city. You met with a runaway servant of Withers and Company--not very wonderful that. He naturally knows about me and fetches you here. Don't you see?" "Yes, I see," replied Charlie, with an amused expression; "still I cannot help looking on the whole affair as very wonderful, and I hope that that does not disqualify me from recognising God's leading in the matter." "Nay, young sir," returned the old woman, "that ought rather to qualify you for such recognition, for are not His ways said to be wonderful--ay, sometimes `past finding out'? But what we know not now, we shall know hereafter. I thought that when my poor boy went to sea--" "Mrs Samson!" exclaimed Charlie, with a sudden start, "I see it now! Was your boy's name Fred?" "It was." "And he went to sea in the _Walrus_, that was wrecked in the Southern Ocean!" "Yes," exclaimed the old woman eagerly. "Then," said Charlie, drawing a packet from the breast-pocket of his coat, "Fred gave me this for you. I have carried it about me ever since, in the hope that I might find you. I came to London, but found you had left the address written on the packet, and it never occurred to me that the owners of the _Walrus_ would know anything about the mother of one of the men who sailed in her. I have a message also from your son." The message was delivered, and Charlie was still commenting on it, when the door of the inner room opened and Isaac Leather stood before them. "Charlie Brooke!" he exclaimed, in open-eyed amazement, not unmingled with confusion. "Ay, and a most unexpected meeting on both sides," said Charlie, advancing and holding out his hand. "I bring you good news, Mr Leather, of your son Shank." "Do you indeed?" said the broken-down man, eagerly grasping his young friend's hand. "What have you to tell me? Oh Charlie, you have no idea what terrible thoughts I've had about that dear boy since he went off to America! My sin has found me out, Charlie. I've often heard that said before, but have never tally believed it till now." "God sends you a message of mercy, then," said our hero, who thereupon began to relieve the poor man's mind by telling him of his son's welfare and reformation. But we need not linger over this part of the story, for the reader can easily guess a good deal of what was said to Leather, while old Mrs Samson was perusing the letter of her dead son, and tears of mingled sorrow and joy coursed down her withered cheeks. That night however, Charlie Brooke conceived a vast idea, and partially revealed it at the tea-table to Zook--whose real name, by the way, was Jim Smith. "'Ave you found 'er, sir?" said Mrs Butt, putting the invariable, and by that time annoying, question as Charlie entered his lodging. "No, Mrs Butt, I haven't found _'er_, and I don't expect to find _'er_ at all." "Lawk! sir, I'm _so_ sorry." "Has Mr Zook come?" "Yes, sir 'e's inside and looks impatient. The smell o' the toast seems a'most too strong a temptation for 'im; I'm glad you've come." "Look here, Zook," said Charlie, entering his parlour, "go into that bedroom. You'll find a bundle of new clothes there. Put them on. Wrap your old clothes in a handkerchief, and bring them to me. Tea will be ready when you are." The surprised pauper did as he was bid, without remark, and re-entered the parlour a new man! "My own mother, if I 'ad one, wouldn't know me, sir," he said, glancing admiringly at his vest. "Jim Smith, Esquire," returned Charlie, laughing. "I really don't think she would." "Zook, sir," said the little man, with a grave shake of the head; "couldn't think of changin' my name at my time of life; let it be Zook, if you please, sir, though in course I've no objection to esquire, w'en I 'ave the means to maintain my rank." "Well, Zook, you have at all events the means to make a good supper, so sit down and go to work, and I'll talk to you while you eat,--but, stay, hand me the bundle of old clothes." Charlie opened the window as he spoke, took hold of the bundle, and discharged it into the back yard. "There," he said, sitting down at the table, "that will prove an object of interest to the cats all night, and a subject of surprise to good Mrs Butt in the morning. Now, Zook," he added, when his guest was fairly at work taking in cargo, "I want to ask you--have you any objection to emigrate to America?" "Not the smallest," he said, as well as was possible through a full mouth. "Bein' a orphling, so to speak, owin' to my never 'avin' 'ad a father or mother--as I knows on--there's nothin' that chains me to old England 'cept poverty." "Could you do without drink?" "Sca'sely, sir, seein' the doctors say that man is about three parts--or four, is it?--made up o' water; I would be apt to grow mummified without drink, wouldn't I, sir?" "Come, Zook--you know that I mean _strong_ drink--alcohol in all its forms." "Oh, I see. Well, sir, as to that, I've bin in the 'abit of doin' without it so much of late from needcessity, that I don't think I'd find much difficulty in knocking it off altogether, if I was to bring principle to bear." "Well, then," continued Charlie, "(have some more ham?) I have just conceived a plan. I have a friend in America who is a reformed drunkard. His father in this country is also, I hope, a reformed drunkard. There is a good man out there, I understand, who has had a great deal to do with reformed drunkards, and he has got up a large body of friends and sympathisers who have determined to go away into the far west and there organise a total abstinence community, and found a village or town where nothing in the shape of alcohol shall be admitted except as physic. "Now, I have a lot of friends in England who, I think, would go in for such an expedition if--" "Are _they_ all reformed drunkards, sir?" asked Zook in surprise, arresting a mass of sausage in its course as he asked the question. "By no means," returned Charlie with a laugh, "but they are earnest souls, and I'm sure will go if I try to persuade them." "You're sure to succeed, sir," said Zook, "if your persuasions is accompanied wi' sassengers, 'am, an' buttered toast," remarked the little man softly, as he came to a pause for a few seconds. "I'll bring to bear on them all the arguments that are available, you may be sure. Meanwhile I shall count you my first recruit." "Number 1 it is, sir, w'ich is more than I can say of this here slice," said Zook, helping himself to more toast. While the poor but happy man was thus pleasantly engaged, his entertainer opened his writing portfolio and began to scribble off note after note, with such rapidity that the amazed pauper at his elbow fairly lost his appetite, and, after a vain attempt to recover it, suggested that it might be as well for him to retire to one of the palatial fourpence-a-night residences in Dean and Flower Street. "Not to-night. You've done me a good turn that I shall never forget" said Charlie, rising and ringing the bell with needless vigour. "Be kind enough, Mrs Butt, to show Mr Zook to his bedroom." "My heye!" murmured the pauper, marching off with two full inches added to his stature. "Not in there, I suppose, missis," he said facetiously, as he passed the coal-hole. "Oh, lawks! no--this way," replied the good woman, who was becoming almost imbecile under the eccentricities of her lodger. "This is your bedroom, and I only 'ope it won't turn into a band-box before morning, for of all the transformations an' pantimimes as 'as took place in this 'ouse since Mr Brooke entered it, I--" She hesitated, and, not seeing her way quite clearly to the fitting end of the sentence, asked if Mr Zook would 'ave 'ot water in the morning. "No, thank you, Missis," replied the little man with dignity, while he felt the stubble on his chin; "'avin left my razors at 'ome, I prefers the water cold." Leaving Zook to his meditations, Mrs Butt retired to bed, remarking, as she extinguished the candle, that Mr Brooke was still "a-writin' like a 'ouse a fire!" CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. SWEETWATER BLUFF. We must now leap over a considerable space, not only of distance, but of time, in order to appreciate fully the result of Charlie Brooke's furious letter-writing and amazing powers of persuasion. Let the reader try to imagine a wide plateau, dotted with trees and bushes, on one of the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains, where that mighty range begins to slide into union with the great prairies. It commands a view of mingled woodland and rolling plain, diversified by river and lake, extending to a horizon so faint and far away as to suggest the idea of illimitable space. Early one morning in spring, five horsemen, emerging from a belt of woodland, galloped to the slope that led to the summit of this plateau. Drawing rein, they began slowly to ascend. Two of the cavaliers were young, tall, and strong;--two were portly and old, though still hearty and vigorous; one, who led them, on a coal-black steed, was a magnificent specimen of the backwoodsman, and one, who brought up the rear, was a thin little man, who made up for what he wanted in size by the energy and vigour of his action, as, with hand and heel, he urged an unwilling horse to keep up with the rest of the party. Arrived at the summit of the plateau, the leading horseman trotted to its eastern edge, and halted as if for the purpose of surveying the position. "Here we are at last," he said, to the tallest of his comrades; "Sweetwater Bluff--and the end of our journey!" "And a most noble end it is!" exclaimed the tall comrade. "Why, Hunky Ben, it far surpasses my expectations and all you have said about it." "Most o' the people I've had to guide over this trail have said pretty much the same thing in different words, Mr Brooke," returned the scout, dismounting. "Your wife will find plenty o' subjects here for the paintin' she's so fond of." "Ay, May will find work here to keep her brushes busy for many a day to come," replied Charlie, "though I suspect that other matters will claim most of her time at first, for there is nothing but a wilderness here yet." "You've yet to larn, sir, that we don't take as long to _fix_ up a town hereaway as you do in the old country," remarked Hunky Ben, as old Jacob Crossley ambled up on the staid creature which we have already introduced as _Wheelbarrow_. Waving his hand with enthusiasm the old gentleman exclaimed, "Glorious!" Indeed, for a few minutes he sat with glistening eyes and heaving chest, quite unable to give vent to any other sentiment than "glorious!" This he did at intervals. His interest in the scene, however, was distracted by the sudden advent of Captain Stride, whose horse--a long-legged roan--had an awkward tendency, among other eccentricities, to advance sideways with a waltzing gait, that greatly disconcerted the mariner. "Woa! you brute. Back your tops'ls, won't you? I _never_ did see sitch a craft for heavin' about like a Dutch lugger in a cross sea. She sails side on, no matter where she's bound for. Forges ahead a'most entirely by means of leeway, so to speak. Hallo! woa! Ketch a grip o' the painter, Dick, an' hold on till I git off the hurricane deck o' this walrus--else I'll be overboard in a--. There--" The captain came to the ground suddenly as he spoke, without the use of stirrup, and, luckily, without injury. "Not hurt I hope?" asked Dick Darvall, assisting his brother-salt to rise. "Not a bit of it, Dick. You see I'm a'most as active as yourself though double your age, if not more. I say, Charlie, this _is_ a pretty look-out. Don't 'ee think so, Mr Crossley? I was sure that Hunky Ben would find us a pleasant anchorage and safe holding-ground at last, though it did seem as if we was pretty long o' comin' to it. Just as we was leavin' the waggins to ride on in advance I said to my missus--says I--Maggie, you may depend--" "Hallo! Zook," cried Charlie, as the little man of the slums came limping up, "what have you done with your horse?" "Cast 'im loose, sir, an' gi'n 'im leave of absence as long as 'e pleases. It's my opinion that some the 'osses o' the western prairies ain't quite eekal to some o' the 'osses I've bin used to in Rotten Row. Is this the place, Hunky? Well, now," continued the little man, with flashing eyes, as he looked round on the magnificent scene, "it'll do. Beats W'itechapel an' the Parks any 'ow. An' there's lots o' poultry about, too!" he added, as a flock of wild ducks went by on whistling wings. "I say, Hunky Ben, w'at's yon brown things over there by the shores o' the lake?" "Buffalo," answered the scout. "What! wild uns?" "There's no tame ones in them diggin's as I knows on. If there was, they'd soon become wild, you bet." "An' w'at's yon monster crawlin' over the farthest plain, like the great sea-serpent?" "Why, man," returned the scout, "them's the waggins. Come, now, let's to work an' git the fire lit. The cart wi' the chuck an' tents'll be here in a few minutes, an' the waggins won't be long arter 'em." "Ay, wi' the women an' kids shoutin' for grub," added Zook, as he limped after the scout, while the rest of the little band dispersed--some to cut firewood, others to select the best positions for the tents. The waggons, with a supply of food, arrived soon after under the care of Roaring Bull himself, with two of his cowboys. They were followed by Buttercup, who bestrode, man-fashion, a mustang nearly as black as herself and even more frisky. In a wonderfully short time a number of white tents arose on the plateau and several fires blazed, and at all the fires Buttercup laboured with superhuman effect, assisted by the cowboys, to the unbounded admiration of Zook, who willingly superintended everything, but did little or nothing. A flat rock on the highest point was chosen for the site of a future block-house or citadel, and upon this was ere long spread a breakfast on a magnificent scale. It was barely ready when the first waggons arrived and commenced to lumber up the ascent, preceded by two girls on horseback, who waved their hands, and gave vent to vigorous little feminine cheers as they cantered up the slope. These two were our old friends whom we knew as May Leather and Mary Jackson, but who must now be re-introduced to the reader as Mrs Charlie Brooke and Mrs Dick Darvall. On the same day they had changed their names at the Ranch of Roaring Bull, and had come to essay wedded life in the far west. We need hardly say that this was the great experimental emigrant party, led by the Reverend William Reeves, who had resolved to found a colony on total abstinence principles, and with as many as possible of the sins of civilisation left behind. They found, alas! that sin is not so easily got rid of; nevertheless, the effort was not altogether fruitless, and Mr Reeves carried with him a sovereign antidote for sin in the shape of a godly spirit. The party was a large one, for there were many men and women of the frontier whose experiences had taught them that life was happier and better in every way without the prevalent vices of gambling and drinking. Of course the emigrants formed rather a motley band. Among them, besides those of our friends already mentioned, there were our hero's mother and all the Leather family. Captain Stride's daughter as well as his "Missus," and Mr Crossley's housekeeper, Mrs Bland. That good woman, however, had been much subdued and rendered harmless by the terrors of the wilderness, to which she had been recently exposed. Miss Molloy was also there, with an enormous supply of knitting needles and several bales of worsted. Poor Shank Leather was still so much of an invalid as to be obliged to travel in a spring cart with his father, but both men were rapidly regaining physical strength under the influence of temperance, and spiritual strength under a higher power. Soon the hammer, axe, and saw began to resound in that lovely western wilderness; the net to sweep its lakes; the hook to invade its rivers; the rifle to crack in the forests, and the plough to open up its virgin soil. In less time, almost, than a European would take to wink, the town of Sweetwater Bluff sprang into being; stores and workshops, a school and a church, grew, up like mushrooms; seed was sown, and everything, in short, was done that is characteristic of the advent of a thriving community. But not a gambling or drinking saloon, or a drop of firewater, was to be found in all the town. In spite of this, Indians brought their furs to it; trappers came to it for supplies; emigrants turned aside to see and rest in it; and the place soon became noted as a flourishing and pre-eminently peaceful spot. CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. The Last. But a little cloud arose ere long on the horizon of Sweetwater Bluff. Insignificant at first, it suddenly spread over the sky and burst in a wild storm. The first intimation of its approach came from Charlie Brooke one quiet autumn evening, in that brief but delightful season known as the Indian Summer. Charlie entered his garden that evening with a fowling-piece on his shoulder, and two brace of prairie hens at his girdle. May was seated at her cottage door, basking in sunshine, chatting with her mother--who was knitting of course--and Shank was conversing with Hunky Ben, who rested after a day of labour. "There, May, is to-morrow's dinner," said Charlie, throwing the birds at his wife's feet, and sitting down beside her. "Who d'you think I passed when I was out on the plains to-day, Hunky? Your old friend Crux the Cowboy." "He's no friend o' mine," said the scout, while something like a frown flitted across his usually placid brow. "I'm not over-pleased to hear that he's comin', for it's said that some old uncle or aunt o' his--I forget which--has left him a lot o' dollars. I hope he ain't comin' to spend 'em here, for he'd never git along without gamblin' an' drinkin'." "Then, I can tell you that he _is_ just coming to stay here," returned Charlie, "for he has several waggons with him, and a dozen men. I asked him where he was going to, and he said, to locate himself as a store-keeper at Sweetwater Bluff; but he did not seem inclined to be communicative, so I left him and galloped on to report the news. What d'you think about it?" "I think it'll be a bad day for Sweetwater Bluff when Crux comes to settle in it. Howsoever, this is a free country, an' we've no right to interfere with him so long as he don't break the laws. But I doubt him. I'm afeard he'll try to sell drink, an' there's some o' our people who are longin' to git back to that." The other members of the party, and indeed those heads of the town generally who knew Crux, were of much the same opinion, but some of them thought that, being in a free country, no one had a right to interfere. The consequence was that Crux and his men were permitted to go to work. They hired a shed in which to stow their goods, while they were engaged in building a store, and in course of time this was finished; but there was a degree of mystery about the ex-cowboy's proceedings which baffled investigation, and people did not like to press inquiry too far; for it was observed that all the men who had accompanied Crux were young and powerful fellows, well armed with rifle and revolver. At last however, the work was finished, and the mystery was cleared up, for, one fine morning, the new store was opened as a drinking and gambling saloon; and that same evening the place was in full swing-- sending forth the shouts, songs, cursing and demoniac laughter for which such places are celebrated. Consternation filled the hearts of the community, for it was not only the men brought there by Crux who kept up their revels in the new saloon, but a sprinkling of the spirited young fellows of the town also, who had never been very enthusiastic in the temperance cause, and were therefore prepared to fall before the first temptation. At a conference of the chief men of the town it was resolved to try to induce Crux to quit quietly, and for this end to offer to buy up his stock-in-trade. Hunky Ben, being an old acquaintance, was requested to go to the store as a deputation. But the ex-cowboy was inexorable. Neither the offer of money nor argument had any effect on him. "Well, Crux," said the scout, at the conclusion of his visit, "you know your own affairs best but, rememberin' as I do, what you used to be, I thought there was more of fair-play about you." "Fair-play! What d'ye mean?" "I mean that when folk let _you_ alone, you used to be willin' to let _them_ alone. Here has a crowd o' people come back all this way into the Rockies to escape from the curse o' strong drink and gamblin', an' here has Crux--a lover o' fair-play--come all this way to shove that curse right under their noses. I'd thowt better of ye, Crux, lad." "It don't matter much what you thowt o' me, old man," returned the cowboy, somewhat sharply; "an', as to fair-play, there's a lot of men here who don't agree wi' your humbuggin' notions about temperance an' tee-totalism--more of 'em, maybe, than you think. These want to have the drink, an' I've come to give it 'em. I see nothin' unfair in that." Hunky Ben carried his report back to the council, which for some time discussed the situation. As in the case of most councils, there was some difference of opinion: a few of the members being inclined to carry things with a high hand--being urged thereto by Captain Stride--while others, influenced chiefly by Mr Reeves, were anxious to try peaceable means. At last a sub-committee was appointed, at Hunky Ben's suggestion, to consider the whole matter, and take what steps seemed advisable. Hunky was an adroit and modest man--he could not have been a first-rate scout otherwise! He managed not only to become convener of the committee, but succeeded in getting men chiefly of his own opinion placed on it. At supper that night in Charlie's cottage, while enjoying May's cookery and presence, and waited on by the amused and interested Buttercup, the sub-committee discussed and settled the plan of operations. "It's all nonsense," said Hunky Ben, "to talk of tryin' to persuade Crux. He's as obstinate as a Texas mule wi' the toothache." "Rubbish!" exclaimed Captain Stride, smiting the table with his fist. "We mustn't parley with him, but heave him overboard at once! I said so to my missus this very day. `Maggie,' says I--" "And what do _you_ think, Charlie?" asked Mr Crossley. "I think with Hunky Ben, of course. He knows Crux, and what is best to be done in the circumstances. The only thing that perplexes me, is what shall we do with the liquor when we've paid for it? A lot of it is good wine and champagne, and, although useless as a beverage, it is useful as a medicine, and might be given to hospitals." "Pour it out!" exclaimed Shank, almost fiercely. "Ay, the hospitals can look out for themselves," added Shank's father warmly. "Some hospitals, I've bin told, git on well enough without it altogether," said Dick Darvall. "However, it's a subject that desarves consideration.--Hallo! Buttercup, what is it that tickles your fancy an' makes your mouth stretch out like that?" Buttercup became preternaturally grave on the instant, but declined to tell what it was that tickled her fancy. Shortly after the party rose and left the house, Hunky Ben remarking, with a quiet laugh, that deeds of darkness were best hatched at night. What the conspirators hatched became pretty evident next day, for, during the breakfast hour, a band of forty horsemen rode slowly down the sloping road which led to the plains, and on the side of which Crux had built his saloon. Crux and his men turned out in some surprise to watch the cavalcade as it passed. The band was led by Charlie Brooke, and the scout rode in advance on Black Polly as guide. "Is it the Reds or the Buffalo you're after to-day, Hunky, with such a big crowd?" asked Crux. "Halt!" cried Charlie, at that moment. The forty men obeyed, and, turning suddenly to the left, faced the saloon. "Hands up!" said Charlie, whose men at the same moment pointed their rifles at Crux and his men. These were all too familiar with the order to dare to disobey it. Our hero then ordered a small detachment of his men to enter the saloon and fetch out all rifles and pistols, and those of Crux's people who chanced to have their weapons about them, were disarmed. Another detachment went off to the stables behind the saloon. While they were thus engaged, Charlie addressed Crux. "We have decided to expel you, Crux, from this town," he said, as he drew an envelope from his pocket. "We have tried to convince you that, as the majority of the people here don't want you, it is your duty to go. As you don't seem to see this, we now take the law into our own hands. We love fair-play, however, so you will find in this envelope a cheque which we have reason to believe is fully equal to the value of your saloon and all its contents. Your lost time and trouble is your own affair. As you came without invitation, you must go without compensation. Here are your rifles, and revolvers, emptied of cartridges, and there are your horses saddled." As he spoke, one detachment of his men handed rifles and revolvers to the party, who were stricken dumb with amazement. At the same time, their horses, saddled and bridled, were led to the front and delivered to them. "We have no provisions," said Crux, at last recovering the use of his tongue; "and without ammunition we cannot procure any." "That has been provided for," said our hero, turning to Hunky Ben. "Ay, Crux," said the scout, "we don't want to starve you, though the 'arth wouldn't lose much if we did. At the other end o' the lake, about five mile from here, you'll find a red rag flyin' at the branch of a tree. In the hole of a rock close beside it, you'll find three days' provisions for you and your men, an' a lot of ammunition." "Now, mount and go," said Charlie, "and if you ever show face here again, except as friends, your blood be on your own heads!" Crux did not hesitate. He and his men saw that the game was up; without another word they mounted their horses and galloped away. While this scene was being enacted a dark creature, with darker designs, entered the drinking saloon and descended to the cellar. Finding a spirit-cask with a tap in it, Buttercup turned it on, then, pulling a match-box out of her pocket she muttered, "I t'ink de hospitals won't git much ob it!" and applied a light. The effect was more powerful than she had expected. The spirit blazed up with sudden fury, singeing off the girl's eyebrows and lashes, and almost blinding her. In her alarm Buttercup dashed up to the saloon, missed her way, and found herself on the stair leading to the upper floor. A cloud of smoke and fire forced her to rush up. She went to the window and yelled, on observing that it was far too high to leap. She rushed to another window and howled in horror, for escape was apparently impossible. Charlie heard the howl. He and his men had retired to a safe distance when the fire was first observed--thinking the place empty--but the howl touched a chord in our hero's sympathetic breast, which was ever ready to vibrate. From whom the howl proceeded mattered little or nothing to Charlie Brooke. Sufficient that it was the cry of a living being in distress. He sprang at once through the open doorway of the saloon, through which was issuing a volume of thick smoke, mingled with flame. "God help him! the place'll blow up in a few minutes," cried Hunky Ben, losing, for once, his imperturbable coolness, and rushing wildly after his friend. But at that moment the thick smoke burst into fierce flame and drove him back. Charlie sprang up the staircase three steps at a time, holding his breath to avoid suffocation. He reached the landing, where Buttercup ran, or, rather, fell, almost fainting, into his arms. At the moment an explosion in the cellar shook the building to its foundation, and, shattering one of the windows, caused a draught of air to drive aside the smoke. Charlie gasped a mouthful of air and looked round. Flames were by that time roaring up the only staircase. A glance from the nearest window showed that a leap thence meant broken limbs, if not death, to both. A ladder up to a trap-door suggested an exit by the roof. It might only lead to a more terrible leap, but meanwhile it offered relief from imminent suffocation. Charlie bore the half-dead girl to the top rung, and found the trap-door padlocked, but a thrust from his powerful shoulder wrenched hasp and padlock from their hold, and next moment a wild cheer greeted him as he stood on a corner of the gable. But a depth of forty or fifty feet was below him with nothing to break his fall to the hard earth. "Jump!" yelled one of the onlookers. "No, don't!" cried another, "you'll be killed." "Hold your noise," roared Hunky Ben, "and lend a hand here--sharp!--the house'll blow up in a minute." He ran as he spoke towards a cart which was partly filled with hay. Seizing the trams he raised them. Willing hands helped, and the cart was run violently up against the gable--Hunky shouting to some of the men to fetch more hay. But there was no time for that. Another explosion took place inside the building, which Charlie knew must have driven in the sides of more casks and let loose fresh fuel. A terrible roar, followed by ominous cracking of the roof, warned him that there was no time to lose. He looked steadily at the cart for a moment and leaped. His friends held their breath as the pair descended. The hay would not have sufficed to break the fall sufficiently, but happily the cart was an old one. When they came down on it like a thunderbolt, the bottom gave way. Crashing through it the pair came to the ground, heavily indeed, but uninjured! The fall, which almost stunned our hero, had the curious effect of reviving Buttercup, for she muttered something to the effect that, "dat was a mos' drefful smash," as they conveyed her and her rescuer from the vicinity of danger. This had scarcely been done when the house blew up--its walls were driven outwards, its roof was blown off, its bottles were shattered, all its baleful contents were scattered around, and, amid an appropriate hurricane of blue fire, that drinking and gambling saloon was blown to atoms. Would that a like fate might overtake every similar establishment in the world! This was the first and last attempt to disturb the peace of Sweetwater Bluff. It is said, indeed, that Crux and some of his men did, long afterwards, make their appearance in that happy and flourishing town, but they came as reformed men, not as foes--men who had found out that in very truth sobriety tends to felicity, that honesty is the best policy, and that the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. THE END. 
37502	----	CLIMBING IN THE BRITISH ISLES _WALES AND IRELAND_ CLIMBING IN THE BRITISH ISLES _3 vols. 16mo. Sold separately._ I.--ENGLAND. By W. P. HASKETT SMITH, M.A., Member of the Alpine Club. With 23 Illustrations by Ellis Carr, Member of the Alpine Club, and 5 Plans. 3_s._ 6_d._ II.--WALES AND IRELAND. By W. P. HASKETT SMITH, M.A., and H. C. HART, Members of the Alpine Club. With 31 Illustrations by ELLIS CARR and others, and 9 Plans. 3_s._ 6_d._ III.--SCOTLAND. [_In preparation._] London and New York: LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO. CLIMBING IN THE BRITISH ISLES _II--WALES AND IRELAND_ =WALES= BY W. P. HASKETT SMITH, M.A. Member of the Alpine Club =IRELAND= BY H. C. HART Member of the Alpine Club; Fellow of the Linnean Society Member of the Royal Irish Academy, etc. WITH THIRTY-ONE ILLUSTRATIONS BY ELLIS CARR Member of the Alpine Club _and others_ AND NINE PLANS LONDON LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. AND NEW YORK 1895 _All rights reserved_ PREFACE The present volume is intended to deal with all parts of the British Isles except England, which was the subject of Vol. I., and Scotland, to which Vol. III. will be devoted. Nothing is here said about the _Isle of Man_ or the Channel Islands, because it would, no doubt, be considered absurd to advise anyone to visit those islands whose main object was the acquisition of mountaineering skill. Pretty as the former island is, its hills are nothing more than hills, except where they are also railways or tea gardens; and even on its cliffs, which are especially fine at the southern end, comparatively little climbing will be found. In the _Channel Islands_, on the other hand, the granite cliffs, though very low, being usually only 100-200 ft. high, abound in instructive scrambles. Many such will be found in Guernsey, Jersey, and especially in Sark, but the granite is not everywhere of equally good quality. The _Scilly Isles_, again, are by no means to be despised by climbers, especially by such of them as can enjoy knocking about in a small boat, which is almost the only means of getting from climb to climb. The granite forms are somewhat wilder and more fantastic than those in the Channel Islands. Peninnis Head is only one of many capital scrambling grounds. An article by Dr. Treves[1] gives a very good idea of the kind of thing which may be expected. If anyone should think of proceeding, under the guidance of this volume, to regions with which he is so far unacquainted, he will naturally ask how the climbing here described compares with the climbing in other parts of Britain or of Europe. How does Wales, for instance, stand with regard to Cumberland or the Alps? On this point some good remarks will be found in the _Penny Magazine_, vii., p. 161 (1838), where the writer assigns to the more northern hills a slight superiority over Wales. An impression prevails among those who know both that the weather of N. Wales is, if possible, more changeable than that of the Lakes. Climbers will notice this chiefly in winter, when the snow on the Welsh mountains less frequently settles into sound condition. Perhaps sudden changes of temperature are partly to blame for the greater frequency in Wales of deaths from exposure. Winter climbing is very enjoyable, but proper precautions must be taken against the cold. A writer on Wales some 300 years ago observes that 'the cold Aire of these Mountainous Regions by an Antiperistasis keeps in and strengthens the internall heat;' but a good woollen sweater, a warm cap to turn down over the ears and neck, and three pairs of gloves, two pairs on and one pair dry in the pocket, will be found quite as effectual. Dangers, however, cease not with the setting sun, and many who have defied frost-bite during the day fall an easy prey to rheumatism in bed at night. A groundless terror of the Welsh language keeps many away from Wales. The names are certainly of formidable appearance, and Barham's lines are hardly an exaggeration. [1] _Boy's Own Paper_, May 5, 1894. For the vowels made use of in Welsh are so few That the A and the E and the I, O, and U Have really but little or nothing to do. And the duty, of course, falls the heavier by far On the L and the H, and the N and the R. The first syllable PEN is pronounceable; then Come two LL and two HH, two FF, and an N. But appalling words like 'Slwch Twmp' or 'Cwmtrwsgl' lose half their venom when it is explained that W is only a way of writing OO. In spite of its apparent complication the language is so simple and systematic that anyone can learn enough in a quarter of an hour to enable him to pronounce with ease and moderate accuracy any place-name with which he is likely to meet. Irish is less regular, but wonderfully rich in expressions for slightly varying physical features, while the Manx names are more interesting than the hills by which they are borne. In comparison with the Alps what was said in Vol. I. of Cumberland applies equally well to Wales, and nearly as well to Kerry or Donegal. The most striking peculiarity of Irish mountains is, next to the size of the bogs, the large amount of car-driving which has to be done before and after the day's work. But this is an intrusion on the province of another. Old Thomas Fuller, on sitting down to write a detailed account of Wales, which he had never seen, genially remarked that 'it matters not how meanly skilled a writer is so long as he hath knowing and communicative friends.' That precisely describes the Editor's position, especially with regard to Ireland, to the treatment of which no other man could have brought knowledge at once so wide and so accurate as Mr. Hart. Unfortunately he, like his own 'carrabuncle,' was somewhat elusive. After months of mysterious silence he would glide into sight, great with solid mountaineering matter, gleaming with pearls of botany and gems of geologic lore; but, alas! in another moment the waters of bronchitis, or influenza, or inertia would close over the mysterious monster's back, and he would glide away into unknown depths where the harpoon of the penny post was harmless and telegrams tickled him in vain. Now the carrabuncle is caught at last, and readers will be well repaid for a few months' delay. They will be astonished that one pair of eyes could take in so much, and that one pair of legs could cover so much ground. Among many other 'knowing and communicative friends' the Editor would especially dwell on his indebtedness to Mr. F. H. Bowring and to Mr. O. G. Jones. The latter has contributed the whole of the section dealing with the Arans and Cader Idris, and his minute knowledge of that region will be evident from the fact that the quantity which our space has allowed us to print represents less than half of the matter originally supplied by him. For most of the sketches we are again indebted to Mr. Ellis Carr, for a striking view of Tryfaen to Mr. Colin Phillips, and for the remainder (taken under most cruel conditions of weather) to Mr. Harold Hughes of Bangor. W. P. H. S. _August 1895._ CLIMBING IN THE BRITISH ISLES WALES WHERE TO STAY =Aber.=--This station on the Chester and Holyhead Railway is in no sense a centre for mountaineers, though a good deal of work _may_ be done from it. We ourselves 'in our hot youth, when George the Third was King,' and a dozen miles extra tramping at the end of a day was a mere trifle, managed to do many of the mountains of North Wales from it. Its only attraction is a pretty valley, at the head of which are some not very striking waterfalls. The surrounding rocks have, however, been the scene of a surprising number of accidents. Most of these have been caused by slipping on the path which crosses the steep slope of the eastern bank and leads to the head of the main fall. Such was the fatal accident on April 13, 1873, to Mr. F. T. Payne, a barrister. His sight was very defective, and this fact goes far towards accounting for the accident.[2] [2] The _Times_, April 16, 1873, p. 6. In 1876 a very similar case occurred. A young man called Empson, who was staying at Llanfairfechan, was killed in descending, apparently at the very same spot.[3] [3] The _Times_, September 9, 1876, p. 8. In April 1885 Mr. Maitland Wills, described as an expert mountaineer, while walking with two friends from Capel Curig to Aber, fell near the same spot, and was instantly killed.[4] [4] _Ibid._ April 7, 1885, p. 7. In August of the same year Mr. Paget, the Hammersmith Police Magistrate, fell and was severely hurt.[5] And these by no means exhaust the list of casualties, which is, perhaps, only second in length to that of Snowdon itself. It may be mentioned that there is a climb or two on the west and steeper side of the falls. [5] _Ibid._ August 3, 1885, p. 10. * * * * * =Bala=, reached from London in about 7 hours by the Great Western line, is a very pleasant place to stop at on entering Wales, being situated at the foot of the finest natural sheet of water in the Principality, and having railway facilities in three directions. By the aid of the rail Cader Idris, the Arans, and the Rhinogs can be easily got at. For the first mountains Dolgelly, for the second Drwsynant and Llanuwchllyn, for the third Maentwrog would be the best stations. This is also the best place for Arenig Fawr, which can be done on foot all the way, or better by taking the train to Arenig station and returning by rail from Llanuwchllyn after crossing the hill. Lord Lyttelton made Bala famous last century. What he said of it will sufficiently appear from some lines (long since erased by the indignant ladies of Bala) which were once to be seen in a visitors' book here:-- Lord Lyttelton of old gave out To all the world that Bala trout Have all the sweetness that pervades The laughing lips of Bala's maids. Which did his Lordship mean to flout? For fact it is that Bala trout (Ask any fisherman you meet) Are bad to catch, but worse to eat. O Maid of Bala, ere we part, 'Tis mine to bind thy wounded heart; And in thy favour testify-- Though seldom sweet, thou'rt never shy! There is, however, one objection to this epigram, for the poet talks of trout and the peer of Gwyniad; let us, therefore, hope that in regard to the fair as well as the fish the poet's harsh judgment was equally unsound. * * * * * =Barmouth=, a capital place from which to visit the Rhinog range and Cader Idris; and the Cambrian Railway extends the range of operations in three directions, so that even Snowdon is within the possibilities of a single day's excursion. There is excellent climbing practice to be had, not only just outside the town, but actually within it. * * * * * =Beddgelert= (i.e. 'Gelert's Grave') is one of the gates of Snowdonia, and it is the gate by which the judicious will enter. It is, moreover, perhaps the prettiest mountain resort in Wales. Penygwrhyd is more central for climbers pure--and simple--but has no pretensions to beauty of situation; Llanberis has its railway facilities, its quarries, and its trippers; Bettws y Coed is delicious, but it is right away from the mountains. For combination of the beauties of mountain, water, and wooded plain Dolgelly is the only rival of Beddgelert. Snowdon on the north, Moel Hebog on the west, and Cynicht and Moelwyn on the east are enough to make the fortune of any place as a mountaineer's abode, even if there were no Pass of Aberglaslyn close by. The nearest station is Rhyd-ddu, on the Snowdon Ranger line, nearly 4 miles off, and it is uphill nearly all the way. To Portmadoc, on the other hand, the distance is greater, 6 or 7 miles, but the road is fairly level, and nearly every step of it is beautiful, both in winter and in summer. Indeed, there was a time when winter in this romantic village was more enjoyable than summer, for in warm weather the eye was much obstructed by the hand which held the nose; but that was many years ago. The ascent of Snowdon from this side used to be the most frequented, but in the race for popularity it has long been distanced by Llanberis. It is a good path, and easily found. The start is made along the Carnarvon road for some three miles to the Pitt's Head; then up the hill to the right to Llechog, and across the once dreaded Bwlch y Maen. A more direct and very fine route leads straight up and over the ridge of Yr Aran, joining the regular path just short of Bwlch-y-Maen. By going up the Capel Curig some 3½ miles, and taking the turn to the left more than half a mile beyond Llyn y Ddinas, Sir Edward Watkin's path up Cwmyllan may be utilised; but at the cost of 3½ miles' extra walking along the same road the far finer ascent by Cwm Dyli may be made. This is the same as that from Penygwrhyd, but with the advantage of including the lowest portion and waterfalls of Cwm Dyli, which are extremely fine. The classical climbs of Snowdonia are within reach for good walkers, but others will find abundance of opportunities for practice within a mile or two, and for the Garnedd Goch range (which has in it some choice bits) there is no better base. The road to Portmadoc on the south and to Penygwrhyd on the north are not only among the most beautiful in the kingdom, but present the most alluring of problems to the rock climber within a stone's throw. There is a corner of the road about 6 miles from Beddgelert where Crib Goch shows over a foot-hill of Lliwedd, and a rocky ridge runs down from the east almost on to the road. This ridge, though broken, bears some very choice bits, including a certain wide, short chimney facing south. A separate guide-book to this place (by J. H. Bransby) appeared in 1840, and there have been several since, among the best being one published at the modest price of one penny by Abel Heywood. The place plays a great part in Charles Kingsley's _Two Years Ago_, and it was at the 'Goat' Inn here that George Borrow was so furious at the want of deference with which his utterances were received by the company. * * * * * =Benglog=, at the foot of Llyn Ogwen and the head of Nant Ffrancon, is only second to Penygwrhyd as a climbing centre, but, unfortunately, the accommodation is so very scanty--Ogwen Cottage, the only house, having no more than two bedrooms--that the place is little used. For Tryfaen, the Glyders, the Carnedds, Twll Du, and the Elider range it is preferable to any other place, and beautiful problems are to be found by the climber literally within a stone's throw of the door. It is about 5 miles from Bethesda station on the north and the same distance from Capel Curig on the east, all three places being on the great Holyhead Road. Penygwrhyd is 2 hours away, whether by road (9 miles) or over the hill. In the latter case the shortest route is by the col which separates Tryfaen and Glyder Fach, and then over the shoulder east of the latter mountain. To Llanberis the way lies by Twll Du and Cwm Patric, and though much longer than the last could probably be done in nearly as short a time. * * * * * =Bethesda= is 5 miles from Benglog, and that much further from all the best climbing. See, however, p. 18. * * * * * =Capel Curig= (600 ft. above sea level) is 5½ miles from Bettws y Coed railway station, 4 miles from Penygwrhyd, and 5 from Benglog, is a very good centre for strong walkers. Most of the best climbs are within reach, but none very near. For Snowdon Penygwrhyd is much nearer; Benglog is better for the Glyders and the Carnedds; so that, while being pretty good for nearly all, Capel Curig is not the best starting-place for any. It has no exclusive rights, except over Moel Siabod on the south and the wild unfrequented district in the opposite direction, which lies at the back of Carnedd Llewelyn. Hutton, who visited it at the beginning of the century, calls it 'an excellent inn in a desert.' The Alpine Club had a meeting here in 1879. * * * * * =Dinas Mawddwy=, reached by rail from Machynlleth, is a pleasant, secluded spot amid mountainous surroundings, but not conveniently situated for climbing anything but Aran Mawddwy. All the advantages of the place may be equally well enjoyed from Machynlleth. Old Pennant records how in his rash youth he used to toboggan down the peat paths of Craig y Dinas, 'which,' says he, 'I now survey with horror.' A Welsh bard, whose poems must have been neglected in the place, declares that it was notable for three things--blue earth, constant rain, and hateful people. * * * * * =Dolgelly=, which ends in _-eu_ in many old books, in _-ey_ on the one side and in _-y_ on the other of the modern railway station, and is commonly pronounced by the residents as if it ended in _-a_, is said to mean 'hazel dale,' a name which the place can hardly be said to live up to. There is, however, no doubt that it is one of the prettiest places in Wales and one of the pleasantest to stop at. In the first place the communications are very good, for by the Great Western Railway there is a capital service to Shrewsbury and London, while on the seaward side the Cambrian Railway puts Barmouth and Portmadoc on the one side, and Machynlleth and Aberystwith on the other, within easy reach. There is good scenery on all sides of it, while for Cader Idris, the Aran Mountains, and the Rhinog range there is no better centre. Many people have an objection to going up and down a mountain by the same route, and have an equal horror of the long grind round the foot of it, which is the result of going down a different side of the mountain if you want to return to your starting-point. At Dolgelly you enjoy the advantage of being able to take a train to the far side of your mountain, so as to come back over the top and straight on down to your sleeping-place. For instance, a very fine way of doing Aran Benllyn and Aran Mawddwy is to go by the Great Western to Llanuwchllyn and then come back along the ridge of both mountains. In the same way one can begin a day on the Rhinogs by rail, walking from Llanbedr or Harlech to Cwm Bychan, and so over the Rhinogs and Llethr, and down to Dolgelly again. Even Cader Idris is rendered more enjoyable if the train be taken to Towyn and Abergynolwyn, whence the walk by Talyllyn and up to the summit by way of Llyn y Cae is in turn pretty and impressive. As a rule it is far better to go out by train and come back on foot than to reverse the process, and for two reasons--first, by taking the train at once you make sure of your ride, and have the remainder of the day freed from anxiety and the fear of just missing the last train a dozen miles from home, with less than an hour of daylight remaining; secondly, if you don't miss the train it is because you have come along at racing pace. You are in consequence very hot, and have to stand about in a draughty station till the train (which is twenty minutes late) arrives and then follows half an hour's journey with wet feet, for wet feet and walking on Welsh hills are very close friends indeed. There used to be a saying about Dolgelly that the town walls there are six miles high. Of course this refers mainly to the long mural precipice which forms the north point of Cader Idris. Abundant climbing is to be found on this 'wall,' which, with a small part of Aran Mawddwy and a few short, steep bits along the course of the river Mawddach, constitutes the best rock-work in the immediate vicinity of Dolgelly. * * * * * =Ffestiniog=, a very pleasant place to stay at, with good communications by rail with Bala, Bettws y Coed, and Portmadoc. There are climbs near--e.g. on the Manods and on Moelwyn--but on a small scale, the good ones being mostly destroyed by the colossal slate quarries. _Blaenau Ffestiniog_ is the more central and less beautiful; the old village (3 miles away) is far pleasanter. The Cynfael Falls, about a mile off, include the well-known 'Hugh Lloyd's Pulpit,' and are very pretty, but have been almost as fatal as those at Aber. Readers will probably remember the death of Miss Marzials at this spot.[6] [6] The _Times_, August 25, 1885, p. 6, and August 27, p. 8. See also the _Times_, October 2, 1837, p. 3. * * * * * =Llanberis= (i.e. 'Church of Peris'), being a station on a railway which has a good service from England, is the most accessible of all the mountain resorts in Wales. As a consequence of these facilities the place is often intolerably overrun, especially during the late summer and autumn. The true lover of the mountains flees the spot, for the day-tripper is a burden and desire fails. Whether the railway will have the power to make things worse in this respect we cannot yet decide, but it seems unlikely. It is only of late years that Llanberis has possessed the most popular road up Snowdon. The opening of the road over the pass in 1818 did a great deal, and the visit of H.M. the Queen in 1832 did still more to make the place popular, and the pony path up Snowdon and the railway settled the matter. The other mountains which may readily be ascended from here are those in the Elider and Glyder ranges, while climbing is nearly confined to the rocks on both sides of the pass, which includes some work of great excellence. As early as 1845 a separate guide-book for this place was published by J. H. Bransby. Now there are several. * * * * * =Machynlleth= (pronounced roughly like 'Mahuntly,' and by the rustics very like 'Monkley') lies midway between Plynlimon and Cader Idris, and within reach of both, yet can hardly claim to be a centre for mountaineers. Of submontane walks and scenery it commands a surprising variety, having railway facilities in half a dozen directions. This makes it a capital place for a long stay, varied by an occasional night or two at places like Rhayader, Dolgelly, Barmouth, or Beddgelert. The best way of doing Aran Mawddwy is by way of Dinas Mawddwy, and the ascent of Cader Idris from Corris railway station, returning by way of Abergynolwyn, makes a most enjoyable day. * * * * * =Nantlle=, once a very pretty place, is now little more than an intricate system of slate quarries. A low pass (Drws y Coed) separates it from Snowdon, of which Wilson took a celebrated picture from this side. There are some nice little climbs on both sides of the pass and on Garnedd Goch, which runs away to the southward of it. Nantlle has a station, but Penygroes, the junction, is so near as to make it a more convenient stopping-place. Anyone staying at Criccieth can make a good day by taking the train to Nantlle, and returning along Garnedd Goch or over Moel Hebog. Snowdon too is within easy reach. * * * * * =Penygwrhyd.=--In Beddgelert Church is a monument 'to the memory of Harry Owen, for forty-four years landlord of the inn at Penygwrhyd and guide to Snowdon: born April 2, 1822; died May 5, 1891.' Harry Owen it was who did for Penygwrhyd what Will Ritson did for Wastdale Head and Seiler for Zermatt. Intellectually, perhaps, he was not the equal of either of the other two, but there was a straightforward cordiality about him which made all lovers of the mountains feel at once that in his house they had a home to which they could return again and again with ever renewed pleasure. The house stands at the foot of the east side of the Llanberis Pass, at the junction of the roads from Capel Curig (4 miles), Beddgelert (8 miles), and Llanberis (6 miles), and at the central point of three mountain groups--Snowdon (the finest and boldest side), the Glyders, and Moel Siabod. The last is of small account, but the other two groups contain some--one may almost say most--of the best climbing and finest scenery in Wales. Most people come to the inn by way of Bettws y Coed and many from Llanberis; but by far the finest approach is that from Beddgelert, and by this way the first approach at any rate ought always to be made. Ascents and climbs innumerable may be made from here, and many valuable notes on climbs may be found here in a certain volume secured from the profane mob by lock and key. In the same volume also several sets of verses occur much above the ordinary tourist level, among them being a very smart study of the climbing class in the style of Walt Whitman, and a few telling alphabetic distichs of which _habitués_ will recognise the force. K--for the Kitchen, where garments are dried; L--for the Language we use when they're fried; O--for the Owens, whom long may we see; P--for the Pudding we call P.Y.G. S is for Snowdon, that's seen from afar; T--for the Tarts on the shelf in the bar. The visitors' book proper also contains entries of some interest, including some lines (given at length in the _Gossiping Guide_) written by Charles Kingsley, Tom Taylor, and Tom Hughes, chiefly remarkable for their breezy good temper. The lines are printed, together with a mass of very poor stuff taken from the same source, in a little book called _Offerings at the Foot of Snowdon_.[7] The inn and the Owens play an important part in Kingsley's novel _Two Years Ago_. Forty or fifty years ago there was a constant visitor at this inn who might have claimed the invention of the place as a climbing centre. He corresponded in profession, and also in age, to the Rev. James Jackson, the Cumbrian 'Patriarch.' He had a mania for ridge-walking, or, as he termed it, 'following the sky line.' His name I could never learn. [7] Tremadoc, 1875. * * * * * =Rhayader= (_The Waterfall_, i.e. of the river Wye, pronounced here 'Rhay-' and not 'Rhy-,' as in North Wales) is a very convenient centre for much scenery which is of great interest to the geologically-minded mountaineer, though the hills are of no great height. The Cambrian Railway has a station here, and makes an expedition to the Brecon Beacons or to the very interesting Black Mountains a very simple matter, while on the way a good deal may be seen of two of the most beautiful rivers in Britain, the Wye and the Usk. Aberedw Rocks and Cwm Elan are quite near, and so is Nant Guillt, with its memories of Shelley, beloved of all who love the mountains, though perhaps few would have cared to be on the same rope with that somewhat erratic genius. Where the Wye enters the Vale of Rhayader there are some remarkably fine rocks (chiefly in the 'Lower Llandovery' formation). Mackintosh calls it 'a deep basin surrounded by very precipitous slopes, which on the side most distant from the river channel present one of the finest and loftiest rocky cliffs in the principality.' The Birmingham Water Works have influenced the town for good in one respect only: they have introduced a barber, who at the end of each week mows navvies' cheeks by the acre. * * * * * =Snowdon Ranger=, a small inn on the west side of Snowdon, readily reached by rail from Carnarvon or coach from Beddgelert, or again by an easy and interesting walk over the low pass of Drws y Coed from Penygroes station. It commands one of the simplest ascents of Snowdon, but by no means the most interesting. Good climbing may be found near it on Clogwyndurarddu, on Mynydd Mawr, on both sides of Drws y Coed, and on the Garnedd Goch range, but none are on a very large scale. In the history of Welsh mountaineering it holds a place, having long been the most usual starting-point for the ascent of Snowdon, and all the early travellers came here. Cradock (1770) calls it 'a small thatched hut at the foot of the mountain (Snowdon), near a lake which they call Llyn Cychwhechlyn (i.e. Quellyn), which I leave you to pronounce as well as you are able. We procured a number of blooming country girls to divert us with their music and dancing.' Even these delights, however, could not keep travellers from drifting away towards Beddgelert--a change which, as readers of _Wild Wales_ will remember, had already become marked when Borrow had his interview with the Snowdon guide forty years ago. The early accounts often speak of this place as Bronyfedw (a name which still survives), and for many years there used to be a kind of 'personally conducted' (Hamer's) ascent of Snowdon from Carnarvon once a week by this route. * * * * * =Tanybwlch.=--Wyndham, Pennant, and, indeed, nearly all the early explorers of Wales stayed at this very pleasant place. At that time the highroad from Dolgelly to Beddgelert and Carnarvon passed the door; but the railway having now superseded the post chaise has left the place somewhat out in the cold. It has, however, some assistance from the 'toy' line to Ffestiniog, and is a pretty little place, though Moelwyn, Cynicht, Moel Siabod, and the Rhinogs are all the mountains which it can command. For those coming from England the best station is Maentwrog Road, on the G.W.R. line from Bala. WHERE TO CLIMB =Anglesey.=--The extreme flatness of the island perhaps gives an increased effect to its fine rock scenery about the Stacks, which will be respected by climbers as perhaps the earliest school of their art in Wales. An old description of the egg-takers here contains some interesting sentences which are not wholly devoid of point even for climbers of the present day. 'The gains bear no tolerable proportion to the danger incurred. The adventurers, having furnished themselves with every necessary implement, enter on the terrific undertaking. Two--for this is a trade in which co-partnership is absolutely necessary--take a station. He whose superior agility renders it eligible prepares for the rupestrian expedition. Dangerous employ! a slip of the foot or the hand would in an instant be fatal to both. To a stranger this occupation appears more dangerous than it really is. In persons habituated to bodily difficulty the nervous system becomes gradually braced, and the solids attain that state of rigidity which banishes irritability, while the mind, accustomed to danger, loses that timidity which frequently leads to the dreaded disaster. Fact demonstrates to what an extent difficulty and danger may be made subordinate to art and perseverance.' This is the voice of truth, but the solids nowadays (owing possibly to the fluids or to the want of them) do not banish their irritability completely. * * * * * =Carnarvonshire.=--Both in the quality and the quantity of its climbs this county leaves the rest of Wales far behind. Its superiority is even more marked than that of Cumberland over the rest of England. Snowdon, the Glyders, and the Carnedds would alone be sufficient to establish this; but there are numbers of less important elevations which would have a great reputation in almost any other county. The chief mountain centres are Penygwrhyd, Beddgelert, Llanberis, and Snowdon Ranger, all four lying at the foot of Snowdon, Benglog (Ogwen Cottage), Capel Curig, and Ffestiniog. The appearance of the county must be greatly changed since Leland's time. He tells us that 'the best wood of Caernarvonshire is by Glinne Kledder and by Glin Llughy and by Capel Kiryk and at Llanperis. More upwarde be Eryri Hilles, and in them ys very little corne. If there were the Deere would destroy it.' The destruction of this wood has greatly injured the beauty of the valleys round Snowdon, Nant Gwynant being the only one where it remains in any quantity. * * * * * =Penmaenmawr= (1,553 ft.) is far from being a difficult mountain. The ancient Britons had a fort on the top of it, and it was ascended 'by a person of quality in the reign of Charles II.,' but it is scarcely a paradox to say that it was the greatest obstacle to knowledge of Welsh mountains during last century. The highroad from Chester crossed it, and our ancestors used to go rolling off it down into the sea, and did not like it. Therefore a journey to Wales was a great and a rare feat. All the early travellers dilate upon its terrors. In 1795 Mr. T. Hucks, B.A., gives a ludicrous account of his ascent, which was actually made without a guide. 'We rashly took the resolution to venture up this stupendous mountain without a guide, and therefore unknowingly fixed upon the most difficult part to ascend, and consequently were continually impeded by a vast number of unexpected obstructions. At length we surmounted every danger and difficulty, and safely arrived at the top.... In the midst of my melancholy cogitations I fully expected that the genius of the mountain would have appeared to me in some formidable shape and have reproached me with rashly presuming to disturb the sacred silence of his solitary reign.' Penmaenmawr was not a frequented tourist resort in those days. The genius would not expect much sacred silence now. The writer knows of no continuous climb on the mountain, though he has often had a scramble on it. * * * * * =The Carnedd Group.=--=Carnedd Dafydd= (3,426 ft.), said to have been named after David the brother of Prince Llewelyn, rises on the north of Llyn Ogwen and on the west of the river which flows from it. The view, looking southward across Llyn Ogwen at the bold northern front of the Glyder group, is one of the grandest in Wales. That to the north-west is to a great extent cut off by Carnedd Llewelyn. The usual starting-points are Bethesda, Ogwen Cottage, and Capel Curig, though strong walkers occasionally attack the mountain from the Conway valley on the west and from Aber on the sea coast. From Bethesda the most direct way to the summit is to steer south-east and straight at the mountain, which is full in view. The distance is 3½ miles, and an active traveller, if by any accident he extricates himself speedily from Bethesda, may reach the summit in two hours. On the other hand he is quite as likely to find himself, at the end of the two hours, still wandering sadly up and down the by-lanes of that maze-like village. The natives are polite, and would willingly give any information; but they cannot speak English, and they do not possess the information. There is only one street which leads anywhere in particular, only one which can be known at sight and followed fearlessly when known. It is the Holyhead road, and to get from one house in Bethesda to another it is said that even the inhabitants find it safest to make for the Holyhead road at once, and thus secure an intelligible base of operations. The route up Carnedd Dafydd by way of Penyroleuwen begins with over two miles of this road, and is, consequently, a very sound opening. It is only necessary to turn off at Tynymaes, on the left hand, and strike up the hill and along the ridge to Braichddu, overlooking the tarn of Ffynnon y Lloer. A sharp turn is now made to the left along the shoulder, and the great cairn which marks the summit is soon reached. The route from Capel Curig is very easily found. Three and a half miles along the Bangor road, after crossing the river Llugwy, and just before a chapel, a path strikes off on the right-hand side towards a farmhouse. Half a mile along this path strike up the hill to the left, travelling at first about north by compass, and afterwards, as the hill is mounted, inclining more to the west. A less popular route, but perhaps shorter and more easily found in mist, and certainly more effective in point of scenery, leaves the highroad about a furlong short of Ogwen Lake. Pass a farm and follow a stream for a mile up to Ffynnon Lloer; from the head of the pool pick your way through some rough ground to the left hand up on to Braichddu, when the view of the Glyders bursts upon you suddenly with great effect, and, on turning to the right to make the final mount to the Carnedd, some good peeps may be had down the confused rocks of Craig yr Ysfa. From Ogwen Cottage the last route is often the best, especially when the party contains some weak members, as the direct line from the foot of the lake is exceedingly steep. The climbs on this mountain are practically limited to Cefnysgolion Duon on the north and Craig yr Ysfa on the west, overlooking Nantffrancon. _Cefnysgolion Duon_--i.e. 'The Black Ladders,' by which name it is commonly known--might be forced into meaning 'The Black Schools,' and this sense greatly bewildered a learned native, who observes, 'It is impossible to imagine a spot less suited to the operations of the school-master.' But we can assure him that as a school for climbers it leaves little to be desired. Perhaps 'Black Pinnacles' would be a better rendering, 'ysgol' being often used in that sense, the comparison referring to a step-ladder, seen sideways, so as to present the shape of an isosceles triangle. The crags are on the south side of Cwm Llafar, the great hollow between the two Carnedds, and there is nothing to do but to follow up from Bethesda the stream which flows down it. In other words, the true line is almost parallel to and about half a mile north of the most direct route to the top of Carnedd Dafydd. As advance is made the slope between the two routes becomes more and more rocky, and when the Ladders themselves come fairly in view the scene is a very grand one. There are two conspicuous gullies, divided by a stretch of rock which looks almost unclimbable. The right-hand or western gully is very steep, and having often quite a stream in it, is then decidedly hard, and requires considerable care in winter. The other gully slopes away sharply to the left, behind a slight projection, and has only one pitch in it, but that is really good. Two ways here present themselves of climbing along the left-hand wall at two different levels, neither of them too easy, or else the gully may be deserted altogether, as the left bank forms a ridge which offers easy but delightful climbing all over it, the hold suddenly becoming magnificent. East of this ridge the hold is still good, but the rocks dwindle in size, until, in the centre of the col between the Carnedds, they wholly disappear. This noble crag has never been much frequented by climbers, though in 1879 about a dozen members of the Alpine Club took it on their way from Bangor to Capel Curig.[8] [8] _Alpine Journal_, vol. ix. p. 384. Some years before 1869[9] a Birmingham Scripture Reader fell over it, and was, of course, killed. [9] Mackintosh, p. 809. _Craig yr Ysfa._--These rugged and in parts highly romantic rocks have attracted but few climbers. A hardworking group of Bangor enthusiasts have done about all the work that has been done here. In November 1894 J. M. A. T., H. H., H. E., and J. S., quitting the road just beyond the eighth milestone from Bangor, reached, in twenty minutes, the mouth of a gully, broad except where it narrows into a gorge, about half-way up. The climbing on the left of the stream is quite easy, on its right less so; but in either case the stream has to be abandoned at the first waterfall, which is quite impracticable when there is any quantity of water falling. One may climb out to the right by a small tributary gully, or up the buttress of rock to the right, and thus turn the lower fall as well as the upper fall, which is a small edition of the Devil's Kitchen. Near the edge of the cliff, on the left of the gorge, is a large tabular rock, which forms the postern to a narrow passage back into the gully, which soon broadens out and leaves a choice of routes; the left-hand branch should be taken by preference, as it contains a rather difficult pitch, above which the ascent to the top of the ridge is simple. [Illustration: A GULLY ON CRAIG YR YSFA] A second gully lies a few hundred yards nearer Ogwen Lake, and contains, besides cascades, two distinct waterfalls, of which the first may be surmounted by a small but not easy chimney close to it on the left, which is also the side for attacking the second difficulty. Here a necessary grass ledge above the level of the top of the fall was loosened by heavy rain, and stopped the progress of the above party, who completed the ascent by climbing out to the left. The craggy portion is just over one mile long. Towards the head of Nant Ffrancon the rocks come lower, and are more fantastic, affording a great variety of fine problems, though few continuous climbs. * * * * * =Carnedd Llewelyn= (3,484 ft.) is the second highest of the Welsh mountains. The last Government Survey gave it a slight lift, and at the same time slightly reduced Snowdon, causing a rumour to go abroad, alarming to conservative minds, that the latter had forfeited its pride of place. This would have been a real misfortune, as the old-established favourite is beyond all question the finest mountain of the two. Only imagine the feelings of a poor peak abandoned in its old age, without cheap trippers, without huts, without a railway, without Sir Edward Watkin. The blow would have been too cruel! The near views from Carnedd Llewelyn are not remarkable. They consist mainly of the crags of Yr Elen and those of the grand north face of Carnedd Dafydd, which, however, practically conceal the Glyders, and these again cut off most of Snowdon. But the seaward view is very fine, and with regard to the very distant places, such as the Cumberland Fells, this mountain has a great advantage over Snowdon both 'to see and to be seen.' Perhaps the extra 7½ miles make the difference, but it is a fact that for once that Snowdon is to be made out from Scafell or Great Gable, Carnedd Llewelyn can be seen half a dozen times. For the ascent Bethesda is the nearest. Several ways present themselves, and whichever the traveller takes he will think that he has taken the boggiest. One way is straight up Cwm Llafar to the ridge (Bwlchcyfrwydrum) between the two Carnedds, or inclining left one mile short of this ridge one soon reaches the ridge connecting our mountain with Yr Elen, on the other side of which are some fine crags. The ascent by way of Cwm Caseg, the next valley to the north, is equally simple and affords a good view of these crags from below. In thick weather the long lonely walk from Aber is an education in itself to the mountain rambler, while from Talycafn station, on the north-west, a good road comes to within a mile and a half E.S.E. of the summit. The Capel Curig ascent is perhaps the least interesting of all; by it the two Carnedds are usually combined. Either the ascent or the return should be made along the Pen Helig ridge, with regard to the terrors of which the guide-books have used language as exaggerated as the descriptions of Striding Edge on Helvellyn. In winter, however, there is sometimes pretty work here. _Climbs._--A few rocks will be found round the remarkable tarns of Llyndulyn and Melynllyn, on the north-east side of the mountain, and on the west side of Llyn Eigiau. Better still are the rocks near where the Talycafn road ends by a slate quarry in the rocks of Elicydu (apparently marked as Pen Helig by the Ordnance Surveyors); but best of all is the north-east side of Yr Elen, where there is a sort of small edition of the Black Ladders, with the same sunless aspect, so that it often keeps its snow in the same way till quite late in the year. In winter, however, the grand cwm which lies due east of the Carnedd offers splendid snow scenes and snow work. Some years ago a quarryman was lost in the snow, and an upright stone on the north ridge of the mountain marks the spot. One of the earliest ascents of the mountain was that made in 1630 by Johnson, who evidently had the spirit of the mountaineer in him, for he pressed his guide to take him to the more precipitous places, alleging the love of rare plants. That worthy, however, declined to go, alleging the fear of eagles. Mackintosh too had a difficulty here with his guide during a winter's day excursion. But his fears seem to have been entirely without reasonable cause, and he was not so near to being robbed or murdered as he at one time fancied. Mr. Paterson's charming book _Below the Snow Line_ describes the route from Llanfairfechan in wild weather. In the _Philosophical Transactions_ for 1771 will be found noted an ascent which satisfied the climber and his water-level that the summit was higher than that of Snowdon. Pennant too made the ascent, but came to an opposite conclusion on this point. * * * * * =Elider Group.=--=Carnedd y Filiast= (i.e. 'Cairn of the Female Greyhound') is a feature on the west side of Nant Ffrancon, on account of the very remarkable slabs which it exhibits on that side. A hundred and twenty-five years ago Pennant was told here that 'if the fox in extreme danger takes over them in wet weather he falls down and perishes.' Certainly they are dangerous enough to a less sure-footed animal--man--and are best left alone, especially when there is any ice about. The nearest place from which to start is Bethesda. Another hill of the same name lies to the north of Bala. * * * * * =Foelgoch.=--A spur running north-west from Glyder Fawr forms the western bank of Nant Ffrancon, and nearly three miles along this ridge is Foelgoch (i.e. 'Red Hill'). It has a steep western side towards the head of Cwm Dudodyn, and on the other side a very steep rocky recess facing Llyn Idwal. Llanberis and Bethesda stations are about equally distant. From the former place it is seldom visited, except before or after the ascent of Elidyr Fawr. On August 6, 1886, E. K. writes, 'There is excellent scrambling to be had about this mountain, and some really difficult work.' On September 29, 1894, a party of three climbed from Nant Ffrancon. The break in the ridge may be reached either by following the ridge itself or from the cwms on either side of it. The ascent thence to the summit offers easy but steep climbing if the crest of the ridge be scrupulously adhered to. Passing over the summit of Y Garn the descent was made down the southern ridge of Cwm Clyd, which gives a good scramble along its barren arête. [Illustration: TWLL DU (looking down through it to Llyn Idwal and Llyn Ogwen)] * * * * * =Y Garn= (3,104 ft.), near the head of Nant Ffrancon, on the west side, is little visited, but has some very good rock on it. Benglog is much the nearest place. The well-known Twll Du may almost be said to be on it, and is practically the division between it and Glyder Fawr. * * * * * =Twll Du= (i.e. 'Black Pit'), commonly called the 'Devil's Kitchen,' is a remarkable chasm in the line of cliff which faces the head of Llyn Idwal on the south-west, being a northerly continuation of Glyder Fawr. From Benglog, which is much the nearest place, there is little choice of route; either side of Llyn Idwal will do, but the west side is rather less boggy. Keeping well up you pass the head of Idwal until you bring it on with the head of Llyn Ogwen, and then about 500 ft. above the former you find yourself at the foot of this grand fissure. In dry weather all but the highest patch can be easily ascended; after rain it is sometimes difficult to enter the place at all. In the summer of 1893, which was extraordinarily dry, a young fellow claimed to have done it single-handed, but it was supposed by some that he had mistaken the place. During the intense cold of March 1895 an extraordinary _tour de force_ was accomplished here by J. M. A. T. and H. H., who cut their way up the frozen waterfall, and thus accomplished what was probably the first ascent of this formidable chasm. The height of the final pitch in its normal condition is about 53 ft., measured from the top of the block down to the surface of the pool below. When the climb above described was made, no doubt much of this height was filled up by snow and ice, yet the remainder was not surmounted in less than 7 hours, so that the average rate of progress must have been about 5 ft. per hour. The total time from Benglog to the top of the Kitchen was 8½ hours. The party descended in the dark to Llanberis in 3 hours more, having left Ogwen in the morning at 10 o'clock. Those who approach from Upper Llanberis by way of Cwm Patric or from Penygwrhyd over the shoulder west of Glyder Fawr, and, in fact, all who do not come by way of Benglog, have to descend the high cliff out of which the Kitchen is cut. The only convenient passage starts about a furlong to the south of the Kitchen, and is very awkward at night or in mist. It begins as a wide, straight trough (the largest and most regular of two or three), which slopes gently downwards and towards Benglog. Presently it takes a more northerly direction and becomes a steep, wide slope of scree following the line of cliff to the great blocks of fallen stones which mark the mouth of the chasm. An active man can return from the lower to the upper exit of the chimney in ten minutes, and the descent could, of course, be done in even less time. In dry weather there is but one slight difficulty before reaching the grand crux at the head. It can be climbed by passing into a cavern and up to the left, but the easier, and after heavy rain the only practicable, way is up the side-wall just to the left of the choke-stone on to a broad ledge. A little way above this a huge slab, fallen from above, is seen leaning against the wall on the right. The passage to the right of it can always be made, however strong the stream on the left hand may be. The climb to the top of this slab is very neat, and, besides affording a capital view of the situation, is about all the consolation left for the ardent explorer, who will seldom succeed in penetrating any further. There are, however, two possible lines of advance, both on the left-hand wall, one well in under the colossal cap-stone, which hangs 50 ft. overhead, and the other outside, nearly opposite the great slab. By the latter route 20 ft. or 30 ft. can be climbed with some little difficulty, but the traverse to the right would no doubt prove a very ticklish operation. Cliffe, in June 1843, penetrated to the foot of the final obstacle, and gives a very good description of it. [Illustration: TWLL DU (looking up from within)] * * * * * =Glyder Group.=--=Glyder Fach= (3,262 ft.), though called 'the lesser,' is far finer than its brother peak, so much so that many have found great difficulty in believing that the Ordnance Surveyors were right in ascribing 17 ft. of superiority to the more lumpy western summit. One might be tempted to build a 20-ft. cairn but for the fear of spoiling the great glory of Glyder Fach, the chaos of rocks on its summit. The present cairn was not in existence ten years ago, and must have been built about 1887. [Illustration: SKETCH MAP OF THE GLYDERS AND TRYFAEN] _Ascents._--From Benglog the most interesting ascent is by the Gribin ridge, between Idwal and Bochllwyd. It involves a slight descent (about 150 ft.) after reaching the ridge, but it is less fatiguing than that by Bwlch Tryfaen and the steep rough screes on the right hand beyond it. From Penygwrhyd you mount behind the inn, crossing the bog as you best can towards a wall which goes straight up the hill. When the direction of the wall changes you make a compromise midway between the old and the new, and very soon come on to a line of cairns which continues right on to the boggy tableland above. Tryfaen top now appears over the hill, and as soon as it is fairly lifted you bear to the left and up a stony slope to the cairn. From Capel Curig it is a simple matter to follow the ridge of Cefn y Capel, but quicker to keep along the highroad past the Llynian Mymbyr, and then strike up a grass slope to the right. As often as not both Glyders are ascended in one expedition; the dip between the two is only 300 ft., the distance is under a mile, and stones are the only obstacles. [Illustration: SUMMIT OF GLYDER FACH] _Climbs._--The north face of this mountain is remarkably fine and contains all the climbing there is. At the east end is the bristly ridge leading down to Bwlch Tryfaen. This is stimulating, but not difficult. In the centre of the face there is a large gully, ascended in November 1894 by J. M. A. T., H. H., and H. E. They did not find it necessary to use the rope. The lofty pitch at the foot of the eastern gully is decidedly hard. (J. M. A. T.) In May 1888 W. E. C., A. E., E. B., and E. K. found and ascended a gully close under the west side of Castell Gwynt, and add that they reached Penygwrhyd by way of Cwm Graianog. The last statement is very mysterious. About the Castell itself (the rugged pile of rocks between the two Glyders, marked by its slender outstanding 'sentinel'), and about the summit of the Fach, there are some good scrambles on a small scale. [Illustration: CASTELL GWYNT AND GLYDER FAWR] Directly under the top stone is the minimum thermometer, which has been kept there for some years.[10] The most interesting thing on the whole mountain is undoubtedly the pile of stones on the top. According to the bard Taliesin it is the burial-place of a mighty warrior, one Ebediw. If a kind of Stonehenge was erected there to his memory and afterwards got upset by an earthquake it might account for present appearances. Edward Lhwyd, the great antiquary, was particularly struck by them 200 years ago, and his description and remarks are equally applicable to-day. [10] See the _Journal of the Royal Meteorological Society_ for April 1893, xix. No. 86, for a summary of the temperatures thus recorded. [Illustration: ROCKS ON GLYDER FACH] 'On the utmost top of the Glyder,' he says, 'I observed prodigious heaps of stones, many of them of the largeness of those of Stonehenge, but of all the irregular shapes imaginable, and all lying in such confusion as the ruins of any building can be supposed to do.... Had they been in a valley I had concluded they had fallen from the neighbouring rocks ... but, being on the highest part of the hill, they seemed to me much more remarkable.' He goes on to remark upon a precipice which has not been identified (see _Esgair Felen_). 'On the west side of the same hill there is, amongst many others, one naked precipice (near or one of the Trigfylchau, but distinguished by no particular name), as steep as any I have seen, but so adorned with numerous equidistant pillars, and these again slightly crossed at certain joints. 'Twas evident that the gullies or interstices were occasioned by a continued dropping of water down this cliff.' Trigfylchau, by the way (i.e. 'Twisting Gaps'), is a name which does not seem to be known at the present day. Lhwyd's description fired the curiosity of the travellers who explored Wales nearly a century later, and the amusing part of it is that they could not find this wonderful mountain, or even hear of it from the intelligent natives. Cradock (1770) found an aged man, who told him that the mountain was 'now called the Wythwar (Wyddfa),' which stands 'a few miles south of the parish of Clynog;' and H. P. Wyndham went further by identifying it with 'the mountain called Ryvil in Speed's map' (i.e. Yr Eifl). It shows how little the natives knew about their mountains until the travellers came and taught them. Pennant made the ascent, and gives a picture of the summit. Bingley also went up, and gives a good description. Kingsley's fine description, in _Two Years Ago_, of Elsley's ascent really applies mainly to Glyder Fach, though he only mentions the Fawr. Elsley's descent, by the way, was apparently into Bochllwyd by way of Castell Gwynt. * * * * * [Illustration: GLYDER FAWR, NORTH FACE] =Glyder Fawr= (3,279 ft.).--The meaning of the name is a mystery. One Welsh scholar gravely tells us that the real name is Clydar, which at once yields the obviously suitable meaning of a 'well-shaded ploughed ground.' Either of these epithets would be quite as appropriate to the Sahara itself, for the two Glyders are among the barest and rockiest mountains in all Wales. The two roads which lead from Capel Curig, one over the Pass of Llanberis and the other through Nant Ffrancon to Bangor, enclose between them the whole of the Glyder group, forming a singular figure, which recalls Menenius Agrippa's description of the Second Citizen as 'the great toe of this assembly.' The toe is slightly bent; Penygwrhyd is the knuckle, Capel Curig the tip of the nail, and Benglog (the head of Nant Ffrancon) is just in the inside bend. The highest point of the group lies practically in a straight line with Snowdon and Carnedd Llewelyn, and, roughly speaking, midway between them. Of Snowdon it commands a profoundly impressive view, and is in turn itself best seen from the Carnedds. Both Glyders are very frequently ascended from Penygwrhyd, Llanberis, Capel Curig, and Ogwen. The simplest way up is from the top of the Llanberis Pass, from which a ridge leads to the summit. This is, perhaps, the best way if the start be made from any place not on the north side, though from Penygwrhyd the route may be boggily abbreviated by making up the little valley to the north-west. From Ogwen the usual ascent passes near Twll Du, though the ridge separating the Idwal and Bochllwyd lakelets is sometimes chosen, and certainly affords a greater variety of fine views. Climbing on this mountain is practically confined to its northern face, and even there very little has been done. There are also a few rocks on the west side. The climbing-book at Penygwrhyd contains very few references to it. At Easter in 1884 H. and C. S. mention that they enjoyed fine glissades down the snow slopes on the north-west side to Llyn y Cwn, but the first real climb recorded therein is that of the big gully in the north face, made on November 25, 1894, by J. M. A. T., H. H., and H. E. From the far end of Llyn Idwal a long scree leads up to the mouth of the gully, which may be identified from a distance by the pitch which blocks it about half-way up and a broad strip of grass outside it on the west. The point to make for is the head of a wall which runs up from the extreme south end of the llyn to the corner of a huge mass of bare smooth rock. If the traveller reaches this point without being engulfed in the boggy ground which fringes the llyn he will now continue in the same general direction as the wall, and soon sees the gully just before him. A kind of trough, probably produced by weathering of the rock, is now seen on the left, and this, as it appeared more interesting than the steep grass of the central part of the gully, was followed at first by the above-mentioned party. The trough is very easy at the foot, and has good holds, which higher up incline outwards, and become less and less prominent until at last progress becomes a question of delicacy and circumspection. Before the trough came entirely to an end the party traversed into the gully, but even there found the ascent to the pitch far from easy. Utilising the full length of their 80-ft. rope, and moving only one at a time, they reached the cave under the big pitch. Here it appeared hopeless to climb out on either side, and recourse had to be taken to engineering of the same kind which was successfully put in practice some years ago on Dow Crags, in Lancashire, by a very scientific band of brothers. Similar success crowned the efforts of this party, and brilliant gymnastics on the part of the leader landed them safely at the top of this difficulty. From this point the remainder of the climb has a deceptively easy appearance. Some 80 ft. higher up the difficulties begin again, and continue up to a small pitch just below the top. On one stretch it was found necessary to adopt a compromise between the wisdom of the serpent and the aimlessness of the crab, advancing by lateral jerks in a semi-recumbent attitude. Possibly these extreme measures would not have been necessary but for the fact that on this occasion the conclusion of a spell of three weeks of incessant rain was chosen as a suitable opportunity for attacking this face of the Glyder. It was the opinion of the party that the climb--at any rate in its then condition--is incontestably more difficult than that of the western buttress of Lliwedd. The time taken was 4 hours, including a short halt for luncheon. [Illustration: WESTERN GULLY IN NORTH FACE OF GLYDER FAWR] This gully is the more westerly of two. The other one was climbed in May 1895 by J. M. A. T., H. H., and W. E. One of the party says of it, 'We soon came to some rather difficult rocks; we climbed them close under the right-hand wall--a really stiff little bit. The gully here is still quite broad, and on the left side of it we saw another way, which looked much easier. We found no special difficulty in the jammed stone which looks from below such a formidable obstacle. Two of us climbed it on the right; the third man circumvented it on the left. From this point to the summit is excellent throughout, the rocks being steep, the holds strong, well defined, and most conveniently distributed. In my opinion it is the best thing on the Glyders, and it can be done by a single man.' Still further east a narrow crack gives a very steep but easy rock staircase, while west of the gully first described is another with two pitches, of which the lower is harder and the upper easier than they look. The 60 ft. just above the latter are climbed by means of slight rugosities in the left-hand wall. It is somewhat curious that when, in February 1873, Glyder Fawr was crossed from Ogwen by way of Twll Du, with John Roberts as guide, it was recorded in the _Alpine Journal_[11] as something of a feat and something of an eccentricity. Twenty years have made a great change, and now, about Christmas or Easter, the snow on these hills is marked by tracks in many directions. [11] Vol. vi. p. 195. * * * * * [Illustration: LLYN IDWAL _a_, The gullies of Glyder Fawr. _b_, Descent to the foot of Twll Du. _c_, Twll Du.] =Esgair Felen= (i.e. 'The Yellow Shank').--In August 1893 G. W. de T. found very good rocks and gullies on this shoulder of Glyder Fawr. Ascending from just above the cromlech stone in Llanberis Pass, the buttress immediately above can be climbed on the right or south-west side. The upper half may be climbed by a narrow gully, too narrow at first to enter, and giving little hold for hands or feet, and that little not sound. Apparently the leader climbed up a little way, and then the rest of the party climbed up the leader. They found good climbing without special difficulty among the rocks on the top of the great gully in the centre. It is somewhere in this neighbourhood that we must look for the mysterious precipice of which Edward Lhwyd wrote two hundred years ago as being strikingly columnar in structure, and possibly identical with 'one of the Tregvylchau or Treiglvylcheu.' He says it is part of the Glyder, and faces west. Perhaps it is about the east side of Cwm Patric. As seen from well down the Llanberis Pass these rocks have a very striking appearance. The term 'esgair' is very commonly applied to long straight projections from higher mountains. Instances of its use are E. Weddar, E. Yn-Eira, E. Geiliog, E. Hir, and E. Galed. * * * * * [Illustration: TRYFAEN FROM THE EAST (Sketched by Colin B. Phillip)] =Tryfaen= (3,010 ft.), not to be confounded with the hill of the same name on the Llanberis side of Snowdon, or the other near Bettws Garmon, is the most remarkable rock mountain in Wales; it has two pillar stones on its summit, from which it is often said that the name (= 'three rocks') is derived. In answer to this it is enough to point out that the assumed third stone is not there, and could not have disappeared without a trace, while the name would equally well mean 'three peaks,' which the mountain certainly has when viewed from either east or west. The Welsh dictionaries give a word 'tryfan' with the sense of 'anything spotted through,' and, whether or not this has anything to do with the origin of the name, the component rocks certainly are quartz-speckled in a most extraordinary manner. The mountain is practically a ridge of rock running in a southerly direction from the head of Llyn Ogwen towards Glyder Fach, from which it is separated by a sharp dip, Bwlch Tryfaen. This dip, which may be reached either from Cwm Bochllwyd on the west or from Cwm Tryfaen on the east, offers by far the easiest ascent of the mountain. The best starting-point for Tryfaen is Ogwen Cottage, at Benglog, from which Llynbochllwyd is reached in 25 and the said dip in 45 minutes; so that, if need were, the whole height (2,000 ft.) and distance (1½ mile) to the summit could be attained within the hour. From Capel Curig, on the other hand, there is a good hour's walking before the highroad is left, beyond Gallt y Gogof, which Borrow calls Allt y Gôg (Cuckoo Cliff), and even then the traveller has about as far to go as if he were starting from Benglog. Most of the Tryfaen climbs being on the east side they can be reached from Capel Curig with much less exertion than from Penygwrhyd, the route from which involves a long, rugged ascent, hot after the sun has risen and ankle-breaking after it has set. _Climbs._--These are extraordinarily abundant, and the hold is nearly everywhere gritty and good. The most popular climbs are: 1. The east side, including especially the two gullies on either side of the summit known as the North and South Gullies. 2. The north ridge up from the head of Llyn Ogwen. 3. The west side. _The South Gully_, climbed by R. W. (1887). The first ascent noticed in the _Book of Penygwrhyd_ being that of H. G. G. and W. in 1890. On September 5, 1891, H. G. G. and E. B. T. offered some clear notes on the subject, to the following effect: The first difficulty consists of three or four jammed stones, each slightly overhanging the one beneath, with a total height of about 10 ft. It can be passed by keeping to the right close to the obstacle, but would not be easy in wet weather for any climber single-handed. At the place where the gully divides the left-hand or nearer division is not difficult. The broad division was found impracticable by a party of four on September 4, 1891, the large smooth rocks at the top being very wet. This place was climbed in 1890 by Messrs. G. and W. by keeping to the extreme right close to the wall of the gully, and then returning along a narrow ledge. It was an awkward place. There is nothing above where the two gullies unite that offers any real difficulty. The North Gully is the more difficult of the two if the immediate centre is to be followed; but it is always practicable to break out on the face to the right. The difficulties of the South Gully are not so severe, but such as they are they must be climbed, as there is no lateral escape. Under date of June 9, 1894, a very clear account is given by J. M. A. T., J. R. S., and H. E. At the first obstacle the first man climbed up into the hole formed by the projection of the topmost rock, but, as the next beneath slopes outwards and downwards, found it impossible to relinquish a crouching posture. The pitch was abandoned. The right-hand rocks close by were taken, and the gully rejoined without difficulty. At the fork the northern branch was chosen. It can scarcely be called a gully; the water trickles down over the crags in several places, but there is no main or well-defined channel. A pinnacle is soon seen on the right, and here the climbing becomes difficult; the footholds are far apart, and the small tufts of grass, which were then wet and slippery, cannot be trusted. The course taken was to the extreme left, and as far as possible from the pinnacle, and in this respect it differs from that taken by Messrs. H. G. G. and W. in 1890. A firm, flat grass-covered shelf, at least a yard square, is seen in a straight line up above, and as soon as the first man has reached this a rope can be used to advantage. A steep rock some 12 ft. in height and of ordinary difficulty remains, and the climb thence to the summit is quite simple. By keeping to the left a cavern is reached, the further end of which opens like a trap door upon the summit; this interesting method of concluding the ascent should not be missed. On August 25, 1892, G. B. B. with Mr. and Mrs. T. R. climbed the five pitches of the South Gully, _a_, _b_, _c_, _d_, _e_; _a_ by the right-hand wall, _b_ in the centre, _c_ by divergence to the right-hand branch and return to the left over a narrow ledge, _d_ and _e_ in the centre or slightly on one side of the face. The gully was never left. Time, about 90 minutes. _North Gully._--This appears to have been climbed in 1888 by R. W. and T. W. Writing on September 5, 1891, H. G. G. and E. B. T. gave the following hints:-- The first difficulty is at the bottom, below the level of any part of the South Gully, and might easily be missed if the horizontal track be followed. On August 30, 1891, these gentlemen found the middle of this (after very wet weather) quite impracticable, and the smooth rock on the right hand, lying at a very high angle, was also wet and very difficult. Either might possibly be passed in a dry season, the rock almost certainly. The next point of note is a very large lodged stone. Going under this they passed through the hole above, one climbing on the other's shoulder and afterwards giving him help from above. The passage was not easy. The next difficulty is made up of two lodged stones about 10 ft. apart. The first might be passed in dry weather. A tempting ledge to the left was climbed without result; ultimately they rounded the obstacle by keeping to the right. On September 19 W. E. C., H. R. B., and M. K. S. ascended the North Gully. They describe it as containing seven pitches, two of which are caverns. They believed that this gully had only once been climbed clean before--namely, in the autumn of 1888, by Messrs. R. W. and T. W. On April 1, 1892, H. B. D., F. W. G., and A. M. M., with Mrs. D. and Mrs. C., ascended the North Gully in 2 hours 10 minutes. The last pitch gave some trouble. In August 1892 W. H. P. and G. B. B. climbed all the pitches of the North Gully clean, taking the sixth from the bottom by the right side and the rocks straight to the summit stones, from where the gully divides. Time, 91 minutes. There is a singular difference of opinion among climbers as to the relative difficulty of these two climbs. Varying conditions of rocks and climbers may partly account for this. Without pretending to decide the matter either way the writer would give it as his experience that unusual conditions more readily affect the southern for evil and the northern for good. For instance, wet or ice makes the former very nasty without altering the latter to the same extent, while really deep and good snow moderately improves the former but converts the latter into a delusion and a mockery, for it ceases altogether to be a climb at all, and becomes a mere snow walk. Even then it is worth doing if it were only to see the wonderful convoluted strata, in the case of more than one great block imitating the rings in the trunk of a tree. _Nor'-Nor' Gully._--On September 18, 1891, Messrs. W. E. C., G. S., and M. K. S. ascended a gully leading on to the north ridge of Tryfaen just to the north of the most northerly of the three peaks. The gully contains three pretty pitches, all of which were climbed, but two of them can be turned. There is yet a fourth gully, still further north, but it has only one obstacle in it, and more scree than anyone can possibly want. So much attention has been devoted to these gullies during the last few years that the ridges which separate them have been unduly neglected. To the writer at least they have always seemed to offer better climbing than any of the gullies, and that of a kind which is very much less common. The ridges on either side of the North Gully are especially fine, and would satisfy the most exacting but for one thing, and that is that the hold is almost too good. _The North Ridge_, from the head of Llyn Ogwen, is of very imposing appearance, and was long spoken of with bated breath. In reality it is a fine but very simple and safe approach to the summit. The gluttonous climbers of the present day will probably complain that it is not a climb at all, but, though the difficulties, such as they are, can all be turned, the more enterprising members of a party can always find abundant outlets for their energies in numerous wayside problems. Some of the rocks are very fantastic in shape; one projecting horizontally bears a resemblance to a crocodile and can be easily recognised from the east. Highly crystalline quartz veins render the rock surfaces even rougher than they would otherwise be, and in a few places the face of the rock is covered with egg-like projections, each containing a core of quartz. At a little distance they look like huge barnacles; their real nature may be left to the geologists. On reaching the heads of the principal gullies the climber will fall in with some capital rocks on or beside his path along the ridge. At the very top he cannot fail even in mist to recognise the two upright rectangular stones, which are so conspicuous from afar. The feat of jumping from one to the other, by the performance of which Mr. Bingley's friend made that eminent traveller's 'blood chill with horror' nearly a hundred years ago, is not as difficult as it has been represented to be, and the danger of falling over the precipice in case of failure is purely imaginary. The unskilful leaper would merely fall on to the rough stones at the base of the pillars. Of the two jumps, that from north to south is the easier. Bingley's guide, perhaps anxious to cap the Saxon's feat, told him that 'a female of an adjoining parish was celebrated for having often performed this daring leap.' Large as the pillars are it is difficult to believe that they were placed in the position they occupy by unassisted nature; they seem too upright, too well squared, and too level-topped; with a cross-piece on the top they would form a nobly-placed 'trilithon,' of which any 'dolmen-builder' might be proud. _The West Side._--A great part of this is occupied by a series of huge slabs, which have been compared by F. H. B. to Flat Crags on Bow Fell. In places luxuriant heather artfully conceals sudden drops and rolling stones on account of which several tempting descents on this side will prove annoying. The only important gully is well seen from Benglog. To reach it strike south-east by the highroad at a point about half a mile east of Benglog. About half-way up the gully trends away to the left, and comes out at a deep notch in the summit ridge. Excellent scrambling again may be found by climbing up eastward from the shore of Bochllwyd. * * * * * [Illustration: TRYFAEN FROM THE NORTH-WEST.] =Moel Siabod= (2,860 ft.) is ascended most easily from Capel Curig, but Dolwyddelan and Penygwrhyd are only slightly more distant, though considerably more boggy. The ascent is worth making, for the sake of the excellent view of Snowdon. The east side is by far the most abrupt, and here a few good crags are found. From this side also the mountain looks its best, but even seen from the west, the tamer side, it is, especially when snow-clad and lit by the setting sun, a remarkably effective feature in the landscape. Readers of 'Madoc,' if such indeed there be, may remember that Southey was benighted on the hills around Dolwyddelan. In that episode Moel Siabod may well have played a part. About the year 1830 Mr. Philip Homer was benighted on it, and died of exhaustion. Mention of this accident is made both by Roscoe (1836) and by Cliffe, who says he heard many details from an eye-witness. The body was taken to Capel Curig and buried there. * * * * * =Snowdon= (3,560 ft.) is the loftiest peak in this island south of Scotland, and one of the most beautiful that is to be seen anywhere. The name seems to have originally described a whole district which the Welsh called Craig Eryri (variously rendered 'rock of eagles' and 'rock of snow'). The peak itself is called Y Wyddfa (pronounced 'E Withva'), which is usually translated 'place of presence' or 'of recognition;' but the splendid suppleness of the Welsh language admits of rival renderings, such as 'place of shrubs or trees,' with which may be compared the name Gwyddallt--i.e. 'woody cliff;' and even, as a non-climber once observed, on seeing a panting form appear at the top of a gully on Clogwyn Garnedd, 'place for a goose.' Leland speaks of 'the greate Withaw hille,' and says 'all Cregeryri is Forest,' and, in another place, 'horrible with the sight of bare stones as Cregeryri be.' [Illustration] Snowdon may be climbed from many points. The nearest inns are Penygwrhyd, Beddgelert, Snowdon Ranger, and Llanberis. The peculiarity of Snowdon consists in the huge cwms which radiate from its summit, and these will be found described in their order, following the course of the sun, and the climbs to be found in each will be indicated. Books on Snowdon are simply countless, and the same remark applies to the pictures which have been taken of it and the panoramas which have been drawn from it. Unfortunately a very large number of fatal accidents have taken place on this mountain, and an interesting but somewhat incomplete article on this subject will be found in _Chambers's Journal_ for May 1887. The Mr. Livesey there mentioned as having been killed by lightning seems to have been really named Livesley, and was of Ashton, in Mackerfield, Lancashire. This occurred on Sunday, September 21, 1884 (the _Times_, September 23). * * * * * [Illustration: CWM GLAS AND THE PARSON'S NOSE, FROM THE WEST] =Cwm Glas.=--As there are three or four tarns on Snowdon called Llyn Glas, so the name of Cwm Glas appears to have been confusingly popular. Cwm Glas proper lies immediately under Crib y Ddysgl, and Crib Goch on the north side; but, to say nothing of the next hollow to the west, which is called Cwm Glas Bach (i.e. little), a recess lying just north of both is called by the same name, and it would appear, from some of the early topographers, that they understood the term to comprehend the whole valley which forms the west approach to the Llanberis Pass. The proper cwm can only be reached from Llanberis or from Penygwrhyd. From the latter (the usual starting-point) the simplest, though not the shortest, way is to go over the pass and down to Pontygromlech, and there, instead of crossing by the bridge, bear away to the left, and up into the cwm. Experts can save something by striking off much earlier near the top of the pass. Those who come from Llanberis will leave the highroad at a point 3½ miles from the station and about half a mile short of the cromlech. Before the two pools come into sight several short but striking pieces of rock are met with, and, indeed, the rock scenery on all sides is extremely fine. Many people come here for that reason alone, and are content to see the rocks without climbing them. For them there is an easy way up to join the Llanberis path by way of the grassy slope west of the Parson's Nose, of which more anon. Between the two a second ridge is seen, smaller than the Nose, and roughly parallel to it, leading out on to Ddysgl, much further up. Not far from this Mr. F. R. Wilton died in 1874 (see _Crib y Ddysgl_) and Mr. Dismore was killed in 1882. * * * * * =Parson's Nose.=--The best known climb in Cwm Glas is on the rock called Clogwyn y Person (i.e. 'Parson's Cliff'), alias the =Parson's Nose=. It is a spur of Crib y Ddysgl, and is easily identified by its projecting in a northerly direction between the two little pools in Cwm Glas. No one seems to know the origin of the name; possibly it may have been scaled by the famous climbing cleric who haunted Snowdonia half a century ago. The most striking feature of this fine arête is the wonderful excellence of the hold. Faces crossed by precarious-looking ledges are found on a closer inspection to have behind those ledges deep, narrow, vertical rifts, affording the perfection of hand-hold, while the rock surface itself is so prickly and tenacious that boot-nails grip splendidly, and the only difficulty for the fingers is that some of them are apt to get left behind on the rocks. It may be climbed direct up the face, either from the very foot or from a point more to the right and some 30 ft. higher up. The height of the initial climb is something like 100 ft. Again, there is a gully on each side of the actual Nose, and it is usually climbed by one or other of these. The western gully is blocked above by an overhanging rock, over or under which it is necessary to climb or crawl. The gully on the opposite or east side is longer, and generally much wetter, and is on that account considered more difficult either to go up or to come down. The three ascents unite close to the cairn. Above the cairn the ridge continues, broken by only two respectable pitches, and leads on to the great tower on Crib y Ddysgl, some 1,200 ft. above the beginning of the climb. It is not, however, necessary, in order to get up out of Cwm Glas on to the main ridge, to climb the Nose at all; by proceeding west and over some white quartz slabs, close under the ridge, and then turning left, one can get out easily a few feet from the top of the Nose, or nearly the same point may be reached from the east side, only it will be after a less interesting and generally somewhat wetter ascent. If a climb is desired when the gullies are in a dangerous condition, there is a place further to the right than the right-hand or west gully where a very steep but safe scramble among big blocks leads up on to the bridge of the Nose. The following ascents are noted in the book at Penygwrhyd, that by T. W. and R. W. being probably the first:-- _1887, September 18._--W. E. C. and A. E. _1890, June 21._--W. P. and G. B. B. tried the Parson's Nose, and, climbing the cleft from the south side, crawled between the rocks which block its upper part, then up the crags to the right for a short distance. _1892, April 2._--A party which had ascended the north gully of Tryfaen the day before ascended the Parson's Nose up the ridge, starting from the cleft. About 50 ft. above it a wall of rock is met which must be climbed either round a corner on the right hand or up a steep chimney on the left. The latter route was chosen, but a large stone (the middle one of three on the left side of the chimney) slipped, and remained in a dangerous position. _1892, August._--W. H. P. and G. B. B. climbed the 'wall of rock' straight up, which they thought easier than the chimney to the left or the green gully to the right. _September 23._--Mrs. H., Miss B., and a large party of gentlemen climbed the Parson's Nose by the gully on the Llanberis side and the jammed stone. Bingley visited this cwm at the close of last century, and gives a good description of it. He was much impressed by Caddy of Cwm Glas, the strong woman. Her real name, by the way, was Catherine Thomas. Cwm Glas Bach also has some fine rocks, and from the head of it up to Cyrn Las a good climb may be had. * * * * * =Crib Goch= ('The Red Ridge') stretches down westward from Crib y Ddysgl to about opposite the summit of the Pass of Llanberis. The name is sometimes used for the whole length of both cribs. This is admitted on all hands to be inaccurate, if convenient, but there is some difference of opinion as to where the line of demarcation should be drawn. Some say at Bwlch Goch (2,816 ft.), while others put it a quarter of a mile or more further west. About 500 yards east of the Bwlch, at almost the highest point (3,023 ft.) of the ridge, a side-ridge strikes away to the north, while the main line continues eastward. The well-known pinnacles (including the 'Crazy' one) are close to Bwlch Goch, and on the north side of the ridge overlooking Cwm Glas. The southern side, sloping into Cwm Dyli, though very steep, is much less precipitous and rocky than the other. [Illustration: CRIB GOCH (Snowdon beyond)] _Starting Points._--Penygwrhyd and Gorphwysfa have almost a monopoly of Crib Goch, because for all other places--such as Llanberis, Beddgelert, Capel Curig, or Bettws y Coed--the distance from Gorphwysfa has simply to be added as so many extra miles along a highroad. In the case of Capel Curig this makes very little difference, seeing that Penygwrhyd lies on the direct route for any ascent of Snowdon, and to the latter there is no nobler approach than that along this ridge. Some have thought it sensational, and many have described its terrors in very sensational language; in fact, it takes the place which among the English lakes is filled by the far less striking Striding Edge on Helvellyn; but in truth, though it is the sort of place where ice, mist, and high wind may encroach to some extent on the margin of safety, to a steady head and foot there is no danger whatever. As for the hands, they are hardly required at all, though for those who like it plenty of real climbing can be had on the way. [Illustration: PINNACLES OF CRIB GOCH] Any mountaineer worthy of the name will admit that the ridge walk up Snowdon by Lliwedd and down by Crib Goch is for its length one of the finest in Europe. The mere gymnast also finds here plenty of enjoyment and almost infinite variety. He may mount by the east ridge or by the north ridge, or in the corner between the two. Again, the north ridge may be reached by either of two gullies in its eastern flank. Of these two gullies the more southerly is the steepest and longest, and may be recognised at some distance by a peculiar split or gap, while the other and more northerly, formed in rock of most cutting quality, offers a convenient passage to the foot of the steep part of the north ridge, from which point there is, if required, an easy descent into Cwm Glas. The north ridge gives a short, pleasant scramble, and is somewhat sheltered from southerly winds, which are sometimes an annoyance on the east ridge. Further west there are several good gullies on the Cwm Glas side, especially round about the pinnacles. The Crazy Pinnacle may be ascended either on the north-east or on the south-west side. The former is now more favoured since the fall of a certain large stone on the latter, which gave a useful hold in former days. Thirty years ago this ridge was almost unknown. A writer of 1833 seems to imply that it had been ascended by saying that 'the passage of it is hazardous, from the shortness and slippery quality of the grass at those seasons of the year when the mountain may be approached;' but this is evidently a mere misapplication of what others had said about Clawdd Goch (Bwlch y Maen), on the other side of the mountain, and we do not hear of anyone climbing here before C. A. O. B. (1847) and F. H. B. a few years later. Between 1865 and 1875 it became better known, and in the books at Penygwrhyd we find it recorded that in April 1884 H. and C. S. climbed from Cwm Dyli, thence along the ridge by Crib y Ddysgl to the summit of Y Wyddfa. In 1887, on June 30, E. K. climbed Crib Goch from Cwm Glas by the gully to the left of the outstanding or Crazy Pinnacle. Near the top two big stones are jammed in, and this compelled him to leave the gully; but on June 29, 1890, G. S. S. found these stones climbable by the aid of a crack in the rocks on the left hand. From this point the ridge can be reached by taking to the rocks on the right. They are sound, which is more than can be said for those on the left of the gully a little farther down. [Illustration: PART OF CRIB GOCH] On July 31 and August 2 E. K. scrambled up the other gullies nearer Bwlch Goch, and found them easier than the first, which is the main one seen from Cwm Glas. He pronounced these climbs well worth trying, but not fit for beginners. On June 17, 1890, W. P. and G. B. B. ascended to Bwlch Goch, and bearing round the foot of the first pinnacle, climbed the gully between the first and the second. They found the holding good, but the rocks by which the gully is blocked somewhat difficult to pass. In 1894, on September 14, W. E. C., S., and B. climbed Crib Goch to the central cairn from Cwm Glas. On December 9, 1894, J. M. A. T., H. H., and H. E. climbed the face from Cwm Glas beside an insignificant watercourse, reaching the ridge at the ruined cairn, then, passing along to the Crazy Pinnacle, scrambled down the gully on the Llanberis Pass side of it. The latter climb they describe as short but excellent, and the former as also good. No more climbs here are described in the _Book of Penygwrhyd_, but many others have been made. The truth is that for the last quarter of a century hardly a climber has visited Wales without making Crib Goch a primary object, and consequently there is not a climb on it whereof men say 'See, this is new.' * * * * * =Crib y Ddysgl.=--The name is pronounced practically 'Cribbythiskle,' and sometimes written 'Distyl,' a spelling probably due to a desire to support the common derivation of the name from 'destillare' i.e. 'dripping ridge.' The climate of Wales, however, is not such as to make any ridge remarkable merely because it drips, and moreover the derivation will not account for the other instances of the word. For instance, two or three miles west of the Pitt's Head we have Trum y Ddysgyl, and the proximity to it of Cwmtrwsgyl suggests that some distinction is expressed by the penultimate syllables. Attempts to derive the name from 'disgl' (= 'dish') seem equally futile. Possibly the explanation may be found in the word 'dysgwyl' ('watch,' 'expect') (compare Disgwylfa, in Cardiganshire), which would make it parallel to names like Lookingstead, &c. The highest point of Crib y Ddysgl is called Carnedd Ugain, and is a worthy rival of Y Wyddfa itself, being, according to the Ordnance surveyors, only 69 ft. lower--viz. 3,491 ft.--and from some points of view a really beautiful peak. From the highest point a narrow crest runs due east, reaching in about a quarter of a mile the huge buttress called Clogwyn y Person, which comes up out of Cwm Glas and has been described with it. This part is sometimes spoken of as the Gribin, a name which the large Ordnance map does not give, and I know of no other authority for it, though it is quite a likely place to bear the name. The main ridge continues east until it joins Crib Goch. The ridge, though sharp, is not a likely place for an accident to a climber, and, indeed, no accident seems to have occurred actually on the ridge, but more than one death has taken place close by. On August 10, 1874, a young man of great promise, Mr. Frederick Roberts Wilton, son of Mr. Robert Wilton, of Doncaster,[12] and a master in the City of London School, ascended Snowdon from Llanberis, and seems to have asked his way to Capel Curig, and to have been informed (not quite accurately) that he must turn to the right 'near the spring,' which is a good bit beyond the proper point of divergence from the Llanberis path. His body was ultimately found a fortnight later 'in the slippery course of a small mountain stream which descends sharply from the most southerly branch of the miners' path immediately below Crib y Ddysgl into the basin known as Cwm Glas. Evidently he had gone down a steep shingly slope with a wall of rock on his right hand over the entrance of a rocky watercourse.' These details are taken from a letter of his colleague, Mr. W. G. Rushbrooke. As the body was found in a posture of repose, and there was no sign of any injury sufficient to cause death, there is some reason to fear that this unfortunate gentleman died of exposure. For further details see the _Times_ for August 22, 24, 26, and 28, 1874. [12] See the _Doncaster Chronicle_. Another death from exposure took place here in the following year--namely, that of Mr. Edward Grindley Kendall, of Crosby, near Leicester, of whom something will be said under the head of _Cwm Dyli_. * * * * * =Cwm Dyli= (pronounced 'Dully') is the great eastern recess of Snowdon, and universally admitted to be the finest thing of the kind in Wales. The long sharp ridge of Crib Goch and Crib y Ddysgl bounds it on the north, while the almost equally fine, though less regular, ridge and majestic crags of Lliwedd shut it in on the south. It contains Llyn Llydaw (Hluddow), the largest lake, and Glaslyn, the finest tarn on the whole mountain, and is one reason why the ascent of Snowdon from Capel Curig is the finest of all. The stream forms some fine cascades (800 ft. above sea level) in its descent to the Vale of Gwynant. Half a mile above these cascades Clogwyn Aderyn, on the north bank of the stream, and Clogwyn Penllechen, between it and Llyn Teyrn (1,238 ft.), have a climb or two on them. At this llyn the path from Gorphwysfa comes in, and along it the great majority of people enter the cwm. The next landmark as we ascend is Llyn Llydaw (1,416 ft.), nearly a mile long, the elevation of which so close an observer as Cliffe over-estimated by more than 1,000 ft. Climbers bound for Lliwedd leave the lake entirely on the right, and find a foot-bridge close to the exit of the stream from it. The path to Snowdon crosses the lake by a stone causeway, which is rarely submerged by floods. From the head of Llyn Llydaw there is a steep rise--555 ft. in a quarter of a mile--to the tarn called Glaslyn (1,971 ft.) Between this and the sky line at the head of the cwm, 1,290 ft. higher, only one more hollow remains, called Pantylluchfa, and here the crags of Clogwyn y Garnedd show up magnificently. It may be mentioned that many people get hopelessly confused in reading or giving descriptions of Snowdon, because they fail to distinguish Glaslyn, here, from Llyn Glas, half a mile to the north of it, in Cwm Glas, and another Llyn Glas less than a mile due west in Cwm Clogwyn. If they know Glaslyn they naturally assume that it must be in Cwm Glas, and if they know Cwm Glas they place Glaslyn in it. Some of the confusion would be avoided if the latter were called by what would seem to be its older and true name--Llynffynnonglas. [Illustration: SNOWDON FROM GLASLYN _a_, Bwlch y Snethan. _b_, Summit, with Clogwyn y Garnedd below. _c_, Junction of paths from Penygwrhyd and Llanberis.] Cwm Dyli was the scene in 1875 of one of the strangest of all the disasters which have happened on the mountain. The victim was Mr. Edward Grindley Kendal, of Crosby, near Leicester, who on June 11 left Gwynant Valley in order to ascend Snowdon. Nothing more was heard of him or his till the end of that month, when a Mr. and Mrs. David Moseley, descending with a guide, found on the edge of Llyn Llydaw a wet and mouldy pair of boots, each containing a stocking marked 'Kendal' and a garter. It was at once surmised that the missing man had been wading and become engulfed in quicksands, which were stated to be numerous. His friends went so far as to employ a professional diver to explore the bottom of the lake, though it would seem that if the body was in the water simpler means would have answered the purpose, and if it was below the water the diver could neither find it nor follow it. At any rate he did not find it, because it was not there. It was found about ten days later on Crib y Ddysgl uninjured--it was identified by Mr. Ison, brother-in-law of the deceased and the jury at Llanberis found a verdict of 'death from exposure.' It was not precisely stated on what part of Crib y Ddysgl the body was found, and nothing transpired as to the condition of the feet; but it is simply amazing to anyone familiar with the character of the ground that a bare-footed man should ever have got so far. Why he did it and how he did it will always remain among the mysteries of Snowdon.[13] Other deaths have taken place in this cwm, for which see under _Lliwedd_ and _Clogwyn y Garnedd_. [13] The _Times_, July 2, 6, 8, and 15, 1875. It is curious that two of the lakes in this valley are among those mentioned 200 years ago by the learned Edward Lhwyd as 'distinguished by names scarce intelligible to the best Criticks in the British.' * * * * * =Clogwyn y Garnedd y Wyddfa=--i.e. 'the Precipice under the Cairn of Snowdon'--has been commonly known by the first three words only for at least 200 years. It is one of the grandest cliffs on Snowdon, and gives very fine climbing. For more than two centuries this precipice has been famous as a refuge for rare ferns and plants. The guide William Williams, well known as a botanist, lost his life here while in search of the Woodsia; so at least says Mr. T. G. Bonney, though he is far from accurate in the date of the accident, which, writing in 1874, he describes as having taken place 'some twenty years ago.' The actual date was June 19, 1861.[14] The old guide had taken up a lady and gentleman from Llanberis, and went from the top alone to gather ferns. The fall was 'down a declivity of three hundred yards.' The body was found at the foot of the precipice, after 'scouts' had been sent out. He had fallen from the point where the slope suddenly changes from about 45° to, perhaps, 75° or 80°. The spot where he slipped was for many years, and perhaps still is, marked by a white stone. [14] See the _Times_, June 25, 1861. On the shore of Glaslyn, at the south-west corner, there is a small cross of wood marking the spot where the body of Mr. Maxwell Haseler was found. He was making for Snowdon by the Lliwedd ridge, and fell from a short distance above Bwlch y Saethau. The party seem to have been well equipped, and contained members of experience, who were not without ropes and axes. They started on January 26, 1879, for Snowdon by Lliwedd, and, after lunching about 1 P.M. on Bwlch y Saethau, proceeded in the direction of Snowdon. Mr. Haseler took a separate course, more to the right hand, and almost immediately seems to have slipped and fallen. His body was found next morning by the shore of Glaslyn, and it was reckoned that he had fallen some 600 or 700 ft. The inquest was held at Penygwrhyd. The victim of this accident was only twenty-three years old.[15] [15] The _Times_, January 29 and February 7, 1879; _Chambers's Journal_, May 7, 1887. The following notes are among the records of Penygwrhyd:-- On September 23, 1887, W. E. C. and A. E. ascended Snowdon from Glaslyn by the first gully on Clogwyn y Garnedd. In 1890, on June 20, W. P. and G. B. B. descended from Snowdon to Haseler's Cross by the gully immediately above it in Clogwyn y Garnedd. In 1890, on September 27, F. W. J. found an excellent gully climb, possibly that referred to in the note of September 23, 1887. He started from Glaslyn, keeping to the right edge of the lake, and, facing towards Bwlch y Saethau, saw a gully choked by jammed stones (five in number), beginning almost from the foot. It has often been climbed. The most interesting and difficult piece is where a large stone roofs a cavern some 15 ft. high. In it there is a kind of skylight, through which the climber must go by an indescribable twist of the body. From the bottom of the gully to the huts where the climb ends is 900 ft., all except a portion of the upper end being narrow gully, and the rest a scramble over rocks. On December 13, 1891, Mrs. H. ascended the big Clogwyn y Garnedd gully direct to the summit of Snowdon. On September 24, 1892, Miss B. and a large party of gentlemen climbed (second lady's ascent) the Clogwyn y Garnedd gully through the cavern. In May 1893 a party climbed up by this and down by the next gully, on the north, which has its head just below the huts. In September 1893 the two Misses T. descended the great gully in 1 hour 25 minutes. In 1894, on September 14, Messrs. W. E. C., S., and B. descended the face of Clogwyn y Garnedd to the left of the big gully. * * * * * [Illustration: SNOWDON FROM THE NORTH, WITH LLIWEDD ON THE LEFT] =Lliwedd= (2,947 ft.) stretches away eastward from the summit of Snowdon, dividing Cwm Dyli on the north from Cwm y Llan on the south. Strictly speaking, perhaps the name only applies to the central portion, where its magnificent northern crags overlook the head of Llyn Llydaw, but, as in the case of Crib Goch, the significance of the name has been enlarged, and it is frequently used to denote the whole length of the ridge. At the Nant Gwynant end a transverse ridge, called Gallt y Wenallt, bears near its base some remarkably fine rocks, on which there is very good climbing. West of the Gallt a side valley, called Cwm Merch, runs nearly due south, and beyond this Cwm Lliwedd proper begins. The southern slope of it is steep, but that to the north is imposingly precipitous. It is, in fact, unsurpassed in Wales. Advancing in the direction of Snowdon, the cliffs become less sheer and the crest less broken, and as soon as the highest point of Crib Goch is 'on with' the head of Llydaw Bwlch Ciliau offers a rough descent into Cwm Dyli. Next on the west comes the Criman, corresponding geographically to Clogwyn y Person on Ddysgl, but more broken; beyond them Bwlch y Saethau (i.e. _Arrows Gap_), leading down to the head of Glaslyn. The last quarter of a mile up to the top of Snowdon is very steep, rising nearly 1,000 ft. in that distance. It was here that Mr. Maxwell Haseler, in 1879, lost his life by keeping too much to the right. [Illustration: LLIWEDD FROM THE NORTH-WEST.] In August 1872 Mr. T. H. Murray Browne and Mr. W. R. Browne, the discoverers of the Scafell Pinnacle, saw the merits of this climb, and attacked it without success. Public attention was first drawn to Lliwedd as a climbing-ground by the ascent made in 1883 by Messrs. T. W. Wall and A. H. Stocker, and thus described by the former in the _Alpine Journal_:[16]-- [16] Vol. xi. p. 239. 'This northern face consists of four buttresses, with three fairly well-defined couloirs between them. The summit ridge has two peaks, of which the western, nearer Snowdon, is the higher by a few feet. In January 1882 from the summit of Crib Goch Mr. A. H. Stocker and myself were struck by the grand appearance of the Lliwedd cliffs, and hearing from Owen, the landlord of the Penygwrhyd Hotel, that the northern face had never been climbed, the desire to make the first ascent naturally came upon us. On the 10th we made our first attempt by the central couloir, which leads up to the depression between the two summits. As it was raining the whole day the rocks were in an abominable state, and it was with the greatest difficulty that we managed to get up about 150 ft.' On January 3, 1883, they tried again. 'On January 4, after carefully observing the rocks of the buttress to the west of the central couloir, we came to the conclusion that it might be possible to cross the face in an upward direction from east to west, and then strike straight up. At 11.15 A.M. we got on the rocks, beginning from the lower of two dark green patches seen from below. From this a ledge runs up to the right, and if it had only been continuous Lliwedd would present no very great difficulties. Unfortunately this was not the case; there were most formidable-looking gaps in it, and the ledges above and below were tacked on to it by smooth and almost perpendicular gullies. Three bits in particular may be mentioned as far the hardest, although they are more or less typical of these crags, which nowhere offer 20 consecutive yards of easy rock-work. The first difficulty which presented itself was where the ledge was broken by a bold face of rock. One of us was pushed to the top of the smooth part, and finding that he could not descend to the ledge on the other side, he ascended a little higher, anchored himself firmly to the rocks, assisted his companion up, and let him down to the required ledge; then, throwing the rope over a pinnacle, he gave both ends to his companion to hold tight, and slid down the 40 ft. of rope to join him. After a few yards of easier work we came to a ledge about 6 inches wide and 4 yards long; the rock above was nearly perpendicular, with no hand-hold, and there was nothing below. It was the only way; we could not turn it, and somehow we got over, but neither of us wishes to be there again. From that ever-to-be-remembered ledge the climbing was grand work up to the point where we had to turn from a westerly direction to go straight up the face. Here there was one nasty corner. A narrow ledge about 2 inches wide had below it a sloping face of rock with three minute cracks in it. One of us had crossed this in safety, and so assumed a position in which the rope would have been of very little use. He was then opposed by a steep bit, topped by 4 ft. of perpendicular rock, with a very steep slope of heather above. At the moment that his last foot left the highest peg of rock his other knee slipped, and the heather, grass, and earth began to give way in his left hand. It was an awkward moment, for the other man was not well situated for supporting a jerk at the end of 30 ft. of rope, which would mean a fall of about 50 ft. Happily the other knee got on the heather and the axe held firm in the earth. Our difficulties were then over. The rocks grew less and less difficult as we ascended, and after 4½ hours of incessant work up 850 ft. of rocks we found ourselves on the summit ridge, exactly 13 yards from the cairn. [Illustration: LLIWEDD FROM LLYN LLYDAW _a_, East buttress. _b_, Central gully. _c_, West buttress. _d_, Slanting gully.] 'It may be mentioned that the only real difficulties lie in the first 200 ft.; above that point the mountain presents rock-work of a very high order, but nothing stupendously difficult, the rock being very firm. 'Future climbers will probably find that of the three couloirs the western is comparatively easy; the central may perhaps be ascended by climbing the lower rocks on the right, and the eastern by a long détour to the left. The buttress to the left of the central couloir looks as difficult as rocks possibly can look. But there is a chance that a careful search among the rocks to the left of the central couloir might reward a rock-climber with an exciting and successful scramble. In any case the whole northern face is distinctly difficult.' Under the date of April 12, 1884, we find recorded by H. S. and C. S. an ascent of Lliwedd by the ridge from Llyn Llydaw, which is apparently nothing more than the ordinary walk, but in 1887, early in April, is an important note in the hand of Mr. Stocker. '_Hints for the Ascent of Lliwedd by the North Face._ (N.B. Lliwedd consists of two peaks--the eastern and western buttress--with a well-defined gully running up between them.) '1. _Ascent of Western Buttress to the Right of Central Gully._--Make for the lower of two green patches easily seen from below just to the right of the foot of the central gully. From it work upwards to the right to the second green patch; then again upwards, still to the right, to a very small, steep green slope. From this the climb is almost straight up, inclining a little to the left at first. This will land the climber a few yards to the west of the cairn. '2. _Ascent by Central Gully and Western Buttress._--Go up the gully till the foot of the steep bit is reached; then climb out of the gully by ledges on the right on to the western buttress. As soon as possible make straight up the face, keeping the gully a little to the left. This will land the climber at the cairn. 'No. 2 is an easier climb than No. 1. All through the hand and foot hold is very good. The chief difficulties lie in the first 200 ft. after leaving the gully. The upper part is fairly easy. The whole climb is about 850 ft.' In 1887, April 11, O. E. and T. V. S. ascended Lliwedd by the central gully at first and afterwards in a line rather left of the summit. Time, under 3½ hours. In September 1887 W. E. C. and A. E. climbed Lliwedd by Mr. Stocker's second route in 1 hour 23 minutes from base to cairn, and subjoined a list of previous ascents, viz.-- First attempt. T. H. M. B. and W. R. B., August 1872 (Vis. Bk.) January 7, 1883, Messrs. Stocker and Wall, by route 1. April 24, 1884, Messrs. A. H. S. and P., by route 2. April 11, 1887, Messrs. O. E. and T. V. S., by route 2. September 10, 1887, Mr. R. W., by route 1. September 20, 1887, Messrs. W. E. C. and A. E., by route 2. On May 20, 1888, Mr. Alfred Evans and two friends, W. E. C. and -- K., left Penygwrhyd at 10 A.M., crossed the northern arête of Crib Goch and Cwm Glas, and climbed Clogwyn Person and by Crib y Ddysgl to the top of Snowdon. Evans and K. then descended by the second or third gully from Bwlch Glas on Clogwyn y Garnedd to the head of Llyn Llydaw. C., E., and K. started up the central gully of Lliwedd at 5.5 P.M. At the bottom, and for some distance up, the rocks are water-worn and but little broken up, and the water flowing down rendered this part difficult. At the moment when C. was about 300 ft. above the scree Evans was about 80 ft. below him, and could not advance. C., therefore, went down 3 or 4 ft. and rested. Evans then tried to get out of the gully by the ledge mentioned in Mr. Stocker's account. This ledge is divided in two parts by a huge outstanding buttress with very scanty footing. Both men passed this; then Evans lowered himself by K.'s ankle on to a rocky foothold and tried to work to the right, but after doing 5 or 6 ft.--half the requisite distance--his feet slipped, his arms were unable to support him, and he fell on his feet about 5 yards on to the edge of a steeply sloping grass ledge running up to this part of the cliff. From this point in four or five terrible leaps he fell over and over, a total distance of 200 ft., to the screes below. The accident happened at 6.55 P.M., and K. is stated to have descended to the body, a distance of 200 ft. of the most awkward climbing in the whole gully, in the space of 5 minutes. This is hardly credible, but under such circumstances people do not judge time accurately. This accident need never have happened. If ever a party courted disaster it was done on this occasion. A cross was erected by friends of Mr. Evans on the spot where his body was found, but being much damaged by stones it had to be removed in 1892 to a rocky knoll not far off, where its position is more secure. It records the age of Mr. Evans as 24. On June 10, 1889, M., A. L. M., and B. climbed the north face of Lliwedd by the rocks of the western buttress, keeping close to the central gully almost the whole of the way. On January 1, 1893, F. P., F. W. O., and H. J. R. ascended the north face of Lliwedd by the western buttress, starting just to the right of the central gully, and coming up at the cairn. Time, 3 hours. At Easter 1893 H. G. G. and -- W. climbed by the central gully and the western buttress, coming out at the cairn, in 3 hours 5 minutes, all the rocks being dry. On April 7, 1893, T. H. M. climbed the north-west face alone in 2½ hours: he found two difficult spots near where Messrs. G. and W. scratched their initials on the rocks. Everything was dry. On September 14, 1894, W. E. C. and M. K. S. ascended the central gully for about 200 ft., then went up the western buttress, and crossed the gully again to the eastern buttress, about 300 ft. below the top, reaching the summit in 2 hours and 20 minutes. On October 14, 1894, J. M. A. T., H. H., and H. E. ascended the central gully to a point apparently beyond that where others have broken out upon the face, and continued up a steep stretch of rock by taking a narrow gutter between the centre and right wall, the upper part being found difficult. A broad ledge brought them to a similar reach, where the outward slope of the holds became more and more pronounced. Finding the rocks above quite impassable, the party descended by means of an iron claw, which had to be left, and then by a ledge in the right wall and an awkward corner got out on the face of the west buttress. Here they found the ledges narrow and the crags extremely steep, but working upwards and tending to the right they crossed an incipient gully by an awkward stride, and thereafter met with only ordinary difficulties, but on passing a cleft which opens into the gully enjoyed a magnificent view of the latter, and struck the summit at the cairn. They pronounced the climb to be quite impossible for one man. _The Slanting Gully._--This gully, on the west side of the western buttress, is easily identified, being the next one to the west of the great central gully and a striking feature of the north face of Lliwedd. It is clearly marked all the way up, and is most readily approached by crossing diagonally up the screes below the great gully and then skirting the base of the rocks of the western buttress. This gully was attacked on January 9, 1894, by Messrs. F. O. W., C. W. N., E. H. K., and H. K. It was then frozen up and covered with snow to a depth varying from a few inches to 3 ft. In 4 hours an estimated height of 350 or 400 ft. above the starting-point was attained, the whole of this distance, with the exception of a few steps in deep snow, having to be climbed. The party kept in the gully the whole way, usually close against the rocks on the western side. Progress was finally arrested at a point where the gully becomes, for some distance, a mere crack, formed by the western rocks overhanging an almost smooth slab, where hold for hand or foot seems almost entirely wanting. With longer time at disposal it seemed possible that this difficulty might have been surmounted by wriggling up inside the crack, or by a dangerous scramble on the face of the slab. Two members of the party were provided with crampons, and derived great steadiness and safety from their use. The uniformly steep angle at which this gully lies may be gathered from the fact that a rücksack dropped from the highest point was picked up at the starting-point on the return. It was the opinion of most of the party that the condition of the snow and rocks was, on the whole, favourable for climbing, as the ice and snow gave some assistance in places which without them might have been still more difficult. The next attempt is valuable, as notes were taken on the heights of some of the obstacles. On March 26, 1894, the gully was attacked by J. C. M., O. M., and W. P. from the screes (2,300 ft.) at 1.55 P.M. They arrived in the cave (2,690 ft.) at 5 P.M. They considered the conditions favourable, except that the snow was melting, but found the climbing difficult all the way. At about 2,500 ft. a chimney 70 ft. high had to be squirmed up. They were of opinion that the gully could not be climbed direct, and all their efforts to break out on either side were frustrated. The climbing does not, as in the central gully, become more easy as progress is made; on the contrary, the difficulties increase. The party carried two ropes, one of 50 ft. and one of 80 ft., and at one place had to use the full length of both together. The descent took 2 hours. On Thursday, August 30, 1894, this gully cost a valuable life. Mr. J. Mitchell, of Oxford, an assistant editor of the _New Historical English Dictionary_, started from the foot at about 2 P.M. The first pitch was quickly ascended, and he then proceeded, apparently without difficulty, to the foot of the long chimney, which he passed by means of the face. On reaching the top he waved his handkerchief, and, being asked what it was like, replied that it was very stiff. Not long after he was seen in a cave, which the lookers-on (probably in error) identified with the highest point reached by previous climbers. From this he climbed with great difficulty to the top, as it appeared from below, of a long chasm, with his head just below an overhanging rock, upwards of 150 ft. above the cave, and after more than half an hour of fruitless endeavour to make further progress he fell at 4.30 P.M., and was killed on the spot. The body was found at the above-mentioned cave, and was brought down by four quarrymen at great personal risk. The lesson which should be drawn from this is, that if a man will insist on climbing alone he should not choose for his attack climbs which parties of greater skill and experience than his own have found to be beyond their powers. * * * * * =Cwm y Llan.=--This large cwm stretches away from Snowdon top to the south-east between Yr Aran and Lliwedd. The scenery consists mainly of the South Snowdon Slate Works, which occupy the centre of the valley, at a height of about 1,100 ft., and of Sir Edward Watkin's road up Snowdon. There is very little climbing, though some parts of Geuallt and Aran are very steep. On the Lliwedd side there is a good rock (Craig Ddu), not far from the slate works, and others rather smaller near the exit of the valley, while at the head, near Bwlch y Maen, almost under Snowdon and near Bwlch y Saethau, some difficult passages occur. The slate quarry here must not be confused with 'Cwm y Llan slate quarry,' which is not in this valley at all, but on the western slope of Aran, about a third of a mile beyond Bwlch Cwm y Llan. This little pass (about 1,700 ft.) is very useful to anyone who, after a climb on Lliwedd, wishes to reach the nearest railway station, for Pont Rhyd-ddu is very much nearer than Llanberis and can be reached without climbing over Snowdon summit. From the top of Lliwedd the pass is in full view, and a stone wall is seen stretching half-way from it towards two little reservoirs which are some 600 yards higher up the valley than the slate works. It is a mile and a half from Lliwedd by way of these reservoirs to the top of the bwlch, which will hardly be reached within half an hour. From the bwlch a fair path on the right bank of the stream leads towards Llynygader, and soon crosses the path from Snowdon to Beddgelert. By keeping round the hill to the right the Carnarvon highroad (which is easily seen from above) is gradually neared. The distance from the bwlch direct to the station may be covered in three-quarters of an hour, making in all 1¼ hour from Lliwedd, as compared with at least 2½ hours which would be required to reach Llanberis from the same point. * * * * * =Cwm Creigiog= is a shallow and unimportant hollow on the south-west side of Snowdon, lying between Aran and the ordinary Beddgelert path to the summit. The cwm has no attractions for a climber, yet at least one life has been lost in it. This was in the winter of 1859, when a Mr. Cox is said to have ascended Snowdon from Llanberis, and to have become exhausted on the way down to Beddgelert, between Llechog and the farm called Fridduchaf. His foolish guide left him alone and went in search of food, with the result, which in such cases usually follows, of finding his unfortunate employer dead on his return. The spot is marked by a heap of stones. Mr. Baddeley says it 'marks the spot where a tourist lost his life from exhaustion in 1874'--perhaps a mistake arising out of a death of the same kind in that year on quite another part of the mountain. * * * * * =Clogwyndur Arddu= ('Black Precipice') is the magnificent ridge which divides Cwm Clogwyn on the south from Cwm Brwynog on the north, being the western buttress of Y Wyddfa, or more strictly of Carnedd Ugain. The ascent from the Snowdon Ranger traverses nearly the whole length of the ridge, which broadens out at its western end into Moel y Cynghorion, beyond which again is the low pass of Bwlch Maes y Cwm (1,100 ft.), giving an easy passage from Llanberis to Snowdon Ranger and Beddgelert. The cliffs on the north side of the ridge are grand, and have been concerned in more than one fatal accident. In 1846 the Rev. Henry Wellington Starr, B.A., of Magdalen Hall, Oxford, eldest son of Mr. George Starr, of Hilperton, Wiltshire, and then a curate in Northampton, left Dolbadarn Inn on September 6 to ascend Snowdon. He failed to return, and on inquiry being made by his friends people came forward with evidence which seemed to show that he had reached the top of Snowdon, then descended to Gorphwysfa, crossed the head of Llanberis Pass, and ascended Glyder Fawr. At that point a guide professed to have met him, and brought him about half-way down, particularly noting that he wore a single glove, corresponding exactly to another which he had left with his luggage at the hotel. Search was made in every direction, but it was not till the beginning of June in the following year that any light was thrown on the mystery. On that day some of the clothes were found accidentally by William Hughes, a huntsman, who was exercising his dogs, apparently on Moel Cynghorion, and next day, on further search being made, the skeleton was discovered buried under gravel. His purse and chain were found, but his watch and ring were gone. It appears from the evidence of Griffith Ellis, of Llanberis, who found part of the remains, that the deceased had fallen over the cliff of Clogwyn Coch, on Moel Cynghorion, while ascending from Llyn Cwellyn--that is, by the 'Snowdon Ranger' route.[17] [17] The _Times_, 1846, October 14, October 24, October 30, November 3, and 1847, June 5; the _Globe_, October 1846; _Chambers's Journal_, May 1887. In 1859 a fatal accident took place near the eastern end of the ridge. The victim, George Henry Frodsham, a clerk in Liverpool, described as a young man of very fine physique, arrived at Llanberis on Saturday, August 13, accompanied by his cousin, F. A. Nicholson, and four friends, T. Clayhills, J. Snape, J. Goodiear, and A. Gardner. It was midnight, but they started off at once for Snowdon. They got as far as the 'half-way house,' where the proper path turns left, and up towards Cyrn Las; they, however, took the right-hand fork, which leads to the old copper level above Llyn du'r Arddu. Struggling up the rocks from the mine, Frodsham, encumbered by an umbrella and a bag, and being, moreover, in the dark, slipped and fell, unknown to his friends, who returned to the proper path and gained the summit. His cousin is said to have searched for him continuously from 4 A.M. on Sunday to 9 P.M. on Monday. At 6 A.M. on Tuesday the body was found by W. Owen; the skull was fractured both at the top and at the back, and the bag and umbrella were found 200 yards higher up, indicating that distance as the extent of his fall. A sapient jury drew from this sad event the moral that a guide should be employed as a safeguard against sudden mists; but few men need fear mists less than those who choose to climb when it is pitch dark. It may be said that this party neglected no precaution which is likely to ensure a fatal accident--inexperience, fatigue, darkness, difficult rocks, the burden of bags and umbrellas. * * * * * =Llechog= (i.e. 'Flat, Slabby Place').--There are two ridges of this name on Snowdon; one is traversed by the ordinary route from Beddgelert and that from Rhyd-ddu, and is precipitous on its curving north front; the other forms the western wall of Cwm Glas Bach, and is traversed for some distance by the pony path from Llanberis. Towards the Llanberis Pass road it presents a fine rocky ridge, very steep and lofty, on which good climbing may here and there be found. * * * * * =Moel Eilio= (2,382 ft.), less than three miles south-west of Llanberis station, has a namesake on the west side of the river Conway, not far from Llanrwst. The name is sometimes spelt Aeliau. The view from the top is extremely fine; the ascent is easy, and, as there is a railway on each side of it, access to the foot of it is very simple. The rockiest side is towards the east. Early in the century a poor little fellow named Closs, while trying to follow his mother from Bettws Garmon to Llanberis, was lost on this mountain. The story is told by H. L. Jones (1829) in his finely illustrated book, and by Wright (1833) and Bennett (1838). The last-named gives his epitaph. * * * * * =Garnedd Goch Range.=--=Garnedd Goch= (2,315 ft.) (i.e. 'The Red Cairns') is a very rugged and unfrequented range of hills lying to the west of Beddgelert. The huge Nantlle slate quarries on the north side of it have spoilt some very pretty scenery and some very pretty climbs. Beddgelert and Snowdon Ranger are good starting-points, and better still is Penygroes station, on the line from Portmadoc to Carnarvon. * * * * * =Moel Hebog= ('Hawk Hill,' 2,578 ft.) seems to have been ascended last century by Lord Lyttelton, by the Ordnance surveyors, and in August 1857 by Mr. J. H. Cliffe, who in his book (published 1860) gives a clear description of his ascent. In his opinion one of the cairns on the summit was then 'very ancient.' It is essentially a Beddgelert mountain, but can be conveniently taken from many other places at the cost of more time, as, for instance, from Snowdon Ranger on the north, Tremadoc and Criccieth on the south, and Brynkir station on the west. A man in the pink of condition who knows the way well can get to the top from Beddgelert in about three-quarters of an hour, but most people take 1½ or 2 hours. The horizontal distance is under 2 miles, nearly the same as that from Wastdale Head to Scafell Pike; but the vertical height is less by one-quarter. The proper route is very simple. A shoulder runs down north-west on to the Carnarvon road, and the ridge of it, after being reached by proceeding due west from Beddgelert, is followed straight to the top. This shoulder may, of course, be used by those who approach from the Snowdon Ranger, but for them a better plan is to take, about ¼ mile after passing the Pitt's Head, a road which continues on the right bank of the stream to Glan y Gors, a few yards beyond which a turning on the right leads across a side stream and past the farm of Hafod Ryffydd to the foot of Cwm Meillionen, and, by following either the cwm or the ridge on the left hand, the top of Moel Hebog is easily reached. The routes from Tremadoc, Criccieth, and Brynkir all take the dull side of the mountain; but this disadvantage is counterbalanced by the increased effect which this gives to the view of Snowdon on reaching the top, and to the peep down into the valley of Beddgelert, below. The most difficult way to hit off is that from Nantlle, but in point of rock scenery it is the finest of all, and was chosen by the Alpine Club for their excursion when they met here in 1883. * * * * * =Mynydd Mawr= (i.e. 'Great Mountain') rises just opposite to and west of the Snowdon Ranger Inn. The noble crag Castell Cidwm (i.e. castle of the wolf or robber) runs steeply down to Llyn Cwellyn, and well deserves a visit. Borrow, on seeing it from the south, was reminded of Gibraltar. Craig y Bera also, which overhangs Drws y Coed, is part of this mountain, and has some very striking rock scenery. Denbigh. This county has little climbing. A few rocks near Bettws y Coed offer short climbs, which are more satisfactory than the limestone rocks of Orme's Head, near Llandudno, or of the Eglwyseg cliffs, near Llangollen; but we find in =Dinas Bran=, close by, an extremely steep, castle-crowned hill, and much favoured by picnickers. It seems, however, to have been the scene of some early climbing, made too, quite properly, with the rope. Leland says, 'Ther bredith in the Rok Side that the Castelle stondith on every yere an Egle. And the Egle doth sorely assaut hym that distroith the Nest goyng down in one Basket and having a nother over his Hedde to defend the sore Stripe of the Egle.' Under such circumstances a climber ought to find St. Paul a better patron saint than St. Martin. Montgomeryshire. =Berwyn Mountains.=--The name is said to signify 'White Tops' (Bera-gwen). The range runs parallel to the river Dee, forming its south bank for many miles. It is not lofty, Moel Sych (2,716 ft.) and Cader Fronwen (2,573 ft.) being the highest points. The individual hills are not of striking form, and are really little more than high heathery moors, on which large numbers of grouse breed, but there are many points on the south-east side where small but striking rocks are found, chiefly about the heads of cwms hollowed out of the 'Llandeilo' and 'Bala' strata. These cwms are occasionally visited for the sake of the waterfalls, two or three of which are exceedingly fine. The rocks at Llangynog would be remarkably good if they had not fallen a prey to the spoilers in the form of quarrymen. Merionethshire. Merioneth mountains and shire Cardigan To travel over will tire horse and man, says Taylor, the Water Poet, and, indeed, as a climbing county it is only second to Carnarvon, and contains such fine mountains as Cader Idris, the Arans, and the Rhinogs. The climbing capital is Dolgelly, though the excellent service of the Cambrian Railway makes it easy to scale almost any mountain from almost any place in the county. The reason of this is that all the places of resort are near the coast, and the mountains are not far inland, so that the railway following the coast puts them all in communication with each other, and it is almost equally convenient to stay at Barmouth, Harlech, Towyn, Aberdovey, or Machynlleth. Indeed, this is almost the only county where railways are cheerfully accepted by the mountaineer as friends and not as enemies. He does not love them at Bettws y Coed, he loathes them at Llanberis, but here they are unobtrusive and at the same time supremely useful. * * * * * =Aberglaslyn.=--Through this beautiful defile lies the only correct approach to Snowdon. It is a true mountain scene, somehow suggesting Scotland rather than Wales, and of such beauty that, according to the story, three Cambridge dons, who went round Wales criticising nature and deducting marks for every defect, unanimously awarded full marks to this. There is fairly good practice climbing on both sides of it, but not very steep, in spite of the fears of some of the early travellers, who (like Hutton in 1803) thought the sides would close before they got through, and reached Beddgelert with a sense of relief. It was one of the earliest scenes in Wales which the taste of last century admitted to be picturesque. Sandby's view was taken about 120 years ago. * * * * * =Cnicht= or =Cynicht= (2,265 ft.), =Moel Wyn= (2,529 ft.)--Mr. J. H. Cliffe ascended the former on September 4, 1857, and declared that he could only hear of one man who had preceded him (the climbing clergyman). Under certain aspects and conditions it is one of the most striking mountains in Wales, owing to its sharp, conical form, but it bears very little really good rock. Beddgelert is the best place from which to ascend, and if the old and higher road to Maentwrog be taken to ¼ mile short of the tramway in Cwm Croesor, a ridge on the left hand can be followed right up to the peak without fear of mistake. If the ascent of Moel Wyn be included it adds less than an hour to the time taken by the last expedition. On the other hand, if Moel Wyn is ascended from Tanygrisiau, on the Ffestiniog line, it is equally easy to take in Cynicht. * * * * * =Rhinog Fawr= (2,362 ft.--just north of Rhinog Fach) is one of the most striking of the rocky hills which rise behind Harlech. It is more visited than would otherwise be the case because the pretty lake of Cwm Bychan and the famous pass of Bwlch Drws Ardudwy, both places of considerable resort, lie at its feet, one on either side. It is one of the barest and most rocky mountains in all Wales, and yet it has hardly anywhere on it a crag of respectable height. Little nameless problems, however, abound, and men who are content to enjoy a day's promiscuous scrambling, without accomplishing any notorious climb about which they will afterwards be able to boast, may be recommended to ramble over Rhinog Fawr. _Easy Ascents._--Several stations on the Cambrian line are convenient for the start, especially Harlech and Llanbedr. Vehicles can be got in summer to take visitors to near Cwm Bychan (about 5 miles), from the east end of which to reach the top of the mountain requires a long hour, by way of the lakelet of Gloywlyn and up the western slope of the mountain. From Dolgelly the way is not so easy to find. Bwlch Drws Ardudwy, the pass between the two Rhinogs, is the first place to make for, and for this the best plan is to go by the Precipice Walk or by the Trawsfynydd highroad to the Camlan stream, which comes in on the left half a mile or more beyond Tynygroes Inn. A path follows the stream for nearly 3 miles to a slate quarry, which can also be reached rather more quickly by crossing the bridge at Penmaenpool, especially if the train be used as far as that station. Half a mile up the stream beyond the quarry the course leaves the brook and strikes away north-north-west round Rhinog Fach, rising as little as may be, so as to join the track up Bwlch Drws Ardudwy. From the head of the pass, rugged as it looks, a way may be picked northward to the east slope of the summit, but many people prefer to descend to the west a long way, so as to strike the easier south-western shoulder. A yet simpler route than the last, but, as involving 3 miles more of the hateful Trawsfynydd road, intolerable unless a carriage be taken, turns out of the route to the left half a mile beyond the ninth milestone, and makes for the north side of Rhinog Fawr. The path for nearly 3 miles is that which leads to Bwlch Drws Ardudwy, and is quitted just after passing through a wall. The stream on the right hand is now followed up to the pool at its head, until a turn to the left and south brings the pedestrian up on to the summit. This route may also be used from Trawsfynydd (where the Great Western have a station very useful for Ffestiniog on one side and Bala on the other), and there is no better place to start from if climbing is wanted, for of that there is plenty to be found in Craig Ddrwg, the ridge which stretches away to the north. In winter this range is very fine, but as stern and desolate as it is possible to imagine anything. The writer has reason to remember that here, in January 1895, he experienced the most intense cold that he has met with in Great Britain. * * * * * =Arenig Fawr= (2,800 ft.) is called 'Rennig' by Daines Barrington, who, writing in 1771, adds that it 'is commonly considered as the fifth mountain of North Wales in point of height.' The ascent from Arenig station, on the Great Western Railway, between Bala and Ffestiniog, is very easy, as the rise is only 1,700 ft., and the distance about 1¾ mile. The usual and most expeditious way of making the ascent is by proceeding westward from the station for ¼ mile to the farm of Milltergerrig, but for scenery and for climbing an opposite direction should be taken for nearly a mile, till the stream is struck which issues from Llyn Arenig, really a very fine tarn and backed by most respectable cliffs. Further south than the tarn again good rocks will be found. The usual, and indeed the proper, way of dealing with this mountain is to traverse it from north to south, ending up at Llanuwchllyn station, on the Great Western line from Bala to Dolgelly. The eastward view is extremely fine, and superior by far to that from many of the highest points in Wales. This was one of our earliest mountain meteorological stations, as it was here that the Hon. Daines Barrington conducted his experiments on rainfall in 1771.[18] [18] See the _Philosophical Transactions_, p. 294, of that year. Its height, too, was measured, as Pennant (1781) tells us, by Mr. Meredith Hughes, a surveyor of Bala. One of the ancient Welsh writers mentions this mountain in a most contemptuous manner. Borrow alludes to this, and remarks that upon him, on the contrary, none of all the hills which he saw in Wales made a greater impression. * * * * * =The Arans.=--This mountain is the highest in Merionethshire, and by many wrongly considered the second highest in Wales. It lies between the Berwyns and Cader Idris. Like the latter, it is of volcanic trap rock, heavily speckled in parts with quartz, and exposed on the east side, where it has been subjected to much weathering. There is a good deal of old _débris_ from the face, that is now grass-covered. [Illustration] The road between the Aran and the outlying hills of the Berwyn is over 1,900 ft. high; we have, however, to descend to 860 ft. in passing from the Aran to Cader Idris. The main ridge runs almost exactly north and south for 6 miles, its west side--a large tract of marshy moorland--sloping down gently to the vales of Dyfrdwy (= the goddess's water; sometimes called the Little Dee) and Wnion, and its east side, irregularly escarped, falling for the most part very rapidly for the first thousand feet. Its ridge culminates in two peaks 1½ mile apart, Aran Benllyn (2,902 ft.) and Aran Fawddwy (2,970 ft.) The word _Aran_ means an 'alp,' or a 'high place;' _Mawdd_ is said to mean 'spreading,' and the terminations _ach_ or _wy_ mean 'water.' _Aran Benllyn_ was one of several of which the height was measured in Pennant's time by 'the ingenious Mr. Meredith Hughes, of Bala,' who made it out to be 30 yards less than Cader Idris. In April 1881 the Alpine Club had one of their informal meetings at Bala, and chose the east front of the Aran as their route from there to Dolgelly. The ordinary ascents of the Aran are effected from Llanuwchllyn in 2 hours, from Drws y Nant in 1¼ hour, and from Dinas Mawddwy in about 3 hours. _Rock Climbs._--These are never extensive, though there are many little pieces that require much ingenuity to surmount. Excepting for a few boulder climbs on the ridge itself the crag work is confined to the east face of the mountains, the side overlooking Lliwbran and Craiglyn Dyfi. Climbers are often asked, where can a man start practising rock work? The Arans are first-rate for this. Whatever the difficulty on the mountain a few minutes' traversing will generally take one out of it, if direct ascent or descent be considered undesirable. The mountain face is so broken up that we have no gullies or arêtes separated by impossible walls of rock from the easy parts of the mountain. In short, from the enthusiastic shin-scraper's point of view the architecture of the Aran face is defective. (_a_) _From Lliwbran._--The rocks rising from Lliwbran are columnar in structure, and by the time a generation of climbers have torn away the grass from the holds they will show up plenty of neat little problems from 50 to 100 ft. high. Looking up from the lake the crag, which is a high dependence of Aran Benllyn, shows on the right an almost unrelieved slabbiness at an easy angle, which gives good practice in small footholds. Up to the centre of the crag is a steep grass gully, in a line with a large boulder down near the lake, with an overhanging wall that blocks the direct ascent of the gully, and with a fine clean-cut buttress on the left. We may creep up the corner of the wall on the left, or circumvent it by traversing round to the right. The route to the ridge from the big boulder is easiest up an oblique gully just invisible from it. Between our crag and the summit of the Benllyn is an easy walk due east down to the green shoulder south of Lliwbran, that takes us quickly by Nant y Barcud and Cwm Croes to the Twrch valley and the main road. This descent to Llannwchllyn, though not direct, recommends itself in wet or misty weather, and is in any case worth taking as a variant. Aran Benllyn itself offers nothing on its broken escarpments; though the face shows up rather well in profile from a distance, the climber need scarcely use his hands in zigzagging up the face to the cairn. The view from the summit justifies our traversing the peak on the way to Aran Fawddwy. It includes the length of Bala lake and a goodly extent of Llyn Fyrnwy, and the outline of Aran Fawddwy shows up magnificently. Passing along the ridge to the south of Benllyn we keep up at a high level for the whole distance of 1½ mile to Aran Fawddwy, the greatest depression being less than 250 ft. below Benllyn. If we bear to the left, just dipping below the ridge, we pass along the foot of an overhanging mass of rock of considerable length that is undercut in a remarkable fashion. There are many places along it where one may shelter comfortably in bad weather. It is difficult to climb up the rock direct, but towards its south extremity we may work up into a small cave and climb out by the left on to the ridge again. Five minutes then bring us to a fine cairn that marks an easy descent to Craiglyn Dyfi, the source of the Dyfi river, with a good view of the best rocks on Aran Fawddwy. The final ascent of this peak begins after a few feet of descent to a wall that crosses the ridge at its lowest. (_b_) _On Craiglyn Dyfi._--A small terrace at about the level of the wall just referred to leads round the rocks to the left into a large scree gully, which offers good sport in snowy weather. Half-way along this terrace is a 'problem' of unusual severity--a narrow crack in an overhanging face, with very scanty hand-holds where the crack closes, some 20 ft. up the face. The pleasantest bit of scrambling is on to the summit of Aran Fawddwy from the lake, by the arête that is seen in outline from the large cairn on the ridge, from which point the two vertical portions of the arête are well marked. It can be reached easily from the lake, or we may descend from the cairn for some 600 ft., and then traverse across to the south till a small gully is passed that shows a cave pitch at its lower extremity. The rock arête forms the south side of this gully and runs up for 400 ft. It reminds us of the easy climb up Tryfaen from the Glyder side, though in one or two places we have difficulties here, whereas there are none on the Tryfaen scramble. It begins below the level of the cave, and after passing over rough rocks at an easy angle we come to a fine wall with a wide crack up it on the left. A huge splintered block is fixed in the lower part of the crack, and we may surmount the block and just squeeze in, passing out on to the roof. There are one or two variations possible here. In fact, instead of starting on the arête we might pass up the gully to the cave. It has mossy walls and a dripping interior. It is marked by a small pile of stones on the right and a well-bleached sheep's skeleton in the gully just above. The pitch may be taken on the left by steep wet grass, which is unpleasant, or we can attack it direct. We go well inside, and with back to the right we find good holds on the left, thus working up until the roof itself offers hold for both hands. From here it is best to pass on to the arête a few feet below the crack above described. The way is then easy, but interesting, and leads to a straight-up crack in a wall in front of us that has to be negotiated. It looks severe, but the surface of the rock is so rough that no real trouble is experienced with it. The crack is much more formidable to descend. Shortly after this we find ourselves out on the open face again, the gully on the left having disappeared, and only a few crags above us marking the summit of the mountain. Striking directly upwards we reach the top in a quarter of an hour, the last 25 ft. being, if we choose, by way of a chimney, that begins with some difficulty and lands us just to the left of the large cairn that marks the highest point. (_c_) _By Llaithnant._--Passing due south of the Aran Fawddwy cairn, along the route to Dinas, we see a fine rock in front between us and the near end of the Dyrysgol ridge, forming the head of Llaithnant. It is marked by an overhanging rock half-way down the left-hand ridge. A steep and wet scree gully leads down to the valley, and we may go part of the way down until we are about 100 ft. below the overhanging block. Here we can strike across to the arête, and keeping close to the gully on our right have 250 ft. of fairly good scrambling. We skirt close under the big boulder, and passing to the right of it (a traverse can also be managed on the left, lower down) clamber over rather loose rock to the grass terrace above the pitch. Then good rock follows, and bearing towards the right we come in sight of a square-walled chimney overlooking the main gully, marked by small cairns at top and bottom. Its holds are all on the left, so we back up on the right and find ourselves close to the main ridge again. Another chimney still further to the right might be taken, but it is always very wet; the two pitches in it are both very small, and it is only interesting when ice is about. A grass gully separates our arête from a few rocks nearer Dyrysgol, which are of basaltic character and rather interesting to descend. * * * * * =Cader Idris.=--The name ('Chair of Idris') includes the whole mountain range, some 7 miles long, that separates the Mawddach from the Dysynni. It is a continuation of the outcrop of volcanic trap rock that stretches from the Arans down to Cardigan Bay, and, as usual with such mountains, its volcanic origin has had much to do with its grand scenery. The range runs in an E.N.E. direction from the sea south of Barmouth, and reaches its greatest elevation at Pen y Gader (2,929 ft.) It forms two other noteworthy peaks on the chain, Tyrran Mawr (2,600 ft.), 2 miles to the south-west, and Mynydd Moel (2,800 ft.), 1½ mile to the north-east. The north side presents a fairly even front of precipitous rock for 3½ miles. Near the highest point, however, a huge amphitheatre of rock, a thousand feet in height, suggesting a volcanic crater half fallen away, breaks the continuity of the ridge, and contributes the finest bit of mountain scenery that this side of Cader can offer. Probably this hollow suggested first the name of 'Cader,' though there is a recess on the summit ridge that is usually taken to be the seat in question. But the mountain can show something even better on the south side. Its high dependency Mynydd Pencoed joins the main ridge almost at the summit of Pen y Gader, and its extremity Craig y Cae forms with Cader itself another crater-like hollow, which, with Llyn y Cae lying at the foot of the crags, is even wilder and more magnificent than the one on the north side. Excepting the crags in this cwm the south side of Cader consists of steep grass slopes, and the general aspect of the mountain is uninteresting. An account is published in the _Gentleman's Magazine_ (vol. xxxviii. p. 147) of an ascent of the mountain in 1767 by L. N. Cader Idris was also climbed in 1863 by Prince Arthur. Several members of the Alpine Club worked their way up the direct route from Llyn y Gader in 1881, and there is some mention in the _Alpine Journal_ (vol. xii.) of a few ascents by Mr. H. Willink. The gullies along the north face of the mountain were explored for many years by F. H. B. The wandering Borrow wordily describes a night adventure on Cader Idris. A pleasantly-written chapter on it may be found in Paterson's _Mountaineering Below the Snow Line_, and just recently an article has appeared on the same subject in the _Scottish Mountaineering Journal_. This latter article has a good general view of the whole length of the north face. On the north face, between Pen y Gader and Cyfrwy, a tailor named Smith, of Newport, met his death by a fall from the crags in 1864. His body was not found until the following spring. There is another Pen y Gader in South Wales, the highest point in the Black Forest of Carmarthen (2,630 ft.); also between Y Foel Fras and the Conway River a hill goes by the same name. The ordinary excursions up the mountain are made from Dolgelly, by the Foxes' Path, in 2¼ hours; by the Bridle Path, in 2¾ hours, or by Mynydd Moel in 3 hours; from Arthog, easily reached by train from Barmouth, in 3 hours; from Tal y Llyn in 2 hours; and from Towyn in 4 hours. The walk up from Towyn is by the Dysynni valley and the _Bird Rock_. This has a very bold and steep front, broken up by narrow ledges. It can be ascended with different degrees of ease, and is worth climbing for the view. The rock is named from its usual frequenters, the kite, hawk, and cormorant showing up in large numbers on the face. _Rock Climbs._--(_a_) _On Mynydd Moel._--These are all fairly easy in dry weather, and are worth exploring on a slack day. Standing at the eastern corner of the little square Llyn Aran, we notice the highest point of Mynydd Moel to the west. A fine-looking arête leads up to it from the north, with a well-marked pinnacle apparently half-way up the climb. This we shall call the north ridge. A prominent pillar of unusual steepness is seen to our left, reaching to the height of the Ceu Graig ridge. Its eastern side is cut into by a narrow gully that seems from below to pass behind the pillar. To the right of the Ceu Graig pillar is seen another gully, looking steep but grassy; it is found to offer a pleasant route on to the ridge. Above the upper screes at the foot of the higher crags several ascents may be planned from below. The best is marked by two oblique chimneys that start upwards to the left. Between this and the north ridge a large scree gully leads up to the highest part of the mountain, and from it on the right several short scrambles on good slabby rocks are obtainable. [Illustration: CRAIG ADERYN (BIRD ROCK)] The first of the Ceu Graig gullies, counting from left to right, is to the left of the pillar, and takes three-quarters of an hour to ascend from the lake. It starts with a water slide that we take on the right, and we pass back into the gully immediately afterwards. Then the ascent of an easy chimney makes us a little wet if the weather has been rainy, and a pitch appears just above. This can be taken on the right or left. The right-hand route gives us wet rocks; the left leads up a side chimney, and back into the gully by an awkward grass traverse. After this the gully divides, and leads us to the neck that joins on to the pillar on our right. The steep outside face of the pillar can be ascended, but is rather dangerous. It is a sample of mantelpiece climbing, but the holds are mostly of grass and heather, and some of the steps are long. The next gully, a short distance to the right of the pillar, is more open than the first, and is less steep. Some water is generally coming down. The first obstacle is a wide cavern, that can be mounted immediately to the left or avoided by passing up the easy open chimney on that side of the gully. The second is a waterfall, and that also is by preference passed on the left; the difficulty finishes with a short corkscrew chimney. From this we emerge on to the open face of the mountain, and a few feet of good rock bring us to the main ridge. We are now at about the level of the upper limit of scree on the Mynydd Moel face, and a traverse can be effected round to the oblique chimney already referred to. In doing so we pass first a scree gully and then an inviting cleft up to the left, but this is found to lose its interest after the first 20 ft. The oblique chimneys can be recommended for beginners, as the climbing is only about 250 ft.; the rocks are very good, and the angle about 45°. Water comes down the gully, but does not offer any trouble, except, perhaps, at the first obstacle. If this is taken direct we climb up the right wall, which overhangs, and cling sufficiently close to permit the water to pass behind us. The second pitch is taken on the right, the rock being so much undercut that we can pass behind the water. After this a little more scrambling leads to a scree and an easy finish. [Illustration: SKETCH MAP OF CADER IDRIS] The north ridge is somewhat disappointing. It works well up to the pinnacle, which may also be approached by a dilapidated chimney on the left. But just above this, where another ridge joins from the north-west, it becomes a mere walk along the edge of a cliff. Perhaps the neatest way of descending this cliff is by a very narrow vertical chimney, marked at top and bottom by small piles of stones, a little to the north of the big scree gully, and close to the highest point of Mynydd Moel. (_b_) _West of Mynydd Moel._--Here the north cliff is very much broken. There are innumerable scree gullies up the face, but the rock ridges in between them have no good features. There are one or two pinnacles just below the ridge, easy to reach from above, but difficult from below. One especially is worth a scramble, about 5 minutes' walk from Mynydd Moel; a thin and uncommonly difficult chimney leads up its outside face. (_c_) _On Pen y Gader._--The central gully up Pen y Gader is a prominent feature of this face of the mountain. It was climbed many years ago, but no definite account of its early history has been obtained. It is in three obvious portions, as indicated in the illustration, and is generally wet. The two shelves that divide the climb stretch obliquely upwards to the right across the whole face, and may be reached in a great variety of ways. Nevertheless the only good climbing is in the two lower portions of the main gully. The first piece takes us on to the shelf with about 70 ft. of climbing. The gully narrows considerably, and we are forced on to the right-hand side and up a steep and smooth slope of water-worn rock. Then we cross over the water to the left, and effect an easy exit on to the ledge. We next scramble over some irregular blocks and into a narrow recess at the foot of the second pitch. This is a narrow chimney, very pleasant in dry weather, landing us in 50 ft. on to the second ledge. From here the ground is more open, and the climbing is of a slight character to the summit, except in winter, when the whole gully is apt to be heavily glazed. Under such circumstances the lowest pitch is almost dangerous. The first pitch may be varied by striking up from the screes a few yards to the left of the main gully, by the cleft shown in the illustration. The second can be quitted altogether, and the columnar rocks to the west taken in a variety of ways; and all along the upper corridor will be found short pitches leading to the summit ridge. (_d_) _On Cyfrwy._--There are two well-defined arêtes leading up close to the summit of Cyfrwy. The first _a a_ is in an easterly direction, and may be seen in profile from the direction of Pen y Gader. This is easily recognisable by the curious truncated pinnacle or tower some way up. The second bears up from the north, and also shows a pinnacle, but of smaller dimensions. Beyond the two arêtes the climbing on Cyfrwy is inferior, but between them there are a few interesting routes up the crags. [Illustration: CADER IDRIS (seen across Llyn y Gader)] The terrace _e e_ is easily reached from the screes. From it there are two definite climbs, one _b b_ up a gully to the left, that leads out on to the east arête, the other _c c_ up a more open gully that passes to the summit ridge. It is possible that the notch between the great tower and the east arête can be reached from this side, but the upper part looks difficult. The east arête was climbed in about 1888 by the writer. The first recorded ascent was in January 1891 (H. K., W. E. S., and O. G. J.), and the first ascent by a lady in August 1891 (Miss L. G., K. W. D., and O. G. J.) [Illustration: THE CYFRWY CLIMBS, FROM THE NORTH.] It can be followed all the way up. The tower is best turned on the right, and the vertical wall of 40 ft. that immediately follows is climbed direct from the little gap, with just a slight divergence to the left. The only serious difficulty on the arête is a wall of rock 100 ft. higher up. It can be surmounted by a thin cleft, the jammed stones in which are unsafe; or by working up the face a little to the left. The situation is very exposed. This, and any other bad bits, can generally be avoided by climbing down to the scree gully on our left. Near the top of the arête we pass the exit of the chimney _b b_, which descends steeply to the right. [Illustration: CYFRWY ARÊTES (The northern is seen in profile, the eastern is much foreshortened)] The north arête has probably not been climbed, but the gullies on each side have been taken. They call for no special comment. The one to the right is worth ascending for the view of the fine rocks on this face. It is mostly scree with a small pitch near the top, and was once marked above by a little cairn. It is admirable when hard snow is about. The gully _c c_ to the left is very open and risky, consisting of a series of shelves formed by the falling away of the porphyritic pillars that characterise the face. The climb _b b_ is rather better. The scrambling from the terrace is easy but steep, until a large overhanging boulder entirely blocks the way. We then climb up the vertical wall on the left and traverse back to the gully. It finishes very abruptly on the narrow upper ridge of the east arête, and in a most unexpected way we find ourselves looking down to Llyn y Gader with the face of Pen y Gader directly opposite. There are a few short climbs on the face of Tyrrau Mawr, but nothing very definite can be picked out. (_e_) _On Craig y Cae._--The great gully of Mynydd Pencoed was climbed for the first time on May 18, 1895 (W. P. H. S., E. L. W. H. S., and O. G. J.) It is by far the finest climb in the Cader district; the work in it is as varied as in any of the more familiar gullies in the neighbourhood of Snowdon, and the rock scenery in its upper portion can scarcely be surpassed on British soil. The upper part of the gully attracted the attention of the writer in 1890, but it was not until April 1895 that he made any attempt to enter the gully at its lower extremity. Then he succeeded in forcing his way over the first pitch, but the great rush of water coming down the gully made the second pitch impossible, and the untimely fracture of an ice axe prompted a temporary withdrawal. On the day when the successful attempt was made the rocks were unusually dry. In wet weather the difficulties of the climb are likely to be very much increased, more especially in the narrower pitches, where the route chosen by the climber is identical in position with that chosen by the water, though opposite in direction so long as valour needs diluting down to discretion. It seems probable that grass traverses may be found to circumvent the lower pitches. The first and second, for example, may be avoided by traversing into the gully from the left, over the grassy buttress that supports the Pencoed Pillar. The third pitch may be passed immediately on the left, if one treats the loose soil with due consideration. The fourth and fifth seem from above to permit an alternative route up to the right, over steep grass and back to the gully by a treacherous-looking upward traverse to the left. From here the three remaining pitches directly up the gully offer the simplest solution to the rest of the problem; variations to the left and right have been freely suggested, but are still untested. [Illustration: LLYN Y CAE (OR CAU) AND CRAIG Y CAE (FROM CADER IDRIS)] The climbing starts within 200 ft. of the level of Llyn y Cae, with a short pitch some 12 ft. high, marked above by a cairn of stones. The second pitch begins almost immediately, and must be taken direct, the roof of the cave in its upper portion to be approached by a serpentine squirm of the body after the cave is entered, up the thin crack on the right. The third pitch is ferocious in aspect, but uncertain in action, on account of the poor quality of its material. It consists of a large cavern with a pendulous mass of brittle rock hanging down from the roof somewhat to the left. The cavern is penetrated as far as possible on this side, and then, with back to the hanging rock and feet on a hold invisible from below, a passage may be effected outwards to the firm hand-holds in the open. A jammed stone with débris attached, in the most handy situation at the corner of the exit, is best left alone. Soon after this we approach a long narrow chimney close to the left wall of the gully. It is about 35 ft. in length, and the upper part gives trouble. But a very fine foothold some 12 ft. up gives breathing space for the final portion. Then the interest ceases for a while, as we mount some 130 ft. of scree and smooth rocky slabs at an easy angle. This is an excellent arrangement, for the fifth pitch, that now comes on, is likely to demand all our powers of admiration for a while. It consists of a cavern divided by two steep buttresses into three parts, side by side, the middle one being most open to inspection but most difficult to approach directly. Immediately above the left-hand portion a vertical chimney rises some 40 ft., its lower end projecting well over the cave and manifesting no direct route of approach from below. To get to the foot of this chimney is the chief difficulty. The method adopted was rather intricate, and probably permitted much improvement. It has, however, the advantage that the leader need not climb straight away the full 80 or 90 ft. without a halt. He first penetrates as far as possible into the cave on the left, until the roof bars further progress. Then he traverses over a dangerously smooth and wet slab, with no perceptible foothold, to the middle portion of the cavern. From here he works upwards and outwards until with a long stride he steps out on to a little ledge on the right wall of the gully. Here a hole through a large block enables him to manipulate the rope with safety, and the second man can join him. The second may reach the terrace more directly, if the rope is available, by working directly up the middle of the gully till the level of the ledge is reached; but the climbing is very uncertain, on account of the treacherous footholds. From the ledge the leader passes back across the centre and over a notched curtain of rock into the upper chimney. Here there is no doubt as to the route; a resting-place is afforded for a moment by a little cave, through the roof of which only the thinnest can hope to wriggle. The edge of this roof is mounted on the right, and a few feet higher a jammed block that dominates the pitch is turned on the right, up some rather treacherous grass that needs very careful treatment. The writer would like to add a word of advice to this already lengthy description of the pitch. Don't attempt to qualify for the through route of the little cave by slipping downwards and jamming in the chimney. The three remaining pitches are short and near together, the last one finishing a few feet below the summit of the ridge, some 850 ft. above the lake. _East Gully._--The gully immediately to the east of the Pencoed Pillar was first climbed on May 19, 1895 (W. P. H. S., W. E. S., and O. G. J.) As seen from the opposite shores of the lake it presents a striking appearance, the middle part looking very difficult. It starts higher up the face than the western climb (about 440 ft. above the lake), and finishes on the ridge at a somewhat lower level than the top of the latter (870 ft. above lake). Thus the climbing is much reduced, and the whole ascent can be accomplished in an hour by a party of three. The scrambling in it is almost continuous, and towards the middle, where the rock walls close in the gully, the route is very steep, though none of the pitches are severe. We begin with oblique slabs of rock rather inclined to be wet. Then the direct route lies over a block of rock with uncertain holds, but a cleft to the left promises much better, and a traverse at the top leads back easily to the gully again. The scrambling is very pleasant where the right wall begins to overhang, and remains interesting till the gully divides. From here screes lead up each part to the crest of the ridge, but a small rock arête separating the two branches give us climbing all the way. Still more to the east is a shorter gully, composed for the most part of scree, that can be taken in 20 minutes. It has two pitches, the upper one requiring a rope. The first is taken up on either side, and is only about 12 ft. high. The second is a cave pitch with a very fine interior. The ascent is effected by backing up the rather loose walls of the cave, and then bearing out to the left and over the obstacle. From here to the summit is nothing but scree. The gully is afflicted with the near neighbourhood of badly weathered rocks, and shows signs of having been quite recently bombarded from the crags on the left. These three gullies on Mynydd Pencoed represent all the climbing that has as yet been attempted on the south side of Cader. It is much to be hoped that a few interesting routes will yet be found between the pillar and the small col that represents the lowest portion of Craig y Cau, and the account of what has been done may induce others to visit this unfrequented region. To the same end it might be advisable to throw out the remark that the Pencoed Pillar, some 700 ft. high, looks quite inaccessible from the grassy buttress at its foot. South Wales. It is scarcely worth while to enumerate the southern counties, as all alike are destitute of climbs, except upon the sea cliffs. Some of these are remarkably bold and picturesque, especially about Lydstep (Tenby) and St. David's Head; but they cannot compare in any way with those of Ireland, and least of all for climbing purposes, being mainly of limestone. Just north of Aberystwith are some highly curious rocks, giving a climb or two. Some twenty years ago a schoolboy was killed by falling from them. Of the inland rocks it will be sufficient to mention a few. * * * * * [Illustration: CLIFFS NEAR LYDSTEP (TENBY)] =The Brecon Beacons= (2,910 ft.), in Brecknockshire (which name the travellers of old, with some justice, modified to 'Breakneckshire'), are sandstone peaks of very striking outline. Indeed, Mackintosh (who saw them from the east) says, 'I was more impressed than I have been with any mountain in Wales. Their outline excited a very unusual idea of sublimity.' Brecon is the best starting-point, and it is a good plan, though by no means necessary, to drive to the Storey Arms inn (1,400 ft.), eight miles towards Merthyr, or to go by train to Torpantau, and thus avoid walking over any part of the way twice. [Illustration: CLIFFS NORTH OF ABERYSTWITH] The way is easy, and easily found; but a wary eye should be kept upon the streams, which in this part of Wales are surprisingly rapid and copious. A curious notion once prevailed that nothing would fall from the top of this hill. Many years ago an unfortunate picnicker disproved this. See the _Times Index_, but the statement there made that he fell 12,000 ft. is somewhat startling. * * * * * =The Black Mountains=, a wide stretch of charming hill-walking, have little to attract the mere climber, nor will he find much on such hills as the bastion-like =Blorenge= (1,720 ft.), in spite of their possessing caps of 'mill-stone grit.' * * * * * =Plynlimon= (2,469 ft.) is seldom mentioned except with derision. _The Beauties of Wales_ (1818) does indeed speak of 'the towering summit which bears the name of Plinlimmon,' and quotes the equally appropriate description given by Philips-- That cloud-piercing hill Plinlimmon from afar the traveller kens, Astonished how the goats their shrubby browse Gnaw pendent. But, in truth, the great difficulty which travellers have, whether far or near, is to ken it at all; and many of them have vented their disappointment in words of bitter scorn. Pennant (1770) candidly admits that he never saw it, which is easily understood, for the mountain is neither easy to see nor worth looking at when seen. The ascent is a protracted bog-walk. It was made in 1767[19] by L. N., but Taylor, the Water Poet (1652), sensibly calls it Tall Plinillimon, Which I no stomach had to tread upon. [19] _Gentleman's Magazine_, 1768. An amusing notice used to be seen at Steddfa Gurig (then an inn), 2½ miles south of the summit, and 13¼ miles by road from Llanidloes: 'The notorious hill Plinlimon is on the premises.' This place, being 1,358 ft. above the sea, is the best starting-point for the ascent of the mountain, and coaches run past it from Llanidloes. * * * * * =Aberedw Rocks= are fairly typical of the kind of climbing which is to be found in South Wales. The rocks being quite close to the station of that name on the Cambrian Railway, are brought within easy reach of Rhayader and Builth Wells on the north and of Brecon on the south. Three or four rock terraces, 15 to 20 ft. high, break the slope of the hill beside the railway, and a sort of rocky cove penetrates it as well. Bits here and there are not unlike the 'chimneys' on Slieve League, but the material is more friable, resembling loose walls of very inferior slaty fragments. A few harder masses stand out picturesquely as small pinnacles, especially in the cove, near the head of which a lofty bulging piece of rock has a vertical rift in it, which for a few feet offers quite a difficult climb. The river =Edw= (close by) has extremely steep, cliff-like banks, and these are a common feature in other tributaries of the Wye. The =Bachwy=, for instance, has a gorge which, seen as the writer has seen it during a winter flood, is profoundly impressive. Malkin's description (1804) should not be missed. He found 'rudely-shaped eccentricities of nature, with all the mysterious gloom of vulgar and traditional ascription,' 'dwarfishly fructified rock,' 'features all of a revolting cast,' and 'a prospect rude and unchastised.' The =Irvon=, again, has sides so rocky as to be chosen by the falcon for nesting. * * * * * =Cwm Elan=, 5 or 6 miles from Rhyader, is a very pretty spot, and the gorge of Cefn Coch is exceedingly striking. Mackintosh says that the height is not less than 800 ft., and the cliffs are in many parts mural and quite perpendicular. He declared that, while the cliffs on the left-hand side of the river are very fine, he had seen nothing to surpass those on the right. This from a hill traveller of his experience is remarkably high praise. The writer has only visited these rocks once, and has never attempted to climb there, nor, indeed, has he ever heard of anyone else doing so. The Birmingham reservoir is to submerge several miles of this cwm and the two houses in which Shelley stayed. * * * * * =Stanner Rocks= are quite near the station of the same name on the branch of the Great Western from Leominster to New Radnor, and on the north side of the railway. The material of which they are composed is superior for climbing purposes to the soft shaly stuff so common in South Wales, being the same eruptive trap rock which forms the hills of Hunter, Worsel, and Old Radnor, and has metamorphosed the surrounding limestone. These rocks narrowly miss being a good climb. The train from Leominster takes about 50 minutes. Near New Radnor is a precipice down which Cliffe (1854) mentions that a gentleman rode, and he also records that another climbed the fall called _Waterbreakitsneck_. IRELAND =Introduction.=--Climbing in Ireland, in the sense in which it is understood in Switzerland, is, of course, unknown, although during a winter of happily rare occurrence, such as that of 1894-5, abundant snow and ice-slope work is no doubt obtainable. It would be accompanied, however, by extreme cold and days of too short a duration for work. Nor can Ireland boast of such arenas for cliff-climbing as the Lake District, or the Cuchullins in Skye. There is no Pillar Rock, no Old Man of Dearg. But there are ample opportunities for acquiring the art of mountain craft, the instinct which enables the pedestrian to guide himself alone from crest to crest, from ridge to ridge, with the least labour. He will learn how to plan out his course from the base of cliff or gully, marking each foot and hand grip with calm attention; and, knowing when to cease to attempt impossibilities, he will learn to trust in himself and acquire that most necessary of all climbers' acquirements a philosophic, contemplative calm in the presence of danger or difficult dilemmas. If the beginner is desirous of rock practice, or the practised hand requires to test his condition, or improve his form, there is many a rocky coast where the muscles and nerves and stamina can be trained to perfection. Kerry and Donegal are competent to form a skilled mountaineer out of any capable aspirant. Ice and snow craft is an accomplishment which must of course be acquired elsewhere. Much of the best scenery in Ireland is available only to the mountaineer. Macgillicuddy's Reeks can hardly be appreciated in less than a week's exploration. Even after three weeks spent amongst them we have wished for more. Donegal alone requires lengthened attention, and there a much longer period will be profitably spent. The climbing described in the following pages was chiefly undertaken with the object, or excuse, of botanical discovery. All the mountain experiences, except where the contrary is stated, represent the personal--usually the solitary--experiences of the writer. Of roped climbing the author has had no experience outside the Alps. Being tied up in a package and lowered from a cliff to a bird's nest, though not climbing, is, no doubt, a feat requiring nerve and dexterity; but when the nest of the raven, peregrine, or chough is in view, and ropes and companions are 'out of all ho,' and it appears improbable such a chance will come again, the eager naturalist will indeed rejoice that his nerve and dexterity are not wholly dependent on the comfortable security of a friendly cable round his waist. To the botanist such accomplishments are even more essential. A knowledge of rocks--what to trust, what to mistrust, what to attack vertically (such as granite and quartzose usually), what to deal with by their ledges (such as limestone often and sandstone still oftener), what to avoid altogether (such as trap, chalk, and decomposing basalt), a knowledge of the elementary principles of guidance under varying conditions of weather--can be gleaned from the mountain and sea coast cliffs in Ireland, not, perhaps, to such an extent as to produce an expert, but quite enough to lay the requisite groundwork of one. Form and condition, nerve and activity, will develop in company, and with them the love for the art will grow, and nothing beyond a little local education will be wanting to enable him to follow upon their arduous undertakings real proficients in mountain craft. Any words that can induce the skilled mountaineers of England and Scotland to test the merits of an Irish welcome, of Irish scenery, and of the bracing combination of Atlantic and mountain air in the western counties will have been written to good purpose. * * * * * =Antrim.=--The highest hills are Trostan (1,810 ft.) and Slieveanea (1,782 ft.) The formation is almost entirely trap or basalt, and there is no cliff-climbing, the rock being crumbly and unsafe. Around the coast there is a belt of cretaceous rocks, forming in some places, as at the Giant's Causeway (White Rocks) and at Fair Head, bold cliffs of chalk or rotten trap. On Fair Head, 640 ft. high, there is a magnificent view. Cyclopean columns of greenstone crown a talus always heavy on the Antrim cliffs, owing to their friable nature. There is a fissure known as the Grey Man's Path on the west side of this Head, in the face of the cliff, by which it is possible to descend and inspect the foot of the columnar prisms. [Illustration: THE TARTAR ROCK (on Fair Head)] The Antrim glens and the Antrim coast road are deservedly famous for their lovely scenery, and excellent accommodation is everywhere obtainable. Of the glens _Glenariff_ is, perhaps, the gem. It is hemmed in by cliffs 1,000 ft. high, with mural summits. Glenarm is equally beautiful, though in a more tranquil and gentle way. On the north and south sides of the Bay there are considerable precipices. From Fair Head the prospect is singularly fine. The Head is columnar basalt. Fair Head is approached from Ballycastle on the west. West of Ballycastle again, about the same distance, is the well-known rocky islet of Carrig-a-Rede, which is severed from the mainland by a chasm nearly a hundred feet deep, spanned by a very slight swinging or flying bridge, which in a storm is not inviting. On this basaltic islet an interesting climb round the cliffs may be had, and the rock is secure enough on the west and north sides. From Ballintoy, which is close to Carrig-a-Rede, it is a magnificent cliff walk to the Causeway; and from the Causeway to Portrush the rocky coast scenery is full of interest. Many places will invite a scramble. Below the road, which is adorned with an electric railway, numerous difficult places occur, and several little valleys permit a descent to the sea and a swim. A few miles west of the Causeway the coast becomes low to Portrush, the golfing centre, with its excellent hotel. At Portrush, or near it, at White Park Bay, the white cretaceous rocks are capped by frowning basalt, and the contrast of colours is most striking. It is not necessary to describe the well-known _Giant's Causeway_. _Pleaskin Head_ is the finest feature in its cliff scenery, but unfit for climbing, owing to the crumbling, weathering nature of its beds of lava and iron ore. More fine sea cliffs are found in the Gobbins, on Island Magee. Antrim, with all its lovely cliff and glen scenery, and all its good hotels, is not a mountaineer's county, like Kerry, Donegal, or Wicklow. It is more highly cultivated and more civilised than a climber with a proper sense of his calling could possibly approve of. It suggests driving, bicycling, picnics, good dinners, and evening dress more than knickers and hard work. We will turn our attention, therefore, to _the_ mountain county of Ireland. * * * * * =Donegal= has some of the highest and finest mountains in Ireland, and the extent of mountainous country is larger than in any other part of Ireland. No maritime mountain and cliff combined can approach Slieve League, in Donegal, and if the coast cliffs of Mayo have a continuous grandeur that excels any similar stretch in Donegal, there are many higher and finer cliffs on the Donegal coast, in endless succession and variety from Inishowen Head, on Lough Swilly, to the south-west coast. The Donegal mountains form four groups--(1) _Inishowen Mountains_; (2) _Donegal Highlands_; (3) _South-West Donegal_; (4) _South Donegal_. _Inishowen Group._--_Slieve Snacht_, the highest point, has no interest, except its view, and the same remark applies to _Rachtin More_, the next highest. Both are composed of barren quartzite. _Bulbin_ has a schistose escarpment looking north-west, of some 300 ft., reaching almost to the summit, and terminating in a short talus and a heather-clad slope. It is a very picturesque little mountain, and possesses some interesting plants. Inishowen is deficient in accommodation. North of Buncrana there are but one or two inns that will tempt a visitor to return. Accommodation can be obtained at Carndonagh and Culdaff, and at Malin Head there is a house that receives visitors by arrangement. Malin Head is the proper place from whence to explore the cliffs of Inishowen, and Glennagiveny, under Inishowen Head, to its north, contains lodging-houses also. The coast line of Inishowen is in many parts wild and magnificent. Inishowen Head affords excellent climbing. The cliffs are from 300 to 400 ft. in height, and various traverses, ascents, and descents can be made between Stroove and Glennagiveny. The Head is in reach of Moville, where there is a good inn. Further to the north-west the cliffs increase in height. From Glengad Head, a little north-west of Culdaff, to Stookaruddan a series of precipitous headlands (500 to 800 ft.) faces the ocean, looking a little east of north. The walk along this coast from Culdaff to Malin Head, although laborious, on account of the steep-sided inlets, is well worth the trouble. The rugged boldness of Malin Head is most fascinating, and in a storm it is superbly grand. At this point the cliffs have fallen to a low elevation. The finest bit is at a place about half-way between Glengad and Stookaruddan. Having put up for the night at Malin Head, if possible, if not at Malin or Carndonagh (the latter for choice), Dunaff Head, guarding the eastern entrance to Lough Swilly, should be visited. Lough Swilly is the finest oceanic inlet round the whole coast of Ireland. The eastern cape, about 700 ft. high, terminates in a range of bold precipices over 600 ft. high for some distance. It is a most enchanting bit of sea cliff. In variety of shape, sheerness of descent, and picturesque grouping and surroundings it is hard to match. The cliffs can be descended at the nose of Dunaff to an outer rocky continuation, provided there is no storm. In stormy weather this rock, of perhaps a hundred feet, is completely swept by surf. There is a steep gully in another place on the south side, which admits of a descent to the water's edge. For most of their length, however, these cliffs are quite impracticable. For some distance downwards all seems to go well, but the pelting of detritus from above and Atlantic surf from below render the lower parts as smooth as marble and straight as a wall into the water. Here and there the inner bluffs are more practicable, and from a boat, in very calm weather, a study of the cliffs would probably reveal more than the scrutiny from above, which is usually alone possible. South of Dunaff Head, up Lough Swilly, the precipitous coast of the Erris Mountains gives a most enjoyable stretch of rough work. It is often possible to descend to the sea, and having done so a difficult climb is often preferable to a tiresome ascent to the headland surmounting one of the numerous creeks. Across the Lough we find ourselves in the lovely peninsula of Fanet, the coast of which is admirably adapted for rock practice. The highest sea cliff is the Bin, a conspicuous headland 350 ft. high and very precipitous. It can, however, be scaled without much difficulty in one place, a few feet from the summit towards the south. Other parts of it appear practicable, and at low tide the base can be completely compassed--a wild bit of work if there is a sea on. There is an admirable hotel at Portsalon, with a famous golf links, about half-way between this cliff and Knockalla Mountains. The whole coast from Portsalon to the Bin is studded with cliffs, caves, and remarkably beautiful natural arches. The rock of Fanet is almost entirely quartzite, a metamorphosed sandstone, often pure and glittering quartz. It is firm and safe, but the absence of stratification renders it difficult to negotiate. This barren rock (it disintegrates to silex) is very common in Donegal, and is identical with that of the Twelve Benns, in Connemara. Before leaving Lough Swilly the remarkable view from Dunaff Head should be referred to. On a clear day the Paps of Jura, the Mull of Cantire, and even the Isles of Arran and Islay, can be seen in Scotland over the low Malin Head. Westwards, in a noble succession, lies the grand series of the outer Donegal capes. Fanet Head, Melmore Head, Breaghy Head, Horn Head, Tory Island, and the Bloody Foreland are all in view, and south-westwards the 'Donegal Highlands' look so imposing that an immediate expedition to them will probably be decided upon. Across the peninsula which lies between Mulroy Water and Lough Swilly there is a most comfortable inn at the Rosapenna Golf Links. It is an extremely pretty wooden structure, brought by the philanthropic Lord Leitrim, whose loss the district will never cease to deplore, from Norway, and the complete success of it makes one wonder that this sort of structure is not more often adopted. From Rosapenna expeditions can be made to cliffs and coast in all directions. _Horn Head_ is a grand range of sea cliffs, ten or twelve miles in extent, which are the largest breeding-place in Ireland for sea fowl. There are a few places where a descent is possible, and a careful exploration (with the proprietor's permission) will be certain to yield excellent climbing. The rock is as firm as iron in most places. Most of the climbing the writer has done on these cliffs has been from a boat upwards in search of sea fowls' eggs. One especially remembered one, after green cormorants' nests, at the entrance to that most noble cave the Gap of Doonmore, was of great difficulty. The absolutely reliable rock had very slight 1-1½-in. ledges, and the latter part of the climb was slightly overhanging. The nests were reached, however. All round this Head excellent rock-climbing, coupled with magnificent scenery, is available. At the base of the cliffs, not far from the proprietor's dwelling-place, there is a little bay with a cave above the reach of the tide. Here a man once saved his life by climbing. My friend, Mr. Charles Stewart, the proprietor of the Horn Head estates, writes:-- 'I think it was the year 1876 that my man John Stewart was over three weeks in the cave watching my salmon, without the boat being able to go to him. The cliffs above were 600 ft. high. He could easily climb up about 100 ft., most of it cliff-climbing with a little grass. After that there is a very difficult piece of cliff, almost perpendicular, of about 40 ft. It is easy enough to get down to this point from the top. A man went down and lowered a rope to him, but he could not come up straight, as the cliff overhung too much. He tied the rope round him and climbed up in a zigzag way. He was half an hour climbing this short piece, and was very exhausted, with his hands badly cut and bleeding. He had with him his son, a boy of about twelve years old. He had rope about 10 ft. long from his waist to the boy, who slipped twice on the way up, each time very nearly taking his father with him. About five years afterwards the boy was looking for eggs in the cliffs, and fell about 500 ft. to a shingly beach, rolling the first part of the way down a steep grassy bank for about 100 ft., and then a sheer drop of 150 ft. to another grassy bank where a small holly bush grows. When picked up (of course quite dead) he had a holly branch in his hand.' There is a comfortable hotel at Dunfanaghy, immediately inland of Horn Head. From Dunfanaghy Tory Island can be visited in calm weather--an interesting boating trip. It is fifteen or twenty miles to the north of west, and Horn Head has to be passed on the way, giving an opportunity of surveying its cliffs. There is a cliff or buttress (called, I believe, Tormore) which the islanders point out, that is somewhat difficult to climb upon. Once on the summit the successful cragsman can have any wish he may pine for. The highest point of the island is under 300 ft. The inhabitants disregard the payment of all rents, taxes, &c. The turreted and bold contour of Tory renders it a great embellishment to the north-west coast. It is visible from all elevations for a considerable distance. Seen in a sunset its richly reddish-coloured granites light up with a warm and lovely glow. It formerly possessed monastic or other religious institutions, and several ruins of small churches or oratories are still visible. It abounds with legends--a home of superstition and folk-lore. From the neighbourhood of Dunfanaghy the most attractive objects upon the horizon are the mountains of the Donegal Highlands, _Muckish_ and _Errigal_ being especially conspicuous. _Muckish_ ('Pig's Back,' 2,200 ft.) is about 7 miles from Dunfanaghy. It is flat-topped, with short rotten cliffs on the north and west sides. _Errigal_ (an oratory or small church) is more interesting. The summit is pointed, bifid, and hardly large enough for more than two persons. It is composed chiefly of disintegrating quartzite, flanked on the west by igneous rocks. Between Errigal and Muckish (about 6 miles) lie the pointed summits of _Aghla Beg_ (1,860 ft.) and _Aghla More_ (1,916 ft.) The largest of many lakes is Alton Lough, where the writer was once solemnly cautioned against swimming, on account of the 'Phouea,' which lived there and used to mingle with the cattle as a cow and lure one down into the depths. So would he do with mankind. Numerous swims in that lake have weakened this prognostication. Above Alton Lough, on its south-west side, are the cliffs of _Beaghy_ (1,200 ft.), which afford a nice bit of climbing. All these hills can be gone over in a day, though some (especially Errigal) will ask a second visit. About 4 miles from the base of Errigal is the excellent fishing inn at Gweedore. From Dunfanaghy over the summit of Muckish, Aghla, Beaghy, and Errigal down to Gweedore is a bit of mountaineering which can be most thoroughly recommended. Gweedore should be made a head-quarters for a few days; and the comfort obtained at the close of the day will be well earned and appreciated. The Poisoned Glen, six miles from Gweedore, is a stern and barren scene of almost sheer, polished granite cliffs, nearly 1,000 feet above the base of the glen. The south-west corner of the glen is the most precipitous. Several deep, black, narrow gorges cut deeply into the granite. Some, particularly one at the corner of a commanding buttress on the south side, about half-way up the glen, are of considerable difficulty. Wedged boulders occur frequently. The worst bit is the final struggle to the crest of the ridge, which slopes south-westward to the summit of Slieve Snacht. It will be found necessary in one place to break out of this gully on to the face, and it should only be attempted in dry weather. A full day may be spent going up one gully and down another on the south-west side of the glen. Often the descent is far easier, a jump of 12 or 15 ft. down to the shingly soft bed of the gully clearing an obstacle difficult to breast upwards. The most glaciated spots in Donegal are this glen and _Slieve Snacht_, a rounded hump of granite. By proceeding to the head of the Poisoned Glen, past the Gweedore Lakes, and past the prettily wooded Dunlewy Lake which lies abreast of the Glen, up the winding stream in its base, and taking the ravine in its apex, we reach a pass known as Ballaghgeeha Gap ('Windy Pass'). From this point it is a short walk across a valley to a road, visible from the pass, which follows the Gweebarra valley south-west down to Doochary. Taking it in the opposite direction, it leads into Glenbeagh, a gorge about eight miles long, with a lake enclosed by steep cliffs on its west shore. On its right a beautifully wooded mountain slope contains the seat of the proprietor, Glenbeagh Castle. This valley is crossed at its mouth by the main road to Gweedore, some 10 miles away, and the circuit described is one of the most beautiful mountain walks imaginable. In order to vary this, and save the road work home, a scramble along the west shore of the lake may be effected to the granite cliffs opposite Glenbeagh Castle, known as Keamnacally. In several places an ascent can be effected of about 1,000 ft. The crest of the cliff leads up by a gradual slope to the summit of Dooish, 2,147 ft. This point is in a straight line for Gweedore from Glenbeagh, and if the mountaineer wants more work the summit of Errigal lies in the same bee-line. _Lough Salt_ (1,546 ft.), a conspicuous hill, was ascended and described by Otway about seventy years ago, in the language of that period (_Scenes and Sketches in Ireland_). He adds some quaint legends about two of the lakes. Into one of these St. Patrick banished the last Irish snake, a rebellious animal that gave him much anxiety. _Gweedore to Carrick._--The pedestrian had better omit the north coast, and proceed westwards round the coast to _Dungloe_. Aranmore Island, with its handsome red granites, shows some fine cliffs, especially those at its north-west end, between Torneady and the lighthouse. In the bay formed by these cliffs a grand tooth or monolith stands isolated and vertical, about 100 ft. in height. The cliffs are from 400 to nearly 600 ft., and some rise perpendicularly from the water. The best point to visit Aran from is Burton Port, about 3 miles off. Skilled boatmen are required, as the passage is winding, amongst islets, rocks, rapid tide currents, and shallows. Aranmore, like many other Atlantic islands, slopes inland or eastward, and faces the Atlantic with a wall of cliffs. The coast north of it is wild and beautiful, with interesting physical features. Across Umfin Island runs a gruesome cleft, through which a heavy sea tears its way in fury, meeting the sea from the other end in frantic commotion. Further east, on Horn Head, is the famous MacSwyne's Gun, for many years a signal to the whole county that a furious sea was raging at the Horn. It is a 'puffing hole' on a large scale, but the little rift, ever widening, has slowly silenced all, or nearly so. On this Head also is the famous _Marble Arch_, Tempul Breagha, jutting out into the sea. At Dungloe good quarters and excellent fishing, as usual, are obtainable. From Dungloe the road lies through Doochary, Glenties, and Ardara to Carrick. Each of these last villages has a good inn. The best plan is to break the journey at Ardara, and take the magnificent coast walk or climb into Carrick, a good day's work. As far as Maghera the way is plain along a low sandy coast. West of this lies Maum Glen, whose cliffs are precipitous enough, and if the glen be crossed a mile inland it is a steep descent and ascent, though devoid of difficulty. Following the coast, there is a track near the water's margin for some distance. Soon the precipices forming the north face of Slieve-a-Tooey are reached. If the tide is low the base can be followed a long way with one or two ugly corners. The cliffs are up to 1,000 ft. (Slieve-a-Tooey 1,692), but can be ascended in various places, and the land lowers again at Port. All along the scenery is of the most impressive character. Outside Port lies Tormore Island, one of a group of boulders, a rock which, though hardly half a mile round its base, is a tremendous sea fowl breeding-place, second only to Horn Head. At low water Tormore can be reached from the shore, and it is scaled in many places by lads in search of eggs. One native was on the Great Tor when a storm arose, and cut him off from the shore and from all help. After a week he died of starvation and exposure. It is, perhaps, about 500 to 600 ft. high. Pursuing our way along the ever-varying cliffs, most interesting in a storm, the curious promontory called Sturrell is reached in about 4 miles. The knife-edged saddle is very rotten, but leads to a firm block of rock nearly 1,000 ft. above the sea. So defiant is the challenge of this rock that no cragsman can pass it by. The passage is not pleasant, yet even on a second visit the writer was powerless to resist temptation. The tottering wall of rotten rock gives the impression that the whole connection may slither down. Considering what desperate Atlantic storms this crumbling cliff withstands annually, such fears must be exaggerated. Nevertheless it would be improper to recommend this climb. It is dangerous as well as difficult, very exciting, and exceedingly delightful--after it is over. The rock along this northern side of the mountainous promontory of Banagh is chiefly quartzite, but in some places, as Sturrell, a rotten schist. About a mile south of Sturrell another and a grander headland is reached, that of Glen Head. It is 600 ft. of cliff, and deservedly famous. It is easily visited from Carrick Hotel, about 7 miles off. On much of the southern side a descent is practicable. From Glen Head to the road to Carrick is a short walk. At this hotel we are at the inland base of a renowned sea precipice. _Slieve League_ (1,972 ft.), whose southern face descends from the summit almost precipitously to the Atlantic, is perhaps the finest ocean cliff in Europe. The ascent from the hotel, almost at sea level, is easy. It is best to drive down to Teelin Bay, and strike up the mountain westwards along the coast. Carrigan Head is soon reached, and from a point north of it, on the south side of Bunglass, the finest view of Slieve League is obtained. This gradual ascent to about 1,000 ft. is a glorious experience. [Illustration: GLEN HEAD] From the southern Bunglass cliffs the view of the richly-coloured precipices opposite is superb. This colouring is a remarkable feature. The cliff is well-nigh sheer for 1,000 ft., descending straight from a heathery brink. With the exception of the wonderful cliff seen in Yellowstone Park from 'Inspiration Point,' the writer could name no rock-face with such an assemblage of hues. Dolerites, diorites, quartzites, schists, and conglomerates all help to form this remarkable mountain. Below the Atlantic lights up and enhances the whole scene. Though usually breaking into heavy surge it is sometimes as smooth as glass, and then the visitor should secure a boat at Teelin (or Towney Bay), and row beneath, viewing the caves. One of these, with a small entrance and a vast interior, gives forth appalling reverberating echoes to a horn or a gun. At Bunglass there is a track leading down to the sea, and a swim rewards the descent. Crossing the heavy-shingled foreshore to the base of the opposite cliffs, there is a gully which appears practicable from below, and leads to the very crest of the cliffs. The violence of storms and the pitiless pelting of surf below and dislodged fragments from above have cemented the steep floor of this slit into an uncompromising hardness. The writer tried it, passed one or two bad places, and was rejoiced beyond measure to reach the bottom with unbroken bones. From the summit of Bunglass cliffs, at a point a little north of the Eagle's Nest, at an altitude of 1,000 ft., it is practicable to traverse the whole face of Slieve, at about the middle height, 700 to 1,000 ft. above sea level, from end to end, to the bluffs of Leahan. In two or three places the ocean edge can be reached, besides the point already mentioned. In search of botanical specimens we have climbed them in all directions. There is a track (of a sort) to the sea at one place between the Eagle's Nest and the One Man's Pass. While scrambling along the sea face this track was discovered amongst steep heather, bracken, and bear-berry, and a footprint showed it to be a human resort. Finally an old man and a little boy emerged from the ocean brink, loaded with samphire, both inside and outside, and eating it as they rested on their climb. Vastly surprised at the appearance of the only stranger they had ever seen there, they eagerly besought him to remove his boots--a suggestion declined with thanks. Samphire boiled with milk is a cure for a cough, but it was a novelty to see it eaten raw. This track is called Thone-na-culliagh ('Back of the Grouse'). It took the writer three summer days to complete this traverse from end to end of the median height of Slieve League. Several nasty ravines, iron-floored and steep-edged, had to be crossed. At the close of each day an ascent had to be discovered--an anxious undertaking, as the return invariably seemed too dreadful to contemplate. The point relinquished at the close of each day was religiously repaired to on the following. Excessively steep slopes of cemented gravel, grass, or crumbling rock, half held together by heather, are the usual difficulties. But in four or five places odd right-angled walls of horizontal, loosely-balanced blocks of slaty schist jut out right across the face of the cliff, the legs of the angle being sheer to the sea and horizontal above. The blocks lie loose upon each other, and are not always large enough to give one a sense of anything except the rickets. Usually it was possible to climb beside these buttresses, and, balancing by them, get over in gingerly fashion. But one--the largest--had to be climbed on equilibristic principles. Sheep tracks follow the face of the cliff in some places. Where a sheep can go a man can go, though he may not like jumps from bad footing to worse landing, where even sheep occasionally come to grief. Accordingly a track going horizontally here looked encouraging to the writer, till a flock of wild goats, signally scared, put his confidence to flight, for a wild goat will lead a man where he may find it necessary to make a prolonged halt. However the goat track vanished upward, and the seven-mile traverse was successfully completed to the Eagle's Nest. From the summit of Slieve League there is a fine oceanic view of island, headland, bay, and cliff. South-east of the summit, at a slightly lower altitude, is the _One Man's Pass_, about the terrors of which a great deal of rubbish has been written. It is a steep, narrow, short ridge of firm rock, which any mountaineer would walk up or down with his hands in his pockets. In a storm he would, however, adopt a worm-like attitude. The sides are very steep, but practicable both seaward and inland. It commands a superb view. Among the legends connected with Slieve League one about a Spaniard, a priest, and a pony is the most captivating (see _The Donegal Highlands_). [Illustration: ONE MAN'S PASS] Slieve League is capped by the remnants of outlying beds of lower carboniferous age, conglomerates, with fossil plant remains. Botanically also this mountain is most interesting, rivalling Ben Bulben for first place as a habitat for mountain plants in Ireland. There is an interesting feature visible from the summit--a group of spire-like pinnacles, close below the crest of the ridge. These are known as the 'chimneys,' and form an attractive assemblage. They are of the same nature as the flying buttresses already spoken of. [Illustration: THE CHIMNEYS (SLIEVE LEAGUE)] Slieve League takes its name from 'liag' (flag). There is a flag formation near the summit. Bunglass is 'Green River Mouth,' but a modern guide-book translates Bunglass 'Beautiful View,' a ludicrous error explained by the fact that the point which gives so noble a prospect of Bunglass is known as Awark More ('Great View'). _Croagh Gorm_ and _Blue Stack Mountains_ lie north and west of Barnesmore Gap and above Lough Eske, reaching nearly to Glenties, Lough Eske being about 30 miles east of Slieve League. The coast eastwards from Slieve League becomes suddenly low, and the formation changes to carboniferous limestone, which occupies a broad belt round Donegal Bay. The Blue Stack group is about 7 miles across. _Blue Stack_ (2,219 ft.) lies above Lough Eske and is granite, although the Lough itself lies in the limestone. About Lough Belshade, which lies north of Lough Eske, about half-way up the east side of Blue Stack, the granite is precipitous, and one bold bluff west of this lake (Belshade), with a sort of little cave in its face, may be taken in the ascent of the mountain. Most of the granite portions of the range are rounded, flowing, gently contoured, barren slopes of bare rock, sometimes at low elevations becoming steep and difficult. The ascent of Blue Stack from Lough Eske should on no account be missed. The lake is about 10 miles round, and most beautifully situated at the southern base of a bold mass of rugged, desolate granitic bosses and cliffs, cleft by a few fairly steep ravines. In direct contrast to this sombre scene is the west shore of the lake, which is girt with timber, chiefly natural. Ardnamona is the nearest portion of this sylvan scene to the mountain base, and the whole basin is admirably sheltered by the surrounding mountains from the violent storms which of late years have been more destructive than ever. From the road above Ardnamona, looking down over it upon Lough Eske and its solemn background, the view is perfect. It is a sort of compact Killarney, which the eye and mind will long feast upon. North-west of Blue Stack, a couple of miles from it, lies _Lavagh More_ (2,211 ft.), a fine upstanding lump of turf-covered schists. Schists and sandstones constitute the greater part of these hills. From Lavagh More, descending southwards, by a series of lakes, the head of the Shrule River is reached, in a valley with a precipitous northern side, which gives difficult bits of crag work. In this valley at the northern end lies a waterfall known as the Grey Mare's Tail. The Blue Stack Mountains are best explored from Donegal on the south or Glenties on the west, in both of which places there are comfortable inns. It is best to drive to the head of Lough Eske, and it is a fine walk from that, including most of the tops, down to Martin's Bridge, 3 miles from Glenties, over Blue Stack, Lavagh More, and Silver Hill. In the mountainous district around Glenties other excursions are available. A walk to be recommended is from Barnesmore Gap (drive of 7 miles from Donegal) across the Croagh Gorm and Blue Stack summits to Glenties. Barnesmore Gap should by all means be visited. The mountains on either side rise 1,500 to 1,700 ft., not quite precipitously, but with bluffs, heavy boulders, and steep rocky faces. Cæsar Otway gives a highly-coloured description of this impressive scene. Another way to explore the group is to follow up the course of the Reelan water through a peculiarly secluded and remote valley. From Glenties to Ardara is about 4 miles, and the latter village is a capital halting place. Fishing and fowling can be had. The road from Ardara to Carrick, about 10 miles, passes up the wild, grand gorge of Glen Gesh by a zigzag road, reminding one of some of the Swiss ascents. For the sake of the varied scenery obtained by these doublings it is almost preferable to stick to the road till near the summit. On the south side of this glen it is bounded by a range known as _Altnadewon_ or _Croaghnagcaragh_ (_Reek_, 'hill of the thicket'). A steep rock face extends from the main road at the 'nock of the Ballagh,' or Pass, which forms a wide amphitheatre on the north face of the highest point of this range (1,652 ft.) For some distance it is by no means easy to scale this declivity. Towards the southern verge of the county the coast is low and flat, but the bold precipitous face of Ben Bulben looks highly attractive. Before leaving Donegal it will be well to mention one useful hint. The Ordnance maps of this county show 100-ft. contours, which are of the utmost advantage upon any excursion, as the height of any point attained by the pedestrian may be fixed within a hundred feet. Very few other parts of Ireland are thus favoured. * * * * * =The Ben Bulben Range= lies in the northern part of Sligo and Leitrim; a most conspicuous object in the landscape viewed from Slieve League across Donegal Bay. The shapely escarpment of the nearest point looks, indeed, as if it belonged to Donegal, which is 7 miles away. This portion consists of _Cloughcorragh_ (2,007 ft.) and _Ben Whiskin_ (1,666 ft.) These mountains are almost entirely carboniferous limestone. Much of the group is an elevated plateau, girt round on all sides, or nearly so, by limestone precipices, usually some hundreds of feet high, rising from a long steep slope of débris. The height of the cliff edges is about 1,600 ft., of which the talus occupies about two-thirds. The cliffs are fine, but consist largely of insecure blocks. Occasionally a fissure occurs, permitting ascent or descent, and some very steep ones are used on the south side of the range by turf-cutters. In consequence of this formation the pedestrian may find himself following a long series of cliff edges, without being able to discover a way of descent. To examine the cliffs the proper course is to follow the sheep walk, which usually occurs at the base of the precipices above the talus. The walk across the range, from Bundoran to Sligo, is full of interest to a mountaineer, and the descent into the valley north of Sligo from _King's Mountain_ is one that will never be effaced from his memory. It is not easy to find the passages leading down. The valley is a vast amphitheatre almost enclosed by cliffs, sheer and, including talus, about 1,000 ft. high. It is always a pleasant experience to follow the crest of a line of limestone cliffs. Similar cliffs on a smaller scale are those of Moher and Aran, in the county Clare. It is probably owing to the fissures and laminations of the limestone, which afford a perfect system of internal drainage, that such cliffs are not only dry and clean, but also free from the gullies and valleys which, causing frequent ups and downs, sometimes render cliff walks extremely fatiguing--near Waterford, for example. Again, limestone grows no heather and forms little peat, so that the usual footing is clean grass sod--very pleasant after hummocky tussocks--and yielding 'quaas.' For these mountains Kinlough is perhaps the most convenient centre. Manor Hamilton and Dromahaire may also be utilised, but Bundoran and Sligo, though the latter commands the beautiful Lough Gill, are too distant from the hills. It may be mentioned here that there are various attractions in Northern Ireland outside the scope of this work. Fishing is always in reach, and of late years golf has thriven apace. No finer links exist than those of Portsalon, Rosapenna, Portrush, and Newcastle, and there are many others of growing excellence. Ben Bulben is famous for its mountain flora, a valuable report on which, by Messrs. Barrington and Cowell, has been published by the Royal Irish Academy. * * * * * =Mayo.= Here are the highest mountains in the west of Ireland, Mweelrea (2,688 ft.) and Nephin (2,646 ft.) [Illustration: MAYO AND CONNEMARA] _Nephin_ is a round, isolated lump of quartzite, becoming schistose, rapidly disintegrating on a northern spur, where the only declivities occur. For the mountaineer it is both distant and unattractive, but on clear days--which are rare--there is an extensive view. About 10 miles west of Nephin the axis of the Corslieve range is struck near the middle of its almost north and south direction. This chain of hills includes Laghdantybaun (2,369 ft.), at the northern end, Corslieve (1,785 ft.), Nephinbeg (2,065 ft.), and several others over 2,000 ft. The chain is about 15 miles in length, terminating near Newport, where fairly comfortable accommodation can be had. The northern hills are slate or sandstone, the southern quartzite. It is an interesting range, and the scenery is wild and rugged, but there is little true climbing. The best way to approach them is to drive from Leenane Inn to the Deel River, due north, and then strike west over a wet bog, full of dunlins, plover, and curlew. _Achill Island_ is about 15 miles west of Newport. The mountainous peninsula of Curraun Achill intervenes, and is about 7 miles across, rising to a tableland of 1,300 to 1,500 ft. in height, composed chiefly of horizontally-stratified sandstones and conglomerates, not very safe, but pleasant enough to follow along by the terraces on its north-eastern edge. Juniper is remarkably abundant here, and, at lower levels, Mediterranean heath. On Achill Island there is a comfortable hotel at the 'missionary settlement,' which is about 10 miles from the ferry. The settlement is at the base of Slieve More (2,204 ft.), the highest point of Achill. This mountain is well worthy of a visit, but far finer are the noble cliffs at Croghaun, about 5 miles west of Slieve More and 2,192 ft. above sea level. [Illustration: ACHILL HEAD] Achill is mainly quartzite, which rock invariably looks and is barren and forbidding. There are several points along these cliffs where a descent to the sea is practicable, and plenty of climbing is obtainable along the face of Croghaun, which may be traversed in all directions, the cliffs having the appearance and repute of being more inaccessible than they really are. The rock (quartzite) is broken into screes and heavy shingle in many places. _Croaghpatrick_ (2,510 ft.), famous for its unrivalled view, and formerly called 'The Reek,' has a northern face of precipitous declivities where the quartzite formation (as on Nephin) gives place to schists and shales. The view to the north of Clew Bay, with its hundreds of islets and Achill beyond, is unsurpassably lovely. The climbing is more of a 'slither' amongst rotten footing or shingle on the northern side. The summit is crowned with numerous cairns, being a famous 'pattern.' The beautiful St. Dabeoc's or Connemara heath abounds. Westport, at its foot, has an excellent hotel, and it is better to return here from Achill, or vice versa. _Mweelrea._--Unlike the quartzite mountains, which are usually conical or dome-shaped, Mweelrea is of a totally different structure. Composed of Silurian slates chiefly, it forms an extensive tableland at the north of Killary Fiord, in the south-west corner of Mayo. It is intersected by three principal valleys, radiating at about equal angles from Doo Lough. One--that of Delphi and Bundorragha--runs southward to the Killary. Another--that of the Glenummera river and Owenduff river--has an easterly trend to the Eriff. The third valley is that of Doo Lough, Lough Cullin, and Lough Connel, which runs north-west to the sea. The names of many of these points, such as Delphi Mountain, the highest above Doo Lough, and Loughty Mountain, its elevated eastern spur, ending in Glen Laur--are not given on the Ordnance map, and were obtained from the natives. Error easily arises in nomenclature. A hill or ridge may have a name known to a few, or belonging to one slope, or to a people living on one side. Again, it may lie along the boundary of two town lands, and each may give its name to one side of it. Moreover the pronunciation is a study in itself. Near Newport there is a district called on the map Burrishoole, and a bay named Bellacragher. These are pronounced 'Brizzool' and 'Ballycroy.' The Mweelrea group consists of a series of plateaux, bounded by long ranges of precipices, ridges, and gullies, often ending in sheer ravines. Mweelrea itself fronts the mouth of Killary Fiord, curving in a grand tabular ridge, 2,600 ft. high, above two small lakes at 1,200 ft. The pass of Delphi and Doo Lough are the most imposing scenes in the west of Ireland for wildness and sombre grandeur. The climbing is of varying difficulty. Between their bases and the screes below tempting ledges wind upwards, but here the strata are almost vertical, rendering them extremely treacherous. A nasty fall impressed this peculiarity on the writer's memory. In other places the rock is sandstone, mixed with decomposing conglomerates--a formation worse to scale than any except the miocene trap rocks of the Antrim coast. There is one interesting and difficult climb. A lake--Glencullin ('Glen of Hollies') Lake--lies immediately north of Doo Lough. A stream runs into the south-west corner of this lake out of Glencullin, starting from a series of black, sunless precipices, seamed with gorges and well-nigh 2,000 ft. high. These can be climbed by two gorges at least from base to summit. The name of these cliffs is Asko Keeran ('Ridge of Mountain Ash'), and when the crest is gained a fine walk is the reward, over Ben Bury (2,610 ft.) to the highest point, Mweelrea (2,688 ft.), along a curved ridge one to two miles long. One portion of the Mweelrea system--that which lies immediately east of Fin Lough or Delphi--is known as Ben Gorm, or Kead-na-binnian. The cliffs upon this mountain are formed chiefly of gneiss, which breaks up into blocks, owing to numerous transverse fissures across the lamination. These blocks lie on one another, often on a steep slope, owing to the roughness of their surfaces, which prevents their sliding. They are then more dangerous even than slaty rocks, since this very roughness beguiles a climber into feeling that the footing is safe at a steeper angle than on the smoother surfaces, while the rocks are merely in unstable equilibrium. Maamtrasna, Slieve Partry, the Formnamore Mountains, or Letterbrickaun ('Wet Hill of Badgers'), abut upon the head of Killary Fiord. The highest points, or rather flats, are Devils Mother (2,131 ft.), Maamtrasna (Formnamore) (2,239 and 2,209 ft.) They are chiefly composed of sandstone and sandstone conglomerate, and form a series of high barren tablelands, dotted with pools, and of no interest whatever. The above group, as well as Mweelrea, is within easy reach of the excellent Leenane Inn at Killary. _Cliffs._--Of the numerous magnificent cliffs on the western seaboard of Ireland none, in the writer's opinion, excel those of North Mayo. Certain aspects of Slieve League are grander, the cliffs of Moher are more splendidly symmetrical, Horn Head, Dunaff Head, Achill, all have their glories, but the Mayo cliffs are unmatched for extent and variety. From Ballina by Ballycastle to Belmullet, round the coast, is the finest sea-cliff walk the writer has ever experienced. For three days there was no cessation of variety in shape, in sculpture, in colouring of the precipices, always lofty and always plunging into a surf-like snow beneath, fringing the blue ocean outside. Occasionally, but rarely, ravines occur, leading to some tiny rock-bound bay. The coast here for many miles is higher than the land inside, and the streams flow away from the sea to the south, and then west to the Atlantic. Perhaps the most hopeless area of undrainable bog in Ireland lies in Western and North-Western Mayo. Although it was impossible to omit mention of these cliffs, they are not for the climber. They are too sheer, and, what is worse, there is no accommodation. From Ballycastle west to Belderg is within reach. But it is west of Belderg that the cliffs are grandest, as at Glinsk, Doonmara, and Benwee Head. Without the happy fortune which enabled the writer to use a shooting lodge, located west of Belderg, the distances would have been impossible without camping out. From Belderg to Belmullet the rock is chiefly a hard and reliable quartzite, often seamed with dykes of basalt. Numerous needle-shaped islets, stacks, and stookawns occur. The whole coast abounds with sea fowl, and is singularly free from human influence, since the absence of bays, strands, or harbours renders long stretches of it uninhabitable even for fishermen. Otway's _Sketches in Erris and Tyrawley_ (1841) should be read. * * * * * =Galway Mountains.=--The Galway Mountains, besides the Maamtrasna range, spoken of above, are _Maamturk range_, _Benchoona_, _Bennabeola_ or _Twelve Bens_ (or 'Pins'). _Maamturk range_, including the hills which form such a conspicuous feature in Joyce's Country, extend, roughly speaking, from the Killary Hotel south-east to Lough Shindilia, at the Half-way House on the coach road from Clifden to Galway. It forms a zigzag series of beehive-shaped domes, connected by ridges, which are frequently 500 ft. to 1,000 ft. below the neighbouring summits. Usually these connecting ridges are set at angles with the tops quite at variance with the main axis of the chain, and are invisible from the summits, so that compass bearings are most misleading. These truncated mounds are composed mainly of gneiss, sometimes of quartzite, and in the northern portion the chain becomes more fertile and of a clayey, schistose nature. They are very similar to the Twelve Bens, save that the latter have their conical tops still adhering, apparently showing that this elongated line was more vulnerable than the self-protecting 'Pins' cluster. This chain is singularly barren, but so bold and conspicuous a feature in the landscape claims exploration. The writer once traversed the whole length of summits from the Half-way House to Leenane in a walk, or climb, for about 14 hours. The going is often excessively rugged and wearisome, owing to the loose detritus of heavy, angular quartzose blocks. An occasional oasis, as at Maumeen, charms the eye with its verdure and some botanical treasures. Near this an hotel once existed, but at present there is nothing nearer than Glendalough or Leenane, at the extreme ends of the range. Many a stiff bit of climbing, short and sharp, was met with on this most severe day's work, in making growingly reckless short cuts from summit to summit. From Leckavrea to the Killary there are about fifteen distinct summits, averaging 2,000 ft. in height. _Benchoona_ (1,975 ft.), a northern outlier of the Twelve Bens, lies at the mouth of the Killary, opposite Mweelrea. Killary Harbour or Fiord runs inland eastwards for some 15 miles. Benchoona is gneissose, with two summits, close on 2,000 ft., and a lake lies between them. Several Alpine plants occur among the north-east cliffs. The rock here is uncommonly dangerous to climb, being loosely constructed and apt to disintegrate in unexpectedly massive segments. On such an occasion, although against the dogma of climbing, a swift and sudden jump or spring is sometimes the only escape. The block--perhaps a ton or two in weight--which is quietly sliding, or more probably overturning, with its captive, yields momentum enough for a final kick to clear out altogether to any preferable station. These rocks are unfit to climb, and will only be meddled with for some special purpose. _Twelve Bens_ (2,391 ft.), within easy access of first-class hotels in Connemara, are huddled together in beautiful confusion, and offer problems of special interest in their puzzling geography and watershed system. Bennabeola is entered by no roads of any great penetration, but there are several valleys forming arteries with its very heart. Of these Glen Inagh from the east, Glen Coaghan from the south, and Owenglin from the west are the most important. The best method is to select a glen--Glen Coaghan for choice--and work to its head. Two or three summits will then probably lie equidistant. Most of these summits are of quartzite, with short heavy screes, white and extremely barren. The most interesting climb is upon the north of Muckanaght (2,150 ft.), which is connected with Benfree by a ridge at about 1,000 ft. The cliffs lie about 1,300 to 1,800 ft., and from near their upper edge to the summit (2,150 ft.) is a steep and perilous grassy slope. Muckanaght is about 2½ miles from the lovely Kylemore Lake. Two 'Pins,' Benbaunbeg and Benfree, intervene. The peak itself is connected by ridges with Bencullagh and Benbaun South. From Muckanaght the heart of Bennabeola is laid bare, and, given a clear day, no better point of vantage could be desired. The Twelve Bens are in the heart of some of the loveliest scenery in the world, full of varied and interesting scrambles, and botanically they are pre-eminently the richest in mountain plants in Connaught, Croaghpatrick coming next. * * * * * =Clare.=--_The Cliffs of Moher_ may be visited from excellent quarters at Lisdoonvarna (the 'Fort in the Gap'), in the north-west of Clare, a district known as the Burren. This district is formed of the carboniferous limestone which occupies most of Central Ireland. This formation, replete with carboniferous fossils, is remarkably monotonous and symmetrical. When it occurs in a cliff formation, as at Moher, or the south-western sides of the Aran Islands, it forms a sheer wall, absolutely vertical, to the sea, or else it is arranged in a series of terraces, like gigantic steps. Very rarely a chasm occurs, connecting two terraces. More often it is possible, by means of slight protruding ledges, to ascend an almost vertical face, since the rock is invariably either absolutely safe or easy to test. Sometimes, as at the southern end of the Moher cliffs, isolated pillars of rock occur, which are most pleasing to climb and pleasant to remain perched upon when climbed. These rocky surfaces of Aran and Burren are very tiresome and difficult to traverse, as the fissures (2-12 in. in width) between the blocks are often adjacent. The rock is usually cut into slabs, generally rectangular in shape. The loose blocks are piled by the inhabitants into tottering walls, which are difficult either to cross or upset with safety. The easiest way is to ascend gently and then jump with a kick behind. On Aran especially the going is most laborious. [Illustration: CLIFFS OF MOHER] As an instance of the sheerness of these cliffs on Aran boys may be seen fishing with a rodless line from their edge, 200 ft. above the water. Inland these cliffs run gradually in a series of irregular declivities, a gently sloping flagged platform to low levels. Much is done here by the natives in the way of egg-collecting, with the assistance of ropes, the eggs being chiefly those of guillemots, gulls, and razor-bills, and required for food. The cliff scenery of Moher is superb and unequalled. It has not the variety of stack, needle, ravine, that other formations have, but its very regularity is most harmoniously imposing. On the other hand, the brilliant and varying colouring of North Mayo or Slieve League, in Donegal, is entirely absent. The Aran Islands are visited from Galway by steamer. There is an hotel on the north island. They are full of ethnological and archæological interest. * * * * * =Co. Down.= _Mourne Mountains._--This chain of granite hills covers an elliptic space of about 15 miles by 6, the longer axis stretching from Newcastle to Rosstrevor, where there are excellent hotels. From either point to the other is a day's walk that will well repay the labour, and can be made to include all the principal summits. The descent to Newcastle, through Donard Lodge woods, by the waterfall, is very pretty, and by varying the night's accommodation a still more beautiful route lies through Tollymore Park to Bryansford, where good quarters are obtainable. [Illustration: MOURNE MOUNTAINS] The highest points lie at the Newcastle or north-east extremity of the group. The southern portions are less interesting, and the western flanks are very dreary. These hills, being of granite, have few precipices, many rounded summits, sloping sides, and heavy screes, of the usual uncomfortable angular nature. The 'Eagle's Cliff,' a mile to the north of Slieve Donard, affords some climbing, and a little rock exercise can be had at 'the Castles,' lying on a spur of Slieve Commedagh, to the west of Slieve Donard, below it and half a mile away. Slieve Bingian, in the south-east of the range, has a little easy climbing. There is also a considerable cliff on a shoulder north-west of Slieve Meel-more. It is known as Spellick, and is easily visited from Bryansford. It is worth examination, but the writer has not climbed it. The view from Slieve Donard is, of course, famous. The ascent from Bryansford, through Tullymore Park, taking Slieve Commedagh and the Castles _en route_, is perhaps the finest walk, so far as scenery is concerned, to be had in this picturesque cluster of mountains. * * * * * =Co. Dublin.=--_Lambay_ is an island abounding in sea fowl and wild flowers, about 2½ miles from the nearest point of land, and about 10 miles north-east of Dublin. It is best approached by boat from Donabate, or less conveniently from Howth, Malahide, Rush, or Skerries. The cliffs reach about 250 ft., and are practically sheer in many places, as on the north-east side at Freshwater Bay, or a little west of it, and on the south-east cliffs below Raven's Well. Several most interesting climbs are to be obtained on it. The best are on those cliffs west of Freshwater Bay. About 30 ft. above the water's edge at high-water mark there is a narrow and deep horizontal fissure, which in May is packed with breeding sea fowl. The ornithological visitor will at once feel it his duty to reach that fissure. The writer's first visit to Lambay was made in the company of one Dykes, known to be the best clifter on Howth. He pronounced this fissure inaccessible. There is a bend in the cliffs leading to the right-hand extremity of the fissure. Here lay the only chance, and the first two grips out of the boat are easy enough, raising one 6 or 8 ft. (or perhaps 15 if the tide is out) above the water. After that there are two enormous stretches, with practically no foothold. If these two points are passed, the fissure is in reach, and an ugly wriggle will land the unwelcome intruder on his anterior surface upon the narrow ledge forming its base. Dykes meantime was highly encouraging, calling out, 'Madness,' 'Break your neck,' 'You can never get down.' The climber had, however, an original plan of descent, and having, with considerable difficulty, divested himself of his garments, he dropped them first into the boat and then himself into the water. On revisiting these cliffs ten years later, and pointing out this climb to a very good rock-man, he failed to see how the climb was done, and so it had to be done again. This time, however, the tide was out, and on stripping to take the plunge it became at once apparent that a rock exactly in the line of descent was too near the surface. To climb down had always appeared dangerous, on account of the lack of foothold and the very awkward nature of the backward movement out of the fissure. So an attempt was made on the wall above. It is marvellous how a naked man can adhere to a cliff. For a full hour an unhappy preadamite man writhed and glued himself against the face of that cliff, descending and reascending by new lines, but always checked by a straight wall about 150 ft. up. Anything appeared better than that hateful descent. Some friends ran to a coastguard station a mile or more away for a rope. However before they reappeared the descent was faced and safely accomplished. This sketch will serve to show that high mountains are by no means necessary for the practice of rock-climbing, the very best of which is constantly attainable along the coast. Owing to the working of the ocean waves unsafe pieces are almost certainly removed, and the cliff, at its lower parts at any rate, is invariably firm and safe. It is fine sport to choose a steep rocky coast at, say, half-tide in spring, and travel between high and low water marks as far as may be during the six hours. It should be a point of honour not to ascend, but if forced to take to the water excellent practice and much amusement is obtainable in this way, and the slippery nature of the rock teaches sureness of foot. Nailed boots are, of course, indispensable. The geological formation of Lambay is principally felstone porphyry. Some stratified Silurian shales and limestone occur, and there is a small sheet of old red sandstone, with conglomerates. The rock is in general hard and reliable. _Howth_ is a promontory with a village about 9 miles from Dublin, for the people of which it is a favourite resort. From Balscaddan Bay, on the north, to an almost opposite point, Drumleck Point, on the south, the east coast is composed of cliffs (200-300 ft.), sometimes abrupt, sometimes ending above in grass slopes, very slippery in hot weather, which have caused many accidents. A very interesting scramble, with many nasty traverses over these steep grass slopes, may be had round Howth Head. Keeping to the upper edge of the rocks, it is necessary to ascend once at Kilrock, but after that the whole headland may be climbed at about the medium height of the cliffs. On the way a 'needle' or 'stack' will here and there attract attention, and perhaps seem worth assaulting. About Piper's Gut a small gully is difficult to pass. North of that a saddle rock leads to a pinnacle, but it is of rotten rock. The cliffs of this part of Howth are exceedingly picturesque, but in some places they are extremely unsafe. From Howth, on a very clear day, the Welsh hills, apparently those about Penmaenmawr, are visible. _Ireland's Eye._ A small rocky island, 340 ft. high, about a mile north of Howth. At its north-east corner there is a bold columnar rock with a tabular summit, partly severed from the island. On its outer face it is very sheer, and to gain the summit is a very short but interesting and somewhat difficult climb. The return is not so bad, as a sidelong spring saves a portion of the worst bit. * * * * * =Wicklow.=--Wicklow forms the third county in Ireland in which the mountains rise to a height of over 3,000 ft., Kerry and Tipperary being the other two. The higher mountains lie in the broad band of granite formation which extends in a nearly southerly direction from near Dublin through Wicklow and Carlow counties. Being granite they are as a rule round masses of wide extent, often covered with peat bogs; so that although Wicklow contains the most continuous extent of elevated (over 1,000 ft.) moorland in Ireland, there are few cliffs of any consequence, and no peaks or summits presenting upon any side material of interest to the rock-climber. Nevertheless there are fine stretches of mountain, affording excellent training ground. What cliffs there are occupy the most lovely scenery in one of the loveliest Irish counties. _Powerscourt Waterfall._--The rocks to the left of the fall, which is kindly left open to the public by Lord Powerscourt, the popular landlord, are nasty, especially in wet or frosty weather. Although not much over 250 feet in height several lives have been lost in this ascent, chiefly, no doubt, owing to the inexperience of the unfortunate visitors. This dangerous though tempting portion has been for several years railed off, and is not supposed to be trespassed upon. During the severe winter of the present year (February 1895) the waterfall presented an Arctic appearance. An interesting account of an ascent of it, or rather of the above-mentioned rocks, was sent to an Irish paper in that month. The climb was effected by a friend of the writer's (a member of the Alpine Club) and another, with ropes and ice axes. The cliff was covered with ice and snow. The same party ascended Djonce (2,384 ft.), which lies above the waterfall, during a blizzard at a temperature of 18°, upon the same day. Unhappily a very few days afterwards a promising young life was lost upon these very rocks. The falls are visited by very large numbers of holiday-makers. The rocks of Powerscourt, which lie against the Wicklow granites, are composed of metamorphic beds of gneiss and schists. Powerscourt is about 7 miles from Bray. _Tonelagee Mountain_ ('Back to the Wind' Mountain) (2,694 ft.), a round mass of moorland, has on the northern shoulder a crater-like valley, containing a tarn, Lough Ouler, and cliffs of schistose, some 400 to 500 ft. high, descending from near the summit to the margin of the lake. An interesting scramble may be made from the Military Road, about a mile above Glenmacanass Waterfall, which lies some 6 miles from Glendalough Hotel; but a short cut to Lough Ouler is easily found by going up the Glendasan valley 3 miles towards Wicklow Gap, and then striking up northwards over the shoulder of Tonelagee. Wicklow county is very poor in highland plants, and these cliffs alone possess species of any interest. Other cliffs in county Wicklow are those of Luggielaw ('Hollow of the Hill'), above Lough Tay; the Eagle's Nest, above Lower Lough Bray; a small series of bluffs above Lough Nahanagan, and the Prisons of Lugnaquilia. In winter the latter, lying high (2,700 to 3,039 ft.), afford excellent glissading and cornice work. But, unless the season is severe there is too much heavy trudging to be done. All the above precipices lie in most attractive scenery, nor must the famous cliff above Glendalough, containing St. Kevin's Bed, be omitted. But none of them affords desirable scope for climbing practice. The granite 'Prisons' of Lugnaquilia are attractive in appearance, but all the cliff faces are ready to drop to pieces. Mullaghclevaun ('Summit with the Cradle' or 'Creel'), 2,783 ft., contains no climbing. Since Wicklow affords the nearest opportunities to Dublin mountaineers, we may mention a few one-day walks from that city which have been accomplished by the writer. Practically the only artery through these mountains is the _Military Road_, constructed after the rebellion of 1798 to connect a series of now disused barracks. This road, from 'Billy's Bridge' at Upper Rathfarnham, about 5 miles from Dublin, is over 35 miles to Aughavanagh. It passes through an almost uninhabited country, and much of it lies from 1,000 to 1,500 feet above sea level, and it is the pedestrian's main anxiety to regain the comparative security of the Military Road before night sets in on the wide stretches of tussocky moorland. To clear the suburbs it is well to take the tram to Terenure (3 miles). Terenure; Ballinascorney Gap; Coronation Plantation (3 to 3¼ hours); Sally Gap; Military Road; Lough Bray (5 hours); back to Terenure (7½ hours: 34 miles). Terenure; Lough Ouler; Tonelagee summit (6 hours); Mullaghclevaun summit (7½ hours); Ballysmutton (9½ hours); home by Ballinascorney Gap (13½ hours: 48 miles). From Bray this walk is about 5 miles shorter. Bray, over Bray Head, Little Sugarloaf, Big Sugarloaf (1,680 ft.), Djonce Mountain (2,384 ft.), and Kippure (2,473 ft.); Lough Bray, by Military Road, to Terenure: about 11 hours. Terenure; Ballinascorney Gap; Seacaun; Kippure; Lough Bray; Terenure (about 8 hours). Terenure; Lough Bray; Kippure (2½ hours); Gravale (2,352 ft.); Duff Hill (2,364 ft.--very heavy going); Mullaghclevaun summit (6 hours); Tonelagee summit (7½ hours); Lough Ouler; Military Road; Terenure (14 hours; about 50 miles). Glendalough; Dublin (7¾ hours); Glendasan; Wicklow Gap; summit of Tonelagee (11 hours); summit of Mullaghclevaun; Clevaun Lake; Ballymullagh old road; across Liffey at Ballysmutton bridge; Ballinascorney Gap; Terenure (20 hours, including rests and delays by bog; 62 miles). Terenure; Lough Bray (3 hours); Laragh (7½ hours); Glenmalure; Drumgoff Hotel (9 hours 5 minutes--1½ hour's rest); Lugnaquilia (3,039 ft., 12¾ hours); Tonelagee summit (16¼ hours); Mullaghclevaun summit (17 hours 40 minutes); Ballysmutton farm (19 hours 40 minutes--35 min. rest); Ballinascorney Gap; Terenure (23 hours 50 minutes; 75 miles). The ascent of Lugnaquilia direct from Glendalough, over Lugduff, round the head of Glenmalure, and up by Kelly's Lough is perhaps the finest walk in Wicklow. It is a fine day's walk along the coast from Bray to Arklow, or Bray to New Rath Bridge, and thence by the Devil's Glen to Glendalough. In a wild, uncultivated county, like Wicklow, experience in the use of map and compass may be gained by setting a course from Woodenbridge to Glendalough, about 12 miles, or from Glendalough to the Scalp or Sugarloaf, on the way to Dublin, some 40 miles. * * * * * =Kerry.=--_Brandon_ (3,127 ft.) is of the same formation as that of the Reeks, i.e. the lower old red sandstone. The Brandon rocks are, in general, hard grits, firm and good to climb. The accommodation on this promontory of Corkaguiny is no doubt improved since the construction of Mr. Balfour's light railway from Tralee to Dingle; but Dingle lies 8 miles to the south of Brandon. I obtained very inferior accommodation at Cloghane, on an inlet at the eastern base of the mountain; and cleaner and better, but not so convenient, from a coastguard at Ballydavid, to the west of Brandon. For the other mountains on the promontory, Castle Gregory is centrally situated, but in all these cases (except Dingle) it is highly advisable to make previous arrangements and supplement the native fare with a hamper. The coast of the Brandon promontory (which was traversed throughout) is often highly precipitous; indeed, from Cloghane on the north to Anniscaul on the south the western extremity is almost entirely so, and many stiff bits of climbing were accomplished, whether in pursuit of scenery, of a direct course, of objects of natural history, or, perhaps, more frequently out of what an Irishman would call 'natural divilment.' A few years ago no language would have sufficed in abuse of the accommodation at Anniscaul, but, as it is now a railway station, no doubt this is all changed. [Illustration: KERRY] _Brandon Peak and Brandon Summit._--The most enjoyable way to make the first acquaintance with these mountains is to ascend Connor Hill, to the north-west of Dingle, and follow the ridge by Beenduff, Ballysitteragh, Geashane, and Brandon Peak to the summit. The peak is about 400 ft. lower than and a little south of Brandon proper. Along this ridge, looking north and north-west, there is a fine rocky face before reaching the peak. After that point a range of cliffs, several hundred feet in altitude, meets the loftier cliffs above Lake Nalacken, looking east. At the head of the Feany valley, under Brandon, these cliffs afford an interesting descent. The range gives plenty of practice in rock work. Alpine plants occur mainly on the north and north-east cliffs, and are more numerous than on the loftier Reeks. _Brandon from Cloghane._--From Cloghane the ascent may be made amongst fine cliffs and rock-climbing, by making south-east for Lough Cruttia, the largest lake under Brandon to its east. It is better to follow the road southwards a mile or two, to save uninteresting moorland. From this lake it is a short distance to the north-west of Lough Nalacken, and by striking in east at once to the cliffs a good climb is obtainable. Lough Cruttia is about 700 ft. above sea level. Between the upper lough and the cliffs the surface is a desolate extent of polished naked grits, strewn with boulders. Crossing this a somewhat dangerous gully leads up to the cliffs at about 1,650 ft. The ascent of this is about 300 ft., and a stiff climb and afterwards some 400 ft. of cliffs may be tackled in various ways. There are numerous ledges, and it is the best botanical ground in the mountains. The cliffs 'go' splendidly. In a lake south of the two mentioned above, locally named Lough Bawn, or the 'White Lake,' lives the enormous 'carrabuncle.' It appears fitfully at night, glittering like silver in the water with gold and silver and precious stones hanging to it galore. It is partly covered with shells, which are lined with gold. Upon one occasion several men went to the lake at night and dived in oilskins to catch this valuable monster. They did not catch him; but pearl mussels, no doubt shed from the carrabuncle, are found in the lake. _Brandon Point and Brandon Head._--From Cloghane it is a fine hard walk right round Brandon Point and Brandon Head. At the cliffs of Slieveglass (1,050 ft.) a bay of extreme grandeur is opened, bound on three sides by lofty precipices and with a depth and sea frontage of about half a mile. There is a shepherd's settlement, Arraghglin, on the coast, which has to be closely approached. A more bleak habitation can hardly be conceived; neither road nor even track leads to it. It is now several hours' work to round the sea face of Brandon Head, at altitudes varying from 500 to 1,200 ft., to Ballydavid. If accommodation has not been arranged for here the walk to Dingle will be found most wearisome, and at all trouble a car should be provided. _Macgillicuddy's Reeks_ contain the highest summits in Ireland. They extend from the Gap of Dunloe, the eastern extremity, to the Beenbane spur near Glencar, about 10 miles west from the Gap. The scenery is magnificent. From Lake Auger, in the Gap, the climber ascends at once by a series of precipitous bluffs to an elevation of about 2,000 ft. Still ascending along a serrated ridge, an elevation of about 3,000 ft. is reached above Lough Cummeenapeasta, about 2½ miles west of the Gap of Dunloe. For several miles this ridge can be traversed at about the above altitude. The ridge frequently becomes a mere knife-edge, and in several places descends abruptly and precipitously to some of the numerous tarns and cooms nestling 1,000 to 1,500 ft. below. A more perfect mountain excursion can hardly be conceived. The ridge carries us to the shoulder of Carran Tuohill, and from its summit a northern branch extends to Beenkeragh (3,314 ft.) and to Skregmore (2,790 ft.) The axis proper continues to Caher (3,200 ft.) and Curraghmore (2,680 ft.) Here we reach a gap connecting Cummeenacappul (Horse's Valley) with the Valleys of Caragh and Cummeenduff, or the Black Valley. West of it is the Beenbane spur, a lower elevation of no interest. The Reeks are chiefly composed of hard green and purple grits, and sandstone of old red sandstone age. The rocks are generally firm and safe to climb amongst. There is a comfortable angler's hotel at Glencar, at the western end of the Reeks. This is the best adapted for the immediate neighbourhood of the higher points, but to reach some of the most interesting climbing it is better to distribute one's attentions equally between Killarney and Glencar. From Killarney (Railway Hotel) two methods are available--one by car to the Gap of Dunloe, or further to the Hag's Glen, up a steep mountain road, and from either of these as starting-point some excellent rock work is available. From the Gap as starting-point a long day can be spent, descending at night to Glencar Hotel. The other method is to boat from Killarney (enjoying exquisite scenery) to Lord Brandon's cottage at the western extremity of the upper lake. Here begins a long, dull ascent, rewarded by the splendid view from the ridge into the heart of the Reeks. Or these routes can be reversed. [Illustration: SKETCH MAP OF KILLARNEY] Guides swarm here. None of these have the slightest knowledge of climbing, and should one be engaged the first deviation from the easiest ascent, or departure into gully or ravine, will put a conclusion to his services. A wiry, bragging, long-legged shepherd undertook to accompany the writer by any ascent he selected from the Hag's Glen to Carran Tuohill, to be paid five shillings at the summit. At the foot of the first gully, with many heart-felt remonstrances and gesticulations, he disappeared, not even thinking it worth while to make an easier ascent. On this account it is all the more necessary to be unfailingly provided with the Ordnance map and a thoroughly good compass. An aneroid barometer is also of great assistance, especially in mist, for a knowledge of the altitude often enables a lake or a peak to be identified. _Cumloughra_ (3,100 ft.)--Starting from Glencar Hotel, a few tedious miles bring us across a country road to Lake Acoose (507 ft.) Passing round the south edge of the lake, a ridge (about 900 ft.) is crossed, and ere long Lake Eighter, at the entrance to Cumloughra (1,500 ft.), is reached. If we pass along the shores of the lake to the south-western edge, a few hundred feet up an open gully brings us to a series of cliffs south-west from Cumloughra lake. The rock is sound, and a fine, almost vertical ascent of 1,000 ft. may be made, striking the ridge of Caher (3,000 ft.) 200 ft. below the summit. It is a severe climb and very long, entailing many zigzags. There is no main gully to adhere to, and the cliffs are less impracticable than they look. Along the west side of the two lakes the cliffs are easier. _Carran Tuohill_ (3,414 ft.)--Cars from Killarney stop at the Geddagh River. Cross it, sweep to the right and back, and then follow the valley by a fair path between two lakes to the Devil's Ladder and up it to the _col_. The summit is then on the right hand. The writer was once fortunate enough to ascend this summit through a cloud layer of about 1,500 ft. thick, which ceased a short distance below the summit. Above was a clear blue sky, and peering out of the dense white, snowlike bed of mist Caher and Brandon (the latter 30 miles to the north-west, the former not a mile away) alone were visible--a never to be forgotten sight, which seemed shut out entirely from earthly considerations. Descending _into_ the clouds, the ridge leading southwards towards Cummeenoughter, or Devil's Looking Glass (Upper Coom), was taken by mistake, and an exceedingly nasty traverse across huge, dangerously sloping slabs was necessary in order to regain Carran Tuohill and find the Caher ridge. _Beenkeragh_ (3,100 ft.)--Between Beenkeragh and Skregmore (2,600 ft.) there lies an inviting glen, sunk in black precipices. These cliffs are to be avoided. At several points an attempt was made to scale them, but the rock is most rotten. Near Beenkeragh is a ridge running a little west of north for half a mile, and bounding the Devil's Looking Glass and the Hag's Glen on their west. This ridge is reached by an easy gully known as the _Devil's Ladder_, about 300 ft. below Beenkeragh. _Devil's Looking Glass_ (Cummeenoughter). This tarn lies at the head of the Hag's Glen, at an elevation of 2,500 ft. It is three-parts encircled by a fine series of cliffs. At the western corner of this bold girth of precipices the finest view in the Reeks may be obtained, looking over the Looking Glass, and the lakes below in the Hag's Glen, across heights and peaks and valleys to Cummeenapeasta. Excellent climbing is to be had here. The rock is a purple sandstone, and one shoulder of an inaccessible appearance can be climbed throughout, owing to the firmness of grip and the recurrence of suggestive little footholds. _Lake Auger_ (Gap of Dunloe).--These cliffs terminate upwards in the Bull's Mountain at about 1,500 ft. The lake is about 350 ft. above sea level. Almost immediately after leaving the lake we come upon a series of bluffs and terraces occasionally communicating with one another, but more often uniting to form smooth-faced walls. Great care and discrimination have to be exercised in selecting ledges that do not terminate upon such faces, as there is little hand grip, and turning to retrace one's steps is most unpleasantly difficult and dangerous. The climbing here is most excellent and exciting, but the writer often felt sorely in need of a companion and a rope. It is in such places as these, inaccessible to sheep and goats, that hawkweeds occur, and in search of these, places were reached which rendered the summit of Bull's Mountain (when gained) extremely welcome. _The Hag's Glen._--Making the ascent from here to the westward, we reach another valley between Hag's Glen and Old Finglas River. At about 1,800 ft. a very black gully leads up to the main ridge from its northern side. It is occasionally blocked with huge masses of rock, which render détours along the boundary walls necessary, and, as is often the case, it becomes very difficult afterwards to regain the gully. This gully is a very tough climb. The Hag's teeth (there are two) are conical knobs of no difficulty, along a ridge running into the glen. _Lake Googh_ (1,600 ft.)--This lake lies on the south side of the main axis of the Reeks. Above it rises to the northwards a series of coombs, or high-lying valleys, which can be traversed by separate and often interesting scrambles till the main ridge is reached. This is a very interesting ascent. It is often rather a matter of chance whether the gully selected will be available to its end for the next coomb level, and a retracement of steps will frequently have to be effected. Nothing is less pleasing than to have to go back down a gully which it was a small triumph to have ascended in safety. This valley is singularly dark, damp, and grand; and it is more rich in ferns than any other portion of the Reeks. _Cloon Lake and Lough Reagh._--Although these cliffs are not a portion of the Reeks, they are mentioned here as being easily reached from Glencar Hotel. They lie south of Lough Reagh, which is separated only by a marsh from Lough Cloon, and are a most superbly rugged cluster of sugar-loaf peaks huddled together and often separated by sheer precipices and inaccessible ravines. Unfortunately they are of easy access from the southern or Sneem side. Many gullies of sound rock occur. Bad weather on two different visits rendered climbing here an unpleasant experience, but enough was seen to enable the writer to pronounce the district well worthy of a visit. _Mount Aitchin_ (Whin Mount) is the chief summit. Golden eagles bred recently amongst these cliffs. Coming down once from these mountains towards Lough Reagh, facing northwards, in a blinding mist, an uncommon sort of descent was obtained. Not knowing the nature of the ground, or indeed our whereabouts, we struck blindly over a declivity, turning at length to a sheer cliff whose termination was invisible. This cliff or series of cliffs is broken into ledges, all coated with a long growth of woodrush. Glissading and holding on brought us in unexpected safety to the valley below. Return would have been impossible by the way of our descent. Other mountains in the neighbourhood of Killarney are _Mangerton_ (2,756 ft.); _Toomies_ (2,415 ft.); _Purple Mountain_ (2,739 ft.); _Turc Mountain_ (1,764 ft.), and the _Paps_ (2,268 ft.) Of these none afford any real climbing. On Mangerton, however, the Horse's Glen is surrounded by rocky declivities, and the Devil's Punch Bowl has a slight cliff above it. From Killarney by rail to Headfort, and then back over the Paps and Mangerton, and through the Horse's Glen, is a fine walk. Another fine walk is from the lake, whither one proceeds from Killarney by boat, up Toomies Mountain, over Purple Mountain, and Turc Mountain, and Mangerton can be included on the way back. The Eagle's Cliff, above the lake, looks climbable and is reported to have been done. The writer, hurrying to the Reeks, always grudged time for the attempt. _Blasquets Islands_ lie off the extreme west of Kerry. They consist generally of grits and slates. Mr. Barrington (_Report on the Flora, &c._) describes the Great Blasquet as a ridge about 700 ft. high for most of its length, but for about a mile it exceeds 900 ft. The ridge is almost perpendicular in many places. 'The cliffs and precipices are very grand, notably the north-western face of the Great Blasquet and the north-eastern portion of Inishnabro, which latter resembles, when viewed from the sea, a cathedral 500 ft. high, the towers, spires, and even doors and windows being represented. Inishtooskert has an isolated pinnacle of rock, with a great chasm in the cliff near it, scarcely less striking. The Tearaght is like a black tooth projecting from the ocean, its sides being rocky, desolate, and very barren.' The present writer was prevented from reaching these islands by stormy weather. * * * * * =Co. Cork.=--_Sugarloaf Mountain_ (2,440 ft.)--An isolated, bare, conical peak, at the head of the Black Valley (Cummeenduff), the southern boundary of the Reeks. Sunshine after rain makes it glitter like a snowy peak. The rock is steep and glaciated. On the steepest face an interesting ascent may be made--easy, but requiring extreme care. South of the Kenmare River the hills are of less interest, though the beautiful Glengariff lies amongst them. _Hungry Hill_ (2,251 ft.) presents one precipitous face to the west, where a piece of interesting gully work occurs. The writer has reason to remember it, owing to the imprisonment of a bull-terrier, the property of a companion, in the middle of the climb. After completing the ascent the deafening howls of the prisoner made it necessary to work round to the base of the gully and help the beloved creature down. An almost identical incident occurred in a worse situation in the Poisoned Glen of Donegal. A bit of rope should be attached to the neck of any dog that follows a rock-climber. _Gougaun Barra_ ('St. Fin Bar's Rock-Cleft') is a gorge on the road west from Macroom to Bantry. The cliffs around rise from a desolate valley to meet the slopes of the mountains, 1,700-1,800 ft. high. On the road Keimaneigh ('the Pass of the Deer') is traversed, a gorge through the Sheha hills some 2 miles in length. It is a scene of wild beauty, and was the head-quarters of the band under 'Captain' Rock. This defile can be visited from Inchigeelagh, a few miles eastwards, where there is good fishing and accommodation. On Gougaun Barra, Otway (_Scenes and Sketches in Ireland_) and Smith (_History of Cork)_ have a good deal to say. * * * * * =Tipperary.=--_The Galtee Mountains_ extend about 15 miles from Caher at the eastern to Massy Lodge at the western extremity. The ridge slopes gently to the south, but abruptly to the vale of Aherlow on the north. The formation is Silurian, with overlying beds of old red sandstone conglomerate forming the summit of Galtymore (3,018 ft.) The Silurian beds form considerable precipices upon the north, almost enclosing numerous tarns, from which interesting ascents may be made. The best head-quarters for the mountains is Tipperary, about 6 miles north of the base of the range below its highest point. No doubt, however, accommodation could be arranged for at some of the farmhouses in the vale of Aherlow. The entire range from Caher to Mitchelstown forms a splendid walk. Lough Curra and Lough Muskry are the most interesting points to make for, and lie amongst the finest cliffs. Lough Diheen is the most remote and barren. At Lough Curra the cliffs descend 1,000 ft. sheer into the water. These cliffs afford attractive but dangerous climbing. They reach to within a couple of hundred feet of the highest point, known as Dawson's Table, or Galtymore. Still grander, however, are the cliffs above Lough Muskry. These tower to a height of about 1,200 ft. in great terraces and vegetated walls above the north and north-east ends of the lake. Numerous clefts, ravines, and ledges exist. Should the climber get pounded here (as not seldom happens) let him beware of undue haste. A mouthful of food has a wonderful effect in steadying the nerves. The holds here are often sods of dubious security, and the Muskry precipices, though they _can_ be traversed in all directions, are the severest amongst the Galtees. * * * * * =Co. Waterford.= _Commeragh Mountains._--The Commeragh Mountains may be explored from Kilmacthomas on the south, Clonmell on the west, or Caher on the north. They form an elevated plateau, bounded on all sides by steep and frequently inaccessible precipices, which enclose cooms and tarns. The highest point is 2,597 ft., and the rock is for the most part sandstone or conglomerate of the old red sandstone period. Slates and shales occur on the northern side. The cliffs can be climbed in many places. As on the Galtees, a few miles west, dense masses of a species of woodrush often render the holding treacherous. Smith (_History of Waterford_, 1774) says, 'On the sides of this chain there are many horrid precipices, and steep declivities, with large naked rocks. In the valleys considerable chips, or parings, lie in prodigious heaps.' The most imposing precipices are those enclosing in a magnificent sweep the Stilloge Lakes, on the south side of the group; and those above Coonshingaun Lough and Crotty's Lough at the eastern end. This east lake takes its name from one Crotty, an outlaw, who made his home in a cave here during the last century. Legends of this worthy abound in the district. The cliffs are often wholly inaccessible without a rope, but a great deal of excellent climbing can be effected with no artificial aids. In search of rare plants the writer has made several distinct ascents above the Stilloges, and also at Coonshingaun, quite apart from the easier gully tracks, by which the ordinary visitor gains the top. The mountains are singularly picturesque. The verdure-clad cliffs, overhanging the deep, rock-bound, lonely tarns, have an effect that is at once rare and beautiful. INDEX Aber, 1 Aberglaslyn, 95 Abergynolwyn, 10 Accidents, 1, 2, 9, 21, 25, 54, 56, 58, 67, 70, 72, 73, 82, 86, 88, 89, 90, 91, 108, 126, 139, 176 Achill, 158 Anglesey, 15 Antrim, 131 Aranmore Island, 143 Arans (The), 99 Arenig Fawr, 98 Asko Keeran, 162 Bala, 2 Barmouth, 3 Barnesmore Gap, 153 Beddgelert, 3 Beddgelert (Snowdon from), 4 Beenkeragh, 186 Ben Bulben, 155 Benchoona, 165 Benglog, 5 Berwyn Mountains, 94 Bethesda, 6 Bird Rock, 108 Black Ladders, 19 Black Mountains, 13, 126 Blaenau Ffestiniog, 9 Blasquets, 189 Blue Stack, 152 Braichddu, 18, 19 Brandon, 179 Brecon Beacons, 13 Bronyfedw, 14 Bryansford, 169 Bull's Mountain, 187 Bunglas, 145 Burton Port, 143 Bwlch Cwm y Llan, 87 Bwlch Goch, 61 Bwlch y Saethau, 76 Caddy of Cwm Glas, 60 Cader Fronwen, 94 Cader Idris, 106 Cambrian Railway, 7, 95 Capel Curig, 6 Carnarvonshire, 16 Carndonagh, 135 Carnedd Dafydd, 17 Carnedd Llewelyn, 23 Carnedd Ugain, 67 Carnedd y Filiast, 25 'Carrabuncle' (The), 181 Carran Tuohill, 185 Carrick Hotel, 145 Carrig-a-Rede, 133 Castell Cidwm, 93 Castell Gwynt, 34 Castles (The), 171 Cefnysgolion Duon, 19 Clare Co., 167 Clew Bay, 160 Cloghane, 179 Clogwyn Aderyn, 69 Clogwyn Penllechen, 69 Clogwyn y Garnedd, 72 Clogwyn y Person, 58 Clogwyndur Arddu, 89 Closs (Death of), 91 Cnicht, 96 Commeragh Mountains, 192 Cork Co., 190 Corris, 10 Cox (Mr.), 88 Craig Ddrwg, 98 Craig Eryri, 54 Craig y Bera, 94 Craig yr Ysfa, 21 Craiglyn Dyfi, 103 Crazy Pinnacle, 64 Crib Goch, 60 Crib y Ddysgl, 66 Croagh Patrick, 160 Croghaun, 158 Cumloughra, 185 Cwm Creigiog, 88 Cwm Dyli, 68 Cwm Glas, 56 Cwm y Llan, 87 Cyfrwy, 113 Cynfael Falls, 9 Cynicht, 96 Dawson's Table, 192 Denbighshire, 94 Devil's Kitchen, 28 Devil's Looking Glass, 186 Devil's Punch Bowl, 189 Dinas Bran, 94 Dinas Mawddwy, 7 Dingle, 179 Dismore (Mr.), 58 Dolgelly, 7 Donegal, 134 Down Co., 169 Dublin Co., 171 Dunaff Head, 136 Dunfanaghy, 139 Dungloe, 144 Dunloe (Gap of), 182 Eagle's Cliff, 189 Eagle's Nest, 147 Eglwyseg, 94 Elicydu, 25 Elider, 25 Empson (Mr.), 2 Errigal, 140 Esgair Felen, 42 Evans (Mr. Alf.), 82 Fair Head, 131 Fanet, 137 Ffestiniog, 9 Foelgoch, 26 Frodsham (Mr. G. H.), 90 Gallt y Wenallt, 76 Galtee Mountains, 191 Galway, 164 Gap of Doonmore, 138 Gap of Dunloe, 182 Garnedd Goch, 92 Giant's Causeway, 134 Glaslyn, 69 Glen Car, 183 Glen Gesh, 154 Glen Head, 145 Glenariff, 133 Glenbeagh, 142 Glengad Head, 135 Glengariff, 190 Glyder Fach, 31 Glyder Fawr, 36 Golf, 156 Gougaun Barra, 191 Grey Man's Path, 131 Guides, 183 Gweedore, 141 Hag's Glen, 183, 187 Haseler (Mr. Maxwell), 73 Hill names, 161 Homer (Mr. Philip), 54 Horn Head, 138 Howth, 174 Hugh Lloyd's Pulpit, 9 Hungry Hill, 190 Inishowen, 135 Ireland's Eye, 174 Jackson (Rev. James), 12 Keimaneigh, 191 Kendal (Mr. E. G.), 70 Kerry Co., 179 Killarney, 183 Killary, 165 Kingsley (Charles), 12 King's Mountain, 155 Kinlough, 156 Lambay, 171 Leenane Inn, 158, 163 Lisdoonvarna, 167 Livesley (Mr.), 56 Llaithnant, 105 Llanberis, 9 Llangynog, 95 Llechog, 91 Lliwedd, 74 Llyndulyn, 24 Lough Eske, 152 Lough Muskry, 192 Lough Salt, 142 Lough Swilly, 186 Lugnaquilia, 176 Maamtrasna, 162 Maamturk, 164 Macgillicuddy's Reeks, 182 Machynlleth, 10 MacSwyne's Gun, 143 Maentwrog Road, 15 Malin Head, 135 Mangerton, 189 Marble Arch, 143 Marzials (Miss), 9 Maum Glen, 144 Mayo Co., 156 Melynllyn, 24 Merionethshire, 95 Mitchell (Mr. J.), 86 Moel Eilio, 91 Moel Hebog, 92 Moel Siabod, 52 Moel Sych, 94 Moel Wyn, 96 Moher Cliffs, 167 Montgomeryshire, 94 Mount Aitchin, 188 Mourne Mountains, 169 Muckanaght, 166 Muckish, 140 Mweelrea, 160 Mynydd Mawr, 93 Nantlle, 10 Nephin, 156 Newcastle, 169 Ogwen Cottage, 5 One Man's Pass, 149 Orme's Head, 94 Owen (Harry), 11 Paget (Mr.), 2 Pantylluchfa, 69 Parson's Nose, 58 Payne (Mr.), 1 Pen Helig, 25 Penmaenmawr, 16 Penygroes, 11 Penygwrhyd, 11 Penyroleuwen, 18 'Phouca' (The), 140 Pleaskin Head, 134 Poisoned Glen, 141 Portsalon, 137 Powerscourt, 175 Prisons of Lugnaquilia, 176 Purple Mountain, 189 Rhayader, 13 Rhinog Fawr, 97 Rosapenna, 138 Rostrevor, 169 St. Kevin's Bed, 177 Slanting Gully, 85 Slieve Donard, 171 Slieve Glas, 182 Slieve League, 145 Smith (Death of), 108 Snowdon, 54 Snowdon Ranger, 13 Southey benighted, 54 Spellick, 171 Stacks, 15 Starr (Rev. H. W.), 89 Stilloge Lakes, 193 Sturrell, 144 Tanybwlch, 14 Tonelagee, 176 Tormore, 139, 144 Tory Island, 139 Trigfylchau, 36, 44 Tryfaen, 44 Twelve Bens or Pins, 166 Twll Du, 28 Waterford Co., 192 Wicklow Co., 175 Williams (W.), 72 Wills (Mr.), 2 Wilton (Mr. F. R.), 67 Y Garn, 28 Y Wyddfa, 54 Yr Elen, 25 PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE LONDON Transcriber's note: _Underscores_ have been used to indicate _italic_ fonts. =Equals signs= have been used to indicate =bold= fonts. The alternate spellings Carnarvonshire and Caernarvonshire both appear in the original. I have left them as written (both are accepted spellings). Inconsistent hyphenation and dashes (e.g. number-ft vs. number ft) are left as written. 
39094	----	Two Boy Gold Miners Or, Lost in the Mountains BY FRANK V. WEBSTER AUTHOR OF "THE BOY FROM THE RANCH," "BOB THE CASTAWAY," "THE NEWSBOY PARTNERS," "ONLY A FARM BOY," ETC. ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1909, by CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY TWO BOY GOLD MINERS Printed in U. S. A. [Illustration: "It was burning fiercely, in spite of the drenching rain"] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. HARD TIMES 1 II. AFTER THE RUNAWAY 10 III. THE GOLD MINER 18 IV. A CURIOUS STORY 26 V. MORE HARD LUCK 34 VI. THE GOLD STRIKE 42 VII. OFF FOR THE WEST 51 VIII. THE BUCKING BRONCO 58 IX. AFTER BIG GAME 66 X. IN THE RAPIDS 74 XI. CAUGHT IN A STORM 83 XII. AT THE GOLD FIELDS 90 XIII. ON A NEW TRAIL 95 XIV. THE MARSHAL INTERFERES 103 XV. THEIR FIRST GOLD 110 XVI. LOST 118 XVII. CORNERED BY A BEAR 126 XVIII. FINDING THE NUGGETS 133 XIX. CON MORTON APPEARS 139 XX. PURSUED 145 XXI. WHAT HAPPENED TO GABE 162 XXII. STAKING THEIR CLAIMS 169 XXIII. CHEERLESS PROSPECTS 186 XXIV. LOSING THE FARM 194 XXV. THE WELCOME LETTER--CONCLUSION 200 TWO BOY GOLD MINERS CHAPTER I HARD TIMES "What's the matter, Enos?" asked a rather elderly and careworn looking woman, as she stood in the kitchen door of a small farmhouse. The man to whom she had spoken was gazing up at the sky. His clothes were patched in places, the trousers so much so that there seemed to be very little of the original material left. He did not appear to hear his wife's question, so she repeated it. "What's the matter, Enos? What are you looking up at the sky that way for?" "I was looking for a sign of rain, Debby. We need some terribly bad." "Do you see any?" "Nope. There isn't a cloud in sight, and the wind has hung in the east for nigh on to a week. Seems so it ought to bring a shower, but it don't come." "Things are pretty dry around here, aren't they, Enos?" "That's what they are, Debby, and if they don't get wet soon I don't know what we're going to do." "Is it as bad as that?" "It's liable to be. The potatoes won't amount to much, and the corn is just shriveling up with the heat. There'll be a short crop of everything but weeds, I'm thinking." "I wouldn't worry, Enos, if I was you. Maybe things will come out all right." "How can they, Debby, if we don't get rain? Things can't grow unless they get some moisture, and we haven't had a drop going on four weeks now. I declare, farming is the hardest kind of a life, I don't care what the books say!" "Well, we'll have to do the best we can, I suppose," said the woman, with a sigh, as she went back into the house. "What's the matter, mother?" asked a tall, pretty girl, who was washing the breakfast dishes. "You look worried." "I am, Nettie." "What about?" "Everything; but your father in particular." "Is he sick, mother?" "No; but he's fretting himself to death because there isn't any rain, and he's afraid the crops will be ruined." "That would be too bad." "Yes; times are hard enough as it is, without having a short crop of everything. We depended on a good season this year to finish paying off the mortgage, but the way it looks now we'll be deeper in debt than ever. I declare! it's too bad, just as your father was getting on his feet, after a lot of bad luck, to have this dry spell come." The girl did not reply, but there came a more serious look on her pretty face. She was a farmer's daughter, and she knew what it meant if there was a long period without rain. Enos Crosby, with his wife, his daughter Nettie and his two sons, Jed and Will, had a small farm near the town of Lockport, in one of the middle Western States. Jed was the elder son, a good-humored lad, always inclined to look on the bright sides of things. Will, the younger brother, was somewhat prone to be melancholy. His mother said it was because he grew so fast; that he was always looking ahead and seeing how things came out before they really happened. Though he was two years younger than Jed, he was half a head taller, though not so strong. Mr. Crosby had tried for many years to make a living off the farm for himself and his family. He had barely succeeded. Some years he saved a little money, but, as soon as he did so, it went to help pay off the mortgage, with which nearly every farm in that locality was saddled. Some years he fell behind, and had to borrow money to carry him through the winter. As Mr. Crosby stood in the little garden, at the side of the house, and continued to gaze up at the sky, he murmured: "Well, if we don't get rain by to-morrow night I don't know what we'll do. Have to borrow some more money to get along with, I guess, for the crops are practically ruined now. Still, a good soaking shower would do a world of good. I wonder how the boys are making out with their cultivating? Guess I'll take a walk over and see." In dry spells it is a practice of farmers to cultivate, or frequently dig up, the soil around their corn, potatoes or such other crops as admit of it. This pulverizing of the earth, in a measure, makes up for the lack of rain. That morning Jed and Will had been sent to the big corn patch, which was in a distant field, to work over the ground, and let a little air get to the roots, so that the lack of rain might be offset. As Mr. Crosby strolled over to the corn patch his mind was filled with many thoughts. "I wish I could find something else to do besides farming," he murmured to himself. "It's a very uncertain way of making a living. Still, I suppose it's all I'm fitted for. I don't know much about business, and my folks have been farmers all their lives. But I never saw such hard times as we're having now. I wouldn't mind so much if it was me alone, but there's Nettie. She does want a piano terribly bad, so she can learn to play. She's real quick to learn. And Debby"--as he called his wife, Deborah--"she needs some new clothes, though she never complains about the old ones." "I need some new ones myself, by the looks of these," he went on, glancing down at his much-patched trousers. "I guess Debby will be hard put to find any of the original pattern left to fasten a patch on. But I don't mind. I wish I could give my boys a better education, though. What little schooling they get here in the winter ain't never going to put them ahead very far. Well, I suppose there's no help for it." He trudged on despondently, now and again casting anxious glances upward, to see if there was not in the sky some little cloud that bore a promise of the much-needed rain. But the sun shone down hotter than ever. Meanwhile, Jed and Will were proceeding with their cultivating. Each one was driving a horse attached to a small machine, the sharp teeth of which cut through the dry, caked soil. The horses moved slowly along the rows of corn, a cloud of dust hovering over them and the young farmers. "Hey, Will!" called Jed to his brother, whose head was some distance above the stunted cornstalks, "don't you feel like having an ice-cream soda?" "Don't I, though? Say, Jed, quit talking like that, will you! My throat is all dry down inside, and my tongue is getting twice as thick as it ought to be. Whew! But this dust is fierce! I guess it's forgotten how to rain." "Looks like it. But I'm going to have a drink, anyhow. Whoa, Tabasco Sauce! Stand still!" "Who you talking to?" asked Will, looking through the corn to where his brother was. "My horse, of course." "That's a queer name for him." "Well, Tabasco Sauce is the hottest stuff I know about, and I reckon my horse is about the hottest thing around here, unless it's me. But don't you want a drink?" "What of? I don't care for creek water, and it's too far to go back to the house." "Here's where I stand treat, and surprise you," went on Jed. "Come on. Your horse will stand without hitching." "I don't know about that. He's been acting queer, lately. He was quite frisky when I started off ahead of you this morning, and tried to run away." "You don't say so? Fancy Pete running away! Maybe you'd better tie him." "I will. There's a big stone here. But what are you going to drink? I tell you I won't touch that creek water. I don't believe it's good, the creek's so low." "That's all right. Come on with me." Jed, whose horse showed no signs of straying away, left his steed standing in the middle of a row of corn, while Will fastened Pete to a big boulder, by wrapping the reins around the stone. The elder brother then led the way to the creek, which bordered the corn field, and striding to a spot where some weeping willow trees cast a cool shade, he plunged his hand down in a little pool, and drew up an earthen jug. "What do you say to that?" he asked. "Switchel?" inquired Will "That's what. I made a jug of it this morning when I knew we were coming over to this hot place. That's what made me late, and you got here ahead of me." "Well, pass it over. I'm as dry as a powder horn." "I'll take it first, if you don't mind," remarked Jed, with a smile. "You're so tall, Lanky, that if you got to drinking, all there is in the jug might run down to your feet, and I'd get left." He laughed and, tilting up the jug, drank from the uncorked opening. Switchel, I may explain to my young readers, is a drink much used by farmers, and those who have to work in hot fields often take a jug of it along, especially if they are far from good drinking water. It is composed of molasses, water and ginger, and has a pleasant taste. "Um! I feel better," remarked Jed as he passed the jug to his brother. "Now, Bean-pole, don't take it all. That's got to last until noon, and the day has only begun." "Don't worry. I won't take any more than you did." After the refreshing draught the two brothers rested for a moment in the shade of the willow trees. "Do you know, Will, I'm not much stuck on farming," remarked Jed slowly. "Me either. I don't mind hard work, but there doesn't seem to be much of a prospect here." "You're right. Dad and all of us work hard, but it does not seem to amount to anything. Times are getting harder all the while and even the weather is against us." "It does seem so. But I suppose it would be just as bad if we were in some other business." "Maybe. I wish I could get out of here. I'd like to do something else than farm." "What would be your choice?" "Well," remarked Jed, slowly, while a smile appeared on his face that had grown a bit serious, "I read about a tramp once that was looking for a contract to gather the blossoms on a century plant, that bloomed once in a hundred years. I don't care for anything quite as slow as that, but I would like a job where I could make a bit of money, instead of always paying up back debts." "Yes, poor dad has had bad luck. But maybe better times are coming." "I'm afraid not. But this isn't cultivating the corn, and, if we don't do that, I know there won't be any crop coming this fall. Let's get back to work." "Suppose we give the horses a drink," suggested Will. "They can't take switchel out of the jug. Besides, I don't believe they'd care for it." "Oh, you know what I mean!" exclaimed Will, who was not as fond of a joke as was his older brother. "Let's lead 'em to the creek." They unhitched the animals, putting halters on them, and led the eager steeds toward the inviting water. Whether it was the heat, or whether he decided he had done enough work for one day was not made clear, but, no sooner did Will's horse, Pete, take one sip of the water, than he jerked the halter rope from the boy's hand, kicked up his heels and, with a shrill whinny, dashed away through the corn. CHAPTER II AFTER THE RUNAWAY "There he goes!" cried Will. "So I see," remarked Jed, rather calmly. "You didn't need to tell me that. But he'll not run far. It's too hot. Now hold on, Tabasco Sauce. You needn't think you're going, too," for Jed's horse showed a disposition to follow its mate. "I'll have to catch him!" cried Will. "He'll trample a lot of corn down. I might have known he'd be up to some trick. He acted queer all the morning." "Maybe it's a touch of sunstroke," suggested Jed. "Wait a minute and I'll help you. I'll have to fasten this two-twenty trotter of mine, or he may take a notion to start a race against time." He fastened his horse to a tree, in a shady place near the creek, and then the two brothers started off after the runaway. As they ran through the rows of corn Will uttered an exclamation. "There he goes!" he shouted, pointing to the road, which ran along one side of the corn field. "He's going toward Fentonville like a blue streak!" "The rascal!" exclaimed Jed. "He must have headed for the bars. We forgot to put them up when we came in, and he got out. I wonder what ails him, anyhow? Never knew him to act this way before." "Me either. But it was you who left the bars down. You came in last." "So I did. That's too bad. But, come on. We'll cut across to the road, and see if we can't catch him." The two brothers changed their direction, and raced toward the fence that separated the field from the dusty highway. Meanwhile the horse was galloping along it, in the midst of a white cloud which his hoofs kicked up. The animal seemed to be rejoicing in a long-sought freedom. Just as the boys reached the fence their father came along. "What's the matter?" asked Mr. Crosby, surprised to see his two sons leaving their work. "Old Pete ran away," explained Will. "There he goes," and he pointed to the moving cloud of dust. "Old Pete ran away?" repeated the farmer. "Yep. I was giving him some water at the creek, when he kicked up his heels and bolted." "That's too bad," spoke Mr. Crosby, seriously. "He may run into something, and get hurt, or he may get lost and it will be a week before we can trace him. Or maybe some one may steal him. I heard there was a band of gypsies over near Fentonville, and they're great hands to steal horses. Better take after him, boys." "We will, dad," said Jed. "Will you go over there and look after my nag? He's tied, but he may take a notion to go off." "Oh, I guess Ned is safe," remarked Mr. Crosby. "But I would hate to have anything happen to Pete. We need both horses very much at this season, when there's so much cultivating to do, and if he gets stolen, or injured so he can't work, it will be quite a loss to me." "We'll get him, dad," spoke Will. "I'll go over and do some cultivating until you get back," went on the boys' father. "Land sakes! But I wish it would rain!" and, with the worried look still on his face, the farmer climbed the fence and walked through the rows of corn. Meanwhile the two brothers started on an easy run down the highway. They knew they might have a long chase after the runaway, and they wanted to save their energies. "Suppose he runs into a carriage, or something, and gets all cut and bruised and lame, so he can't work," spoke Will. "What's the use of supposing any such thing as that?" asked Jed. "Probably he'll run until he gets tired, and we'll find him along the road, waiting for us." "I'm afraid something will happen," went on Will, rather gloomily. "Maybe, as dad said, the gypsies will steal him." "Nonsense!" retorted Jed, taking a more hopeful view. "What's the use of worrying until you have to?" "But if we lose that horse it will be a serious blow to dad. He's only got these two, and there's no money left to hire or buy another." "How do you know?" "I heard him and mother talking about it the other night. She asked him why he didn't hire Joe Wright's horse, to help with the cultivating, and he said he couldn't afford it." "Well, of course it would be serious if we only had one horse left to do the farm work with," admitted Jed. "But Pete isn't lost yet." "It will be my fault if he is," said his brother. "I suppose I shouldn't have unharnessed him from the cultivator. He couldn't have run very far, dragging that." "I guess not. But we'll find him, all right." "I can't see any more of him." "No, he's gone around the bend in the road. We'll make some inquiries when we get there." The two lads went on at a dog-trot. In spite of the calm way in which he took it, Jed was not a little worried over the running away of the horse. A number of things might happen to the animal, and even the loss of its services meant a serious handicap at the farm in those hard times. Both boys felt that they simply must recover the animal, before it had run too far. As they reached the turn of the road, around which the horse had disappeared, they looked ahead, hoping to get a sight of the runaway. But the road twisted and turned so that it was impossible to see very far. "Hello, Mr. Johnson!" called Jed to a man who was hoeing some cabbages in a field near the highway. "Did you see our brown horse pass here a while ago?" "Was that your hoss?" asked the man, straightening up, and wiping his head with a big, red handkerchief. "Yep." "Waal, I couldn't tell whether it was a hoss or a cow, it were goin' so fast, and th' dust was so thick. I never see it so dry, not since seventy-three. I guess----" "Then the horse went on toward Fentonville?" asked Jed, interrupting the farmer, who was one of the greatest talkers in that locality. "Yep, he did that. But, as I was sayin', I ain't seen it so dry since seventy-three. That was th' year I----" "Come on, Will," spoke Jed, in a low voice. "I've heard that story a dozen times. Much obliged," he called to Mr. Johnson. "We want to catch him before the gypsies nab him," and with that the two boys ran on. "Humph!" exclaimed Mr. Johnson, as he looked after the disappearing lads. "They're in a turrible hurry. I ain't never seen it so dry since seventy-three, and that year I----" Then he seemed to realize that he had no audience, and he began to hoe the cabbages again. Meanwhile Jed and Will ran on. When they came to a straight stretch of road, they looked eagerly down it, but they were not rewarded by a sight of the horse. "I didn't think he would run so long," remarked Will. "Especially on a hot day like this," added Jed. "I'm going to slow down a bit. You're so thin, Will, the heat doesn't have a good chance to get at you." Jed was inclined to fleshiness. "We'd ought to have taken the other horse to chase after Pete on," said Will. "Ned couldn't carry both of us." "I didn't mean we were both to ride him." "Oh, I suppose I could walk, and you'd ride." "I'm not particular. But it's too late to think of that now. I wonder why we can't see him? He must have turned off somewhere." "Very likely. Here comes a man. We'll ask him." Down the road the boys saw approaching a rather elderly man. He walked slowly, leaning heavily on a cane, and over his shoulder was a bundle. "Looks like a pedler," commented Jed. "Maybe he's one of the gypsy gang," suggested Will. "Guess not. They very seldom travel alone. No, he's a white man, but he's tanned enough to be a gypsy," went on Jed, as the stranger approached closer. "Morning, boys," said the man, pleasantly. "Hot, ain't it? My, you look all played out! Is the sheriff after you?" "The sheriff?" repeated Jed, for the words were somewhat puzzling to him. "Yes. Out West, where I hail from, a man doesn't run the way you have unless the sheriff gets after him. And then usually he does his running on a horse." "Well, we happen to be doing our running after a horse," replied Jed, with a smile. "You didn't happen to see a brown horse with only a bridle on, as you came along, did you?" "Did he have a white spot on the breast?" "Yes," said Will, eagerly. "Then I guess I saw him. I was walking along, a way back, going slow because my corn hurts me, and I see a cloud of dust coming toward me, lickity-split. I thought it was a drove of steers on a stampede at first, and I got out of the way. Then I see it was only one horse. Queer how much dust he did kick up, but then it's terrible dry in these parts. Worse than the Nevada desert in midsummer." "Where did the horse go?" asked Jed, a little impatiently, for he did not care for all those details. "I'm coming to that, my lad. Just after he passed me the horse seemed to think he'd run enough, and he jumped over a fence, into a pasture, and began to eat. Pretty good jump it was, too, after the way he'd been running." "Come on, Will!" cried Jed. "We'll catch him." "Hold on, and I'll help you," exclaimed the man, as he followed the two boys down the road. CHAPTER III THE GOLD MINER "Shall we let him help us?" asked Will, in a low tone, of his brother. "I guess so. I don't see why we shouldn't. He was kind enough to tell us about the horse." "I know; but he seems like a queer character." "Oh, I guess he's all right. He said he was from out West, and the folks there are a little different from those in this part of the country. We'll wait for him." The boys, who had started off at a fast pace, on hearing where their horse was, now slackened their gait, to allow the man to catch up to them. "You seem to be in pretty much of a hurry, boys," remarked the stranger. "Well, it means quite a loss to us if that horse gets away," replied Jed. "We were cultivating corn, my brother and I, and Pete took a notion he wanted a vacation. We're afraid he'll get hurt, or stolen, and we only have one other horse." "Where might you boys live?" "About a mile back," replied Will. "And what might your names be?" Jed told him, wondering the while at the man's rather queer manner. "And what might be the name of the place where you live?" "Well, it might be almost anything," responded Jed, unable to withstand the chance to make a little joke, "but it happens to be Lockport." "Lockport. That's a queer name. If it was out West, where I come from, they'd probably call it 'Dead Man's Gulch,' or 'Red Horseville,' or 'Eagle Pass,' or some such common-sense name as that. But Lockport----" "They call it that because when you're there you're as good as locked up," spoke Jed. "You can't get away from it; that is, if you're poor." "Are you poor?" inquired the man, with a quick look from under his shaggy brows at the two boys. "Well, we don't throw any gold dollars over our left shoulder," replied Jed. "My father is a farmer, and I never knew any rich ones." "That's so," admitted the man. "They generally have to work hard for their money." "Say, if we're going to catch that horse, we'd better hurry," remarked Will, who was anxious lest the animal might again take a notion to run away. "That's so, boys. I didn't mean to detain you. Step along lively. I guess you'll find that Gabe Harrison can keep up to you. I'm pretty lively, if I am old." "Is you name Gabe Harrison?" asked Jed. "That's it. Gabe--short for Gabriel--only I'm no relation to the trumpet blower, so don't think the end of the world is coming. Now trot along, and we'll catch the horse. Then we can talk afterward." It was good advice, and the boys followed it. When they hurried on, for a quarter of a mile further, they saw, in a field near the highway, old Pete calmly browsing on what little grass was left after the dry spell. "There he is!" exclaimed Will. "I'll catch him. I can run faster than you, Jed." "Better go easy," advised Gabe Harrison. "Once a horse finds out what fun it is to run away, he's liable to want to do some more of it." "He never did it before," observed Jed. "There's always a first time. Here, I'll tell you what to do. It's the way I used to catch my mule when he took a notion to be contrary, and would stray away when I was prospecting." "Prospecting for what?" asked Jed, who was beginning to be interested in the stranger. "For gold, of course. I'm an old gold miner, but I'm down on my luck now. Here, take some of this salt, and hold it out in your hat. Horses will do almost anything for a bit of salt, and I guess you won't have any trouble catching him." While he was speaking the old miner had put his bundle down on the ground, and opened it. The boys saw he had a regular outfit such as a man might use to camp out with along the road in the summer. There were some tin and sheet iron dishes and utensils, some food, and the head of a pickaxe. "I can't get out of the habit of traveling just as I used to do when I was prospecting," said the man. "I don't have to ask any odds of anybody then, but it's not so easy packing this stuff on my back. I ought to have a mule or a pony, but I can't afford to. There, take this salt," and he gave Will some from a sack. "I guess that will fetch the horse." Will put it in his hat, jumped the fence, and approached the animal, which ceased cropping the grass, and looked up as the boy entered the field. Probably old Pete was debating in his equine mind, if he had one, whether it was better to see what it was that Will had in his hat, or whether he would kick up his heels, and enjoy a little more freedom. Meanwhile Jed, who had remained with the old miner, looked curiously at the bundle, which Mr. Harrison was tying up again. "What's the pickaxe for?" inquired the boy. "That's my old pick that I used when I was a miner." "What are you carrying it with you for?" "Because that's a lucky pickaxe. Many a hundred dollars' worth of gold has that pick dug for me. I broke the handle, and from then on I had bad luck. But I kept the pick, and some day I may put a new handle on it, and start to mining again." "Where did you dig gold?" asked Jed, while a curious longing came into his heart to get away from the tiresome farm work and embark upon the free and fascinating life of a prospector. He knew little of such life, or, perhaps, he would not have desired to undertake it, for it is full of hardships and dangers, compared to which farming is easy and simple. But the meeting that day of the old miner and the two boys was destined to have a far-reaching effect, and the head of the pick, which Gabe Harrison carried mainly for sentimental reasons, played quite a part in the adventures that were soon to follow. "Where did I dig gold?" repeated Gabe, as he finished tying up his pack. "Well, young man--Jed, I mean, if you'll allow me to call you that--I've dug gold 'most every place there was gold to dig. I'm not particular that way. I've prospected all over the Western part of the United States, and I've even been in Alaska, where I nearly froze to death, but I got a lot of gold there." "What made you give it up?" asked Jed, becoming more and more interested. "I didn't. I had bad luck, though it was as much my fault as it was anything else." "Did some one rob you?" "Yes, but for the matter of that I gave them the chance. It was mostly my own fault. I'm my own worst enemy, my lad, but I think I've turned over a new leaf, and when Gabe Harrison does the foolish things he used to do, I hope you'll send him a special-delivery letter and tell him so." "I will, if he leaves me his address," replied Jed, entering into the spirit of the occasion. "I'll do that. There, your brother has caught the horse. I thought that salt would fetch the critter. I had a mule once--but that's a long while ago. Maybe I'll tell you about it some day." Will had caught old Pete, and the horse was eagerly licking up the salt from the lad's hat. "I'll open the bars for you," called Jed, hurrying forward to help his brother. "Is he hurt any?" "Not a scratch on him." "That's good. You'd better ride him home, so dad won't be worrying. I'll walk." "You can ride if you want to," said Will, generously. "No, you're lighter weight, and it's a hot day. Besides, Pete must be pretty well tired out. Look out he doesn't run away with you again." "I will. Wish I had a bridle instead of this halter." "Hold on. I've got one!" exclaimed Mr. Harrison. "It's one that belonged to my mule, but I lost the mule and you might as well take the bridle." The old miner opened another part of his pack, and took out a strong bridle, that showed some signs of wear. It was quickly slipped on Pete, and then Will, mounting the animal's back, rode off. "If you'll stop at our house on your way past," he called back to Mr. Harrison, "you can get your bridle." "All right, I will. Might as well go that way as any other," the man added to Jed, as they started along the highway. "Haven't you any particular place to go?" "No, I'm just sort of waiting for something to turn up. I've about made up my mind to get back to the gold country. I heard of some new strikes they were making in Montana, and I've a sort of fever in my blood to get there." With Jed asking questions, and the old miner giving in answer considerable information about the Western mining country, the two trudged along until they reached the Crosby farm. "Won't you come in, and have some dinner?" asked Jed, as Will came out to the gate with the bridle. "It's 'most twelve o'clock, and you'll be very welcome. You did us quite a service in helping us to get the horse back. It would have meant a lot to dad to lose him." "Oh, pshaw! I didn't do anything. But, if you don't mind, I'll sit down and have a bite. It's sort of lonesome, eating all alone beside the road." "And you promised to tell me how you lost your gold that you dug," said Jed. "Did I? Well, I don't remember that I did. Still, if you'd like to hear what a foolish man I was, I won't mind telling you." CHAPTER IV A CURIOUS STORY While the old miner was standing at the gate, with the two brothers, Mr. Crosby came out of the house. "Here is the man who helped us find Pete, father," said Will. "I'm glad to meet you, sir," responded the farmer heartily, extending his hand. "Won't you come in?" "I just invited him to dinner, dad," spoke Jed. "That's right. Come in, Mr.--er----" "Harrison, Gabriel Harrison, though my pardners and the boys used to call me Gabe. I'm much obliged to you, I'm sure, for your invitation." "We don't often see strangers out this way," went on the farmer. "I understand you are a miner." "I used to be, but I'm not much of anything now. I've been prospecting around here lately, looking for something to turn up, but it doesn't seem to be going to. Pretty dry around here, isn't it, Mr. Crosby?" "Entirely too much so. I don't know what I'm going to do about my crops if we don't get rain soon." Gabe Harrison looked up at the sky. The sun seemed to be blazing down as hot as ever. The old miner glanced to the various points of the compass. Then he leaned over and gravely felt of his left foot. "What's the matter? Got a stone bruise?" asked Mr. Crosby. "No, but I've got a very sensitive corn. It's as good as a barometer. It's beginning to hurt like all possessed, and I shouldn't be surprised if we had a rain storm soon. It always aches as it does now, just before a storm." "Doesn't it bother you at other times?" asked Jed with a smile. "Not at all. I think we're going to have rain." "I certainly hope so," remarked Mr. Crosby. "But you'd better come in now. My wife and daughter have dinner all ready, and I know the women folks don't like to be kept waiting when everything's on the table." "You're right there, stranger--I mean Mr. Crosby," said Gabe. "I'll come in. Can I wash up a bit? I've got considerable of the dirt of this county spread over my face and hands, only it isn't 'pay dirt.'" "What's 'pay dirt'?" asked Will "That, my boy, is what miners call dirt that has gold in it. Many a rocker full I've washed up. Sometimes I'd get a lot of the yellow dust, and, again I wouldn't make enough to buy my bacon. But it's all in the day's work." Mr. Crosby led his rather queer guest to a shed, where in the summer time the male members of the family washed in preparation for their meals. Mr. Harrison gave himself a vigorous scrubbing with the yellow soap, and polished his face on the coarse towel until his countenance fairly shone. He was a well preserved old man, with a ruddy complexion, that showed through his coating of tan. "Do you find gold mining pays?" asked Mr. Crosby, after the meal, when the gold-hunter had done full justice to the cooking of Mrs. Crosby and Nettie. "Yes, about as well as anything--farming, for instance. I suppose your business has its ups and downs." "Mostly downs. I declare, I never knew such hard times as we're having now! Not only me, but every farmer I know. This long dry spell is likely to have a bad effect on the country." "I believe you. We miners don't have it all our own way, either." "I thought you said you had dug plenty of gold," put in Jed, who, with his brother, was an interested listener. "So I did. But digging it and keeping it are two different things, young man." "Did you lose what you had?" asked Mr. Crosby, who had heard from his sons something of their guest's history. "I lost it--yes--in a way. I might as well tell you the story. It's not a very pleasant one. It goes to show that a man can be a pretty big fool when he tries real hard. That's not a very nice thing to say, but it's the truth." "How did it happen?" asked Will. "Well, as I've told you, I've been a gold miner for a number of years. I've prospected, or looked for gold, in many places in this country. And I've found my share of yellow nuggets in my time. "I made my last strike in Nevada. Where I was, nobody thought there was much but silver, but I was lucky enough to come upon a good gold lead, and the vein got bigger the farther I dug. Well, to make a long story short, I took out several thousand dollars in pure gold. Then I lost it." "Couldn't you find it again?" asked Nettie, who, with her brothers, was eagerly listening to the miner's story. "No, little miss, I couldn't, for I lost it by gambling." "Gambling!" exclaimed Mr. Crosby, for he and his wife were strict church people, and did not know much about the vices of the world. "That's the plain truth. Everybody out West gambles--that is, nearly everybody. There are some exceptions, of course, but I wasn't one. Very foolishly thought I could get something for nothing, and put up my money in a card game." "And you lost?" inquired Mrs. Crosby. "Every one but the man running the game loses sooner or later, ma'am," replied the miner. "It's run that way. I lost over a thousand dollars before I had sense enough to quit." "Oh, then you stopped in time. I'm glad to hear that," said the farmer. "No, I didn't. I stopped gambling, but I didn't get out of the company of the gamblers, as I should have done. I stayed right there, for I thought I knew it all. Ah, that's a true saying, that there's 'no fool like an old fool,' if you'll excuse me using such language, but I want you boys to take a lesson from me." "Then how did you lose the rest of your fortune?" asked Jed. "I was swindled out of it," replied Gabe Harrison. "It was partly my own fault, though. If I had had sense enough to keep away from the gamblers it wouldn't have happened. But one of them proposed a certain deal to me, and I went in with him. When it was all over I found I knew a great deal more than I did at first, but I hadn't any money left." "They took it all?" asked Mr. Crosby. "One man got the most of it." "How?" "Well, it was an old-time swindle, but I don't believe you'd understand if I told you. Such things aren't good for young people to hear about, anyhow. But I woke up one morning without a cent in my pocket, whereas the night before I had over five thousand dollars in pure gold." "Five thousand dollars!" murmured Mr. Crosby, to whom such a sum seemed a large fortune. "Yes. Oh, we didn't think much of that amount in the West. Money was easily made and easily spent there." "Who got it?" asked Jed, leaning forward in his intense interest in the miner's curious story. "One man got the most of it." "Who was he?" inquired Will. "He went by the name of Con Morton, but I guess he had half a dozen other titles he used whenever it was convenient. Yes, he got most of my fortune by a swindle, and then he lit out. I haven't seen him since. I wish I had. I think I could have made him give me back at least a part of it." "Where was this?" asked Mrs. Crosby. "Out in Nevada. Now, I'm afraid I've taken up too much of your time with my foolish story. But maybe it will be a lesson to the boys," and he looked at Jed and Will. "I don't suppose you'll ever go hunting gold, and gambling, but if you do, steer clear of any one by the name of Con Morton." "I don't believe we'll ever get the chance to hunt gold, Mr. Harrison," replied Jed, "and we certainly won't gamble." "Stranger things have happened--I mean about hunting gold--but I'm pretty sure if you do find any of the yellow lumps you won't be as foolish as I was, and let a swindler get them away from you. Well, I reckon I'd better be traveling along." "Are you going to any place in particular?" asked Mr. Crosby. "No. As I told your boys when I met them looking for the runaway horse, I'm just waiting for something to turn up. I may go back West again, or I may settle down in the East. I'm looking for a job, to tell you the truth. My money is 'most gone, and I need a little to keep me going, though I don't require much to live on." "Then why don't you stay here?" asked the farmer. "I need a man to help me with the cultivating. I can't pay much--no farmer can these times--but I'll do the best I can. If I had a man to help with the cultivating I could stir the dirt up around the crops, and it wouldn't matter quite so much about the rain. Did you ever work on a farm?" "Once, when I was a young lad. But if my corn keeps on hurting the way it does, I know we'll have rain." "I hope so. But would you like to stay here a few days?" "I think so. In fact, I will. I don't care so much about the money, but I like it here, and it will give me a chance to rest. Yes, Mr. Crosby, I'll stay and help you cultivate. Maybe it will rain, and I can then help you in other ways." "Perhaps. Then if you'll come with me I'll show you a room you can use." And so it was settled that the old miner should remain, for the time being, at the Crosby farm. CHAPTER V MORE HARD LUCK That afternoon the two boys went back to the cornfield to resume the cultivating that had been interrupted by the runaway. It seemed hotter than ever, and there was scarcely a breath of wind. "Whew! This is fierce!" exclaimed Will. "I can't stand it!" and he mopped the perspiration from his forehead. "Oh, it might be worse," observed Jed. "Worse? I don't see how." "You might be out on the Nevada desert that Mr. Harrison was telling about." "That's so. Well, I'm glad I'm not. But, what do you think of him, anyhow, Jed?" "I think he's quite a character." "So do I. I wish I had some of the gold he dug." "Same here. If we had that we wouldn't have to be working in this hot cornfield. Maybe we'll find some, by and by, Will." "Find some? How?" "Why, go after it, to be sure. Do you know, I have an idea I'd like to be a gold miner." "A heap you know about gold mining!" "That's all right. Every one has to learn. I guess he didn't know anything about it at first," said the stout youth. "Perhaps not. But what chance have we to go out West in the mining country?" "None, I guess, Will, but I can't help thinking of it. I certainly would like to go West and be a gold miner. Think of digging gold instead of potatoes." "There's only one thing about that," replied his brother, who was not so inclined to look on the rosy side of things, "when you're digging for potatoes you go to a field where potatoes have been planted, and when you dig, you know you're going to get some." "Well?" "Well, when you dig for gold you have to go it blind. It may be there and it may not. Oftener not, and you have all your digging for nothing." "So you do here, sometimes, when the droutht or too much rain has ruined the potato crop," retorted Jed. "I guess it's about an even thing, Will." "Maybe so. But I guess dad wouldn't let us go West." "Probably not. Come on, we'll do ten more rows each, and then it will be time to go home to supper. My! But I'm glad this day will soon be over! It's been a scorcher!" It had been very hot, and the unclouded sun, beating down on the two lads in the cornfield, seemed to fairly be trying to shrivel them up. "I'm done!" exclaimed Jed at length, as he reached the end of the tenth row, which he had set as his "stent." "So'm I," added his brother a minute later. "Come on, Pete. You're moving slow on account of the run you had this morning. Hark! What's that, Jed?" "Sounded like thunder." The two brothers listened a moment. Off in the west there was a dull rumble, where some copper-colored clouds had gathered. "It is thunder!" exclaimed Will. "Say, I do believe it's going to rain. Won't dad be glad!" "He sure will," spoke Jed. "But I'm afraid it's too late to do any good," went on Will. "Nonsense! There you go again. Always looking on the dark side of things. Why don't you say the rain will do all sorts of good?" "I suppose I'm not built that way. But I hope it does." "Of course it will. Come on. Let's hurry up. I don't want to get wet." "I'll be glad to," declared Will. "Seems as if I never was so hot. I'd like to get in a tubful of ice water and stay there an hour or so." As the lads unhitched the horses from the cultivators, leaving the machines in the field, in readiness for the work on the next day, and started homeward with the steeds, the rumble of thunder became louder, and there were flashes of lightning in the western sky. "She's a-coming!" cried Jed. "It'll be a corker, too, after this long dry spell." The boys had scarcely reached home before it began to rain. First there were only a few large drops, each the size of a half dollar. There was no wind, and the crack of thunder seemed like the discharge of heavy guns. Then the trees began to bend before the blast. The wind howled through their branches. The dust from parched fields and long dry highways rose in big clouds, making a yellow haze as the sun shone through it. Then the sky was quickly overcast with a yellow cloud. The wind blew harder. Louder crashed the thunder and then, with a rushing, hissing sound, the rain fell in torrents. "Just in time!" cried Gabe Harrison, as the boys, having put the horses in the barn, rushed up on the side porch of the farm house. "This is going to be a great shower. I knew my old corn wasn't aching for nothing." "I guess your corn isn't any gladder of the rain than the corn we've been cultivating all day," retorted Jed. "It was almost parched with the heat." "This will be a godsend to us farmers," spoke Mr. Crosby, as he came out to see the storm. "It would have been worth a lot more had it come sooner, but it will save part of my crops for me." There was another crash of thunder, and it seemed as if several clouds, right overhead, opened and let out their flood of rain, so fiercely did the big drops dash down. "Nettie, are all the windows shut?" asked Mrs. Crosby of her daughter. "Yes, ma. I looked to 'em when I saw the shower coming up. They're all closed." "Are you sure you shut the one in my bedroom?" "Yep." "I'm afraid you didn't. I'm going to look, and make certain." If there was one worry Mrs. Crosby had, it was that the windows were not shut when a storm came up. She was afraid of the rain coming in, and she was also afraid of lightning, for, like many country women, she believed the electrical current only waited for the chance of darting in an open window to wreak damage. So she hurried off to oversee the work her daughter had said was already done. The storm became worse. The farmer and his two sons, who, with the old miner, were watching it from the side porch, had to go in, as a shift of the wind sent the rain into their shelter. "Now if this will keep up all night, we'll have water enough," commented Mr. Crosby. "Do you need as much as that?" asked Gabe. "Yes, and more too. Half the springs around here are dried up. Our well didn't have much more water in it, and the creek was lower than I ever saw it before." They went inside the house. Mrs. Crosby finished her supervision of the windows, and came into the sitting-room, where the others were gathered. "Jed," she called to her eldest son, "don't sit so close to the window." "Why not?" "You might be struck. Lightning always comes in a window." "But this one is closed." "That doesn't matter. Come away, do, please." Not wanting to worry his mother, Jed obeyed. Hardly had he moved back when there came a terrific crash. It was so loud, and sounded so close, that, for a moment, every one in the room was stunned. "That struck somewhere around here!" cried Mr. Crosby, as soon as the rolling thunder sound had died away. "I should say so!" added Will. "You can smell the sulphur." There was a noticeable odor in the room, like when an old-fashioned match is lighted. "Oh, dear! I'm afraid it hit the house!" cried Mrs. Crosby. "We'll all be killed!" "If it struck the house we wouldn't be sitting here," replied Jed. "We'd be knocked off our chairs. Come on, Will, we'll go see what damage it did." Following that one terrible clap the storm seemed to let up a bit, though it rained harder than ever. The two boys, taking heavy coats, from nails in the kitchen, went out. No sooner had they reached the porch than Jed cried: "It struck our cow barn! The place is on fire! Come on and get the cow out!" His cry was heard in the sitting-room, and his father and the miner ran out. They did not need to be told what had happened. The cow shed, a small structure, near the barn, but not attached to it, was in flames. "We must save the cow!" exclaimed Mr. Crosby. "She's worth fifty dollars!" The men and boys rushed to the little stable. The lightning had torn out one complete side, and it was burning fiercely in spite of the drenching rain. But one look inside showed Mr. Crosby that more bad luck had come to him. Though the rain had arrived in time to save part of his crops, the lightning had struck the cow, and the poor creature was stretched out dead on the floor of the small stable. CHAPTER VI THE GOLD STRIKE "You can't save that cow, Mr. Crosby!" cried Gabe Harrison. "Come on, boys, get pails and we'll see if we can't put out the fire! Where's there a well or a cistern?" "Right over this way," replied Jed. "More trouble!" exclaimed Mr. Crosby bitterly, as he saw his property being consumed by the flames, and thought of the dead cow. Soon the two boys and the old miner had secured buckets and were dashing water on the flames. They might have saved themselves the trouble, however, for there came such a deluge of rain a few minutes later that the fire was extinguished. "Well, I guess we can't do any more good out here," observed Mr. Harrison. "No, nothing more can burn in this storm," added Will. "Lucky it didn't strike the barn." "That's so," agreed Jed. "This is as close as I want lightning to come to me." "It's too bad about your cow, friend Crosby," spoke the miner, as the four splashed through the water and mud back to the house. "Indeed it is," admitted the farmer. "She was a valuable animal, and supplied us with all our milk and butter. Now I'll have to buy a new one, and I don't see where I'm going to get the money these hard times." The boys felt their father's loss keenly, and they wished they could do something to aid him. When they reached the house they found Mrs. Crosby on the verge of hysterics, with her daughter vainly trying to quiet her. "Some one is killed! I know there is!" exclaimed the nervous woman. "I'm sure some one is killed!" "Only the cow, mother," replied Jed. "It might have been worse. We still have the pigs left. They seemed to like this rain, for they're out in the open part of their pen, getting a good soaking." "Oh, Jed! How can you joke at such a serious time as this?" asked Nettie, reproachfully. "Might as well joke as cry," answered her brother. "That's the right view to take of it," put in old Gabe. "Always look on the bright side of things. Of course, it's too bad to lose a valuable cow, but it might have been worse. I had a partner prospecting with me once. He got careless with some dynamite, and it blowed our shanty to pieces. We had narrow escapes. But do you think my partner worried over it? Not a bit. He said he was thinking of building a new shanty, anyhow, and the dynamite blast saved him the trouble of tearing the old one down." "That must be a dreadful country, out in the mining region," remarked Mrs. Crosby, who had somewhat recovered her composure. "Oh, it's no worse than lots of other places, ma'am. If a man, or a boy either, for that matter, behaves himself and minds his own business, he'll get along all right. I wish I was back there, that's what I do. But listen to that rain! It's a regular cloudburst. I guess you'll get all you want, Mr. Crosby." "Yes, the rain will do all sorts of good." "That'll make up for the cow, dad," put in Jed, determined to look on the less gloomy side. "Then we can sell the hide to the butcher, so it won't be a total loss." But when, a day or so later, the dead cow was sold for the hide, only a small sum was realized. As Mr. Crosby could not afford money for another animal, the family had to buy milk and butter of a neighbor. Gabe Harrison remained at the farm, for there was plenty of work to do, as, following the rain, a big crop of weeds sprang up, and had to be hoed down. This labor the old miner could do very well, and for a week Mr. Crosby, his two sons, and Mr. Harrison were kept very busy. But even the rain could not make up for the long dry spell, and it did not need a very expert farmer to see that only about three-quarters of the usual crop could be harvested from the Crosby place. "I'm afraid we're going to have a hard time this winter," remarked the farmer to his wife one night, after the others had gone to bed. "Pork is going to be high, and so is feed, as there was a short crop of hay, and the horses eat an awful lot." "It's too bad. What can we do?" "I don't know, Debby. Sometimes I'm tempted to sell out and go to some other place." "Where do you mean?" "Well, down South or farther West. I've been struggling along for several years now, working hard, and barely making a living. I can't get a dollar ahead, try with all my might." "Yes, you do work terribly hard, Enos. I wish you didn't have to." "Oh, I don't mind the work. It's the lack of returns that I'm dissatisfied with. You work hard for that matter, and so do the boys." "And Nettie does her share. Poor girl, she wants a new dress very much to wear to the Sunday-school picnic next week." "I wish I could get it for her, but I don't see how I can. Money is dreadfully scarce, and I can't borrow any more. I suppose I could sell one of the pigs----" "No, I wouldn't think of that," objected his wife. "We'll need them for pork this winter. Nothing like pork to see you through a hard winter. Nettie will have to wear the old dress. Maybe I can turn it again, though the land knows I've done that twice already. But she'll not complain." "No, she's a good girl, and my boys are good boys. If they don't have all that lads of their age should, they don't make long faces over it. Maybe times will be better soon." "Are you going to keep Mr. Harrison much longer?" "No. I think I'll have to let him go next week. I need his help, but I can't afford to pay him. He works for less than a younger man would, and he does almost as much. But the boys and I will have to get along as best we can." Though the dry spell was broken there came other troubles for Mr. Crosby. Some of the corn became affected with a fungous disease called "smut," and part of that crop was worthless. The potatoes too began to rot in the ground, and things looked very gloomy indeed. Mr. Harrison took his dismissal good-naturedly. He said he expected to travel on, anyhow, and he was not particular where he stayed. The week he was to leave, things were rather dull on the farm. All the work it was possible to do had been attended to, and it was only necessary to wait for the maturing of the various crops before harvesting them. There was one spot of brightness in all this gloom. A big field of barley, which Mr. Crosby had not thought would amount to much, turned out a much larger crop than he expected. Then there happened to be a short supply of that particular grain in that section of the country, and the price went up, unexpectedly. "Maybe things won't be so bad, after all," said the farmer, on hearing this news. "I was to the city to-day, and I had an offer from a big dealer for my barley. I was about to take it when another man offered me much more. This shows there is going to be a big demand for it, and I'm going to hold on to mine. If I can get a little more per bushel than the last offer, it will see me through the winter nicely, and leave a bit over." "Well, that certainly is good news," said Mr. Harrison. "I'm glad I heard it before I left, for I'll be thinking of you people often this winter." "Oh, I almost forgot about it," spoke Mr. Crosby. "I stopped at the post-office on my way home, and here's a letter for you." "For me?" inquired the old miner in some surprise. "I wonder who can be writing to me?" "The best way is to open it and then you can tell," said Jed, with a smile. "Oh, I know now. It's from Ted Jordan. I know his writing. It's like a hen that stepped in an ink bottle and then tried to do a dance. Wonder what he's writing to me for from away out in Montana?" He tore open the envelope. "How did he know your address?" asked Will. "Oh, I sent him one of them souvenir postcards as soon as I got here. I done it more for a joke. Sent him one with a picture of a farmer on it, and told him I'd gone to tilling land for a living. But let's see what he says I'll read you the letter. Guess there's nothing very private in it, and Ted is a jolly chap. "'Dear Gabe,'" read the old miner. "'Sorry to hear you got so down on your luck you had to turn farmer. Your picture don't look a bit like you, but I suppose the crows have been picking at you. Say, I have great news for you. Old Sim Butterfield, the fellow that had one ear bit off in a fight, got into trouble with a gambler out here the other day, and now the other ear is gone.'" "How terrible!" exclaimed Mrs. Crosby. "Oh, jest as like as not 'tain't true, ma'am. Ted is a terrible joker. But what's this?" Mr. Harrison had turned to the last page of the letter and was earnestly reading it. "Listen to this!" he exclaimed. "'There has been a big strike made near Dizzy Gulch. I'm going there, and so are a lot of the boys. Better chuck up your farming and join us. The new diggings are as rich as butter. Shall I stake out a claim for you?'" No one said anything for a few seconds. This unexpected news from the West, coming into that quiet farmhouse, was like a glimpse into another world. Jed was staring curiously at Gabe. Will's eyes were big with wonder at hearing of men who were about to set off in a quest for gold. "Do you suppose that's a joke?" asked Mr. Crosby. "No, sir!" exclaimed Gabe, firmly. "Ted Jordan don't joke about such a serious subject as prospecting for gold. This settles it. I'm going out there as fast as I can make tracks for the West. I'm glad I saved my old pick now. It'll come in handy. Yes, sir, I'm off for Dizzy Gulch!" Jed had risen to his feet. He was strangely excited. "Do you suppose there'd be gold enough out there for any other persons, Mr. Harrison?" he asked. "Enough? Of course there'll be! If it's any kind of a strike at all, it's a good one, or Ted Jordan wouldn't be going. But why do you ask?" "Because I want to go!" exclaimed the lad quickly. "I've been thinking of it. Times are dull on the farm, and now that fall is coming on, there won't be work enough for us boys. Dad, can't Will and I go gold mining?" "Gold mining?" "Yes. With Mr. Harrison. Will you take us?" and the youth turned to Gabe. "Take you? Why, of course I will, and welcome. That's a fine idea, Mr. Crosby. The two boys and I will go prospecting for gold, and when we find a good claim we'll send for you. Let 'em go. It'll pay better than farming, take my word for it. We can start in a couple of days." "Hurrah for the gold mines of Dizzy Gulch!" exclaimed Jed, grabbing Will by the hand, and jumping around the room. "That's the stuff! Let the crops fail, we'll dig a new one--a yellow one of gold nuggets!" CHAPTER VII OFF FOR THE WEST Never before, save, perhaps, when the lightning struck, had there been such excitement in the Crosby home. The farmer and his wife stared in amazement at the sight of their two sons doing a good imitation of a Highland fling, for Will had caught Jed's enthusiasm, and the two boys were singing and leaping about, "as if they were circus performers," as their mother said afterward. "Come on, Nettie, have a waltz!" exclaimed Jed. "We'll send you back enough gold for a pair of earrings and a bracelet!" "Jed! Jed!" exclaimed his mother. "Do behave yourself. You're not going to let them undertake that crazy plan, are you?" she asked of her husband. Mr. Crosby did not answer. He, too, was thinking of the golden West, and his poor farm that hardly supported him. "Of course we can go. Can't we, dad?" asked Jed. "Why, it will be the best thing that ever happened!" "It will--if we get the gold," added his brother, more soberly, for his first enthusiasm had begun to cool. "Find the gold? Of course we'll find the gold. Won't we, Mr. Harrison?" "Well, I always have been pretty lucky," replied the miner. "I always got gold when I went after it, but I didn't always keep it. If I had the money the gambler swindled me out of I'd be in good shape now." "Maybe that gambler your friend wrote about is the same one who swindled you," suggested Jed. "No. I guess Con Morton knows enough to keep away from Ted Jordan. He's looking for him, too. But I'll come across Con some day, and then I'll wager I'll make him shell out what he stole from me. But, Mr. Crosby, seriously speaking, why can't these two boys go with me? It will do them good. As Jed says, you won't need them on the farm now, and they may strike it rich. Stranger things have happened." "I don't know that I would object to having them go, in your company," said the farmer, "for I know they are good boys, and can take care of themselves. But I'm afraid I couldn't spare the money for railroad fares, and for the outfits." "Don't let that worry you," advised Gabe. "But it does worry me. You can't do anything in this world without money." "It doesn't take much to get an outfit for a gold prospector," replied the miner. "For that matter I'll undertake to see that they get what they need. I have friends enough out there to make that part easy." "But the railroad fares?" "We won't need any railroad fares." "How are you going to get out to that place with the queer name, then?" asked Mrs. Crosby. "Dizzy Gulch, you mean? That is a queer name, but it's a good one. It makes you dizzy when you stand on the edge and look down. But we'll get there all right. It's not more than eight hundred miles from here." "You can't walk that far," objected Nettie. "I know that," replied the miner. "We could, but we don't want to. We'll go on horseback." "Horseback?" repeated Jed. "Yes. I've got money enough to purchase a good nag, and I guess your father would be willing for you boys to take the animals here. He'll not need them much longer. How about it, Mr. Crosby?" The farmer looked thoughtful. "You seem to get over most of the difficulties," he remarked. "Then we can go, can't we, dad?" exclaimed Jed. "I don't know. I must consider it further. I suppose you could take the horses. They'll only be eating their heads off in the barn, after the crops are in." "That's the way I figured it," resumed Gabe. "Now I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll write to Ted and ask him to send me word where is the best place to strike for. Then I'll get my outfit together, such as there's left of it, look around for a horse that can travel a long distance, and we'll set out for the gold regions." "That's the way to talk!" cried Jed. "We'll all be millionaires soon!" "Now hold on!" remonstrated Gabe. "Don't get the idea that you can go out there and pick up gold off the ground. There are some places, I admit, where the nuggets are close to the surface, but they're few and far between. If we get any gold we'll probably have to dig for it, and digging for the yellow boys is as hard as cultivating corn or hoeing potatoes. I know, for I've tried both. But, at the same time, I don't see why we haven't as good a chance as lots of others. We'll try, anyhow--that is, if your father gives his consent." "I suppose I might as well," said Mr. Crosby slowly. "You three seem to have it all planned out, anyhow. But I can't spare the horses for a week or two." "That will be time enough," replied the miner. "I want to hear from Ted again." And there the conversation, for the time being, came to an end. "It hardly seems possible; does it, Will?" asked Jed, when they were going to bed that night. "To think that we're going to become real gold miners!" "Maybe we won't get any gold after all our trouble," suggested his less hopeful brother. "Oh, cheer up!" advised Jed. "Wait until Gabe gets to grubbing around with that lucky pick of his, and the nuggets will just roll out, they'll be so glad we've come." Will laughed. There was no withstanding the jolly good nature of his elder brother. Enthusiasm for the proposed gold hunt had not waned the next day. Mr. Crosby had talked the matter over with his wife and, though she was naturally timid and nervous, she made no objections to letting the boys go. Mr. Harrison seemed quite confident that in the new diggings there was a good chance of making a moderate fortune. "Then you can pay off the mortgage on the farm," said Mrs. Crosby to her husband. "If the boys get money enough for that out of their gold mining, I think I'll give up farming, and become a prospector myself," said Mr. Crosby, with a smile. Fortunately for the plan, the barley crop turned out better than any one expected, and the price was very high. Mr. Crosby received enough money to insure them against hardships that winter, and even enough to buy another horse, as he might need one if the boys took the two. He secured an animal at a low price. It was not as good as the two he had, but Jed and Will would have to have steeds that could stand a certain amount of hard life, if they were to go to the gold regions. In the meanwhile Mr. Harrison had another letter from Ted Jordan, and this confirmed the first rumors of rich strikes. There was quite a rush of miners and others to the new fields, Jordan wrote, and he advised Gabe and the boys to hurry. So, one morning, with their simple outfits on the saddles back of them, the boys and Gabe Harrison mounted their horses, and started off for the golden West. "Don't you boys go to gambling," cautioned Mrs. Crosby, as she waved a farewell to her sons. "Now, mother, you know they won't do that," said Nettie. "I know it--but--but I--I just had to say something," replied her mother, as she tried to hide the tears that would persist in coming into her eyes. "Look out for a bagful of gold nuggets!" called back Jed. "I'll send them by the first mail." "All right," answered his father with a laugh. "Good luck, boys, and write when you get a chance." "Good-by!" they chorused, and Gabe Harrison waved his broad-brimmed hat at the little group standing in front of the farmhouse. Soon they were out of sight down the road. "It's--it's lonesome--without the boys," said Mrs. Crosby softly, as she went in the house and closed the door. CHAPTER VIII THE BUCKING BRONCO "How long do you think it will take us to get to the gold fields?" asked Jed, of the old miner, as they jogged forward. "It's hard to say," was the answer. "You mustn't be in too much of a hurry. It's a good rule, in this business, to make haste slowly. You can't make a fortune gold-hunting in one day, and you've got to save your own strength, and that of your horse. A horse is a man's best friend in this country." The route to the West had been carefully laid out by Mr. Harrison, who knew the land well. He had selected a line of march that, while it was not the shortest, would bring them to the Montana gold fields in good shape to start in at once with their prospecting. For a week the travelers made fair time, stopping at night in various small towns, where living would be cheaper than in large cities, for their capital was limited. Nothing of note occurred, the weather was good, and Jed and Will began to think that gold hunting, or at least the preliminary part of it, was very much easier than farming. "Say, I'd hate to go back now, cultivating corn in that hot field, wouldn't you?" Jed asked his brother one afternoon, as they were jogging slowly along. "I certainly would, but I wouldn't mind now, if I had a drink of nice, cold switchel." "Me either. You don't see any signs of a spring along the road anywhere, do you, Mr. Harrison?" "No, and I wish I did, for the horses are pretty thirsty. But we ought to strike one soon." "With all that, this is easier than farming," went on Jed. "Don't be too sure of that," cautioned the old miner. "You haven't half begun yet." And it was not long after this that Jed changed his mind about thinking it was easy to hunt for gold. "That looks like a place where there was a spring," said Will, a little later, as they advanced around a turn in the road, and saw several horses, with men standing beside them, halted in the shade of a big tree. "Guess you're right," admitted Gabe, "We're in luck." It was a wayside spring, and the thirsty horses, scenting the water, hastened their pace. The gold-seekers found five men gathered around the drinking trough, into which the spring emptied through a wooden pipe. Four of the men were middle-aged, and one was quite young. They were all smoking, the older men using pipes, while the younger was rolling a cigarette with one hand, an operation at which he seemed quite adept. "Howdy, strangers," greeted Mr. Harrison genially, as he alighted from his horse. "How's the water?" "Nice and sweet," replied one of the men. "Come far?" "We've done forty miles to-day." "That's pretty good. Going far?" "Montana." "Montana?" exclaimed another man. "Why, that's where me and my pardner are bound. Going to the new fields?" Mr. Harrison nodded. There was no object in concealing their destination, for they would soon be in the midst of the rush that always takes place when new gold fields are discovered. "My name's Fred Hurd," went on the man who had last spoken. "This is my partner, John Curtin. We were in Nevada, but we went East to spend some of our money, and managed to get rid of most of it. Now we're going to new fields." "My name's Gabe Harrison," said the old miner, and he introduced the two boys, in the hearty and easy fashion that prevails in the West. The other three men also told their names. They were Ade Bryant, the young man who smoked cigarettes, and Tim Walsh and Bill Case. "Are you miners, too?" asked Jed, of the latter three. "Nope," replied Ade Bryant, with a pleasant smile. "We just got rid of a bunch of steers, and we're going back to our ranch in Montana. My father owns it. It's the Diamond T Ranch," he went on, giving the name of the brand marked on all the cattle from that ranch. "Probably you've heard of it?" The boys shook their heads. They had not heard much of outside matters in the quiet country village where they had lived nearly all their lives. "Is your father Colonel Jack Bryant?" asked Gabe suddenly. "That's him," replied the young man eagerly. "Do you know him?" "No, but I've heard lots about him. There ain't a finer cattleman in these parts than Colonel Jack Bryant, and I'm glad to meet his son. Put her there, my boy!" and the old miner extended his hand to greet the young man. When the horses had been watered and rested, the five men found that they were traveling in the same direction as was Gabe and the boys. "Well, we'll keep company, if it's agreeable to you," proposed Mr. Hurd. "We've got plenty of grub, and we can camp together to-night." "That suits me right down to the ground," replied Harrison, and the boys were also pleased to have company. As the five men remounted, to continue their journey, Will noticed that Bill Case, the oldest of the cattlemen, was leading a small horse, tied by a long rope to the saddle horn of his own pony. "Do you take turns riding those horses?" asked Will, for he was fond of animals, and a very good rider. "No," replied Mr. Case, with a wink at his companions, which Will did not see, "that horse is a new one I bought. He's one of the fastest in this section, but the trouble is no one can ride him." "Why not?" asked Will. "Because he's got such a temper. Not exactly bad, you understand, but as soon as any one gets on his back, he doesn't do as a decent horse should, and carry his rider along the right way." "I believe I could ride him," went on Will, who liked the looks of the steed. "Are you much of a rider?" asked the man, and again he winked at his companions. "Pretty fair," replied Will, who did not like to boast. The truth was, he was the best rider around Lockport, but he did not know what was in store for him from the innocent-looking animal that trailed along so meekly at the saddle horn of Bill Case. "You can try this one, if you like," went on the cattleman. "I've no objection. In fact I'd like to see some one ride him. Maybe he'd be more valuable then. He needs training, but I can't seem to do anything with him." The truth of the matter was that the horse was one of the very worst types of "bucking broncos." That is, whenever a person got on his back he would jump up into the air, and come down on four feet stiffly, almost jarring the rider out of the saddle. In fact he usually did jar him off, or, if he could not get rid of the man on his back in that way, he had other tricks as bad as bucking. Bill Case had bought the horse at the town where he had been with his employer's cattle, and he was taking the animal back to the ranch, mainly to use in cowboy sports, for a bucking bronco is not much use as a riding steed. Bill had tried, unsuccessfully, to ride the steed, that was all right, and gentle, as long as no one tried to get on its back. By this time Mr. Harrison and Jed were some distance ahead. They were interested in talking about gold strikes to the two miners, and had, with Hurd and Curtin, unconsciously drawn away from Will, and the three cattlemen. "Will you let me try him?" asked the boy, as he looked at the horse. He knew nothing of bucking broncos, though he had read about them. Still, there was no way of telling one by merely looking at it. "Sure thing," replied Mr. Case. "Here's a nice level stretch. You can try him here," and he stopped, and unfastened the long rope. At the same time he whispered to his companions: "Watch the fun now." Will, all unaware of what was in store for him, dismounted from his own patient, plodding horse, and approached the bronco. "Jump right on his back," advised Bill Case. "You don't need a saddle." He knew that the moment a saddle touched the animal's back it would begin to buck, and that would give the "joke" away. Will took hold of the animal's bridle, and patted the horse on the muzzle. Then, with a quick motion, he leaped on the bronco's back. So suddenly was it done that the animal hardly knew what to make of it. On other occasions there had been a great fight to get a saddle on him, and this prepared him for what was to follow. But this was a new one on him. Still, he made up his mind, did that bronco, that he was not going to submit to the indignity of having a person on his back. He stood still a moment. "Well done!" cried Bill. Then he added, in a lower tone: "Watch the fun now, boys!" "Get up!" exclaimed Will, striking the bronco lightly on the flank. Instantly something happened. Gathering himself together, as if he had wire springs in his legs, the bronco shot up into the air. Will was taken completely by surprise, but he managed to stay on. Then the horse came down stiffly, jarring the boy so that he thought he would shake to pieces. But he did not fall off. Instinctively, he gripped his legs around the horse, and drew the reins tighter. The bronco was surprised. Usually one "buck" was enough to unseat any rider. He would try a new plan. Suddenly he started off at a fast gallop. By this time Will knew he was in for it, but he was not going to give up. Gathering headway for another leap into the air, the animal rushed on toward where Mr. Harrison, Jed and the two miners were. Then, coming to a sudden stop, the animal launched himself upward. This time, when he came down stiffly, with his head between his fore legs, Will lost his grip. He was jarred off, and fell to the ground, his head striking heavily, and rendering him unconscious. CHAPTER IX AFTER BIG GAME Attracted by the noise of Will's fall, and the sound of the bucking bronco, Mr. Harrison turned quickly. He leaped from his horse and hurried to where the lad was stretched out near the bronco. The steed, now that it had gotten rid of the person on his back, was quiet. "What happened? What's the matter, Will?" asked Gabe. "That bronco threw him," explained Mr. Hurd. "I just caught a glimpse of it. A nasty fall, too. Is he badly hurt?" "There don't seem to be any bones broken," replied Mr. Harrison, as he began feeling of Will's arms and legs. "Oh, Will! Are you killed?" cried Jed, jumping from the saddle and kneeling beside his brother. At that moment the boy on the ground opened his eyes. "Did I--did I stay on?" he asked, as he put his hand to his head. "Not very long," replied Mr. Hurd. "How do you feel?" "Somewhat dizzy. I guess I'm not hurt much." "How did it happen?" asked Jed. "Where's your horse? How did you come to get on this one?" "They said I couldn't ride him," explained Will, nodding in the direction of the cattlemen, who were slowly approaching. "I thought so," murmured John Curtin. "It was a trick of that big cowboy. He knew this was a bucking bronco, yet he let this lad mount it, knowing the beast would throw him off." "So, that's the kind of men they are, eh?" spoke Gabe Harrison. "Then I guess the less we have to do with them the better. Jed, you look after Will a bit. Get him some water. There's a spring just ahead." "Where are you going?" asked Mr. Hurd of the old miner, as he saw him turn back on the trail, and walk toward the cattlemen. "I'm going to have a talk with that big cowboy," replied Gabe. Bill Case and his chum, Tim Walsh, were laughing heartily as Gabe approached. "It's a good joke, isn't it?" asked Gabe sternly. "I suppose you think you did a smart thing, Bill Case, when you got that tenderfoot to ride that bucking bronco." "He sure is a tenderfoot," replied the cowboy, who did not exactly catch Gabe's sarcasm. "He wanted to ride," put in Tim Walsh. "Well, if a baby wanted to play with a loaded gun, would you let him?" asked Gabe scornfully. "How was I to know he didn't know the difference between a bucking bronco and a cow pony?" asked Bill Case. "You knew well enough," declared Gabe. "I think it was a mean, cowardly act, and the sooner we part company, the better I'll like it. There's the trail. We'll wait until you get far enough ahead on it so we can't see your dust. I have no use for such fellows as you." "Hold on there!" exclaimed Bill Case, an ugly look coming over his face. "Maybe you don't know who you're talking to." "I know I'm talking to a coward who'll take advantage of a tenderfoot's ignorance to let him ride a dangerous horse," replied Gabe. "Say, old man," began the cowboy, preparing to dismount from his horse, "me and you is going to have trouble, right now, unless you take back them words. Bill Case is a hard case when it comes to that, and I ain't used to such talk from nobody." "Well, you'll listen to it from me," retorted the fearless miner. "I say you're a coward, and I'm not afraid of you." In an instant the cowboy was off his steed and was striding toward the old man, who, nothing daunted, awaited his approach. Tim Walsh moved up closer, as if he, too, would take a hand in the affair. Gabe looked back to where the two miners and Jed were taking care of Will. Mr. Hurd and Mr. Curtin were aware that something unusual was taking place, and they made ready to go to the aid of Gabe. There was an ugly air about Bill Case, and he had the appearance of a man who would resort to desperate measures in a fight, such as now seemed imminent. Gabe was unarmed, having left his revolver and rifle in his saddle pack, but the cowboy wore in a belt two large revolvers. He made no motion to draw one, however, but, with clenched fists, strode closer to Gabe. "Are you going to take back what you said about me?" he asked. "No, I'm not," replied the old miner. "I'm not afraid of you, even if you are a hard case." Bill raised his hand, as if to strike Gabe, but, at that instant, Ade Bryant, for whose father the two cattlemen worked, exclaimed: "Don't, Bill. I'm sure dad wouldn't like it. Besides, you were in the wrong to let that boy ride that bronco, without telling him he bucked. Don't get into a fight." "Well, of all things!" murmured Bill. "Am I going to stand still and be called a coward? I guess not!" "Don't you hit him!" cried Ade. "It was your own fault, for trying to play a joke on a tenderfoot. I'm sorry it happened," the young cowboy went on to Gabe. "I shouldn't have allowed it. But I didn't think it would result so seriously. Is he much hurt?" "No, just shaken up, I guess. But I'm glad you didn't really have a hand in this. I should hate to think Colonel Bryant's son would do such a thing." "It was thoughtlessness," went on young Bryant. "I don't suppose you'll care to travel with us after this. We'll take the lower trail. Bill, go and get the bronco, and here's Will's horse," he added to Gabe Harrison. "Tell him I'm sorry it happened, and don't let him think we intended to injure him." "I'm glad to hear you say so," responded Gabe. "I didn't think you looked like that kind of a lad. You're right; I guess there wouldn't be the best feelings if we traveled together." He turned back to meet the two miners, to whom he explained matters, and then the three men returned to where Jed was caring for Will. The latter was speedily recovering. "Was he going to show fight?" asked Mr. Hurd. "He was, but he couldn't scare me," answered Gabe, as he explained the outcome of the interview. One of the miners led the bronco back to the cattlemen, receiving Will's horse in exchange, and then the three from the Diamond T Ranch turned off on another trail, and were soon lost to sight. "Cowboys are all right," said Mr. Harrison, "but they're too much up to tricks to suit me. Hereafter, we'll be more careful who we travel with. How are you feeling, Will?" "Pretty fair, now, Mr. Harrison, but that was certainly a shock to my system." "Yes, a bucking bronco is about as bad a proposition as anything I want to tackle. I got fooled with one once, and later on I got kicked by a mule. I still prefer the mule." "Suppose we stop here for grub?" proposed John Curtin. "That will give Will a chance to rest." "Oh, I'm all right," protested the boy, who did not want to put others to trouble on his account. "You're all right, except for what happened to you," remarked Jed, with just the suspicion of a smile. He had been quite alarmed at his brother's fall, but he was now relieved, when he found there was nothing serious the matter with him. "Well, we'll stop here a few hours," decided Gabe. "Jed, if you'll make a fire, I'll get ready to fry some bacon." "Say, I've eaten so much bacon lately," remarked Jed, "that I'm ashamed to look a pig in the face." "Some fresh meat wouldn't go bad," added Fred Hurd. "Well, maybe we can get some soon," said his partner. "We'll soon be in the elk country, and I don't see why we can't knock over a good fat buck." "Do you think we'll have a chance to shoot such big game?" asked Jed, who had never hunted anything larger than foxes or rabbits. "I'm pretty sure we will. I have hunted around here." This was good news to the two boys. Mr. Harrison was not so much interested, as he was anxious to push on to the mines, but he well knew the camp larder could stand a little addition in the way of fresh meat, and he agreed to go hunting with the others. It was two days after this, when, having traveled several miles further along the northwest trail, that Mr. Curtin announced that they might now get their rifles ready for elk, or any other big game that crossed their path. The two boys had brought with them serviceable rifles, and they were fair shots. As they knew nothing of trailing after big game they had to be guided by the advice of the two mining partners. It was decided, when they reached a good spot, they would establish a camp, and remain there a day or so, meanwhile hunting in the surrounding country. Gabe announced that he would stay in camp, and that afternoon, having found a suitable spot, a lean-to was erected, a fire built, and preparations made to stay there that night. "In the morning we'll try our luck hunting," said Mr. Hurd. Every one was up early, before the sun in fact, and all ate heartily of the breakfast which Gabe had prepared. The two boys, and the miners, leaving Mr. Harrison in camp, then set off in search of an elk or a deer, of which there were signs, according to Mr. Curtin. CHAPTER X IN THE RAPIDS They left their horses in camp, in charge of Gabe, since the hunting ground was in a wild region, stretches of woodland being interspersed with rocky tracks, over which a steed would find it dangerous to travel. "Now, don't make any more noise than you can help," cautioned Mr. Curtin. "No use telling the elk we're coming. Have you your guns loaded?" "Yes," replied Jed. "I'm afraid mine's a pretty light rifle, though, to stop an elk." "A small bullet, in the right place, is just as good as a large one," replied Mr. Hurd. "Now, don't talk any more than is necessary." They proceeded with caution for two or three miles, but their most careful observation failed to disclose any elk, or smaller deer. The two boys were beginning to feel a bit disappointed, as they had set their hearts on at least getting a shot at big game. Another mile brought no results, though Mr. Hurd said the signs of elk were growing better. "There's been a herd here in the last few days," he said. "A big one, too, by the looks of things." "I guess they got word we were coming," remarked his partner. "They know we have two mighty hunters with us," and he glanced at the lads. "I can only speak for myself," replied Jed, in low tones, which they all used. "I'm a crack shot, but my brother has hard work hitting the broadside of a barn door." "I'll punch you for that, when we get back to camp!" exclaimed Will in a tense whisper. "Hark!" suddenly exclaimed Mr. Curtin. They were silent in an instant. Then, through the quiet woods, came a sound of underbrush being trampled under feet. "Here's something coming," whispered Mr. Hurd. He raised his rifle in readiness, the others following his example. Hardly had they done so, ere, from the bushes, there stepped out a magnificent elk. It looked so big and imposing, as it stood there in the forest, that Jed and Will forgot that they were hunting and stood staring at the creature, that was so surprised at the sudden appearance of human beings on its preserves that it did not instantly flee from danger. An instant later Mr. Hurd fired, and, at the same moment, the elk bounded off through the trees. "Shoot, somebody!" cried the man who had fired. His companion's gun spoke, but too late. "After him!" shouted Mr. Hurd. "I only wounded him. We've got to come up with him quickly, or he'll be miles away. But I think I crippled him. I don't want him to go off in the woods and die in misery." Jed and Will were off on a run, their nimble legs carrying them ahead faster than did the limbs of the two miners. "I see him!" cried Jed, as he caught a glimpse of the big creature through the trees. The elk had stopped to lick a wound on the left fore quarter, where the bullet had gone in and from which blood was flowing. The elk heard the boys coming. Up went its head, and once more it was off like a shot. Just as it gathered itself for a leap, Jed fired. He heard the thud of the bullet, and knew he had sent it into a vital spot. "Did you get him?" cried Will. "I think so! Come on!" Forward rushed the two brothers. They emerged into a little clearing, and, at the farther side of it, was a sight that caused Jed's heart to throb. On the ground, kicking its last, was the big elk. His bullet had quickly put it out of its misery. "Hurrah! You did it!" yelled Will. "I told you I was a good shot," said Jed. "But if Mr. Hurd hadn't wounded it, I doubt very much if I could have killed it." "Any luck, boys?" asked Mr. Curtin, as he and his partner emerged from the woods into the little clearing. "I should say so!" he exclaimed a moment later, as he saw the big elk on the ground. "Who did it?" "Jed did," answered Will, proud of his brother's success. "I'll get the next one, though." "I don't believe we'd better hunt any more," spoke Mr. Hurd. "We have more meat now than we can eat, and it would only be wasteful to kill more game. We're not on a hunting excursion. You shall have a chance later, Will." "All right," was the answer, though the boy could not help feeling a little disappointed at not having an opportunity to kill some big game. But he saw the force of the miner's reasoning. "We'll take the best part of this back to camp," said Mr. Hurd. "I'll cut it up, as I understand such things." "Can I have the horns?" asked Jed. "Of course, but you'll have a hard job carting them out to the mines with you. I'd leave 'em here. You can get a pair on your way back East." Jed decided this was good advice, though the antlers were a fine pair, and he hated to leave them. Laden with choice pieces of the elk meat, the four hunters returned to camp, where they found Gabe peacefully smoking his pipe. In a little while they were sitting down to a meal of elk steaks, while recounting the adventures of the day. It was so pleasant in camp, that, as the horses were a trifle tired with the journey so far, especially those from the farm, for they were not used to going so steadily, it was decided to remain there a few days. In that time Jed and Will went out hunting again, and this time luck was with the younger brother, for he bowled over a fine buck deer. "Well," remarked Gabe one morning, when they had finished breakfast, "I don't know how you folks feel about it, but I seem to want to be getting on toward the gold mines. I'm afraid Ted Jordan and his crowd will get all the nuggets." "Yes, I guess we've had an easy time long enough," admitted Mr. Hurd. "We'll travel on a bit further with you, if you don't mind, Mr. Harrison. I don't just know where me and my partner will begin to prospect yet. Maybe we'll go to Dizzy Gulch." "Come along," invited Gabe heartily. "I reckon there's room for all, and I'm sure me and the boys are glad of your company." "That's what we are," said Jed, and Will agreed with him. So, having struck camp, they placed their packs on their horses, and, having smoked some of the elk and deer meat for future use, they set off. They were now getting into the mountain region, and it was not as easy traveling as it had been. The way became rougher and wilder, and the horses, especially those of Jed, Will and Mr. Harrison, felt the pace very much. "Guess you don't find this much easier than cultivating corn, do you?" asked the old miner one day, after a particularly hard bit of travel up a mountain side, and an equally difficult passage down the corresponding slope. "It isn't as easy as I thought it was," admitted Jed. "Still, it's more exciting. Farming is pretty dull." "Oh, you haven't begun to see excitement yet," put in Mr. Hurd. "Wait until you get to the new diggings, where the miners and gamblers are congregated." "Speaking of gamblers reminds me that I wish I could set eyes on Con Morton," said Mr. Harrison. "The more I get to thinking of how he swindled me out of the biggest part of my fortune, the angrier I am." "Do you think you'll ever see him again?" asked Jed. "I certainly hope so. I shouldn't be surprised if he was out at the new diggings. He generally hustles to where the miners have plenty of money for him to swindle them out of. Once I get sight of him----" Mr. Harrison did not finish, but the look on his face showed it would not be good for Con Morton if the old miner met him. When the travelers got down into the valley, after climbing one chain of mountains, they found their further progress barred by a swift stream. "Shall we ford it, or travel toward the head, where it isn't so wide?" asked Mr. Hurd. "I'm in favor of crossing here," returned Gabe. "We've lost considerable time as it is, and I don't fancy going fifty or a hundred miles out of my way because of a brook." "This is a pretty good-sized brook," said Mr. Curtin. "It looks dangerous. Suppose we wait until morning?" It was then getting dusk, and they were anxious to make camp. "Never stop on the near side of a stream, when night is coming on, is my motto," went on Gabe. "Can't tell but there'll be a big rain in the night, and the stream will be so risen that it will delay us a week. No, let's cross now, and camp on the other side. If it's too deep for wading, the horses can swim it." They prepared to follow his advice. Their camp outfits were tightly tied in water-proof bags, and securely fastened to the saddles of the steeds. When this had been done it was quite dark, but they thought the crossing of the stream would not take long, so they urged the rather unwilling beasts into the water. The horses proceeded cautiously, stepping slowly. Suddenly the animal on which rode the old miner got beyond its depth, and the next instant was swimming. "No ford here," cried Gabe. "Look out for yourselves, everybody! Don't lean too far forward so's the horses' heads will go under. Hold your guns over your heads." By this time the five horses were swimming for the other side of the stream, with the travelers on their backs. As they advanced the current became swifter and stronger. What had seemed like an ordinary mountain river was a dangerous one. For some reason Jed's horse seemed to be headed more down stream than did any of its companions. Gabe noticed this and called: "Head him up this way, Jed. It sounds like rapids below there, and maybe there's a waterfall." Jed tried to, but it is no easy matter to guide a horse in the water, especially when the animal is frightened. In vain did the lad tug at the reins. The horse was now swimming right down the middle of the river. An instant later, as the stream made a bend, Jed could look ahead through the fast-gathering darkness. The river was a mass of white foam. "The rapids!" he cried. "I'm in the rapids!" Almost as he spoke his horse was stumbling over stones and boulders in the shallow part of the stream, where the waters lashed themselves into foam as they rushed over the rocky bed. CHAPTER XI CAUGHT IN A STORM Gabe heard the boy's cry. He realized what it meant to be caught in such a place in a dangerous stream. "Head on to the other side!" he shouted to his companions. "Here, Will, take my gun! I'm going to help Jed!" Then, having handed over his weapon, the brave old miner turned his horse's head down stream. By this time Jed and his animal were in the midst of the swirling waters. The horse was stumbling and slipping, several times almost losing its footing, but recovering it after a desperate struggle. It was growing darker, and Jed feared his animal would slip into some deep pool where both would be drowned. "I'm coming, Jed! I'm coming!" cried Gabe. "Stick it out as long as you can." His horse was now on the edge of the rapids. The steed snorted with terror, fearful of venturing into the mass of foam and waves. Just ahead of him Gabe could see the boy, who was striving to guide his horse toward the bank for which they had started. Then, with a snort, as if making the best of a bad bargain, Gabe's horse ceased swimming and began to struggle, as had Jed's animal, to retain its footing on the uncertain bed of the stream. The current was so swift that both animals were carried along without much effort on their part. Vainly they tried to brace back, and, under the urging of their riders, to work over toward the farther shore. Just as Gabe reached Jed's side, the latter's horse stepped on a round stone, floundered about in a desperate endeavor to keep its footing, and then, with a whinny of terror, it went down, carrying the boy with it. "Jump off!" yelled Gabe. "Don't get tangled in the stirrups or bridle!" It is doubtful if Jed heard him, so great was the noise of the rushing water, but, instinctively, the boy followed this advice. As soon as he felt the horse falling, he kicked his feet free from the stirrups, and, throwing one leg over the saddle, leaped off, holding his precious rifle high above his head. The horse, with the pack on the saddle, was swept on down the river. "Grab my horse's tail, or get hold of the stirrup!" yelled Gabe. "I'm going to try and turn him toward shore!" The advice came just in time. Jed, who was slipping and stumbling along, with the water up to his shoulders, managed to grasp the left stirrup leather. "Give me your gun!" called the miner, and the boy held it up. [Illustration: "Give me your gun!" called the miner] Then, fortunately, Gabe's horse managed to get a footing on a comparatively smooth place, where the river was not so deep. The miner held the steed there a moment, to give Jed a chance to get a better hold. "I'm going to head him toward the shore," the old miner said, after a moment's pause. "Hold on tight now. It may be deeper as we go to the side." It was, and Jed found himself swept off his feet in an instant. However, Gabe's horse was a strong swimmer, and managed to make some headway, diagonally against the current. It was a hard struggle against the powerful stream, but at length the steed managed to get beyond the pull of the rapids, and into a shallow place close to shore. "I can stand up, now," said Jed, as he let his feet down, and touched bottom. "I'm all right. Go ahead!" An instant later Gabe's horse scrambled up the bank, and the boy followed. "I guess my horse is gone!" he cried. The loss was a serious one to him, for all his possessions were on the saddle, in the pack. "Maybe he'll go ashore lower down," said Gabe. "We'll have to look. Hello!" he shouted, wishing to attract the attention of the others. Back came a yell. "That's Will's voice," declared Jed. "They're coming down this way." So it proved, and a little while later the two miners, and Will, having safely crossed the stream, joined Gabe and Jed. They were all more or less wet, but none had had the misfortune that attended Jed. "We'll have a look for your horse," said the old miner to Jed. "Will, suppose you build a fire, and Mr. Curtin and Mr. Hurd will help make camp. Jed and I will see if we can't find that contrary nag. If he'd been content to swim straight across, instead of wanting to shoot the rapids, we'd have been all right." "Suppose he's on the other side of the river?" suggested Will. "Hold on!" exclaimed Jed with a laugh. "Don't go to suggesting such things now, Will. I've had trouble enough." In the darkness Jed and the miner set off down the stream. It broadened out as it flowed on, the banks stretching away into level plains. "There's something moving, straight ahead!" exclaimed the boy, pointing to where a darker blotch of blackness was visible in the night. "Yes, and it's a horse grazing. I hope it's yours," spoke Gabe. "I can't see any pack on its back," went on Jed, as they came nearer. "Must be a horse from some camp then." They came nearer. The horse ceased grazing and looked at them curiously. "Hey, Pete!" called Jed, for he had been riding the old cultivator horse that once ran away. At the sound of his voice the animal whinnied. "That's Pete, but where's the pack?" inquired Jed. "I hope it didn't get lost in the river." "No, it's there, but it's slipped around on his side," replied Gabe, as he came closer and saw what had happened. The saddle girths had slipped, and the pack, though soaking wet, was intact. Pete allowed himself to be caught without difficulty. Probably he had had enough of adventures for one night. He was led back to the camp, where a big fire was burning. Here the gold hunters dried themselves, and were soon partaking of a bountiful meal. "This beats farming all to pieces!" declared Jed, with his mouth half full of some broiled elk meat. "Even getting into the rapids?" asked his brother. "Sure. After the first scare was over, it was like being back in the old swimming hole at our creek. The water was nice and warm." "Yes, it's quite hot to-night," observed Mr. Hurd. "I shouldn't be surprised if we got a thunder storm." "Then we'd better rig up some sort of a shelter," advised Gabe. This was done, a lean-to being built with branches, and their rubber blankets spread on top, and well fastened down. Jed's pack had been opened out to dry, and when the horses had been safely tethered, and the camp made as snug as possible for the night, the travelers stretched out to sleep, tired out with the day's travel. It was hot, entirely too hot for that time of year, and it was almost stifling under the improvised shelter. Still, after vainly wishing it would cool off, Jed and Will, with their older companions, fell asleep. Jed had a vivid dream that night. He thought he was again in the rapids, and that his horse was pulling him into a deep hole of the stream. So vivid was it that he awoke with a start, to find himself in water, while something seemed wrapped about his neck, dragging him forward. "What's the matter?" he cried. "Fierce storm!" replied Gabe. "Our lean-to has blown away, and it's raining cats and dogs!" An instant later there came an intensely bright flash of lightning, and a peal of thunder that seemed to shake the ground. CHAPTER XII AT THE GOLD FIELDS Confusion reigned in the camp. The storm had come up with such suddenness that no one had been aware of it. Every one had been sleeping soundly, after a hard day, and the first intimation of the outburst of the elements was when the deluge of rain came, and the lean-to was blown over. "Somebody catch me!" cried Jed, who, wrapped up as he was, in several rubber blankets, was being blown along like a ship under sail. Will grabbed his brother, and helped to unwrap the coverings. While he was doing this the lightning seemed to be constant, and the roar of thunder was like the firing of heavy guns. "Whew! This is fierce!" cried Jed, when he got his breath. The horses were huddled together, trying to find some shelter from the pelting rain beneath the trees. "Fierce?" repeated old Gabe. "How about farming now? This rain beats the one when the cow was killed." "That's right!" exclaimed Will. "Can't we get under some shelter?" Hardly had he spoken when, with a terrific crash, lightning struck a tree not far away. The shock stunned the travelers for a few seconds. "We're safer in the open," said Mr. Hurd. "We'd better get out of this grove," and he moved out of the shelter of the clump of trees where the camp had been pitched. The rain then seemed to come down harder than ever. It wet them through, and the rubber blankets, which they grabbed up from the wreck of the lean-to, afforded small protection from the pelting downpour. "I guess you wish you were back in the snug farmhouse, don't you, boys?" called Mr. Harrison above the roar of the storm. "I do," replied Will, frankly. "Oh, I can stand it," answered Jed. "We may get worse than this." "That's right, my boy," added Mr. Curtin. "This is a bad storm, but there's lots of worse things in the gold fields where you're going. Bad men are worse than bad storms." "Right you are," murmured Gabe. "But if I'm not mistaken, this seems to be letting up a bit." The rain did not appear to be coming down quite so hard, and there were longer pauses between the flashes of lightning. But if the storm did cease in its violence, it did not stop altogether, for it rained all night, and, though the travelers did manage to make a rude sort of shelter of the blankets, they spent several miserable hours until morning. "Oh, for some hot coffee and crisp bacon!" exclaimed Will, as he crawled out from under his blanket, and surveyed the wet scene all about. "It wouldn't be so bad then." "Hot coffee! Crisp bacon!" exclaimed Gabe. "Say, young man, you ought to be glad the sun is shining. There'll be no hot coffee this morning. Wood's too wet to make a fire. Cold grub for ours, until noon, when we may strike a place where we can get some dry tinder. But the sun will soon make our clothes look less as if we'd paid a visit to the washwoman. Up, everybody, and straighten out camp!" No one cared to linger in the wet blankets, and though it was not a very cheerful company that gathered around to eat a cold breakfast, they all felt that matters might have been much worse. The packs were soon strapped on the horses, and, mounting their steeds, the travelers set off again. On every side were evidences of the storm. The river they had crossed was swollen to twice its former size, and they were glad that they had forded it the previous evening, instead of delaying, as they would have been held up several days waiting for the flood to subside. That noon they arrived at a settler's cabin, where they were made welcome, and glad enough they were of it, too, for they were doubtful about finding any dry wood to make a fire, and had the prospect of a cold dinner before them. The settler, who had a small sheep ranch, greeted them cordially, and set out before them the best that he had. However, hot coffee was the most desirable thing he could provide. From this man Gabe made some inquiries as to the best road to follow, for they were now approaching the gold fields, and they wanted to know the nearest trail to Dizzy Gulch. "It's not far now," said the old miner to his companions, after a talk with the sheep-herder. "Three days more ought to bring us there." "Then for the golden nuggets!" exclaimed Jed. "I hope we can send some back to dad soon." "Don't be too hopeful," cautioned Will, with his usual ability for looking on the dark side of things. "Yes, I'm going to be hopeful," responded Jed. "Half the fun of a thing is looking forward to it, and I'm going to imagine that I'm going to pick up plenty of the yellow boys. Then, if I'm disappointed, I've had the satisfaction of some good thinking, anyhow." "That's the right idea," declared Gabe. They remained that night at the sheep-herder's cabin, and in the morning pressed forward again. The weather was fine after the storm, and that night they camped amid the mountains, near a trail that showed it was well traveled. "Hark! What's that!" exclaimed Will, in the middle of the night, as he was awakened by hearing voices, and a noise of horses traveling over the rocky path, not far from where they had pitched their camp. "Sounds like a lot of men," observed Jed. "It is," replied Gabe, who had also been awakened by the talk of the boys. "They're miners, too," he added, after listening a moment. "They're on their way to new diggings. Boys, we're near our destination. This is where the main trail strikes in. The rush is on, and we're only just in time!" In the morning, when they started forward, they found they were only one party among a number. The rush was indeed on, and two days later the two boys and their companions were on the edge of the gold fields of Montana, and Dizzy Gulch, of which Ted Jordan had written, was less than a hundred miles away. CHAPTER XIII ON A NEW TRAIL Had the boys not been told by their companions, during their journey, of what they might expect in a new gold field, they would have been much surprised by the scenes which met their eyes on every side. They arrived at a small settlement that night. It rejoiced in the rather thrilling name of Bloody Canyon, but as one of the storekeepers there remarked, it was not half as bloody as it had been. "For you see, strangers," he said, pushing his big, broad-brimmed hat as far back on his head as it would go, "there was a powerful lot of shooting-up around these diggings for the past few weeks. Lots of 'em was killed, and the rest lit out for new strikes, so we old settlers has it sort of peaceful now." "How long have you been here?" asked Gabe. "Me? Oh, nigh on to a month. I'm one of the oldest settlers. My store was one of the first started, next to the bank," and he waved his hand toward a couple of rough board structures, that showed signs of having been hastily erected. "How about the strikes at Dizzy Gulch?" asked Mr. Hurd. "I don't take much stock in 'em myself," replied the "oldest settler," who gave his name as Tom Judson. "Bloody Canyon is good enough for me. I've got a couple of nice claims staked out, and I've struck pay dirt." At that moment there was the sound of several pistol shots. "What's that?" asked Jed, looking around. "Now take it easy! Take it easy, son," advised Mr. Judson. "That's probably only a gambler being rustled out of camp." "Gamblers? Are there gamblers here?" asked Gabe. "Gamblers? Well, I should swallow my grub-stake!" exclaimed the genial Mr. Judson, who seemed given to violent expressions. "We was overrun with 'em one spell. Shot two, hung one, and rid a dozen more out of camp on a rail, with a coat of tar and feathers. But they still pester us occasional like." "Did one named Con Morton show up around here?" asked the old miner. "Con Morton? No, I don't recollect any such high-sounding name as that. But you never can tell. They go by any name that suits their fancy, them gamblers." "I'd like to see that Morton," murmured Gabe. "Why for would you like to meet up with him?" asked Mr. Judson. "If you're looking for a straight gambling game I can show you one. I'm the United States marshal for these diggings, and I don't stand for no crooked work." "No, thank you, I had enough of gambling," replied Gabe. "That Morton fellow swindled me out of a fortune, and I'd like a chance to get it back." "Too bad, stranger," replied the marshal, "but I don't believe you have much show. Them gamblers is pretty tricky. There, I guess they must be shooting up another one," he added quickly, as more pistol shots were heard. The disturbance, whatever it was, did not last long, and though the two boys looked about anxiously, fearing the fight might turn in their direction, they saw nothing alarming, and the mining camp soon became quiet again. "Was you-all thinking of striking out for Dizzy Gulch?" asked Mr. Judson. "Myself and these two boys are," replied Gabe. "I can't say what my two companions are going to do," and he looked at the miners who had traveled with them for several days. "I think we'll strike further south," said Mr. Hurd. "I don't like the winters in Montana, and we'll soon be having cold weather. California suits me better. My partner and I will look for a place to stay. Maybe we'll see you in the morning, before you start out. If we don't, we're glad to have met you, and we've enjoyed your company very much." "We sure have," added Mr. Curtin. "Same here," added Gabe. "We'd like first-rate for you two to come with us, but if you feel the call the other way, don't let us stop you." Inquiring of the marshal where was the best place to stay over night, and being directed to what passed for a hotel in the little settlement, Gabe and the boys made their way there. Mr. Curtin and Mr. Hurd met some former associates, and went off with them, so the little party was separated. In spite of a few shooting affrays during the night, there was not much disturbance in Bloody Canyon. Mr. Judson had spoken truly when he said a large part of the population had left for other diggings, and midnight, which is usually the most exciting time in a mining settlement, was so quiet that the boys and Gabe were able to go to sleep. "Well, it feels good to sit down to a table again," remarked Jed the next morning, when they were having breakfast in the "hotel." "Make the most of it," said Gabe. "We'll soon be striking out on a new trail, and we'll have to camp out again." "Don't you think it would be better to have a tent?" proposed Will. "I certainly do, and I'm going to get one," replied Gabe. "I've got to get some other supplies, too--blasting powder, a new handle for my lucky pickaxe, and some grub. This is the cheapest place to get 'em, as prices will be high near good diggings." Most of that day was spent in getting the tent and other supplies. It was so late when they finished that Gabe decided they would stay another night in the hotel at Bloody Canyon, and push forward in the morning. That evening, as the three were strolling down the main and only street of the town, a couple of men, who came from a saloon, approached Gabe and the two boys. "Excuse us, strangers," said one. "But is it true you are going prospecting up at Dizzy Gulch?" "We calc'late on it," replied Gabe civilly, though the manner of the man was insolent. "Well, that's a pretty good joke!" exclaimed the other stranger, laughing heartily. "What is?" asked Gabe, for he was sensitive about being made fun of. "Going to Dizzy Gulch? Why, you're foolish to go there. It's petered out. There was only some outcroppings, and the boys that went there had their trouble for their pains." "I have reliable information that there have been some good strikes made at Dizzy Gulch," responded Gabe, while Jed and Will wondered what could be the object of the two men in ridiculing their plan. "Well, you're foolish, that's all I've got to say," went on the man who had first spoken. "Ha! ha! It's a good joke. You'll be asking some one to grub-stake you next! Eh, Jim?" "Sure thing! Dizzy Gulch didn't pan out!" "I guess I know my own business best," responded Gabe. "Oh, that's all right, stranger," responded one of the men quickly, for Gabe's manner was rather one of anger. "No offense, you understand, only I have to laugh when I see an old-timer making a spectacle of himself." "It'll be time enough for you to talk when I make a clean-up, and don't get a yellow showing," went on Gabe. "Come on, boys. They may think it's a joke, but I guess Ted Jordan knew what he was writing about." Leaving the two miners, who, with several companions, seemed to be quite amused at the idea of Gabe and the two lads going to Dizzy Gulch, the latter reached their boarding place. As they entered the barroom, which was the only way to get into the place, they saw it was well filled with men who were standing about, drinking. Several of them were talking loudly, and the conversation ran to topics connected with cards and mines. At the entrance of Gabe and the two lads, several of the men glanced at them. "Hi! Here's some strangers that haven't had a drink with me!" exclaimed a man, much the worse for liquor. "Step right up, strangers, and name your poison! Set 'em up, Bill. Give my unknown friends the best in the house." "Don't have anything to do with him," advised Gabe in a low voice. The man, however, walked up to Jed, and, placing his hand familiarly on the lad's shoulder said: "Come on up, youngster, and have a drink with old Ned Haverhill! I like your looks! Name your poison!" "Thank you," said Jed, quietly, "but I don't drink." There was a moment of silence. The boy's remark seemed to be a novelty in that place. "What's that?" cried Haverhill, as if he had not heard aright. "I don't drink, thank you," said Jed again. "Not drink! What! Not when Ned Haverhill asks you! Why, dynamite and copper-heads! You've got to drink! What! Why, what do you think of that?" and he turned to the men lined up in front of the bar. There were anxious faces in the saloon then, and several men quietly made their way to the door. For Ned Haverhill was known as one of the worst men of the West, and to annoy him, especially in his present condition, was no small matter. He looked at Jed with bloodshot eyes, but the lad quietly returned the stare. Old Gabe, with a worried look, drew nearer to the lad whom he considered under his protection. CHAPTER XIV THE MARSHAL INTERFERES "Excuse me," said the loud-spoken man, as he made Jed a mocking bow, "but perhaps you did not understand me. I asked for the honor of your company in partaking of a little of the liquid refreshment which they serve in this palatial hotel," and with his big hat he swept the floor. "Once more, stranger, a tenderfoot by your looks, what will you have?" The last words were sternly spoken, and there was a general movement, on the part of those nearest Haverhill, to get out of range of the gun which they momentarily expected him to draw. "I understood you perfectly," replied Jed, "but I can only repeat what I said. I don't drink." "Why--why!" spluttered Haverhill, for he considered himself insulted such was his peculiar code of "honor." "You've got to drink with me, or take the consequences!" He reached toward his revolver, which was in plain sight in his belt. But Jed never quailed. Will, with a white face, started forward to his brother's aid, but Gabe pulled him back. "That'll do!" exclaimed the old miner, as he took a step in advance, and stood beside Jed. "I'm with this lad, and what he says I'll back up." "Oh, you will, eh?" asked Haverhill, with a sneer. "And who are you?" "No tenderfoot, if that's what you mean. I was out in California in '49, when you were eating bread and milk, and you can't bluff me. Don't you draw that gun!" suddenly exclaimed the brave miner, as he saw Haverhill's hand stealing toward the revolver. "You dare give me orders!" exclaimed the other. "Why--why--dynamite and rattlesnakes--I'll--I'll eat you alive!" "You will, eh?" exclaimed Gabe, taking a step closer to the man. Every one expected to see some "gun-play," but, for some reason, the man who had invited Jed to drink seemed so astonished at Gabe's defiance that he did not know what to say. "Yes, and I'll--I'll----" spluttered the man, in his rage. "That'll do you now!" replied Gabe quietly. "If you know what's good for you, you'll get out of here." "I will? What for, I'd like to know?" "Because, Sam Small, _alias_ Ned Haverhill, _alias_ Short-card Ike, I know who you are, and if you don't leave at once I'll report you to the United States marshal. I know you well, but you fooled me at first. You were Con Morton's partner when he swindled me out of the best part of my fortune, and you can tell Con, when you see him, that I'm looking for him. Now clear out!" "Why--why--you dare order me----" began the gambler, as if he could not believe what he heard. "Yes, you'd better go, Ned," advised the bar-keeper in a low voice. Gabe's quiet manner, and the way he spoke, convinced the hotel keeper that the old miner had spoken the truth, and the saloon man did not want trouble with the authorities. "I'll not go!" cried the angry man. "I'll--I'll----" "Hold on there!" exclaimed a new voice, and every one turned to see Marshal Judson standing in the door. He was armed with a rifle, and, though he did not aim it at any one, the manner in which he looked at Haverhill, the cause of the disturbance, argued anything but peaceable intentions toward that individual. "Clear out of here," added the marshal, "and don't you show up in these diggings again. I heard what Mr. Harrison said about you, and I believe him. Get out!" and his blue eyes blazed in a convincing manner. "I--I was--was just goin' to," answered the man, who had been so bold a little while ago. "I'm going," and he sneaked out of the door, while several, who a few minutes before were afraid of him, laughed openly. "Tenderfoot, you're all right!" exclaimed a man, extending his hand to Jed. "There aren't many who would refuse to drink with Haverhill." Others also spoke of Jed's nervy stand, for, it was said, Haverhill was known to be a bad man in a quarrel, and dangerous when angered. Evidently, however, he feared the marshal. Matters were rather quiet about the hotel the rest of the night, for the marshal remained in that vicinity In the morning Gabe and the two boys, having completed their outfits, set off on their horses in the direction of Dizzy Gulch. Several old miners tried, with the best of intentions, to dissuade Gabe from going to those diggings, saying he would only meet with failure. "I don't care. I'm going," he said. "I'll trust Ted Jordan." They traveled all that day, and reached a small mining camp that evening. It appeared to be a prosperous one, for there were several saloons and dance halls in full operation, and, usually, this is the surest sign of such prosperity. When the miners are digging plenty of gold they are spending it, and every one in the place seemed to have a good-sized bag of yellow dust, or else several nuggets in his pockets. Though the boys had seen these evidences of the earth's richness at the town where they first stopped, they did not lose interest in watching the men pay for what they bought with gold dust or nuggets, instead of money. "That's what we'll be doing soon, eh, Will?" suggested Jed. "I hope so, but maybe we'll be fooled when we get to Dizzy Gulch. Every one seems to think there is no gold there." "Don't let that worry you," replied Jed. "We'll get gold, I'm sure. Old Gabe knows what he is about. Don't believe what those old miners say." "I hope you're right, but it doesn't seem so," added Will, with his usual habit of looking on the dark side of things. The travelers found that the hotel they stopped at was somewhat better patronized than the former one, though it had been hastily constructed. There was the same quality of customers, however--miners and gamblers. After supper Gabe left the two boys alone, as he wanted to go about and make some inquiries of an old friend of his, who was somewhere about the diggings. As Jed and Will were passing out of the hotel through the barroom, for there were no other egress, they were stopped by a flashily dressed man, who, with several others, was playing cards at a table in a corner. "Hello, sports!" he greeted the lads. "Take a hand in the game. We're short." "We don't gamble!" exclaimed Jed quickly. He was an outspoken lad, and never beat about the bush. "You don't gamble? I reckon you're afraid of losing a dollar or so," sneered the man. "No, but we don't believe in it," replied Jed, good-naturedly, and preparing to pass on. "Hold on!" exclaimed the man. "Do you mean to insult me?" "Not at all," answered the boy. "But I consider you have insulted me, when you don't think I'm good enough for you to play cards with!" "I did not say that," was Jed's reply. "I said I didn't believe in gambling or card playing. I don't consider that it's right." "Then you think I'm doing wrong?" "I don't think anything about you. I'm simply speaking for myself." "Aw, you're a tenderfoot! A milksop! Why didn't you stay back East, tied to your mother's apron string? Does she know you're out? Give her my regards!" That was too much for Jed. That any one should speak disrespectfully of his dear mother was more than he could stand. Without stopping to think of the consequences of his act, he shot out his left arm, his fist caught the gambler squarely on the chin, and the fellow fell flat on his back, after a desperate effort to retain his footing. There were murmurs of astonishment from all in the room. The boy's act was so sudden it took every one by surprise. Instinctively Will moved nearer to his brother to protect him, for he felt there would be a fight. The gambler was on his feet in an instant. With a quick motion he drew a revolver and leveled it at Jed. "Put up that gun!" yelled a sudden voice, and every one turned to see who had spoken. Old Gabe was entering the room. At the sight of him, the gambler's hand shook, and he lowered the weapon. "Ah! I've found you, have I!" exclaimed Gabe, as he pushed his way through the crowd. "Now I've got you!" "No, you haven't!" yelled the gambler, and, with a quick motion, he jumped to one side, and out of an open window near the table, disappearing in the darkness outside. CHAPTER XV THEIR FIRST GOLD Gabe Harrison turned quickly and ran out of the door. The boys, and those in the room, caught a glimpse of the old miner as he hurried past the window after the gambler. "He'll never catch him," observed a man. "Can't run fast enough." This seemed to be the general verdict, and it was borne out by the fact, for, in a minute or two, Gabe returned, rather out of breath. "Did you get him?" asked the bartender. "Nope," replied Gabe. "It was too dark, and I can't run as fast as I could once. How did it happen he pulled a gun on you, Jed?" "I knocked him down for insulting my mother." "Whew!" whistled Gabe. "You're getting right into the swim of things out here. I can't leave you alone but what something happens." "Who was he? What did you want of him?" asked Will. "That fellow was Con Morton, the gambler who robbed me of nearly all my fortune," replied Gabe, to the surprise of the boys. "I've been looking for him for some time, but he was too slick for me. How long has he been here?" he asked, turning to the proprietor of the hotel. "Just came in a little while ago, and tried to start a card game. I didn't know him, and no one else seemed to; did you fellows?" and he appealed to the men. There was a general dissent, so far as having an acquaintance with Con was concerned. "I wouldn't have a word to say if he'd won my money when I gambled with him," went on the miner. "I've been fool enough to do that in my time, but I've sworn off from cards and drink. These boys are friends of mine. Their father did me a good turn, and they don't drink or gamble either. I say that for the benefit of all who hear it. If any one makes trouble for them they've got to reckon with me." "That one lad seems able to take care of himself," remarked a man, nodding at Jed. "He sent that gambling chap on his back as neat as I ever saw." "I'm glad he did," replied Gabe. "I wish I could have caught him. But I'm still after him, and if he shows up around here again, you can tell him I'll have back the money he practically stole from me, or my name's not Gabe Harrison." "I heard him say he'd been over to the Dizzy Gulch diggings before he drifted in here," volunteered a miner with a very red mustache. "He did, eh?" replied Gabe. "Did he say how things were going there? That's where I'm headed for." "Said he cleaned up a pile." "In his own way, I suppose, with cards. Well, if he got some, the miners must have struck pay dirt. I guess we're on the right road, boys." This was better news than they yet had heard concerning Dizzy Gulch, and the three gold seekers felt better over it. They soon retired to their rooms, where they slept undisturbed, though Jed had uneasy dreams of fights with mountain lions, and a band of gamblers who had revolvers as large as cannons. With the first gleam of daylight Gabe was up, and roused the boys. "We must make an early start for the mountains," he said. "Our real trail begins now, and for some time we'll have to depend on ourselves, for we aren't going to strike any camps." "Aren't we going to Dizzy Gulch?" asked Jed. "I thought there was a camp there." "I've made a little change in our plans," replied the old miner. "I had a talk with a friend when I was away from the hotel last night, when you so nearly got into trouble. He told me there had been some good strikes made at the Gulch, where Ted Jordan is, but nothing remarkable. Now I've had enough of ordinary mining. I want to get at something big. So I think we'll strike off into the mountains back of the Gulch." "Do you think there's gold there?" asked Will. "I think so. I've made some inquiries about the lay of the land around Dizzy Gulch, and, from what I know about gold mining, I'm convinced that we'll stand a better chance in the mountains than we will in the Gulch. If I'm wrong, and we don't strike some rich pay dirt, we can drift on to the Gulch, and try our luck there. But I'd like to try my way first, if you have no objections." "We're with you," responded Jed. "We'll follow your lead. You know all about it, and we--well, we're tenderfeet of the tenderest kind, I guess." "You'll get over that. Now then, if you're ready we'll start on the trail, and bid good-by to such civilization as they have out in these camps. I'll not be sorry, either. I'm not afraid of any man, and I'll take my chances with most of 'em, but I like a peaceable life, and this business of drinking and playing cards I don't like. I've gotten over it." They made their departure from the town quietly, few persons being up to see them go, for the miners and gamblers, who made up most of the population, kept late hours, and, in consequence, were late risers. The trail led up the mountain, for the town was situated at the foot of a big range. As they got higher and higher the boys had a view of a big stretch of country. It was different from any they had yet seen, and the great masses of mountain ranges, the deep valleys, the towering peaks, were a strange contrast to the scenery back in the quiet little country town of Lockport. "Isn't this great!" exclaimed Jed, as he halted his horse on a ledge of rock and looked at the scene below him. "The mountains for mine! Every time!" exclaimed Gabe, fervently. "Farming is all right, but it's too low down. You can't see enough. Look at this view! It makes a man grow big in spite of himself!" "Then Will had better look out," advised Jed, with a smile. "If he grows any taller his legs will reach the ground on either side of his horse, and he won't be able to get in ordinary rooms." "Yes, and if you keep on getting stout, you'll have to get two horses to carry you," retorted his brother. The little party was in jolly humor. It was a fine day, they had a good supply of food with them, a comfortable tent, and best of all, they were actually about to begin their hunt for gold. The boys were anxious to start digging at every place they made a halt, but Gabe pointed out that it would be foolish, as the nature of the ground was such that no gold could be expected there. "I'll tell you when to get out the picks and washing pans," he said. "We're getting closer, and I shouldn't wonder but by night we'd get to a place where we can make a try clean-up." How anxiously the boys wanted that time to come! They closely scanned the trail on either side, for Gabe had told them some methods of recognizing when they were near pay dirt, and they wanted to test their new knowledge. "Just think! We're actually going to dig gold!" exclaimed Jed. "I used to think it was wonderful to dig potatoes, but when I turn out a few yellow nuggets I'll think I've really begun to live." "Digging potatoes is a heap sight surer, sometimes, than digging gold," remarked Gabe, "only it isn't so exciting." The trail became wilder now, for it was one seldom traveled. The horses had to proceed slowly, and, as it was getting well on in the afternoon, Gabe decided they would make a camp. "Is this--do you think it would be any good to dig for gold here?" asked Jed eagerly. "Well, you might try a little surface or placer mining," replied Gabe. "That looks like a good place to dig," he went on, pointing to a gravelly spot, about a hundred feet from where he had decided to pitch the tent. "You boys can be miners for a while until I get camp in shape. But don't be disappointed." Eagerly unpacking their picks, shovels and washing pans, the boys hurried over to where the old miner had indicated. As the method they were about to use may not be familiar to all of my readers I will briefly describe it. The kind of gold they hoped to find is known as free gold--that is, it exists in little grains, sometimes only as large as a pin point or a pin head, and, again, the size of a walnut. It is mixed in with the dirt or gravel, and is usually washed to its resting place by some flood. Other gold is held in ores, or hard rocks, which must be crushed and specially treated before the precious metal can be extracted. The kind of mining the boys were about to undertake is very simple. Acting under Gabe's advice, they first loosened the top soil with their picks. This they threw aside, as it was not very likely to contain gold, which, being quite heavy, would be washed by the rains below the surface. After digging down a little way, the boys came to some fine gravel. This, Gabe had told them, might contain fine grains of gold, but to determine that point they had to wash the dirt. For this purpose the simplest means are common iron pans, circular and rather shallow. Another method is by a wooden "rocker," which will be explained later. Filling their pans half full of the gravel, the boys let water run in from a near-by mountain stream. They now had a mixture of very moist mud. This they agitated in the pans by a peculiar circular motion, the object of it being to cause the heavier grains of gold to sink to the bottom of the pan. Repeated applications of water, and shakings of their pans, soon washed out most of the gravel in the pans, which were tilted at a slight angle to permit this. At length there was only a little fine dirt left in the bottom of the pan. "I think I see something yellow!" exclaimed Jed, greatly excited. "Don't think--make sure," called Gabe. "Here, I'll do it for you." He was almost as excited as the boys. The gold fever was on him again. Taking Jed's pan, he let some more water run in it. Then with a gentle whirling motion he threw this water out by degrees, the fine sand and gravel going with it. Then there remained in the bottom of the pan a little heap of glittering yellow grains. "Gold! It's gold!" murmured Gabe. "Boys, we've struck our first pay dirt!" [Illustration: "Gold! It's gold!" murmured Gabe] CHAPTER XVI LOST "Hurrah!" yelled Jed, capering about. "We're in luck! Gold, Will! What'd I tell you? I knew we'd find it!" and he began dancing about like an Indian, or a cowboy celebrating a holiday. "Oh, it's not such an awful lot," replied Gabe, more calmly, as he scooped up the yellow grains. "You'll have to wash out a good many panfuls before you'll be rich at this rate. Let's see how Will's is going to pan out." He repeated the operation, and got more of the gold. The eyes of the two brothers shone with excitement, nor was Gabe altogether free from excitement, though it was an old story to him. "Come on, Will, let's clean up another panful," suggested Jed. "Hold on!" called Gabe. "Help me get camp in shape first. It'll soon be dark. That pay dirt will keep. It's been there a good many hundred years, and it isn't going to run away in the night." "Hadn't we better stake out a claim?" suggested Jed, who was rapidly becoming familiar with mining terms. "We'll prospect a bit more first," replied Gabe. "It may not pay us to remain here. No use cleaning up a little bit like this, when we can get big nuggets a bit further on." "But we're sure there's gold here," objected Jed, "and we don't know whether or not there's any further on." "Go slow," advised the old miner. "Come on, now, help me fix up the tent." The boys knew that Gabe's advice was good, and, though they felt a wild desire to remain digging gold, they realized that they must have a place to sleep, for it was getting cool at night, now that they were well up in the mountains. The boys were up early the next morning, and each one had washed a pan of gravel before breakfast. They obtained about a quarter of an ounce of gold each. "How much is it worth?" asked Jed eagerly. "Well," replied Gabe critically, "you've made about ten dollars between you this morning." "And last night?" "A little more. Say twenty-five dollars altogether." "Why, we'll soon be rich!" exclaimed Jed. "Maybe, if this gravel holds out," admitted Gabe. "But don't be too sure. I think it's only a surface mine, the gold having been washed down from some place higher up. Now get your breakfast and then we'll do some mining, until I can see what sort of a place we've struck." They washed several panfuls of dirt that morning. To Jed's disappointment on several occasions the result, after a careful washing and shaking, was only a few grains of the precious yellow stuff. Again they would get nearly half an ounce. "I think I'll make a rocker," said Gabe, at length. "We can do it faster then, and find out if this is going to pay." "What's a rocker?" asked Will. "I'll show you." From some pieces of a box, in which some of their camp stuff was packed, Gabe constructed a sort of rude cradle, on rockers. The bottom of the box, which was rather shallow, was covered with a number of cross sticks, nailed to it like the cleats on a gangplank. The box was filled with gravel and water. The water ran out of the lower end, carrying most of the dirt and gravel with it. The gold, being heavier, settled to the bottom, and was prevented from flowing away by the cleats. After about two hours of this work or "rocking," so called because the cradle is rocked from side to side, Gabe gathered from the box nearly a handful of pure gold grains. "There! What do you think of that?" exclaimed Jed. "Have we struck a bonanza or not?" "I can't tell yet," replied Mr. Harrison cautiously. "It may peter out any minute, but it's good so far." The miner's fears were realized. As the day wore on the result of the various "clean-ups" was less and less, until, after the cradle had been filled several times, the result was only a mere pinch of gold. "Let's dig over a wider space," suggested Jed. "No," said the miner, "it's just as I thought, there was only a small deposit of gold there, and we've cleaned it up." "Then there isn't any use in staying here?" "Not unless we can find another deposit." They hunted for it without success, remaining for several days in the place of their first strike. Then the miner decided they should continue on up into the mountains. "The gold is above us," he said. "We've got to climb up to it." They broke camp, packed their supplies on the backs of the horses, and started forward. "Well, we made some money, anyhow," said Jed. "Our first attempt wasn't so bad." "Yes, we cleaned up a few hundred dollars," admitted Gabe, "but that's hardly enough to pay our expenses for the time we spent. We'll have to have better luck than that, and I believe we will." "I wish we could send word to dad," added Will. "Better wait until we make a real strike," suggested Mr. Harrison. "No use raising false hopes." They journeyed on for several days in a lonely part of the mountain, meeting no one. They had some luck, but not much, and the boys began to fear they would never reach a place where they could make a permanent camp, and dig gold in quantities sufficient to make it pay. But Gabe was not discouraged. He was too old a hand at the game of gold hunting. "Boys," said the old miner one morning, as they were preparing to break camp, and travel on, "suppose you stay here for a few hours? I want to take a little side trip, and as it's rather dangerous I'd rather you'd stay here. I want to go up that mountain," pointing to one, off to one side, "and see if I can't see some new signs. I'll be back in a little while, so wait here for me." Removing the pack from his horse, and with only his rifle, pick and pan, the old miner set off. The boys, for want of something better to do, dug up some gravel and washed it in their pans, but with no success. It served, however, to pass the time. "Say, don't you think it's about time Gabe came back?" asked Will, as he looked up at the sun, and noted it was nearly noon. "That's so. He has been gone longer than he said he would be," answered Jed. "But he'll come back. Let's try digging over here," and he went to a new spot. He was encouraged by finding a few grains of gold, and then he and Will set feverishly to work, but they had no great success. "My! But I'm hungry!" exclaimed Jed, several hours later. "Why!" he exclaimed, as he looked at his watch, "it's three o'clock, and Gabe isn't back yet!" "Let's get grub," proposed Will. "Maybe he's struck good pay dirt, and he hates to leave." They ate their meal, and again went back to their gold pans, but they found no yellow metal. The sun sank lower and lower. It was getting dark, and there were no signs of the old miner. The boys looked anxiously at each other. "Maybe he's hurt," suggested Will. "Maybe," admitted Jed, accepting his brother's rather gloomy view, which was something new for him. "Had we better go look for him?" "I don't know. He told us to stay here until he came back." "But if he's fallen, and can't move, he'd want us to go for him." "That's so. Let's go. Get your gun, Will, and put plenty of matches in your pockets. We may want to light a torch. Tie the horses so they won't stray." The two boys were soon walking up the mountain path that Gabe had taken earlier in the day. It was fast getting dusk, and they were very anxious. The trail was a winding one, and twisted and turned in every direction. At first they could see the marks made by Gabe's horse, but the hoof-prints soon disappeared. "Guess we'd better go back," suggested Will, after they had tramped for an hour. "There's no sign of him. Maybe he went on another trail, and is back at camp now. Anyhow, we can't see any more," for it was now quite dark. "All right," agreed Jed. "Back to camp it is." They turned, and thought they were taking the same path they had used in coming up. But they had not traveled far before they were made aware that it was not the right one. "I don't remember that we passed this big rock before," said Jed, pausing near one, which, even in the darkness, they could see was perched on the edge of a deep gully. "Me either. I wonder if we're on the right trail?" They paused and, lighting matches, looked about them. They were observing lads, and it did not take them long to arrive at the conclusion that they were on a totally different path. "Will," said Jed solemnly, "we're lost on the mountain, that's all there is to it." "Lost! What are we going to do?" "Stay here until morning, I guess. See if you can find some wood, and we'll build a fire. This rock will make a good shelter." CHAPTER XVII CORNERED BY A BEAR The boys passed a dreary, miserable night. There was a heavy dew, and they were wet, almost as if by a rain. Their fire went out, for in the darkness they could not find wood enough to keep it going. How glad they were when morning came! The sun warmed them, and took the stiffness from their limbs. "Oh, for something to eat!" cried Will. "Same here," replied Jed. "But, listen! What's that?" "Sounds like water running. Queer we didn't hear it before." "We were too excited, I guess. There must be a stream around here, and maybe there are fish in it." They found just below where they had spent the night a swift mountain stream foaming along over a rocky bed. Jed and Will had not gotten over the habit, formed while on the farm, of carrying hooks and lines in their pockets. It was short work to cut poles, adjust their tackle, and, with bait of worms, dug with their pocket knives, they were soon casting in. The fish of that stream must have been very hungry, for they took the bait at once, and soon the lads had several beauties. These they cleaned, and broiled by holding them in front of the fire on sharp sticks. "They'd be better if we had salt," said Will. "Use gunpowder," suggested Jed, and they did not find it a bad substitute, when they had taken some of the black grains from a cartridge, for salt-peter is the principal ingredient of some powders, and it is very salty. "Now suppose we get back to camp," suggested Will, after their simple breakfast. "I suppose Gabe is back by this time, thinking how foolish we were to disobey him." "Well, we did it for the best," said Jed. "He can't blame us." "Of course not. Do you think we can find the way back?" Jed did not answer. He was looking about him. They were on a totally unfamiliar trail, and he did not know which way to go. He admitted as much to his brother. "But we came up the mountain," said Will, "and naturally, to get to camp we ought to go down. That's easy." "Yes, it's easy enough to go down the slope, but where will we come out? I'm in favor of going up." "What for?" "Well, the higher we go the better view we'll have. Then we can size up the country, and decide which way we'd better travel. No use simply going down, for we may come out miles and miles from our camp." Will agreed in this view, and the boys started up the trail again. But luck was against them. They did not know it, but they were on one of the wildest mountain ranges in that section of the country. Many travelers had been lost on it, for the trails, made by wild animals, were confusing, and there were a number of them. "We don't seem to be getting anywhere," said Will, at length. "That's so," admitted Jed. "I'm hungry; aren't you? Those fish weren't very filling." "No, indeed, but I don't see how we're going to get anything to eat." For several hours more the boys wandered on. They were tired, and their stomachs craved more food. They saw no game, or they might have provided themselves with food, and they came across no more streams from whence they could take fish. They were in a sad plight, for night was coming on, and they were farther than ever from camp--lost in the mountains. As Jed, who was in the lead, was turning around a big rock, that marked a shift in the trail, he uttered an exclamation of surprise. "What's the matter?" asked Will eagerly. "See anything to eat?" "No; but I see a good place to stay to-night. Here's a big cave." Before them, opening off from the trail, was the mouth of a large cavern. It looked inviting, after their night spent in the open, with the heavy dews soaking them through. "That's the stuff!" exclaimed Will. "Now if we only had something to eat!" "Maybe we will strike another stream around----" began Jed, when his words were suddenly interrupted by a whirr of wings. "Partridges!" exclaimed Will, as a number of birds flew up from the bushes in front of them. "I don't know whether they're partridges or not," said Jed, "but they look good to eat. Got any shot cartridges?" Will had some, and Jed, inserting one in his rifle, which in an emergency would shoot those shells, hurried forward. He was lucky enough to kill a couple of the birds, and in a short time the two hungry lads were roasting them over a fire they quickly kindled at the mouth of the cave. As they intended to spend the night in the cavern they decided to explore it a bit, and, taking several torches, which they made from white birch bark, that is most excellent for that purpose, they set forward. They found the cave was a large one, and, having selected a secluded place, that was nice and dry, and far enough away from the entrance to insure of their being warm, they stretched out, and went to sleep, for they were utterly tired out with the day's fruitless tramp. "Hello, it's morning!" suddenly announced Jed, as he awoke and looked at his watch, by the light of a match. "It's seven o'clock. Get up, Will." "Oh, I'm as stiff as a man with the rheumatism. How are you?" "Well, I have felt better." "Morning? Did you say it was morning?" asked Will. "Why, it's as black as midnight." "I know it. We're quite a way into the cave. The light doesn't come this far. I'll light a torch, and we'll see if we can't get out and shoot some more of those birds. They were fine." He ignited a roll of the birch bark, and leading the way started toward what he thought was the mouth of the cave. But he was soon convinced that he was mistaken. "We didn't come in this far," said Will. "I guess you're right," admitted his brother. "I must have taken a wrong turning. Come on back." They retraced their steps. They came to the place where they had slept, and an investigation showed them several passageways leading from it. "I didn't imagine there was more than one," said Jed in bewilderment. "Me either. Say, Jed, we're lost again!" "Looks like it, and this is a big cave." There was no doubt about it. Frantically the boys tried passage after passage. Some ended at blank walls, and others led so far into the blackness that they were afraid, and turned back. They could not find the passage by which they had entered. "Well, we certainly are up against it," sighed Will despondently, as he sat down on a rock, and watched his torch slowly burn. "What can we do?" "Keep on hunting," replied Jed. "I wish we'd stayed in camp, then we wouldn't have had all this trouble. I wonder where Gabe is?" "No telling. Maybe he's lost, too. I wish we'd stayed on the farm." "Oh, don't say that. We'll be all right yet." "I hope so. What's that?" Will sprang to his feet. There came a noise from a dark corner of the cave. It sounded like some one shuffling along. Jed raised his torch and peered forward into the blackness. As he did so there came a menacing growl. "It's a bear! A big bear!" he cried. At the same moment the savage creature rushed at the two boys, who did not know which way to run. CHAPTER XVIII FINDING THE NUGGETS "Quick with your gun, Will!" yelled Jed. "I laid mine down back there!" "So did I," replied his brother. "What'll we do?" The present position of the brothers was perilous in the extreme. They were some distance away from their weapons, which they had rested against the side of the cave, while they debated what they had better do. The bear was rushing straight at them, growling savagely. "Get behind me, Will!" bravely cried Jed. "I'll try to stand him off with my knife," and at that he drew his knife, which had one big blade. [Illustration: "Get behind me, Will!" bravely cried Ted] "I'll get the guns!" cried Will, as he turned to run. But he slipped on a stone, and fell. Jed turned to see what had happened to his brother, and the bear, taking advantage of the lack of attention of the foremost of the lads, gave a lunge forward, placing himself close to Jed. "Look out!" yelled Will, who, from his position on the floor of the cave, saw what was about to happen--that his brother was likely to be clawed by the shaggy brute. Jed turned, but only just in time. Then he did the only thing possible under the circumstances. He hurled his burning torch, which he had caught up, after opening his knife, right into the face of the bear. With a growl of mingled terror and rage the brute halted. It dropped to all-fours. Then, as the blazing mass of bark was on the floor of the cave, right under its nose, bruin turned tail and fled back up the dark recesses of the cave. "Quick!" cried Jed. "The guns, Will! We'll try a shot at him!" Will leaped to his feet and managed to reach the rifles, which were loaded. He handed one to Jed, who took as good aim as he could at the black, shaggy form, which was almost out of sight, the torch giving but a faint light now. The report of the gun nearly deafened the boys, and Jed felt certain that he had missed. But a new plan came into his mind. "Come on, Will!" he cried. "Where?" "Let's follow the brute! He came into the cave, and he must know the way out. That's where he's making for now. Come on, it's our only chance!" Will comprehended. Grabbing up the other gun and lighting another torch, the two boys prepared to follow bruin. They could hear the beast scrambling over the floor of the cavern, though they could not see it, but Jed had watched in what direction it fled. "Come on!" he called back to Will. "We'll get out of this place!" The bear, which at first seemed likely to do them serious harm, proved a friend instead of an enemy, for the frightened creature took the shortest route out of the cave, to get away from those queer creatures, who, instead of allowing themselves to be eaten up, threw blazing chunks of fire in the face of peaceable bears. Bruin scrambled out of a hole, some distance in advance of the boys, but they could still hear the creature, and followed, lighting their way with the torches. In a few minutes they were outside of the cave, on a sort of rocky plateau, while, running as fast as it could, the bear could be seen disappearing down the side of the mountain. "Take a shot at him," suggested Will. "No, it's too far. Besides, he did us a good turn. But for him we'd be in the cave yet. Now to look about and see where we are." The place was unfamiliar to the boys. They might have passed it before, in their wanderings, but they did not recognize it. "We're not much better off," murmured Will, despondently. "Yes, we are," said Jed. "We're out of the cave, and it's only a question of time before we'll be back at camp where Gabe is probably waiting for us." "If he isn't dead." "Oh, quit it!" advised Jed, a trifle impatiently. "Well, I'm hungry." "So am I, but finding fault isn't going to do any good. Come on, let's walk in some direction. Let's go down. That looks like the place where we camped," and Jed pointed off to the left. "Say, I believe you're right," admitted Will, after a moment's inspection. "It does seem to be the spot. No, it isn't, either," he added, after looking again. "There's a stream near that place, and there wasn't any so close to our camp." "You're right," agreed Jed. "But say, Will, am I mistaken, or are those horses down there?" and he pointed toward the other side. "They look just like two horses, with packs on their backs. I wonder if they can be our nags, or from some other camp? Anyhow, we can get something to eat now, for there must be persons near there." Will, who had a little better eyesight than his brother, looked long and earnestly in the direction indicated. Then he gave a great shout. "They're our horses!" he cried. "I'm sure of it. I can tell old Pete two miles off! Hurrah, Jed! We're all right. Probably Gabe has come up to meet us." The boys, their hearts beating high with hope, hurried down the mountain side. As they came nearer to the horses they could see that there was no one with the steeds. Gabe was not in sight, and when they reached the animals, they saw that they had broken their tether ropes, and had evidently strayed from the camp. "Then Gabe isn't here," said Will, quickly. "Looks that way," agreed Jed. "Something must have happened to him." "I'm afraid so. Still, the horses are all right. So are the packs on their backs. They may have broken loose right after we went to look for Gabe, and he may be hunting around for us. Anyhow, we can get something to eat. I'm nearly starved." There was food in the packs, and the boys made a hasty meal. They held a brief consultation, and decided they would walk along, leading the horses, as the trail was rough, and try to reach the camp, though they had no idea in which direction it lay. As they were about to start off, Jed, who picked up from the ground the end of the broken tether rope, uttered a cry of surprise. "What's the matter?" asked Will. "Look here. See what I've found!" He held out in his hand something of a dull yellow color. There was no need to say what it was. The boys knew the color of gold by this time. "It's a nugget! A big nugget!" whispered Will, for the discovery seemed to awe him. "Yes, and here's another, and a third!" exclaimed Jed, as he dropped the rope, and picked up from among the stones two more irregular chunks of the precious metal--the gold they had come so far to seek. CHAPTER XIX CON MORTON APPEARS For a moment the sudden discovery so surprised the boys that they could only stare at the golden nuggets. Jed was the first to recover his composure, yet he was still greatly excited. "Look around, Will," he directed. "There must be more of them. These haven't been dropped by some one, they must have cropped out from a regular bonanza. Feel how heavy they are! Oh, if Gabe was only here!" "I've found one!" cried Will. "Yes, and here's another! Hurrah! Jed, we're rich!" "Not yet, but we may be. Keep on looking. Wait, I'll tie the horses so they won't stray away, and we'll start to dig. Lucky we left the packs on the animals, or we wouldn't have anything now." It was the work of but a moment to fasten the patient steeds, that were only too glad to stay there and crop the rich grass. Then the boys resumed their hunt. The nuggets they had found were only partly imbedded in the earth. There was a quantity of gravel around them, and they appeared to have been washed into sight by the recent rain. "I've got another!" cried Jed joyfully. "It's the biggest yet! Oh, Will! What good news we'll have to send home to dad! He'll not have to worry about bad crops, and dry spells any more!" "That's right!" admitted Will. "Here's another, Jed!" The boys could hardly believe their good fortune. In a short time they had picked up eleven nuggets, of good size. The gold amounted to far more than that which they had washed out by hard work in their first diggings. "How much do you reckon it is?" asked Will. "I don't know. I'm too excited. We have eleven. Let's make it an even dozen! Keep on looking. Oh, if Gabe was only here! There must be a rich mine in this section, where these nuggets came from. We must make it a dozen, Will, and then we'll go look for Gabe." "All right. There--I thought that was one, but it was only a yellow stone. We'll find one more and then----" Suddenly, the attention of the boys was attracted by a noise on the rocky trail above them, for they were down in a sort of valley. The noise was that of the iron-shod hoofs of horses on the hard ground. "Maybe that's Gabe," suggested Will. "Oh, if it only is, all our troubles will be over." They could not yet see the horseman, for he was hidden behind a ledge of rock. But, a moment later, a steed came into sight. To the amazement of the boys they saw, riding toward them, a group of men. And the foremost was Con Morton, the gambler who had threatened Jed, and who had robbed Gabe Harrison of nearly all his fortune. Behind him rode another person they also recognized. It was Ned Haverhill, with whom Jed had had an encounter in the saloon, and there was a third man they did not know. "Quick!" cried Jed. "Hide the nuggets! If he sees we have gold he'll rob us! Don't tell him what we have found, nor what we are doing here. Leave it to me. Bring the horses over here, and get your gun ready! Those are desperate men!" No sooner did Morton and his companions catch sight of the two boys, than they hastened their pace, and soon had descended the trail to where the lads were. Meanwhile, Jed had hidden the nuggets among the things on the back of his horse. "So, tenderfoot, we meet again," said Con Morton, in sneering tones, as he rode close to Jed. "Oh, you needn't be afraid I'll hurt you," he went on. "You're safe enough." "I'm not afraid of you," said the lad boldly. "You might better be. I'm a dangerous man when I'm aroused." "I guess you're dangerous for any one who has money," replied Jed. "But we haven't any fortune for you to steal, as you did that of Mr. Harrison." "Who says I stole his fortune?" demanded the gambler sharply. "He does, and I believe him." "Well, he wants to be careful what he says about me. Do you know these tenderfeet, Ned?" and Morton turned to Haverhill. "Sure. That one there," indicating Jed, "refused to drink with me. I've a good notion to make him dance to the tune of my revolver," and he made a motion as if to draw his weapon. "None of that, now," said Morton in a low tone. "It isn't safe. Leave me to deal with them. What are you two lads doing here?" he went on, turning back to Jed. "I don't know that it's your affair." "Well, I'll make it so. What have you got there? I saw you putting something in the pack." "It's none of your business!" "Be careful! Don't get me riled! I want to know what you're doing here." "Well, we're prospecting; my brother and I." "Where's your camp? You've just gotten here, for there are no signs of a camp." "Back there!" replied Jed, with an indefinite wave of his hand. He would have been only too glad to point to where the camp was. "Hum! Did you see any signs of gold?" Now Jed had never told a lie, and he did not want to begin now, though the gambler asked a question he had no right to have answered. Jed hesitated. He resolved he would not utter an untruth; yet to defy the man, and refuse to tell, would practically be to confess the truth. And he knew what that meant. The reckless men would overpower him and Will, and rob them of their nuggets, and the other gold, which was hidden in the saddles. Worse than this, the bad men would become aware of the existence of a rich nugget mine, and they would claim it for their own. Then, as he hesitated, a flash of inspiration came to the lad. He looked around, and saw that Will was ready with the guns. If his trick failed, and worst came to worst, the two farmer boys could defend themselves. With a sudden start, Jed peered up the trail, as if he had caught sight of some one approaching. Then, placing his fingers to his lips, he gave vent to a shrill whistle. "Come on, Gabe!" he yelled. "Right this way. Here we are! Right down the trail! Come on!" "Who you yelling to?" asked Con Morton quickly. "To Gabe," replied Jed, truthfully enough, though he knew Gabe was too far off to hear him. "Gabe Harrison coming here!" murmured Haverhill. "We'd better light out, Morton. I don't want to meet him. Probably he's got his gang with him! Come on!" He spurred his horse forward. Con Morton, with a look of baffled hate at the two boys, did likewise, and their companion followed them. Jed's ruse had succeeded. "I'll see you again!" shouted back the gambler in threatening tones, as he disappeared down the trail. CHAPTER XX PURSUED Jed and Will could hardly believe their good luck. But the mention of the name of the man he had robbed was too much for Morton. He dared not stand and face him. Probably he imagined the United States marshal was with the sturdy old gold miner. "Say, that was a good idea--a fine one, Jed!" cried Will. "How did you happen to think of it? You actually fooled me for a moment. I really thought you saw Gabe." "I only wish I had." "Do you s'pose they're gone for good?" "I don't know. I think we'd better get out of here. But first let's cover up the places where we took out the nuggets. I was afraid those scoundrels would see the holes." "Good thing they didn't. They'd have robbed us, sure pop. What shall we do next?" Will went on, as he carefully stamped with his feet on the places where the gold had been found. "Both of us had better look at this location carefully, so we'll know how to find it again. It looks like a good place for gold, according to what Gabe told us. I'll bet there's a rich mine around here. Now we must find our way back to camp, and tell Gabe. Then we can come here and stake out three claims--one for each of us." "It's easy enough to say 'go back to camp,'" remarked Will, "but how are we going to do it?" "We've simply got to," responded his brother. "The horses may know their way back. We must trust to them. Let's see, I should say they must have come up that valley. They'd naturally travel the easiest way, when there was no one to drive 'em. Suppose we start down that valley a way, and see if the horses won't do the rest?" There seemed nothing better to do, so they put this plan into operation. Making sure that their precious nuggets were safe, and seeing that the packs were securely strapped on the backs of the steeds, the two boys started down the valley, that was near the trail on which they had found the gold. They walked a little way behind each horse, keeping hold of the tether ropes. The animals went willingly enough, though they stopped every now and then for a mouthful of the sweet grass that grew quite luxuriantly on the slopes of the fertile valley. They traveled several miles in a rather leisurely fashion, and, as it was beginning to get late in the afternoon, they decided to halt and have a meal before it got too dark. They wanted to go as far as possible before making camp, and they hoped they would come upon the one where Gabe had left them, ere nightfall. "Here's a good place to camp," remarked Jed as he came to a halt. "This will do all right." "Suits me," replied his brother. They made a hasty meal, and looked about them for a good place to spend the night. "That looks like a sheltered place over there," remarked Jed, pointing to an overhanging ledge, screened about with low bushes and fir trees. "Suppose we take a look." They walked over, and were just on the edge of the fringe of little trees when something happened. Jed, who was a little in advance, suddenly disappeared from his brother's sight. The thing happened so quickly that Will thought Jed had jumped down some little declivity, but an instant later he knew this was not so, for Jed's voice came back to him, sounding far off and muffled: "Keep back! Don't come down here. I'm in a hole. Keep away!" Even with that warning Will pressed on. He was not going to desert his brother in the hour of need. He was almost at the place where Jed had vanished, when a slipping and sliding of the earth, a movement of several boulders, and a trembling of the surface of the ground, convinced him that to go farther would be dangerous, not only for himself, but perhaps for his brother. He leaped back, and just in time, for a yawning cavern opened at his very feet. "Jed! Jed! Where are you?" he cried. "Down here. In a big hole." "Are you hurt?" "Not much. Only bruised a bit. But keep back, or you'll be down here too. You'll have to stay up there to get me out." "But how can I do it? Can't you climb out?" "No. I'm in a regular hole, and the sides are so slippery that I daren't try to climb out. This place is a regular cave, and I got too close to the entrance. You'd better get the tether-ropes from the horses, tie them together, and let 'em down to me. Then you can pull me up." "All right. I'll do it." Will turned back from the edge of the hole down which Jed had fallen, and into which a considerable portion of earth and stones and several trees had disappeared. Luckily they had toppled to one side, instead of upon Jed, or he might have been seriously hurt. Will could not see Jed, though he could hear him, for he dared not approach close enough to the edge of the hole to look directly into it, as, if he did, he might cause more of a cave-in. How he was going to come near enough to lower his brother the rope he did not stop to think about. "Keep still until I come back," he called to Jed. "Don't go to trying any tricks, or you may get buried under a lot of dirt." It seemed a little odd for Will, the younger brother, to be giving the advice which usually fell to Jed's part, but he was in a better position to advise the imprisoned one than was Jed himself. Will found the two horses where he had left them, quietly browsing on the rich grass. He took the rope from one, cut off a small piece to be used for a halter, and tied the animal to a tree. He then started to do likewise to the other animal, the same steed which had run away at the farm and caused them such a chase. "Steady now, old boy," said Will, as he approached the animal, which began to prance about for no particular reason. "Why, what's the matter with you?" he asked, as the horse swung about and pulled violently on the tether-rope, which was, as yet, fast to a tree. "You're getting skittish in your old age." Will untied the rope, and was coiling it up in his hand as he walked toward the animal, intending to fasten it as he had done the first one, when the horse, with a shrill neigh, threw up his head, yanked the rope from Will's hand, and started off at a smart trot. "Whoa! Hold on there! Come back here!" cried Will. "I must catch him," he added, "if only to get that rope from him. Without it I can't rescue Jed." He started to run after the steed, but the horse, evidently not wanting to be caught, or else urged on by a mere spirit of mischief, kicked up its heels again like a colt, and dashed away down the mountain-side. Poor Will did not know what to do. He knew he must catch the horse, yet to go after him meant that he would have to leave Jed for some time alone in the cave. His brother would fear he had been deserted, and might try to get out unaided. In that case there might be another small landslide, and he would be buried. "I've just got to catch him," said Will to himself. "This is worse than when he ran away the other time." He was about to place the rope he had already removed from the other horse down near where the packs were, in order to have both his hands free, when he happened to think that perhaps he could use it as a lasso and capture the other steed, though he had had very little practice with the lariat, and was doubtful as to his success. The runaway animal had now come to a stop and was gazing back at the boy, as much as if to say: "Come on, let's have a game of tag." The long tether-rope, trailing out behind the horse, Will thought would give him a good chance to capture the animal. Accordingly, he bent his attention on that, resolving if he could get hold of it that he would quickly take a hitch with it around a tree, and so "snub" the horse as one checks the progress of a boat. "I believe that will be a better plan than trying to lasso him," he said to himself. "Why didn't I think of that first? But worrying about Jed has made me so I can't think straight." He hung the other rope upon a low branch of a tree, where he would see it on his way back, and then he crept cautiously forward, crouching down low, so that the horse would not see him, intending to sneak up and grab the end of the rope. He tried it, but it would not work. The horse saw him coming, or guessed his intention, and galloped away just as Will was about to grasp the trailing rope. This happened several times. It was getting dusk now, and every second was precious. The chase had led in a sort of irregular circle about the place where the packs had been lifted off the animals, the horse sometimes going up the trail, and sometimes down. He did not seem to want to leave his equine companion, who remained quietly tied. "I know what I'll do," exclaimed Will at length. "I'll do as we used to at home, when we want to catch a frisky horse in a big pasture. I'll give him some sugar." He hurried to one of the packs, took out a quantity of the sweetstuff, and placed it in his cap. This he held out to the steed, at the same time calling persuasively. The horse was not proof against this. He sniffed the air and came closer. Then, as he only wanted to get hold of the end of the rope, and did not need to actually catch the horse, Will turned the sugar out on the ground where the steed could see it. The boy then backed away, and a little later the horse was eagerly licking up the sugar. Another moment and Will had secured the rope, and though the animal started to run, when it found itself caught, it was too late. "There, I hope you're satisfied!" exclaimed Will. "You've made me lose nearly an hour. I wonder if Jed's all right?" He cut off all but a small piece of that rope, tying the horse to a tree, and then, with the two lengths, he started back to where he had left his brother. It was fast getting dark, and he doubted very much if the rescue could be attempted that night. "Here I am, Jed," he called as soon as he came within hearing distance. "Were you wondering what happened to me?" "Yes, I was beginning to get anxious. What happened?" Will explained. "Now how am I going to get you out?" asked the younger brother. "Shall I throw the rope down to you?" "Guess you'll have to. Only don't come too close. I'll tell you what you'd better do. Go up on that little ledge opposite here, on the other side. Fasten the rope to a tree or stump, and throw one end down here. Then I can pull myself up. If I put any strain on the rope on the side where you are now, there may be another cave-in." Will started to do as his brother had directed, but he had not gone far before there came another rumble of the earth, and more dirt slid down into the hole where Jed was hidden from sight. "Jed! Jed! Are you hurt?" cried Will. "Did it fall on you?" But there was no answer, and, waiting in the fast gathering blackness, Will felt a great fear in his heart. What if Jed had been killed, and he was left all alone there in the mountains, with that band of unprincipled men close after him? "Jed! Jed!" he cried again, but no answer came back. Will started forward, and then he recollected that if he went too close the landslide might be made worse than it now was. He tried to see some path by which he might get nearer, but it was too dark. "I must kindle a fire so as to have light," he said. He gathered some dry wood, and soon had a little blaze. By the glare of it he went as close as he dared and peered down into the place where Jed was imprisoned. All he could see was bare earth and piles of rocks. "Jed! Jed!" he shouted in a frenzy of fear. "Where are you? Are you alive? Speak to me!" Was it an echo, or was that a voice replying to him? At first he could not be sure what it was, then, as he listened, he made sure that it was some one answering. "Where are you?" he cried. "Farther down," came the faint reply. "I'm all the way in under now, and can't see any way out. Your voice sounds right over my head." "Can you hear me now?" asked Will eagerly. "Yes. You're right over my head. Knock on the ground so I can hear it." Will stamped his feet, and at once his brother cried: "Hold on! That's enough. You nearly brought the whole ceiling down on me. You're right above me, that's sure enough." "How can I get you out?" "You'll have to dig a hole--sink a shaft, I suppose, so you can lower a rope through. But be careful how you do it. You'd better wait until morning." "And leave you there all night--buried in a cave!" Back came the faint answer: "I don't mind. This is a big place, and there's plenty of fresh air. Stand by until morning, and then see what you can do." This seemed the only advice possible under the circumstances. The light of the fire was too uncertain to permit of the rescue work going on. It was a dreary night. Occasionally Will called to Jed, who answered, and the younger lad sat by the campfire, which he kept up, anxiously waiting for the dawn. He dozed off toward morning, and awoke with a start to see a streak of light in the east. Then, calling to his imprisoned brother that he was going to begin soon, he brought up his pick and shovel from the packs. "Stand back as far as you can toward the sides of the cave," advised Will. "I may shake down a lot of dirt. But first, are you sure there's no other way out?" "I can't see any," was the faint reply, and with that Will set to work. He located the place where he could hear Jed's voice the plainest, rightly judging that to be the thinnest part of the top of the cave--the earth-crust that held his brother a prisoner. Cautiously he began to dig, using the pick lightly, and slowly shoveling out the dirt he loosened. As he got down with his shaft he found that the soil was a sort of clay, which was firmer than the loose earth on top, and not so likely to break through with a rush when he had nearly finished his work. "How are you now, Jed?" he asked when he was down about three feet. "Pretty fair," was the reply, and the answer was plainly heard, showing that there was not much more earth to be taken out. "Better go slow now," advised Jed, who could distinguish his brother's tones more audibly now. "Don't you come tumbling down here, or neither of us'll get up. Better get out of the hole now, and punch the rest of the dirt with a long tree branch." Will concluded that this was good advice, and got out to cut a sort of crowbar, which he fashioned from a sapling, the end of which he chopped quite sharp with a small hatchet. Then, standing on the edge of the hole, he began to jab the pole into the bottom. "Hold on! You're through!" yelled Jed suddenly. "I can see the end of the pole now." Will thereupon began to punch it through more cautiously. In a little while he had an opening over a foot in diameter, and he could hear Jed almost as plainly as if he stood beside him. "Now for your ropes, Will!" cried Jed. "I'm all ready to climb out. Better fasten one end to a tree, and I'll come up hand-over-hand." Will did as directed, and soon saw the rope beginning to become taut as Jed put a strain on it. "Is it going to hold?" asked Jed. "Yes. Come on." A little later Jed was out of the cave. Will clasped him in his arms. "Poor old Jed!" he exclaimed. "You did have a time of it!" Jed plainly showed the effects of his terrible night. He was pale, and his clothes were covered with dirt. There was also a long cut on his forehead, where a rock had grazed him, and his arms and legs were bruised. "Come on, I'll get you something to eat, and you can tell me about it after that," said Will, and soon he was handing Jed a cup of hot coffee. "That cave extended back quite a way under the earth, from the face of rock where we were going to camp. I fell into it, and must have rested on a sort of shelf, until the second landslide came. Then I was rolled right back into the main part of the cavern, and the outlet was closed up. I tell you I was scared there, one spell." "I should think you would be," commented Will. "But I'm glad it was no worse. Can you travel?" "I'm afraid not. I think we'll have to rest a bit to-day. I may be able to start late in the afternoon. I'd like to get some sleep. I didn't have any down in that hole." They spent the best part of the day, after Jed had slept some, in talking over what had happened, and wondering what had become of their pursuers. "Oh, they'll keep after us," said Jed. "We can't shake 'em off so easily. I think we'd better move our camp away. I don't like this place. Let's move on a few miles and spend the night there. I think it will be safer." "Do you think you can travel?" "Sure. I'm much better now. Let's pack up, get some supper and move our camp." They did not waste much time over "grub," merely making coffee and eating some bread and cold meat. They were just strapping the packs together again preparatory to fastening them on the backs of the animals, when, from down below them, sounded the footfalls of several horses. "Some one's coming!" exclaimed Will. "Maybe it's Gabe," spoke Jed hopefully. "Shall I give a yell?" "Wait a minute. Perhaps it isn't him. If it is, he has some one with him." "Probably he's brought some of his friends to help look for us. I suppose we are to blame for all this. Never mind, when he hears what we have to tell him, he'll not scold us. I guess we'd better----" But the sentence was never finished. At that moment there appeared, coming around the trail, three horsemen. And it needed but a glance to show that they were the same bad men who, early the day before, had retreated after Jed had given his warning whistle. "Here they are!" cried Con Morton. "We've got 'em now!" "Not yet!" cried Jed. "Come on, Will! Jump on your horse! The animals are rested and can carry us and the packs!" With a quick motion he was in the saddle. Will followed his brother's example. "Now, Pete!" cried Jed to the horse. "Let's see what sort of stuff you're made of!" "Hold on there!" cried Con Morton, as he saw the two lads were about to escape him. "Haven't time!" shouted back Jed. "I want to speak to you!" went on the gambler. "No, you don't!" said Will to himself. "I know what that means!" He kicked his heels on his horse's sides, and the good old plow horse increased its pace. Owing to the fact that the steeds of the boys were fresh, and to the circumstance that the animals of the gamblers had quite a slope to climb, the boys secured a good lead. They did not ride back up the valley, but down it, though they turned into another trail, as it divided just where they had halted for their meal. To get on this trail Morton and his cronies would have to breast a slope, and then swing over to the left. The boys lost sight of them for a moment. "I wonder why he came back after us?" asked Will. "Probably they were hanging around. They saw that no one came to join us, and they imagined it was safe to tackle us. But I'm not going to give up." "Me either. I'll fight first!" With set faces the brothers urged their horses on. But now their pursuers had gained the turn, and were thundering down the second valley after them. "Stop! stop!" yelled Morton. Jed and Will returned no answer. "If you don't halt we'll shoot!" added Haverhill. "Do you suppose they will?" asked Jed's brother anxiously. "One of them has a revolver out," he added, as he gave a hasty backward glance. "I don't believe so. They can't shoot very straight anyhow, with the way their horses and ours are going." "Are you going to stop?" yelled Morton again. "No!" cried Jed, as he urged his horse on down the mountain slope, while the pursuers came galloping on behind them. CHAPTER XXI WHAT HAPPENED TO GABE When Gabe Harrison started up the mountain, with the intention of prospecting around a bit, seeking for indications of gold, he fully expected to be back within two hours. It was his idea that he might see signs of a lead which would be better than the one he and the boys were on. Now if Gabe had had a horse that was used to mountain climbing several things in this story would not have happened. For a steed accustomed to scrambling over loose rocks, up steep slopes and down others still steeper, would have kept its footing, and not stumbled, as did Gabe's animal. The old miner had ridden a few miles, and was convinced that no gold could be found in that direction. He was on the point of returning when something happened. The horse stepped on a loose rock, on the edge of a gully, tried to recover its balance, in obedience to the frantic calls of Gabe, and his yankings on the bridle, and then pitched forward, throwing the old man off its back. When Gabe recovered his senses, after many hours of unconsciousness, he found himself lying on the cold ground. He was quite wet with the dew, and lame and stiff. It was dark, and when he tried to move such a pain shot through his left leg that he had to lie quietly. "Well, I wonder what in the world happened to me," said Gabe, speaking aloud. Then it came back to him, how his horse had stumbled with him, and how he had fallen into the gully, the last thing he remembered being when his head hit a stone. "And I reckon I didn't hurt that rock as much as it hurt me," mused the old man, feeling of a large lump on the back of his head. "This is tough luck. My leg must be broken by the way it feels. Here I am, all alone in these mountains, and nobody knows where I am. Even the boys can't find me in this place." He managed to get to a sitting position, moving cautiously because of his leg. Then he felt in his pocket and got a match, which he struck. By the glare of it he looked around. He saw nothing but a bowlder-strewn expanse. Then something moving, about a hundred feet away from him, attracted his attention. "It's my horse!" he exclaimed. "If I can only get the animal over here, maybe I can crawl on his back and he'll take me to camp." He called to the steed, but the animal gave no sign that it heard him. It continued to crop what scanty herbage there was. "I've got to crawl over to it," mused poor Gabe, "and how I'm going to do it with a busted leg is more than I know. But it's got to be done. Something may happen to the boys. Here goes." He started to crawl, but such an intense pain shot through his leg that it made him sick and faint. He leaned back against a big rock with a groan. "No use!" he murmured. "I'm done for, I guess. Old Gabe Harrison has done his last prospecting. I'll die here--all alone. If I only knew the boys were safe!" Then the pain and exhaustion brought a merciful insensibility. When Gabe opened his eyes again it was morning, and the sun was shining brightly. The horse he had ridden, and which had been the innocent cause of his misfortune, was now farther off, having gone to a little stream to drink. "Oh, how I wish I had some of that water," thought poor Gabe. "My throat is parched. I wonder if the horse won't come to me now?" He called, but the animal only raised its head, looked at him, and went on feeding. "I'm going to crawl and get a drink of water if it kills me!" exclaimed the miner. "Might as well die in comfort if I've got to go." He moved his leg cautiously. To his surprise the pain was not so great as it had been. Then he felt of it. Though the limb was sore and tender no bones seemed to be broken. "Guess it's only a bad strain," he said. "There's some chance for me, after all. I'll try to catch the horse." It was hard work, crawling along a few feet at a time, stopping to rest every now and then, to ease the pain, but Gabe accomplished it. He reached the little mountain stream, and drank the cold water. That made him feel better, and a little later he managed to catch the horse, and pull himself up into the saddle. Fortunately the animal seemed to know that the man was wounded, and kept still until the miner was mounted. "Now it isn't so bad," said Gabe, "though my leg does hurt like all possessed. But I guess I can get to camp, and the boys will take care of me for a while. I'll be as good as ever in a few days, as long as nothing's broken." Cautiously guiding his horse, Gabe made his way down the mountain trail. It took him twice as long to reach the camp as it had to make the journey the night before, but finally he came to where he had left the boys and their horses. To his surprise neither of the lads were there, nor were their horses. There was only some of the camp stuff, and the pack which Gabe had removed from his steed's back before setting off into the mountains. "Well, this gets me!" he exclaimed. "Where can they have gone? I told them to stay here until I came back, and I'm sure they would, for they don't know the trail. Their horses are gone too. I wonder----" A sudden idea coming to him, he slowly dismounted from his horse, and crawled to the stakes to which had been fastened the steeds of the two lads. The short ends of the ropes that remained showed they had been broken. "Something's happened!" exclaimed Gabe. "Those horses have got loose while the boys were away. But why did Jed and Will go away? Could it have been to look for me? If so, why aren't they here now? It's too much for me. Lucky my pack is left. I'm half starved." By slowly crawling about he managed to get himself a meal. He felt better after that, and, having made a closer examination of his injured leg, and finding there was only a strain, which was rapidly getting better, he prepared to make himself as comfortable as possible in camp. But he was sorely puzzled at the absence of the boys, and he made up his mind, as soon as he could travel with more safety, that he would set off after them, if they did not return that night, which he hoped they would do. But night came, and Jed and Will did not come back. Much worried, Gabe prepared to spend the lonely dark hours in the deserted camp. Meanwhile, Jed and Will were flying from the pursuing gamblers. As they went on along the valley, they found that the trail turned and went up the mountain. "Shall we take it?" asked Will. "Nothing else to do," replied Jed. "We can't stand and fight those scoundrels. The only thing to do is to keep on." "But we may get lost in the mountains." "That's happened already. We can't be much worse off that way. Neither of us know where we are, nor how to get back to camp. The only thing to do is to keep on. We may distance them, and we may strike a mining camp, where we can get help." Still behind them came the desperate men who half guessed at the truth--that the boys had gold--and this gold the gamblers were determined to obtain. "I think we're leaving them behind," remarked Will, after a pause, during which they rode hard. "Seems as if we couldn't hear them quite so plainly," agreed Jed. "But don't stop. It'll soon be dark, and maybe we can give them the slip." Whether this happened, or whether the pursuers knew the boys could not escape them, the lads did not know. Certainly when it got too dark to travel any more in safety on the uncertain mountain trail, there was no longer the echo of hoofbeats behind them. "Let's stop and make a sort of camp," proposed Jed. "We can't go on like this all night. We'll eat a bit, rest, and start the first thing in the morning." But in the morning they had hardly made a hurried breakfast, and started along the trail again, ere from behind came the sounds of pursuit. "They're after us!" said Jed grimly. "They want that gold," added Will, "but they're not going to get it!" CHAPTER XXII STAKING THEIR CLAIMS Once more the pursuit was on, but the boys were determined never to give up as long as their horses could go. On their part the bad men were equally relentless. Urged on by the greed of Con Morton, the three kept up the chase. "What's the good of it?" asked Haverhill, when after the second day the boys were still in the lead. "They'll get away from us." "No, they'll not," said Morton fiercely. "I'll catch 'em if it takes a week!" "What makes you think they have gold?" "I'm sure of it. The way they acted convinces me of that. And I'm going to make 'em tell where they got it." On they kept. The steeds of the boys were getting weary, for though they kept up a good lead they could only stop at short intervals for feed and water. This could not last, and Jed knew it. But with grim determination he and Will kept on. It was toward the close of the fourth day of the pursuit amid the mountains. Only the fact that there were a number of trails, which wound in and out, had, up to this, prevented the capture of the boys. They doubled on their track several times, and thus fooled the gamblers, who knew as little of the mountains as did Will and Jed. And, in darkness, it was equally impossible for either party to advance, so uncertain was the travel. But the bad men had this advantage--their horses were used to the mountains, and those of the boys were not. The pace was too rough and was being kept up too long for the farm steeds. They began to go slower. "They're getting closer," announced Will, as they trotted along a ledge which skirted a dizzy canyon. "I can hear them more plainly." "Guess you're right," admitted Jed. "Suppose we hide the gold somewhere, and let them catch us?" "No, there's no telling what such desperate men would do to us. Let's keep on." They urged their tired horses to a gallop. As they turned into a broader part of the trail, they could hear the rattle of stones dislodged by the horses of their pursuers. "They're closing in," spoke Jed, "and I can't get any more speed out of Pete. I guess it's all up with us." "Better give up!" called a voice behind them. "We've got you, and the longer we have to chase you, the worse it will be. Hold on now, or I'll shoot!" They had a glimpse of Morton, with a revolver in his hand. "Think he'll shoot?" asked Will. Before Jed had a chance to answer there came the sharp crack of the weapon, and a bullet sang through the air over the boys' heads. Morton had purposely fired high, as he only wanted to scare the lads, but the shot had an unexpected effect. It so startled the horses of Jed and Will that they galloped forward as no urging by voice or whip could have made them. "Shoot again!" cried Jed softly. "That's what we need. We'll leave 'em behind again!" They were coming out on a shoulder of the mountain now, and could look down into the valley below them. There seemed to be something familiar about it. Both lads noted that at once. "Isn't that where we were encamped?" asked Jed. "It certainly looks like it," added Will. "And there's a horse there, and a man who looks like Gabe!" "It is Gabe!" cried Jed. "Hurrah! We're back at our old camp! Now let Morton and his gang come after us if they dare!" The trail led downward, and the horses of the lads, finding going easier, or, perhaps, recognizing the place where they had strayed from, and desiring to get back to it, did not drop back into the slow pace that had characterized their gait before the shot was fired. "Hello, Gabe!" yelled Jed, waving his hat at the old man. Mr. Harrison looked up. He recognized Jed and Will. He swung his hat in answer and shouted a welcome. At that moment the pursuers came in sight around the bend in the trail. They, too, saw the camp, and noted Gabe. But they also saw that he walked with a limp. Instead of turning back, as the boys expected the gamblers would, they kept on. "Are you going up against Gabe?" asked Haverhill of Morton. "He's a good fighter." "I'm not afraid. He's been hurt. See him limp. I've come too far to back out now. I'm going to get that gold!" "I'm with you," said the third gambler, whose name was Sim Sanders. "We three are more than a match for them." On they galloped toward the camp, where Gabe in wonder awaited the arrival of the boys. He saw the men in pursuit, and knew who they were. Hobbling to where he had left his rifle, he secured the weapon. Into the camp rushed Jed and Will, their tired horses barely able to carry them. After them came the three gamblers. "What do you want here?" demanded Gabe. "We want the gold those tenderfeet found, and we're going to have it even if we have to fight!" answered Morton savagely. "Then you'll have to fight," replied Gabe grimly. "I don't know anything about any gold they have, for we haven't struck any luck yet, but if they have any they're going to keep it, and you know what kind of a man I am, when it comes to a fight." "Ride 'em down!" exclaimed Haverhill. Gabe was about to raise his rifle, when an unexpected diversion occurred. There was heard a sound of galloping. Every one turned to see what it was, and then into the camp rode five horsemen, each one with a pack on the saddle before him, and a rifle in his hand. At the sight of the foremost rider Gabe cried: "Ted! Ted Jordan! You're just in time! I'm hurt and these scoundrels are trying to rob us!" "Whoop!" yelled Ted. "If it ain't my old partner, Gabe Harrison! Who's trying to rob you? Those chaps? Go for 'em, boys! Show 'em how the lads from Dizzy Gulch can handle a crowd of gamblers and thieves!" But Morton and his cronies did not wait for this. Wheeling their horses, they rode back the way they had come, while to hasten their speed the members of Ted Jordan's party fired several shots over the heads of the scoundrels. "Well! well!" exclaimed Ted, when quietness had been restored. "How in the world did you get here, Gabe?" "Prospecting with these two lads," indicating Jed and Will. "But what takes you away from Dizzy Gulch?" "Dizzy Gulch has petered out. It's no good. There was only outcropping gold, and that's all gone. So I made up a party, left the place, and we're prospecting. Have you had any luck?" "Not much." "But we have!" exclaimed Jed, as he pulled some of the nuggets from their hiding place, and showed them to the astonished miners. "What! Where did you get those?" asked Gabe. Jed and Will quickly explained, telling where their wonderful find was located. They also gave an account of the pursuit, and how they had, by great luck, managed to get on the trail that led back to camp. Gabe explained what had happened to him, and said that his leg was getting better every hour. "I'm all right to travel now, if you go slow," he said. "Travel? Travel where?" asked Ted Jordan. "To where the boys made the lucky strike, of course. We'll all go there and stake out claims. If Dizzy Gulch is no good we've found something better." They started off, not making especially fast progress on account of Gabe. They calculated to take two days in getting to the place, and they had no fear now that Con Morton's gang would interfere with them. It was toward the evening of the first day, when as they were looking for a good place to camp, that Gabe Harrison remarked, as he looked up toward the sky: "I think we're in for a bad storm." "What makes you think so?" asked Ted Jordan. "The way my leg hurts. It always hurts when there's a storm coming." "It doesn't look so," remarked one of the men. "The sky's as pretty as a picture." "You wait," said old Gabe, slowly shaking his head. In spite of the fact that no one else took much stock in Gabe's prophecy, it was noticed that the camp was made more snug than usual, and the men looked well to the fastenings of their horses. After supper, when they were all seated about the campfire, the men smoking and telling stories, to which the two boy gold miners listened eagerly, one of the men remarked: "I believe it is going to blow up a little rain." The evening sky was beginning to be overcast with clouds, and there was a moaning and sighing to the wind, as if it bemoaned the fact that the pleasant scene was so soon to be spoiled by a storm. "Better look to our tent-ropes, boys," suggested Gabe, for he and the two lads from the farm bunked together in a small tent that had been brought along. "I don't want it blown away in the night, and have us all get soaking wet." The darkness increased more rapidly, now that the sky was becoming thickly covered with clouds, and the wind grew stronger. "Say, do you notice anything queer?" asked Jed of Will, as they stood together on a little jutting point of rock and looked over the valley spread out below them, a valley now shrouded in gloom. "Something queer? How do you mean?" "I mean like when your foot goes to sleep, and you try to walk on it." "As if pins and needles were all over you?" asked Will. "Yes, that's it." "I did notice something like that," admitted his brother, "but I didn't think it was anything. It's growing worse, though." "You're right, it is. Let's ask the men and old Gabe if they feel it. Why, it's just like an electric battery now." The boys looked at each other curiously and in some alarm. They were both now conscious of a very peculiar sensation. Their flesh all over was tingling as if tiny needles were being brushed against them. "Do you notice anything queer, Gabe?" asked Will. "Queer!" exclaimed the miner. "I should say I did. It feels like ginger ale tastes." "That's it," remarked one of the men. "I was wondering what was the matter with me." The miners and the boys were ill at ease. There seemed to be something strange in the air about them--some unseen influence at work. They looked all around. The storm was evidently coming closer. The wind was now blowing quite a gale, and there were occasional mutterings of thunder. "The horses feel it, too," observed Ted. "I don't like it here. I wish we'd kept on, or else stopped down below." Hardly had he spoken than there came a vivid flash of lightning, followed an instant later by a startling clap of thunder. But it was not the lightning which caused every one in the camp to jump sharply. Nor was it the thunder. "Did you feel that?" cried Jed. "I should say I did," answered Will. "A regular electric shock, that's what it was. Felt as if I had hold of the business-end of a battery." There came another flash of lightning, a far-off one, for the forked tongues of it shot down behind a distant, towering peak, but the effect on the little party of gold-seekers was even more pronounced than before. Gabe fairly leaped into the air, in spite of his injured leg. "Tarantulas and centipedes!" he cried. "Something's the matter!" "We're on top of a natural electric battery!" shouted Ted Jordan. "No, we're not, but it's almost as bad," spoke one of the men. "I know what it is." "What then?" cried several. "We're on a part of the mountain that's filled with iron ore. The electricity is attracted to it, and we're getting shocks from it. I was in a place like this once before, out in Australia, and a lot of natives were killed during a storm. The iron ore acts just like a live wire." "Then we'd better get off," said Will. "I don't want to be electrified any more." "Move's the word, and we can't be any too quick," spoke Gabe. There came another flash, and once more the gold-hunters felt the sensation of pins and needles. They noted, too, that the storm seemed coming more rapidly toward them. "Up stakes and vamoose!" shouted one of the men, who had been living on a ranch. "Let's get away from here before it's too late." "It'll be worse when the rain comes," stated the man who had explained about the iron ore causing the trouble. That his theory was right was admitted by all the miners, when they had examined the character of the ground on which they stood. They lost no time in breaking camp, and they had only gotten the tents down and re-arranged the packs on the horses, when the storm broke in a fury of wind and rain. Fortunately, this outburst seemed to take the edge off the electrical outburst, and they were hoping they would escape without any more shocks. But it was a vain hope. When the ground was thoroughly wet there came such a sudden glare of lightning that it nearly blinded every one. The crash of thunder was not an instant in following, and such an electrical shock resulted that one of the men was knocked down. As for the horses, they were so frightened that it was with difficulty that they could be controlled. "Hurry up!" cried Ted Jordan. "We're likely to be killed if we stay here. Hurry, every one!" The man who had been knocked down arose with a curious look on his face. He ran at top speed until he came to a spot about five hundred yards from where the others were. "It's all right here," he cried. "No iron ore here. You'll be safe when you get here." They made all haste to join him, slipping, stumbling and leaping over the rough way. The rain was falling in torrents, and even the slight discharges of electricity that followed the one big flash set their flesh to tingling, and made them fear that worse was to follow. But they got safely across that patch of ore, and were soon on neutral ground. There they tried to establish a camp, but it was hard work in the storm. The boys helped as best they could, and so did Gabe, but his leg pained him too much to allow him to do a great deal. At length, however, something like order was brought out of chaos. It was out of the question to get tents up, so strong did the wind blow, but the men used the canvas to shelter them somewhat from the downpour. The horses were tethered to trees in the open. "Look there!" cried Jed suddenly, pointing to the spot of ore which they had left. They all looked and beheld a curious sight. Right on the place where they had first camped the ground seemed covered with tiny blue and green spots. They leaped about here and there, and some seemed like tiny flames. "It's the electricity," called the man who had explained about the effect of the lightning on the iron ore. "A connection has been made because of the rain, and that place is now charged like a battery. It's a good thing we got away from there." They all congratulated themselves on this score, and watched with curiosity, not unmixed with fear, the curious play of the lightning and the tiny flames seeming to come up from the earth. The rain kept up for an hour more, and then ceased. By that time it was impossible to light a fire, so they had to eat cold victuals; but they did manage to get up the tents, though it was as bad inside them as it was out, for they were soaking wet. But they all accepted it as part of the game they were playing, and as part of the price they had to pay for gold. The night seemed as if it would never end, but morning came at last, and with the advent of daylight every one felt better. The old miners knew how to get dry wood from the inside of hollow logs, and soon, over cups of steaming coffee, the terrors and discomforts of the night were forgotten. "Forward!" cried Gabe when breakfast was over and the packs adjusted. "Now for the place of the nuggets. You boys will have to show us the way soon." "We can do that, all right," declared Jed. "We'll show you where we hid the nuggets." They traveled on all the rest of that day. Jed and Will were able to direct the men along the same trail they had taken in retreating from Con Morton and his gang. As they advanced the various landmarks were pointed out by the lads. "We're 'most there now," said Will as they turned around a shoulder of the mountain and set off at right angles to the way they had been going. "We'll be there in half an hour now." "Just in time to dig out about a thousand dollars' worth of the yellow boys and have grub," remarked Ted Jordan. "Well, it can't happen any too soon for me, boys. I've been down on my luck lately, and I need a change." They pressed on more eagerly, the two boys in the lead, as they alone knew where the secret spot was. "Here's the place!" cried Will at length. "No, it isn't," declared Jed. "It's farther on." "It's here," insisted Will. "Don't you remember this big rock? I said at the time that the nuggets were about five hundred feet from it." "Which way?" asked Gabe quickly. "That's important to know." "Right in line with that dead tree," answered Will. "I'll show you." He walked confidently to the spot. "Yes, that's it," spoke Jed, convinced that his brother was right. Will began to dig, while the men gathered about him, with eager eyes watching him. It meant a lot to them, for some of them were down to their last dollar, and a rich strike would prove a fortune to them. "Did we put 'em as deep as that?" asked Jed, when Will had removed considerable dirt and had not come upon any of the precious yellow nuggets. "Must have, but I don't remember that we went very deep." "Let me have a try," suggested Ted. "I'll soon turn 'em out." He took the pick from Will and began to dig. He went quite deeply into the ground, and turned it up for some distance in a circle. But there were no nuggets. "They're--they're gone!" gasped Will at length. "Somebody's taken them! Morton and his gang!" came from Jed. "He saw where we hid them!" "He couldn't," insisted Will. "Are you sure this is the place?" asked Gabe anxiously. "Take a good look, boys." Much depended on the two young gold-hunters. The men gazed at them anxiously. "I'm sure that's the rock," said Will. "Aren't you, Jed?" "It certainly looks like it." "Is that the only mark you went by when you uncovered and then hid the nuggets?" went on the old miner. "Now, think carefully." "No, there was another stone near the big rock," said Jed suddenly. "I remember now. It looked like a man's face. I thought at the time that it looked like Con Morton. There were two rocks close together, a big one and a little one." "Where's the little one?" asked Gabe. "It's gone." "Maybe it's the big one that's gone," suggested the old miner. "What do you mean?" "I mean maybe the big stone got displaced by reason of the storm last night. It might have rolled several hundred feet out of the way. In that case you'd be all out of your calculations. Suppose you look for the little rock?" "That's it!" cried Jed. "I thought this place didn't look just right. It's farther up." They ran up the trail a little way, and Jed gave a shout of delight. "There's the little rock!" he cried. "Now for the nuggets!" They knew just where to dig now, and five minutes later Jed and Will had uncovered their store of gold. Such a shout as went up from the men, old Gabe joining in! "We've struck a bonanza!" cried Ted. And so they had; for when they came to stake out their claims, they found the indications were of such richness that the mines bid fair to be regular bonanzas. At Gabe's suggestion they formed a sort of company, taking in the men who had come with Ted at such an opportune time. Because they were the discoverers of the gold mine, Jed and Will were given larger shares than any of the others, though there was enough for all. "Now we must write and tell dad of our good luck," proposed Jed one night, in the new camp that had been formed near the place where the nuggets were found. "And I'll mail the letter," promised Ted. "I've got to ride to the town to-morrow." CHAPTER XXIII CHEERLESS PROSPECTS While Jed and his brother were having such exciting times in the West, matters at the Crosby farm were going along in their usual slow fashion. The first few days after Jed and Will, in company with Gabe Harrison, had departed, Mrs. Crosby and her daughter Nettie were very lonesome. "It does seem just as if I'd never see my boys again," said the mother, wiping away some tears gathered in her eyes. "You mustn't think that way, ma," said Nettie. "First thing you know they'll come back as rich--well, rich enough to have an automobile, maybe." "I'm afraid not. I haven't much faith in this gold-mining scheme, though I believe Mr. Harrison meant all right. I wish the boys had stuck to farming." "But, mother, they could hardly make a living at it. Look at father, how hard he has to work, and how little we can save." "I know it, but it's sure. We have our hens, and we get some eggs. We can go out in the garden and dig potatoes, and we have fruit." "Yes, but we can't live on eggs, potatoes and fruit," objected Nettie with a laugh. "Now, don't worry, mother. I'm sure the boys will make out all right, though it may take some time. It will be a month before they are in the gold region. I hope they send me some souvenir postals." "Do they have souvenir postals out in the mines?" "I guess so, mother. They have 'em most every place, and I've got quite a collection." Mrs. Crosby eagerly watched the mails for the next few days, and she was rewarded by receiving brief notes from the boys, written on their route, telling of the incidents of the way. As for Mr. Crosby, he was so busy preparing for winter and arranging to pay the interest on the mortgage, that he gave little thought, at first, to the two young gold miners. Of course, he was interested in them, and he hoped for their success, but he was worried about how he would get along without their help on the farm, though most of the fall work was done. The money received from the barley crop, together with some from the sale of other farm products, was, after part had been taken out for the boys' outfits, placed in the bank at Rossmore, which was the nearest large town to Lockport. Mr. Crosby wanted to keep the cash there until he had enough to meet the payment of interest on the mortgage, which would be due in a few weeks. He had not quite enough, and he did not see how he was going to complete the sum in time, but he trusted the man who held the mortgage would wait for the balance. He determined, however, to make it up if he could, and, for that reason, he was busier than usual, gathering in all the products he could afford to sell off. "You look worried, Enos," remarked Mrs. Crosby one evening, when her husband came in from the village. "Has anything happened?" "Nothing special. I saw Jimson this afternoon." "The man who holds the mortgage on this place?" "Yes. I told him I was afraid I'd be a few dollars short in the interest, and I asked him if he'd wait a few weeks." "What did he say?" "He said he wouldn't. Told me I had to have it all or he'd foreclose." "And take the farm away from us?" "That's what it would mean. He's been wanting it ever since he heard what a fine barley crop I raised." "What will you do?" "I don't know. I've tried my best to get the whole sum together, but I don't see how I can rake up another dollar. We have to live, and I can't touch the money I have put away for winter." "Maybe we could get along on less than usual," suggested Mrs. Crosby. "No, it's little enough as it is. I've calculated very closely, and the sum I have saved for winter is barely enough as it is. If anything happens, or one of us gets sick, there'll not be enough. I was thinking I might get something to do in the village, or over in Rossmore, but I can't leave you and Nettie here alone to look after the farm. I might sell the horse, but it would not bring much now. Nobody wants to keep a horse through the winter. I declare, I don't know what to do. Prospects are pretty dismal." "If we had the boys home now, maybe they could get work somewhere, and help out." "No, on the whole I'm glad the boys have gone out West. Their gold hunting may not amount to much--likely it won't--but it will be a good thing for them. They needed a little change from the drudgery of always working on a farm. Of course, if they were here they'd help, but they're not, and I'll not wish them back before they've had a fair chance, though I'd like to see them, for I miss them considerably." "So do I," added his wife. "And I wish they were home," added Nettie. "I haven't had a good game of checkers since Will went away." "I reckon they've got other things besides checkers to think about now," said her father. Two or three weeks passed. Mr. Crosby did his best to raise the additional money needed toward the interest on the mortgage, and as a last resort he had to sell his mowing machine. How he would get along the following summer, without it, he did not know, but he hoped better times would come. At any rate it was imperative that he have the interest, or he might lose his farm. It was coming on cool weather. The last of the crops had been gathered in, though in this work the farmer sadly missed the help of his two sturdy boys. One frosty morning, he got up early to go out and feed the pigs, on which he depended for his own pork, and which he hoped he would have enough of to sell at a profit. There was a curious silence in the pen, for, usually, the porkers were squealing from the first show of daylight until they received their breakfast. "That's rather queer," said Mr. Crosby to himself, as he neared the pig-pen, with a pail of warm sour milk, which the porkers usually got first. "I wonder why they aren't squealing their heads off as they always are?" When he got to the pen he saw the cause for the silence. Stretched out on the ground were six fine pigs, all dead. "Well, if this isn't hard luck!" exclaimed the farmer, setting down the pail he had carried out. "And I counted on them to help us through the winter!" He got over into the pen. There was no doubt about it. The pigs were dead, and valueless, as far as any use he could make of them was concerned. He called in a neighbor, who knew something of animals, and this man said the pigs had probably eaten something that had not agreed with them, as there were no signs that they had been hurt. This view was generally accepted, when it became known what misfortune had visited Mr. Crosby, though no one could tell what had caused the death of the animals. "Another heavy loss," mused Mr. Crosby that afternoon, as he got up from the dinner table. "I declare, I don't know what's going to happen! I've got the interest money, but I'm afraid I'll have to use part of that to live on, now that we won't have any pork to put away for the winter." "Oh, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Crosby, "troubles never come singly! We certainly are in hard luck, Enos." "That's right," he admitted gloomily. "I don't know what to do. But there, Debby," he added, as he saw how badly his wife felt. "We'll make out somehow. We always have. I can let the interest go, and we can sell out the farm." "No, don't do that," exclaimed his wife quickly. "We must hold on to that. It's the only way we can make a living. I don't know anything except farming, and you don't either." "That's right, unless I could learn gold mining," admitted Mr. Crosby with a sad smile. "But we'll get along somehow." How he didn't know, but he knew he must not let his wife worry, as she was not strong, and had only recently gotten over a severe illness. "Maybe I could help you, papa," spoke Nettie, who had listened with some worriment to the talk of her parents. "You, my dear girl? How could you help us?" "Why, I hear they want girls to work at the machines in the mill over at Rossmore." "I'll never consent to let you go there," said her father. "We'll sell the farm first. Not that there's anything wrong about a girl working in a mill, but I want you to get a good education. No, Nettie, I'll find a way, somehow." "Whoa!" exclaimed a voice out in the driveway, and, looking out, the farmer saw a man in a carriage. "Are you there, Mr. Crosby?" the man called. "Oh, yes! How d'ye do, Mr. Jimson?" replied the farmer, as he recognized the man who held the mortgage on the farm. "I see you've come for the interest." "Yes. I hope you have it ready." "Yes, it's all together. But I guess I'll have to ask you to drive me over to the bank in Rossmore. My pigs all died this morning, and I was so put out I didn't get a chance to go over. The money's there in the bank." "Is your interest money in the bank at Rossmore?" asked Mr. Jimson, in a curious voice. "Yes. Why?" "That bank failed yesterday," was the startling answer. "The depositors won't get a cent!" CHAPTER XXIV LOSING THE FARM Hardly able to believe what he heard, Mr. Crosby stared at his informant. "Wha--what's that you said?" he asked. "I said the bank at Rossmore failed yesterday, and that none of the depositors will get a cent. If you had your money there it's all gone." "Gone! Failed! I--I don't understand." "Well, it's just as I'm telling you. The cashier skipped off with the money." "With my money?" "With everybody's money. But I got ahead of them. I heard the bank was shaky and I drew out every cent I had there a couple of days ago. You see, the cashier took the cash about a week back, but he concealed his theft. Then, when the bank officials discovered it, they kept it quiet for a time, hoping to make it up. But, it seems, one of the vice-presidents was in with the cashier, and what the fellow didn't steal the vice-president had used in bad speculations, so the bank's wrecked." "And my money's gone," repeated Mr. Crosby, in a dazed voice. "I'm afraid so." "What's happened? What's the matter, Enos?" asked Mrs. Crosby, who came out on the porch where Mr. Jimson was. She had not heard all he said, but she gathered that there was some trouble. "We're ruined, Debby!" exclaimed the farmer. "All our money in the bank is gone!" "Gone?" "Yes, the bank has failed. I'm sorry, Mr. Jimson, but I can't pay you the interest," went on Mr. Crosby. "I intended going to Rossmore to-day to get it for you. Now I can't." "I don't know about that," replied the holder of the mortgage on the Crosby farm. "I don't see what the failure of the bank has to do with you not paying me my interest." "Why, I can't pay it if there isn't any money in the bank." "I have nothing to do with that. I loaned you a certain sum on this farm. You signed a paper agreeing to pay me my interest at a certain time. That time has come and I want my money." "But I can't pay you if the bank has failed." "I tell you that has nothing to do with me!" exclaimed Mr. Jimson angrily. "I want my money--that's all. How am I to know you had the interest in the bank?" "But I tell you I did!" "Humph! A man's word isn't good for much nowadays. I want my interest, and I intend to have it." "I'm very sorry, Mr. Jimson," said Mr. Crosby in a strained voice, "but I haven't got it." "Then you'll have to get it. Take it from some other bank." "Do I look like a man who had money in two banks?" demanded the poor farmer. "I guess not! It takes all I can rake and scrape to make a living and pay the interest. I put the money for the mortgage in the bank where it would be safe. I didn't know the bank would fail." "Well, you'll have to get it somewhere," went on the mortgage holder. "Sell some of your things, or--or something." "I haven't much left to sell--unless I sell myself, and I'm pretty much of a slave the way it is." "Huh! Any man who can afford to send his sons out West on a pleasure trip ought to have the money to pay his interest," retorted Mr. Jimson. "My sons did not go on a pleasure trip," answered Mr. Crosby. "They went to hunt for gold." "And a mighty foolish excursion it was, too. Why didn't you send them to hunt for the fairy bag of gold at the foot of the rainbow? There would have been about as much sense in it." "They went with an experienced miner, Mr. Jimson. Besides, my boys had earned a vacation." "Oh, they had, eh? Then why don't they send back some gold nuggets? Why don't they pay the interest?" "They would if they could. Can't you wait a few weeks? I may be able to get it together again. Or the officers may catch that cashier and get some of the money back." "I'll not wait one day. As for catching that cashier, I don't believe they'll do it. The money is gone. You know what the agreement is in the mortgage. Either you pay up my interest the day it is due, or take the consequences." "And what are the consequences?" asked Mrs. Crosby, who had been an anxious listener to this conversation. "The farm will be sold," replied Mr. Jimson. "That is my right and privilege. All I get above the amount of the mortgage and the sheriff's fee will go to you, of course, but I don't imagine it will be much. Now I haven't any time to stand here talking to you. Have you my interest? Yes or no. To-day is the day it's due." "I'm sorry, but I haven't got it," replied Mr. Crosby. "All right; then I'll instruct the sheriff to sell the farm." "Oh, you wouldn't do that, would you?" exclaimed Mrs. Crosby. "Of course I will. Why not? That's business. I don't lend money for fun. You'd better get ready to move. Maybe you can go out West and dig gold." And with that mean reminder Mr. Jimson drove off. The misfortune was such a terrible one that at first the Crosby family could hardly realize it. They were stunned. But it was not long before they awoke to a realization of what it meant. Mr. Crosby tried in vain to raise the money, so unexpectedly lost, to pay the interest. He could borrow from no one, as he had nothing he could offer as security. He had a small sum put away for the needs of the winter, but this he knew it would be unsafe to touch. So a few days after the visit of Mr. Jimson, notices were put up on the house, barn and other buildings of the farm, stating that they would be sold at public auction, under foreclosure proceedings, because the interest on the mortgage was unpaid. And some time later that sad event happened. Quite a crowd of farmers gathered at the Crosby farm to bid on it. It was a good piece of land, but times were dull, and when all expenses had been met, including the mortgage, interest and sheriff's fees, there was only a few hundred dollars left for Mr. Crosby, his wife and daughter. Most of their possessions had been sold, as a chattel mortgage had been given as a last resort to raise the cash for the interest. "And this is what I have left after twenty years of hard work," said Mr. Crosby sadly when the auction was over and he had received the few hundred dollars. CHAPTER XXV THE WELCOME LETTER--CONCLUSION "Well, what are we going to do now?" asked Mrs. Crosby as a little later she, with her husband and daughter, sat in their desolate home. "We've got to do something," replied Mr. Crosby. "I've got to make a new start, I suppose, and it comes hard at my time of life." "Let me help, daddy," said Nettie, putting her arm around her father's neck. "I heard of a good place in the woolen mill. I can earn four dollars a week." "Not while I have health and strength," replied Mr. Crosby. "We'll manage to make out somehow," he added more cheerfully, for now that the worst had happened, he was ready to face anything. "The boys ought to know about this," said Mrs. Crosby. "Maybe they have found a gold mine and can help us." "Not much chance of that," responded her husband. "But I would like to hear from them. We haven't had a letter since they got to the mountains, and the last time they wrote they were about to start for Dizzy Gulch. We can't expect any help from them, but perhaps they will want to come back, now that we have lost our farm. Probably we three can get work on some place--enough to earn a living, anyhow." "It will seem strange to be working for some one else, when you have had your own farm so many years," said Mrs. Crosby. "A man's farm isn't very much his when there's a mortgage on it. Never again will I try to live under such conditions. Why, I feel almost happy, now that I know there is no interest to meet. We will go somewhere else and begin life over again." "Yes, and we've got to go somewhere to-night," added Nettie with a laugh, the first real one since their misfortune. "We have no beds here--nearly everything was sold. What are we going to do, daddy--sleep in the barn, in the hay? Do you suppose the sheriff would let us?" "No need for that," replied her father. "We'll go to the hotel to-night. In the morning I will consider matters, and decide what is best to do. But I think I'll write a letter to the boys and tell them the bad news as gently as possible. Have you their address, Nettie?" "Yes, father, but I imagine they must be in the mountains now." "Well, mail will probably be forwarded. I'll ask them if they made out any worse with their gold hunting than I did with my farming." But though he made light of it, Mr. Crosby was a man broken in spirit. Through no fault of his own he found himself, in the decline of life, with hardly enough to live on half a year, and no prospects of anything better. Still he did not despair. The little family went to the village hotel that evening. Many of their neighbors, who sympathized with them, invited them to share their homes, but Mr. Crosby thought it would be less embarrassing for his wife and daughter if they went to the hotel. It was on the way there that Mr. Hayson, the village postmaster, stopped Mr. Crosby on the street. "Sorry to hear of your bad luck," he said. "It might have been worse," replied Mr. Crosby. "Yes, but not much. I was on my way over to your place. I got a special-delivery letter for you, but as I didn't have anybody I could send with it, and as you didn't call, I had to keep it until I closed the office up. Here it is," and he drew from his pocket a rather soiled envelope with a blue stamp thereon. "Must have come a good way," remarked the postmaster. "I couldn't make out where, the marks were so blurred." "Why, it's Jed's writing!" exclaimed Mr. Crosby. "Jed? Your son?" "Yes. He and his brother are in the West looking for gold, but I don't suppose they'll find any." Mr. Crosby opened the letter and rapidly read it. As he did so the expression on his face changed. The look of care seemed to disappear, and his eyes brightened. "Looks as if it was good news," observed Mr. Hayson, who was an old acquaintance. "It is. Read that." Mr. Hayson rapidly glanced down the page. Some of the news which Jed wrote was unimportant, but this much seemed to stand out in bold relief: "We have struck a bonanza! One of the richest mines in the West! Will and I are rich! Sell out and come on. We have staked claims for the whole family! "JED." "Well, of all things! Who'd have believed it! A bonanza! Gold mines! Them boys rich!" exclaimed Mr. Hayson. "What are you going to do, neighbor Crosby?" "Do? Why, I'm going out there as fast as a train can take me. Sell out! I don't have to wait to sell out. I'm sold out already. But I must hurry and tell my wife and daughter. This is the best news I've had in many a year. The boys have struck it rich. Things looked pretty black a little while ago, but this welcome letter has changed everything. God bless Gabe Harrison! I guess he must have had a hand in this." Three weeks later, when Mr. Crosby, his wife and daughter reached the new diggings where Jed, Will and the old miner were, they learned all the details of the wonderful strike. For the mine, or rather mines, as there were several of them, were indeed bonanzas. The good luck of Jed and Will, which began when they found the nuggets, continued, and every claim staked out was a rich one. A regular gold-mining company was formed, taking over the temporary one started by Jed and the other miners, and the Crosby family were the principal holders of the stock. Machinery was installed, and at last accounts the concern was paying better than ever. One day Gabe, who made his home with the Crosby family, came in looking quite pleased over something. "What's the matter?" asked Jed. "Have you found some more nuggets?" "No, but almost as good. That gambler, Con Morton, has been arrested, and I understand I am likely to get back most of the property out of which he swindled me." A few weeks later this occurred, and though Gabe did not regain all of his fortune, he had enough to live on in comfort. Morton was sentenced to a long term in prison. His two cronies disappeared, and were never heard of in that region again. As for Jed and Will, those plucky lads who graduated from a farm to a gold claim, they are now among the most prosperous and best known miners of the West, and if you are ever out that way I advise you to call on them. Perhaps they will show you where to pick up a small nugget or two as a souvenir of your visit. THE END * * * * * THE WEBSTER SERIES By FRANK V. WEBSTER 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. 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 Lakevilla _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_ * * * * * THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES By LESTER CHADWICK _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. 
40179	----	[Illustration: She found Douglas sitting in a forlorn heap in their tent. (_Frontis_) (_The Carter Girls' Week-End Camp_)] THE CARTER GIRLS' WEEK-END CAMP By NELL SPEED AUTHOR OF "The Molly Brown Series," "The Tucker Twins Series," etc. A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers New York Printed in U. S. A. Copyright, 1918, By HURST & COMPANY CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. A LETTER 5 II. THE RETURN 12 III. THE PROBLEM 30 IV. ROBERT CARTER'S ASTONISHING GIRLS 48 V. THE TUCKERS 66 VI. POST-PRANDIAL CONVERSATIONS 78 VII. THE STORM 97 VIII. THE DAMAGE DONE 115 IX. MR. MACHIAVELLI TUCKER 126 X. MR. HIRAM G. PARKER 142 XI. THE BIRD 165 XII. PLEASE REMIT 185 XIII. TEAKETTLE 194 XIV. THE FORAGERS 212 XV. BABES IN THE WOOD 232 XVI. TOM TIT 252 XVII. THE SPRING-KEEPER 269 XVIII. MORE FINDS 278 XIX. A DISCUSSION 286 XX. DR. WRIGHT TO THE RESCUE 298 XXI. LETTERS 311 The Carter Girls' Week-End Camp CHAPTER I A LETTER From Douglas Carter to her mother, Mrs. Robert Carter GREENDALE, VA., AUGUST --, 19--. MY DARLING MOTHER: Words cannot express the joy and gratitude all of us feel that father is really getting well. I shall never forget the miserable time last spring when Dr. Wright came into the library where Helen and Nan and Lucy and I were sitting and told us of his very serious condition. I had felt he was in a very bad way but did not realize it was quite so dreadful. I am sure you did not, either. And when Dr. Wright said that you must take him on a long sea voyage and we understood that we were to be left behind, the bottom seemed to drop out of the universe. And now, dear mother, I have a confession to make: You took for granted we were going to the springs when we wrote we were to spend the summer in the mountains, and we thought with all the worry you had about father, perhaps it was best to let you go on thinking it. Of course you did not dream of the necessity of our doing anything to make money as father had never told you much about his finances. Well, mother dear, there was about $80 in the bank in father's private account. Fortunately for the business, which Mr. Lane and Dick have carried on to the best of their ability, there was some more in another account, but we have managed without touching that. I hope I am not going to shock you now, but you shall have to know it--we have rented our lovely home, furnished, for six months with privilege of a year, and we have sold the car, dismissed the servants--all but Susan and Oscar, who are up here at Greendale with us. This is what might shock you: We are running a week-end boarding camp here in the mountains and the really shocking part of it is--we are making money! It was a scheme that popped into Helen's head and it seemed such an excellent one that we fell to it, and with dear Cousin Lizzie Somerville chaperoning us and Lewis Somerville protecting us, we have opened our camp and actually would have to turn away boarders except that the boys are always willing to sleep out-of-doors and that makes room for others not so inclined. We see Dr. Wright quite often. He comes up for the Sunday in his car whenever he can spare the time. He has been kindness itself and has helped us over many rough places. There have been times when we have been downhearted and depressed over you and father, and then it has been his office to step in and reassure us that father was really getting better. He and Bobby are sworn friends and there is nothing Bobby will not do for him--even keep himself clean. We are well. Indeed, the mountain air has done wonders for all of us. Helen is working harder than any of us, but is the picture of health in spite of it. Nan is more robust than she has ever been in her life. I think the tendency she has always had to bronchitis has entirely disappeared. Dr. Wright says it is sleeping out-of-doors that has fixed her. Lucy has grown two inches, I do believe. She has been very sweet and helpful and as happy as the day is long with her chum Lil Tate here for the whole summer. Mrs. Tate brought her up for a week-end and the child has been with us now for over two months. We have two boys of fifteen who are here for the summer, too, Frank Maury and Skeeter Halsey. They are a great comfort to me as I feel sure Lucy and Lil will be taken care of by these nice boys. Of course, the original idea of our camp was to have only week-end boarders, but we find it very nice to have some steadies besides as that means a certain fixed amount of money, but I am not going to let you worry your pretty head about money. We have a perennial guest, also--none other than pretty, silly Tillie Wingo. She came to the opening week-end and proved herself to be such a drawing card for the male sex that we decided it would be good business to ask her to visit us indefinitely. It was Nan's idea. You know Tillie well enough to understand that she is always thoroughly good-natured and kind without being helpful in any way. All she has to do is look pretty and chatter and giggle. Of course she must dance, and she does that divinely. She is a kind of social entertainer, and the number of youths who swarm to Week-End Camp because of her would astonish you. She is certainly worth her keep. Here I am touching on finances again when I did not mean to at all. We are so happy at the thought of having you and father with us for the rest of the summer. Dr. Wright thinks the life here will be almost as good for father as that on shipboard, provided the week-enders do not make too much racket for him. If they do, we are to have a tent pitched for him out of ear-shot. Poor Cousin Lizzie Somerville is very happy over your coming because it will release her. Her duties as chaperone have not been very strenuous, but the life up here has been so different from anything she has ever had before that it has been hard on her, I know, harder than she has ever divulged, I am sure. Now she can go to her beloved springs and play as many games of cards as she chooses. Dr. Wright says it would be better for you not to go to Richmond at all before coming here, as father might want to go to work again, and it is very important for him to be kept from it for many months yet. He is to meet you in New York and bring you straight to Greendale. I can go down to Richmond with you after we get father settled here, and we can get what clothes you want for the mountains. We have everything in the way of clothes stored at Cousin Lizzie Somerville's. It is very lovely here at Greendale, and I do hope you and father will like it as much as we have. Dr. Wright will tell you more about it when he meets you in New York on Wednesday. I am sending this letter by him as it seems safer than to trust to Uncle Sam. We only hope the life up here will not be too rough for you. We will do all we can to smooth it for you; but a camp is a camp, you know, dear mother. Our best love to father. Your loving daughter, DOUGLAS. CHAPTER II THE RETURN "Oh, Douglas, I'm all of a tremble!" declared Helen Carter, as she knotted her jaunty scarlet tie and settled her gray felt hat at exactly the proper angle. "To think that they are really coming back!" "I can hardly believe it. The time has gone quickly and still it seems somehow as though we had been living in this camp for ages. I am afraid it will go hard with the poor little mother." "Cousin Lizzie stood it and she is years and years older than mother," and Helen looked critically at her dainty nose and rubbed a little powder on it. "Yes, I know, but Cousin Lizzie is made of sterner stuff than poor little mumsy. I think that mother is the kind of woman that men would fight to protect but when all is told that Cousin Lizzie is the kind who would go out and help fight if need be. I can fancy her loading rifles and handing them to the men----" "So can I," laughed Helen, "and saying as she loaded: 'To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven; a time to kill and a time to heal.'" "I am ashamed of myself--but somehow I am glad Cousin Lizzie did not think it was her duty to defer her going until mother and father got here. She has been splendid and too good to us for anything, but it is a kind of relief for her to be out of the cabin and away before they come," said Douglas as she completed her rapid dressing by pulling an old khaki hat down over her rather refractory, if very lovely Titian hair. "I know just what you mean. I hoped all the time she would realize that the morning train was much the better one for her to get off on, and then she could reach the springs in time for an afternoon game. It was a feeling I had that she might be too critical of poor little mumsy. You see we don't know just how camp life is going to appeal to mumsy," said Helen. "Exactly! It may take her a while to get used to it," and Douglas let a little sigh escape her. "I wish they could have arrived on any other day than Friday. Our week-ends in August have been so full. I fancy many of the week-enders will want to stay on for holidays, too." "If it is only not too much for father. Dr. Wright thinks it won't be. He says noise in the open air is so different from housed noises for nervous persons." A honk from the faithful old mountain goat, a name they had given the ancient Ford that Bill Tinsley had contributed to the camp's use, warned them it was time to start for the station. One more dab of powder on Helen's nose completed her toilet and calling to Nan and Lucy to pile in, they started their ever perilous descent of the mountain to Greendale. Bobby, who had been captured by a determined Susan and washed and dressed in honor of his returning parents, was occupying the seat of state in Josh's cart, clean but indignant at the outrage committed. "'Tain't no sense in washin'. I mos' wisht I'd been born a pig. If I had, I betcher I'd a been a pet pig an' some fool woman would er wanted to curl my tail and tie a bow 'round my neck." Such pessimism was too much for Josh, who shook with laughter as the slab-sided mule, Josephus, limped cheerfully down the mountain road. To think that mother and father were really coming! The Carter girls lined themselves along the little station awaiting the train bearing the beloved passengers. What a healthy-looking quartette they were after a whole summer in the open. Douglas' fair skin was reddened from exposure and her hair showed the lack of care that her mother had always exacted. Douglas attached very little importance to her appearance, and was constantly being put to rights by the more correct Helen. Even now, as they waited for the train, Helen was regretting that she had permitted her older sister to wear the very disgraceful-looking khaki hat. "Khaki color is certainly unbecoming to blondes," she thought. "I do want Douglas to look her best for mother. Father will think all of us are beautiful, anyhow, no matter what we wear," and Helen could not help a feeling of satisfaction over her own very becoming cold-gravy costume with the touch of scarlet at her throat. It had seen much service but still had that unmistakable air of style that was characteristic of all of Helen Carter's belongings. Nan was quite robust-looking for Nan. She had inherited from her mother that soft black hair and those dusky eyes and a complexion of wondrous fairness that is seen sometimes in a rare type of Creole beauty. Mrs. Carter's almost angelic beauty (her few enemies called it doll-like) was repeated in her daughter in a somewhat more sturdy edition. Nan's mouth was larger and her eyes not quite so enormous; her nose a bit broader at the base and her chin squarer. Her attractive countenance showed a mixture of poetic feeling and sturdy common sense with a plentiful seasoning of humor and gave promise of her development into a very enchanting woman. All Nan asked of life was plenty of books and time to read them and a cloak of invisibility so that she would not be noticed. She was gradually overcoming the shyness that had always made her think that next to a cloak of invisibility the greatest boon her fairy godmother could grant her would be seven-league boots, so that she could get away from all embarrassing persons even if she could not hide from them. The summer of camping had certainly taken from her the look of fragility that had always been a source of uneasiness to her father but which her beautiful mother had rather prided herself on as it was in her eyes a mark of race and breeding. Lucy Carter, the youngest of the four, was developing rapidly into a very attractive girl. Her resemblance to Helen was growing more marked, much to her pretended disgust, but to her secret delight. Already her long legs had shot her saucy head up to within a level of Helen's, which made the younger sister ecstatically confident of her equality with the elder, whom in her heart of hearts she considered a paragon of perfection but with whom she was usually on sparring terms. Bobby, the idolized little brother, had changed more than any of the Carters during that summer. He had lost forever the baby curves and had taken on a lean, wiry spareness. His almost unearthly beauty was gone by reason of a great gap in his face caused by the loss of his first teeth. One permanent tooth had found its way through and, as is the way with the first permanent tooth, seemed very enormous in contrast to the tiny little pearls that had hitherto passed for teeth. His knees were scarred and scratched as were his lean brown legs. Two sore toes were tied up in dirty rags, having been ministered to by Aunt Mandy, the kind old mountain woman who bore the proud distinction in Bobby's mind of being the mother of Josh the boy and the owner of Josephus the mule. "I hear the whistle!" exclaimed Lucy, prancing with excitement. "So do I, but it is the saw mill over in the hollow," drawled Nan. "Won't it be terrible if the train is late and all the week-enders get here before mother and father?" wailed Helen. "Awful!" exclaimed Douglas. "If we can only get them settled in the cabin before the hullabaloo begins, maybe it won't seem so bad to them. I just can't stand it if the camp is going to be too much for father." "I'm most sure he will like it, but it's mother who will be the one to kick," said Nan. Kicking was not a very elegant way to express what no doubt would be the state of Mrs. Carter's mind over the rough camp life. "She's a-comin' now!" shouted Bobby. "I kin hear her a-chuggin' up grade! Listen! This is what she says: 'Catch a nigger! Catch a nigger! I'm a-comin'! I'm a-comin'!'" and the scion of the Carter family whistled shrilly through his sparse teeth, an accomplishment that had but recently come to him by reason of his loss. It was the train and on time, which would give the youthful proprietors of the week-end boarding camp time to get their invalid father and dainty mother safely stowed away in the cabin before the onrush of harum-scarum guests should begin. "Thank heaven!" was the pious ejaculation of the older girls. Douglas and Helen felt all the qualms and responsibilities that had been theirs on the opening of the camp at the beginning of the summer. It had proved such a success that confidence had come to them, but now that their parents were to join them, although they were very happy at the thought of seeing them, they had grave doubts about the way in which their mother would look upon their venture and about the ability of their father to endure the noise and confusion. Dr. Wright, who had gone to New York to meet the steamer, got off first, laden with parcels. Then came Mrs. Carter, looking so young and pretty that her daughters felt suddenly very mature. Mr. Carter followed his wife. He also was laden with bandboxes and bundles, while the grinning porter emerged with some difficulty from under a mass of suitcases, steamer rugs and dress boxes. Lewis Somerville extricated him in time for him to jump on the departing train as it made its laborious way up the steep grade, still singing the song that Bobby had declared it sang: "Catch a nigger! Catch a nigger! I'm a-comin'! I'm a-comin'!" "My girls! My girls!" Mrs. Carter flew from one to the other like a butterfly who cannot tell which flower to light on, but Robert Carter dropped his parcels and enfolded all of them in a mighty embrace. How lean and brown he was! On sight he seemed like his old self to Helen, who was the first to find her way to his eager arms and the last to leave their encircling shelter. A closer scrutiny of his face, however, told her there was still something wrong. His snap and vim were gone. Intelligence shone from his kind blue eyes and his countenance bespoke contentment and happiness, but his old sparkle and alertness were missing. The overworked nerves had lost their elasticity and a certain power that had been a part of Robert Carter was gone forever. It was the power of leading and directing, taking the initiative. There was something very pathetic about it all, just as though a great general had been reduced to the ranks and must ever after serve as a private. What made it sadder was that he seemed content to follow. Someone else must work out the problem of how to keep his expensive family in all the luxuries they had demanded. It was no longer up to him! That was the way his expression impressed Helen. She escaped from the others and ran behind the little station. "Father! Father!" she sobbed in an agony of love and misery. "He is not well yet! He never will be!" "Oh yes, he will," said a quiet, deep voice. It belonged to George Wright, who had come around the other side of the waiting room after helping Lewis Somerville deposit the luggage in Josh's cart. "He is much better, better than I dared dream he would be. You see, he has had only four months and I said all the time it would take a year of rest and maybe more. What makes you think he is still so badly off?" Dr. Wright had a ridiculous notion that he could explain to Helen much better her father's condition if she would only put her head on his shoulder and do her sobbing there, but he buried his hands firmly in his pockets and made no intimation of his idea. He had constantly to take himself to task for forgetting that Helen was little more than a child. "You must wait, you fool!" he would reason with himself. "But suppose someone else doesn't wait and she gets snapped up before your eyes--what then?" But wait he felt he must, and in the meantime Helen often felt that his sternness meant disapproval and wondered what she had done to merit it--that is, what new thing. Of course she always knew she had merited his disapproval by her behavior when he had given the verdict that her father must go off on the voyage for health. And now when he said: "What makes you think he is still so badly off?" he sounded very stern and superior. "He seems so--so--meek," she faltered. "Well, who would not be meek with all those parcels?" he laughed. "Your mother had only part of a day in New York, but she bought out the town. I'm meek myself." The conversation was interrupted by Lucy, who was always eager to find out what Helen was doing so she could do it too. When she saw her sister's tear-stained countenance she bitterly regretted her dry eyes but cry she could not, especially as she did not see anything to cry about. Mrs. Carter, meanwhile, after flitting from daughter to daughter, had cried out: "But Bobby! Where is my precious Bobby?" "Here me!" said that youngster. "We uns ain't fur." "Bobby! Bobby! I didn't know you! Where are your teeth? Why did you have your hair cut so short? My baby, my baby!" and the poor little lady enfolded a rather abashed boy in her arms. "Baby your grandmother! I ain't nobody's baby. We uns is Dr. Wright's shover cept'n when we uns is in the mountings and thin we uns is the 'spressman's sisterant." "We uns? What do you mean, Bobby?" wailed the mother. "I say we uns whenever we uns thinks to do it. That's the way mountingyears talks." "Robert! Robert, look at Bobby and listen to him!" Mr. Carter did look at Bobby and the remembrance of his own boyhood came back to him and he laughed as he seldom did now-a-days. "Well, bless my soul, what a great big son I have got!" and he slapped Bobby on the back. "I fancy you are too big to kiss, you rascal!" "I ain't too big to kiss if you uns comes behind the station where Josh'n Josephus can't see us," and Bobby led his willing parent behind the station where Helen had gone to shed a bitter tear and where Dr. Wright had discovered her and where Lucy had discovered them. "Oh, shucks! They's too many folks here," he declared. "Will all of you please step out of the way?" begged Mr. Carter. "Bobby has an important thing to discuss with me and we should like the back of the station to ourselves for a moment." Left alone, the big man held his little son tight in his arms and in spite of Bobby's boasted manhood he was very happy to be once more hugged and kissed by his father. Dr. Wright smiled into Helen's reddened eyes and said: "Bobby will do more for your father than anyone else now. If he can be a boy again he will get entirely well." The many parcels were at last stowed away in the cart and Josh clucked sadly to Josephus. "I reckon Bobby's done left us all, now that his paw is come," he said sadly to the sympathetic mule. But Bobby came running after him. "Hi there! Wait, Josh! Father says he would sooner trust his bones to us than that old Tin Lizzie. You'n him'n me can squzzle in on the front seat." "Sho' we kin!" declared the delighted Josh. He hadn't lost an old friend after all, but gained a new one. Mr. Carter proved even more agreeable to the little mountain boy than his idol, Lewis Somerville. He had such wonderful things to tell of ships and things and seemed to understand a boy so well. Mr. Somerville was right strict with a fellow, expecting him to be clean all the time and never forget, but somehow, Mr. Carter was a little easier. "You are frightfully burned, Douglas," complained Mrs. Carter as they finally got themselves stowed away in the faithful mountain goat. "I can't see why you do not protect your skin. Your neck will take months to recover from such a tanning." "Well, I don't think that will make much difference," laughed Douglas. "I fancy it will be many a day before I go décolleté." "I don't see that. If you are not going to college, I see no reason why you should not make your debut next winter." Douglas looked at her mother in amazement. Could it be that even now she did not understand? She said nothing, feeling that it would be wiser to wait until she and her mother were alone. Never having economized in her life, Mrs. Carter did not know the meaning of the word. The many parcels that were borne from the train gave Douglas a faint feeling. Had her mother been buying things in New York? "I brought you a perfect love of a hat, darling," Mrs. Carter chattered on, "but of course you shall have to bleach up a bit for it to be becoming to you. I did not dream you were so burned or I should not have selected such pale trimmings. I have a delightful plan! Since you are to come out next winter, I think a fortnight at the White in late August would be charming--give you that poise that debutantes so often lack. We can leave the children with your father and go together----" "But, mother----" "Oh, we shan't go quite yet! I know you want to see your father for a few days before you leave him even for a fortnight." Douglas was speechless; Nan, who was crowded in by her, gave her a sympathetic squeeze. "It is lovely to be with my girls again," the little lady bubbled on. "Of course your letter was a great surprise to me, Douglas. The idea of my children making money!" and she gave a silvery laugh. "I am delighted that you have, because now no doubt your coming out will be even more delightful than I had anticipated. Of course those persons who are in our house in Richmond will simply have to get out." "But, mother----" "Simply have to--how can a girl come out suitably unless she is in her own home?" CHAPTER III THE PROBLEM The cabin was looking very sweet and fresh after a thorough cleaning from the willing hands of Susan, who was in a state of bliss because her beloved mistress was returning. Gwen had found some belated Cherokee roses and with a few sprays of honeysuckle added had glorified the plain room. "You think Miss Lizzie Somerville is el'gant! Well, you jes' oughter see my missis. She is the mos' el'gantes' lady in the whole er Richmond. I bet Mis' Carter ain't never in all her life done a han's turn. Gawd knows what she gonter say 'bout these here young ladies er hern workin' like they was in service," Susan remarked to the little English Gwen, who had done many a hand's turn herself and still had an elegance all her own, so evident that the colored servants recognized her as a "lady bawn." "I think it is very wonderful that the Carter girls should be able to work so well when they have never been brought up to it," said Gwen as she hung the last freshly laundered sash curtain. "That's they paw in 'em," declared Susan. "He is the wuckinest gemman I ever seed. 'Tain't nothin' he won't turn his han' ter. He don't never set back and holler fer help when he wants the fire fixed er sech like. No'm, he jes' jumps up an' waits on hisself. Sometimes he used ter git Mis' Carter kinder put out 'cause he'd even do his own reaching at the table. Miss Douglas is the spittin' image of him. None of the gals favors her much 'cep Miss Nan. She looks like her but she ain't so langrous like when they's work on hand. Miss Helen is the same kind er spender as her maw. I believe my soul them two would ruther buy than eat. Cook used ter say that Mis' Carter an' Miss Helen spent like we done come to the millionennium. Great Gawd! Here they is an' I ain't got on my clean apron. That's one thing that Mis' Carter'll certainly git cross over--aprons." She did not, however. Too pleased to see the faithful Susan, Mrs. Carter overlooked the doubtful apron. "What a charming room! Is this where I am to be? And you girls in the tents beyond? And Bobby--where does Bobby sleep?" "He is with Lewis Somerville and his friend, Bill Tinsley. I believe he wrote you about Bill," said Helen, "--the young man who was shipped from West Point when Lewis was." "Oh yes, I remember! I am glad to see you have not let yourself run down like Douglas, my dear. Your hair looks well kept and your complexion is perfect." Douglas, much perturbed over her mother's plans, had rushed off to be alone for a moment to compose herself. "But, mother, I don't burn like Douglas, and then Douglas' hair is so lovely it doesn't make any difference what she does to it. Mine must be well kept to pass muster. I hope you are not going to find it too rough here for you, mumsy," and Helen put a protecting arm around the little mother, who was more like a sister, and a younger one at that, than a mother to these great girls. "Oh, I think it is delightful for a while. Of course I have been on shipboard so long that I really am longing for some society. Did you hear me tell Douglas what my plan is for her and me? I should like to include you, too, but perhaps it would be best for you to wait a year." "No, I did not hear; you see the car is such a noisy one that one never can hear. What is your plan?" "I want to take Douglas to the White for several weeks preparatory to her making her debut this winter." "Debut!" gasped Helen. "White Sulphur!" "Certainly, why not?" "But, mother, we haven't money for clothes and things." "Nonsense! Our credit is perfectly good. I fancy there is not a man in Richmond who has paid his bills so regularly as Robert Carter, and now that he is not able to work for a few months I feel sure there is not a single tradesman with whom we have always dealt who would not be more than pleased to have us on his books for any amount." "I wanted to charge a lot of things I thought we needed, but Douglas just wouldn't have it. She never does realize the importance of clothes. I don't mean to criticize Douglas, she is wonderful, but she is careless about clothes." "Well, I shall put a stop to that, now that I am back with my children. Your father is so much better I can give my time to other things now. How exciting it will be to have a daughter in society! I never did want Douglas to go to college. What made her give it up? She never did say what her reason was. Letters are very unsatisfactory things when one is on shipboard." "It was money, of course," said Helen. "There was no money for college." "Oh, to be sure! I forgot that college takes cash. Well, I am heartily glad she has given it up. I think college girls get too independent. I am dying to show you my purchases in New York." "I am dying to see them, too, but, mumsy, I shall have to leave you now and run and do a million things. We have a great crowd of week-enders coming up on the late train." "Can't Susan attend to the things?" "Oh, Susan does a lot, but I am the chief cook and Douglas is the brains of the concern and looks after all the money and does the buying. Nan attends to all the letter writing, and you would be astonished to see how much she has to do because we have showers of mail about board. Lucy sees to the setting of the tables, and all of us do everything that turns up to be done. Even Bobby helps." "How ridiculous! Well, take care of your hands, darling. I hate to see a girl with roughened hands. There is simply no excuse for it." Helen was dazed by her mother's attitude. "She is just presenting a duck-back to trouble," thought the girl, looking rather ruefully at her shapely hands which were showing the inevitable signs of work. She found Douglas sitting in a forlorn heap in their tent. Her countenance was the picture of woe. "Helen! Helen! What are we to do?" "Well, it wouldn't be so bad to take a trip to the White, and you certainly deserve a change. Poor mumsy, too, is bored to death with such a long sea trip and she needs some society." "But, honey, the money!" "Oh, I don't see that we need worry so about that. Mother says that there is not a tradesman in Richmond who would not be pleased to have us on his books for any amount. I, for one, am longing for some new clothes. I don't mind a bit working and cooking, but I do think I need some new things--and as for you--why, Douglas, you are a perfect rag bag." Douglas looked at her sister in amazement. The lesson, then, was not learned yet! She had thought that Helen understood about the necessity of making no bills as the bills were what had helped to reduce their father to this state of invalidism, but here she was falling into the mother's way of thinking--willing to plunge into debt to any amount. "But Dr. Wright----" "Oh, always Dr. Wright!" "But, Helen, you know you like Dr. Wright now and you must trust him." "So I do. I like him better and trust him entirely and he himself told me at the station that father was getting well fast. He said it would take a little more time but that he would be perfectly well again--at least that is what I gathered. I know father would be the last man in the world to want his girls to go around looking like ash cats and you know it would make him ill indeed to think that mother wanted to go to White Sulphur for a while and could not go because of lack of money." "Of course it would, but surely neither you nor mother would tell him that she wanted to go if you know there is no money to pay for such a trip." "But there is money!" exclaimed Helen with some asperity. "You told me yourself that the camp was paying well enough for us to begin to have quite a bank account." "Yes--but----" "Well now, if we have some money you must think that I have helped to earn it!" "Why, Helen dear, you have done more than any of us. You are so capable----" "I don't say I have done more, no one could have worked harder than you have--in fact, everybody has worked, but if I have done my share of the work, then I am certainly entitled to my share of the money and I intend to take my share and send mother to White Sulphur for a change. Of course you will simply have to go with her as she has set her heart on it." "I will not," announced Douglas, her girlish face taking on stern determination. A shout from Bobby heralded the arrival of Josephus with the luggage. The discussion ended for the time being as Douglas and Helen were both needed to prepare for the inroad of week-enders that were to arrive in a few minutes. Mr. Carter alighted from the cart, already looking better. He was most enthusiastic over the camp and all of its arrangements. "I am going to be your handy man," he said, putting his arm around Douglas. "Are you well, honey? You look bothered." "Oh yes, I am as well as can be," said Douglas, trying to smooth her wrinkled brow. How she did want to talk all the troubles over with her father, but he of all persons must not be bothered. The old habit of going to him with every worry was so strong that it was difficult to keep from doing it now, but she bit her lips and held it in. "I'll tell Lewis," she thought. "He will at least sympathize." What was she to do about her mother and Helen? They seemed to have no more gumption about money than the birds. Even then parcels were being carried into the cabin from the cart that must have meant much money spent in New York. Where did mother get it? The rent from the house in town had been sent to Mrs. Carter for running expenses on shipboard and hotels at the many places where they had stopped, but that must have gone for the trip. Could she have charged the purchases in New York? Poor Douglas! She had felt that the problem of making her sisters see the necessity of economizing had been a great one, but she realized that it was nothing to what she must face now. She felt that all her former arguments had been in vain since Helen was dropping into her mother's habit of thought and upholding that charming butterfly-like person in all her schemes of extravagance. Lucy was sure to follow Helen's lead and begin to demand clothes, treats, trips and what-not. Nan, dear sensible, unselfish Nan, would be the only one who would sympathize with her older sister in regard to the necessity of continuing the strict economy they had practiced since early in May, when Dr. Wright had declared that the only thing that would save their father's reason was an immediate change, a long rest and complete cessation of all business worries. Nan's tastes were simple, but she had a passion for color and beautiful textiles and sometimes indulged that taste in adorning her dainty little person. As a rule, however, she was quite satisfied to behold the color in a Persian rug or the wings of a butterfly. Beauty was to the girl the most important thing in life whether it was of line, color, sound or idea. She was perfectly happy with a good book and a comfortable place in which to curl up. Her fault was laziness, a certain physical inertia which her indulgent mother always attributed to her delicate constitution; but the summer in the mountains with the enforced activity had proven that the delicate constitution was due to the inertia and not the inertia to the delicate constitution. Up to that time in her life there had been no especial reason for exerting herself, but Nan was very unselfish and when she realized that her sisters were one and all busying themselves, she threw off her lazy habits as she would an ugly robe, and many tasks at Week-End Camp fell to her share. Douglas, in this trouble that had arisen, felt that she could go to Nan for comfort and advice. Nan's mind was as normally active as her graceful little body was inactive and she had a faculty of seeing her way through difficulties that the conscientious but more slowly thinking Douglas much envied her. "Nan, it's fifteen minutes before train time when the week-enders will come piling in--I'm dying to have a talk with you." "Well, don't die--just talk," drawled Nan, looking up from her book but never stopping turning the crank of the mayonnaise mixer. This was a job Nan loved, making mayonnaise. She had gotten it down to a fine art since she could mix and read at the same time. She declared it was a plain waste of time to use your hands without using your head and since turning a mayonnaise mixer crank required no intelligence beyond that of seeing that the funnel was filled with olive oil, she was able to indulge in her passion for poetry while she was making the quarts of mayonnaise that the young housekeepers dealt out so generously to their week-enders. "Listen to this!" and Nan turned the crank slowly while she read: "'Alas for all high hopes and all desires! Like leaves in yellow autumn-time they fall-- Alas for prayers and psalms and love's pure fires-- One silence and one darkness ends them all!'" The crank stopped and all of the oil flowed through the funnel while Nan softly turned the leaves of Marston's "Last Harvest." "Yes, honey, it is beautiful, but you had better read a livelier form of verse or your salad dressing will go back on you." "Heavens, you are right! I've got 'Barrack Room Ballads' here ready in case I get to dawdling," laughed Nan. "I want to talk about something very important, Nan. Can you turn your crank and listen?" "Yes, indeed, but you'll have to talk fast or else I'll get to poking again. You see, I have to keep time." So Douglas rapidly repeated the conversations she had had with her mother and later with Helen. "What are we to do? Must I tell Dr. Wright? I am afraid to get them started for fear father will be mixed up in it. He must not know mother wants to go to White Sulphur--he would be sure to say let her go and then he would try to work again before he is fit for it, and he would certainly get back into the same state he was in last spring." "Poor little mumsy! I was sure she would not understand," and once more the mixer played a sad measure. "I was afraid she wouldn't," sighed Douglas, "but I did think Helen had been taught a lesson and realized the importance of our keeping within our earnings and saving something, too, for winter." "Helen--why, she is too young for the lesson she learned to stick. She is nothing but a child." "Is that so, grandmother?" laughed Douglas, amused in spite of her trouble at Nan's ancient wisdom (Nan being some two years younger than Helen). "Why, Douglas, Helen has just been play-acting at being poor. She has no idea of its being a permanency," and Nan filled the funnel again with oil and began to turn her crank with vigor. "But what are we to do? I am not going to White Sulphur and I am not going to make my debut--that's sure. I have never disobeyed mother that I can remember, but this time I shall have to. I don't know what I am to say about the trip to the White. Helen is saying she has helped to earn the money and she means to spend her share giving poor mumsy a little fun after her tiresome long journey on the water. I wish we had never told her we were able to put something in the bank last month. It was precious little and Helen's share would not keep them at White Sulphur more than two or three days. Helen thinks I am stingy and mother thinks I am stubborn and ugly and sunburned--and there's the train with all the week-enders----" and poor Douglas gave a little sob. "And I have turned my wheel until this old mayonnaise is done--just look how beautiful it is! And you, poor old Doug, must just leave it to me, and I'll think up something to keep them here if I have to break out with smallpox and get them quarantined on the mountain." "Oh, Nan! Is there some way out of it without letting father know that mother wants something and cannot have it for lack of money?" "Sure there is! You go powder your nose and put on a blue linen blouse and give a few licks to your pretty hair while I hand over the mayonnaise to Gwen and see that Lucy has counted noses for the supper tables. I've almost got a good reason already for mumsy's staying here aside from the lack of tin, but I must get it off to her with great finesse." "I knew you would help!" and Douglas gave her little sister and the mayonnaise bowl an impartial hug, and then hastened to make herself more presentable, hoping to find favor in the eyes of her fastidious mother. CHAPTER IV ROBERT CARTER'S ASTONISHING GIRLS August, the month for holidays, was bringing much business to the proprietresses of Week-End Camp. Such a crowd came swarming up the mountain now that Lucy, who had set the tables with the assistance of her chum, Lil Tate, and the two sworn knights, Skeeter Halsey and Frank Maury, and had carefully counted noses according to the calculations Nan had made from the applications she had received, had to do it all over to make room for the unexpected guests. "Just kilt-plait the places," suggested Lil. "If they keep on coming we'll have to accordeon-plait 'em," laughed Lucy. "Gee, I'm glad your eats don't land in your elbows!" from Skeeter. "Me, too!" exclaimed Frank. "Miss Helen tipped me a wink that there's Brunswick stew made out of the squirrels we got yesterday. And there is sho' no elbow room at these tables." "Look at 'em swarming up the mountain. Where do you reckon they'll sleep?" asked Lil. "Have to roost in the trees." "I bet more than half of them didn't bring their blankets," hazarded Lucy. "Yes, that's the way they do, these town fellows," said Skeeter, forgetting that he too had been a town fellow only a few weeks before that time. The summer in the mountains was doing wonders for these youngsters. Sleeping in the open had broadened their chests. They were wiry and tanned and every day brought some new delightful duty that was never called a duty and so was looked upon by all of them as a great game. Theirs was the task of foraging for the camp, and no small job was it to find chickens and vegetables and fruit for the hungry hordes that sought the Week-End Camp for holiday and recreation. They had found their way to many a remote mountain cabin and engaged all chickens hatched and unhatched. They had spread the good news among the natives that blackberries, huckleberries, peaches, apples, pears and plums were in demand at their camp. Eggs were always needed. Little wild-eyed, tangled-haired children would come creeping from the bushes, like so many timid rabbits, bringing their wares; sometimes a bucket of dewberries or some wild plums; sometimes honey from the wild bees, dark and strong and very sweet, "bumblebee honey," Skeeter called it. All was grist that came to the mill of the week-enders. No matter how much was provided, there was never anything to speak of left over. "These hyar white folks is same as chickens," grumbled old Oscar. "They's got no notion of quittin' s'long as they's any corn lef' on the groun'." "They sho' kin eat," agreed Susan, "but Miss Douglas an' Miss Helen done said we mus' fill 'em up and that's what we is hyar fur." The above is a conversation that, with variations, occurred during almost every meal at the camp. Oscar and Susan, the faithful servants the Carters had brought from Richmond, were proving more and more efficient now that the first sting of the country was removed and camp life had become a habit with them. They were creatures of habit and imbued with the notion that what was good enough for white folks was good enough for them. Their young mistresses were contented with the life in the camp, so they were, too. Their young mistresses were not above doing any work that came to hand, so they, too, must be willing to do what fell to their lot. Susan forgot the vows she had so solemnly sworn when she became a member of the housemaids' league, to do housework and nothing else. She argued that a camp wasn't a house and she could do what she chose. Oscar had, while in town, held himself above any form of labor not conducive to the dignity of a butler serving for many years in the best families. But if Mr. Lewis Somerville and Mr. Bill Tinsley, both of them belonging to fust famblies, could skin squirrels, why then, he, Oscar, must be a sport and skin them, too. These week-ends in August were hard work for all concerned and now there was talk of some of the guests staying over for much longer and spending two weeks with them. That meant no cessation of fillin' 'em up. Previous to this time, Monday had been a blessed day for all the camp, boarders gone and time to take stock and rest, but now there was to be no let up in the filling process. Susan, for the time completely demoralized by the return of her beloved mistress, had left her work to whomsoever it might concern and had constituted herself lady's maid for Mrs. Carter. She unpacked boxes and parcels, hovering over the pretty things purchased in New York; she fetched and carried for that dainty lady, ignoring completely the steady stream of week-enders climbing up the mountain or being carried up by the faithful and sturdy mountain goat, with the silent Bill as chauffeur. Helen had reluctantly torn herself from the delectable boxes and parcels and was busily engaged in concocting a wonderful potato salad, something she always attended to herself. Gwen was making batter bread after having put to rise pan after pan of rolls. Oscar had begun to fry the apples, a dish ever in demand at camp. The Brunswick stew had been safely deposited in the fireless cooker early in the day and all was going well. "There!" exclaimed Helen, putting the finishing touch to the last huge bowl of salad and stepping back to admire her handiwork. "That substantial salad unites beauty and utility." "It sho' do, Miss Helen, it sho' do!" declared Oscar, adroitly turning his apples just as they reached the proper stage of almost and not quite being candied. "They's nothin' like tater salid fer contitutioning a foumdation stone on which to build fillin' victuals. It's mo' satisfying to my min' than the staft of life itself. All I is a-hopin' is that they won't lick the platter befo' I gits to it." "You are safe there, Oscar, as I made this extra dishful to be kept back so you and Susan will be sure to get some." "Susan, indeed!" sniffed her fellow-servant. "She ain't called on to expect no favors at yo' han'. To be foun' by the wayside, a fallin' down wantin' jes' at this crucible moment!" "I think she is helping mother." "Then I's got nothin' to say--but I 'low she helpin' yo' maw with one han' an' Susan Jourdan with yudder." Mr. Carter and Dr. Wright looked into the kitchen a moment. Dr. Wright had been showing his patient over the camp, as all of the daughters were occupied. Mr. Carter was delighted with the arrangements and amazed at the scope of the undertaking. Could this be his Helen, the queen of the kitchen, attending to the preparation of this great quantity of food? He never remembered before seeing Helen do any more strenuous work than play a corking good game of tennis, and here she was handling a frying pan with the same skill with which she had formerly handled a racquet, looking after the apples while Oscar cracked ice and carried up into the pavilion the great pitchers of cold tea destined to quench the thirst of the week-enders. Helen was looking wholly lovely in her becoming bungalow apron, with her flushed cheeks and hair a bit dishevelled from the hurry of getting things done without the assistance of the capable Susan. Robert Carter looked in amazement at the great bowls of potato salad and the pans of rolls, being taken from the oven to make room for other pans. "In heaven's name, what is all this food for?" he asked, laughing. "Have you seen the week-enders swarming up the mountain?" "Why yes, but they couldn't eat all this." "Don't you fool yourself!" and Helen gave her dear father a fried apple hug. She was very happy. The beloved parents were back with them. Dr. Wright assured her that her father was improving. The camp had been her very own idea and it was successful. They were making money and she was going to take her share of the profits and give her mother a trip. She, Helen Carter, only eighteen, could do all of this! She had no idea what the profits amounted to, but Nan and Douglas had only the week before congratulated themselves that they were putting more money in the bank than they were drawing out. She cared nothing for money in the bank except as a means of gratifying the ones she loved. The poor little mumsy had been shut up on shipboard for months and surely she deserved some recreation. She was astonished at Douglas for being so stingy. It was plain stinginess that would make her think more of having some paltry savings than of wanting to give to their charming, beautiful little mother her heart's desire, so Helen thought. Dr. Wright was smiling on her, too. He seemed to think she was a very remarkable girl, at least that was what one might gather from his expression as he stood by the kitchen and gazed in through the screening at the bright-eyed, eager young cook. "Where are the other girls?" asked Mr. Carter. "Oh, they have a million things to do! We always divide up and spread ourselves over the whole camp when the train gets in. Lucy has just finished setting the tables, and that is some job, I can tell you, but Lil Tate and Frank Skeeter always help. Nan has been making mayonnaise enough to run us over Sunday, and now she has gone with Douglas to receive the week-enders and show them their tents and cots. Douglas is the great chief--she does all the buying and supervising, looks after the comfort of the week-enders and sees that everything is kept clean and sanitary. Nan writes all the letters, and believe me, that is no little task. She also makes the mayonnaise and helps me here in the kitchen when I need her, but Gwen is my right hand man. But what am I thinking of? You haven't even met Gwen!" The young English girl was looking shyly at the big man and thinking what she would give to have her own father back again. Dr. Wright had told Mr. Carter of Gwen and her romantic history, how Helen had found the wallet in the scrub oak tree containing all of the dead Englishman's papers, of old Abner Dean's perfidy in taking the land from Gwen when the receipt had not been found, although the child was sure her father had paid for the side of the mountain before he had built his cabin there. Mr. Carter had been greatly interested in the recital and now his kind friendliness brought a mist to the eyes of the girl. "I am very glad to know you, my dear. Dr. Wright has told me of you and now I hope to be numbered among your friends." Gwen looked so happy and grateful that Helen had to give her father one more fried apple hug before she pushed him out of the kitchen to make room for the important ceremony of dishing up supper. "Where did I ever get them, Doctor, these girls? Why, they are perfect bricks! To think of my little Helen forgetting the polish on her fingernails and actually cooking! I don't see where they came from." It was rather wonderful and George Wright was somewhat at a loss himself to account for them as he watched the dainty mother of the flock trip lightly across the rough mountain path connecting the cabin with the pavilion. Robert Carter himself had character enough to go around, but when one considered that his character had been alloyed with hers to make this family it was a wonder that they had that within them that could throw off tradition and environment as they had done and undertake this camp that was proving quite a stupendous thing for mere girls. "Well, Dr. Wright," trilled Mrs. Carter, "isn't this a delightful adventure for my girls to have amused themselves with? The girl of the day is certainly an enterprising person. Of course a thing like this must not be carried too far, as there is danger of their forgetting their mission in life." "And that mission is----?" "Being ornaments of society, of course," laughed the little lady. Mrs. Carter had long ago overcome the fear she had entertained for the young physician. He had been so unfailingly kind to her and his diagnosis of her husband's case had been so sure and his treatment so exactly right that she could have nothing but liking and respect for him. She even forgave him the long exile he had subjected her to on that stupid ship. It had cured her Robert and she was willing to have cut herself off from society for those months if by doing so she had contributed to the well-being of her husband. She had been all devotion and unselfishness in the first agony of his illness. The habits of her lifetime had been seemingly torn up by the roots and from being the spoiled and petted darling she had turned into the efficient nurse. As his health returned, however, it had been quite easy to slip back into her former place of being served instead of serving. It was as much Robert Carter's nature to serve as it was hers to be served. The habits had not been torn up by the roots, after all, but only been trimmed back, and now they were sprouting out with added vigor from their pruning. Very lovely the little lady looked in her filmy lace dress. Her charming face, framed by its cloud of blue-black hair, showed no trace of having gone through the anxiety of a severe illness of one whom she loved devotedly. Nothing worried her very long and she had the philosophy of a young child, taking no thought of the yesterdays or of the morrows. Dr. Wright looked on her in amazement. Her speaking of the camp as an adventure chosen by the girls as something with which to amuse themselves would have been laughable had it not been irritating to the young man. And now, forsooth, their business in life was to become ornaments of society! "Humph!" was all he said, although he had to turn on his heel and walk off to keep from asserting that their mission in life should be to become useful members of society. He had a dread of appearing priggish, however, and then this was Helen's mother and he wanted to do nothing to mar in any way the friendship that had sprung up between that elusive young person and himself. "Where are all the children, Robert?" asked Mrs. Carter, wondering in her well-bred mind why Dr. Wright should be so brusque. "There aren't any children, Annette," sighed Mr. Carter, "but I shouldn't sigh but be glad and happy. Why, they are perfect wonders! Helen is in the kitchen, not eating bread and honey, but cooking and bossing, and all the other girls are flying around taking care of the boarders." "Boarders! Oh, Robert, what a name to call them! I can't contemplate it. Who are all those people I saw coming up the road?" "They are the boarders." "Not all that crowd! I thought they had only a select few." "No, indeed, they take all that come and I can tell you they have made the place very popular. I did not know they had it in them. I believe it was a good thing I went off my hooks for a while, as it has brought out character in my girls that I did not dream they had." "It seems hardly ladylike for them to be so--so--successful at running a boarding place. I wonder what people will say." "Why they will say: 'Hurrah for the Carter Girls!' At least, that is what the worth-while people will say." "Well, if you think it all right, I know it must be," sighed the poor little lady, "but somehow I think it would be much better for them to have visited Cousin Elizabeth Somerville until we got back or had her visit them in Richmond. I don't at all approve of their renting my house. Douglas is so coarsened by this living out-of-doors. She has the complexion that must be guarded very carefully or she will lose her beauty very early. I think the summer before a girl makes her debut should be spent taking care of her complexion." Robert Carter laughed. He was always intensely amused by his wife's outlook on life and society and looked upon it as one of her girlish charms. Common sense had not been what made him fall in love with her twenty years before, so the lack of it did not detract in any way from his admiration of her in these latter years. She was what she had always been: beautiful, graceful, sweet, charming; made to be loved, served and spoiled. "Where is Bobby? He, at least, cannot be busy with these awful boarders." "Bobby? Why, he is now engaged in helping Josh, the little mountain boy who is serving as expressman for the girls, to curry Josephus, the mule. These boarders are not awful, my dear. You will find many acquaintances among them. Jeffry Tucker came with his two girls, the twins, and a friend of theirs from Milton, Page Allison is her name. There are several others whom you will be glad to see, I know. I think it would be well for us to go up in the pavilion where they dine and then dance, and you can receive them there as they arrive." Mrs. Carter patted her creamy lace dress with a satisfied feeling that she was looking her best. It was a new creation from a most exclusive shop in New York--quite expensive, but then she had had absolutely no new clothes for perfect ages and since the proprietor of the shop had been most pleased to have her open an account with him, the price of the gown was no concern of hers. It set off her pearly skin and dusky hair to perfection. She was glad Jeffry Tucker was at the camp. He was a general favorite in Richmond society and his being there meant at least that her girls had not lessened themselves in the eyes of the elite. Surely he would not bring his daughters to this ridiculous camp unless he felt that it would do nothing toward lowering their position. The pretty, puzzled lady took her place at one end of the great long dining pavilion as the week-enders swarmed up the steps, attracted hither by the odor of fried apples and hot rolls that was wafted o'er the mountainside. CHAPTER V THE TUCKERS There had been general rejoicing at Week-End Camp when Nan had announced that Jeffry Tucker and his daughters were to come up for a short stay. The Tuckers were great favorites and were always received with open arms at any place where fun was on foot. Mr. Tucker had written for accommodations for himself and daughters and their friend, Miss Allison. No one would have been more astonished than Jeffry Tucker, the father of the Heavenly Twins, at the kind of reputation he had with a society woman of Mrs. Carter's standing. For her to think that his bringing his daughters to the camp meant that he considered it to their social advantage--at least not to their social detriment--would have convulsed that gentleman. He thought no more of the social standing of his daughters Virginia and Caroline (Dum and Dee) than he did of the fourth dimension. He came to the camp and brought his daughters and Page Allison just because he heard it was great fun. He had known Robert Carter all his life and admired and liked him. His daughters had gone to the kindergarten and dancing school with Douglas and Helen and when rumor had it that these girls were actually making a living with week-end boarders at a camp in Albemarle, why it was the most natural thing in the world for the warm-hearted Jeffry Tucker immediately to write for tent room for his little crowd. I hope my readers are glad to see the Tuckers and Page Allison. The fact of the business is that they are a lively lot and it is difficult to keep them in the pages of their own books. They might have stayed safely there had not the Carter girls started this venture in the mountains. That was too much for them. Zebedee had promised Tweedles again and again to take them camping, and since what they did Page must do too, of course she was included in the promise. This is not their own camp and not their own book but here they are in it! "Douglas Carter, we think you are the smartest person that ever was!" enthused Dum Tucker as Douglas showed them to their tent where three other girls were to sleep, too. "Isn't this just too lovely?" "I'm not smart, it's Helen who thought up this plan," insisted Douglas. "We are so glad you have come and we do hope you will like it." "Like it! We are wild about it," cried Dee, and Page Allison was equally enthusiastic. "Where is Helen?" demanded Dum. "She is chief cook and can't make her appearance until she has put the finishing touches to supper." "Does she really cook, herself?" cried Dee. "How grand!" "Sometimes she cooks herself," drawled Nan, coming into the tent to see the Tuckers, who were great favorites with her, too, "sometimes when we get out of provisions, which we are liable to do now as six persons have come who had not written me for accommodations." "Mother and father got here from a long trip this afternoon," explained Douglas, "and we are so upset over seeing them that we are rather late. Helen usually does all she has to do before the week-enders come." "Let us help!" begged Dee. "Dum and I can do lots of stunts, and Page here is a wonderful pie slinger." "Well, we would hardly press Miss Allison into service when she has just arrived," smiled Douglas. "Please, please don't Miss Allison me! I'm just Page and my idea of camping is cooking, so if I can help, let me," and Page, who had said little up to that time, spoke with such genuine frankness that Douglas and Nan felt somehow that a new friend had come into their circle. "We'll call on all three of you if we need you," promised Douglas, hastening off with Nan to see that other guests had found their tents and had what they wanted in the way of water and towels. "Isn't this great?" said Dee. "I'm so glad Zebedee thought of coming. I think Douglas Carter looks healthy but awful bothered, somehow." "I thought so, too. I'm afraid her father is not so well or something. Think of Helen Carter's cooking!" wondered Dum. "Why shouldn't she?" asked Page. "Is she so superior?" "No, not that," tweedled the twins. "Helen's fine but so--so--stylish. Mrs. Carter is charming but she is one butterfly and we always rather expected Helen to be just like her--more sense than her mother, but dressy," continued Dee. "You will know what Mrs. Carter is, just as soon as you look at her hands," declared Dum. "If the lilies of the field were blessed with hands they would look exactly like Mrs. Carter's." "Well, come let's find Zebedee. I smelt apples frying," and the three friends made their way to the pavilion where Mrs. Carter was receiving the week-enders with all the charm and ceremony she might have employed at a daughter's debut party. Her reception of the Tuckers was warm and friendly. It had been months since she had seen anyone who moved in her own circle and now there were many questions to ask of Richmond society. Jeffry Tucker, who could make himself perfectly at home with any type, now laid himself out to be pleasant to his hostess. He told her all the latest news of Franklin street and recounted the gossip that had filtered back from White Sulphur and Warm Springs. He turned himself into a society column and announced engagements and rumors of engagements; who was at the beach and who was at the mountains. He even made a stagger at the list of debutantes for the ensuing winter. "I mean that Douglas shall come out next winter, too," said the little lady during the supper that followed. Nan, seeing that her mother was having such a pleasant time with the genial Jeffry Tucker, arranged to have the Tuckers placed at the table that had been set aside for their mother and father. The Carter girls made it a rule to scatter themselves through the crowd the better to look after the hungry and see that no one's wants were unsatisfied. "Ah, is that so? I had an idea she was destined for college. It seems to me that Tweedles told me she had passed her Bryn Mawr exams." "So she did, but I am glad to say she has given up all idea of that foolishness. I am very anxious for her to make her debut." Nan, who was making the rounds of the various tables to see that everyone was served properly, overheard her mother's remark and glanced shyly at Mr. Tucker. She caught his eye unwittingly but there was something in the look that he gave her that made her know he understood the whole situation and was in sympathy with Douglas, who was very busy at the next table helping hungry week-enders to the rapidly disappearing potato salad. There was a rather pathetic droop to Douglas' young shoulders as though the weight of the universe were getting a little too much for her. Mr. Tucker looked from her to Robert Carter who seemed to be accepting things as he found them with an astonishing calmness. He was certainly a changed man. Remembering him as a person of great force and energy, who always took the initiative when any work was to be done or question decided, his old friend wondered at his almost flabby state. Here he was calmly letting his silly wife, because silly she seemed to Jeffry Tucker, although charming and even lovable, put aside his daughter's desires for an education and force her into society. He could see it all with half an eye and what he could not see for himself the speaking countenance of the third Carter, Nan, was telling him as plainly as a countenance could. He determined to talk with the girl as soon as supper was over and see if he could help her in some way, how, he did not know, but he felt that he might be of some use. The supper was a very merry one in spite of the depression that had seized poor Douglas. She tried not to let her gloom permeate those around her. Helen was in a perfect gale and the Tucker Twins took their cue from her and the ball of good-humored repartee was tossed back and forth. Tillie Wingo was resplendent in a perfectly new dancing frock. The beaux buzzed around her like bees around a honey pot. The silent Bill Tinsley kept on saying nothing but his calf eyes were more eloquent than any words. He had fallen head over heels in love with the frivolous Tillie from the moment she offered to tip him on the memorable occasion of her first visit to the camp. Lewis Somerville, usually with plenty to say for himself, was almost as silent as his chum, Bill. It seemed as though Douglas' low spirits had affected her cousin. "What is it, Douglas?" he whispered, as he took the last plate of salad from her weary hand. "You look all done up. Are you sick?" "No, indeed! Nothing!" "When the animals have finished feeding, I want to talk to you. Can you give me a few minutes?" "Why, of course, Lewis, as many as you want." Douglas and Lewis had been friends from the moment they had met. That had been some eighteen years before when Douglas had been crawling on the floor, not yet trusting to her untried legs, and Lewis, just promoted from skirts to breeches, had proudly paraded up and down in front of his baby cousin. There never had been a problem in Douglas' life that she had not discussed with her friend, but she felt a delicacy in talking about this trouble that had arisen on her horizon because it would mean a certain criticism of both her mother and sister. "Walk after supper?" Bill whispered to Tillie. "Something to say." Tillie nodded an assent. Supper over, the tables and chairs were piled up in a twinkling and the latest dance record put on the Victrola. "Why, this is delightful!" exclaimed Mrs. Carter, looking around for Mr. Tucker to come claim her for the first dance, but she saw that gentleman disappearing over the mountainside with Nan. "Nan is entirely too young for such nonsense!" she exclaimed with some asperity, but partners were forthcoming a-plenty so she was soon dancing like any girl of eighteen, while her indulgent husband smoked his pipe and looked contentedly on. Susan and Oscar washed the dishes with more rattling than usual as Oscar had much grumbling in store for the delinquent Susan. "Wherefo' you done lef' yo' wuck to Miss Helen?" "I's a-helpin' Mis' Carter. She kep' me a-openin' boxes an' hangin' up things. I knowed Miss Helen wouldn't min'. She thinks her maw oughter have what she wants. I done heard her tell Miss Douglas that she means to see her maw has her desires fulfilled. Sounded mos' lak qua'llin' the way the young missises was a-talkin'." "Well, all I got to say is that Mis' Carter ain't called on to git any mo' waitin' on than the young ladies. They's as blue-blooded as what she is an' even mo' so as they is got all the blood she's got an' they paw's beside. I bet she ain't goin' to tun a han' to fill any of these folks up. There she is now a-dancin' 'round like a teetotaller a-helpin' the boarders to shake down they victuals. I'll be boun' some of these here Hungarians will be empty befo' bed time." CHAPTER VI POSTPRANDIAL CONVERSATIONS It was a wonderful night. The sun had set in a glory of clouds while Oscar was still endeavoring to fill 'em up. The moon was full and "round as the shield of my fathers." It was very warm with not a breeze stirring. Jeffry Tucker drew Nan down on the first fallen log they came to out of reach of the noise from the pavilion. "It is fine to be able to leave the city for a while," he said, drawing in deep breaths of mountain air. "And now, Miss Nan Carter, I want you to tell me what was the reason for the S. O. S. that you sent out to me as plain as one pair of eyes can speak to another. I am a very old friend of your father, have known him ever since I was a little boy at school where I looked up to him and admired him as only a little boy can a big one. I see he is in poor health, at least in a nervous state, and I am wondering if there isn't something I can do. I don't want to butt in--you understand that, don't you? But if I can help, I want to." And then Nan Carter did just exactly what everybody always did: she took Jeffry Tucker into her confidence and told him all of the troubles of the family. He listened attentively. "I see! The rent from the house in Richmond is the only income you can depend upon just now, and your mother wants to live at home again and have Miss Douglas make her debut in state. She has given up college for lack of funds, but she is to make her debut instead--a much more expensive pastime, I fancy. What does your father say?" "Oh, that is the terrible part of it! We don't want anyone to appeal to father--he is sure to say that mother must do just as she chooses. He always has said that and he thinks that he is put on earth just to gratify mother's every wish. Mr. Tucker, please don't think mother is selfish--it isn't that--she is just inexperienced." "Certainly not! Certainly not!" But that gentleman crossed his fingers and quickly possessed himself of a bit of green leaf, which was the Tucker twins' method, as children, when they made a remark with a mental reservation, the remark for politeness and the mental reservation for truth. "You see, if father begins to think that mother wants things that it will take more money to buy, he will go back to work, and Dr. Wright says that nothing but a complete rest will cure him--rest and no worries." "Can't Dr. Wright have a plain talk with your mother and explain matters to her?" "Ye-e-s, but there is a kind of complication there, too. You see, Dr. Wright had a horrid time at first trying to beat it into us that father was in a bad way. Helen kicked against his diagnosis like I don't know what, treated Dr. Wright mighty badly. He was fine about it and so patient that by and by Helen came to her senses, and began to appreciate all he had done for father, and she and Dr. Wright are real good friends. Now Helen is siding with mother and thinks that whatever mother wants to do she should do. She even wants Douglas to go to White Sulphur with mother for several weeks, right now in our very busiest season." Mr. Tucker could not help laughing at the child by his side, so seriously discussing the trials of her family and now talking about their busiest season like some veteran hotel keeper. "White Sulphur would mean an added expense, too," he suggested. "Of course, and Helen says she will take her share of the summer's earnings and send mother. Helen is very generous and very impulsive, with no more idea of saving for winter than a grasshopper." "This is what I take it you want me to do: make your mother change her mind about going to White Sulphur and decide of her own accord that this winter it would be a mistake to bring Miss Douglas out to make her bow before Richmond society." "Exactly! Oh, Mr. Tucker, if you only could without having father even know that mother is not having everything she wants!" "I'll do my best. I may have to take Dr. Wright into consultation before I get through. Already a plan is surging in my brain." "Let's fly back to the pavilion then and you start to work!" Nan forgot to be shy in her eagerness to thank Mr. Tucker for his interest in their affairs and her hurry to get him launched in the undertaking of coercing her mother without that little lady's knowledge. She wondered if she had spoken too plainly about Dr. Wright and Helen. Nan was sentimental, as one of her poetic nature would be apt to be, and the budding romance that she thought she could spy springing up between Dr. Wright and her sister, far be it from her to blight. She felt sure Dr. Wright would feel it to be his duty to protect his patient from mental worry, but she was also sure that Helen would be quite impatient if Dr. Wright ventured to criticize her mother. What a relief it was to have unbosomed herself to this dear, kind Mr. Tucker, who understood her so readily and still did not seem to think her poor little mother was selfish or silly! (The crossing of fingers and holding something green had escaped her notice.) "I won't tell Douglas I have said anything to him," she promised herself. "It would be difficult to explain that I caught his eye at the supper table and he divined that I was in trouble. That is the truth, though, no matter how silly it sounds." She wondered what the plan was that had begun to surge but she determined to leave it to Mr. Tucker. That gentleman, whatever his idea of attack, did not immediately approach her mother but made his way to the middle of the pavilion where he awaited his chance to break in on a dance with Page Allison, his daughters' friend. "She may be part of his plan! Who knows? At any rate, I believe he is going to get us out of the trouble somehow." As Douglas and Lewis left the pavilion they took the path straight up the mountain. "Let's go this way and shake the crowd for a little while," suggested Lewis. "But we mustn't be long. Helen will have too much entertaining to do. We can't get it out of our heads that we must treat these boarders as though we were having a house-party." "Well, I reckon that's the reason you have been so successful. I have heard some of the fellows say that they never hear the chink of coin here. It really seems like a house-party." "I am so glad, but I am glad of the chink of coin, too." "But, Douglas, I did not bring you out here to talk about boarders and coin--I have got something else to say. Bill and I have just been waiting until Cousin Robert and Cousin Annette got back because we couldn't leave you without any protection----" "Leave us! Oh, Lewis!" "Do you mind really, Douglas?" "Mind? Why, I can't tell you how much I mind!" "We know we have no business staying here indefinitely and we feel we must get to work. We are going to enlist for the Mexican border. We have got over our grouch against Uncle Sam for firing us from West Point and now that he needs us, we are determined to show him we are ready to serve him in any capacity. You know we are right, don't you?" "Ye-e-s, but----" By that time Lewis had taken possession of Douglas' hands and with a voice filled with emotion, he said: "I can't bear to leave you, but now Cousin Robert is here he will make it safe for you. I have tried to help some----" "Oh, and you have! We couldn't have done a thing without you and Bill." "I don't know about that. I believe there is no limit to what you Carter girls can do--but, Douglas--honey--before I go to Mexico--I--I just have to tell you how much I love you. I don't mean like a cousin--I'm not such close kin to you after all--I mean I love you so much that the thought of leaving you is agony. You knew all the time that it was no cousin business, didn't you, Douglas?" "Why, Lewis, I never thought of such a thing. You are almost like my brother," and Douglas devoutly wished the moon would hurry up and get behind a big black cloud that was coming over the mountain. "Brother much! I'm not the least little bit like a brother. Bill's got sisters and I don't believe he is bothering about leaving them one-tenth as much as he is leaving Tillie Wingo. Why, honey, ever since I can remember I have been meaning to get you to marry me when we both grew up. Of course, I can't ask you to marry me now as I haven't a piece of prospect and will have to enlist in the ranks and work up, but I mean to work up fast and be so steady that I'll be a lieutenant before Carranza and Villa can settle their difficulty. Won't you be engaged to me so I'll have something to work for until I can see you again?" "Engaged to you! Why, Lewis, I--I--how can I be when it is so sudden? You never told me before that you cared for me the least little bit." "Told you before! Ye Gods and little fishes! I've been telling you for pretty near eighteen years." "Well, I never heard you!" "Why don't you say you don't give a hang for me and let me go?" "But, Lewis, I give a whole lot of hangs for you and I don't want you to go." "Oh, I know the kind of hangs you give: just this brother and sister business," and the young man dropped the girl's hands. Douglas felt like crying, but Lewis was so absurd she had to laugh. What time had she to think about getting engaged? She felt as though the whole world rested on her young shoulders. Here was her mother wanting her to make a debut, and Helen wanting to spend on a silly trip the pitiful little money they had begun to save from their boarding camp. And now Lewis Somerville and Bill Tinsley, the brawn and sinew of their undertaking, suddenly deciding that they must enlist and hike out for the Mexican border! "We must go back to the pavilion," she said wearily. Her voice sounded very tired and she stumbled a little as she turned to go down the path. "Now, Douglas, I have distressed you," and Lewis was all thoughtfulness and consideration. "I didn't mean to, honey--I just want you to say you love me the way I love you." "And I can't say it, because I never thought of your caring for me in any different way. You are the best friend I have in the world." "Well, that is something and I am going to keep on being it. Maybe when I come back from Mexico you will think differently. You will write to me, won't you?" "Why, of course I will, Lewis! Haven't I always written to you?" "Douglas, don't you think you could love me a little?" "But, Lewis, I do love you a whole lot!" "But I mean be engaged to me?" "Lewis Somerville, would you want me to be engaged to you when you know perfectly well that I have never thought of you except as the very best friend I've got in the world, and if not as a brother, at least as a cousin who has been almost like a brother? If I did engage myself to you, you wouldn't have the least bit of respect for me and you know you wouldn't; would you?" But Lewis would not answer. He just drew her arm in his and silently led her back to the pavilion. The big cloud had made its way in front of the moon and he took advantage of the darkness to kiss her hand, but he was very gentle and seemingly resigned to the brother business that he had so scorned. His youthful countenance was very sad and stern, however, as he turned and made his way to the tent that he shared with Bill and Bobby. Bill Tinsley and Tillie Wingo, too, were walking on the mountainside, Bill as silent as the grave but in a broad grin while Tillie kept up her accustomed chatter. It flowed from her rosy lips with no more effort than water from a mountain spring. "Do you know, Mr. Tinsley, that I have danced out five dresses this summer? As for shoes! If Helen had not given me some of her slippers, I would be barefooted this minute. I don't mind this rough dressing in the day time, but I must say when evening comes I like to doll up. I believe Mrs. Carter feels the same way. Isn't that a lovely dress she has on this evening? There is no telling what it cost. If their mother can buy such a frock as that, I think it is absurd for the girls to be working so hard--and believe me, they are some workers. Now, I'm real practical and know how to dress on very little and, if I do say it that shouldn't, I bet there is not a girl in Richmond who makes a better appearance on as little money as I spend, but I know what things cost--you can't fool me--and I'm able to tell across the room that that filmy lace effect that Mrs. Carter is sporting set her back a good seventy-five." "Whew!" from Bill. "Easy, seventy-five, I say, and maybe more! It would take a lot of week-enders to pay for it and I bet she no more thinks about it than she does about the air she breathes. Now she wants to bring Douglas out and you know she wouldn't be willing to let her come out like a poor girl--no sirree! Douglas would have to have all kinds of clothes and all kinds of parties. She would have to come out in a blaze of glory if her mother has a finger in it. Girls who come out that way don't have such a lot on the ones who just quietly crawl out--like I did, f'instance. I just quietly crawled--you could not call it coming----" Here Bill gave one of his great laughs, breaking his vow of silence. At least it seemed as though he must have made such a vow as through all of Tillie's chatter he had uttered not one word more than the "Whew" over Mrs. Carter's extravagance. The picture of Tillie's quietly crawling got the better of his risibles. "You needn't laugh! I can assure you I came out in home-made clothes and during the entire winter I had not one thing done for me to push me in society--not a cup of tea was handed in my name. One lady did put my card in some invitations she got out, trying to relaunch a daughter who had been out for three seasons and gone in again, but she had an inconvenient death in the family and had to recall the invitations; so I got no good of it after all. Not that I cared--goodness no! I had all the fun there was to have and I'm still having, although I'm not able to keep in the swim, giving entertainments and what not. Of course, I was not included in select luncheons and dinner dances and the like. Those expensive blowouts are given with a view of returning all kinds of obligations or of putting people in your debt so you are included in theirs--but I got to all the big things and got there without the least wire-pulling or working. Of course, I did get to some of the small things because I was run in a lot as substitute when some girl dropped out. I wasn't proud and did not mind in the least being second or third choice. People who never entertain need not expect to be on the original list. I just took a sensible view of the matter. I tell you, if a girl wants to have a good time she's got no business with a chip on her shoulder. Society is a give-and-take game and if you are poorish and want to get without giving, you've got to be willing to do a lot in the way of swallowing your pride. At least, I had no slights offered me where the dancing men were concerned. I made every german and that is something many a rich debutante can't say for herself." Tillie paused for breath and then Bill opened his mouth to speak, but the loquacious Tillie got in before he could begin and he had to wait. "Now I believe Douglas would have lots of attention even if her mother did nothing to help on, but Mrs. Carter would enjoy having a daughter in society more than a daughter would enjoy being there, I believe, and she would be entertaining and spending money from morning until night. Of course, Lewis Somerville would be lots of help as he would stand ready to take Douglas anywhere that she did not get a bid from some other man----" "But Lewis'll be gone," broke in Bill. "Gone! Nonsense! Now that he is out of West Point I'll be bound he will just dance attendance on Douglas. He is dead gone on her. That helps a lot in a girl's first year: to have a devoted--that is, if he is not silly jealous." "He'll be gone." "Gone where?" "Mexican border!" "But he is out of soldiering." "Both of us enlisting!" Tillie was absolutely silenced for a moment and Bill went on: "See here, Miss Wingo, Tillie! I'd be glad if you would--if--I'm stuck on you for sure." "Oh, come off! You know you think I'm the silliest ever." "I think you are about the prettiest, jolliest ever. I wish you would let me go off to Mexico engaged to you. It would make it lots easier to work and I mean to work like a whole regiment and make good. Won't you, Tillie?" "Well, I don't care if I do. You are a fine dancer and I think a heap of you, Bill. I'd rather keep it dark, though, if you don't mind, as it queers a girl's game sometimes if she gets engaged." "Lord, no! I don't mind just so I know it myself," and the happy Bill enfolded his enamorata in his arms, although she carefully admonished him not to crush her new dress. "I never dreamed you were thinking about me seriously," she confessed as she emerged from his embrace. "Honest? Been dotty about you ever since you took me for a jitney driver and tipped me a quarter. Got it yet." "Look how dark it is! I believe we are going to have a storm. What a great black cloud! Let's hurry, as I have no idea of getting my frock wet." Hurry they did and reached the pavilion just as great drops began to fall. Bill was in a state of happy excitement over his engagement, although it was something he must keep to himself. He felt like shouting it on the housetops, but instead he gave one of his great laughs that startled Mrs. Carter so she stopped dancing and hunted up Bobby. "It sounded like bears and lions," she declared, "and I felt uneasy about my baby." She found that youngster fast asleep cuddled up in his father's arms, the father looking very happy and peaceful. Robert Carter felt quite like a little child himself with his great girls taking care of him. CHAPTER VII THE STORM That storm was always known as "The Storm" by everyone who was at the Week-End Camp on that night in August. Greendale had been singularly free from severe storms that season and the Carters had had no difficulty up to that time in keeping dry. They had had rain in plenty but never great downpours and their mountain had escaped the lightning that on several occasions had played havoc not many miles from them. The day had been exceptionally warm but very clear. The full moon had taken the place of the sun when night came on and so brilliant was the glow from that heavenly orb, one could almost fancy heat was reflected as well as light. The great black cloud that came rolling over the mountain was as much an astonishment to the dancers in the pavilion as it was to the moon herself. They refused to recognize the fact that a storm was coming up and the moon also held her own for some time after the downpour was upon them. She kept peeping out through rifts in the clouds and once when the storm was at its fiercest she sailed clear of all clouds for a few moments, and then it was that the rarest of all beauties in Nature was beheld by the damp and huddled-up crowd of week-enders: a lunar rainbow. It stretched across the valley, a perfect arc with the colors as clearly defined as a solar bow but infinitely more delicate than any rainbow ever beheld before. There was no such thing as keeping dry. When Lewis Somerville and Bill Tinsley built the pavilion, they had kept exactly to the architect's plans, drawn so carefully by Robert Carter's assistant, Mr. Lane. The roof projected so far on every side that they had remarked at the time that nothing short of horizontal rain could find its way under that roof. Well, this rain was horizontal and it came in first one direction and then another until every bit of floor space was flooded. The thunder sounded like stage thunder made by rolling barrels of bricks down inclined planes and helped out with the bass drum. Great clouds rested on the mountain tops and a wind, that seemed demoniacal in the tricks it played, bent over great forest trees as though they were saplings and then let them snap back into place with a deafening crack. "Save the Victrola," whispered Tillie to Bill. "I want to dance with you once before you go off, and water will ruin it." That was enough for the devoted Bill. He took off his coat and wrapped it tenderly over the top of the Victrola, which was still playing a gay dance tune as no one had had the presence of mind to stop it. Then he made a dash for the kitchen just as a river of water was descending and in a twinkling was back bearing in his arms a great tin tub. This he placed over the top of the precious music-maker. He felt very tender toward Tillie just then for although her new dress was being ruined, still her first thought had been for the Victrola so she could dance with him. The storm having come up so suddenly found the crowd totally unprepared. Tent flys had been left up and the windows and door of the cabin, where Mrs. Carter was installed, were wide open for the four winds of heaven to blow through. Sad havoc they played with the dainty finery that Mrs. Carter and Susan had left spread out on the bed. The wonderful hat, brought as a present for Douglas, was picked up the next morning half way down the mountain; at least the ruin was supposed to be that hat but it was never quite identified as it had lost all semblance to a hat. Lewis, after hearing the ultimatum from Douglas, as I have said, made his solitary way to his tent where he threw himself on his cot to fight it out with his disappointed self. A dash of rain on his tent aroused him and then a mighty gust of wind simply picked up the tent and wafted it away like thistledown. "Well, of all----" but Lewis never finished of all the what, but in a twinkling he had rolled up the bed clothes belonging to himself and his tent mates, and then rushing to the neighboring tents that were still withstanding the raging hurricane he rolled up blankets found there and piled cots on top of the bundles. It was a real fight, strong man that he was, to make his way to the pavilion. Trees were bending before the wind and he found the only way to locomote was to crawl. "Just suppose the pavilion doesn't hold!" was ringing in his mind; but the young men "had builded better than they knew." It did hold although the roof was straining at the rafters and Lewis and Bill feared every moment it might rise up and float off as their tent had done. Lewis came under cover wetter than he would have been had he been in swimming, he declared. Swimming just soaks the water in but the rain had beat it in and hammered it down. The wind was still driving the rain in horizontal sheets and the pavilion was getting damper and damper. The week-enders were a very forlorn looking crowd and no doubt the majority of them were far from blessing the day that had brought them to the camp in Albemarle. They ran from corner to corner trying to get out of the searching flood. "I know they are blaming it on us!" cried Nan to Mr. Tucker. "Who is blaming it on you?" laughed Page Allison. "Why, honey, it may be doing worse things in other places. We should be thankful we are on a mountain top instead of in a valley." Then she drew Mr. Tucker aside and whispered to him: "See here, Zebedee, don't you think it is up to us somehow to relieve this situation? If we get giddy and act as though it were a privilege to be wet to the skin, don't you think we might stir up these people and make a lark of this storm instead of a calamity? You remember you told me once that you and Miss Jinny Cox saved the day for a picnic at Monticello when a deluge hit you there?" Zebedee was the Tucker Twins' pet name for their father, and Page Allison, their best friend, was also privileged to use the name for that eternally youthful gentleman. "I've been thinking we must do something, but the lightning is so severe that somehow I think I must wait." "You are like Mammy Susan who says: 'Whin the Almighty is a-doing his wuck ain't the time fur a po' ole nigger ter be a-doin' hern.'" "Exactly! But it is letting up a bit now, that is, the lightning is, but the rain is even more terrific." A great crash of thunder, coming simultaneously with a flash of lightning that cracked like a whip, put a stop to conversation, and Page, in spite of her bravery, for she was not the least afraid of storms as a rule--clung to Mr. Tucker. Everybody was clinging to everybody else and in the stress of the moment no one was choosy about the person to cling to. Bill cursed his stars that Tillie was hanging on to Skeeter, as pale as a little ghost, when she might just as well be hanging on to him, while he, in turn, was supporting a strange person he had never even met. "That hit close to us!" exclaimed someone. "I believe it hit me!" screamed a girl. "Where are Susan and Oscar?" cried Douglas. "They will be scared to death." "When I went down in the kitchen after the tub for the Victrola, Oscar was under the table and Susan was trying to get in the fireless cooker, head first," volunteered Bill. "The kitchen is really the dryest place on the mountain, I fancy." "You forget the shower bath," suggested Helen. "Turn it on full force and it would still be a thousand times dryer than any place here." "I tell you what let's do!" spoke Dum Tucker with an inspiration that all regretted had not come sooner. "Let's climb up and sit on the rafters!" Suiting the action to the word, she lightly ascended the trunk of the huge tulip poplar tree that had been left in the center of the pavilion as a support to the roof. The branches had been sawed off, leaving enough projecting to serve as hat racks for the camp. These made an admirable winding stair which an athletic girl like Dum Tucker made nothing of climbing. "Splendid!" and Dee Tucker followed her twin. In short order many of the more venturesome members of the party were perched on the rafters where they defied the rain to reach them. Even poor Mrs. Carter, her pretty lace dress, if not absolutely ruined, at least with all of its first freshness gone, was persuaded to come up, too, and there she sat trembling and miserable. "Come on up, Page!" shouted Dee to her chum. "I'll be there soon," but Page had an idea that she meant first to propose to Douglas. Poor Douglas, this was a fitting ending to a day of worry and concern. She felt like one "Whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster." Of course country folk are always made to feel in some intangible way that they are responsible for the weather when the weather happens to be bad and city folk are visiting them. Douglas thought she had enough not to bear the weight of the storm, but somehow she felt that that, too, was added to her burden. "I know exactly what you are thinking," said Page, coming up and putting her wet arm around Douglas' wet waist. "I have lived in the country all my life and whenever we have a big storm at Bracken or unseasonable weather of any sort, we are always held personally responsible for it by a certain type of visitors. You think this is going to harm your camp and keep people from coming, don't you?" "Why, how did you know?" "A little bird told me--a stormy petrel. Now I tell you what we must do: we must whoop things up until all of these week-enders will think that the storm was about the most interesting thing that ever happened at Camp Carter and they will come again hoping for a repetition of the experience." "Oh, Page! How can we?" and Douglas smiled in spite of herself. "Well, let's call a council and appoint a committee on ways and means." Mr. Tucker was first on the list, then Helen and Dr. Wright, Bill Tinsley and Lewis Somerville. Nan was so busy looking at the beauties of Nature that she had to be called three times before she answered. "Come on, Miss Nan!" begged Mr. Tucker. "Your wise little head is wanted on this committee." "Only look at that bank of clouds as the lightning strikes on the edge of it! It looks like the portals of heaven." "Yes, and it came mighty near being that same thing," muttered Mr. Tucker. The storm was really passing. Flashes of lightning and peals of thunder grew farther and farther apart. The rain gave one big last dash and stopped as suddenly as it had begun and then the moon asserted herself once more. Every member of the hastily called council had some suggestion to make and every suggestion was eagerly taken by the committee on ways and means, that committee being composed of the entire council. Page said hot coffee for the entire camp must be made immediately and she would do the making. Dr. Wright said a fire would be a pretty good thing if it could be managed, and Bill Tinsley remembered some charcoal braziers that Susan used for ironing and a box of charcoal in the corner of the kitchen. Lewis went to gather up all the blankets in the camp and those that were damp were draped along the rafters by the climbers. Soon the brazier had a glow of coals that sent up heat to the rafters, and Bill also put into use the great iron pot that had hung over the camp fire just for picturesqueness. It had never had anything in it but water, all the cooking being done on kerosene stoves and in a fireless cooker. This made an excellent brazier and the coals were kept red hot with the help of the automobile tire pump in lieu of bellows. Helen had ambition for a welsh rarebit and started in with chafing dishes. This called into requisition more workers and all of the camp was soon busy cutting up cheese and toasting bread and crackers. The Victrola was relieved of its tub and a ragtime record put on that made all of the workers step lively, which did much toward starting their circulation and warming them up generally. The Victrola ever after that was called Diogenes, after a certain wise man who lived in a tub. Everybody danced at his work and everybody was laughing and happy. The moonlight was so dazzling in its brilliancy that it was difficult to realize that not ten minutes before the biggest storm Greendale had ever known had been making even the strong men tremble. Nan seemed to be the only person who had not been afraid. Even those who had never before minded a storm had been cowed by this one. Page declared she had always liked storms before; even when a big gum tree on the lawn at Bracken had been struck before her very eyes she had not been afraid, but this time she was scared to death. Dum said it seemed to be such a personal storm somehow and each flash seemed to mean her. "I felt my naked soul was exposed to my Maker," she said, as she gave her beloved father a hug. "I have got all kinds of things to 'fess to you, Zebedee, things that I never thought made any difference before," she whispered. "Why, Dumdeedledums! What on earth?" "Only this evening I smoked a cigarette, although I know you hate it--I owe a little bill for soda water at Miller's, although I know you don't want me to charge things--there are other things but I can't think of them just now. Suppose--only suppose that I had winked out without telling you or worse than that, suppose you had----" but Dum couldn't finish for the big tears that rolled out of her eyes and which Tucker-like she made no attempt to conceal. Zebedee lent her his handkerchief and then had to wipe his own eyes, too. "That is all right, honey, but don't do it any more. And now you turn in and help these Carter girls and Page jolly up this crowd. Page is making coffee and I am going with Somerville to right the tents and take stock of the damage done by the storm." When Page had first entered the kitchen she found the two negroes bent over in abject woe. Oscar was praying while Susan moaned and groaned with occasional ejaculations like a Greek chorus in a tragedy of Euripides. "Oh my Gawd, let the deep waters pass over me and let me come out whiter than the snow and sweeter than the honey in the honey comb--let me be putrified by fire and let the rollin' thunder's shock pass me by, leavin' me stand steadfast, a pillar of smoke by day and a pillar of fire by night like unto a lily of the valley, a bright an' mawnin' star that casts its beams on the jest an' the onjest----" "Yes, my Gawd!" wailed the chorus. "An' the jest an' the onjest shall lie down together like the lion an' the lamb in that great an' mighty day an' who Gawd has united let no man pull acinder." "Yes! Yes! In that day when the Rock of Ages shall smite the Shibboleth and the Urum an' Thurum may be delivered not--remember thou thy servant Oscar----" "Yes! Yes, Lord! an' thy handy maiden Susan!" Page entered and put a stop to the impassioned appeal by asking for the coffee pot, while Bill Tinsley bore off the big brazier full of charcoal. "The storm is over, I think," said Page, with difficulty restraining her smiles. "It was very terrible indeed." "Turrible ain't no word for it; an' now you say the white folks wants to eat agin? Lord love us if ev'thing don't make these here week-enders emptier an' emptier. Feedin' of them is like pourin' water down a rat hole." "Well, you see, uncle, they all of them got so wet that it is wise to give them something hot to drink, and then, too, we want them to forget the terrible storm and think of the camp only with pleasure. You see they might not come back again." "Forget it! forget it! You can't lose these here folks. They'd ride all the way from Richmond jes' to fill theyselves up, if for no other reason. They is the empties' lot I ever come acrost." Dee Tucker followed Page to the kitchen to see if she could be of any assistance in making the coffee. She felt keenly sorry for the Carters on account of this storm. Not being connected with them in any way, the grumblers had not hesitated to criticize the whole thing in Dee's presence when they got wet and scared. Dee had done all in her power to soften their judgment, but there were several who did not hesitate to blame the Carter girls because of their wetting. Nothing is so catching as criticism and it spreads like wildfire with the genus boarder. She told Page of her fears. "We'll have to put a stop to it. You get Tillie Wingo and you and she soft soap the men who are grouching, and then get Zebedee to go after the females. He can make them believe they only dreamed it stormed." CHAPTER VIII THE DAMAGE DONE Jeffry Tucker and his daughter Caroline, otherwise known as Dee, were surely the most tactful human beings in the world. They could almost always gain any goal by tact. They set out now to make the grouchy week-enders dry up and cheer up, and in half an hour after the storm was over they had attained their object. Page overheard Mr. Tucker pacifying a very disconsolate maiden lady whose hair had come out of curl and whose rosy cheeks had run off--not far, however--only to her jaws. "This is a most outrageous way to treat boarders!" she exclaimed. "The idea of having no proper shelter for them--charging an enormous price, too! I certainly intend to leave tomorrow and I will stop some friends of mine who were planning to come up next week. Isn't it strange how these places are overrated? Anyhow, I'll not give it a good name but will get out the first thing in the morning." "Oh, don't do that," begged the wily Zebedee. "I had planned to get you to take a walk with me tomorrow evening. The moon will be gorgeous and there are some wonderful spots around here--romantic spots." "Well, of course I wouldn't think of going if it clears up." "It has already cleared up! Just look at the moon! I almost think we might take a walk now, but it might be very muddy. Let's fox trot instead." "'Done, for a ducat!'" laughed Page to herself, as Mr. Tucker and the much mollified week-ender danced off together. "I am afraid poor Zebedee will have his whole holiday taken up showing the moon to wet hens." What Mr. Tucker accomplished with the females, Tillie and Dee did likewise to the males. Tillie exercised all her fascinations on some hallroom boys, while Dee went in for some old bachelors who loved their ease and comfort and did not at all relish the idea of wet sheets on soggy cots. "Here is some hot coffee!" she said, with a very winning smile. "Two lumps, or one?" "None for me, miss," from a terrible old grouch who had been particularly loud in his praise of Nature before Nature had shown what she really could do. "I don't expect to sleep a wink as it is. I am perfectly sure the beds will be damp." "But I am sure they will not be. Douglas is seeing about it now and she says they have plenty of dry bed linen. You had better have some coffee and I will dance with you until you get sleepy." "Egad, that would be very pleasant! I am going back to the city tomorrow and I could sleep on the train, perhaps." "Oh, please don't go tomorrow. I thought you would be here over Sunday and we might get up a little crowd and go sit on the rocks and read aloud or something." "Well, if it clears I may change my mind." "It has already cleared! Goody! Goody! Now you will have to stay. Wouldn't the old-fashioned waltz go well with that record Helen has just put on? Do you know I adore the old-fashioned waltz?" As the old-fashioned waltz was the only thing that staid bachelor could dance, never having been able to master the new dances, this put him in rare good humor. He swallowed his coffee hastily, pronouncing it excellent, and in a twinkling he and Dee were dancing the dances of the early eighties and one more week-ender was saved to the Carters to give the camp a good name. After a severe storm sometimes it is more of a wonder what the damage isn't than what it is. It seems at the time that nothing will ever be dry and straight again, and then in a very short while the world looks normal once more. Camp Carter recuperated in a miraculous manner. Only one tent had been blown away and those that stood the test of wind had also stood the test of rain. Some of the blankets were damp but most of them, thanks to Lewis' foresight, had been protected. The drainage on the side of a mountain is naturally perfect so there were no disconcerting puddles, and the rocky paths were hardly muddy, so hard and driving had been the downpour. Lewis and Bill Tinsley went with Douglas and Nan to take stock of the damage and to repair what they could. Their relief was great at the state of affairs until they entered the cabin. The wind and rain had gone straight through it. The pretty rag rugs were sopping wet and, as I have said before, all the dainty finery spread out on the bed, was blown hither and yon. Douglas looked at the havoc in dismay. Would her mother want to buy more things to replace these that were ruined? She missed the pretty hat intended for her own fair head and was in a measure relieved that she would not have to wear it. "Let's build a fire immediately," and Nan began to pile up paper and chips in the open fireplace, the cabin boasting the one chimney in camp where a fire was possible. "Now this will dry out the room before mother comes in to go to bed." "Yes, and we had better put a cot in here for Bobby, now that our tent is blown off," suggested Lewis. "But where will you and Bill sleep?" asked Douglas. "Oh, we can curl up on the floor of the pavilion. Our cots are soaking. I kept the blankets dry, though." "But I am so afraid you won't be comfortable." "Oh, that's all right! Get us in training for the border! Bill and I have been living so soft I fancy a little roughing it will be good for us." Lewis sounded rather bitter and Douglas felt that she would give worlds if she could tell him that she had decided she did care for him as he wanted her to. Other girls pretended, why not she? But there was an uprightness about Douglas Carter that would not let her be a party to any form of deceit. She was sorry, very sorry, but she could not be like Tillie Wingo and engage herself to anyone on a moment's notice. "We are going to miss both of you ever and ever so much. Think what it would be in a time like this without you to help! I can hardly contemplate running the camp without you." "Oh, that will be easy enough! Skeeter and Frank can do what we have done. You won't miss us at all." "I didn't mean just the work you do," faltered poor Douglas. "Oh, well, the rest won't amount to much," declared Lewis, determined to be difficult. Bill listened to his chum in amazement. He was in such a seventh heaven of bliss himself that he could not understand anyone's being anything but happy. For his part he could not see why Lewis didn't settle matters with his cousin before going to the border. It never entered his head that anyone could refuse a Greek god of a fellow like Lewis Somerville. If a belle like Tillie Wingo could put up with him, why, there was not a girl living who would not jump at his friend. Nan sniffed a romance in the air where she had not expected to find it. She, like all her family, was so accustomed to the friendship between her elder sister and Lewis that she had not thought of a more serious relationship being the outcome. Lewis was certainly sounding cold and formal and Douglas was looking distressed. "I see how it is," she said to herself; "Lewis has proposed to Douglas and Douglas has turned him down. He told her he was going to enlist and proposed all in one breath and poor old Doug couldn't adjust herself fast enough. She no doubt does love him but doesn't know it. Just wait until he gets out of sight!" The week-enders were finally all put to bed in dry sheets and warmed blankets, after having drunk hot coffee and eaten a rarebit that was so tender even the grouchiest of the grouchy could not get up indigestion over it. The leaven of good-humor spread by the Tuckers and Page Allison had begun to work and all were rising to the occasion and quite proud of themselves over taking everything so philosophically. The maiden lady who had threatened to leave on the morning train but had been persuaded by Zebedee to stay over to take a moonlight walk with him was now loud in her praise of camp life. "I say the only way to get along is to take things as they come. I was just telling Mr. Tucker that one can't expect the comforts of the Jefferson Hotel up in camp, but then if one wants the comforts of the Jefferson one had better go there and not come to the country. Now I would give up any comforts for the beauties of nature!" and so on, and so on! Dee danced the old-fashioned waltz until she almost forgot how to do a single modern step. The grouchy bachelor forgot to worry about the possibility of damp sheets and babbled along about the dances of the eighties, and promised to teach his young partner the racket and the heel and toe polka if any of the records would fit those defunct dances. The sprightliness of that particular bachelor was catching, and the two others, who had begun to inquire about time tables with a view to beating a hasty retreat to the safety-firstness of the city, found themselves cheering up, too; and warmed by the good hot coffee, they began to dance with youthful ardor and actually grumbled when the crowd broke up for needed repose. "Aren't the Tuckers splendid?" said Douglas, when she and her sisters were undressing. "Indeed they are," agreed Helen, "and I like that little Allison girl a lot, too. She waltzed in and helped with the eats as though she were one of us." "I think Mr. Tucker is kind of gone on her," drawled Nan. "Nonsense! You are always thinking somebody is gone on somebody," laughed Helen. "Well, somebody always is. He treats her just like he does the twins, only different." "How's that, like triplets?" But Nan had gone to sleep before she could formulate her ideas about how Mr. Tucker treated Page. She only devoutly hoped he would devise some method by which he could persuade her mother to give up the idea of going to White Sulphur and let Douglas alone about making her debut the following winter. CHAPTER IX MR. MACHIAVELLI TUCKER Nan wondered what Mr. Tucker had in mind to relieve the situation which she had so ingenuously disclosed to him on that little walk in the moonlight. The next morning she watched him closely and there was something about the businesslike way in which he sought out Mrs. Carter, when that lady appeared long after breakfast, that made her divine he had something up his sleeve. The charming lady was looking especially lovely in a white linen morning dress. She said she had slept splendidly in spite of the fact that she rather missed the rolling of the ship. Again she had kept Susan so busy waiting on her that the labor of serving breakfast properly had fallen on Helen. A tray of breakfast had to be arranged exactly as though they were still in the city, and Susan made many trips from the cabin to the kitchen. Mrs. Carter was one of those persons who was always treated as more or less of an invalid because of a certain delicate look she had, but her girls could not remember her having had a real illness. She must not be awakened in the morning and she must never be asked to go out in bad weather. She must have the daintiest food; the warmest corner in winter and the coolest in summer. She had never demanded these things, but they had always been given her as though she had a kind of divine right to them. Her husband had, from the moment he saw her, the belle of belles at White Sulphur, felt that she was to be served as a little queen and the children had slipped into their father's way. No one would have been more astonished than Annette Carter had anyone accused her of selfishness. Selfishness was something ugly and greedy and no one could say that she was that. She never made demands on anyone. In fact, she quite prided herself on not making demands. Everyone was kind and thoughtful of her, but then was she not kind and thoughtful of everyone? Had she not brought a present to every one of her girls and a great box of expensive toys for Bobby? It was not her fault that Bobby preferred currying that disgraceful-looking old mule to playing with the fine things she had purchased for him at the most exclusive toy shop in New York. Had she not even remembered every one of the servants, not only Susan and Oscar but the ones who had been in her service when she had left Richmond? The fact that she had charged all of these gifts and that the money to pay for them was to be worked for by her daughters had not for a moment entered her mind. "And how is camp life treating you this morning?" asked Jeffry Tucker, as he led the little lady to a particularly pleasant corner of the pavilion that commanded a view of the beautiful apple orchards of that county of Virginia famous for the Albemarle pippins. "Did you ever see such a morning? I can hardly believe that only last night we were in the throes of the fiercest storm I have ever seen." "Oh, I am quite in love with camp life. It is not so rough as I expected it to be when I arrived yesterday. I have a very comfortable bed and a nice bright fire cheered me up wonderfully after I left the pavilion last night. I must confess I was scared to death during the storm, although I held on to myself wonderfully." "Yes, wonderfully!" but Jeffry Tucker crossed his fingers and reached out for a bit of green from the pine tree growing close to the post. He could not but picture the little woman of the evening before hanging on to her husband, intent on protecting her dress and shrieking at every close flash of lightning or loud clap of thunder. "I am so glad you are here because I am thinking of leaving my girls at the camp for a while, and of course I could not think of doing it unless you were here to chaperone them." "Oh, I never thought of my presence being necessary as a chaperone! You know I am thinking of taking Douglas to the White for a fortnight." "Oh, I am sorry. Of course I could not leave my girls unless they are to be chaperoned." "But Robert will be here; he is enough chaperone surely." "Yes, enough in our eyes but not the eyes of the world. You see, I think one cannot be too careful about what Mrs. Grundy will say," and Jeffry Tucker crossed his fingers again and reached for more green, "especially when girls are about the age of mine and yours, too, about to be launched in the world, as it were." He was devoutly thankful that his girls could not hear him indulging in this homily. If there ever lived a person who scorned Mrs. Grundy that was this same Jeffry Tucker. He devoutly hoped that Mrs. Carter would not hear that Page Allison was in the habit of being chaperoned by him, if one could call it being chaperoned. He well knew that as a chaperone Robert Carter had him beat a mile but he felt that a little subterfuge was permissable in as strenuous a case as this. "Why, Mr. Tucker, I did not dream you were such a stickler for the proprieties!" "Ahem--I am more so than I used to be. Having these girls almost grown makes me feel I must be more careful than--my nature--er--er--dictates." "Exactly! I respect you for it. I, too, think it very important, especially if a girl is to make a debut as I mean that Douglas shall. I am very sorry, though, that you could not leave Virginia and Caroline up here in Robert's care. I am sure it will be all right for once. I have quite set my heart on White Sulphur for a few weeks. I think it gives a girl a certain poise to be introduced to society in an informal way before she makes her debut." "Well, I am sorry, too, sorrier than I can say. You see, I had planned to come up again myself next Saturday and I thought I would bring with me Hiram G. Parker. He would like this sort of thing and fit in nicely with these young girls. You know how much he takes to the girls before they are quite grown." "Ye--es!" and Mrs. Carter was lost in a revery. She well knew that the name of Hiram G. Parker was one that controlled society. He was the Beau Brummel of Richmond and in some unaccountable way had become the dictator of society, that is of the debutante society. He passed the word about whether or not a girl was to be a belle and his judgment was seldom gainsaid. Mrs. Carter was thinking that no doubt the presence of Hiram G. Parker in their camp would be of more benefit than a trip to White Sulphur. Her position in society was of course assured beyond a doubt but that did not mean a successful debut for one of her daughters, certainly not for one who was to be persuaded if not forced to be a debutante. The business of coming out must be taken quite seriously and the importance of it not belittled. Poor Douglas was taking it seriously enough, but not in a way her mother thought desirable for success. "Do you know, Mr. Tucker, I have half a mind to give up the trip to White Sulphur.--It is so pleasant here and so delightful to be with my children again; and if your daughters and that sweet little friend of theirs care to remain with us, I shall be more than pleased to chaperone them." "Oh, you are kind!" exclaimed the wily Zebedee. "I cannot thank you enough. If you choose to make it so, Camp Carter will vie with White Sulphur as a resort. I shall certainly bring Parker up next week." Mr. Tucker grasped the first opportunity to inform the anxious Nan of his successfully performed mission. "Oh, how did you do it?" "By just a little twist of the wrist. You shall have to put up with my girls though for another week or so. Your mother has promised to chaperone them until I fetch them away." "Splendid! Do they want to stay?" "They are dying to. I only hope they won't tear things wide open at camp. They are terribly hoydenish at times." "Mr. Tucker, tell me: did you really get mother to give up White Sulphur just to chaperone the twins and Page?" "You ask her! I think she thinks she did." "I believe I'll call you Mr. Machiavelli Tucker." "Don't flatter me so yet. Wait until I accomplish the seemingly impossible of making your mother decide of her own accord that your sister had better not come out yet." "Can you do that, too?" "I don't want to sound conceited but I believe I can. This is our secret, so don't tell a soul that we have any hand in this matter. Just let Douglas think it is fortune smiling on her." "All right, but nothing can ever make me forget your kindness!" and Nan held his hand with both of hers with no more trace of shyness than Hiram G. Parker might have shown in dancing a german. "What on earth have you done to make Nan so eternally grateful?" demanded Dum Tucker, coming suddenly around a spur of rock on the mountain path where her father had accosted Nan. "I am going to leave you girls up here for some days longer. Isn't that enough for her to be grateful over?" "We--ll, I don't know--that sounds rather fishy." "And besides, I am going to send her up a ouija board to pass the hours away until I return. How about that?" "Oh, now you are talking! That is something to be grateful about. We are all of us dying to try it," but Dum could not see why Nan was blushing so furiously and evidently trying to hold in the giggles, and she plainly caught a wink passing between her dignified parent and the demure Nan. "He's up to something, but it wouldn't be very gentlemanly of me to try to find out if he doesn't want me to know," she said to herself. The Tucker Twins had been motherless since they were tiny babies and their ridiculously young father had had the rearing of them alone and unaided. Many stepmothers had been picked out for these irrepressible girls by well meaning friends and relatives, but Jeffry Tucker had remained unmarried, much to the satisfaction of the said twins. "He is much too young and inexperienced to marry," they would say when the matter was broached by wily mammas who hoped to settle their daughters. And so he did seem to be. Time had no power to age Jeffry Tucker. He was in reality very young to be the father of these great girls, as the romance of his life had occurred when he was only twenty, still in college, and the little wife had died after only a year of happiness. In rearing his girls he had had only one rule to go by: they must conduct themselves like gentlemen on all occasions. "I don't know what ladylike rules are but I do know what is expected of a gentleman, and if my girls come up to that standard I am sure they will pass muster," he had declared. As a rule the twins did pass muster. They were perfectly honorable and upright and the mischief they got into was never anything to be ashamed of--only something to be gotten out of, never too serious to tell their father all about. The fact that they were to stay longer than the week-end was greeted with joy by the Carters. Page had already made herself popular, too. Douglas was soon informed by her mother that she had given up the trip to the White, so some of the load was lifted from the poor girl's heart. There was much more talk, however, of the proposed debut and Helen upheld her mother in thinking that since Douglas was not going to college she must come out. "But, Helen, the money for a debut! And if we go into our house and turn out the desirable tenants, where are we to get an income to exist on?" "Oh, always money, money! It can be gotten, and mother says our credit is as good as the U. S. mint. She has often heard father say so." "Of course it was as good, but now that father is no longer able to earn money it would not be quite square to presume on that credit when we have no way of paying the bills." Douglas would go over and over the same argument and Helen would still not be convinced. "Are we to spend the rest of our lives digging and delving for gold and then not use the money? How does our bank account stand now?" "I don't know, but it is not so large that we could make a debut on it," smiled Douglas. "But we could make a start and then earn some more." "But why spend it on me when I don't want to go into society?" "Why, for mother's sake, goose. She has set her heart on it and you know we have always let her do whatever she wanted to. It would make father miserable to think mother wanted something and could not have it." "Yes, I know! He mustn't know she wants it and can't have it." "But she must have it. She is planning all the time for your being a great belle." "Dr. Wright said that father----" but Helen flounced off, refusing to hear what Dr. Wright said. She had overcome all of her antipathy for that young physician and in fact liked him rather more than anyone of her acquaintance of the male persuasion, but she still resented any tendency on his part to dictate to her. Mrs. Carter, having given up her trip to White Sulphur, felt that virtue must be rewarded and so actually persuaded Douglas to protect her complexion. She was not allowed to go in the sun at all and in the shade she must wear a great hat tied under her chin, with a curtain of blue veiling draped over it. Every night she must be anointed with some kind of cucumber cream and her hair must be brushed with one hundred licks every night and morning. Lewis Somerville and Bill Tinsley made their sorrowful adieux. Everyone missed them. They seemed as important to the camp as the great poplar tree in the center of the pavilion was to that edifice. There was a feeling that everything might topple over now that those two young men were gone. It didn't, however. Skeeter Halsey and Frank Maury did what they could to fill their places, but as they expressed it, they "sho' did rattle 'round in 'em." Mr. Carter, too, delighted to be of use and to find something he could do without using his poor fagged brain too much, was busy at something from morning until night. First the reservoir must be repaired after the heavy rain had caved in part of the dam; then the roof of the cabin needed a shingle here and there. A rustic bench must be put by the spring which formed the reservoir, and then a table was added so that afternoon tea might be served there on occasions. He was so busy and so happy in being busy that it was delightful to see him. Bobby was his companion at all times, even deserting the beloved Josh and Josephus to be with his father. This was a new father, one who had time to play and talk. Together they made wonderful little water wheels and put them in a tiny mountain stream where they turned continuously to the delight of Bobby. The successful architect of other days drew plans for bird houses and he and his little son whittled them out of stray bits of lumber and cigar boxes and placed them in the trees, no doubt filling a long felt want for suburban villas in bird society. The miracle was happening! The cure that Dr. Wright had predicted was taking place. Robert Carter was on the high road to recovery. CHAPTER X MR. HIRAM G. PARKER Susan had been kept very busy all week doing lady's maid work for her mistress. Susan's usefulness in the kitchen was about over, the Carter girls feared. There never seemed to be a moment that she was not wanted to wait on Mrs. Carter. When she took the daintily arranged breakfast tray to the cabin she was kept to fetch and carry and do a million foolish little nothings that an idle woman can always find to occupy other persons. Then the many new dresses must be pressed and white skirts must be laundered. Mrs. Carter always had worn white in the summer, and although washing was something of a problem at the camp, she still must wear white. Not a speck must be on those snowy garments even if it did take all of Susan's time to keep them in condition. "There is no excuse for letting oneself go even if it is necessary to live in a camp," she would assert. "I think it is very important to look nice wherever one happens to be." "It sho' is, Mis' Carter, an' you jes' call on me to washanirn all the things you need. That's what I'm here fur," and Susan, who much preferred the job of lady's maid to that of assistant cook, gathered up an armful of rumpled skirts and blouses and carried them off to launder. She adored her mistress and saw no reason at all why the girls need mind doing extra work so that she could give all of her attention to the whims of the mother. "What's all that?" grumbled Oscar, who saw many reasons why Miss Helen should not be doing Susan's work. "You ain't a-goin' to do no washinanirnin' in this hyar kitchen today. You know puffectly well that them thar week-enders is a-comin' pilin' in hyar this ebenin', all of 'em as empty as gourds." "Well, these here langery is got to be did up, an' I is got to do 'em up, an' as fur as I know thain't no place to do 'em up but in the kitchen. It's jes' because of some of these here week-enders that they is got to be landered. You is so ign'rant that you don't know that one of these here week-enders what is a-comin' is what Mis' Carter call a arbitrator of sassiety." "Well, I may be ign'rant but I knows one thing, that ifn a nice little gal named Miss Page Allison hadn't a come in an' helped Miss Helen an' I, we wouldn't a got breakfast on the table. Miss Gwen warn't here this mornin' cause that ole po' white mounting ooman what she calls Aunt Mandy done took with cramps in the night an' Miss Gwen couldn't leave her. This is a been the busiest week of the camp an' you--you ain't been wuth standin' room in de bad place all week. You an' yo' mistress with yo' langery an' yo' arbors of sassiety. I don't know who he is a-comin' but whoever he is, he ain't no better'n our folks." "He's Mr. Hiram G. Parker hisself!" "What, that little ole Hi Parker? He ain't nuthin'. If he's done riz to the top er sassiety it's caze he's the scum an' the scum jes natch'ly gits on top. Who was his folks? Tell me that, who was they? You don't know an' neither do lots er folks but I knows an' he knows. That's the reason he's so partic'lar 'bout who he consorts with. He has to be! Yi! Yi! He has to be! Arbor er sassiety much! Back po'ch er sassiety, mo' lak!" and Oscar chuckled with delight at his wit. "I betcher Mis' Carter better not hear you a-talkin' thataway." "Well, she ain't a-goin' ter hear me--'cause I ain't a-goin' ter talk thataway befo' her, but that ain't a-keepin' me from knowin' all about little Hi Parker's fo-bars. Thain't much ter know 'cause he warn't troubled with many. His grandpap had a waggin with a bell on it an' went aroun' hollerin: 'Ragsoleioncopperanbrass! Ragsoleioncopperanbrass!' I 'member it mighty well 'cause my mammy uster say she goin' ter thow me in the waggin an' sell me ter ole Parker if I didn't 'have myself." "Well, howsomever it might a-been, tain't thataway now! Mis' Carter is 'cited over his a-comin'. She done made po' Miss Douglas sleep with some kinder wax on her competence las' night to peel off the remains of the sunburn an' she done made her promus not to wear that there cowboy suit for supper. Mis' Carter says she thinks Miss Douglas oughter be dressed in diafricanus interial." "Humph! The missus is all right, but she better let these here young ladies run this here camp like they been doin'. If they take to dressin' up it'll mean all yo' time'll be spent pressin' an' fixin' an' I want ter know who'll be a-doin' yo' work. Not me! By the time I get through butlerin' these here week-enders, I ain't got the back ter washanwipe all the dishes." Susan quietly started the charcoal brazier and put her irons to heat. She knew that the mistress' word was law and that although Oscar might grumble until he was even blacker in the face than nature had made him, he would go on washing dishes until he dropped in his tracks rather than make a real disturbance. Nan and Dum Tucker came to the kitchen after breakfast and helped him while Susan washed and ironed the many white things that Mrs. Carter had discarded as too soiled to appear before Mr. Hiram G. Parker. "I'll wash and you wipe," suggested Nan. "No, please let me wash," begged Dum, "I adore sloshing in suds." "Well, they's lots er suds here ter slosh in," grinned Oscar, bringing a great steaming dish pan, "an' if you is so enjoyful of suds, mebbe you young ladies could spare me altogether an' let me pick them there chickens 'gainst it's time ter fry 'em for supper." "Yes, indeed! Go!" from Dum. "We can do them in no time, can't we, Nan?" "We can do them, but not in no time," drawled Nan. "I can't think it is right for people to use so many dishes. Wouldn't it be grand to be like Aeneas and put your food on a little cake and then eat the cake?" "Yes, but if you can't do that, I think the feeders should at least have the grace to lick their plates. What on earth do you do with all the scraps?" asked Dum as she vigorously scraped plates, a part of the work that everyone hates. "Fatten chickens for killin'," answered Oscar, sharpening a great knife fit for the deed he had to do. "For land's sake, Miss Dum, don't arsk none of the week-enders ter lick they plates. They don't leave nothin' now for my chickens. The gals even eat the tater peelin's. They say it gwine make they har curl, but they eat so much they don't leave no room for they har ter curl." Dum and Nan had become fast friends during that week at camp. The several years' difference in their ages was as nothing. The feeling for beauty which both of them had to a great degree was what drew them together. Nan was so quiet and unostentatious in her unselfishness, few at the camp realized how much she did. For instance: the person who cooks a meal is usually praised by the hungry ones, but the person who patiently scrapes and washes dishes is hardly thought of at all by the satiated. On that Friday morning, Helen had, with the help of Page, produced a wonderful breakfast; and when these two girls came to that meal flushed but triumphant in the knowledge that their popovers popped over and that their omelettes had risen to the occasion, the breakfasters had given them three rousing cheers. No one thought of who was going to wash up. While Dum was sloshing in the suds and Nan was busily drying the dishes that piled up to such great heights they looked like ramparts, Page and Helen came in to try their hands at pies for Saturday's picnic. Page had on one of Helen's bungalow aprons and seemed as much at home as though she had been born and bred in camp. Page always had that quality of making herself at home wherever she happened to drop. Dee used to say she was just like a kitten and wasn't particular where she was, just so it was pleasant and people were kind. "What kind of pies shall it be?" asked Helen. "Something not too squashy!" pleaded Dum. "Nan and I have found the most adorable spot for a picnic: a fallen tree about half a mile around the mountain--not a freshly fallen one but one that must have fallen ages and ages ago as it has decided just to grow horizontally. Any old person could climb up it, just walk up it in fact--such seats were never imagined--the limbs all twisted into armchairs." "Of course if we are going to eat up a tree we had better have mighty solid pies," laughed Page. "How about fried turnovers like Mammy Susan makes?" "Grand!" from Dum. "Apple?" "Yes, apple," laughed Helen, amused at Dum's enthusiasm, "also some lemon pies, don't you think? I mean cheese cakes." "Splendid and more and more splendid!" The girls went to work, Page on the fried turnovers and Helen on the cheese cakes. Such a merry time they were having, all busy and all talking! Oscar sat outside picking chickens and of necessity Susan was driven to the extreme corner of the kitchen with her heap of washing and ironing. "I think you are awfully clever, Helen, to learn to make pastry so quickly. How did you do it?" said Page, deftly forming a turnover. "I don't know--I just did it. It seems to me as though anyone can cook who will follow a recipe. I had a few lessons at the Y. W. C. A. in the spring and I learned a lot there. How did you learn?" "Well, when I was a kiddie I had no one to play with but Mammy Susan, so I used to stay in the kitchen and play cooking. I've been making thimble biscuit and eggshell cake ever since I could walk." "How do you make eggshell cake?" "Just put the left-over scrapings of batter in the eggshells and bake it. It cooks in a minute and then you peel off the shell. Scrumptious!" Dee came running in with the mail, having been to the post office at Greendale with Josh and Bobby and the faithful Josephus. "A letter from Zebedee and he will be up for sure this evening! Ain't that grand? But guess who is coming with him--old Hiram G. Parker! I believe Zebedee must have lost his mind. I am really uneasy about him." "Why, what is the matter with Mr. Parker?" asked Helen, who had been much interested in what she had heard of that gentleman's charms and graces. "'No matter, no matter, only ideas!' as the idealist said when the materialist saw him falling down stairs, bumping his head at every step, and asked him what was the matter," laughed Dee. "Didn't you ever meet Mr. Parker?" "No, but I have always understood he was all kinds of lovely things." "Oh, he'll do," put in Dum, "if you like wax works. He wears the prettiest pants in town and has more neckties and socks than an ordinary man could buy if he went shopping every day. He knows all the latest jokes and when they give out, he starts in on the others. He makes jokes of his own, too--not like Zebedee's--Zebedee always bubbles out in a joke but Hiram G. leads up to his. First he gets one, a joke I mean, and then he gets a crowd of listeners. Then he directs the conversation into the proper channel and dams it up and when it is just right he launches his joke." "You certainly do mix your metaphors," laughed Page, crimping her turnovers with a fork. "You start out with bubbling brooks and end up with the launching of ships. "'She starts! she moves! she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel.'" "Well, Zebedee does bubble and Hiram G. Parker doesn't; neither does a boat, so there. Oh, oh! Look at the goodies. How on earth do you make such cute edges to your tarts? Just see them, girls!" "I did mine with a broken fork but Mammy Susan says she knows an old woman who always did hers with her false teeth." After the shout that went up from this had subsided, Helen begged to know more of Mr. Parker. "Is he a great friend of your father?" "Why no, that is the reason I can't divine why he is bringing him up here. I believe Zebedee likes him well enough--at least I never heard him say anything to the contrary. There is no harm in the dude that I ever heard of. Of course he is the Lord High Muck-a-Muck with the buds. He decides which ones are to ornament society and which ones to be picked for funerals. He has already looked over Dum and me at a hop last Thanksgiving at the Jefferson; Page, too. I believe he thinks we'll do, at least he danced us around and wrote on our back with invisible chalk: 'Passed by the Censor of Society.' I believe he thinks a lot of Zebedee, but then everyone does who has even a glimmering of sense," and Dee reread her father's letter, a joint one for her and her sister, with a postscript for Page. "Well, all he says is that he is coming and going to bring the immaculate Hi and we must behave," declared Dum, reading over Dee's shoulder. "I don't know whether I am going to behave or not. That Mr. Parker gets on my nerves. He's too clean, somehow. I'm mighty afraid I'm going to roll him down the mountain." "Mis' Carter is fixin' up a lot for the gent," said Susan, who had been busily engaged with her wash tub while the girls were talking, "if it's Mr. Hiram G. Parker you is a-speakin' of. She done say he is a very high-up pusson. I do believe it was all on account of him that she done made Miss Douglas look after her hide so keerful this week." "Why, does mother know he is coming up?" asked Helen. "She never told me. Nan, did you know he was coming?" Nan hadn't known, but she had a great light break on her mind when she heard that her mother knew he was to come: Mr. Tucker had certainly used this visit of Mr. Parker's to persuade her mother to give up the trip to White Sulphur. "No! I never heard a word of it," Nan answered sedately but her eyes were dancing and it was with difficulty that she restrained a giggle. How could her mother be so easily influenced? She must consider Mr. Parker very well worth while to stay at camp just to see him. That was the reason for all of this extra washing and ironing Susan had on hand. Nan loved her mother devotedly but she had begun to feel that perhaps she was a very--well, to say the least--a very frivolous lady. Nan's judgment was in a measure more mature than Helen's although Helen was almost two years her senior. Where Helen loved, she loved without any thought of the loved one's having any fault. She wondered now that her mother should have known of Mr. Parker's coming without mentioning it, but as for that little lady's dressing up to see this society man, why, that was just as it should be. She had absolutely no inkling of her mother's maneuvering to push Douglas toward a successful debut. Susan's intimation that Douglas was to preserve her complexion for Mr. Parker's benefit was simply nonsense. Susan was after all a very foolish colored girl who had gotten things mixed. Douglas was to protect her delicate blond skin for all society, not for any particular member of it. The train arrived bearing many week-enders and among them Zebedee and the precious Mr. Hiram G. Parker, looking his very fittest in a pearl gray suit with mauve tie and socks and a Panama hat that had but recently left the block. Zebedee could not help smiling at the fine wardrobe trunk that his companion had brought and comparing it with his own small grip with its changes of linen packed in the bottom and the boxes of candy for Tweedles and Page squeezed on top. "Thank Heaven, I don't have a reputation to keep up!" he said to himself. The wardrobe trunk was not very large, not much more bulky than a suitcase but it had to be carried up the mountain by Josephus and its owner seemed to be very solicitous that it should be stood on the proper end. "One's things get in an awful mess from these mountain roads. A wardrobe trunk should be kept upright, otherwise even the most skillful packing cannot insure one that trousers will not be mussed and coats literally ruined." Mr. Tucker felt like laughing outright but he had an ax to grind and Hiram G. Parker was to turn the wheel, so he bridled his inclination. He had asked the society man to be his guest for the week-end, intimating that he had a favor to ask of him. Parker accepted, as he had an idea he would, since the summer was none too full of invitations with almost no one in town. His position in the bank held him in town and he must also hold the position, since it was through it he was enabled to belong to all the clubs and to have pressed suits for all occasions. He had no idea what the favor was but he liked to keep in with these newspaper chaps since it was through the newspapers, when all was told, that he had attained his success, and through the society columns of those dailies that he kept in the public eye. He liked Jeffry Tucker, too, for himself. There was something so spontaneous about him. With all of Hiram Parker's society veneer there was a human being somewhere down under the varnish and a heart, not very big, but good of its kind. On the train en route to Greendale Mr. Tucker had divulged what that favor was. He led up to it adroitly so that when he finally reached it Mr. Parker was hardly aware of the fact that he had arrived. "Long list of debutantes this season, I hear," he started out with, handing an excellent cigar to his guest. "Yes, something appalling!" answered Mr. Parker, settling himself comfortably in the smoker after having taken off his coat and produced a pocket hanger to keep that garment in all the glory of a recent pressing. "I see many hen parties in prospect. There won't be near enough beaux to go round." "So I hear, especially since the militia has been ordered to the border. So many dancing men are in the Blues. I heard today that young Lane is off. He is Robert Carter's assistant and since Carter has been out of the running has been endeavoring to keep the business going. I fancy it will be a blow to the Carters that he has had to go." "Yes, too bad! Quite a dancing man! He will be missed in the germans." Jeffry Tucker smiled as he had been thinking the Carters might miss the assistance that Lane rendered their father, but since Mr. Parker's mind ran more on germans than on business that was, after all, what he was bringing him up to Greendale for. "Lewis Somerville has enlisted, too." "You don't say! I had an idea when he left West Point he would be quite an addition to Richmond society." "I think Mrs. Carter thought he would be of great assistance to her eldest daughter," said Mr. Machiavelli Tucker. "Oh, I hadn't heard that one of Robert Carter's daughters was to make her debut. I haven't seen her name on the list. Is she a good looker?" "Lovely and very sweet! I think it is a pity for her to come out and not be a success, but her mother is determined that she shall enter the ring this winter." "Yes, it is a pity. This will be a bad year for buds. There are already so many of them and such a dearth of beaux I have never beheld. I don't care how good-looking a girl is, she is going to have a hard time having a good time this year," and the expert sighed, thinking of the work ahead of him in entertaining debutantes. He was not so young as he had been and there were evenings when he rather longed to get into slippers and dressing gown and let himself go, but a leader must be on the job constantly or someone else would usurp his place. Many debutantes and a few society men meant he must redouble his activities. "I hope you will be nice to this girl, Hi. She is a splendid creature. Since her father has been sick, she has taken the burden of the whole family on her shoulders. All of the girls help and the second one, Helen, is doing wonders, too--in fact, all of them are wonders." "So----" thought the leader of germans, "we are coming to the favor. Tucker wants me to help launch this girl. Well, I'll look her over first. No pig in a poke for me!" He took another of the very good cigars, not that he wanted it at that moment, but he might need it later on. "Now this is what I want you to do, this is how I want you to be good to her." Hi Parker smiled a knowing smile. How many times had he been approached in just this way? "I don't want you to ask her to dance a german with you----" Oh, what was the fellow driving at, anyhow? "No, indeed! There is no man living that I would ask to do such a thing. I feel it is a kind of insult to a girl to go around drumming up partners for her." Mr. Parker gasped. "What I want you to do for me is to persuade Mrs. Carter that this is a bad year to bring a girl out. You have already said you think it is, so you would be perfectly honest in doing so. The Carters' finances are at a low ebb and this fine girl, Douglas, is doing her best to economize and have the family realize the importance of it, and now her mother is determined that she shall stop everything and go into society." Mr. Tucker, during the journey to Greendale, succeeded in convincing Mr. Parker that it was an easy matter to persuade Mrs. Carter to give up the project. "I'll do what I can, but if you take the matter so much to heart why don't you do it yourself, Tucker? I make it a rule not to butt in on society's private affairs if I can possibly keep out of it." "I ask you because I believe in getting an expert when a delicate operation is needed. You are a social expert and this is a serious matter." The upshot was that Mr. Hiram G. Parker was flattered into making the attempt and Mrs. Carter's opinion of that gentleman's social knowledge was so great and her faith in him so deep-rooted that she abandoned her idea of forcing Douglas out for that season. She gave it up with a sigh of resignation. Anyhow, she was glad she had made Douglas bleach her complexion before Mr. Parker was introduced to her. The girl was looking lovely and the shyness she evinced on meeting that great man was just as it should be. Too much assurance was out of place with a bud and this introduction and impression would hold over until another year. CHAPTER XI THE BIRD "Softly a winged thing Floats across the sky, And earth from slumber waketh And looketh up on high, Sees it is only a bird-- A great white bird-- That floating thro' the darkness undisturbed Floats on, and on, and on." Late sleeping in a tent is rather a difficult feat as the morning sun seems to spy out the sleeper's eyes and there is no way to escape him. Some of the campers tied black ribbons around their eyes and some even used black stockings, but the first rays of the sun always found Nan stirring. It was not that she was especially energetic, she was indeed rather lazy, according to her more vigorous sisters, but the charm of the early morning was so wonderful that she hated to miss it lying in bed. It was also such a splendid time to be alone. The camp was a bustling, noisy place when everyone was up, and early morning was about the only time the girl had for that communing with herself which was very precious to one of her poetic temperament. She slept in a tent, not only with her sisters but with Lil Tate and Tillie Wingo, now that the week-enders had swarmed in on them at such a rate, stretching their sleeping accommodations to the utmost. Of course it was great fun to sleep in a tent but there were times when Nan longed for a room with four walls and a door that she could lock. The next best thing to a door she could lock was the top of the mountain in the early morning. Unless some enthusiastic nature-lover had got up a sunrise party she was sure to have the top of the mountain to herself. Mr. Tucker had divulged to her the night before that her mother had abandoned the designs she had been entertaining for Douglas, and she in turn had been able to pass on the good news to Douglas. Mrs. Carter had not told her daughter herself but was evidently going to take her own good time to do so. Their mother's being a bit cattish was not worrying either Douglas or Nan. They were too happy over the abandonment of the plan. Of course they could not help feeling that since the plan was abandoned, it would have been sweet of their mother to let Douglas know immediately since she was well aware of the fact that the idea was far from pleasing to her daughter. And since it would have been sweet of her to let her know the moment she had abandoned the plan, it was on the other hand slightly cattish of her to conceal the fact. Of course the girls did not call it cattish even in their own minds--just thoughtlessness. Douglas had no idea of how the change had come about, and Nan held her counsel. It was Mr. Tucker's and her secret. As she crept out of the cot on that morning, before the sun was up, she glanced at her elder sister and a feeling of intense satisfaction filled her heart to see how peacefully Douglas was sleeping. Her beautiful hair, in a great golden red rope, was trailing from the low cot along the floor of the tent; her face that had looked so tired and anxious lately had lost its worried expression--she looked so young--hardly any older than Lucy, who lay in the next bed. "Thank goodness, the poor dear is no longer worried," thought Nan devoutly as she slipped on her clothes and crept noiselessly out of the tent. What a morning it was! The sun was not quite up and there was a silver gray haze over everything. The neighboring mountains were lost, as were the valleys. The air had a freshness and sweetness that is peculiar to dawn. "'The innocent brightness of a new-born day is lovely yet,'" quoted Nan. "If I can only get to the top of the mountain before the sun is up!" She hurried along the path, stopping a moment at the spring to drink a deep draft of water and to splash the clear water on her face and hands. She held her face down in the water a moment and came up shaking the drops off her black hair, which curled in innumerable little rings from the wetting. She laughed aloud in glee. Life was surely worth living, everything was so beautiful. The sides of the mountain were thickly wooded but at the top there was a smooth plateau with neither tree nor bush. One great rock right in the middle of this clearing Nan used as a throne whereon she could view the world--if not the world, at least a good part of Albemarle county and even into Nelson on one hand and Orange on the other. Sometimes she thought of this stone as an altar and of herself as a sun-worshipper. On that morning she clambered up the rock just a moment before the sun peeped through a crack in the mist. She stood with arms outstretched facing the sun. The mists were rolling away and down in the valley she could distinguish the apple orchards and now a fence, and now a haystack. There a mountain cabin emerged from the veil and soon a spiral of thin blue smoke could be spied rising from its chimney. "I wonder what they are going to have for breakfast!" exclaimed the wood nymph, and then she took herself to task for thinking of food when everything was so poetical. Just as she was wondering what the mountaineers who lived in that tiny cabin were going to cook on the fire whose smoke she saw rising in that "thin blue reek" the sun came up. A wonderful sight, but the sun has been rising for so many æons that we have become accustomed to it. Something else happened at that moment, something we are not quite accustomed to even yet: Far off over the crest of a mountain Nan thought she saw an eagle. The first rays of the sun glinted on the great white wings. For a moment it was lost to view as it passed behind a cloud and then it appeared again flying rapidly. "It is coming this way, a great white bird! I am almost afraid it might pick me up in its huge talons and carry me off, carry me 'way up in the air--I almost hope it will--it would be so glorious to fly!" She stood up on her throne and stretched her arms out, crying an invocation to the winged thing. She heeded not the buzzing of the aeroplane as it approached. To her it was a great white bird and she only awakened from her trance when the machine had actually landed on her plateau. The humming had stopped and it glided along the grass, kept closely cropped by Josephus, as this was his grazing ground when he was not busy pulling the cart. Nan stood as though petrified, a graceful little figure in her camp-fire girls' dress. Her arms were still outstretched as when she cried her invocation to the great white bird. The machine came to a standstill quite close to her altar and a young man in aviator's costume sprang from it. Taking off his helmet and goggles, he made a low bow to Nan. "Oh, mountain nymph, may a traveler land in your domain?" "Welcome, stranger!" "And may I ask what is this enchanted land?" "This is Helicon--and you--who are you?" "I am Bellerophon and yonder winged steed is Pegasus. Maid, will you fly with me?" He held out his hand and Nan, with no more thought of the proprieties than a real mountain nymph would have had, let him help her into his machine. He wrapped a great coat around her, remarking that even nymphs might get cold, and seemingly with no more concern than Bill Tinsley felt over starting the mountain goat, he touched some buttons and turned some wheels and in a moment the aeroplane was gliding over the plateau and then floating in the air, mounting slowly over the tree tops. Up, up they went and then began making beautiful circles in the air. Nan sighed. "Are you scared?" and the aviator looked anxiously at his little companion. He had not resumed his helmet and goggles and his eyes were so kind and so merry that Nan felt as though she had known him all her life. "Scared! Of course not! I am just so happy." "Have you ever flown before?" "Not in reality--but it is just as I have dreamed it." "You dream then a great deal?" "Yes! 'In a dream all day I wander only half awake.' I am sure I must be dreaming now." "I, too! But then the best of life is the dreams, the greatest men are the dreamers. If it had not been for a dreamer, we could not have had this machine. Look! Isn't that wonderful?" Nan was looking with all eyes at the panorama spread out below them. The sun was up now in good earnest and the mountains had shaken off the mist as sleepers newly aroused might throw off their coverlids. The orchards in the valleys looked like cabbage beds and the great mansions that adorn the hills and are the pride and boast of the county seemed no larger than doll houses. From every chimney in the valley smoke was arising. Nan was disgusted with herself that again the thought came to her: "What are all of these people going to have for breakfast?" They dipped and floated and curvetted. Nan thought of Hawthorne's description of Pegasus in the "Chimæra" and the very first opportunity she had later on she got the book and reread the following passage: "Oh, how fine a thing it is to be a winged horse! Sleeping at night, as he did, on a lofty mountain-top, and passing the greater part of the day in the air, Pegasus seemed hardly to be a creature of the earth. Whenever he was seen, up very high above people's heads, with the sunshine on his silvery wings, you would have thought that he belonged to the sky, and that, skimming a little too low, he had got astray among our mists and vapors, and was seeking his way back again. It was very pretty to behold him plunge into the fleecy bosom of a bright cloud, and be lost in it for a moment or two, and then break forth from the other side." Once they went through a low-hanging cloud. Nan felt the drops of water on her face. "Why, it is raining!" she cried. "No, that was a cloud we dipped through," laughed her companion. "Are you cold?" "Cold? I don't know! I have no sensation but joy." The young man smiled. There was something about Nan's drawl that made persons want to smile anyhow. "You forgot your hat and goggles," she said as she noticed his blue eyes and the closely cropped brown hair that looked as though it had to be very closely cropped to keep it from curling. "That's so! Some day maybe I shall go back after them. Now shall we fly to 'Frisco? How about High Olympus? Remember we are on Pegasus now and he can take us wherever we want to go." "Breakfast first," drawled Nan. "Come with me and I can feed you on nectar and ambrosia." "Oh what a wonderful wood nymph! She understands that mortal man cannot feed on poetry alone." They glided to the plateau and landed again by the great rock. "This is a wonderful place to light," said the birdman. "And now, fair mountain nymph, please tell me who you are when you are not a nymph--and what you are doing on the top of a lonely mountain before the sun is up." "Nan Carter! And if you think this is a lonely mountain, you ought to try to get by yourself for a few minutes on it. Before sunrise, on the tip top point, is the only place where one can be alone a minute----" "And then great creatures come swooping down out of the clouds and carry you off. It was very kind of you to go with me." "Kind of me! Oh, Mr. Bellerophon, I never can thank you enough for taking me. I have never been so happy in all my life. It is perfect, all but the noise-- I do wish it wouldn't click and buzz so. I know Pegasus did not make such a fuss--only the swish of his wings could be heard and sometimes, as the maiden said, the brisk and melodious neigh." "Don't you want to know my name, too, Miss Nan Carter? I have a name I use sometimes when I am not mounted on Pegasus." "I don't want to know it at all, but perhaps my mother, who is chaperoning the camp and who is rather particular, might think Mr. Bellerophon sounded rather wily Greekish." The young man laughed. Such a nice laugh it was that Nan could not help thinking it sounded rather like a melodious neigh. He was possessed of very even white teeth and a Greek profile, at least it started out to be Greek but changed its mind when it got to the tip of his nose which certainly turned up a bit. On the whole he was a very pleasant, agreeable-looking young man, tall and broad-shouldered, clean-limbed and athletic-looking. What Nan liked most about him were his eyes and his hands. "I hate to tell you my name, wood nymph. It sounds so commonplace after what we have done this morning. I am afraid when you hear it you will simply knock on one of these great oak trees and a door will open and you will disappear from my eyes forever." "Not before breakfast," drawled Nan. "But you must tell me your name before breakfast because I shall have to introduce you to the others." "What others? Not more wood nymphs!" "More Carters--and week-enders!" "You don't mean I have actually landed at Week-End Camp? Why, that is what I have been looking for, but I had no idea of striking it the first thing, right out of the blue, as it were. I heard about the camp at the University, and want to come board there for a while." "Well, I am the one to apply to," said Nan primly. "Apply to a wood nymph for board! Absurd!" "Not at all! Of course, I can't take you to board without knowing your name and--er--number." "Well, if you must, you must--Tom Smith is my name--as for my number--there is only one of me." "I mean by your number, where you live." "Oh, I live in the air mostly. Sometimes I come down to have some washing done and to vote--at least, I came down once to vote--that was last June, but as no elections were going on just then and as my having arrived at the age of twenty-one did not seem to make them hurry, I went up in the air again. When I do vote, though, it will be out in Louisville, Kentucky. That's where I have my washing done. You don't say what you think of such a name as Tom Smith." "It is not very--romantic, but it must have been a nice name to go to school with." "Great! There were so many of us that the lickings didn't go round." The girl was leading the way down the mountain path and they came to the spring where she had performed her ablutions earlier. "This is the fountain of Pirene." "Ah! I fancied we would come to it soon," and he stooped and drank his fill, shaking the drops from his crisp curls as he got up. "I love to drink that way," cried Nan. "I had a big deep drink as I went up the mountain." "Of course you drink that way! How else could a wood nymph drink? You might make a cup of your little brown hand, but even that is almost too modern. Ah, there is the camp! How jolly it looks! Are there any people there? It looks so quiet." "Any people there? Quiet! It is running over with people. They are all asleep now, that is the reason it is so quiet. There will be noise enough later." As she spoke there were shouts from the shower bath where some of the youths from the camp had assembled for a community shower, and as the cold mountain water struck them they certainly made the welkin ring. "There is father! Come, and I'll introduce you." Mr. Carter was coming from the kitchen bearing a cup of coffee for his wife, who stuck to the New Orleans habit of black coffee the first thing in the morning, and Mr. Carter loved to be the one to take it to her bedside. "Father, this is Mr. Bel--Smith. He flew over here this morning," and Nan suddenly remembered that she was not a wood nymph and that this mountain in Albemarle was not Helicon. Also that it was not a very usual thing for well-brought-up young ladies to go flying with strange young men before breakfast, even if strange young men did almost have Greek profiles. For the first time that morning Nan blushed. Her shyness returned. She could hardly believe that it was she, Nan Carter, who had been so bold. Her Bellerophon was plain Tom Smith and Pegasus was a very modern flying machine lying up in Josephus's pasture, that pasture on top of a prosaic mountain in Albemarle County and not Mount Helicon. The fountain of Pirene was nothing but the spring that fed the reservoir from which they got the water supply for the shower bath where those boys were making such an unearthly racket. She was not a wood nymph--there were no wood nymphs--but just a sentimental little girl of sixteen who no doubt needed a good talking to and a reprimand for being so very imprudent. What would her mother say to such an escapade? With all of Mrs. Carter's delicate spirituelle appearance there was nothing poetical in her make-up. She would never understand this talk of forgetting that one was not a wood nymph. There was more chance of the father's sympathy. Nan took the bull by the horns and plunged into her confession. "Father, I have been up in Mr. Bel--Smith's flying machine. I don't know what made me do it except I just--it was so early--I--I forgot it wasn't a flying horse." Mr. Carter looked at his little daughter with a smile of extreme tenderness. He had taken flights on Pegasus himself in days gone by. He seldom mounted him now--the burden of making a living had almost made him forget that Pegasus was not a plough horse--not quite, however, and now as his little girl stood in front of him, her hair all ruffled by her flight, her cheeks flushed and in her great brown eyes the shadow of her dream, he understood. "It is still early in the morning, honey, for you--no doubt the aeroplane is Pegasus. I envy you the experience. Everyone might not see it as I do, however, so you and Mr. Belsmith and I had better keep it to ourselves," and he shook the birdman's hand. "Smith is my name--Tom Smith," and the young man smiled into the eyes of the older man. "I am very glad to see you, and just as soon as I take this coffee to my wife, I will come and do the honors of the camp," and Robert Carter hastened off, thinking what a boon it would be to be young again in this day of flying machines. Nan found her tent about as she had left it. The inmates were still asleep. "How strange," she said to herself, "that I should have been to the top of Helicon and taken flight with Bellerophon on Pegasus while these girls have slept on not knowing a thing about it! I wonder where their astral bodies have been! Douglas looks so happy, poor dear, I fancy hers has been in heaven." Aloud she cried: "Get up, girls! Wake up! It is awfully late--the camp is stirring and there is a lot to do. I have found a new boarder! He dropped from the clouds and is starved to death." CHAPTER XII PLEASE REMIT Of course everyone was vastly interested in Mr. Tom Smith and his aeroplane. That young man, however, exhibited a modest demeanor which was very pleasant to members of his sex. He promised to take any and all of the campers flying if his machine was in good order. He thought it needed a little tinkering, however, as he had noticed a little clicking sound above the usual clack and hum of the motor. "How on earth did you happen to land here?" asked someone. "Airman's instinct, I reckon. I was looking for the camp and had heard there was a mountain with a smooth plateau around here somewhere. A place to land is our biggest problem. The time will come when there will be landing stations for flyers just as they have tea houses for automobilists now. There is great danger of becoming entangled in trees and telegraph wires. A place looks pretty good for lighting when you are up in the clouds and then when you get down you find what seemed to be a smooth, grassy plain is perhaps the top of a scrub oak forest." After breakfast the whole camp of week-enders marched to the top of the mountain to view the great bird, but the Carter girls had to stay behind to prepare for the picnic. Many sandwiches must be made and the baskets packed. Nan had her usual bowl of mayonnaise to stir. She looked very demure in her great apron but her eyes were dancing with the remembrance of her morning's escapade. "You look very perky this morning, honey," said Douglas, as she packed a basket of turnovers and cheese cakes with great care not to crush those wonders of culinary art. "You look tolerable perky yourself," retorted her sister. Just as the sophomores and seniors of a college seem to fraternize, so it is often the case with the first and third members of a family. Douglas and Nan hit it off better with one another than they did with either Helen or Lucy. "I feel like flying!" declared Douglas. "I don't mean in an aeroplane but just of my own accord. I am so happy that mother has given up that terrible plan for me, given it up without father's knowing anything about it. I wish I knew who had persuaded her or how it came about. She is rather--well, not exactly cold with me--but not exactly chummy. She has not told me yet, but if you say it is so, I know it is so. I went to her room this morning so she could tell me if she wanted to, but she didn't say a thing about it. She got a lot of letters from New York by the early mail. I am mighty afraid they are bills." "Pretty apt to be," sighed Nan. "I hope she won't give them to father." "Oh, she mustn't do that. I shall have to ask her for them. I hate to do it. She thinks I am so stern." "Let me do it," said Nan magnanimously. "I wonder how much they amount to." "Oh, Nan! Would you mind asking for them?" "Well, I am not crazy about it, but I'll do it," and do it she did. She found her mother in a dainty negligee writing notes at a little desk her devoted husband had fashioned from a packing box. "Ah, Nan, how sweet of you to come to me! I see so little of my girls now, they are so occupied with outside interests. Here, child, just run these ribbons in my underwear. It really takes a great deal of time to keep one's clothes in order. Susan should do such things for me, but she is constantly being called off to do other things, at least she says she is. What, I can't for the life of me see." Nan dutifully began to do her mother's bidding, but when she saw the drawer full of things she was supposed to decorate with ribbons she had to call a halt. "I am very sorry, mumsy, but I am helping Douglas pack the lunch baskets. This is a day for a picnic, you know." "No, I didn't know. Who is going?" "Everyone, we hope, as that gives Oscar and Susan a chance to get a thorough cleaning done, with no dinner to cook." "Oh, how absurdly practical you girls have become! I just hate it in you. What business has a girl of your age to know about who does thorough cleaning and when it is done?" Nan restrained a giggle. She had come to a full realization of what a very frivolous person her little mother was and while it made her sad in a way it also touched her sense of humor irresistibly. "I am deeply disappointed in the fact that Douglas is not to come out next winter. Mr. Parker advises me strongly against trying to launch her. He says there are so many debutantes already and that he is engaged up to every dance and that all of the dancing men are in the same fix. Of course if I should go against his advice Douglas would fall as flat as possible. She has no desire to come out as it is and no doubt would do nothing to further her cause. I do not feel equal to the task of bringing her out and of putting spirit into her at the same time. She has been so lifeless and listless lately." Nan smiled, thinking of how she had left Douglas actually dancing as she packed the goodies and smiling all over her happy face. "What a lot of letters you have, mumsy! You are almost as busy as I am with letters. It takes me hours every day answering applications for board." "Oh, yes, I have many notes to answer--friends, welcoming me back to Virginia. This pile over here is nothing but bills--things bought in New York, on my way home. I think it is most impertinent of these tradespeople to send them so promptly. They were so eager for me to open accounts, and now they write to me as though I were a pickpocket. 'Please Remit' at the bottom of every bill, and one man actually accuses me of being slow in payment. He says he understood I was to send money as soon as I reached Virginia. I have no money myself. I shall just have to hand them over to your father----" "Oh, mother, please don't do that!" "Why not? How else am I to get them paid?" "But, mother, the doctor said no money matters must be brought to father for at least a year and maybe not then. It was bills that made him ill, and bills would be so bad for him now." "Bills, indeed! It was overwork! I did my best to make him relax and not work so hard, but he would not listen to me. Many a time I tried to make him stop and go to the opera with me or to receptions, but it was always work, work, work!--day and night. I'm sure no one can accuse me of selfishness in the matter--I did my best." "Yes, dear, I know you did," said Nan solemnly and gently, as though she were soothing a little child who had dropped a bowl of goldfish or done something equally disastrous and equally irreparable. "I tell you what you do, though, honey, you give me the bills. You see, I write all the letters for the camp and I will attend to them." Mrs. Carter handed over the offensive pile of envelopes with an air of washing her hands of the matter. "There is one thing, mumsy: if I were you, I'd withdraw my patronage from such persons. I'd never favor tradespeople like these with another order." "Never!" exclaimed the mother. "'Please Remit,' indeed! I never imagined such impertinence." Nan bore off the sheaf of bills. They were not quite so large as they had feared. Mrs. Carter had unwittingly managed very well since she had accidentally struck August sales in New York and the things she had bought really were bargains. "We will pay them immediately, Nan," said Douglas. "I am so thankful that father did not see them. It would be so hard on him that I am sure much of the good that has come to him from the long rest would be done away with." "Do they make you blue, these bills?" "No, indeed! Nothing will make me blue now that mother has given up making me be a debutante. I can go on working and make more money to take the place of this we shall have to take out of the bank to pay for these things mother bought. But just suppose she had carried her point and forced me into society. I could have earned no money and would have had such a lot spent on me. Why can't she see, Nan?" "She is color blind, I think, unless it is couleur de rose. We must be patient with her, Douglas." "All right, grandma!" And if Mrs. Carter could have heard the peal of laughter from Douglas, she would not have thought her lifeless and listless. "You are such a dear little wise old lady, Nan!" CHAPTER XIII TEAKETTLE The fallen tree where Nan and Dum Tucker had chosen to have the picnic proved to be most attractive. It was a great oak that had attained its growth before it had been felled in some wind storm, and now it lay like some bed-ridden old giant who refuses to die. Part of the roots held to the soil while part stood up like great toes, poking their way through the blanket of ferns and moss that were doing their best to cover them. This tree not only clung to its old branches but had actually the hardihood to send out new shoots. These branches were not growing as the limbs of an oak usually grow, with a slightly downward tendency from the main trunk, but shot straight to the sky, upright and vigorous. "It is just like some old man who has to stay in bed but still is open to convictions of all kinds, who reads and takes in new ideas and is willing to try new things and think new thoughts," suggested Page Allison. "Yes, that strong green branch struggling to the light there might be equal suffrage," teased Mr. Tucker. "Yes, and that one that has outstripped all the others is higher education of women," declared Douglas. "These little ferns and wild flowers that are trying to cover up his ugly old toes are modern verse. He even reads the poetry of the day and does not just lie back on stuffy old pillows and insist that poetry died with Alfred Tennyson," whispered Nan, who did not like much to speak out loud in meetin'. Tom Smith heard her, however, and smiled his approval of her imagery. "Well, I only hope while we are picnicking on his bed he won't decide to turn over and go to sleep. It would certainly play sad havoc with cheese cakes," laughed Helen. Much to the satisfaction of the Carter girls, all the week-enders did decide to come on the picnic, also their mother. They knew very well that had that lady made up her mind to remain in camp, Susan's time would have been taken up waiting on her and the thorough cleaning that the pavilion and kitchen were crying out for would never be accomplished. Mr. Hiram G. Parker, in faultless morning costume, had proffered himself as squire of dames and was assisting that dainty little lady on the rough journey to the fallen tree. She, too, had attired herself with thoughtful care in sheer white linen lawn with a large picture hat of finest straw and a ruffled lace parasol. The girls were in strong contrast to their chaperone, since one and all, even Tillie Wingo, were dressed in khaki skirts and leggins. The only variation in costume was that some wore middies and some sport shirts. First a fire must be built and a big one at that, as it takes many hot coals to roast potatoes. Lucy and Lil Tate, with their faithful followers, Skeeter and Frank, had gone on a little ahead, and when the rest of the crowd reached the spot the fire was already burning merrily. In a short time it was ready to drop the potatoes in, Irish potatoes and great yams that looked big enough for the bed-ridden giant himself to make a meal of. Then the roasting ears of corn must be opened, the silk removed and the ears wrapped carefully in the shucks again and placed in just exactly the right part of the fire to cook but not to burn. There was some kind of work for all of those inclined to usefulness, and any who were not so inclined could wander around admiring the scenery or climb up in the tree to secure the choice seats. There were seats for all and to spare in the gnarled old limbs of the giant oak. Mrs. Carter was enthroned in a leafy armchair while Hiram G. perched beside her. Evidently he was prepared to be waited on and not to wait. Bobby climbed to the tiptop of one of the great branches where he looked like a "little cherub that sits up aloft." "I'm a-gonter let down a string and pull my eats up here," he declared. "Oh, Bobby!" shuddered his mother. "Don't say such words!" "What I done now?" cried that young hopeful, peeping down through the leafy screen, with an elfish, toothless grin. "Don't say eats! Say luncheon!" "Yes, I won't! If I say luncheon, they'll send me up 'bout 'nough to put in my eye. I've a great mind to say victuals like Oscar and then they'll send me up something sho'. Hi, Helen! Put my victuals in a bucket and tie it to this string!" he cried, dangling a string before Helen's eyes as she stooped under the tree, unpacking the basket containing the paper plates and Japanese napkins. "I won't put anything in the bucket unless you mind mother," said Helen severely, but her eye was twinkling at Bobby's philological distinction. "Well, then, Helen dear, be so kind as to put my luncheon in that there little bucket what you see turned up over yonder by the fire. But, Helen," in a stage whisper, "please don't put it in like a luncheon but like it was jes' victuals. Luncheons ain't never 'nough for workin' mens." So all in good time Helen packed a hefty lunch in the bucket for her darling and he drew it up to his castle in the tree and feasted right royally. When everyone was too hungry to stand it another moment the potatoes were done, all burnt on the outside and delicious and mealy within. There never were such sandwiches as Helen's; and the corn, roasted in the shucks, was better than corn ever had been before. The cheese cakes and fried turnovers proved very good for tree eating and not too squashy. Boxes of candy appeared like magic from the pockets of masculine week-enders. Mr. Tucker produced three, one for each of his girls. "Oh, Zebedee!" exclaimed Dum. "I am so relieved. I thought you were getting hippy. It was candy all the time." When every vestige of food was devoured and all the paper plates and papers carefully burned, as Nan said, to keep from desecrating Nature, someone proposed that they should play games. "Let's play teakettle!" exclaimed Skeeter, so teakettle it was. Some of the company had to be enlightened as to the game and perhaps some of my readers may have to be also. This is the way: whoever is "It" or "Old Man" must go out of ear shot and then the company selects a word. The "Old Man" then returns and asks a question to each one in turn. The answer must contain the chosen word, but in place of the word, "teakettle" must be inserted. "You go out, Zebedee, you are so spry," suggested the irreverent Dum. "No, that's not fair! We must count out," declared Dee, determined that her parent must be bossed only by her own sweet self. "I bid to count!" from Lucy. "'Eny, meny, miny mo, cracker, feny, finy, fo, ommer noocher, popper toocher, rick, bick, ban, do, as, I, went, up the, apple, tree, all, the, apples, fell, on, me, bake a, pudding, bake, a, pie, did, you, ever, tell, a, lie, yes, you, did, you, know, you, did, you, broke, your, mammy's, tea, pot, lid, did, she, mind?'" She stopped at Lil Tate, who was equal to the occasion. "No!" cried Lil; and Lucy took up her counting out in the sing-song we hear from children engaged in that delightful occupation of finding out who is to be "It." No matter where one lives--east, west, north or south--it is the same except for slight variations in the sense of the incantation. "N, o, spells, the, word, no, and, you, are, really--It!" An accusing finger was pointed at Nan, who perforce must crawl from her comfortable perch and go around the side of the mountain while the assembled company chose a word. After much whispering, Mr. Tucker hit on a word that appealed to all of them, and Nan was whistled for to return. "Helen, what do you enjoy most in camp life?" "Teakettles!" was the prompt response. "Skeeter, did you and Frank get any squirrels yesterday?" "No, not one! We told them if they would let us shoot them that they could come with us on the picnic--but they said: no teakettles for them!" Indignant cries from Skeeter's chums ensued. "You came mighty near giving us away, you nut!" Nan thought a moment. "Is it pies? Helen certainly enjoys pies, and if the squirrels had come on the picnic it would have been in a pie." "No; guess again! Guess again!" "Mother, are you comfortable up there?" "Yes, my dear; I had no idea one could have an armchair at a teakettle." "'Picnic!' 'Picnic!' I know that is the word. Mumsy gave it away. You have to go out, mumsy." "Picnic" was the word and everyone thought Nan very clever to guess it so quickly. Mrs. Carter was loath to leave her leafy bower, so Mr. Parker gallantly offered to take her place and be "It." A word was quickly chosen for Mr. Parker although they feared it would be too easy. That gentleman was really enjoying himself very much. Climbing trees was not much in his line, but he congratulated himself that while his suit no doubt looked perfectly new, it was in reality three years old and was only his eighteenth best. The lapels were a little smaller than the prevailing mode and the coat cut away a bit more than the latest fashion. He could not wear it much longer, anyhow, and in the meantime he was having a very pleasant time. The girls were a ripping lot and he would no doubt have the pleasure of bringing them out in years to come. He might even stretch a point and ask some of them to dance the german with him before they made their debuts. That little Allison girl from the country was a charmer and as for the Tucker twins--the only trouble about them was he could not decide which one would take the better in society. Helen Carter was sure to win in whatever class she entered. Douglas Carter had deceived him somewhat. The evening before, while looking very pretty she had lacked animation. He had been quite serious in his advice to Mrs. Carter not to bring her out that year. With the scarcity of beaux only a girl who was all animation had any show of having a good time in her debutante year. Now today this girl had thrown off her listlessness and was as full of life as anyone. She was really beautiful. If a complexion could show up as well as hers did in the sunlight what would it not do in artificial light? And her hair! Hair like that could stand the test of dancing all night, and Mr. Hiram G. Parker had found out from long experience that not much hair could stand the test. "Always coming out of curl and getting limp!" he muttered, but just then they whistled for him and he returned to the tree. "Ahem! Miss Douglas, are you expecting to miss the boys who have gone to the border with the Blues?" "Yes, indeed!" blushed Douglas; "but if I were a teakettle it would be even worse." "Is it a mother? Of course it would be worse if you were a mother! Ah, maybe you have been promising to be a sister to one of them." Douglas blushed so furiously that she almost fell off her precarious perch. "'Mother' isn't the word--neither is 'sister'!" shouted the crowd. "Guess again!" "Miss Dum Tucker, are you going to remain long in camp?" "I am afraid I shall have to leave on Monday, but if the teakettle fancier is no longer here, I don't believe I should care to remain." "Teakettle fancier! Sounds like spinsters. I can't see what it is. Miss Dee, what are these teakettles like?" "There are as many styles of teakettles as there are teakettles, tall and narrow, short and squat, with snouts of all shapes." "Heavens! Still no light on the subject! Tucker, what is your opinion of the war? Will it last much longer?" "I hope not, although I hear it is an excellent way to dispose of last year's teakettles. They are using so many of them in the Red Cross service." "Oh, come now! I must do better than this. Mrs. Carter, have you any of these teakettles about you?" "No, Mr. Parker, I haven't a single teakettle--ye-et," rather sadly. "Mr. Smith!" That young aviator, not expecting to be called on, almost fell out of the tree, which would have been an ignominious proceeding for one accustomed to the dizzy heights of the clouds. "Do you come across any of this stuff, whatever it is that these crazy folks call teakettles?" "Yes, I do occasionally. Even here in this camp there is a lot of the stuff that teakettles are made of--the raw material, I might say, but if I should, no doubt future teakettles would climb up the tree and mob me." "'Debutantes!' 'Debutantes!' That is the word! Stupid of me not to guess it sooner. Thank you, Miss Dum, for the compliment you just paid me, or did you mean your father? Because I understand that he is somewhat fond of young girls himself." "I meant you in the game--but Zebedee in reality," declared Dum, who had no more idea of coquetting than a real teakettle. "Mr. Smith is 'It'!" shouted Lucy. "We are going to get a hard one for him." Skeeter wanted to take "flying machine" but that was too easy. Many suggestions were made but Nan finally hit on a word that they were sure he could never guess. "The trouble is it is hardly fair to take a word that is so obscure," objected Mr. Carter, who had been quietly enjoying the fun as much as any of the party. "Well, it is a compliment to give him a hard one," declared Mr. Tucker. "It means we have some reliance on his wit." Tom Smith was proving himself a very agreeable companion and old and young were feeling him to be an acquisition to the camp. "You youngsters up there in the top of the tree, come down and be questioned!" cried the "Old Man." "You, Bobby, what are you doing up there?" "I'm a-playin' I'm one er them there teakettles," said that ready-witted infant. Everyone shouted for joy at his answer. "And you, Frank Maury! Do you want to take a trip with me some day?" "Sure! I'd ruther be a birdman than--a--teakettle," said Frank lamely. "Did you ever see one of these teakettles, Skeeter?" "Naw, and nobody else." "But you didn't use the word, Skeeter," admonished Lil. "Then you use it for him," suggested the questioner. "I take it then if he never saw a teakettle and no one else has ever seen one, that it is some kind of mythological creature. Am I right?" he appealed, following up the advantage Skeeter had given him. "Yes, a teakettle is a mythological being," said Lil primly. "Skeeter can give more things away without using the word than most folks can using it," declared Lucy cruelly. "Miss Nan, did I ever see a teakettle that you know of?" "I have an idea you thought you saw a teakettle once," drawled Nan. "'Wood nymph!'" exclaimed Tom Smith. Everyone thought he was very clever to have guessed a very difficult and obscure word in five questions. "Nan's turn again! That isn't fair when Skeeter really and truly was the one who got him going. You've got to go, Skeeter," and Frank and Lil and Lucy pounced on their chum and dragged him from the tree. "Yes, I haven't! I'd never guess c-a-t. Get somebody else." "I'll go," Mr. Tucker volunteered magnanimously. "Let him; he's dying to!" exclaimed the twins in one breath. "Well, don't tweedle!" commanded their father. He always called it tweedling when his twins spoke the same thing at the same time. A word was hard to hit on because as his daughters said Mr. Tucker had what men call feminine intuition. "You can't keep a thing from him," Dum said. "And sometimes he sees something before it happens," declared Dee. "Oh, spooks!" laughed Page. "'Spooks' would be a good word," suggested someone, but Mrs. Carter had a word which was finally determined on. Zebedee was whistled for and came quickly to the front. "Mr. Smith, tell me, while flying through the air would you like to have one of these teakettles with you? I mean would it be the kind of thing you could carry with you? Would it be of any value on the journey?" "We--el, I can't say that a teakettle would be of any great practical value on a flight, but it would certainly be great to have one. I believe I'd rather have one than anything I can think of. In fact, I mean to take one with me some day." Mr. Tucker looked into the glowing countenance of the young birdman. He saw there youth, character, romance. "A 'teakettle' is a 'sweetheart,'" he said simply. "Talking about spooks--what do you know about that?" cried one of the crowd. "Well, what did I tell you? Didn't I say you couldn't keep anything from Zebedee?" said triumphant Dee. "I betcher I ain't a-gonter take no sweetheart with me when I gits me a arryplane," shouted Bobby from his vantage ground. "I'm a-gonter take Josh and Josephus, ander--ander--father." The picnic in the tree had been a decided success. It was one more perfect day for the week-enders to report as worth while to the possible future boarders. Even Mr. Parker was enthusiastic, although he was not as a rule much of an outdoor man. He was conscious of the fact that he shone in a drawing room, and under the "great eye of Heaven" did not amount to quite so much as he did under electric lights with pink shades. CHAPTER XIV THE FORAGERS "Miss Douglas, them week-enders done cl'ared the coop. Thain't nary chicken lef' standin' on a laig. Looks like these here Hungarians don't think no mo' of 'vourin' a chicken than a turkey does of gobblin' up a grasshopper." "All of them gone, Oscar?" "Yas'm! Thain't hide or har of them lef'. If I hadn't er wrung they necks myself, I would er thought somethin's been a-ketchin' 'em; but land's sakes, the way these week-enders do eat chicken is a caution!" "All right, I'll get our young people to start out today and find some more for us. A big crowd will be up on Friday." "Yes, I'll be bound they will, and all of them empty. I should think the railroad cyars would chawge mo' ter haul the folks back from this here camp than what they do to git 'em here. They sho' goes back a-weighing mo' than what they do whin they comes a-creepin' up the mountain actin' like they ain't never seed a squar' meal in they lives." Oscar's grumbling on the subject of the amount of food consumed by the boarders was a never failing source of amusement to the Carter girls. They were never so pleased as when the boarders were hungry and enjoyed the food. No doubt Oscar was pleased, too, but he was ever outwardly critical of the capacity of the week-enders. Lucy and Lil, Skeeter and Frank were delighted to be commissioned to go hunting for food. Many were the adventures they had while out on these foraging parties and many the tales they had to tell of the inhabitants of the mountain cabins. There were several rules they must obey and besides those they had perfect liberty to do as they felt like. The first rule was that they must wear thick boots and leggins on these tramps. The snake bite Helen had got early in the summer had been a lesson learned in time and now all the campers were made to comply with the rule of leggins whenever they went on hikes. The second rule was that they must be home before dark and must report to Douglas or Helen as soon as they got home. The third was that they must tell all their adventures to one of the older girls. If they obeyed these three rules they were sure to get into no trouble. "Fix us up a big lunch, please, Helen. We are going 'way far off. There's a man on the far side of Old Baldy that Josh says has great big frying-sizers," declared Lil. "Well, be sure you are back before dark," admonished Helen, in her grownupest tone, according to Lucy. "All right, Miss Grandma, but I don't see why I have to get in before dark if you don't. You know you and Doctor Wright came in long after supper one night--said you got lost, but you can tell that to the marines," said Lucy pertly. "Just for that, I've a great mind to put red pepper in your sandwiches," said Helen, blushing in spite of herself. "Well, I suppose if we get lost, we won't have to get in before dark, either," teased Lucy. "Yes, but don't you get lost. Douglas and I are always a bit uneasy until you are back, as it is," pleaded Helen. "You know mother would have a fit if you were out late." "Oh, don't listen to her, Miss Helen. We'll take care of the girls and bring 'em back safe. Frank and I couldn't get lost on these mountains if we tried," and Skeeter drew himself up to his full height, which was great for a boy of fifteen and seemed even greater because of his extreme leanness. "Can't we take our guns, Miss Helen?" pleaded Frank. There was another rule that the boys must not take the guns if the girls were along. Guns are safe enough if there are no bystanders. "Oh, Frank, ask Douglas! I am afraid to be the one to let you do it." "Can I tell her you say yes if she does?" "Yes, I reckon so! But if she does say yes, please be awfully careful." "Sure we will! I tell you, Miss Helen, if anything happens to these girls, Skeeter and I'd never show our faces in camp again." "I know you will look after them," said Helen. These boys were great favorites with Helen, and they admired her so extravagantly that sometimes Lil and Lucy, their sworn chums, were a bit jealous. "I've made your kind of sandwiches, Frank, sardines. And I've stuffed some eggs with minced ham the way you like them, Skeeter." "Bully!" exclaimed both knights. "And I s'pose what Lil and I like or don't like didn't enter your head," pouted Lucy. "Why, Lucy, you know you like sardine sandwiches better than anything, you said so yourself," admonished Lil. "Helen didn't know it." "If you don't like what I put up, you can do it yourself next time," snapped Helen. "''Tis dog's delight To bark and bite,'" sang Douglas, coming into the kitchen to spy out the nakedness of the land preparatory to sending her order for provisions to the wholesale grocer in Richmond. "What are you girls scrapping about?" "Helen said----" "Lucy's always----" "Yes, I haven't a doubt of it," laughed the elder sister, who was ever the peacemaker. "I haven't a doubt that Helen did say it, but she was just joking, and I know Lucy is always trying to help and is a dear girl. Now you children trot along and bring back all the chickens you can carry. Have you got your bags?" Gunnysacks were always taken to bring home the provender. "And money to pay for the chickens? If you see any eggs, buy them, and more roasting ears, but don't try to carry everything you see. Have the mountaineers bring them to camp. Good-bye! Be sure to come back before dark." "Ask her about the guns," whispered Frank to Lil. "Douglas, can the boys take their guns? Helen says she says yes if you say yes. They won't carry 'em loaded." "We--ll, I believe we can trust you; but do be careful, boys." With a whoop the boys flew to their tent for the guns. The sizable lunch was dumped in the bottom of a gunnysack and slung over Skeeter's shoulder, and the cavalcade started, after many admonitions from Douglas and Helen to be careful of their guns and to come back before dark. "Ain't they the scared cats, though?" laughed Lucy. "Yes; what on earth could happen to us?" said Lil. "Nothing, I reckon, with Skeeter and me here to protect you--eh, Skeeter?" "I just guess we could hold a whole litter of bears at bay with these guns. I almost wish we would run into some kind of trouble just so Frank and I could show your big sisters we are responsible parties." "Maybe we will," and Lil danced in glee at the possible chance of getting into trouble so their devoted swains could extricate them. "Maybe we will meet a drunken mountaineer--or maybe it will be a whole lot of drunken mountaineers, a camp of moonshiners--maybe they will capture Lucy and me and carry us to their mountain fastness and there hold us for ransom." "Huh! And what do you think Skeeter and I'll be doing while they are carrying you off?" sniffed Frank. "Standing still, I reckon, and weeping down our gun barrels!" "Well, s'pose they are all of them armed to the teeth, a company of stalwart brigands," suggested Lil, who, by the way, was something of a movie fan, "and they come swooping down on us, the leader bearing a lasso in his brawny hand." "Yes," put in Lucy, "and he will swirl it around and will catch both of you in the same coil and then will tie you to a tree there to await his pleasure. I think there had better be two leaders, though, Lil. So you can have one and I can have one. I bid for the biggest." "Bid for him! If you girls don't beat all! I do believe you would like to be attacked by outlaws," and Skeeter looked his disgust at the eternal feminine. "Of course we'd like it if it came out all right; that is, if the leaders fell in love with us and reformed and turned out to be gentlemen who took to moonshining and highwaying because they had been cheated out of their inheritances by fat-faced uncles in Prince Albert coats," and Lil looked very saucy as she switched on ahead of the others down the narrow trail. "And where would we come in?" asked Frank whimsically. "We would have to stay tied to the tree while you and Lucy acted about a thousand feet of reels. I tell you what I mean to do. I mean to train a squirrel to come gnaw me free. What you say to that, Skeeter?" "Squirrel much! I'm going to be so quick with my gun that the bold brigands will wish they had stayed with Uncle Albert. As for lassoing--I am some pumpkins myself with the rope. Look at this!" and twirling the gunnysack around with the lunch serving as ballast, Skeeter caught his chum neatly around the neck. "Oh, oh! You'll mash the sandwiches!" wailed the others. "Let's sit down and eat 'em up now," suggested Skeeter. "I am tired of being made the beast of burden. I believe in distribution of labor." "Why, Skeeter, we haven't walked a mile yet, and it can't be more than ten o'clock." "Well, then, my tumtum must be fast. I shall have to regulate it. It tells me it is almost twelve." No one had a watch so there was no way to prove the time except by the shadows, and Skeeter declared that the shadows on the mountain perforce must slant even at twelve. "Let's eat part of the lunch," suggested Lucy. "That will keep poor Skeeter from starving and lighten the load some, too. There is no telling what time it is, but if we are hungry I can't see that it makes much difference what time it is. I'm starved myself almost." "Me, too," chorused the others. They ate only half, prudently putting the rest back in the gunnysack for future reference. "Gee, I feel some better," sighed Skeeter, whose appetite was ever a marvel to his friends since it never seemed to have the slightest effect on his extreme leanness. Oscar always said: "That there young Marster Skeeter eats so much it makes him po' to carry it." "Do you boys know exactly where we are going?" asked Lil. They had walked a long distance since the distribution of burdens and now had come to a place where the trail went directly down the mountainside. "Of course we do! Josh said that when we got to a place where the path suddenly went down we were almost over the cabin where Jude Hanford lives. Didn't he, Frank?" "He sure did!" "But there was a place back further where a path forked off. I saw it, didn't you, Lucy?" "Yes, but I thought it was maybe just a washed place." "This is right, I'm sure," said Skeeter confidently, so the young people clambered down the mountainside following Skeeter's lead. The path went almost exactly perpendicularly down the mountain for fifty yards and then, as is the way with mountain paths, it changed its mind and started up the mountain again. "This is a terribly silly path," declared the self-constituted guide, "but I reckon it will start down again soon. Josh said that Jude Hanford lives almost at the foot of the mountain." "Let's keep a-going; there's no use in turning back," said Frank. "This path is obliged to lead somewhere." "Maybe it leads to the brigand's cave," shivered Lil. "Which way is home?" asked Lucy. "That way!" "Over there!" "Due north from here!" But as the three of her companions all pointed in different directions, Lucy laughed at them and chose an entirely different point of the compass as her idea of where Camp Carter was situated. They had been walking for hours and as far as they could tell had not got off of their own mountain. No one seemed to be the least worried about being lost, so Lucy calmed her fears, which were not very great. How could they get lost? All they had to do was retrace their steps if they did not find Jude Hanford's cabin, where the frying-sized chickens and the roasting ears were supposed to thrive. "Let's eat again," suggested the ever empty Skeeter. They had come to a wonderful mountain stream, one they had never seen before in their rambles. It came dashing down the incline singing a gay song until it found a temporary resting place in a deep hole which seemed to be hollowed out of the living rock. "What a place to swim!" they exclaimed in a breath. "I bet it's cold, though, cold as flugians." Lil trailed her fingers through the icy water and a little fish rose to the surface and gave a nibble. "Look! Look! Isn't he sweet?" "Let's fish," suggested Lucy. "Fish with what? Guns?" asked Skeeter scornfully. "No, fishing lines with minnows for bait," and Lucy found a pin in her middy blouse and with a narrow pink ribbon drawn mysteriously from somewhere tied to the pin, which she bent into a fine hook, she got ready for the gentle art. A sardine from a sandwich made excellent bait, at least the speckled beauties in that pool thought so as they rose to it greedily. "E--e-ee!" squealed Lucy, flopping an eight-inch trout out on the bank. "I caught a fish! I caught a fish!" "Oh, gimme a pin, please," begged the boys, so Lucy and Lil had to find fish hooks for their cavaliers and more strings and in a short while all of them were eagerly fishing. "I never saw such tame fish in all my life," said Frank. "They are just begging to be caught. It seems not very sporty to hook them in, somehow." "I didn't know there were any trout in these streams. Doctor Wright says there used to be but the natives have about exterminated them. Gee, there's a beaut!" and Skeeter flopped a mate to Lucy's catch out on the grass. "Let's stop fishing and fry these," he suggested, "I'm awfully hungry." "Hungry! Oh, Skeeter! I'm right uneasy about you," teased Lil. "Well, I never did think sandwiches were very filling. Somehow they don't stick to your ribs. Come on, Frank, we can get a fire in no time." "How can we fry anything without lard and a pan?" "Oh, we won't fry, we'll broil." "We, indeed!" sniffed Lucy. "You know mighty well, you boys, that when cooking time comes, Lil and I'll have to do it. I know how to cook fish without a pan--learned in Camp-Fire Girls. Just run a green switch through the gills and lay it across on two pronged sticks stuck up on each side of the fire. You go on and make the fire while Lil and I try to catch some more fish. I wonder what Doctor Wright will say when we tell him we caught game fish with a bent pin tied on lingerie ribbon. He brought up all kinds of rods and reels and flies and whipped the streams for miles around and never caught anything but Helen's veil." The trout seemed to have become sophisticated when two of their number had been caught and refused to be hooked any more with bent pins and lingerie ribbon, although it was pink and very attractive. The fire went out and Lucy and Lil had to try a hand at it before it could be persuaded to burn. "It looks to me like fire-making must be woman's work because they certainly can do it better than us men," said Skeeter solemnly, and the others laughed at him until Lil slipped into the water. Only one foot got wet, however, so there was no harm done. The fire finally burned and the two little fish, after being scaled and cleaned, were strung across on a green wand. Of course the fire had not been allowed to get to the proper state of red embers so the fish were well smoked before they began to cook. "Umm! They smell fine!" cried the famished Skeeter. "They smell mighty like burnt fish to me," said Frank. They tasted very like burnt fish, too, when they were finally taken from their wand and the young folks drew up for the feast. They lacked salt and were burnt at the tail and raw at the head, but Skeeter picked the bones and pronounced them prime. "I believe it's getting mighty late and we have not found Jude Hanford's cabin yet. You stop stuffing now, Skeeter, and let's get along," said Frank, gathering up the gunnysacks and guns. "Do you think we had better cross this stream?" "Sure, if we go back, it will just take us home. We won't dare show our faces at camp unless we have at least the promise of some chickens and roasting ears. I hope to carry back some in the gunnysacks." "Of course we must go on," chorused the girls. "We are not one bit tired and if we go on we are sure to come to Jude's cabin." Go on they did, how far there was no telling. The path went down, down, down, but led only to another spring. The boys shot some squirrels and the girls found a vine laden with fox grapes. "Let's get all we can carry so we can make some jelly. Helen was wishing only the other day she had some. They make the best jelly going," said Lucy, and so they pulled all they could reach and decided the ones that hung too high would be sour. "Do you know I believe it's most supper time--I'm getting powerful empty," declared the insatiable Skeeter. "Supper time! Nonsense! I betcher 'tain't three o'clock," and Frank peered knowingly at the sun. "That mountain over yonder is so high, that's the reason the sun is getting behind it. I betcher anything on top of the mountain it is as light as midday." "I do wish we could find Jude's cabin. This has been the longest walk we ever have taken," sighed Lil. "Not that I am the least bit tired." Lil was not quite so robust as Lucy, but wild horses would not drag from her the admission that she could not keep up with her chum. "Let's sit down a minute and rest," suggested Frank, "and kinder get our bearings. I'm not sure but perhaps it would be less loony if we start right off for home." The sun had set for them and it was growing quite gloomy down in the valley where the path had finally led them. Of course they well knew that it was shining brightly on those who were so fortunate as to be on the heights, but the thing is they were in the depths. "All right, let's go home," agreed Skeeter. "We will strike them at supper, I feel sure." They retraced their steps, stopping occasionally to argue about the trail. There seemed to be a great many more bypaths going up the mountain than they had noticed going down. "This is right. I know, because here is the fox grape vine we stripped on the way down," cried Lucy, when there was more doubt than usual about whether or not they were on the right road. "Well, more have grown mighty fast," declared Skeeter. "Look, this is still full." "But we couldn't reach the high ones and decided like Brer Fox that they were sour." "Brer Fox, indeed! That wasn't Brer Fox but the one in Aesop," laughed Lil. "Well, he acted just like Brer Fox would have acted, anyhow, and I bet Aesop got him from Uncle Remus. But see, Lil! This isn't the same vine. We never could have skipped all these grapes. Only look what beauts!" "We might just as well pick 'em," said Skeeter, suiting the action to the word. "They might come in handy later on for eats if we can't find our way home." "Not find our way home!" scoffed Frank. "Why, home is just over the mountain. All we have to do is keep straight up and go down on the other side. These paths have mixed us up but the mountain is the same old cove. He can't mix us up." CHAPTER XV BABES IN THE WOOD The pull up that mountain was about the hardest one any of those young people had ever had. As a rule Lil and Lucy required no help from the boys, as they prided themselves upon being quite as active as any members of the opposite sex, but now they were glad of the assistance the boys shyly offered. "Just catch on to my belt, Lil; I can pull you up and carry the grapes and my gun, too," insisted Frank, while Skeeter made Lucy take hold of his gun so he could help her. "We are most to the top now," they encouraged the girls. Their way lay over rocks and through brambles, as they had given up trying to keep to a trail since the trails seemed to lead nowhere. They argued if they could get to the top they could see where they were. The top was reached, but, strange to say, it wasn't a top, after all, but just an excrescence on the side of the mountain, a kind of a hump. It led down sharply into a dimple covered with beautiful green grass, and then towering up on the other side of this dimple was more and more mountain. "Well, ain't this the limit? I didn't know there was a place like this on our mountain!" exclaimed Frank. "Th'ain't! This is no more our mountain than I'm Josephus," said Skeeter. "Do you think we are lost?" asked Lil. "Well, we are certainly not found," and Skeeter's young countenance took on a very grim expression. "Somebody please kick me, and then I'll feel better," groaned Frank. "Why kick you? You didn't lose us; we lost ourselves," said Lucy. "You just say that to keep me from feeling bad. I said all the time we were on our own mountain and I was certainly the one to suggest our climbing up to the top. I don't see how or when we managed to get in this mix-up." "You see, we were down at the foot of the mountain and we must have spilled over on another one without knowing it. They so kinder run together at the bottom," soothed Lucy. Lil was so worn out after the climb that she could do no more than sink to the ground; but she smiled bravely at poor self-accusing Frank as she gasped out: "What a grand, romantic spot to play 'Babes in the Wood'! I bid to be a babe and let you boys be the robins." "In my opinion it is nobody's fault that we have got lost, but lost we are. Of course Frank and I ought to have had more sense, but we didn't have it, and I reckon what we ain't got ain't our fault.--But if it wasn't our fault for losing you girls, it is sure up to us to get you home again and now we had better set to it somehow." Skeeter deposited his gunnysack of squirrels beside the one of grapes and threw himself down beside Lil on the green, green grass of the unexpected dimple. "Well, Lil and I are not blaming you. If we haven't got as much sense as you boys, I dare one of you to say so. We could have told we were getting lost just as much as either one of you, and it is no more your business to get us home than it is our business to get you home, is it, Lil?" "I--I--reckon not," faltered Lil; "but I've got to rest a while before I can get myself or anybody else home." Poor Lil! She was about all in but she kept up a brave smile. "There must be water here or this grass would not be so pizen green in August," said Skeeter. "Let's go find the spring first, Frank." The boys wanted to get off together to discuss ways and means and hold a council of war. "Say, Skeeter, what are we going to do?" asked Frank, as they made for a pile of rocks down in the middle of the dimple, where it seemed likely a spring might be hidden. "Darnifiknow!" "Do you know it's 'most night? I thought when we got to the top there would be lots of light, but all the time we were coming up the sun was going down, and blamed if it hasn't set now." "Yes, and no moon until 'most morning. What will Miss Douglas and Miss Helen say to us?" "I'm not worrying about what they will say, but what will they think? I am afraid Lil can't take another step tonight. She is game as game, but she is just about flopped." "We might make a basket of our hands and carry her thataway," suggested Skeeter. "Yes, we might! Lil is not so big but she is no dollbaby, and I don't believe we could pack her a mile if our lives depended on it." "Well, what will we do? Can you think of anything?" "Well, I think that one of us must stay with the girls and the other one go snooping around to try to find somebody, a house, or something. You stay with them and I'll go. I bid to!" "All--right!" But Skeeter did think, considering he was at least two months older than Frank and at least three inches taller, that he should be the one to go the front. The rôle of home guard did not appeal to him much, but when a fellow says "he bids to," that settles it. The spring was found down low between the rocks--such a clear, clean spring that even the greatest germ fearer would not hesitate to drink of its waters. "Look, there's a little path leading from the other side! It must go somewhere!" cried Frank. "Yes, it must go somewhere just as all the trails we have followed today must--but where? Don't tell me about paths! They are frauds, delusions and snares. I reckon there won't be any supper for us tonight, so I might just as well fill up on water," and Skeeter stooped and drank until his chum became alarmed. Skeeter's capacity was surely miraculous. "Let's not tell the girls we might not be able to get back before night. It might get them upset," cautioned Frank. They reckoned without their host, however, in this matter. When the boys returned to the forlorn damsels bearing a can of water for their refreshment, the can having been discovered by the spring, they found them not forlorn at all. They had spunked up each other and now were almost lively. Lil was tired and pale and Lucy had a rather bedraggled look, but they called out cheerily: "What ho, brave knights!" "Listen! Don't you hear a strange sound, kind of like music without a tune?" said Lucy. There was a sound, certainly. It might be the wind in the pines and it might be a giant fly buzzing in a flower that had closed its doors for the night. "It is coming closer," cried Lil. "Maybe it is the bold brigands who are to bear us off to captivity in their mountain fastnesses. I tell you, if they want me they will have to bear me. I can't hobble." Just then there came through the scrub growth on the opposite side of the green dimple where our young people had made their temporary abiding place, a strange figure. It was a tall, lean young man dressed in a coat of many colors, a shirt that seemed to be made of patches, no two patches of the same color and none of them matching the original color of the shirt, which was of a vivid blue. His trousers were of bright pink calico, the kind you see on the shelves of country stores and that is usually spoken of as "candy pink." His head was bare; his hair long and yellow. A large tin bucket was hung on his arm while he diligently played a jew's-harp. The effect of this strange figure was so weird as it appeared through the gathering twilight that the girls could hardly hold in the screams that were in their throats. They controlled them, however, so that they only came out as faint giggles. The music of the jew's-harp can be very eyrie in broad daylight when made by an ordinary human being; but just at dusk in a mountain fastness when four young persons have decided they are lost and may have to spend the night in the woods, this music, coming from such a strange, motley figure, seemed positively grewsome. "Speak to it!" gasped Lucy. "'Angels and ministers of grace, defend us! Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damned, Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked, or charitable, Thou com'st in such a questionable shape, That I will speak to thee,'" spouted Skeeter. The youth stood still in his path but went on with his weird near-tune. Skeeter approached him and the others followed, although poor Lil found herself limping painfully. "Please, we are lost!" "Oh, no, not lost, for I have found you uns. We uns is always findin'." His voice had an indescribable softness and gentleness and his blue eyes a far-away look as though he lived in some other world. "Only t'other day we uns 'most found a great bird floating in the sky, but it flew away. We uns thought at first it was lost but it wasn't. If it had a been lost, we uns would have found it. A great big bird, bigger'n a bald-headed eagle, bigger'n a buzzard." "Now that you have found us, what are you going to do with us?" asked Lil. "Oh, what we uns finds, we uns hides ag'in. Thar's a hole in the mounting whar we uns puts things." "Uhhh--a brigand, sure enough!" whispered Lucy. "But you wouldn't put us there, because we are alive. You have a home somewhere near here, haven't you?" asked Frank. But the half-witted fellow shook his head sadly. "We uns ain't got no mo' home since they came and found my maw--they came and found her and hid her in the ground. We uns must have lost her and never can find her--but there are lots of other things to find," and his blue eyes that had looked all clouded at the sad thought of never finding his mother, now began to sparkle. "Only this evening we uns found the prettiest light in the sky--it's gone now--gone--before we uns could hide it in the hole, but we uns will find another." "Where do you live?" Skeeter asked it gently. "Oh, we uns lives with the spring-keeper." "The spring-keeper! Who is he?" "Oh, we uns found him when they took my maw! He is a little daffy--that is what folks say, but we uns can't see but he is as smart as them what laughs at him." The young people were quite aghast at the news that the person with whom this strange being lived was considered daffy. The boys had their doubts about the advantage of asking shelter in a house where two crazy people lived, but perhaps the spring-keeper was not crazy, after all. This young man certainly seemed harmless enough, and perhaps he could show them the way to Greendale. "Does the spring-keeper live far from here?" asked Lil. "Oh, no, just round the mounting. We uns will show you uns the way." He filled his bucket at the crystal spring and then led the way along the narrow path. "Who taught you to play the jew's-harp?" asked Lucy. "Nobody! We uns just makes the music we uns finds in the trees. We uns can make the tune the bee tree makes, too. We uns can do so many things. We uns made these pants and every day we uns sews a pretty new color on this shirt. The spring-keeper fetches pretty cloth from the store and sometimes we uns sews quilts. Look, thar's the place whar the spring-keeper lives when he ain't a-tendin' to his business." "What is his business?" asked Frank. "We uns done told you he's a spring-keeper. Be you uns daffy, too?" That made them all laugh, and then the guide laughed too, delightedly. "Now we uns is found some happiness!" he exclaimed. "The spring-keeper says that is all that's worth finding. He says he has found it but he never laughs like that. He just smiles but never makes no music when he's happy. But neither does the sunshine." The cabin which they were approaching was different in a way from the usual one found in the mountains. It was made of logs and had the outline of the ordinary abode of the mountaineer, but a long porch went along two sides and this porch was screened. Screening is something almost unheard-of with the natives, although the flies abound in the mountains as well as in the valleys. A little clearing around the cabin was one great tangle of flowers: golden glow, love-in-the-mist, four o'clocks, bachelor's buttons, zenias, asters, hollyhocks, sunflowers, poppies, cornflowers, scarlet sage, roses and honeysuckles. Some greedy bees were still buzzing around the roses, although the sun was down and it was high time all laborers were knocking off for the night. There was a light in the cabin which sent a very cheering message to the foot-sore travelers--also an odor of cooking that appealed very strongly to all of them but sent Skeeter off into an ecstasy of anticipation. The guide put down his bucket of water and placing his jew's-harp to his lips gave a kind of buzzing call. Immediately an old man came out of the door. "Is that you, Tom Tit?" It was such a kind, sweet voice that the four were made sure they were right in coming to his abode. "Yes, Spring-keeper, and we uns found something." "I'll be bound you have! What is it this time? Another aeroplane or a rainbow?" "No, it is four laughs, look!" The old man did look, and when he saw the wanderers, he hastened out to make them welcome. Never was there a more charming manner than his. No wonder the half-witted youth thought of the sunshine in connection with his smile. He was tall and stalwart, with a long gray beard that could only be equalled by Santa Claus himself. His hair was silver white and his cheeks as rosy as a girl would like to have hers. His eyes were gray and so kind and twinkling that all fear of his being crazy was immediately dispelled from the minds of our young people. "They thought they were lost but they were wrong--we uns found 'em." "Good work, Tom Tit! And now what are we to do with them?" he asked, although he did not wait to find out what his poor companion had in his befuddled mind but ushered them to the porch, where he made the girls comfortable in steamer chairs and let the boys find seats for themselves. Their story was soon told and much was their amazement to learn that they were more than ten miles from Greendale. "You must have been walking all day in the wrong direction. No wonder this poor little girl is limping. Now the first thing for us to do is to have something to eat." "Ahem!" from Skeeter. The spring-keeper smiled. "Ah, methinks thou hast a lean and hungry look." "Hungry's not the word. Starving Belgium is nothing to me. I feel as though I had had nothing to eat since yesterday." "Oh, Skeeter! Think of all that lunch!" exclaimed Lil, lolling back luxuriously in the steamer chair with grass cloth cushions tucked in around her. "Why, Mr.--Mr.--Spring-keeper, he has done nothing but eat all day!" "We think it is very hard on you for all of us to come piling in on you this way," said Lucy. "Hard on us! Why, Tom Tit and I are so happy we hardly know what to do to show it," said the old man kindly. "But you must excuse me while I go prepare some food for you." "But you must let us help!" from the girls, although Lil was rather perfunctory in her offers of assistance. She felt as though nothing short of dynamite could get her out of that chair. "No, indeed! Tom Tit and I are famous cooks and we can get something ready in short order." "Please, sir," said Frank, who had been very quiet while the others were telling their host of their adventures, "I--I--must not stop one moment to eat or anything else. I want you to tell me how to find my way back to Greendale so I can tell the people at the camp that Lucy and Lil are all right. They were put in our charge, and I must let them know." "Of course, I am going, too," put in Skeeter, "but I thought I might eat first." Everyone had to laugh at poor Skeeter's rueful countenance. The spring-keeper smiled broadly, but he patted Frank on the back. "Have you a telephone at camp?" "Yes, we had to put one in." "Well, then, we'll just 'phone them even before we begin to cook our feast." "'Phone! Have you a telephone here?" exclaimed Lucy. "Yes, my dear young lady. I love the wildwood, but I have to know what's going on in the world. A man who does not take the good the gods provide him in the way of modern inventions is a fool. I may be a fool, but I'm not that kind of a fool." "Lucy, you had better do the 'phoning so they'll know you girls are safe, first thing," suggested Frank. "Yes, and it had better be done immediately," said their host. "Central in the mountains goes to roost very early, and you might not get connection. I'll call up Greendale and make them give me the camp." Connection was got without much trouble and Lucy took the receiver. "Hello! Is that Camp Carter? Well, this is me." "Lucy! Is it you?" in Helen's distracted tones from the other end. "Yes, it's me, and all of us are all right, but we are going to spend the night out." "Out where?" "About ten miles from Greendale!" "You mean outdoors?" "Oh, no; with a spring-keeper!" "A what? Oh, Lucy, are you crazy? We are so uneasy about all of you, we are nearly wild! It's dark as can be and we are trying to keep it from mother and father that you have not come home. Tell me where you are. Speak distinctly and loudly and stop giggling." Of course the usual giggles had rendered Lucy unable to speak. "Here, Skeeter, come and tell her!" she gasped. "Hello, Miss Helen! I'm Skeeter. The girls are all right. Yes, Frank and I are, too. We got lost somehow and never did find Jude Hanford's, but we found a kind gentleman who lives 'way over on another mountain and he is going to feed us right now." "Who is the gentleman?" "Mr. Spring-keeper is his name." "You can't get home somehow tonight?" "No'm! Lil is mighty tired and will have to rest up some. We'll be home tomorrow. You mustn't worry about the girls--they're all right and the gentleman is bully. We'll tell you all about it when we see you. Say, Miss Helen, the lunch was out of sight." "You bet it was when once Skeeter got his hooks into it," muttered Frank. "The supper will be, too, in no time." "Well, good-bye, Skeeter! We are still trusting you and Frank to take care of our girls and bring them back safely. I knew all the time you were doing your best, although I was uneasy about all of you. I was afraid you had shot each other or snakes had bitten you or something." "Not on your life! We shot some squirrels and got you some fox grapes, though. Good-bye! Good-bye!" "I tell you, Miss Helen is a peach," he added to Frank, after he hung up the receiver. "She is still trusting us." CHAPTER XVI TOM TIT "I'm dying to know who he is and what he is," whispered Lil to Lucy, as they tidied themselves up a bit in the neat little room to which the gray-bearded host had shown them. "So'm I! Did you ever see such a cute little room? It looks like a stateroom on the steamboat. Do you reckon we will sleep in here?" It was a tiny little room with one great window. Two bunks were built in the wall opposite the window, one over the other. A little mirror hung over a shelf whereon the girls found a white celluloid comb and brush, spotlessly clean--indeed, the whole room was so clean that one doubted its ever having been occupied. The floor was scrubbed until Lucy said it reminded her of a well-kept kitchen table. A rag rug was the only decoration the room boasted and that was a beautiful thing of brilliant hue. The walls were whitewashed, also the doors, of which there were two, one opening into the main room and the other one, the girls fancied, into a cupboard. "Ain't it grand we got lost?" from Lil, as she made a vain endeavor to see her sunburned nose in the mirror that was hung so high she was sure Mr. Spring-keeper had never had a female visitor before, or if he had, it had been a giantess. "Hurry up! Your nose is all right.--Maybe we can help him some, and I'm just dying to hear the story of his life. Do you reckon he will tell us all about himself and poor Tom Tit without our pumping him? I believe he is a king or something." Whether the old gentleman were a king or not, he could certainly cook a supper to a king's taste. Skeeter's nostrils were quivering with anticipatory enjoyment as the lost ones took their seats around the massive table in the comfortable living room. "It looks like a room I saw at the movies last spring," Frank had said to Skeeter, as they waited for the girls to finish dolling up. "That one had a stone fireplace and furniture that looked just like this, great big tables and chairs that must have been made out of solid oak or walnut or something. The hero had fashioned them himself with a jack-knife, I believe. The mantelpiece was high just like this one, but there were skins spread on the floor instead of these rag rugs." "It is a bully room, and, gee, what a good smell of eats." The supper was a simple one, consisting of corn pone and buttermilk, bacon and scrambled eggs. "I am giving you exactly what Tom Tit and I were to have. I only tripled the quantity," said their host, as they drew up the chairs to the great table. "Then we aren't so very much trouble?" asked Lil. "Trouble! Why, my dear young lady, Tom Tit and I would not live on this thoroughfare if we did not love visitors." "Thoroughfare!" gasped Lucy. Maybe the old gentleman was daffy. "Why, certainly! You don't know how many things happen in the mountains. Someone is always turning up. Eh, Tom Tit?" "Yes, indeed! We uns finds something every day. One time it was a baby fox and one time it was a man in ugly striped pants." "He means our convict. It was a poor fellow who had escaped from a road gang and took refuge in the mountains and Tom Tit found him almost starved to death. We fed him up until he could go back to work." "You didn't give him up!" asked Frank, his eyes flashing. "Oh, no; he gave himself up. I got him to tell me just exactly why he was put in the penitentiary, and since his crime surely warranted some punishment, I made him understand that the best thing for him to do was go back to his road making and expiate his crime. That was much better than being hounded for the rest of his time. What do you think about it?" "Y-e-s, you are right, but I'm glad you didn't give him up." "Tom Tit and I go see him every now and then. Tom Tit feels sorry for him because his trousers are so ugly. He likes to work and wouldn't mind road-building a bit." "When we uns digs, we uns finds so many things, but we uns couldn't wear such ugly pants. Sometime we uns is a-goin' to make the poor sick man some pretty pink ones like these," and he stood up to show his bright pink trousers. They were strangely fashioned, looking rather like Turkish trousers. "Was the man sick?" asked Lucy, devoutly praying that a fit of the giggles would not choke her. "You see, Tom Tit and I think that when persons are what the world and the law calls bad, they are really sick. Sometimes they are too sick to be cured, but not often. It is the fault of the doctors and the system and not theirs when they are not cured." "Do you live here all the time?" asked Lil. She was dying of curiosity about the strange pair who were so ill assorted and still so intimate. "Tom Tit does, but I have to go away for a time every fall and winter and Tom Tit keeps house for me while I am gone. He is a famous housekeeper." "Do you get lonesome all by yourself?" asked Lucy. "We uns ain't never alone. There's the baby fox and the cow and the chickens, and every day we uns tries to find something and then we uns has to write it down for the spring-keeper 'ginst he comes home. Every day we uns has to go to the post office for the letter, too, and that takes time. The days in winter are so short." "Oh, do you get a letter every day? How jolly! My mother doesn't write to me but once a week," said Lil, "--although of course she 'phones me in the meantime and sends me candy and things." "We uns never does git letters from maw," and poor Tom Tit's eyes clouded sadly. "Ever since the men came and found her and hid her in that hole she ain't writ a line to poor Tom Tit." "But you write to her every time you write to me, don't you, Tom Tit?" and the old gentleman put a calming and kindly hand on the shoulder of the trembling youth. It seemed that at every mention of mothers the thought of his own mother came back to him and the agony he went through with at the time of her death seized hold of him. The young people learned later from their host, while Tom Tit was washing the supper dishes, all about the poor boy's history. "Tom Tit's mother was a very fine woman of an intelligence and character that was remarkable even in these mountains where intelligence and character are the rule rather than the exception. She had no education, but the things she could accomplish without education were enough to make the ones who have been educated blush to think how little they do with it. She had evolved a philosophy of her own of such goodness and serenity that to know her and talk with her was a privilege. She seemed to me to be like these mountains, where she was born and where she died. She had had trouble enough to break the spirit of any ordinary mortal, but she said her spirit was eternal and could not be broken. "Her husband was a very desperate character. Convicted of illicit distilling, he was sentenced to serve a term in the penitentiary, but he managed to escape and for one whole year he evaded the sheriff, hiding in the mountains. Of course his wife had to go through the agony of this long search. She told me she had never slept more than an hour at a time while her husband was in hiding. That was the one thing she was bitter over--that long hounding of her husband. She used to say if the government had spent the money and energy in educating the mountaineers that they had in hunting for them, there would have been no cause for hunting for them. Moonshining is to them a perfectly reasonable and lawful industry, and nothing but education can make them see it differently. His hiding place was finally ferreted out and he was surrounded and captured, but not before he had managed to shoot five men, killing two of them and being fatally wounded himself. "That was many years ago when Tom Tit was a little chap of three. Melissa, the mother, was wrapped up in the child. His intelligence then was keen and his love of Nature and beautiful things was so pronounced from the beginning that if this cloud had not come over his intellect he would surely have been a great artist of some kind, whether poet, painter or musician, I can't say." "Perhaps all of them, like Leonardo da Vinci!" exclaimed Lil, who always did know things. The old gentleman smiled at her appreciatively. "What is an artist but a person who finds things, just like my poor Tom Tit, and then is able to tell to the world what he has found?" "When he writes to you, does he tell you things in poetical language?" asked Lucy, her gray eyes very teary as she listened to the story of the mountain youth. "My dear, his writing is not ordinary writing. He can neither read nor write as you think of it. His letters to me are written in another way. He tells me what he has found each day with some kind of rude drawing or with some device of his own." "Please show us some of them!" begged all four of the guests. "I am going to let you guess what he meant." He took from his desk in the corner a packet of large envelopes. "I leave with my friend enough addressed and stamped envelopes to run him until I return, and all he has to do is put in his letter and seal it and drop it in the box at Bear Hollow, our post office. Sometimes he draws me a picture and sometimes he just sends me something he has found. What do you think he intended to convey by this?" On a sheet of paper were drawn many stars of various kinds and sizes, and down in the corner was what was certainly meant for an axe. "Clear night and going coon hunting, I think," said Skeeter solemnly. "No!" cried Lucy and Lil in a breath. "Those are meant for snow flakes! It has begun to snow!" "Right you are! Good girls, go up head! And how about the axe, since it is not meant to signify coon hunting?" "It is going to be cold," suggested the practical Frank, "and he must go to work and lay in wood before the snow gets deep." "Fine! I am glad to see there are others who can interpret my poor Tom Tit's letters. Now this is the one I received the next day." It was evidently meant for a deep snow. The roof of a house and a few bare branches were shown but from the chimney a column of smoke ascended and in that smoke was plainly drawn a grin: a mouth with teeth. "Snowed under!" cried Skeeter. "But he got his wood cut and is now sitting by the fire quite happy, even grinning," declared Lucy. "Right again! Now comes a piece of holly and a pressed violet. That means that he finds a little belated violet in our flower beds in spite of the fact that the holly is king at this season. Sometimes he has so much to tell me that he must make many pictures. Here he found a sunset and it was so beautiful that he had to paint it with his colored crayons. This is where he fed the birds during the deep snow. He has a trough where he puts grain and seeds and crumbs for his winged friends. This is a picture of the trough and see the flocks of birds he has tried to draw to show how many are fed in his trough. This means a stranger has come in on him!" It was a picture of a hat and staff and down one side of the page were many drops of water, at least that was what the interested audience thought they were. At the top was an eye. "Oh, I know!" exclaimed Lil. "If a hat and staff mean a stranger, those drops of water must mean rain." "The eye looks like a Mormon sign," suggested Skeeter. "I bet it means this," said Lil, studying the page intently. "It means the stranger is old, or he would not have a staff, and it means he is unhappy. Those drops are tear drops. See how sad the eye looks!" "'Oh, a Daniel come to judgment!' Young lady, you are right. That was a tired, sick traveler that our Tom Tit found and brought in and looked after for two weeks last winter. He was trying to cross the mountains and got lost and Tom Tit picked him up, almost starved and frozen. In this one, he shows the sick guest is still with him and in bed. He cannot draw faces well and hates to make anything too grotesque, so he usually has a sign or symbol for persons. The staff and hat in bed mean the guest is there. These little saddle-bags and hat mean he had to send for the doctor. Look at the medicine the poor staff and hat must take from the cruel saddle-bags! His own symbol is usually a jew's-harp, although sometimes he makes himself a kind of butterfly----" "Just like Whistler!" cried Lil. "Yes, and in his way he is as great an artist as Whistler," said the old man sadly. "If he had only had his chance! Well, well! Maybe he is happier as he is. I never saw a happier person, as a rule, than my poor boy. Tom Tit could never have written letters that would have been put in a book and called 'The Gentle Art of Making Enemies,' as that other great artist did. He makes friends with every living thing, and inanimate objects are friendly to him, too, I sometimes think. If his wits had been spared him, the world would have called him and the peace of the mountains would no longer have been his." The old man fingered the packet of letters tenderly while the young guests sat thoughtfully by. They could hear the cheerful Tom Tit in the kitchen washing dishes and whistling a strange crooning melody. "Here it is spring and he has found the first hepatica. See, he sends me a pressed one! And this is my love letter. What do you make of it?" It was six little stamped envelopes, all with wings, and in the corner was a jew's-harp unmistakably dancing a jig. "I know! I know!" cried Lucy. "So do I!" from Lil. "I can't see any kind of sense in it!" pondered Frank. "Nor I," grumbled Skeeter. "You girls just make up answers." "I'm going to whisper my answer to Mr. Spring-keeper," suggested Lil. The old man smiled as Lil whispered her answer. "Good! Splendid! And now what do you think?" turning to Lucy. "I think that he has only six envelopes left, and that means you will be back in six days. He is so happy he is dancing and he is so busy the days are just flying away." "Well, if you girls aren't clever! No wonder they say women are the most appreciative sex although men are the creative. A few men create while all women appreciate. And now, my dear young people, this is so pleasant for me that I am afraid of being selfish, so I am going to insist on your going to bed. You have had a hard day and must be tired." "We have had a wonderful day with a wonderful en----" said Lil, a yawn hitting her midway so she could not get out the "ding." "But I hate to go to bed until you tell us something about yourself," blurted out Skeeter. The story of the half-witted young mountaineer was very interesting, no doubt, but Skeeter wanted to know why this highly educated gentleman was spending so much time in the mountains, cooking for himself and taking care of lost sheep. "Oh, my story is such an ordinary one I can tell it while I light a candle for these young ladies," laughed their host, not at all angry at Skeeter's curiosity, although Lil and Lucy were half dead of embarrassment when Skeeter came out so flat-footed with the question which was almost bubbling over on their lips, but which they felt they must not put. "I am a successful manufacturer---- I have made enough money selling clothes pins and ironing boards and butter tubs to stop. In fact, I stopped many years ago and now I do nothing but enjoy myself in my own way." "And that way is----?" "Trying to help a little. In the winter I live in New York and teach the boys' clubs on the East Side, and in the summer I am spring-keeper in the mountains." "But isn't your name Mr. Spring-keeper?" asked Lil. "No, my dear, spring-keeping is my occupation. My name is Walter McRae. Here is your candle, and pleasant dreams." "Won't you tell us some more about yourself?" asked Lucy as she took the candle from him. "Another time! Anything so dry as my story will keep." CHAPTER XVII THE SPRING-KEEPER "Isn't this grand?" were the last words both of our girls uttered as they rolled into the bunks that had been made up with fresh, lavender-scented linen. The brigands had captured them certainly and their adventure was complete. The boys were sleeping on the porch in hammocks. Mr. McRae always slept on the porch unless weather drove him in, and Tom Tit had a little room that he loved, where he kept his treasures, all those he did not put in the hole in the mountain. Dawn found the babes in the wood much refreshed. The boys were up and out early, helping Tom Tit milk the cow and chop wood. Mr. McRae had started the cooking of breakfast when Lucy and Lil appeared. "We are so ashamed to be late but we almost slept our heads off," they apologized. "Now let us help!" "All right, set the table and skim the milk and get the butter out of the dairy." The dairy was a cave dug in the side of the mountain where all their food was kept cool in summer and warm in winter. "We shall breakfast on the porch." The girls made all haste and set the table with great care. "Let's get him to tell us all about himself this morning," whispered Lucy. "I'm dying to hear about him. Isn't he romantic?" "I'm crazy about him. Don't you reckon he'll go to the camp with us? Nan would be wild over him." "Yes, but he's ours. We certainly found him." "You sound like Tom Tit," laughed Lil. "I hope the people at the camp won't laugh at poor Tom Tit," said Lucy. "If we could only get there a little ahead and prepare them for his pink pants." She need not have worried, as the wise Mr. McRae knew how to manage Tom Tit so that he discarded his pink pants when he was to go among strangers. "Now, Tom Tit, we must hurry with all of our duties so we can make an early start to walk home with our guests; and we must put on our corduroys for such a long tramp, as the brambles might tear your lovely new trousers." So poor Tom Tit did the outside chores with the help of the boys, while the girls assisted Mr. McRae in the house. Having breakfasted a little after dawn, by seven o'clock they were ready for their ten mile tramp back to the camp. The boys shouldered their guns and the sacks of fox grapes and squirrels. Mr. McRae took with him a small spade while Tom Tit carried a hoe. "I can't help thinking both of them are a bit loony," Skeeter whispered to Lucy. "Why on earth do they want to carry garden tools on a ten mile tramp?" "Loony yourself! I reckon they want to dig something." The old gentleman, as though divining Skeeter's thoughts, remarked: "Tom Tit and I have a little duty to attend to today, so we are taking our implements. There are several springs I have not been able to visit this summer and I am going to combine duty with pleasure and look after them today." "Look after springs! What for?" from Skeeter. "I thought I told you that I am a spring-keeper. Perhaps you don't know what a spring-keeper is." "N--o! Not exactly!" said Skeeter. "Well, every country child knows that in every spring there is or should be a spring-keeper to keep the water clear. It is a kind of crawfish. It may be a superstition that he really does purify water. At any rate, it is a pleasing idea that he can. Whether he can or not, I know I can help a great deal by digging out of the springs the old dead roots and vegetable matter that decays there, so my self-appointed job is to keep the springs of Albemarle county in condition. I am sure I have saved many families from typhoid in the last years. That is something. "I was born in the mountains, born in a cabin that stands just where the one I live in now stands, in fact the chimney is the same one that has always been there, but the house is new. When I was a mere lad, about twelve years old, there was a terrible epidemic of typhoid fever in the mountains. My whole family was wiped out by it, my father, mother and two sisters dying of it. I just did escape with my life and was nursed back to health by Tom Tit's granny, as good a woman as ever lived. Afterwards, having no home ties, I drifted to the city where I was successful financially. We of the mountains had not known in the old days what caused typhoid, but afterwards, when I learned it was the water we drank, I determined to come back to my county whenever I could and make some endeavor to better the conditions. Would God that I might have been sooner! My poor boy had an attack of the dread disease just the year before I got my affairs in condition to leave New York, and that is what caused his brain trouble." Tom Tit was ahead of the party, gazing up into the air as his old friend spoke. He had a rapt expression on his face that made him for the moment look like Guido Reni's Christ. "Sometimes," continued the old man, "in typhoid, the temperature is so high that certain brain tissue seems to be burned out. I am afraid that is what has happened to my boy." "All of us have been inoculated against typhoid," said Lucy. "Dr. Wright insisted on it--every member of the family. Helen kicked like a steer but she had to do it, too." "Well named, well named, that young doctor! I try to get the friends in the mountains to submit to it, too, but it is a difficult matter. I keep the virus on hand all the time, a fresh supply. If I can't persuade them to let me give them the treatment, I can at least keep their springs clean for them. Sometimes they even object to that," he laughed, "but they can't help it, as I do it without their leave. They say I take all the taste out of the water." Their way lay around the mountain instead of over it, the course they had taken the day before, and much to the amazement of the young people, they went to the left instead of to the right. "But Greendale is that way!" declared Frank, pointing to the east. "Greendale is really due north of us, but I thought you wanted to go by Jude Hanford's cabin to do your errand. We could go either way to the camp from here, but if we go east, we will miss Jude." "Well, if that doesn't beat all!" exclaimed Frank. Mr. McRae laughed. "What would you have done last night if Tom Tit had not found you and brought you home?" "I was going to lie right down and let the robins cover me up," said Lil. "I was going to climb the highest tree and look out and see if I could spy a light, like the cock in the 'Musicians of Bremen,'" said Lucy. "I was going to follow the path from the spring," said Frank. "I felt sure from the cleanliness of the spring that we were near some house." "And I was going to build a fire and skin the squirrels and have supper," declared Skeeter. "I was just about famished and I knew that food was what Lil and Lucy needed to put heart in them." "Yes, it wouldn't!" laughed Lil. "Much good burnt squirrel without any salt would do a bruised heel. That was all that was the matter with me." That ten miles back to the camp seemed much shorter than it had the day before, and in fact it was, as they made no digressions on the homeward trip. "We must really have walked twenty miles yesterday. Just think how many times we doubled on our tracks," said Frank when they finally came to a familiar spot. They found Jude Hanford's yard running over with frying-sized chickens and on his door step a water bucket full of eggs all ready to take to the store. Of course he was pleased to sell them without having to take off the commission for the middleman. He joined their procession, with his eggs and three dozen chickens distributed among the bearers. CHAPTER XVIII MORE FINDS "Look!" exclaimed Lucy as they neared the camp. "Mr. Smith is flying this morning. I wonder who is with him. He hasn't taken me yet but he promised to today. Please don't tell mother. She would be terribly alarmed at the prospect." "Oh, there's my bird!" and Tom Tit dropped his hoe and the basket of chickens he was carrying and clasped his hands in an ecstasy of delight. "See, see, how it floats! I have found it again! I have found it again!" "Tom Tit, would you like to fly with that great bird?" asked Lucy gently. "Fly? Oh, I always dream I can fly! Can I really fly?" "Yes, Tom Tit, if you want to I will give you my place. The birdman promised to take me today and I will get him to take you instead." Tom Tit looked wonderingly and trustingly at Lucy. Mr. McRae smiled his approval. "It will be an experience my boy will remember all his life." "Spending the night at your home will be one we will remember always, too. It beat flying," and all of the wanderers agreed with her. Mr. Tom Smith was perfectly willing to take Tom Tit on a flight if he promised to sit still, which of course he did. The aeroplane was a great astonishment to him and the fact that the birdman could leave the bird and talk and walk filled him with awe. "We uns ain't never seen buzzards and eagles git out'n their wings, but then we uns ain't never been so clost to the big ones, the ones that sails way up in the clouds." When they landed after a rather longer flight than Tom Smith usually took the would-be flyers, Tom Tit's expression was that of one who has glimpsed the infinite. He said not a word for a moment after he found himself once more on terra firma, and then he turned to his old friend and whispered: "Oh, Spring-keeper, I have found so many things that I'll never be sad again." The Carters, of course, gave Mr. McRae a warm welcome. They could not do enough to express their gratitude for his kindness and hospitality to their young people. Mrs. Carter was graciousness itself to the old man, but looked rather askance at the queer figure of his companion. I wonder what she would have thought had she seen his pink calico trousers and his patched shirt that he considered so beautiful. Bobby, however, was drawn to him immediately and treated him just as though he had been another little boy who had come to see him. He took his new friend to see all of his bird houses and water wheels, and Tom Tit followed him about with adoration in his eyes. "We uns kin talk like you uns when we uns remembers," said Bobby. "We uns would like to talk like Spring-keeper but always forgits," sighed Tom Tit. "Spring-keeper used to talk just like we uns when he was little but he's got larnin' now." "We uns don't never want no larnin'," declared Bobby. "'Tain't no use. Josh wants to git larnin', too, but when he does he ain't goin' to be my bes' frien' no mo'. I'm a-goin' to be you bes' frien' then; I mean, we uns is." "What's a bes' frien'? We uns ain't never found one." "Oh, a bes' frien' is somebody you likes to be with all the time." "Oh, then Spring-keeper is a bes' frien'." "But he is an old man. A bes' frien' must be young." "Then we uns'll have to take the baby fox. Will that do?" "Oh, yes, that'll do if'n they ain't no boys around." "We uns will keep the baby fox for one of them things until Josh gits larnin' and then you kin be it," and Tom Tit laughed for joy. "Is you uns ever flew?" Tom Tit asked Bobby. "No--my mother is so skittish like, she ain't never let me. She's 'bout one of the scaredest ladies they is." "We uns' maw is done flew away herself and she didn't mind when we uns went a bit. We uns useter think that when the men found maw they took her and hid her in a hole in the ground. Spring-keeper done tole me lots of times that she wasn't in the ground but had flew up to heaven, but we uns ain't never seed no one fly, so we uns just thought he was a foolin'. And you see," he whispered, "Spring-keeper is kinder daffy sometimes, so the folks say, and we uns has to humor him. But now--but now--we uns done flewed away up in the air. If we uns kin fly, why maw kin do it, too. She ain't in a hole in the ground no mo'. We uns almost saw her flyin' way up over the mountain tops." "I'm--I mean we uns is a-goin' to come to see you. My father is goin' to take me there some day. Kin you play on the Victrola?" "No--we uns ain't never seed one. What is it?" "Why, it makes music." "Oh, we uns kin play the jew's-harp." "Gee! I wish I could--I mean we uns wishes we uns could. If you show me how to play the jew's-harp, I'll show you how to play the Victrola. Come on, I'll show you first while th'ain't nobody in the pavilion. You see, my sisters is some bossy an' they's always sayin' I scratch the records an' won't never let me play it by myself, but they is about the bossiest ever. I ain't a-goin' to hurt the old records." Tom Tit looked at the Victrola with wondering eyes while Bobby wound it up. He had seen a small organ once and the postmistress at Bear Hollow had a piano, but this musical instrument was strange indeed. "I'm a-gonter leave the record on that Helen's been a-playin'. I don't know what it is. I can't read good yet but I reckon it's something pretty." It was Zimbalist playing the "Humoresque." Fancy the effect of such a wonderful combination of sounds breaking for the first time on the sensitive ears of this mountain youth. He had heard music in the wind and music in the water; the birds had sung to him and the beasts had talked to him; but what was this? He stood like one enchanted, his hands clasped and his lips parted. At one point in the music when the great artist was evidently putting his whole soul in it, Tom Tit began to sob. Tears rolled down his cheeks. "Why, what's the matter? Don't you like it? I'll put a ragtime piece on," cried Bobby, abruptly stopping the machine with a scraping sound that certainly proved he was a great scratcher of records. "Oh, now it's lost! It's lost! We uns thought we uns had found something beautiful. Where has it gone?" "Did you like it then? What made you bawl?" "We uns has to cry when we uns finds something beautiful sometimes. We uns cries a little when the sun sets but it is tears of happiness. Can you uns play that again?" "Sure!" and Bobby started up the "Humoresque" again and this time Tom Tit dried his eyes and stood with a smile on his face. "Oh, Spring-keeper!" he cried when Mr. McRae came hunting him, "we uns has found something more beautiful than sunsets and flowers--prettier than birds--prettier than pink--prettier than blue or yellow. It shines like dew and tastes like honey--Oh, Spring-keeper, listen!" "Yes, my boy, it is beautiful. And now I think you have found enough things for today and we must go home." "Go home and leave this!" and Tom Tit embraced the Victrola. "We uns can't leave it." "Listen, my boy! I will get one for you. I don't know why I never thought of it before. Within a week you shall have one all your own and play it as much as you choose." Of course Bobby had to be instructed in the rudiments of jew's-harp playing first, according to agreement, and then with many expressions of mutual regard our young people parted from the spring-keeper and Tom Tit. CHAPTER XIX A DISCUSSION August was over and our girls were not sorry. The camp had been like an ant hill all during that month of holidays. Not that it had been a month of holidays for the Carters, far from it. There had been times when they did not see how they could accomplish the work they had undertaken. They were two hands short almost all of the month which made the work fall very heavily on the ones who were left. Gwen was taken up with Aunt Mandy, the kind old mountain woman who had been so good to the little English orphan. Now that Aunt Mandy was ill, Gwen felt it her duty to be with her day and night. Susan was so busy waiting on Mrs. Carter that she never had time for her regular duties in the kitchen. Lewis and Bill were terribly missed. They had done so many things for the campers, had been so strong and willing and untiring in their service that the girls felt the place could hardly be run without them. Skeeter and Frank did all they could but they were but slips of lads after all and there were many things where a man's strength was necessary. Mr. Carter was glad to help when he was called on, but he did not seem to see the things that were to be done without having them pointed out. When there was much of a crowd he rather shrank from the noise and the girls felt they must not let him be made nervous by the confusion. Of course there was much confusion when twenty and more boarders would arrive at once, have to be hauled up the mountain and assigned tent room and then as Oscar would say, "have to be filled up." The girls would do much giggling and screaming; the young men would laugh a great deal louder than their jokes warranted, and the boys seemed to think that camp was a place especially designed for practical jokes. It was a common thing to hear shrieks from the tents when the crowd was finally made to retire by the chaperone, and then the cry, "Ouch! Chestnut burrs in my bed!" Once it was a lemon meringue pie, brought all the way from Richmond by an inveterate joker who felt that a certain youth was too full of himself and needed taking down a peg! Now there is nothing much better than a lemon meringue pie taken internally, but of all the squashy abominations to find in one's bed and to have applied externally, a lemon meringue pie is the worst. It was as a censor of practical jokes that Douglas and Helen missed the young soldiers most. They had been wont to stand just so much and no more from the wild Indians who came to Camp Carter for the week-end, and now that there was no one to reach forth a restraining hand, there was no limit to the pranks that were played. Mrs. Carter felt that the job of chaperone for such a crowd was certainly no sinecure. She complained quite bitterly of her duties. After all, they consisted of having the new-comers introduced to her and of presiding at supper and of staying in the pavilion until bed time. Miss Elizabeth Somerville had made nothing of it, and one memorable night when there was too much racket going on from the tents the boys occupied, she had arisen from her bed in the cabin and, wrapped in a dressing gown and armed with an umbrella, had marched to the seat of war and very effectively quelled the riot by laying about her with said umbrella. The girls looked back on her reign, regretting that it was over. It was lovely to have their mother with them again but she was quite different from the mother they had known in Richmond in the luxurious days. That mother had always been gentle while this one had a little sharp note to her voice that was strange to them. It was most noticeable when she had expressed some desire that was not immediately gratified. "I am quite tired of chicken," she said to Douglas one day. "I wish you would order some sweetbreads for me. I need building up. This rough life is very hard on me and nothing but my being very unselfish and devoted makes me put up with it." "Yes, mother! I am sorry, but my order for this week is in the mail and I could not change it now, but I will send a special order for some Texas sweetbreads to Charlottesville. I have no doubt I can get them there." Either the order or the sweetbreads went astray. Mrs. Carter refused to eat any dinner in consequence and sulked a whole day. "If she only doesn't complain to father we can stand it," Douglas confided to Nan. "What are we going to do, Nan? I am so afraid she will make father feel he must go back to work, and then all the good of the rest will be done away with. She treats me, somehow, as though it were all my fault." "Oh no, honey, you mustn't feel that way. Poor little mumsy is just spoiled to death and does not know how to adapt herself to this change of fortune." "You see, Nan, now that Mr. Lane has had to go to Texas with the militia the business is at a standstill. He was trying to fill the orders they had on their books without father's help." "Yes, Mr. Tucker said that father's business was a one man affair and when that one man, father, was out of the running there was nothing to do about it. Thank goodness, father is not worrying about things himself." "I know we should be thankful, but somehow his not worrying makes it just so much more dreadful. I feel that he is even more different than mother. It is an awful problem--what to do." "What's a problem?" asked Helen, coming suddenly into the tent where her sisters were engaged in the above conversation. "Oh, just--just--nothing much!" faltered Douglas. "Now that's a nice way to treat a partner. You and Nan are always getting off and whispering together and not letting me in on it. What's worrying you?" "The situation!" "Political or climatic?" "Carteratic!" drawled Nan. "We were talking about mother and father." "What about them? Is father worse?" Helen was ever on the alert when her father's well-being was in question. "No, he is better in some ways, but unless he is kept free from worry he will never be well," said Douglas solemnly. She had not broached the subject of money with Helen since the question of White Sulphur had been discussed by them, feeling that Helen would not or could not understand. "Who's going to worry him? Not I!" "Of course not you. Just the lack of money is going to worry him, and he is going to feel the lack of it if mother wants things and can't have them." "Why don't you let her have them?" "How can I? I haven't the wherewithal any more than you." "I thought we were making money." "So we are, but not any great amount. I think it is wonderful that we have been able to support ourselves and put anything in the bank. I had to draw out almost all of our earnings to pay for the things mother bought in New York, not that I wasn't glad to do it, but that means we have not so much to go on for the winter." "Oh, for goodness' sake don't be worrying about the winter now! Mother says our credit is so good we need not worry a bit." Douglas and Nan looked at each other sadly. Douglas turned away with a "what's the use" expression. Helen looked a little defiant as she saw her sister's distress. "See here, Helen!" and this time Nan did not drawl. Helen realized her little sister was going to say something she must listen to. "You have got a whole lot of sense but you have got a whole lot to learn. I know you are going to laugh at me for saying you have got to learn a lot that I, who am two years younger than you, already know. You have got to learn that our poor little mumsy's judgment is not worth that," and Nan snapped her finger. "Nan! You ought to be ashamed of yourself." "Well, I am ashamed of myself, but I am telling the truth. I don't see the use in pretending any more about it. I love her just as much, but anyone with half an eye can see it. I think what we must do is to face it and then tactfully manage her." Douglas and Helen could not help laughing at Nan. "You see," she continued, "it is up to us to support the family somehow and make mumsy comfortable and keep her from telling father that she hasn't got all she wants. Of course she can't have all she wants, but she can be warm and fed at least." "But, Nan, it isn't up to you to support the family," said Douglas. "You must go back to school, you and Lucy." "Well, it is up to me to spend just as little money as possible and to earn some if I can. I am not going to be a burden on you and Helen. You needn't think it." "We'll have the one hundred from the rent of the house and then Helen and I shall have to find jobs. What, I don't know." "Well, I, for one, can't find a job until I get some new clothes," declared Helen. "I haven't a thing that is not hopelessly out of style." "Can't your last winter's suit be done over? Mine can." "Now, Douglas, what's the use in going around looking like a frump? I think we should all of us get some new clothes and then waltz in and get good jobs on the strength of them. If I were employing girls I should certainly choose the ones who look the best." Douglas shook her head sadly. Helen was Helen and there was no making her over. She would have to learn her lesson herself and there was no teaching her. "Dr. Wright says we must keep father out of the city this winter but we need not be in the dead country. We can get a little house on the edge of town so Nan and Lucy can go in to school. I think we can get along on the rent from the house if you and I can make something besides." When the question of where they were to live for the winter was broached to Mrs. Carter, she was taken quite ill and had to stay in bed a whole day. "No one considers me at all," she whimpered to Nan, who had brought her a tray with some tea and toast for her luncheon. "Just because you and Douglas like the country you think it is all right. I am sure I shall die in some nasty little frame cottage in the suburbs. It is ridiculous that we cannot turn those wretched people out of my house and let me go back and live in it again." "But, mumsy," soothed Nan, "we are going to make you very comfortable and we will find a pretty house and maybe it will be brick." "But to dump me down in the suburbs when I have had to be away from society for all these months as it is! I am sure if I could talk it over with your father he would agree with me--but you girls even coerce me in what I shall and shall not say to my own husband. I do not intend to submit to it any longer." "Oh, mother, please--please don't tell father. Dr. Wright says----" "Don't tell me what Dr. Wright says! I am bored to death with what he says. I know he has been kind but I can't see that our affairs must be indefinitely directed by him. I will sleep a little now if you will let me be quiet." CHAPTER XX DR. WRIGHT TO THE RESCUE Nan went sadly off. What should she do? Dr. Wright was expected at the camp that afternoon and she determined to speak to him and ask him once more to interfere in the Carters' affairs. Even if the young physician did bore her mother, it was necessary now for him to step in. If only she would not carry out her threat of speaking to her husband! Dr. Wright treated the matter quite seriously when Nan told him of the mix-up. "Certainly your father must not be worried. It is quite necessary that he shall be kept out of the city for many months yet and no one must talk money to him. Can't your mother see this?" "She doesn't seem to." "But Helen understands, surely!" "I--I--think Helen thinks father is so much better that we can--we can--kind of begin to spend again," faltered Nan, whose heart misgave her, fearing she might be saying something to obstruct the course of true love which her romantic little soul told her was going on between Helen and Dr. Wright. At least she could not help seeing that he was casting sheep's eyes at Helen, and that while Helen was not casting them back at him she was certainly not averse to his attentions. "Begin to spend again! Ye gods and little fishes! Why, if bills begin to be showered in again on Robert Carter I will not answer for his reason. He is immensely improved, but it is only because he has had no worries. Where is your mother?" His face looked quite stern and his kind blue eyes were not kind at all but flashed scornfully. "She is in bed." "Is she ill?" "Well, not exactly--she--she--is kind of depressed." "Depressed! Depressed over what?" "Oh, Dr. Wright, I hate to be telling you these things! It looks as though I did not love my mother to be talking about her, but indeed I do. Douglas and I are so miserable about it, but we--we--somehow we feel that we are a great deal older than mumsy. We know it is hard on her--all of this----" "All of what?" "This living such a rough life--and having to give up society and our pretty house and everything." "Of course it is hard, but then aren't all of you giving up things, too?" "But we don't mind--at least we don't mind much. It is harder on Helen and mother because--because they--they are kind of different. And they don't understand money." "And do you understand it?" laughed the young doctor. "Well, Douglas and I understand it better. We know that when you spend a dollar you haven't got a dollar, but Helen and mother seem to think if you haven't got it you can charge it. I think they are suffering with a kind of disease--chargitis." George Wright was looking quite solemn as he made his way to the cabin where Mrs. Carter had taken to her bed. He was not relishing the idea of having to speak to the wife of his patient, but speak he must. He knew very well that Nan would never have come to him if matters had not reached a crisis. How would Helen take his interference? He could not fool himself into the belief that what Helen said and thought made no difference to him. It made all the difference in the world. But duty was duty and since he was ministering to a mind diseased, he must guard that mind from all things that were harmful to it, just as much as a doctor who is treating an open wound must see that it is kept aseptic. If Robert Carter's wife was contemplating upsetting the good that had been done her husband, why, it was his duty as that husband's physician to warn her of the result. Mrs. Carter was looking very lovely and pathetic, acting the invalid. An extremely dainty and costly negligee accentuated her beauty. Her cabin room, while certainly not elegant, was perfectly comfortable and kept in spotless condition by the devoted Susan. There were no evidences of rough living in her surroundings and the hand which she extended feebly to welcome the physician could not have been smoother or whiter had it belonged to pampered royalty. "Ah, Dr. Wright, it is kind of you to come in to see me." She smiled a wan smile. "I am sorry you are ill. What is troubling you?" He felt her pulse, and finding it quite regular, he smiled, but did not let her see his amusement. "I think it is my heart. I can make no exertion without great effort." "Any appetite?" "Oh, very little--I never eat much, and I am so tired of chicken! Fried chicken, broiled chicken, stewed chicken!" "Yes, spring chicken is a great hardship, no doubt," he said rather grimly. "I like broiled chicken very much in the spring, but I never did care very much for chicken in the summer. People seem to have chicken so much in the summer. I never could see why." "It might be because it is cheaper when they are plentiful," he suggested, finding it difficult to keep the scorn he felt for this foolish little butterfly out of his voice. "Perhaps it is, I never thought of that." Helen came in just then, bringing a bouquet of garden flowers that Mr. McRae had sent to the ladies of the camp. "I might as well tackle them together," he thought, taking a long breath. "Ahem--are your plans for the winter made yet?" he asked Mrs. Carter. "Why, the girls--at least Douglas and Nan, have some ridiculous scheme about taking a cottage in the suburbs and letting those people keep my house. I don't see why I need call it my house, however, as I seem to have no say-so in the matter," she answered complainingly. "Helen and I both think it would be much more sensible to go into our own house and be comfortable. Douglas is very unreasonable and headstrong. The paltry sum that these tenants pay is the only argument she has against our occupying the house ourselves." "Excuse me, Mrs. Carter, but as your husband's physician, I may perhaps be able to point out the relation of the steady, if small, income from the house and his very serious condition." "I--I thought he was almost well." "No, madam, much better but not almost well! Do you think that if he were almost well he would sit passively down and let his daughters decide for him as he is doing now? Has he not always been a man of action, one to take the initiative? Look at him now, not even asking what the plans are when you leave the camp, which you will have to do in the course of a few weeks. Can't you see that he is still in a very nervous state and the least little worry might upset his reason? No troubles must be taken to him. He must not be consulted about arrangements any more than Bobby would be. His tired brain is beginning to recover and a few more months may make him almost himself again, but," and Dr. Wright looked so stern and uncompromising that Helen and her mother felt that the accusing angel had them on the last day, the day of judgment, "if he is worried by all kinds of foolish little things, there will be nothing for him but a sanitarium. I am hoping that he will be spared this, and it rests entirely with his family whether he is spared it or not." "Oh, Doctor, I shall try!" and poor little Mrs. Carter looked very like Bobby and not much older. "I have been very remiss. I did not know." "Another thing," and the accusing angel went on in a stern voice. He had heard all of this before from this little butterfly woman and he felt that he must impress upon her even more the importance of guarding her husband from all financial worries. "If when he's well he finds bills to be paid and obligations to be met, he will drop right back into the condition in which I found him last May when I was called to the case. You remember," and he turned to Helen, "his troubled talk about lamb chops and silk stockings, do you not?" Helen dropped the gay bouquet and covered her face with her hands. Great sobs shook her frame. Remember! Could she ever forget it? And yet she had been behaving as though she had forgotten it, only that morning insisting she must have a new suit before she could get a job. What was Dr. Wright thinking of her? He had spoken so sternly and looked so scornful. His scorn was all turned to concern now. He had not meant to distress Helen so much, only to impress upon her the importance of not letting financial worries reach her father. He looked at the poor stricken little woman who seemed to have shrivelled up into a wizened little child who had just been punished. Had he been too severe in his harangue? Well, nothing short of severity would reach the selfish heart of Mrs. Carter. But Helen--Helen was not selfish, only thoughtless and young. He had not meant to grieve her like this. "I'm sorry," was all he could say. "It seems awful that we should be so blind that you should have to say such things to us," said Helen, trying to control her voice. "I know I am a worthless woman," said the poor little mother plaintively. "Nobody ever expected me to be anything else and I have never been anything else. I don't understand finance--I don't understand life. Please call Douglas and Nan here, Helen. I want to speak to them." "Let me do it," said the young doctor eagerly. He felt that running away from the scene of disaster would be about the most graceful thing he could do just then. "I believe I should like you to be here if you don't mind." Nan and Douglas were quickly summoned, indeed they were near the cabin, eagerly waiting to hear the outcome of the interview that they well knew Dr. Wright was having with their mother. "My daughters," began the little lady solemnly, "I have just come to the realization of my worthlessness. I want all of you to know that I do realize it, and with Dr. Wright as witness I want to resign in a way as--as--as a guardian to you. Your judgment is better than mine and after this I am going to trust to it rather than to my own. I know nothing about money, nothing about economy. Douglas, you will have to be head of the family until your poor father can take up his burdens again. Whatever you think best to do, I will do. Treat me about as you treat Bobby and Lucy--no, not Lucy--even Lucy's judgment is better than mine." Douglas was on her knees by the bedside, holding her mother in her arms. "Oh, mumsy! Mumsy! Don't talk that way about yourself. It 'most kills me." Nan buried her face in her hands. She was sure she felt worse than any of them because she had given voice to exactly the same truth concerning her mother in her conversation with Douglas and Helen. Dr. Wright would have been glad if he had never been born, but since he had been he would have welcomed with joy an earthquake if it had only come at that moment and swallowed him up. Would Helen ever forgive him? He had no idea he was having such an effect on Mrs. Carter. She had seemed to him heartless and selfish and stubborn. She was in reality nothing but a child. She was no more responsible than Bobby himself. Mrs. Carter, childlike, was in a way enjoying herself very much. Had she not been punished and now were not all the grownups sorry for her and petting her? She had announced her policy for ever after and now nothing more was ever to be expected of her. Life was not to be so hard after all. Her Robert was still in a way ill, but he would get well finally, and now Douglas would take hold and think for her. Her girls would look after her and take care of her. She regretted not having a debutante daughter, as she well knew that society was one thing she could do, but since that was to be denied her, she would be the last person in the world to make herself disagreeable over her disappointment. A saccharine policy was to be hers on and after this date. Unselfishness and sweetness were to be synonymous with her name. All of the daughters kissed her tenderly and Dr. Wright bent over her fair hand with knightly contrition. How pleasant life was! A tray, more daintily arranged than usual, was brought in at supper time, and under a covered dish there reposed the coveted sweetbreads. CHAPTER XXI LETTERS Miss Nan Carter from Mr. Thomas Smith BY WIRELESS FROM THE CLOUDS, SEPTEMBER .., 19.. MY DEAR WOOD NYMPH: I have made many flights and many landings but no landing has been so delightful as the one I made on Helicon and no flight so beautiful as when a certain little wood nymph deigned to accompany me. I think very often of the few happy days I spent at Week-End Camp and of the hospitable Carters. The picnic on the fallen tree was the very best picnic I ever attended and the game of teakettle the best game I ever played. Some day, and not so many years hence I hope it will be, I intend to make a flight and take my teakettle with me. Guess what that word is! BELLEROPHON. Miss Douglas Carter from Mr. Lewis Somerville BROWNSVILLE, TEXAS, SEPTEMBER .., 19.. MY DEAR DOUGLAS: Your letter telling of the doings of the camp made Bill and me mighty blue. We think maybe we should not have left you when we did, but we felt we were getting too soft hanging round you girls all the time, and then, too, we wanted to let Uncle Sam know that we were willing to do any kind of old work that came up to do. If he wanted to ship us from West Point, all well and good--that was his own affair, but we feel that since he has given us three years' education we must pay him back somehow, and enlisting is about the only way we can do it. At first we thought perhaps it had better be with the volunteers, and then we thought maybe the regulars could do better service, so regulars it is. It does seem funny to be in the ranks when we had always expected to be officers, but that is all right--we are not grouching. No doubt it is good for us. At least we can get the outlook of the private, and if because of bravery or luck we ever rise from the ranks, we can better understand the men under us. It is awfully hot down here but just when it is so hot that you feel you must turn over on the other side to keep from burning and to brown evenly, why a wind comes up they call "a norther" and you sizzle like a red hot poker stuck into cold water. A norther is about the coldest and most penetrating thing I have ever struck. We never seem to catch cold, however. The norther blows all the germs off of one, I fancy. Bill is fine. Already he is known by his guffaw. He let out a laugh the other day that made General Funston jump, and I can tell you that is going some. Not many people can lay claim to the distinction of having made that great man jump. I think they ought to send Bill out to hunt Villa. If that bandit is hiding in the mountains, I bet Bill could laugh loud enough to make him peep out to see what's up. He's mighty soft on Tillie Wingo and carries her tin-type around his neck. I want to tell you, dear Douglas, that I think you were just exactly right to turn me down the way you did. I am ashamed of myself to have asked you to think of me when I realize how far I am from success. I may be a private for the rest of my life and what could I offer a girl like you? I know it wasn't that that kept you from being engaged to me, but it would have been very ridiculous for me to have bound you by a promise when I may be old and gray-headed before I even get a sergeant's stripes. Please write to me when you find time and tell me what the plans are for the winter. I wish I could help you some, but about all I am good for is to keep the Mexicans from getting into Texas and maybe finding their way up to Virginia, where you are. I feel about as big as a grain of sand on a Texan prairie. My love to all the Carters. Your very affectionate cousin, LEWIS SOMERVILLE. Miss Helen Carter from Dr. George Wright RICHMOND, VA., SEPTEMBER .., 19.. MY DEAR MISS HELEN: The thought of having wounded you is very bitter to me. I did not mean to be unkind either to you or your mother. I know you must wish you had never seen me. I seem to have spent my time since I first met you making myself unpleasant. If you can forgive me, please write and say so. I hope your mother is better and that her appetite has returned. If I can be of any service to you at any time and in any way, you must call on me. Very sincerely, GEORGE WRIGHT. Miss Lucy Carter from Frank Maury RICHMOND, VA., SEPTEMBER .., 19.. DEAR LUCY: Not much on writing but here goes. Skeeter and I took Lil to the movies last night and we wished for you some. Movies don't touch the tramps in the mountains but they are better than nothing. When are you going to leave those diggings and come back to the good old burg? Skeeter ate three cream puffs and two ice cream cones after the show and washed them down with a couple of chocolate milk shakes. Mrs. Halsey says she may have to go to boarding to fill her hopeful up. I pity the boardinghouse keeper. The worst thing about Skeeter is that he never shows his keep. After all those weeks in the mountains and all those good eats he is as skinny as ever. Do you ever see Mr. Spring-keeper and Tom Tit? I sent Tom Tit a rag time record for his new Victrola. It is a peach and I bet it will set him to dancing to beat a jew's-harp. Lil, who is mighty missish, says Tom Tit has too good taste to like such common music but I just know he will like it. Skeeter sends his regards. He and I are both to have military training at the high school so you will see us in skimpy blue gray uniforms when you come back to Richmond. Skeeter looks powerful skinny in his. I don't know what I look like in mine. Yours truly, FRANK MAURY. The silence of September settled down upon Camp Carter. The mountains had never been more glorious nor a period of rest and recreation more welcome. Noise, numbers, confusion--all were conspicuously absent. To look back was gratifying and to feel an inward sense of "well done!" was satisfying. The summer was over for the Carter girls but their work was by no means finished. Unforeseen obstacles were no doubt to be met and overcome; many problems were to puzzle them and hard lessons were to be learned. But at the same time happy days were to be in store for them, their lives, like all of ours, a mixture of sunshine and shadow, work and play. They looked toward the future with eager hope. In "The Carter Girls' Mysterious Neighbors" we will hear how they came in touch with some of the wide-reaching events of the world war. [Illustration] The Girl Scouts Series BY EDITH LAVELL A new copyright series of Girl Scouts stories by an author of wide experience in Scouts' craft, as Director of Girl Scouts of Philadelphia. Clothbound, with Attractive Color Designs. =PRICE, 50 CENTS EACH= =POSTAGE 10c EXTRA= THE GIRL SCOUTS AT MISS ALLEN'S SCHOOL THE GIRL SCOUTS AT CAMP THE GIRL SCOUTS' GOOD TURN THE GIRL SCOUTS' CANOE TRIP THE GIRL SCOUTS' RIVALS THE GIRL SCOUTS ON THE RANCH THE GIRL SCOUTS' VACATION ADVENTURES THE GIRL SCOUTS' MOTOR TRIP THE GIRL SCOUTS' CAPTAIN THE GIRL SCOUTS' DIRECTOR For sale by all booksellers, or sent on receipt of price by the Publishers A. L. BURT COMPANY, 114-120 E. 23d St., NEW YORK [Illustration] Books for Girls By GRACE MAY NORTH Author of The Virginia Davis Series. Girls, Other Girls would Like to Know. All Clothbound. Copyright Titles. _With Individual Jackets in Colors._ =PRICE, 75 CENTS EACH= =POSTAGE 10c EXTRA= MEG OF MYSTERY MOUNTAIN RILLA OF THE LIGHTHOUSE NAN OF THE GYPSIES For sale by all booksellers, or sent on receipt of price by the Publishers A. L. BURT COMPANY, 114-120 E. 23d St., NEW YORK Transcriber's Note In this text-version italics has been indicated with _italics_ and bold with =bold=. Small capitals has been changed to all capitals. A few obvious printer's errors have been corrected. Otherwise the original has been preserved, including inconsistencies in spelling, hyphenation or accentuation. 
38296	----	Wild Adventures round the Pole The Cruise of the "Snowbird" Crew in the "Arrandoon" By Gordon Stables Published by Hodder and Stoughton, 27 Paternoster Row, London. This edition dated 1883. Wild Adventures round the Pole, by Gordon Stables. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ WILD ADVENTURES ROUND THE POLE, BY GORDON STABLES. CHAPTER ONE. THE TWIN RIVERS--A BUSY SCENE--OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES--THE BUILDING OF THE GREAT SHIP--PEOPLE'S OPINIONS--RALPH'S HIGHLAND HOME. Wilder scenery there is in abundance in Scotland, but hardly will you find any more picturesquely beautiful than that in which the two great rivers, the Clyde and the Tweed, first begin their journey seawards. It is a classic land, there is poetry in every breath you breathe, the very air seems redolent of romance. Here Coleridge, Scott, and Burns roved. Wilson loved it well, and on yonder hills Hogg, the Bard of Ettrick--he who "taught the wandering winds to sing"--fed his flocks. It is a land, too, not only of poetic memories, but one dear to all who can appreciate daring deeds done in a good cause, and who love the name of hero. If the reader saw the rivers we have just named, as they roll their waters majestically into the ocean, the one at Greenock, the other near the quaint old town of Berwick, he would hardly believe that at the commencement of their course they are so small and narrow that ordinary-sized men can step across them, that bare-legged little boys wade through them, and thrust their arms under their green banks, bringing therefrom many a lusty trout. But so it is. Both rise in the same district, within not very many miles of each other, and for a considerable distance they follow the same direction and flow north. But soon the Tweed gets very faint-hearted indeed. "The country is getting wilder and wilder," she says to her companion, "we'll never be able to do it. I'm going south and east. It is easier." "And I," says the bold Clyde, "am going northwards and west; it is more difficult, and therein lies the enjoyment. I will conquer every obstacle, I'll defy everything that comes against me, and thus I'll be a mightier river than you. I'll water great cities, and on my broad breast I will bear proud navies to the ocean, to do battle against wind and wave. `Faint heart never won fair lady.' Farewell, friend Tweed, farewell." And so they part. This conversation between the two rivers is held fourteen hundred feet above the level of the sea, and five score miles and over have to be traversed before the Clyde can reach it. Yet, nothing daunted, merrily on she rolls, gaining many an accession of strength on the way from streams and burns. "If you are going seaward," say these burns, "so are we, so we'll take the liberty of joining you." "And right welcome you are," sings the Clyde; "in union lies strength." In union lies strength; yes, and in union is happiness too, it would seem, for the Clyde, broader and stronger now, glides peacefully and silently onwards; or if not quite silently, it emits but a silvery murmur of content. Past green banks and wooded braes, through daisied fields where cattle feed, through lonely moorlands heather-clad, now hidden in forest depths, now out again into the broad light of day, sweeping past villages, cottages, mansions, and castles, homes of serf and feudal lord in times long past and gone, with many a sweep and many a curve it reaches the wildest part of its course. Here it must rush, the rapids and go tumbling and roaring over the lynns, with a noise that may be heard for miles on a still night, with an impetuosity that shakes the earth for hundreds of yards on every side. "I wonder how old Tweed is getting on?" thinks our brave river as soon as it has cleared the rocks and rapids and pauses for breath. But the Clyde will soon be rewarded for its pluck and its daring, before long it will enter and sweep through the second city of the empire, the great metropolis of the west; but ere it does so, forgive it, if it lingers awhile at Bothwell, and if it seems sullen and sad as it dashes underneath the ancient bridge where, in days long gone, so fierce a fight took place that five hundred of the brave Covenanters lay dead on the field of battle. And pardon it when anon it makes a grand and splendid sweep round Bothwell Bank, as if loth to leave it. Yonder are the ruins of the ancient castle-- "Where once proud Murray held the festive board. ***** But where are now the festive board, The martial throng, and midnight song? Ah! ivy binds the mouldering walls, And ruin reigns in Bothwell's halls. O, deep and long have slumbered now The cares that knit the soldier's brow, The lovely grace, the manly power, In gilded hall and lady's bower; The tears that fell from beauty's eye, The broken heart, the bitter sigh, E'en deadly feuds have passed away, Still thou art lovely in decay." But see, our river has left both beauty and romance far behind it. It has entered the city--the city of merchant princes, the city of a thousand palaces; it bears itself more steadily now, for hath not Queen Commerce deigned to welcome it, and entrusted to it the floating wealth of half a nation? The river is in no hurry to leave this fair city. "My noble queen," it seems to say, "I am at your service. I come from the far-off hills to obey your high behests. My ambition is fulfilled, do with me as you will." But soon as the bustle and din of the city are led behind, soon as the grand old hills begin to appear on the right, and glimpses of green on the southern banks, lo! the tide comes up to welcome the noble river; and so the Clyde falls silently and imperceptibly into the mighty Atlantic. Yet scarcely is the lurid and smoky atmosphere that hangs pall-like over the town exchanged for the purer, clearer air beyond, hardly have the waters from the distant mountains begun to mingle with ocean's brine, ere the noise of ten thousand hammers seems to rend the very sky. Clang, clang, clang, clang--surely the ancient god Vulcan has reappeared, and taken up his abode by the banks of the river. Clang, clang, clang. See yonder is the _Iona_, churning the water into foam with her swift-revolving paddles. She has over a thousand passengers on board; they are bound for the Highlands, bent on pleasure. But this terrible noise and din of hammers--they will have three long miles of it before they can even converse in comfort. Clang, clang, clang--it is no music to them. Nay, but to many it is. It is music to the merchant prince, for yonder lordly ship, when she is launched from the slips, will sail far over the sea, and bring him back wealth from many a foreign shore. It is music to the naval officer; it tells him his ship is preparing, that ere long she will be ready for sea, that his white flag will be unfurled to the breeze, and that he will walk her decks--her proud commander. And it is music--merry music to the ears of two individuals at least, who are destined to play a very prominent part in this story. They are standing on the quarter-deck of a half-completed ship, while clang, clang, clang, go the hammers outside and inside. The younger of the two--he can be but little over twenty-three--with folded arms, is leaning carelessly against the bulwarks. Although there is a thoughtful look upon his handsome face, there is a smile as well, a smile of pleasure. He is taller by many inches than his companion, though by no means better "built," as sailors call it. This companion has a bold, brown, weather-beaten face, the lower half of it buried in a beard that is slightly tinged with grey; his eyes are clear and honest,--eyes that you can tell at a glance would not flinch to meet even death itself. He stands bold, erect, firm. Both are dressed well, but there is a marked difference in the style of their attire. The garments of the elder pronounce him at once just what he is,--one who has been "down to the sea in ships." The younger is dressed in the fashionable attire of an English gentleman. To say more were needless. A minute observer, however, might have noticed that there was a slight air of _neglige_ about him, if only in the unbuttoned coat or the faultless hat pushed back off the brow. "And so you tell me," said the younger, "that the work still goes bravely on?" "Ay, that it does," said his companion; "there have been rumours of a strike for higher wages among the men of other yards, but none, I am proud to say, in this." "And still," continued the former, "we pay but a fraction of wage more than other people, and then, of course, there is the extra weekly half-holiday." "There is something more, Ralph--forgive me if I call you Ralph, in memory of dear old times. You will always be a boy to me, and I could no more call you Mr Leigh than I could fly." Ralph grasped his companion by the hand; the action was but momentary, but it showed a deal of kindly feeling. "Always call me Ralph," he said, "always, McBain, always. When we are back once more at sea I'll call you captain, not till then. But what is the something more that makes our men so happy?" "Why, your kindly manner, Ralph boy. You mix with them, you talk with them, and take an interest in all their doings, and you positively seem to know every one of them by name. Mind you, that extra half-holiday isn't thrown away: they work all the harder, and they are happy. Why, listen to them now." He paused, and held up one hand. From bows to stern of the vessel there arose the sound of industry, incessant, continual; but high over the clang of hammers and the grating noise of saws there arose the voice of song. "They sing, you see," continued McBain; "but they don't put down their tools to sing. But here comes old Ap. What cheer, Mr Ap Ewen?" Those of my readers who knew Ap as he was two or three years ago--the little stiff figure-head of a fellow--would be surprised to see him now. [_Vide_ "Cruise of the Snowbird." Same Author and Publishers.] He is far more smartly dressed, he is more active looking, and more the man, had taken him in hand. He had caused him to study his trade of boat-builder in a far more scientific fashion, with the result that he was now, as our story opens, foreman over all the men employed on the ship in which Ralph Leigh stood. Indeed, McBain himself, as well as Ap, were good examples of what earnest study can effect. There is hardly anything which either boy or man cannot learn if he applies his mind thereto. "What cheer, Mr Ap Ewen?" said McBain. "More hands wanted, sir," said Ap, pulling out his snuff-box and taking a vigorous pinch. "More hands, Ap?" exclaimed McBain. "Ay, sir, ay; look you see," replied Ap, "you told me to hurry on, you see, and on Monday we shall want to begin the saloon bulkheads." "Bravo! Ap, bravo! come to my office to-night at seven, and we'll put that all straight." "Thank you, sir," said Ap, touching his hat and retiring. Ralph Leigh was owner of the splendid composite steamship that was now fast nearing her completion. She was not being built by contract, but privately, and McBain was head controller of every department, and for every department he had hired experts to carry on the work. The vessel was designed for special service, and therefore she must be a vessel of purity, a vessel of strength. There must not be a flaw in her, not a patch--all must be solid, all must be good. McBain had hired experts to examine everything ere it was purchased, but he made use of his own eyes and ears as well. The yard in which the ship was built was rented, and every bit of timber that entered it was tested first, whether it were oak or teak, pine, mahogany, or cedar; and the iron the same, and the bolts of copper and steel, so that Captain McBain's work was really no sinecure. "Well, then," said Ralph, "I've been over all the ship; I'm extremely pleased with the way things are going on, so if you have nothing more to say to me I'm off. By the way, do the people still flock down on Friday afternoons to look over the ship?" "They do," replied McBain; "and poor old Ap, I feel sorry for him. _He_ gets no Friday half-holiday; he won't let me stop, but he insists upon remaining himself to show the people round." "And the people enjoy it?" "They do. They marvel at our engines, as well they may. The gear, so simple and strong, that Ap and I invented for the shipping and unshipping of the rudder, and the easy method we have for elevating the screw out of the water and reducing the vessel to a sailing ship, they think little short of miraculous. They are astonished, too, at the extraordinary strength of build of the ship. Indeed, they are highly complimentary to us in their general admiration. But," continued McBain, laughing aloud, "it would amuse you to hear the remarks of some of these good, innocent souls. The two 12-pounder Dalgrens are universal favourites. They pat them as if they loved them. One girl last Friday said `they just looked for a' the warld like a couple o' big iron soda-water bottles.' They linger in the armoury; old Ap shows them our `express' rifles, and our `bone-crushers,' and the hardened and explosive bullets: then he takes them to the harpoon-room and shows them the harpoons, and the guns, and the electric apparatus, and all the other gear. They stare open-mouthed at the balloon-room and the sledge-lockers, but when they come to the door of the torpedo-chamber they simply hurry past with looks of awe. It is currently reported that we are bound for the very North Pole itself; I'm not sure we are not going to bring it back home with us. Anyhow, they say that as soon as we reach the ice, we are to fill our balloons, attaching one to each mast and funnel, and float away and away over the sea of ancient ice until we reach the Pole." Ralph laughed right merrily, and next minute he was over the side, with his face set townwards, trudging steadily on to the railway-station. It was only a trifle over three miles; there were cabs to be had in abundance, but what young man would ride if he had time to walk? Ralph was going home. Not to his fair English home far away in the south, for ever since, in the early spring-time--and now it was autumn-- the keel of the ship--_his_ ship--had been laid, Ralph had taken up his abode in a rustic cottage by the banks of a broad-bosomed lake in the Highlands of Argyll. Wild though the country was all around, it was but four miles from the railway, and this journey he used to accomplish twice or oftener every week, on the back of a daft-looking Welsh pony that he had bought for the purpose. Once on board the train, two hours took him to the city, and thence a brisk walk to the building-yard. He had watched, week after week, the gradual progress of his ship towards completion, with an interest and a joy that were quite boyish. He dearly loved to see the men at work, and listen to their cheerful voices as they laboured. Even the smell of the pine or cedar shavings was perfume to Ralph, and the way he used to climb about and wander over and through the ship, when she was little more than ribs, knees, and beams, was quite amusing. But he was nevertheless always happy to get back to his Highland home, his books, his boat, and his fishing-rod. She was a widow who owned the humble cottage, but she was kind and good, and Ralph's rooms, that looked away out over the lake, were always kept in a state of perfect cleanliness. The widow had one little daughter, a sweetly pretty and intelligent child, over whose fair wee head five summers had hardly rolled. Jeannie was her name, Jeannie Morrison, and she was an especial pet of Ralph's. She and the collie dog always came gleefully down the road to meet him on his return from the distant city, and you may be perfectly sure he always brought something nice in his pocket for the pair of them. When tired of reading, Ralph used to romp with wee Jeannie, or take her on his knee and tell her wonderful stories, which made her blue eyes grow bigger and more earnest than ever as she listened. In fact, Jeannie and Ralph were very fond of each other, indeed, and every time he went to a romantic little island out in the lake to fish, he took Jeannie in the stern of the boat, and the time passed doubly quick. "Oh, Mista Walph! Mista Walph!" cried Jeannie, bursting into Ralph's room one afternoon, clapping her hands with joy. "Mista McBain is coming; Capping McBain is coming." "Yes," said Mistress Morrison, entering behind her little daughter. "I'm sure you'll be delighted, sir, and so am I, for the captain hasn't been here for a month." Then Ralph got his hat, and, accompanied by the honest collie and his favourite Jeannie, went off down the road to meet McBain and bid him welcome to his Highland home. CHAPTER TWO. THE DINNER BY THE LAKE--RORY'S RUN ROUND AFRICA--THE RETURN OF THE WANDERERS. "When did you hear from Allan and Rory?" asked McBain that day, as they were seated at dinner in the little Highland cottage. Mrs Morrison had done her best to put something nice before them, and not without success either--so thought Ralph, and so, too, thought his guest. At all events, both of them did ample justice to that noble lake trout. Five pounds did he weigh, if he weighed an ounce, and as red was he in flesh as if he had been fed upon beet. The juicy joint of mountain mutton that followed was fit to grace the table of a prince--it was as fragrant and sweet as the blooming heather tops that had brought it to perfection. Nor was the cranberry tart to be despised. The berries of which it was composed had not come over the Atlantic in a barrel of questionable flavour--no, they had been culled on the dewy braelands that very morning by the fair young fingers of wee Jeannie Morrison herself. The widow did not forget to tell them that, and it did not detract from their enjoyment of the tart. For drink they had fragrant heather ale--home-brewed. "When did I hear from Allan and Rory?" said Ralph, repeating McBain's question; "from the first, not for weeks--he is a lazy boy; from the latter, only yesterday morning." "And what says Rory?" asked McBain. "Oh!" replied Ralph, "his letter is beautiful. It is twelve pages long. He is loud in his praises of the behaviour of the yacht, as a matter of course; but in no single sentence of this lengthy epistle does he refer definitely to the health or welfare of anybody whatever." "From which you infer--?" "From which I infer," said Ralph, "that everybody is as well as Rory himself--that my dear father is well, and Allan, and his mother, and his sister Helen Edith. He is a queer boy, Rory, and he encloses me a couple of columns from a Cape of Good Hope paper, in which he has written an epitome of the whole voyage, since they first started in May last. He calls his yarn `Right round Africa.' He commences at Suez, a place where even boy Rory, I should think, would fail to find much poetry and romance; but they must have enjoyed themselves at Alexandria, where Rory mounted on top of Pompey's Pillar, rode upon donkeys, and did all kinds of queer things. Well, they spent a week at Malta, with its streets of stairs, its bells, its priests, its convents, and its blood-oranges. Rory missed trees and shade, though; he says Malta is a capital place for lizards, or any animal, human or otherwise, that cares to spend the day basking on the top of a stone. He liked Tunis and Algiers better, and he quite enjoyed Teneriffe and Madeira. Then they crossed over to Sierra Leone, and he launches forth in praise of the awful forests--`primeval,' he calls them--and he says, in his own inimitable Irish way, that `they are dark, bedad, even in broad daylight.' Then all down the strange savage West Coast they sailed; they even visited Ashantee, but he doesn't say whether or not they called on his sable majesty the king. Of course they didn't miss looking in at Saint Helena, which he designates a paradise in mid-ocean, and not a lonely sea-girt rock, as old books call it. Ascension was their next place of resort. That is a rock, if you like, he says; but the sea-birds' eggs and the turtle are redeeming features. And so on to the Cape, and up the Mozambique, landing here and there at beautiful villages and towns, and in woods where they picked the oysters off the trees." [Oysters growing on trees seems a strange paradox. They do so grow, however. The mangrove-trees are washed by the tide, and to their tortuous roots oysters adhere, which may be gathered at low water.] "They really must be enjoying themselves," said McBain. "That they are," Ralph replied, pulling out Rory's letter. "Just listen how charmingly he writes of the Indian Ocean--nobody else save our own poetic Rory could so write:--`My dear, honest, unsophisticated Ralph,-- oh, you ought to have been with us as we rounded the Cape! That thunderstorm by night would have made even your somewhat torpid blood tingle in your veins. It was night, my Ralph; what little wind there was was dead off the iron-bound coast, but the billows were mountains high. Yes, this is no figure of speech. I have never seen such waves before, and mayhap never will again. I have never seen such lightning, and never heard such thunder. We remained all night on deck; no one had the slightest wish to go below. As I write our yacht is bounding over a blue and rippling sea; the low, wooded shore on our lee is sleeping in the warm sunlight, and everything around us breathes peace and quiet, and yet I have but to clap my hand across my eyes, and once again the whole scene rises up before me. I see the lightning quivering on the dark waves, and flashing incessantly around us, with intervals of the blackest darkness. I see the good yacht clinging by the bows to the crest of the waves, or plunging arrowlike into the watery ravines; I see the wet and slippery decks and cordage, and the awe-struck men around the bulwarks; and I see the faces of my friends as I saw them then-- Allan's knitted brow, his mother's looks of terror, and the pale features of poor Helen Edith. There are nights, Ralph, in the life of a sailor that he is but little likely ever to forget; that was one in mine that will cling to my memory till I cease to breathe.' "Don't you call that graphic?" said Ralph. "I do," replied McBain; "give us one other extract, and then lend me the letter. I'll take it to town with me, and you can have it again when you come up." "Well," said Ralph, "he describes Delagoa Bay and the scenery all round it so pleasantly, that if I hadn't an estate of my own in old England I would run off and take a farm there; right quaintly he talks of the curious Portuguese city of Mozambique; he is loud in the praises of the Comoro Islands, especially of Johanna, with its groves of citrons and limes, its feathery palm-trees, and its lofty mountains, tree-clad to the very summits; and he could write a lordly volume, he says, on the sultanic city of Zanzibar, where, it would seem, his adventures were not like angels' visits--few and far between. He has even fought with the wild Somali Indians, and assisted at a pitched battle between Arabs and a British cruiser. Then he describes his adventures in the woods and in the far-off hills and jungles, tiger-slaying; here is a serpent adventure; here is a butterfly hunt. Fancy butterflies as big as a lady's fan, and of plumage--yes, that is the very word Rory makes use of--`plumage' more bright than a noonday rainbow. "Here again is a description of the great Johanna hornet, two inches long, blue-black in colour, and so dreaded by the natives that they will not approach within twenty yards of the tree these terrible insects inhabit. Here is a beetle as big as a fish, and as strong apparently as a man, for he seizes hold of the top of the big pickle-jar into which Rory wants to introduce him, and obstinately refuses to be drowned in spirits; and here is a centipede as long as an adder, green, transparent, deadly; tarantulas as big as frogs, hairy and horrible; scorpions as big as crabs, green and dangerous as the centipedes themselves, that run from you, it is true, but threaten you as they run. "It is pleasant," continued Ralph, "to turn from his descriptions of the awful African creepie-creepies, and read of the enchanting beauty of some parts of the Zanzibar woods, the mighty trees mango-laden, the patches of tempting pine-apples, through which one can hardly wade, the curious breadfruit-trees, the pomolos, the citrons, the oranges, and the guavas, that look and taste, says Rory, `like strawberries smothered in cream.' He dilates, too, on the beauty of the wild flowers, and the brilliancy of the birds--birds that never sing, but flit sadly and silently from bough to bough in the golden sunlight. From the very centre of this beautiful wood Rory, with masterly pen, carries you right away to a lovely coral island in the Indian Ocean. "`Although many, many miles in extent,' he tells us, `although it is clothed in waving woods, although even the cocoa-nut palm waves high aloft its luscious fruit, it is not inhabited by man. Perhaps my boat was the first that ever rasped upon its shore of silvery sand, perhaps I was the first human being that ever lay under the shade of its mangrove-trees or bathed in the waters of its sunny lagune. My boat is a skiff--a tiny skiff; our yacht lies at anchor off Chak-Chak, and I have come all alone to visit this fairy-like island. I left the ship while the stars were still glittering in the heavens, long before the sun leapt up and turned the waters into blood; and now I have rested, bathed, and breakfasted, and am once more on board my indolent skiff. Here in this bay, even half a mile from the shore, you can see the bottom distinct and clear, for the water is as pellucid as crystal, and there isn't a ripple on the sea. And what do I gaze upon?--A submarine garden; and I gaze upon it like one enchanted, the while my boat-- impelled by the tide alone--glides slowly on and over it. Down yonder are flowers of every shape and hue, shrubs of every variety of foliage, coral bushes--pink, and white, and even black--rocks covered with medusae of the most brilliant colours an artist could imagine, and patches of white sand, strewn with living shells, each one more lovely to look upon than another. And every bush and shrub and flower is all a-quiver with a strange, indescribable motion, which greatly heightens their magical beauty; and why? Because every bush and shrub and flower is composed of a thousand living things. But the larger creatures that creep and crawl, or glide through this submarine garden are fantastic in the extreme. Monster crabs and crayfish, horny, abhorrent, and so strange in shape one cannot help thinking they were made to frighten each other; long transparent fishes, partly grayling partly eel; flat fishes that swim in all kinds of ridiculous ways; some fishes that seem all tail together, and others that are nothing but head. And among all the others a curious flat fish that swims on an even keel, and, by the very brilliancy of his colours and gorgeous array, seems to quite take the shine out of all the others. Both sides of this fish are painted alike; both sides of him are divided into five or six equal parts, and each part is of a different colour--one is a marigold yellow, another green, another brightest crimson, another steel grey, and so on. Him I dubbed the harlequin flounder. Yes, Ralph, Shakespeare was right when he said there are more things in heaven and earth than we dream of in our philosophy, and he might have added there are more things in ocean's depths, and stranger things, than any naturalist ever could imagine.' "You see," said Ralph, folding Rory's funny letter, and handing it to McBain, "that our friends are enjoying themselves; but you won't fail to notice Rory's closing sentence, in which he says that, in the very midst of all the brightness and beauty so lavishly spread around him, he is ofttimes longing to visit once more the strange, mysterious regions around the Pole." "And you have never written a word to him about our new ship and our purposed voyage?" inquired McBain. "Never a word," cried Ralph, laughing. "You see, I want to keep that a secret till the very last. Oh, fancy, McBain, how wild with glee both Rory and Allan will be when they find that the splendid ship is built and ready, and that we but wait for the return of spring to carry us once more away to the far north again." "I'd like to see Rory's face," said McBain, smiling, "when you break the news to him." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Just six weeks after this quiet little _tete-a-tete_ dinner on the bank of the Highland lake, a very important-looking and fussy little tug-boat come puff-puffing up the Clyde from seaward, towing in a large and pretty yacht; her sails were clewed, and her yards squared, and everything looked trig and trim, not only about her, but on board of her. The blue ensign floated proudly from her staff; her crew were dressed in true yachting rig, and her decks were white as the driven snow. An elderly lady with snow-white hair paced slowly up and down the quarter-deck, leaning lightly on the arm of a tall and gentlemanly man of mature age. In a lounge chair right aft, and abreast of the binnacle, a fair young girl was reclining, book in lap, but not reading; she was engaged in pleasant conversation with a youth who sat on a camp-stool not far off, while another who leant upon the taffrail gazing shorewards frequently turned towards them, to put in his oar with a word or two. He was taller than the former and apparently a year or two older. He was probably more manly in appearance and build, but certainly not better-looking. Both were tanned with the tropical sun, and both were dressed alike in a kind of sailor uniform of navy blue. "Yes, Rory," the girl was saying, "I must confess that I do feel glad to get back again to Scotland, much though I have enjoyed our cruise and all our strange adventures around that wild and beautiful coast. Oh! I do not wonder at your being fond of the sea. If I were a man I feel sure I would be a sailor." "And here we are," replied Rory, with pleasure beaming from his bright, laughing eyes, "within three miles of Glasgow. And, you know, Ralph is here; how delighted he will be to meet us all again! I really wonder he did not come with us." But Ralph was very much nearer to them at that moment than they had any idea of. "Helen Edith," cried Allan at that moment, "and you, Rory, do come and have a look at this beautiful steam barque on the stocks." Both Helen and Rory were by his side in a moment. "She is a beauty indeed," said Rory, enthusiastically. "There are lines for you! There is shape! Fancy that craft in the water! Look at the beautiful rake that even her funnel has! But is she a man-o'-war, I wonder?" "More like a despatch boat, I should say," said Allan. "Look, she is pierced for guns." Allan was right about the guns, for just as he spoke a balloon-shaped cloud of white smoke rose slowly up from her side, and almost simultaneously the roar of a big gun came over the water and died away in a hundred echoes among the rocks and hills. Another and another followed in slow and measured succession, until they had counted fourteen. "It is saluting they are," said Allan; "but they surely cannot be saluting us; and yet there is no other craft of any consequence coming up the water." "But I feel sure," said Helen, "it is some one bidding us welcome. And see, they dip the flag." The yacht's flag was now dipped in return, but still the mystery remained unravelled. But it does not remain so long. For see, the yacht is now almost abreast of the new ship, and the decks of the latter are crowded with wildly cheering men. Ay, and yonder, beside the flagstaff, is Ralph himself, with McBain by his side, waving their hats in the air. The good people on the yacht are for a minute rendered dumb with astonishment, but only for a minute; then the air is rent with their shouts as they give back cheer for cheer. "Och! deed in troth," cried Rory, losing all control of his English accent, "it's myself that is bothered entoirely. Is it my head or my heels that I'm standing on? for never a morsel of me knows! Is it dreaming I am? Allan, boy, can't you tell me? Just look at the name on the stern of the beautiful craft." Allan himself was dumb with astonishment to behold, in broad letters of gold the words, "The Arrandoon." CHAPTER THREE. RETROSPECTION--RALPH'S HOME IN ENGLAND--A HEARTY IF NOT POETIC WELCOME. Many of my readers have met with the heroes of this tale before [in the "Cruise of the Snowbird," by the same Author and Publishers], but doubtless some have not; and as it is always well to know at least a little of the _dramatis personae_ of a story beforehand, the many must in the present instance give place to the few. They must either, therefore, listen politely to a little epitomised repetition, or sit quietly aside with their fingers in their ears for the space of five minutes. But, levity apart, I shall be as brief as brevity itself. Which of our heroes shall we start with first? Allan? Yes, simply because his initial letter stands first on the alphabetic list. Allan McGregor is a worthy Scot. We met him for the first time several years prior to the date of this tale; met him in the company of his foster-father, met him in a wildly picturesque Highland glen, called Glentruim, at the castle of Arrandoon. It was midwinter; the young man's southern friends, Ralph Leigh and Rory Elphinston, were coming to see him and live with him for a time, and right welcomely were they received, all the more in that they had narrowly escaped losing their lives in the snow. Allan was--and so remains--the chieftain of his clan, his father having died years before, sword in hand, on a bloodstained redoubt in India, leaving to his only son's care an encumbered estate, a mother and one daughter, Edith, or Helen Edith. The young chief was poor and proud, but he dearly loved his widowed mother, his beautiful sister, the romantic old castle, and the glen that had reared him from his boyhood; and how he wished and longed to be able to better the position of the former and the condition of the latter, none but he could tell or say. Allan was brave--his clan is proverbially so; his soul was deeply imbued with the spirit of religion, and, it must be added, just slightly tinged with superstition--a superstition born of the mountain mists and the stern, romantic scenery, where he had lived for the greater part of his lifetime. Ralph Leigh was the son of a once wealthy baronet, and had just finished his education. Rory Elphinston was an orphan, who owned estates in the west of Ireland, from which property, however, he seldom realised the rents. Like Ralph, Rory was fond of adventure, and ready and willing to do anything honest and worthy to earn that needful dross called gold; and when, one evening, McBain hinted at the wealth that lay ungathered in the inhospitable lands around the Pole, and of the many wild adventures to be met with in those regions, the relation fired the youthful blood of the trio. The boys clubbed together, as most boys might, and bought a small yacht. Small as she was, however, in her, under the able tuition of McBain, they were taught seamanship and discipline, and they became enamoured of the sea and longed to possess a larger ship, in which they might go in quest of adventures in far-off foreign lands. Now Ralph's father, poor though he was, was very fond--and perhaps even a little proud--of his son; he would, therefore, not refuse him anything in reason he could afford. He rejoiced to see him happy. The good yacht _Snowbird_ was therefore bought, and in it our brave boys sailed away to the far north. The narrative of their adventures by sea and land is duly recorded in "The Cruise of the Snowbird." You may seek for them there if you wish to read of them; if not, there is little harm done. The _Snowbird_ returned at last, if not really rich, yet with what sailors call an excellent general cargo, quite sufficient for each of them to realise a tolerably large sum of money from. Every shilling of his share Allan had expended in improving the glen, with its cottages and sheep farms, and the dear old castle itself. But, meanwhile, Ralph had fallen into a large fortune, and found himself possessed of rich estates, and a splendid old mansion in --shire, England. He might have married now, and settled quietly down for life as a country squire, enjoying to the full all the pleasures and luxuries that health combined with wealth are capable of bringing to their possessors. Ah! but then the spirit of the rover had entered into him; he had learned to love adventure for the sake of itself, and to love a life on the ocean wave. Loving a life on the ocean wave, he might, had he so chosen, have had a very pleasant cruise with his friends, had he gone with them in their run round Africa, alluded to in the last chapter of this tale; but, as would be gleaned from the conversation recorded therein, he did not so choose. He and McBain had their little secret, which they kept well. They were determined to turn explorers, so Ralph built a ship, built a noble ship--built it without acquainting any one what service it was intended for, and even his dear friends Ralph and Rory were to know nothing about her until they, returned from their cruise in the tropics. Ralph meant it all as a kindly and a glad surprise to them, for well did he know how their hearts would bound with joy at the very thoughts of sailing once more in quest of adventures. Nor, as the sequel will show, was he in one whit disappointed. In character, disposition, and appearance my four principal heroes may be thus summed up--I have already told you about Allan's:-- McBain--Captain McBain--was a hardy, fear-nothing, daring man, his mind imbued with a sense of duty and with piety, both of which he had learned at the maternal knee. Ralph was a young Englishman in every sense of the word--tall, broad, shapely, somewhat slow in action, with difficulty aroused, but a very lion when he did march out of his den intent on a purpose. Somewhat more youthful was Rory, smaller as to person, poetic as to temperament, fond of the beautiful, an artist and a musician. And if you were to ask me, "Was he, too, brave?" I should answer, "Are not poets and Irishmen always brave? Does not Sir Walter Scott tell us that they laugh in their ranks as they go forward to battle--that they-- "Move to death with military glee?" Sir Walter, I may also remind those who live in the land o' cakes, says in the same poem: "But ne'er in battlefield throbbed heart more brave Than that which beats beneath the Scottish plaid." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ So now we are back again at the place where we left off in the last chapter, with the yacht being towed slowly past good Ralph's ship on the stocks, and lusty cheers being exchanged from one vessel to the other. Rory and Allan exchanged glances. The faces of each were at that moment a study for a physiognomist, but the uppermost feeling visible in either was one of astonishment--not blank astonishment, mind you, for there was something in the eyes of each, and in the smile that flickered round their lips, that would have told you in a moment that Ralph's nicely-kept secret was a secret no more. Rory, as usual with natives of green Erin, was the first to break the silence. "Depend upon it," he said, nodding his head mirthfully, "it is all some mighty fine joke of Ralph's, and he means giving us a pleasant surprise." "The same thought struck me," replied Allan, "as soon as I clapped eyes on the word `_Arrandoon_.'" "Oh?" chimed in Helen Edith, with her sweet, musical voice; "that is the reason your friend would not come with us on our delightful voyage." "That _was_ the reason," said Allan, emphatically, "because he was building a ship of his own, the sly dog." "But wherever do you think he means cruising to at all, at all?" added Rory, with puzzled face. "That's what I should like to know," said Allan. And this thought occupied their minds all the way up to Glasgow; but once there, and the ladies seen safely to their hotels, Rory and Allan sped off without delay to visit this big, mysterious yacht; and they had not been half an hour on board ere, as Rory expressed it, in language more forcible than elegant. "The secret was out entirely, the cat flew out of the bag, and every drop of milk got out of the cocoa-nut." Poor Ralph was delighted at the return of his friends from their long cruise; and now that he had their company he had no longer any wish or desire to remain in the vicinity of the _Arrandoon_; so giving up his pretty Highland cottage, bidding a kindly adieu to the widow, kissing wee weeping Jeannie, and promising to be sure to return some day, the trio hurried them southwards, to spend most of their time at Ralph's pleasant home, until the ship should be ready to launch. Leigh Hall was a lordly mansion, possessing no very great pretensions to architectural splendour, but beautifully situated among its woods and parks on a high braeland that overlooked one of England's fairest lakes. For miles you approached the house from behind by a road which, with many a devious turning, wound through a rich but rolling country. Past many a rural hamlet; past many a picturesque cottage, their gables and fronts charmingly painted and tinted by the hands of the magic artist Time; past stately farms, where sleek cattle seemed to low kindly welcome to our heroes as their carriage came rolling onwards, with here a wood and there a field, and yonder a great stretch of common where cows waded shoulder deep in ferns and furze, daintily cropping the green and tender tops of the trailing bramble; and here a broad, rushy moor, on which flocks of snowy geese wandered. Alluding to the latter, says Rory, "Don't these geese come out prettily against the patches of green grass, and how soft and easy it must be for the feet of them!" "They're preparing for Christmas," said Ralph. Poet Rory gave him a look--one of Rory's looks. "There's never a bit of poetry nor romance in the soul of you," he said. "Except the romance and poetry of a well-spread table," said Allan, laughing. "And, 'deed, indeed," replied Rory, "there is little to choose betwixt the pair of you; so what can I do but be sorry for you both?" It was on a beautiful autumn afternoon that the three young men were now approaching the manor of Leigh. The trees that had been once of a tender green, whose leaves in the gentle breath of spring had rustled with a kind of silken _frou-frou_, were green now only when the sun shone upon them; all the rest was black by contrast. Feathery seedlings floated here and there on the breeze that blew from the north. This breeze went rushing through the woods with a sound that made Rory, at all events, think of waves breaking in mid-ocean, and even the fields of ripe and waving grain had, to his mind, a strange resemblance to the sea. The rooks that floated high in air seemed to glory in the wind, for they screamed with delight, baffled though at times they were--taken aback you might say, and hurled yards out of their course. It was only a plain farmer's autumn wind after all, but it made these youthful sailors think of something else than baffled, rooks and fields of ripening grain. Now up through a dark oak copse, and they come all at once to one of the old park gates. Grey is it with very age, and so is the quaintly-gabled lodge; its stones are crumbling to pieces. And well suited for such a dwelling is the bent but kindly-faced old crone who totters out on her staff to open the ponderous gates. She nods and smiles a welcome, to which bows and smiles are returned, and the carriage rolls on. A great square old house; they come to it at last, so big and square that it did not even look tall at a distance. They drove up to what really appeared the back of this mansion, with its stairs and pillars and verandahs, the door opening from which led into the hall proper, which ran straight through the manor, and opened by other doors on to broad green terraces, with ribbon gardens and fountains, and then the braelike park, with its ancient trees, and so on, downwards to the beautiful lake, with the hills beyond. Right respectfully and loyally was Ralph greeted by his servants and retainers. All this may be imagined better than I can describe it. While Rory was marching through the long line of servants I believe he felt just a little awed; and if, as soon as they found themselves alone, Ralph had addressed himself to his guests in some such speech as follows, he would not have been very much astonished. If Ralph had said, "Welcome, Ronald Elphinston, and you, my lord of Arrandoon, to the ancient home of the Leighs!" Rory would have thought it quite in keeping with the poetry of the place. Ralph did nothing of the kind, however; he pitched his hat and gloves rather unceremoniously on a chair, and said, all in one breath and one tone of voice, "Now, boys, here we are at last; I'm sure you'll make yourselves at home. We'll have fine times for a few weeks, anyhow. Would you like to wash your hands?" Well, if it was not a very poetic welcome, it was a very hearty one nevertheless. CHAPTER FOUR. LIFE AT LEIGH HALL--THE LAUNCH OF THE "ARRANDOON"--TRIAL TRIPS--A ROW AND A FIGHT--"FREEZING POWDERS." As the owner of a large house, the head of a county family, and a landed proprietor, there were many duties devolved upon Ralph Leigh when at home, from which he never for a moment thought of shrinking. Though a great part of the day was spent in shooting, rowing, or fishing, the mornings were never his own, nor the evenings either. He had a knack of giving nice dinners, and young though he was, he also possessed the happy knack of making all his guests feel perfectly at home, so that when carriages drew round, and it was time to start for their various homes, everybody was astonished at the speed with which the evening had sped away; and that was proof positive it had passed most pleasantly. They kept early hours at Leigh Hall, and so they did at every house all over the quiet, romantic country, and no doubt they were all the better for it, and all the more healthy. But our heroes must be forgiven, if, after the last guest had gone, after the lights were out in the banqueting hall, and the doors closed for the night, they assembled in a cosy, fire-brightened room upstairs, all by their three selves, for a quiet confab and talk, a little exchange of ideas, a little conversation about the days o' auld lang syne, and their hopes of adventures in the far north, whither they were so soon to sail. About once a fortnight, McBain, whom we may as well call Captain McBain now--Captain McBain, of the steam yacht _Arrandoon_--used to run down to Leigh Hall to report progress; the "social hour," as Rory called it, was then doubly dear to them all, and I'm not at all sure that they did not upon these occasions steal half an hour at least from midnight. You see they were very happy; they were happy with the happiness of anticipation. They never dreamt of failure in the expedition on which they were about to embark. "In the lexicon of youth, which fate reserves For a great manhood, there is no such word as--fail." True, but had they known the dangers they were to encounter, the trials they would have to come through, brave as they undoubtedly were, their hearts might have throbbed less joyfully. They had, however, the most perfect confidence in each other, just as brothers might have. The friendship, begun long ago between them, cemented, during the cruise of the _Snowbird_, in many an hour of difficulty and danger--for had they not come through fire and death together?--was strengthened during their residence at Leigh Hall. Indeed, it would not be too much to say that their affection for each other was brotherly to a degree. Dissimilar in character in many ways they were, but this same dissimilarity seemed but to increase their mutual regard and esteem. Faults each one of them had--who on this earth has not?--and each could see those of the other, if he did not always notice his own. Says Burns-- "O would some power the giftie gie us, To see ourselves as others see us, It would from mony a fautie free us." Probably, individually they did not forget these lines, and so the one was most careful in guarding against anything that might hurt the feelings of the others. Is not this true friendship? But as to what is called "chaff," they had all learned long ago to be proof against that--I'm not sure they did not even like it; Rory did, I know; he said so one day; and on Allan asking him his reason, "My reason is it?" says Rory; "sure enough, boys, chaffing metres with laughing; where you find the chaff you find the laugh, and laughing is better to a man than cod-liver oil. And that's my reason!" And Rory's romantic sayings and doings were oftentimes the subject of a considerable deal of chaff and fun; so, too, was what the young Irishman was pleased to call Ralph's English "stolidity" and Allan's Scottish fire and intensity of patriotism; but never did the blood of one of our boys get hot, never did their lips tighten in anger or their cheeks pale with vexation. Just on one occasion--which I now record lest I forget it--was boy Rory, as he was still affectionately called, very nearly losing his temper under a rattling fire of chaff from Allan and Ralph, who were in extra good spirits. It happened months after they had sailed in the _Arrandoon_. All at once that day Rory grew suddenly quiet, and the smile that still remained on his face was only round the lips, and didn't ripple round the eyes. It was a sad kind of a smile; then he jumped up and ran away from the table. "We've offended him," said Allan, looking quite serious. "I hope not," said Ralph, growing serious in turn. "I'll go and look him up;" this from Allan. "No, that you won't!" put in McBain. "Leave boy Rory alone; he'll come to presently." Meanwhile, ridiculous as it may seem, Rory had sped away forward to the dispensary, where he found the doctor. "Doctor, dear," cried Rory, "give me a blue pill at once--a couple of them, if you like, for sure it isn't well I am!" "Oh!" said the surgeon, "liver a bit out of order, eh?" "Liver!" cried Rory; "I know by the nasty temper that's on me that there isn't a bit of liver left in me worth mentioning! There now, give me the pills." The doctor laughed, but Rory had his bolus; then he came aft again, smiling, confessing to his comrades what a ninny he had very nearly been making of himself. Just like Rory! The bearing of our young heroes towards Captain McBain was invariably respectful and affectionate; they both loved and admired him, and, indeed, he was worthy of all their esteem. In wealth there is power, but in wisdom worth, and Ralph, Rory, and Allan felt this truth if they never expressed it. McBain had really raised himself to the position he now held; he was a living proof that-- "Whate'er a man dares he can do." I will not deny, however that McBain possessed a little genius to begin with; but here is old Ap, once but a poor boat-builder, with never a spark of genius in him, superintending the construction of a noble ship. In him we have an example of industry and perseverance pure and simple. The _Arrandoon_ made speedy progress on the stocks, and the anxious day was near at hand when she would leave her native timbers, and slide gracefully and auspiciously it was to be hoped, into the smooth waters of the Clyde. That day came at last, and with it came thousands to view the launch. With it came Mrs McGregor and Allan's sister; and the latter was to break the tiny phial of wine and name the ship! On the platform beneath, and closely adjoining the bows of the _Arrandoon_, were numerous gentlemen and ladies; conspicuous among the former was Rory. He was full of earnest and pleasant excitement. Conspicuous among the latter was Helen Edith. She certainly never looked more lovely than she did now. The ceremony she was about to engage in, in which, indeed, she was chief actress, was just a trifle too much for her delicate nerves, and as she stood, bouquet in hand, with a slight flush on her cheek and a sparkle in her eye, with head slightly bent, she looked like a bride at the altar. Rory stood near her; perhaps his vicinity comforted her, as did his remarks, to which, however, he met with but little response. I am beginning to think that Rory loved this sweet child; if he did it was a love that was purely Platonic, and it needed be none the less sincere for all that. As for Helen Edith--but hark! A gun rings out from the deck of the _Arrandoon_ causing every window in the vicinity to rattle again, and the steeples to nod. The gallant ship moves off down the slip slowly--slowly--slowly, yes, slowly but steadily, swerving neither to starboard nor larboard, quicker now faster still. Will she float? Our heroes' hearts stand still. McBain is pale and breathes not. She slows, she almost stops, now she is over the hitch and on again, on--on--and on--and into the water. Hurrah! You should have heard that cheer, and Rory shakes hands with Helen Edith, and compliments her, and positively there are tears in the foolish boy's eyes. There was a deal of hand-shaking, I can assure you, after the launch, and a deal of joy expressed, and if the truth be told, more than one prayer breathed for the future safety of the _Arrandoon_ and her gallant crew. There was lunch after launch in the saloon of the new yacht, at which Allan's mother presided with the same quiet dignity she was wont to maintain at the castle that gave the ship its name. McBain made a speech, and a good one, too, after Ralph had spoken a few words. Poor Ralph! speaking was certainly not his strong point. But there was no hesitancy about McBain, and no nervousness either, and during its delivery he stood bolt upright in his place, as straight as an arrow, and his words were manly and straightforward. Allan felt proud of his foster-father. But Rory came next. For once in his life he hadn't the slightest intention of making anybody laugh. But because he tried not to, he did; and when Irish bull after Irish bull came rattling out, "Och!" thinks Rory to himself, "seriousness isn't my forte after all;" then he simply gave himself rein, and expressed himself so comically that there was not a dry eye in the room, for tears come with laughing as well as weeping. There was a deal to be done to the _Arrandoon_--in her, on her, and around her--after she was launched, before she was ready; but it would serve no good purpose and only waste time to describe her completion, for we long to be "steam up" and away to sea _en route_ for the starry north. She was a gallant sight, the _Arrandoon_, as she stood away out to sea, past the rocky shores of Bute, bound south on her trial trip by the measured mile. Fifteen hundred tons burden was she, with tall and tapering masts: lower, main, topgallant, and royal; not one higher; no star-gazers, sky-scrapers, or moon-rakers; she wouldn't have to rake much for the wind in the stormy seas they were going to. Then there was the funnel, such a funnel as a man with an eye in his head likes to see, not a mere pipe of a thing, but a great wide armful of a funnel, with the tiniest bit of rake on it; so too had the masts, though the _Arrandoon_ did not look half so saucy as the _Snowbird_. The _Arrandoon_ had more solidity about her, and more soberness and staidness, as became her--a ship about to be pitted against dangers unknown. Her figure-head was the bust of a fair and beautiful girl. That day, on her trial trip, the ladies were on board; and Rory made this remark to Helen Edith: "The fair image on our bows, Helen, will soon be gazing wistfully north." "Ah! you seem to long for that," said Helen, "but," she added archly, "mamma and I look forward to the time when she will be gazing just as wistfully south again." Rory laughed, and the conversation assumed a livelier tone. Steamers, I always think, are very similar in one way to colts, they require a certain amount of breaking in, they seldom do well on their trial trip. The _Arrandoon_ was no exception; she promised well at first, and fulfilled that promise for twenty good miles and two; then she intimated to the engineers in charge that she had had enough of it. Well, this was a good opportunity of trying her sailing qualities, and in these she exceeded all expectations. McBain rubbed his hands with delight, for no yacht at Cowes ever sailed more close to the wind, came round on shorter length, or made more knots an hour. He promised himself a treat, and that treat was to run out some day with her in half a gale of wind, when there were no ladies on board. He would then see what the _Arrandoon_ could do under sail, and what she couldn't. He did this; and the very next day after he came back he made the journey to Leigh Hall, and stopped there for a whole week. That was proof enough that the captain was pleased with his ship. Early in the month of the succeeding February, the _Arrandoon_ lay at the Broomielaw, with the blue-peter unfurled, steam up, all hands on board, and even the pilot. That very morning they were to begin their adventurous voyage. Ralph, Allan, and Rory would be picked up at Oban, and the vessel now only awaited the arrival of McBain before casting off and dropping down stream. The Broomielaw didn't look pretty that morning, nor very comfortable. Although the hills all around Glasgow were white with snow, over the city itself hung the smoke like a murky pall. There was mud under feet, and a Scotch mist held possession of the air. Here was nothing cheering to look at, slop-shops and pawn-shops, and Jack-frequented dram-shops, bales of wet merchandise on the quay, and eave-dripping dock-houses; nor were the people pleasant to be among; the only human beings that did seem to enjoy themselves were the ragged urchins who had taken shelter in the empty barrels that lined the back of the warehouses; they had shelter, and sugar to eat. McBain thought he wouldn't be sorry when he was safely round the Mull of Cantyre. "Come on, Jack," cried one of these tiny gutter-snipes, rushing out of his tub; "come on, here's a row." There was a row; apparently a fight was going on, for a ring had formed a little way down the street; and simply out of curiosity McBain went to have a peep over the shoulders of the mob. As usual, the policemen were very busy in some other part of the street. Only a poor little itinerant nigger boy lying on the ground, being savagely kicked by a burly and half-drunken street porter. "Oh!" the little fellow was shrieking; "what for you kickee my shins so? Oh!" McBain entered the ring in a very businesslike fashion indeed; he begged for room; he told the mob he meant thrashing the ruffian if he did not apologise to the poor lad. Then he intimated as much to the ruffian himself. "Come on," was the defiant reply, as the fellow threw himself into a fighting attitude. "Man, your mither'll no ken ye when you gang home the nicht." "We'll see," said McBain, quietly. For the next three minutes this ruffianly porter's movements were confined to a series of beautiful falls, that would have brought down the house in a circus. When he rose the last time it was merely to assume a sitting position, "Gie us your hand," he said to McBain. "You're the first chiel that ever dang Jock the Wraggler. I admire ye, man--I admire ye." "Come with me, my little fellow," said McBain to the nigger boy; and he took him kindly by the hand. Meanwhile a woman who had been standing by placed a curious-looking bundle in the lad's hand, and bade him be a good boy, and keep out of Jock the Wraggler's way next time. "I'll see you a little way home, Jim," continued McBain, when they were clear of the crowd. "Jim is what they call you, isn't it?" "Jim," said the blackamoor, "is what dey are good enough to call me. But, sah, Jim has no home." "And where do you sleep at night, Jim?" "Anywhere, sah. Jim ain't pertikler; some time it is a sugar barrel, an oder time a door-step." A low, sneering laugh was at this moment heard from the mysterious bundle Jim carried. McBain started. "Don't be afeared, sah," said Jim; "it's only de cockatoo, sah!" "Have you any money, Jim?" asked McBain. "Only de cockatoo, sah," replied Jim; "but la!" he added, "I'se a puffuk gemlam (gentleman), sah--I'se got a heart as high as de steeple, sah!" "Well, Jim," said McBain, laughing, "would you like to sail in a big ship with me, and--and--black my boots?" "Golly! yes, sah; dat would suit Jim all to nuffin." "But suppose, Jim, we went far away--as far as the North Pole?" "Don't care, sah," said Jim, emphatically; "der never was a pole yet as Jim couldn't climb." "Have you a surname, Jim?" "No, sah," replied poor Jim; "I'se got no belongings but de cockatoo." "I mean, Jim, have you a second name?" "La! no, sir," said Jim; "one name plenty good enough for a nigga boy. Only--yes now I 'members, in de ship dat bring me from Sierra Leone last summer de cap'n never call me nuffin else but Freezin' Powders." McBain did not take long to make up his mind about anything; he determined to take this strange boy with him, so he took him to a shop and bought him a cage for the cockatoo, and then the two marched on board together, talking away as if they had known each other for years. Freezing Powders was sent below to be washed and dressed and made decent. The ship was passing Inellan when he came on deck again. Jim was thunderstruck; he had never seen snow before. "La! sah," he cried, pointing with outstretched arm towards the hills; "look, sah, look; dey never like dat before. De Great Massa has been and painted dem all white." CHAPTER FIVE. DANGER ON THE DEEP--A FOREST OF WATERSPOUTS--THE "ARRANDOON" IS SWAMPED--THE WARNING. "La la lay lee-ah, lay la le lo-O" So went the song on deck--a song without words, short, and interrupted at every bar, as the men hauled cheerily on tack and sheet. Such a thing would not be allowed for a single moment on board a British man-o'-war, as the watch singing while they obeyed the orders of the bo'sun's pipe, taking in sail, squaring yards, or doing any other duty required of them. And yet, with all due respect for my own flag, methinks there are times when, as practised in merchant or passenger ships, that strange, weird, wordless song is not at all an unpleasant sound to listen to. By night, for instance, after you have turned in to your little narrow bed--the cradle of the deep, in which you are nightly rocked--to hear it rising and falling, and ending in long-drawn cadence, gives one an indescribable feeling of peace and security. Your bark is all alone--so your thoughts may run--on a wild world of waters. There may not be another ship within hundreds of miles; the wind may be rising or the wind may be falling--what do you care? What need you care? There are watchful eyes on deck, there are good men and true overhead, and they seem to sing your cradle hymn, "La la lee ah," and before it is done you are wrapt in that sweetest, that dreamless slumber that landsmen seldom know. There was one man at least in every watch on board the _Arrandoon_, who usually led the song that accompanied the hauling on a rope, with a sweet, clear tenor voice; you could not have been angry with these men had you been twenty times a man-o'-war's man. It was about an hour after breakfast, and our boys were lazing below. For some time previous to the working song, there had been perfect silence on board--a silence broken only now and then by a short word of command, a footstep on deck, or the ominous flapping of the canvas aloft, as it shivered for a moment, then filled and swelled out again. Had you been down below, one sign alone would have told you that something was going to happen--that some change was about to take place. It was this: when everything is going on all right, you hear the almost constant tramp, tramp of the officer of the watch up and down the quarter-deck, but this was absent now, and you would have known without seeing him that he was standing, probably, by the binnacle, his eyes now bent aloft, and now sweeping the horizon, and now and then glancing at the compass. Then came a word or two of command, given in a quiet, ordinary tone of voice--there was no occasion to howl on this particular morning. And after this a rush of feet, and next the song, and the bo'sun's pipe. Thus:-- _Song_.--"La la lee ah, lay la le lo-O." _Spoken_.--"Hoy!" _Boatswain's Pipe_.--"Whee-e, weet weet weet, wee-e." _Song_.--"La la lee ah, lay la le lo-O." _Spoken_.--"Belay!" _Boatswain's Pipe_.--"Wee wee weet weet weet weet, wee-e." _Spoken_.--"Now lads." _Song_.--"Lo ah o ee." _Pipe_.--"Weet weet!" Then a hurry-scurrying away forward, a trampling of feet enough to awaken Rip van Winkle, then the bo'sun's pipe _encore_. Allan straightens his back in his easy-chair--he has been bending over the table, reading the "Noctes Ambrosianae"--straightens his back, stretches his arms, and says "Heigho!" Rory is busy arranging some beautiful transparent specimens of animalculae, not bigger than midges, on a piece of black cardboard; he had caught them overnight in a gauze net dragged astern. He doesn't look up. Ralph is lying "tandem" on a sofa, reading "Ivanhoe." He won't take his eyes off the book, nor move as much as one drowsy eyelid, but he manages to say,-- "What are they about on deck, Rory?" "Don't know even a tiny bit," says Rory. "Rory," continues Ralph, in a slightly louder key; "you're a young man; run up and see." "Rory won't then," says Rory, intent on his work; "fag for yourself, my lazy boy." "Oh!" says Ralph, "won't you have your ears pulled when I do get up!" "Ha! ha!" laughed Rory, "you'll have forgotten all about it long before then." "Freezing Powders!" roared Ralph. The bright-faced though bullet-headed nigger boy introduced in last chapter appeared instantly. He was dressed in white flannel, braided with blue. Had he been a sprite, or a djin, he couldn't have popped up with more startling rapidity. Truth is, the young rascal had been asleep under the table. "Off on deck with you, Freezing Powders, and see what's up." Freezing Powders was down again in a moment. "Take in all sail, sah! and square de yard; no wind, sah! nebber a puff." It was just as Freezing Powders said, but there was noise enough presently, and puffing too, for steam was got up, and the great screw was churning the waters of the dark northern ocean into creamish foam, as the vessel went steadily ahead at about ten knots an hour. There was no occasion to hurry. When Rory and Allan went on deck, they found the captain in consultation with the mates, Mitchell and Stevenson. "I must admit," McBain was remarking, "that I can't make it out at all." "No more can we," said Stevenson with a puzzled smile. "The wind has failed us all at once, and the sea gone down, and the glass seems to have taken leave of its senses entirely. It is up one moment high enough for anything, and down the next to 28 degrees. There, just look at that sea and look at that sky." There was certainly something most appalling in the appearance of both. The ocean was calm and unruffled as glass, with only a long low heave on it; not a ripple on it big enough to swamp a fly; but over it all a strange, glassy lustre that--so you would have thought--could have been skimmed off. The sky was one mass of dark purple-black clouds in masses. It seemed no distance overhead, and the horizon looked hardly a mile away on either side. Only in the north it was one unbroken bluish black, as dark seemingly as night, from the midst of which every now and then, and every here and there, would come quickly a little puff of cloud of a lightish grey colour, as if a gun had been fired. Only there was no sound. There was something awe-inspiring in the strange, ominous look of sea and sky, and in the silence broken only by the grind and gride of screw and engine. "No," said McBain, "I don't know what we are going to have. Perhaps a tornado. Anyhow, Mr Stevenson, let us be ready. Get down topgallant masts, it will be a bit of exercise for the men; let us have all the steam we can command, and--" "Batten down, sir?" "Yes, Mr Stevenson, batten down, and lash the boats inboard." The good ship _Arrandoon_ was at the time of which I write about fifty miles south of the Faroes, and a long way to the east. The weather had been dark and somewhat gloomy, from the very time they lost sight of the snow-clad hills around Oban, but it now seemed to culminate in a darkness that could be felt. The men were well drilled on board this steam yacht. McBain delighted to have them smart, and it was with surprising celerity that the topgallant masts were lowered, the hatches battened down, and the good ship prepared for any emergency. None too soon; the darkness grew more intense, especially did the clouds look threatening ahead of them. And now here and there all round them the sea began to get ruffled with small whirlwinds, that sent the water wheeling round and round like miniature maelstroms, and raised it up into cones in the centre. "How is the glass now, Mr Stevenson?" asked McBain. "Stands very low, sir," was the reply, "but keeps steadily down." "All right," said McBain; "now get two guns loaded with ball cartridge; have no more hands on deck than we want. No idlers, d'ye hear?" "Ay, ay, sir." "Send Magnus Bolt here." "Now, Magnus, old man," continued McBain, "d'ye mind the time, some years ago in the _Snowbird_, when you rid us of that troublesome pirate?" "Ay, that I do right well, sir," said this little old weasened specimen of humanity, rubbing his hands with delight. "It were a fine shot that. He! he! he! Mercy on us, to see his masts and sails come toppling down, sir,--he! he! he!" "Well, I want you again, Magnus; I'd rather trust to your old eye in an emergency than to any in the ship." "But where is the foe, sir?" "Look ahead, Magnus." Magnus did as he was told; it was a strange, and to one who understood it, a dreadful sight. Apparently a thousand balloons were afloat in the blue, murky air, each one trailing its car in the sea, balloons of terrible size, flat as to their tops, which seemed to join or merge into one another, forming a black and ominous cloud. The cars that trailed on the sea were snowy white. "Heaven help us?" said Magnus, clasping his hands for just a moment, while his cheeks assumed an ashen hue. "Heaven help us, sir; this is worse than the pirate." "They are all coming this way," said McBain; "fire only at those that threaten us, and fire while they are still some distance ahead." Meanwhile Ralph had come on deck, and joined his companions. I do not think that through all the long terrible hour that followed, either of them spoke one word; although there was no sea on, and for the most part no motion, they clutched with one hand rigging or shroud, and gazed terror-struck at the awful scene ahead and around them. They were soon in the very centre of what appeared an interminable forest of waterspouts. Few indeed have ever seen such a sight or encountered so pressing a danger and lived to tell it. The balloon-shaped heads of these waterspouts looked dark as midnight; their shafts, I can call them nothing else, were immense pillars rising out of gigantic feet of seething foam. So close did they pass to some of these that the yardarms seemed almost to touch them. Our heroes noticed then, and they marvelled at it afterwards, the strange monotonous roaring sound they emitted,--a sound that drowned even the noise of the troubled waters around their shafts. [Such a phenomenon as this has rarely been witnessed in the Northern Ocean. It is somewhat strange that on the self-same year this happened, an earthquake was felt in Ireland, and shocks even near Perth, in Scotland.] Old Magnus made good use of his guns on those that threatened the good ship with destruction; one shot broke always one, and sometimes more, probably with the vibration; but the thundering sound of the falling waters, and the turmoil of the sea that followed, what pen can describe? But, good shot as he is, Magnus is not infallible, else McBain would not now have to grasp his speaking-trumpet and shout,-- "Stand by, men, stand by." A waterspout had wholly, or partially at least, broken on board of them. It was as though the splendid ship had suddenly been blown to atoms by a terrible explosion, and every timber of her engulfed in the ocean! For long moments thus, then her crew, half drowned, half dead, could once more look around. The _Arrandoon_ was afloat, but her decks were swept. Hundreds of tons of water still filled her decks, and poured out into the sea in cataracts through her broken bulwarks; ay, and it poured below too, at the fore and main hatchways, which had been smashed open with the violence and force of the deluge. The main-yard had come down, and one whaler was smashed into matchwood. I wish I could say this was all, but two poor fellows lost for ever the number of their mess. One was seen floating about dead and unwounded on the deck ere the water got clear; the other, with sadly splintered brow, was still clutching in a death-grasp a rope that had bound a tarpaulin over a grating. But away ahead appeared a long yellowish streak of clear sky, close to the horizon. The danger had passed. All hands were now called to clear away the wreck and make good repairs. The pumps, too, had to be set to work, and as soon as the wind came down on them from the clear of the horizon, sail was set, for the fires had been drowned out. The wind increased to a gale, and there was nothing for it but to lay to. And so they did all that night and all next day; then the weather moderated, and the wind coming more easterly they were able to show more canvas, and to resume their course with something akin to comfort. The bodies of the two poor fellows who had met with so sad a fate were committed to the deep--the sailor's grave. "Earth to earth and dust to dust." There was more than one moist eye while those words were uttered, for the men had both been great favourites with their messmates. Rory was sitting that evening with his elbows resting on the saloon table, his chin on his hands, and a book in front of him that he was not looking at, when McBain came below. "You're quieter than usual," said McBain, placing a kindly hand on his shoulder. Rory smiled, forced a laugh even, as one does who wants to shake off an incubus. "I was thinking," he said, "of that awful black forest of waterspouts. I'll never get it out of my head." "Oh! yes you will, boy Rory," said McBain; "it was a new sensation, that's all." "New sensation!" said Allan, laughing in earnest; "well, captain, I must say that is a mild way of putting it. _I_ don't want any more such sensations. Steward, bring some nice hot coffee." "Ay!" cried Ralph, "that's the style, Allan. Some coffee, steward--and, steward, bring the cold pork and fowls, and make some toast, and bring the butter and the Chili vinegar." Poor Irish Rory! Like every one with a poetic temperament, he was easily cast down, and just as easily raised again. Ralph's wondrous appetite always amused him. "Oh, you true Saxon!" said Rory--"you hungry Englishman!" But, ten minutes afterwards, he felt himself constrained to join the party at the supper table. You see, reader mine, a sailor's life is like an April day--sunshine now and showers anon. "How now, Stevenson?" said McBain, as the mate entered with a kind of a puzzled look on his face. "Well, sir, we are, as you said, off the Faroes. The night is precious dark, but I can see the lights of a village in here, and the lights of a vessel of some size, evidently lying at anchor." "Then, mate," said the captain, "as we don't know exactly where we are, I don't think we can do wrong to steam in and drop anchor alongside this craft. We can then board her and find out. How is the weather?" "A bit thick, sir, and seems inclined to blow a little from the east-south-east." "Let it, Stevenson--let it. If the other vessel can ride it out I don't think the _Arrandoon_ is likely to lose her anchors. Hullo! Mitchell," he continued, as the second mate next entered hat in hand, "what's in the wind now, man?" "Why, sir," said Mitchell, "I'm all ashore like, you see; I can't make it out. But here is a boat just been a-hailing of us, and the passenger--there is only one, a comely lass enough--has just come on board, and wants to see you at once. Seems a bit cranky. Here she be, sir;" and Mitchell retired. A young girl. She was probably not over seventeen, fair-faced, and with wild blue eyes, and yellow hair, dripping with dew, floating over her shoulders. "Stop the ship!" she cried, seizing McBain by the arm. "Go no farther, or her ribs will be scattered over the waves, and your bones will bleach on the cliffs of the rocks." "Poor thing!" muttered McBain. "Oh, you heed me not!" continued the girl, wringing her hands in despair. "It will be too late--it will be too late! I tell you here is no harbour, here is no ship. The lights you see are placed there to lure your vessel on shore. They are wreckers, I tell you; they will--" "By the deep three!" sung the man in the chains. Then there was a shout from the man at the foretop. "Breakers ahead!" Then, "Stand by both anchors. Ready about." CHAPTER SIX. A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE--ON THE ROCKS--MYSTERY--A HOME ON THE ROLLING DEEP. Has the reader ever been to sea? The first feeling that a landsman objects to at sea is that of the heaving motion of the ship; to your true sailor the cessation of that motion, or its absence under circumstances, is disagreeable in the extreme. To me there is always a certain air of romance about the old ocean, and about a ship at sea; but what can be less romantic than lying in a harbour or dull wet dock, with no more life nor motion in your craft than there is in the slopshop round the corner? To lie thus and probably have to listen to the grating voices and pointless jokes of semi-inebriated stevedores, as they load or unload, soiling, as they do, your beautiful decks with their dreadful boots, is very far from pleasant. In a case like this how one wishes to be away out on the blue water once more, and to feel life in the good ship once again--to feel, as it were, her very heart throb beneath one's feet! But disagreeable as the sensation is of lying lifeless in harbour or dock, still more so is it to feel your vessel, that one moment before was sailing peacefully over the sea, suddenly rasp on a rock beneath you, then stop dead. Nothing in the world will wake a sailor sooner, even should he be in the deepest of slumber, than this sudden cessation of motion. I remember on one particular occasion being awakened thus. No crew ever went to sleep with a greater feeling of security than we had done, for the night was fine and the ship went well. But all at once, about four bells in the middle watch,-- Kurr-r-r-r! that was the noise we heard proceeding from our keel, then all was steady, all was still. And every man sprang from his hammock, every officer from his cot. We were in the middle of the Indian Ocean, or rather the Mozambique Channel, with no land in sight, and we were hard and fast on the dreaded Lyra reef. A beautiful night it was, just enough wind to make a ripple on the water for the broad moon's beams to dance in, a cloudless sky, and countless stars. We took all this in at the first glance. Safe enough we were--for the time; _but_ if the wind rose there was the certainty of our being broken up, even as the war-ship _Lyra_ was, that gave its name to the reef. At the first shout from the man on the outlook in the _Arrandoon_, McBain rushed on deck. "Stand by both anchors. Ready about." But these orders are, alas! too late. Kurr-r-r-r! The stately _Arrandoon_ is hard and fast on the rocky bottom. The ship was under easy sail, for although there was hardly any wind, what little there was gave evident signs of shifting. It might come on to blow, and blow pretty hard, too, from the south-east or east-south-east, and Mr Stevenson was hardly the man to be caught in a trap, to find himself on a lee shore or a rock-bound coast, with a crowd of canvas. Well for our people it was that there was but little sail on her and little wind, or, speedily as everything was let go, the masts-- some of them at least--would have gone by the board. Half an hour after she struck, the _Arrandoon_ was under bare poles and steam was up. The order had been given to get up steam with all speed. Both the engineer and his two assistants were brawny Scots. "Man!" said the former, "it'll take ye a whole hour to get up steam if you bother wi' coals and cinders alone. But do your best wi' what ye hae till I come back." He wasn't gone long ere he came staggering down the ladder again, carrying a sack. "It's American hams," he said; "they're hardly fit for anything else but fuel, so here goes." And he popped a couple into the fire. "That's the style," he said, as they began to frizzle and blaze. "Look, lads, the kettle'll be boilin' in twa seconds." "Thank you, Stuart," said McBain, when the engineer went on the bridge to report everything ready; "you are a valuable servant; now stand by to receive orders." All hands had been called, and there was certainly plenty for them to do. It wanted several hours to high-water, and McBain determined to make the best of his time. "By the blessing of Providence on our own exertions, Stevenson," the captain said, "we'll get her off all right. Had it been high-water, though, when we ran on shore, eh!" Stevenson laughed a grim laugh. "We'd leave her bones here," he said, "that would be all." The men were now getting their big guns over the side into the boats. This would lighten her a little. But as the tide was flowing, anchors were sent out astern, to prevent the ship from being carried still farther on to the reef. "Go astern at full speed." The screws revolved and kept on revolving, the ship still stuck fast. The night was very dark, so that everything had to be done by the weird light of lanterns. Never mind, the work went cheerily on, and the men sang as they laboured. "High-water about half-past two, isn't it, Stevenson?" asked Captain McBain. "Yes, sir," the mate replied, "that's about the time, sir." "Ah! well," the captain said, "she is sure to float then, and there are no signs of your storm coming." "There is hardly a breath of wind now, sir, but you never know in these latitudes where it may come on to blow from next." The cheerful way in which McBain talked reassured our heroes, and towards eleven o'clock English Ralph spoke as follows,-- "Look here, boys--" "There isn't a bit of good looking in the dark, is there?" said Allan. "Well," continued Ralph, "figuratively speaking, look here; I don't see the good of sticking up on deck in the cold. We're not doing an atom of good; let us go below and finish our supper." "Right," said Allan; "and mind you, that poor girl is below there all this time. She may want some refreshment." When they entered the saloon they found it empty, deserted as far as human beings were concerned. Polly the cockatoo was there, no one else. "Well?" said the bird, inquiringly, as she helped herself to an enormous mouthful of hemp-seed. "Well?" "What have you done with the young lady?" asked Allan. "The proof o' the pudding--" Polly was too busy eating to say more. Peter the steward entered just then, overhearing the question as he came. "That strange girl, sir," he replied, "went over the side and away in her boat as soon as the ship struck." "Well, I call that a pity," said Allan; "the poor girl comes here to warn us of danger and never stops for thanks. It is wonderful." "From this date," remarked Ralph, "I cease to wonder at anything. Steward, you know we were only half done with supper, and we're all as hungry as hunters, and--" But Peter was off, and in a few minutes our boys were supping as quietly and contentedly as if they had been in the Coffee-room of the Queen's Hotel, Glasgow, instead of being on a lee shore, with the certainty that if it came on to blow not a timber of the good ship _Arrandoon_ that would not be smashed into matchwood. But hark! the noise on deck recommences, the men are heaving on the winch, the engines are once more at work, and the great screw is revolving. Then there is a shout from the men forward. "She moves!" "Hurrah! then, boys, hurrah!" cried McBain; "heave, and she goes." [The word "hurrah" in the parlance of North Sea sailors means "do your utmost" or "make all speed."] The men burst into song--tune a wild, uncouth sailor's melody, words extempore, one man singing one line, another metreing it with a second, with a chorus between each line, in which all joined, with all their strength of voice to the tune, with all the power of their brawny muscles to the winch. Mere doggerel, but it did the turn better, perhaps, than more refined music would have done. In San Domingo I was born, _Chorus_--Hurrah! lads, hurrah! And reared among the yellow corn. Heave, boys, and away we go. Our bold McBain is a captain nice, _Chorus_--Hurrah! lads, hurrah! The main-brace he is _sure_ to splice. Heave, boys, and away we go. The Faroe Isles are not our goal, Oh! no, lads, no! We'll reach the North, and we'll _bag_ the Pole, Heave, boys, and away we go, Hurrah! "We're off," cried Stevenson, excitedly. "Hurrah! men. Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" The men needed but little encouragement now, though. Round went the winch right merrily, and in a quarter of an hour the bows were abreast of the anchors. "Now, steward," said the captain, "splice the main-brace." The ration was brought and served, Ted Wilson, who was a moving spirit in the 'tween decks, giving a toast, which every man re-echoed ere he raised the basin to his head,-- "Success to the saucy _Arrandoon_, and our bold skipper, Captain McBain." The vessel's head was now turned seawards, and presently the anchors that had been taken in were let go again, and fires banked. The long night wore away, and the dismal dawn came. McBain had lain down for a short time, with orders to be roused on the first appearance of daylight. Rory, anxious to see how the land looked, was on deck nearly as soon as the captain. A grey mist was lifting up from off the sea, and from off the shore, revealing black, beetling crags, hundreds of feet high at the water's edge, a sheer beetling cliff around which thousands of strange sea-birds were wheeling and screaming, their white wings relieved against the black of the rocks, on which rows on rows of solemn-looking guillemots sat, and lines of those strange old-fashion-faced birds, the puffins. The cliffs were snow-clad, the hills above were terraced with rocks almost to their summits. Between the ship and this inhospitable shore lay a long, dangerous-looking reef of rocks. "Ah! Rory," said McBain, "there was a merciful Providence watching over us last night. Yonder is where we lay; had it come on to blow, not one of us would be alive this morning to see the sun rise." Rory could hardly help, shuddering as he thought of the narrow escape they had had from so terrible a fate. When steam was got up they went round the island--it was one of the most southerly of the Faroes; but except around one little bay, where boats might land with difficulty, it seemed impossible that human beings could exist in such a place. What, then, was the mystery of the previous evening, of the fair-haired girl, of the lights inside the reef that simulated those of a broad-beamed ship, of the lights like those of a village that twinkled on shore? The whole affair seemed strange, inexplicable. Now that it was broad daylight the events of the preceding night, with its dangers and its darkness, had more the similitude of some dreadful dream than a stern reality. This same evening the anchor was let go in the Bay of Thorshaven, the capital--city, shall I say?--of the Faroe Islands. I am writing a tale of adventure, not a narrative of travel, else would I willingly devote a whole chapter to a description of this quaint and primitive wee, wee town. Our heroes saw it at its very worst, its very bleakest, for winter still held it in thrall; the turf-clad roofs of its cottages, that in summer are green with grass and redolent of wild thyme, were now clad with snow; its streets, difficult to climb even in July, were now stairs of glass; its fort looked frozen out; and its little chapel, where Sunday after Sunday the hardy and brave inhabitants, who never move abroad without their lives in their hands, worship God in all humility--this little chapel stood up black and bold against its background of snow. Although the streamlets were all frozen, although ice was afloat in the bay, and a grey and leaden sky overhead, our boys were not sorry to land and have a look around. To say that they were hospitably received would be hardly doing the Faroese justice, for hospitality really seems a part and parcel of the people's religion. The viands they placed before them were well cooked, but curious, to say the least of it. Steak of young whale, stew of young seal's liver, roast guillemot and baked auk; these may sound queer as dinner dishes, but as they were cooked by the ancient Faroese gentleman who entertained our heroes at his house, each and all of them were brave eating. Couldn't they stop a month? this gentleman, who looked like a true descendant of some ancient viking, asked McBain. Well then, a fortnight? well, surely one short week? But, "Nay, nay, nay," the captain answered, kindly and smilingly, to all his entreaties; they must hurry on to the far north ere spring and summer came. The Faroese could give them no clue to the mystery that shrouded the previous night. They had never heard of either wreckers or pirates in these peaceful islands. "But," said the old viking, "we are willing to turn out to a man; we are one thousand inhabitants in all--including the women; but even they will go; and we have ten brave, real soldiers in the fort, they too will go, and we will make search, and if we find them we will hang them on--on--" the old man hesitated. "On the nearest tree," suggested Rory with a mischievous smile. The viking laughed grimly at the joke. "Well," he said, "we will hang them anyhow, trees or no trees." But McBain could not be induced to deviate from his set purpose, and bidding these simple folk a friendly farewell, they steamed once more out of the bay, passed many a strange, fantastic island, passed rocks pierced with caves, and bird-haunted, and so, with the vessel's prow pointing to the northward and west, they left the Faroes far behind them. Tremendous seas rolled in from the broad Atlantic all that night and all next day, little wind though, and no broken water. In the evening, in the dog-watch, the waves seemed to increase in size; they were miles long, mountains high; when down in the trough of the sea you had to look up to their crests as you would to the summer's sun at noontide. Indeed, those waves made the brave ship _Arrandoon_ look wondrous small. McBain, somewhat to Stevenson's astonishment, made the man at the wheel steer directly north. "We're out of our course, sir," said the mate. "Pardon me for a minute or two," replied the captain, half apologetically, "we are now broadside on to these seas, I just want to test her stability." "Well, everything is pretty fast, sir," said the mate, quietly; "but if the ship goes on her beam-ends don't blame me." "Perhaps, Mr Stevenson, there wouldn't be much time to blame any one; but I can trust my ship, I think. Wo! my beauty." The beauty didn't seem a bit inclined to "wo!" however. She positively rolled her ports under, and Rory confessed that the doldrums were nothing to this. Presently up comes Rory from below. "Och! captain dear," he says, "my gun-case has burst my fiddle-case, and I'm not sure that the fiddle herself is safe, the darling." Next up comes Stevenson. "Please captain," he says, "the steward says his crockery is all going to smithereens, and the cook can't keep the fire in the galley range, and Freezing Powders has broken the tureen and spilt the soup, and--" "Enough, enough," cried McBain, laughing; "take charge, mate, and do as you like with her, I'm satisfied." So down below dived the captain, the ship's head was once more turned north-west, and a bit of canvas clapped on to steady her. CHAPTER SEVEN. SANDIE MCFLAIL, M.D.--"WHA WOULDNA' BE A SEA-BIRD?"--THE GIRL TELLS HER STRANGE ADVENTURES--NIGHTFALL ON THE SEA. There is one member of the mess whom I have not yet introduced, but a very worthy member he is, our youthful doctor. Poor fellow! never before had he been to sea, and so he suffered accordingly. Oh! right bravely had he tried to keep up for all that. He was the boldest mariner afloat while coming down the Clyde; he disappeared as the ship began to round the stormy Mull. He appeared again for a short time at Oban, but vanished when the anchor was weighed. At Lerwick, where they called in to take old Magnus Bolt on board, and ship a dozen stalwart Shetlanders, the doctor was once more seen on deck; and it was currently reported that when the vessel lay helpless on the reef, a ghostly form bearing a strong resemblance to the bold surgeon was seen flitting about in the darkness, and a quavering voice was heard to put this solemn question more than once, "Any danger, men? Men, are we in danger?" This was the last that had been seen of the medico; but Rory found a slate in the dispensary, into which sanctum, by the way, he had no right to pop even his nose. He brought this slate aft, the young rascal, and read what was written thereon to Allan and Ralph, from which it was quite evident that Sandie McFlail, M.D., of Aberdeen, had made a most intrepid attempt to keep a diary. The entries were short, and ran somewhat thus:-- "February 9th.--Dropped away from the Broomielaw and steamed down the beautiful Clyde. Charming day, though cold, and the hills on each side the river clothed in virgin snow. Felt sad and sorrowful at leaving my native land. I wonder will ever we return, or will the great sea swallow us up? Would rather it didn't. I wonder if _she_ will think of me and pray for her mariner bold when the wind blows high at night, when the cold rain beats against the window-panes of her little cot, and the storm spirit roars around the old chimneys. I feel a sailor already all over, and I tread the decks with pride. "Feb. 10th.--At sea. The ocean getting rough. Passed some seagulls. "Feb. 11th.--Sea rougher. Passed a ship. "Feb. 12th.--Sea still rough. Passed some seaweed. "Feb. 13th.--Sea mountains high. Passed--" "And here," says Rory, "the diary breaks off all of a sudden like; and all of a sudden the entries close; so, really, there is no saying what the doctor passed on the 13th. But just about this time, the mate tells me, he was seen leaning languidly over the side, so--" "Ho, ho!" cried McBain, close at his ear. The captain had entered the saloon unperceived by boy Rory, and had been standing behind him all the time he was reading. Ralph and Allan saw him well enough, but they, of course, said nothing, although they could not refrain from laughing. "Ho, ho, Rory, my boy!" says McBain; "ho, ho, boy Rory! so you're fairly caught?" "And indeed then," says Rory, jumping up and looking as guilty as any schoolboy, "I didn't know you were there at all at all." "Of that I am perfectly sure," McBain says, laughing, "else you wouldn't have been reading the poor doctor's private diary. What shall we do with him, Ralph? What shall he be done to, Allan?" "Oh!" said Ralph, mischievously; "send him to the masthead for a couple of hours. Into the foretop, mind, where he'll get plenty of air about him." "No," said Allan, grinning; "give him a seat for three hours on the end of the bowsprit. Of course, Captain McBain, you'll let him have a bottle of hot water at his feet, and a blanket or two about him. He is only a little one, you know." "But now that I think of it," said McBain, "you are all the same, boys; there isn't one of you a whit better than the other." "Sure and you're right, captain," Rory put in, "for if I was reading, they were listening, most intently, too." "Well then, boys, I'll tell you how you can make amends to the honest doctor. Off you go, the three of you, and see if you can't rouse him out. Get him to come on deck and breathe the fresh air. He'll soon get round." And off our three heroes went, joyfully, on their mission of mercy. They found the worthy doctor in bed in his cabin, and forthwith set about kindly but firmly rousing him out. They had even brought Freezing Powders with them, to carry a pint of moselle. "I feel vera limp," said Sandie, as soon as he got dressed, "vera limp indeed. Well, as you say, the moselle may do me good, but I'm a teetotaler as a rule." "We never touch any wine," said Ralph, "nor care to; but this, my dear doctor, is medicine." Sandie confessed himself better immediately when he got on deck. With Allan on one side of him and big Ralph on the other, he was marched up and down the deck for half an hour and more. "Man! gentlemen!" he remarked, "I thought I could walk finely, but I'm just now for a' the world like a silly drunken body." "We were just the same," said Allan, "when we came first to sea-- couldn't walk a bit; but we soon got our sea-legs, and we've never lost them yet." The doctor was struck with wonder at the might and majesty of the waves, and also at the multitude of birds that were everywhere about and around them. Kittiwakes, solons, gulls, guillemots, auks, and puffins, they whirled and wheeled around the ship in hundreds, screaming and shrieking and laughing. They floated on the water, they swam on its surface, and dived down into its dark depths, and no fear had they of human beings, nor of the steamer itself. "How happy they all seem!" said Rory; "if I was one of the lower animals, as we call them, sure there is nothing in the wide world I'd like better to be than a sea-bird." "True for you," said Allan; "it's a wild, free life they lead." "And they seem to have no care," said the doctor. "Their meat is bound to their heads; at any rate, they never have far to go to seek it. When tired they can rest; when rested they can fly again. Then look at the warm and beautiful coats they wear. There is no wetting them to the skin; the water glides off o' them like the rain from a duck's back. Then think o' the pleasure o' possessin' a pair o' wings that can cleave the air like an arrow from a bowstring; that in a few short days, independent o' wind or waves or weather, can carry them from the cauld north far, far awa' to the saft and sunny south. Wha wouldna' be a sea-bird?" "Yes," reiterated Rory, stopping in front of the doctor; "as you say, doctor, `Wha wouldna' be a sea-bird?' But pardon me, sir, for in you I recognise a kindred spirit, a lover of nature, a lover of the beautiful. You and I will be friends, doctor--fast friends. There, shake hands." "As for Ralph and Allan," he added, with a mischievous grin, "'deed in troth, doctor dear, there isn't a bit of poetry in their nature, and they would any day far sooner see a couple of eider ducks roasted and flanked with apple sauce, than the same wildly beautiful birds happy and alive and afloat on the dark, heaving breast of the ocean. It's the truth I'm telling ye, doctor. D'ye play at all? Have you any favourite instrument?" "Weel, sir," the doctor replied, "I canna say that I'm vera much o' a musician, but I just can manage to toot a wee bit on the flute." "And I've no doubt," said Rory, "that you `toot' well, too." The conversation never slackened for a couple of hours, and so well did the doctor feel, that of his own free will he volunteered joining them at dinner in the saloon. McBain was as much surprised as delighted when he came below to dine, and found that their new messmate, Sandie McFlail, had at long last put in an appearance at table. The swell on the sea was much less next morning; the wind had slightly increased, and more sail had been spread, so that the ship was moderately steady. The rugged coast and strange, fantastic rocks of the outlying islands of Iceland were in sight, and, half-buried in misty clouds, the distant mountains could be dimly descried. "Yonder," said the mate, advancing towards Captain McBain, glass in hand,--"yonder is a small boat, sir, with a bit of a sail on her; she has just rounded the needle rocks, and seems standing in for the mainland." "Well," said the captain, "let us overhaul her, anyhow. There can be no harm in that, and it may secure us a fresh fish or two for dinner." In less than an hour the _Arrandoon_ had come up with this strange sail, which at first sight had seemed a mere speck on the ocean, seen at one moment and hidden the next behind some mountain roller. The surprise of our heroes may be better imagined than described, to find afloat in this cockle-shell of a boat, with an oar shipped as a mast and a tartan plaid as a main-sail, none other than the heroine of the wreckers' reef. Seeing that she was in the power of the big ship, she made no further attempt to get away, but, dropping her sail, she seized the oars, paddled quietly and coolly alongside, and next moment stood on the quarter-deck, with bowed head and modest mien, before Captain McBain. The captain took her kindly by the hand, smiling as he said, "Do not be afraid, my girl; consider yourself among friends--among those, indeed, who would do anything in their power to serve you, even if they were not already deeply in your debt, and deeply grateful." "Ah!" she said, mournfully, "my warning came all too late to save you. But, praised be God! you are safe now, and not in the power of those terrible men, who would have spared not a single life of those the waves did not engulf." "But tell us," continued McBain, "all about it--all about yourself. There is some strange mystery about the matter, which we would fain have solved. But stay--not here, and not yet. You must be very tired and weary; you must first have rest and refreshment, after which you can tell us your tale. Stevenson, see the little boat hauled up; and, doctor, I place this young lady under your care; to-night I hope to land her safely in Reikjavik; meanwhile my cabin is at her disposal." "Come, lassie," said the good surgeon, laconically, leading the way down the companion. Merely dropping a queenly curtsey to McBain and our young heroes, she followed the doctor without a word. Peter the steward placed before her the most tempting viands in the ship, yet she seemed to have but little appetite. "I am tired," she said at length, "I fain would rest. Long weary weeks of sorrow have been mine. But they are past and gone at last." Then she retired, this strange ocean waif and stray, and so the day wore gradually to a close, and they saw no more of her until the sun, fierce, fiery, and red, began to disappear behind the distant snow-clad hills; then they found her once more in their midst. She had gathered the folds of her plaid around her, her long yellow hair still floated over her shoulders, and her dreamy blue eyes were shyly raised to McBain's face as she began to speak. "I owe you some explanation," she said. "My strange conduct must appear almost inexplicable to you. My appearance among you two nights ago was intended to save you from the destruction that awaited you--from the destruction that had been prepared for you by the Danish wreckers." "Sir," she continued, after a pause, "I am myself a Dane. My father was parish minister in the little village of Elmdene. Alas! I fear he is now no more. Afflictions gathered and thickened around us in our once happy little home, and the only way we could see out of them was to leave our native land and cross the ocean. In America we have many friends who had kindly offered us an asylum, until happier days should come again. Our vessel was a brig, our crew all told only twenty hands, and we, my brother, father, and myself--for mother has long since gone up beyond--were the only passengers. "All went well until we were off the northern Shetlands, when at the dark, starry hour of midnight our ship was boarded and carried by pirates. Every one in the ship was put to the sword, saving my father and myself. My poor dear brave brother was slain before my eyes, but he died as the Danes die--with his face to the foe. My father was promised his life if he would perform the ceremony of marriage between myself and the pirate captain, who is a Russian, a daring, fearless fellow, but a strange compound of superstition and vice--a man who will go to prayers before scuttling a ship! The object of this pirate was to seize your vessel; he would have met and fought you at sea, but the easier plan for him was to try to wreck you. Fortune seemed to favour this bold design of his. The lights placed on shore, to represent a vessel of large size, were part and parcel of his vile scheme. But the darkness of the night enabled me to escape and come towards you. Then I feared to return; but, alas! alas! I now tremble lest my dear father has had to pay the penalty of my rashness with his life." [The story of the pirate is founded on fact.] "But the ship--this pirate?" said McBain. "We sailed around the island next day but saw no signs of him?" "Then," said the girl, "he must have escaped in the darkness, immediately after discovering the entire failure of his scheme." "And whither were you bound for when we overtook you, my poor girl?" asked McBain. "At Reikjavik," she replied, "I have an uncle, a minister. He it was who taught me all I know, while he was still at home in Elmdene--taught me among other things the beautiful language of your country, which I speak, but speak so indifferently." "Can this be," said McBain, "the self-same pirate that attacked the _Snowbird_?" "The very same thought," answered Ralph, "was passing through my own mind." "And yet how strange that a pirate should, cruise in these far northern seas?" "She has less chance of being caught, at all events," Allan said. "Ha?" exclaimed McBain, with a kind of grim, exultant laugh, "if she comes across the _Arrandoon_, that chance will indeed be a small one. She'll find us a different kind of a craft from the _Snowbird_." The vessel was now heading directly for the south-east coast of Iceland. Somewhere in there, though at present hidden by points of land and rocky islets, lay the capital of Iceland, which they hoped to reach ere midnight. A more lovely land and seascape than that which was now stretched out before them, it would indeed be difficult to conceive. The sun had gone down behind the western end of a long line of snow-clad mountains, serrated, jagged, and peaked, but their tops were all rose-tipped with his parting beams. Above them the sky was clear, with just one speck of crimson cloud; the lower land between was bathed in a purple mist, through which the ice-bound rocks could dimly be discerned, while the mantle of night had already been spread over the ocean. It was "nightfall on the sea." CHAPTER EIGHT. A GALE FROM THE MOUNTAINS--DAYBREAK IN ICELAND--THE GREAT BALLOON ASCENT--RORY'S YARN--THE SNOW-CLOUD--THE PIRATE IS SEEN. A whole week has elapsed since the events transpired which I have related in last chapter,--a week most interestingly if not always quite pleasantly spent. The _Arrandoon_ is lying before the quaint, fantastical old town of Reikjavik, surrounded almost in every direction by mountains bold and wild, the peaked summits and even the sides of which are now covered with ice and snow. For spring has not yet arrived to unrivet stern winter's chains, to swell the rivers into roaring torrents, and finally to carpet the earth with beauty. The streams are still frozen, the bay in which the good ship lies at her anchors twain, is filled with broken pancake-ice, which makes communication with the shore by means of boat a matter of no little difficulty, for oars have to be had inboard or used as pressing poles, and boat-hooks are in constant requisition. Winter it is, and the country all around might be called dreary, were it not for the ever-varying shades of colour that, as the sun shines out, or anon hides his head behind a cloud, spread themselves over hill and dale and rugged glen. Oh! the splendour of those sunrises and sunsets, the rose tints, the purples, the emerald greens and cool greys, that blaze and blend, grow faint and fade as they chase each other among mountains and ravines! What a poor morsel of steel my pen feels as I attempt to describe them! Yet have they a beauty peculiarly their own,--a beauty which never can be forgotten by those whose eyes have once rested thereon. The fair-haired Danish girl has been landed, and for a time has found shelter and peace in the humble home of her uncle the clergyman. Our heroes have been on shore studying the manners and customs of the primitive but hospitable people they find themselves among. Several city worthies have been off to see the ship and to dine. But to-night our heroes are all by themselves in the saloon. Dinner is finished, nuts and fruit and fragrant coffee are on the table, at the head of which sits the captain, on his right the doctor and Ralph, on his left Allan and Rory. Freezing Powders, neatly dressed, is hovering near, and Peter, the steward, is not far off, while the cockatoo is busy as usual, helping himself to tremendous billfuls of hemp-seed, but nevertheless putting in his oar every minute, with a "Well, duckie?" or a long-drawn "Dea-ah me!" I cannot say that all is peace, though, beyond the wooden walls of the _Arrandoon_, for a storm is raging with almost hurricane violence, sweeping down from the hills with ever-varying force, and threatening to tear the vessel from her anchorage. Steam is up, the screw revolves, and it taxes all the engineer's skill to keep up to the anchors so as to avert the strain from them. But our boys are used to danger by this time, and there is hardly a moment's lull in the conversation. Even Sandie McFlail, M.D. o' Aberdeen, has already forgotten all the horrors of _mal-de-mer_; he even believes he has found his sea-legs, and feels all over as good a sailor as anybody. "Reikjavik?" says Ralph; "isn't it a queer break-jaw kind of a name. It puts one in mind of a mouthful of exceedingly tough beefsteak." "A gastronomic simile," says Rory; "though maybe neither poetical nor elegant, sure, but truly Saxon." "Ah! weel," the doctor says, in his quiet, thoughtful, canny way, "I dinna know now. Some o' the vera best poetry of all ages bears reference to the pleesures o' the table. Witness Horace's Odes, for instance." "Hear! hear!" from Allan; and "Horace was a brick!" from honest English Ralph; but Rory murmurs "Moore?" "But," continues the doctor, "to my ear there is nothing vera harsh in the language that these islanders speak. They pronounce the `ch' hard, like the Scotch; their `j's' soft, like the Spanish; and turn their `w's' into `v's.' They pronounce church--kurk; and the `j' is a `y,' or next thing to it. `Reik' or `reyk' means smoke, you know, as it is in Scotch `reek;' and `wik,' or `wich,' or `vik' means a bay, as in the English `Woolwich,' `Sandwich,' etc, so that Reikjavik is simply `the bay of smoke,' or `the smoking bay;' but whether with reference to the smoke that hangs over the town, or the spray that rises mistlike from the seething billows when the wind blows, I cannot say--probably the former; and it is worthy of note, gentlemen, that some savage races far, far away from here--the aborigines of Australia, for example--designate towns by the term `the big smoke.'" "How profoundly erudite you are, doctor!" says Rory. "Now, wouldn't it have been much better for your heirs and assigns and the world at large, if you had accepted a Professorship of Antiquity in the University of Aberdeen, instead of coming away with us, to cool the toes of you at the North Pole, and maybe leave your bones to bleach beneath the Aurora Borealis, eh?" "Ha! there I have you," cries Sandie, smiling good-humouredly, for by this time he was quite used to Rory's bantering ways,--"there I have you, boy Rory; and it is with the profoundest awe and respect for everything sacred, that I remind you that the Aurora Borealis never bleached any bones; and those poor unfortunates who, in their devotion for science, have wandered towards the mystery land around the Pole, and there laid down their lives, will never, never moulder into dust, but, entombed in the green, salt ice, with the virgin snow as their winding-sheet, their bodies will rest in peace, and rest intact until the trumpet sounds." There was a lull in the conversation at this point, but no lull in the storm; the waves dashed wildly over the ship, the wind roared through the rigging, the brave vessel quivered from stem to stern, as if in constant fear she might be hurled from the protection afforded by anchor and cable, and cast helpless upon the rock-bound shore. A lull, broken presently by a deep sigh from Freezing Powders. "Well, duckie?" said Polly, in sympathising tones. "Well, Freezing Powders," said McBain, "and pray what are you sighing about?" "What for I sigh?" repeated Freezing Powders. "Am you not afraid you'se'f, sah! You not hear de wild winds roar, and de wave make too much bobbery? 'Tis a'most enuff, sah, to make a gem'lam turn pale, sah!" "Ha! ha?" laughed Rory; "really, it'll take a mighty big storm, Freezing Powders, to make you turn pale. But, doctor," he continued, "what say you to some music?" "If you'll play," said the surgeon, "I'll toot." And so the concert was begun; and the shriek of the storm spirit was drowned in mirth and melody, or, as the doctor, quoting Burns, expressed it,-- "The storm without might roar and rustle, They didna mind the storm a whustle." But after this night of storm and tempest, what a wonderful morning it was! The sun shot up amidst the encrimsoned mountain peaks, and shone brightly down from a sky of cloudless blue. The snow was everywhere dazzling in its whiteness, and there was not a sigh of wind to raise so much as a ripple on the waters of the bay, from which every bit of ice had been blown far to sea. Wild birds screamed with joy as they wheeled in hundreds around the ship, while out in the bay a shoal of porpoises were disporting themselves, leaping high in air from out of the sparkling waters, and shrieking--or, as the doctor called it, "whustling"--for very joy. Every one on board the _Arrandoon_ was early astir--up, indeed, before the sun himself--for there were to be great doings on shore to-day. The first great experimental balloon ascent and flight was about to be made. Every one on shore was early astir, too; in fact, the greatest excitement prevailed, and on the table-land to the right of, and some little distance from, the town, from which the balloon was to ascend, the people had assembled from an early hour, even the ladies of Reikjavik turning out dressed in their gayest attire, no small proportion of which consisted of fur and feathers. The aeronaut was a professional, Monsieur De Vere by name. McBain had gone all the way to Paris especially to engage his services. Nor had he hired him at random, for this canny captain of ours had not only satisfied himself that De Vere was in a scientific point of view a clever man, but he had accompanied him in several ascents, and could thus vouch for his being a really practical aeronaut. Who would go with De Vere in this first great trip over the regions of perpetual snow? The doctor stepped forward as a volunteer, and by his side was Rory. Perhaps Allan and Ralph were rather lazy for any such aerial exploit; anyhow, they were content to stay at home. "We'll look on, you know," said Ralph, "as long as we can see you; and when you return--that is, if ever you do return--you can tell us all about it." When all was ready the ropes were cast loose, and, with a ringing cheer from the assembled multitude, up arose the mighty balloon, straight as arrow from bow, into the blue, sunny sky. Like the eagle that soars from the peak of Benrinnes, she seemed to seek the very sun itself. Rory and the surgeon, who had never been in a balloon before--nor even, for the matter of that, down in a coalpit--at first hardly relished their sudden elevation, but they soon got used to it. Not the slightest motion was there; Rory could hardly credit the fact that he was moving, and when at last he did muster up sufficient courage to peep earthwards over the side of the car. "Oh, look, doctor dear!" he cried; "sure, look for yourself; the world is moving away from us altogether!" And this was precisely the sensation they experienced. Both the doctor and Rory were inclined to clutch nervously and tremulously the sides of the car in the first part of their ascent; but though the former was not much of a sailor, somewhat to his surprise he experienced none of those giddy feelings common to the landsman when gazing from an immense height. He could look beneath him and around him, and enjoy to the full the strange bird's-eye landscape and seascape that every moment seemed to broaden and widen, until a great portion of the northern island, with its mountains, its lakes, its frozen torrents, its gulfs and bays and islands, and the great blue southern ocean, even to the far-off Faroe Isles, lay like a beautifully portrayed map beneath their feet. The grandeur of the scene kept them silent for long minutes; it impressed them, it awed them. It did more than even this, for it caused them to feel their own littleness, and the might of the Majesty that made the world. De Vere himself seldom vouchsafed a single glance landwards; he seemed to busy himself wholly and solely with the many strange instruments with which he was surrounded. He was hardly a moment idle. The intense cold, that soon began to benumb the senses of Sandie, seemed to have no deterrent effect on his efforts. "I must confess I do fell sleepy," said the worthy medico, "and I meant to assist you, Mr De Vere." "Here," cried the scientist, pouring something out of a phial, and handing it to him, "drink that quick." "I feel double the individual," cried Sandie, brightly, as soon as he had swallowed the draught. "Come," said Rory, "come, monsieur, _I_ want to feel double the individual, too." "No, no, sir," said De Vere, smiling, "an Irishman no want etherism; you are already--pardon me--too ethereal." Sandie was gazing skywards. "It is the moon,"--he was saying--"I ken her horn, She's blinkin' in the lift sae hie; She smiles, the jade! to wile us hame, But, 'deed, I doubt, she'll wait a wee." "Happy thought!" cried Rory; "let us go to the moon." "No," laughed the doctor; "nobody ever got that length yet." "Oh, you forget, Mr Surgeon," said Rory,--"you forget entirely all about Danny O'Rourke." "Tell us, then, Rory." "Troth, then," began Rory, in his richest brogue, "it was just like this same. Danny was a dacint boy enough, who lived entoirely alone with Biddy his wife, and the pig, close to a big bog in old Oireland. Sitting on a stone in the midst of this bog was Danny, one foine summer's evening, when who should fly down but an aigle. `Foine noight,' says the aigle. `The same to you,' says Danny, `and many of them.' `But,' says the aigle, `don't you see that it is sinking you are?' `Och! sure,' cries Danny, `and so it is. I'll be swallowed up in the bog, and poor Biddy and the pig will nivir set eyes on me again. Och! och! what'll I do?' `Git on to me back, troth,' says the aigle, `and I'll fly you sthraight to your Biddy's door.' `And the blessings av the O'Rourkes be wid ye thin,' says Danny, putting his arms round the aigle's neck, `for you are the sinsible bird, and whatever I'd have done widout ye, ne'er a bit o' me knows. But isn't it high enough you are now, aroon? Yonder is my cottage just down there.' For," continued Rory, "you must know that by this time the aigle had mounted fully a mile high with poor Danny. `Be quiet wid ye,' says the aigle, `or I'll shake ye off me back entoirely. Don't ye remember robbing my nest last year? _I_ do. And it's niver a cottage you'll ever see again, nor Biddy, nor the pig either. It's right up to the moon I'm flying wid ye.' `What!' cries Danny, `to that bit av a thing like a raping-hook? Och! and och! what'll become av me at all at all?' But the moon got bigger the nearer they came to it, and they found it a dacint size enough when they got there entirely. `Catch a howld av the end av the raping-hook,' says the aigle, `or by this and by that I'll shake ye off me shoulder.' And so poor Danny had no ho' but just to do as he was told, and away flew the aigle and left him. While he was wondering what he should do now, a stern voice behind him says, `Let go--let go the end of the raping-hook, and be off wid ye back to your own counthry.' `It's hardly civil av you,' says Danny, `to ask me sich a thing. Sure it is few ever come to call on you anyhow.' `Let go,' thundered the man o' the moon; and he gave Danny just one kick, and off went the poor boy flying into the air. `It's killed I'll be,' says he to himself, `killed entoirely wid the fall, and what'll become o' me wife Biddy and the pig is more'n I can tell.' But he fell, and he fell, and he fell, and he never seemed to stop falling, till plump he alights right in the middle o' the sea, and there he lay on the broad back av him, till a big lump av a whale came and splashed him all over wid his tail. But sure enough the sea was only his bed, and the big whale turned out to be Biddy herself, with the watering-pot, telling him to get up, for a lazy ould boy, and feed the pig, and troth it was nothing but a dream after all. "But where in the name of wonder are we now?" he continued, gazing around. It was a very natural question. It had got suddenly dark. They were enveloped in a snow-cloud. The brave balloon seemed to struggle through it. Ballast was thrown over, and up and out into the sunshine she rose again, but what a change had come over her appearance--every rope and length of her and the car itself and our bold aeronauts were covered white with virgin snow. "Monsieurs," said De Vere, "this is more than I bargained for. We must descend. You see she has lost all life. De lofely soul dat was in de balloon seems to have gone. We will descend." Indeed the huge balloon was already moving slowly earthwards, and in a minute more they were again passing through the snow-cloud. Once clear of this a breeze sprang up, or, to speak more correctly, they entered a current of air, that carried them directly inland for many miles. Tired of this direction, the valve was opened, out roared the gas, and the descent became more rapid, until the wind ceased to blow--they were beneath the adverse current. More ballast was thrown out, and her "way" was stopped. But see, what aileth our hero, boy Rory? For some minutes he has been gazing southwards over the sea, so intensely indeed that his looks almost frighten the honest doctor. "The glass, the glass," he hisses, holding round his hand, but not taking his glance for a moment off the southern horizon. The glass is handed to him, he adjusts it to his eye, and takes one long, fixed look; and when he turns once more towards the doctor his face is radiant with joy and excitement. "It is she," he cried, "it is _she_, it is she!" The doctor really looked scared. "Man!" he said, "are ye takin' leave o' your wuts? There, tak' a hold o' my hand and dinna try to frighten folk. There's never a `she' near ye." "It is _she_, I tell you," cried Rory again; "take the glass and look in under the land yonder, and heading for Stromsoe. It is the pirate herself,--the pirate we fought in the _Snowbird_. Hurrah! hurrah!" CHAPTER NINE. MOUNT HEKLA--THE GREAT GEYSER--A NARROW ESCAPE--THE SEARCH FOR THE PIRATE--MCBAIN'S LITTLE "RUSE DE GUERRE"--THE BATTLE BEGUN. "That puts quite another complexion on the matter," said Dr Sandy McFlail, with a sigh of relief, when Rory explained to him that he had spied the pirate, "quite another complexion, though, for the time bein' ye glowered sae like a warlock that I did think ye had lost your reason; so give me the glass, and I'll e'en take a look at her mysel'. "Eh! sirs," he continued, with the telescope at his eye, "but she is a big ship, and a bonnie ship. But, Rory boy, just catch a hold o' my coat-tails, and I'll feel more secure like. I wouldn't wish to go heels o'er head out o' the car. A fine big ship indeed--square-rigged forward and schooner-rigged aft; a vera judeecious arrangement." "Now," cried Rory, "the sooner we are landed on old mother earth the better. Bend on to the valve halyards, De Vere. Down with her." "Sirs! sirs!" cried the doctor, in great alarm; "pray don't be rash. Be judeecious, gentlemen, be judeecious." De Vere looked from one to the other, then laughed aloud. He was amused at the impetuosity of the Irishman and at the canniness of the Scot. A very pleasant little man was this De Vere to look at, black as to hair and moustache, dark as to eyes; thoughtful-looking as a rule were these eyes, yet oft lit up with fun. He never spoke much, perhaps he cogitated the more; he seldom made a joke himself, but he had a high appreciation of humour in others. Taking him all and all he gave you the impression of one who would be little likely to lose his presence of mind in a time of danger. "Gentlemen," he said, quietly, "you will leave the descent in my hands, if you please. We are now, by my calculation, some ninety miles from the city of Reikjavik. You see beneat' you wild mountains, ice-bound plains, frozen lakes, rivers and waterfalls, deep ravines and gorges, but no sign of smoke, no life. Shall I make my descent here? Shall I pull vat Monsieur Rory call de valve halyard? Shall I land in de regions of desolation?" "Dinna think o't," cried Sandy. "Never mind Rory; he is only a laddie." "It's yourself that's complimentary," quoth Rory. "Ah! ver' well," said De Vere; "I will go on, for since you have been gazing on de ship, de current have change, and we once more get nearer home." An hour went slowly by. Both the doctor and Rory were gazing at the _far-off_ mountain, Hekla, that lay to the south and east, though distant many miles. The vast hill looked a king among the other mountains; a king, but a dead king, being still and quiet in the sunshine, enrobed in a shroud of snow. Sandy was doubly engaged--he was talking musingly, and aloud; but at the same time he was doing ample justice to the venison pie that lay so confidingly on his knee, for Sandy was a bit of a philosopher in his own quiet way. "Mount Hekla," he was saying; "is it any wonder that these Norsemen, these superstitious sons of the ancient Vikings, look upon it as the entrance-gate to the terrible abode of fire and brimstone, gloom and woe, where are confined the souls of the unhappy dead? Hekla, round thy snow-capped summit the thunders never cease to roll--" "Hark," said Rory, holding up his hand; "talk about thunder, list to that." Both leant over the car and looked earthwards. What could it mean, that low, deep, long-continued thunderpeal? Was a storm raging beneath them? Yes, but not of the kind they at first imagined. For see, from where yonder hill starts abruptly from the glen, rise immense clouds of silvery white, and roll slowly adown the valley. The balloon hangs suspended right above the great _geyser_, which is now in full eruption. "It is as I thought," said De Vere; "let us descend a little way;" and he opened the valve as he spoke. The balloon made a downward rush as he did so, as if she meant to plunge herself and all her occupants into the very midst of the boiling cauldron. The steam from the geyser had almost reached their feet; the car thrilled beneath them, while the never-ceasing thunder pealed louder and louder. "My conscience!" roared honest Sandy, losing all control over himself; "we'll be boiled alive like so many partans!" [Partans: Scottish, crabs.] De Vere coolly threw overboard a bag or two of sand, and the balloon mounted again like a skylark. And not too soon either, for, awful, to relate, in his sudden terror Sandy had made a grab at the valve-rope, as if to check her downward speed. Had not Rory speedily pulled him back, the consequences would have been too dreadful to think of. De Vere only laughed; but he held up one finger by way of admonishing the doctor as he said, "Neever catch hold of de reins ven anoder man is driving." "But," said Rory, "didn't you go a trifle too near that time, Mister de Vere?" "A leetle," said the Frenchman, coolly. "It was noding." "Ach! sure no," says Rory; "it was nothing at all; and yet, Mister de Vere, it isn't the pleasantest thing in the world to imagine yourself being played at pitch and toss with on the top of a mighty geyser, for all the world like a nut-gall on the top of a twopenny fountain!" Sandy resumed the dissection of his venison pie. He would have a long entry for his diary to-night, he thought. Luck does not always attend the aeronaut, albeit fortune favours the brave, and the current of air that was carrying the balloonists so merrily back to Reikjavik, ceased entirely when they were still within ten miles of that quaint wee place. It was determined, therefore, to make a descent. Happily, they were over a glen. Close by the sea and around the bay were many small farms, and so adroitly did De Vere manage to attach an anchor to the roof of an old barn, that descent was easy in the extreme. Perhaps the happiest man in the universe at the moment Sandy McFlail's feet touched mother earth again was Sandy himself. "Man!" he cried to Rory, rubbing his hands and laughing with glee, "I thought gettin' out meant a broken leg at the vera least, and I haven't even bled my nose." There was some commotion, I can tell you, among the feathered inmates of the barnyard when the balloonists popped down among them; as for the farm folks, they had shut themselves up in the dwelling-house. The geese were particularly noisy. Geese, reader, always remind me of those people we call sceptics: they are sure to gabble their loudest at things they can't understand. But convinced at last that the aeronauts were neither evil spirits nor inhabitants of the moon, the good farmer made them heartily welcome at his fireside, and assisted them to pack, so that, by the aid of men and ponies, they found themselves late that evening safely on board the _Arrandoon_; and right glad were their comrades to see them again, you may be sure, and to listen to a narration by Rory of all their adventures, interlarded by Sandy's queer, dry remarks, which only served to render it all the more funny. But before they sat down to the ample supper that Peter had prepared for them, Rory reported to the captain his great discovery. McBain's eyes sparkled like live coals as he heard of it, but he said little. He sent quietly for the engineer and the mate. "How soon," he asked the former, "can you get up steam?" "In an hour, sir--easy." "That will do," said the captain. "Mr Stevenson, when will the moon rise?" "She is rising now, sir." "All right, Mr Stevenson. Have all ready to weigh anchor in two hours' time." "Ay, ay, sir!" The engineer still lingered. "I _could_ get up steam in twenty minutes," he said; "those American hams, sir--" "Oh, bother the hams?" said the captain, laughing. "No, no; we may be glad of those yet when frozen in at the Pole. Bear-and-ham pie, engineer; how will that eat, eh?" and he bowed him kindly out. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ By two bells in the middle watch the good ship _Arrandoon_ was off the needle rocks of the Portland Huck. They stood up out of the water like tall sheeted ghosts, with the moonlight and starlight shimmering from their shoulders. The sea was calm, with only a gentle heave on it; and there were but a few snowy clouds in the sky skirting the southern horizon, so the vessel ploughed along as beautifully as any sailor could wish, with a steady, contented throb of engine and gride of screw, leaving in her wake a long silvery line for the moonbeams to dance in. Save the noise of the ship's working there was not another sound to be heard, only occasionally a gull would float past overhead emitting a strange and mournful cry. What makes the sea-birds, I have wondered, sometimes leave the rocks at the midnight hour, and go skimming alone through the darkling air, emitting that weird and plaintive wail of theirs? It is a wail that goes directly to one's heart, and you cannot help thinking they must be bereaved ones mourning for their dead. Our heroes walked long on deck that night, talking quietly, as became the hour, of the prospects of their having a brush with the pirate. But they got weary at last, and turned in. Next morning they found the decks wet and slippery, more clouds in the sky, a fair beam wind blowing, and a trifle of canvas displayed. After breakfast McBain called all hands aft. In calm, dispassionate language he told them the story of the poor girl who had risked her life on their account, of her murdered brother and captive father, and of the pirate he was about to try to find and capture. Then he paused; and as he did so every one of the crew turned eyes on Ted Wilson, who strode forward. "Captain," said Ted, firmly, "we didn't sign articles to fight, did we, mates?" "No," from all hands. "_But_," continued Ted, "for such a captain as you be, and in such a cause, we _will_ fight, every man Jack of us, as long as the saucy _Arrandoon_ has a timber above the water. Am I right, mates?" A ringing cheer was all the reply, and Ted retired. Now, reader, were I a landsman novelist I would very likely here make my captain give the orders to "splice the main-brace," but I'm a sailor, and I tell you this, boys, that British seamen never yet needed Dutch courage to make them do their duty. Captain McBain only waved a hand and said, "Pipe down." An hour afterwards the crow's-nest was rigged and hoisted at the main-truck, and either the mate or the captain was in it off and on the whole day. But no pirate appeared that day nor the next. In the evening, however, some fishermen boarded the _Arrandoon_, and reported having seen a large barque, answering to the description of the suspected craft, that same morning lying at anchor off Suddersoe, with boats passing to and fro 'twixt ship and shore. "It is my precious opinion, captain," said old Magnus Bolt, "that this craft does a bit o' smuggling 'tween here and Shetland." "And it is my precious opinion, my dear Magnus," said McBain, "that the rascal doesn't care what he does so long as he lands the cash." The _Arrandoon_ was now kept away for the island named by the honest fishermen. Not straight, however; McBain gave it a wide berth, and passed it far to the west, and held on his course until many miles to the southward. In the morning it was "bout ship" and stand away north and by east again. They sighted the island about seven bells in the morning watch. Suddenly there was a hail from the crow's-nest. It was the captain's voice. "Come up here, Magnus Bolt, if your old bones will let you, and see what you shall see." Magnus sprang up the rigging somewhat after the fashion of an antiquated monkey, but with an agility no one would have given him credit for. "It is she!" he shouted, after he had had a look through the long glass in towards the iron-bound shores of the islands; "it is she! it is she! Ha! ha! ha!" and he positively danced and chuckled with delight. "You'll fight? you'll fight?" he gasped. "Rather," replied McBain; "but we'll run first. She shall fire the first shot, and, Magnus, you shall fire the second." Half an hour afterwards, when our heroes came on deck to have their morning look around, they stared at each other in blank astonishment. The _Arrandoon_ looked as if she had just come out of a tornado and had been dreadfully handled. The foretop-gallant mast was down, the jibboom inboard, the screw was hoisted up, the funnel itself had been unshipped and was lashed to the deck, and the flag was flying at half-mast, as if the vessel were in distress, or had death on board. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Now let me, with one touch of the fairy wand the storyteller wields, waft my readers on board the pirate herself. Fear not, for we will stay there but a brief space of time indeed. The tall and by no means unprepossessing form of the captain, armed _cap-a-pie_, is leaning against the rudder-wheel, one spoke of which he holds. His mate is by his side, glass in hand, examining the _Arrandoon_, now only a few miles off. "Ha! ha!" says the latter; "it is the same big craft we tried to strand; and she's had dirty weather, too--foretop-gallant mast and jibboom both gone. She is flying a signal of distress." "Distress? Eh? Ha! ha! ha?" laughed the pirate. "Isn't it funny? She'll have more of it; won't she, matie mine?" The mate laughed and commenced to sing-- "`Won't you walk into my parlour?' Said the spider to the fly?" "She's evidently a whaler, crow's-nest and all," he said. "Well," said the captain, "we'll _w(h)ale_ her;" and he laughed at his own stupid joke. "I say there, old lantern-jaws," he bawled down the companion. "I reckon," said a Yankee voice, "you alludes to this child." "I do," cried the captain; "and look ye here. We are going to fight and so forth. If we're like to be bested, scupper the old man at once. D'ye hear?" "Well, I guess I ain't deaf." "Very well, then. Obey, or a short shrift yours will be." "Why, captain," said the mate, "she knows us. She has put about, and is bearing away to the nor'-nor'-west." "Then hands up-anchor," cried his superior. "Crowd all sail; she can't escape us in her crippled condition." "Ah! captain," the mate remarked, "had you taken my advice and given that pretty but sly minx the _sack_, ere she gave you the _slip_, that whaler would have been ours before now." "Silence," roared the captain. "On that subject I will not hear a word. She shall be mine yet--or her father dies." With the exception of the few sentences bawled down the companion, all this was said in Danish, and my translation is a free one. And so the chase commenced, and seawards before the pirate, in an apparently crippled condition, staggered the _Arrandoon_. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "How far do you intend to bring her out?" asked Allan. "Ten miles clear of these islands, anyhow," replied McBain, "then she won't be able to play any pranks with us. Boys," continued McBain, a few minutes afterwards, "I'm going to write letters--home." There was nothing very unusual in the tone of his voice as he spoke these words, but there was a meaning in them, nevertheless, that was perfectly understood by our young heroes. They were not long, then, before they were each and all of them seated by the saloon table, inditing, it might or might not be, the last communications to the loved ones at home they _ever_ would pen. They were performing a duty--a sad one, perhaps, but still a duty; they were about to fight in a good cause, doubtless, but the result of the battle was uncertain. The _Maelsturm_, for that was the name of the pirate, was better--or rather, I should say, more copiously--manned than the _Arrandoon_, and though not so large a ship, she had more guns; her crew too fought with halters round their necks, and would therefore doubtless fight to the bitter end. The only advantage--and it was a great one--possessed by the _Arrandoon_ was steam power. Hours went by, and the chase was still kept up. It was six bells in the forenoon watch, and the _Maelsturm_ was hardly a mile astern. Our men had already had dinner, and were all in readiness--waiting, when, borne towards them over the wind-rippled waters from the pirate ship, came the quick, sharp rattle of a kettledrum. One roll, two rolls, three. "At last," said McBain, "they are beating to quarters." A puff of smoke from the bow of the pirate, the roar of a gun, and almost immediately after a round shot ricocheted past the quarter of the _Arrandoon_. The battle was begun. CHAPTER TEN. "DOWN WITH THE RED FLAG AND UP WITH THE BLACK!"--VICTORY--AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE--HIE, FOR THE NORTH. If the crew of the _Arrandoon_ needed any stimulus to fight the pirate, beyond the short speech that their captain had made them, it certainly was given them when the order was issued on board the latter craft, "Down with the red flag and up with the black!" and the broad, white-crossed ensign of merchant Denmark gave place to the hideous skull and cross-bones flown by sea marauders of all nations. She had rounded, too, in order to fire her broadside guns, or this would hardly have been visible. Perhaps the pirates imagined it would strike sudden fear into the hearts of those they had elected to consider their foes. Hatred and loathing it certainly inspired, but as to fear--well, in the matter of scaring, British sailors are perhaps the most unsatisfactory class of beings in the world. For the next quarter of an hour the doings on board the _Arrandoon_, as seen from the pirate's poop, must have considerably astonished--not to say puzzled--the officers of that ship, for in that short space of time what had appeared to be a sadly disabled vessel in distress, had hoisted a funnel, lowered a screw, and, while sail was being taken in, moved slowly away beyond reach of her guns. Not for long was she gone, however. She rounded almost on her own length; then, bows on, back she came, black and grim, athirst for vengeance. But the pirate was no coward, and broadside after broadside was poured into the advancing ship, without eliciting a single shot save one. This was the shot--the second shot--that McBain had promised Magnus. It went roaring through the air, crashed through the _Maelsturm's_ bulwarks midships, and smashed a boat to flinders. Magnus Bolt, or "Green," as he was better known, old as he was, was by far the best shot in the ship. He and Mitchell, the mate, a man of eagle eye and firm of nerve, were the gunners proper, and fired every gun in the fight that followed the second shot. If it were a starboard broadside they were there; if a port, they but crossed the deck to take deadly aim and fire it. "Remember, gunners," cried McBain, "we've got to take that ship, and not to sink her; so waste not a shot between wind and water?" On came the vessels, bow to bow, as arrow might meet arrow, and when within two hundred yards of each other, the _Maelsturm_ heading north and west, the _Arrandoon_ going full speed south and east, the pirate delivered her broadside, and immediately luffed up and commenced firing with her bow guns. She could get no nearer the wind, however. To go on the other tack would be but to hasten the inevitable. "Hard a port! Ease her a little! Steady as you go!" were the orders from the quarter-deck of the _Arrandoon_. "Small-arm men to fire wherever head or hand is visible." Now the _Arrandoon_ delivers her broadside as she again comes parallel with the _Maelsturm_, whose sails are all a-shiver. This just by way of confusing her a little. There is worse to come, for the order is now given to double-shot the port Dalgrens with canister. Away steams the _Arrandoon_, and round goes the _Maelsturm_. Ah! well he knows what the foe intends, but he will try to outmanoeuvre her if he can. But see! the _Arrandoon_ is round again; there will be no escaping her this time. Fire your bow guns, Mr Pirate; fire your broadside, you cannot elicit a reply. "Sta'board!" cries the captain; "starboard?" he signals, with his calm, uplifted arm. "Starboard still! steady now!" Then, in a voice of thunder, as they rounded the port quarter of the pirate, and, in spite of all good handling, got momentarily broadside on to her stem, "Stand to your guns--_Fire_!" When the _Arrandoon_ forged ahead clear of the smoke, it was evident from the confusion on board the _Maelsturm_, and the dishevelment of running and standing rigging, that the havoc on her decks must have been terrible. She was not beaten, though, as a gun from her broadside soon told. "We'll end this," said the captain to Rory, by his side, who had constituted himself clerk, and was coolly taking notes in the very thick of the fight, while shot roared through the ship's rigging and sides, men fell on all hands, and splinters filled the air. "We'll end it in the good old fashion, Rory. Stand by to grapple with ice-anchors! Prepare to board!" Now Allan and Ralph, who had been below assisting the surgeon, heard that word of command, and, just as the sides of the two ships had grated together, after firing their last broadsides, they were both, sword in hand, by their captain's side. McBain and our heroes were the very first to leap on to the blood-slippery decks of the pirate. The crew of that doomed ship fought for a time like furies--for a time, but only for a time. In less than five minutes every pirate on board was either disarmed or driven below, and the _Maelsturm_ was the prize of the gallant _Arrandoon_, and her captain himself lay bound on the quarter-deck. But the commander of this pirate ship was the very last man on board of her to yield. Even when the battle was virtually ended, as fiercely as a lion at bay he fought on his own quarter-deck, McBain himself being his antagonist. The latter could have shot him down had he been so minded, but he was not the man to take a mean advantage of a foe. The pirate was taller than McBain, but not so well built nor so muscular. They were thus pretty well matched, and as they fought, round and round the quarter-deck, a more beautiful display of swordsmanship was perhaps never witnessed. Once the pirate tripped and fell, McBain lowered his weapon until he had regained his feet, then swords clashed again and sparks flew. But see, the captain of the _Arrandoon_ clasps his claymore double-handed; he uses it hatchet fashion almost. He looks in his brawny might as if he could fell trees. The pirate cannot withstand the shock of the terrible onslaught, but he makes up in agility what he lacks in strength. He is borne backward and backward round the companion, McBain "showering his blows like wintry rain;" and now at last victory is his, the pirate's sword flies into flinders, our captain drops his claymore and springs empty-handed on his adversary, and next moment dashes him to the deck, where he lies stunned and bleeding, and before he can recover consciousness he is bound and helpless. Ralph, Allan, and Rory, none of whom, as providence so willed it, are wounded, and who had been silent spectators of the duel, now crowd around their captain, and shake his willing hand. "Heaven," says McBain, "has given the enemy into our hands, boys, but there is now much to be done. Let us buckle to it without a moment's delay. The wounded are to be seen to, both our own and the pirate's, the decks cleared, and everything made shipshape, and, if all goes well, we'll anchor with our prize to-morrow at Reikjavik." "And the clergyman, captain, the clergyman, the poor girl's father?" exclaimed Rory. "Ay, ay, boy Rory," said McBain; "he is doubtless on the vessel. We will proceed at once to search for him." If fiends ever laugh, reader, it must be with some such sound as that which now proceeded from the larynx of the pirate captain; if fiends ever smile, it must be with the same sardonic expression that now spread itself over his features. All eyes were instantly turned towards him. He had raised himself to the sitting position. "Ha! ha! ha!" he chuckled, while, manacled though his wrists were, he drew his right forefinger rapidly across his throat, uttering, as he did so, these words, "Your padre; ha! ha! dead--dead--dead." His listeners were horrified. What McBain's reply would have been none can say. It was not needed, for at that very moment, ere the exultant grin had vanished from the wretch's face, there sprang on deck from the companion a figure, tall and gaunt, clad from top to toe in skins. He knelt on the deck in front of the pirate, the better to confront him. With forefinger raised, "he held him with his glittering eye," while he addressed him as follows: "Look here, Mister Pirate, I was going to use strong language, but I won't, though I guess and calculate mild words are wasted on sich as you. The parson ain't dead; ne'er a hair on his reverend head. Ye thought I'd scupper him, didn't you, soon's the ship was taken? Ye thought this child was your slave, didn't ye? Ha! ha! though, he has rounded on ye at last, and if that bit of black rag weren't enough to hang you and your wretched crew of cutthroats, here in front o' ye kneels one witness o' your dirty deeds, and the other will be on deck in a minute in the person o' the parson you thought dead. How d'ye like it, eh?" and the speaker once more stood erect, and confronted our heroes. "Seth!" they ejaculated, in one voice. "Seth! by all that is marvellous!" said McBain, clutching the old man by the right hand, while Rory seized his left, and Allan and Ralph got hold of an arm each. "Ah! gentlemen," said honest Seth--and there was positively a tear in his eye as he spoke--"it's on occasions like these that one wishes he had four hands,--a hand for every friend. Yes, I reckon it is Seth himself, and nary a one else. You may well say wonders will never cease. You may well ask me how on earth I came here. It war Providence, gentlemen, and nuthin' else, that I knows on. It war Providence sent that cut-throat skipper to the land where you left me on the _Snowbird_, though I didn't think so at the time, when they burned and pillaged my hut and killed poor old Plunkett, nor when they carried me a prisoner on board the _Maelsturm_. They meant to scupper old Seth. They did talk o' bilin' his old bones in whale oil, but they soon found out he could heal a hole in a hide as well as make one, and so, gentlemen, I've been surgeon-in-chief to this craft for nine months and over. Yes, it war Providence and nuthin' else, and I knew it war as soon as I saw your ship heave in sight, the day they guessed they'd wreck ye. The parson's daughter, poor little Dunette, war on board then. I sent her to save ye; and when I heard your voice, Captain McBain, on the reef, I felt sure it war Providence then, and I kind o' prayed in my rough way that He might spare ye. Shake hands, gentlemen, again. Bother these old eyes o' mine; they will keep watering." And Seth drew his sleeve rapidly across his face as he spoke. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Rory was a proud--boy, ahem! well, _man_, then, if you will have it so, when that same afternoon he was put on board the _Maelsturm_, as captain of her, with a picked crew from the _Arrandoon_, and with orders to make all sail for Reikjavik. McBain's last words to him were these,-- "Keep your weather eye lifting, Captain Roderick Elphinston. Clap two sentries on those ruffianly prisoners of yours, and let your men sleep with their cutlasses by their sides and their revolvers under their heads." "Ay, ay, sir!" said Rory. Rory allowed his crew to sleep, but he himself paced the deck all the livelong night. Occasionally he could see the lights of the _Arrandoon_ far on ahead; but towards morning the weather got thick and somewhat squally, and at daylight the _Maelsturm_ seemed alone on the ocean. Sail was taken in, but the ship kept her course, and just in the even-glome Rory ran into the Bay of Reikjavik, and dropped anchor, and shortly after a boat came off from the _Arrandoon_ with both Allan and Ralph in it, to congratulate the boy-captain on the success of his, first voyage as skipper-commandant. Next day both the pirate vessel and her captor were show-ships for the people--all the _elite_ and beauty of Reikjavik crowded off from the shore in dozens to see them. The dilapidated condition of the _Maelsturm_, her broken bulwarks, rent rigging, and shivered spars, showed how fierce the fight had been. Nor were evidences of the struggle wanting on board the _Arrandoon_, albeit the men had been hard at work all the day making good repairs. The dead were buried at sea; the wounded were mostly sent on shore. Five poor fellows belonging to McBain's ship would never fight again, and many more were placed for a time _hors de combat_. As to the prisoners, they were transferred to a French ship that lay at Reikjavik, and that in the course of a week sailed with them for Denmark. Seth and the officers of the _Arrandoon_ made and signed depositions; and in addition to this, as evidence against the pirates, the old clergyman and his daughter Dunette, now joyfully reunited, went along with the Frenchman, while, with a crew from shore, the _Maelsturm_ left some days after. The black flag had never been lowered, nor was it until the day the pirate captain and many of his crew expiated their long list of crimes on the scaffold at the Holms of Copenhagen. Poor Dunette, the tears fell unheeded from her sad blue eyes as she bade farewell to our heroes on the deck of the _Arrandoon_. She did not say good-bye to the surgeon, however--at least not there. He had begged for a boat, and accompanied her on board the vessel in which she was to sail. Have they a secret, we wonder? Is it possible that our quiet surgeon has won the heart of this beautiful fair-haired Danish maiden? These are questions we must not seek answer to now, but time may tell. Not until the pirate ship had left the bay, and the wounded were so far convalescent as to be brought once more on board, did the old peace and quiet settle down upon the good ship _Arrandoon_. And now once more all was bustle and stir; in a day or two they would start for the far north, and bid adieu to civilisation--a long but not, they hoped, a last adieu. The very evening before they sailed, a farewell party was given on board the _Arrandoon_. The decks were tented over with canvas lined with flags, and the whole scene was gay and festive in the extreme. Poetic Rory could not have believed that there was so much female youth and loveliness in this primitive little town of Reikjavik. No wonder that day was dawning in the east ere the last boat of laughing and merry guests left for the shore. Many and many a time afterwards, when surrounded by dangers innumerable, when beset in ice, when engulfed in darkness and storm, in the mysterious regions of the Pole, did they look back with pleasure to that last happy night spent in the bay of Reikjavik. But see, it is twelve o'clock by the sun. Flags are floating gaily on the fort, on the little church tower, and on every eminence in or near the town, and the beach and snow-clad rocks are lined with an excited crowd. Hands and handkerchiefs are waved, and with the farewell cheers the far-off hills resound. Then our brave fellows man the rigging and waft them back cheer for cheer, as the noble vessel cleaves the waters of the bay, and stands away for the Northern Ocean. CHAPTER ELEVEN. THE VOYAGE RESUMED--A PLEASANT EVENING--"THOSE RUSHING WINDS"--THE "ARRANDOON" GROWS SAUCY--THE DOCTOR SPREAD-EAGLED--A SCHOOL OF WHALES. Ere the day had worn to a close, before the sun went down in a golden haze, leaving one long line of crimson cloud, as earnest of a bright to-morrow, the _Arrandoon_, steaming twelve knots to the hour, was once more far away at sea, and the rugged mountains of Iceland could hardly be descried. As night fell a breeze sprang up, and as there was little doubt it would freshen ere long--for it blew from the east-south-east, and the glass had slightly gone down, with the mercury still concave at top--Captain McBain gave orders for the fires to be banked, and as much canvas spread as she could comfortably carry. "Just make her snug, you know, Mr Stevenson," said McBain, "for the night will be dark, and we may have more wind before the middle watch." "And troth," said Rory to his companions, "if the ship is to be made snug, I don't see why we shouldn't make ourselves snug for the night too." Ralph was gazing down through the skylight at the brilliantly-lighted saloon, where Peter, with the aid of the assistant-steward and Freezing Powders, was busy laying the cloth for dinner. "I've just come from forward," replied Ralph, in raptures, "where I've been sniffing the roast beef and the boiled potatoes; and now just look below, Rory,--look how Peter's face beams with intelligent delight; see how radiant Freezing Powders is; behold how merrily the flames dance on that fire of fires in the stove, and how the coloured crystal shimmers, and the bright silver shines on that cloth of spotless snow! Yes, Rory, you're right, boy--let us make ourselves snug for the night. So down we go, and dress our smartest--for, mind, boys, there is going to be company to-night." Yes, there was going to be company; five were all that as a rule sat down to table in the grand saloon, but to-night the covers were laid for five more, namely Stevenson, Seth, old Magnus, and Ap, and last, though not least, De Vere, the French aeronaut. The cook of the _Arrandoon_ had been chosen specially by Ralph himself. Need I say, then, that he was an artist? and to-night he had done his best to outshine himself, and, I think, succeeded. I think, too, that when Peter went forward, some time after the great joints had been put on the table, and told him that everything was going on "as merrily as marriage bells," and that the gentlemen were loud in their praises of Ralph's cook, that that cook was about the happiest man in the ship. Peter had not exaggerated a bit either, for everything did go off well at this little dinner-party. It would have done your heart good to have seen the beaming countenances of little Ap, old man Magnus, and honest trapper Seth; and to have noticed how often they passed their plates for another help would have made you open your eyes with wonder--that is, if you never had been to Greenland; but had you made the voyage North Polewards even once, you would have known that of all countries in the world that is just the place to give man or boy a healthy appetite. When the cloth was removed and dessert placed upon the table they seemed happier than ever, if that were possible, and smiles and jokes and jocund yarns ere the order of the evening. After every good story the cockatoo helped himself to an immense mouthful of hemp-seed, and cried,-- "Dea-ah me! Well, well, but go on, _go on_--next." And as to Freezing Powders, he was so amazed at many things he heard, that more than a dozen times in one hour he had to refresh himself by standing on his head in a corner of the saloon. "Well, well, well!" said McBain, taking the advantage of a mere momentary lull in this feast of reason and flow of soul, "and what a strange mixture of nationalities we are, to be sure! Here is our bold, quiet Ralph, English to the spine--" "And I," said Rory, "I'm Oirish to the chine." "That you are," assented McBain; "and Allan and myself here are Scotch; and if you look farther along the table there is Wales represented in the form of cool, calculating, mathematical Ap; Shetland in the shape of our brave gunner Magnus; France in the form of friend De Vere; and the mightiest republic in the world in Seth's six feet and odd inches; to say nothing of Africa standing on its head beside Polly's cage. Freezing Powders, you young rascal, drop on to your other end; don't you see you're making Polly believe the world is upside down? look at her hanging by the feet with her head down!" "Dat cockatoo not a fool, sah," said Freezing Powders; "he know putty well what he am about, sah!" "D'ye know," said Ralph, looking smilingly towards Seth, "it is quite like old times to see Seth once more in the midst of us?" "And oh!" said Seth, rubbing his hands, while a modest smile stole over his wiry face, "mebbe this old trapper ain't a bit pleased to meet ye all again. Gentlemen, Seth and civilisation hain't been 'cquaintances very long; skins seem to suit this child better'n the fine toggery ye've rigged him out in. But ye've made him feel a deal younger, and he guesses and calculates he may die 'pectable yet." I fear it was pretty far into the middle watch ere our friends parted and betook themselves to their berths. Two bells had gone--"the wee short hoor ayont the twal"--when McBain rose from the table, this being a signal for general good-nights. "I'm going part of the way home with you, old man," he said to Magnus, and with his arm placed kindly over his shoulder he left the saloon with the brave wee Shetlander. "Two turns on the deck, Magnus," he continued, "and then you can turn in. And so, you say, in all your experience--and it has been very vast, hasn't it, my friend?" "That it has, sir," replied Magnus. "I may say I was born in these seas, for the first thing I remember--when our ship went down under us in the pack north of Jan Mayen--is my father, bless him! putting me in a carpetbag for safety, to carry me on to the ice with him. Yes, sir, yes." "And in all your experience," McBain went on, "you don't remember a season likely to have been more favourable for our expedition to the North Pole than the present?" "I don't, sir--I don't," said little Magnus, "Look, see, sir, the frost has been extreme all over the north. In the Arctic regions the ice has been all of a heap like. It isn't yet loosened. We haven't met a berg yet. Funny, ain't it, sir?--queer, isn't it, cap'n?" "It is strange," said McBain; "and from this what do you anticipate?" "Anticipate isn't the word, cap'n," cried Magnus, fixing McBain by the right arm, stopping his way, and emphasising his words with wildfire glints from his warlock eyes. "Anticipate?--bah! cap'n--bah! I'm old enough to be your grandfather. Ask me rather what I _augur_? And I answer this, I augur a glorious summer. Ice loosened before May-Day. Fierce heat south of England, and consequently rarefaction of the atmosphere, and rushing winds from the far north to fill up the heated vacuum--rushing winds to trundle the icebergs south before them--rushing winds to split the packs, and rend the floes, and open up a passage for this brave ship to the far-off Isle of Alba." "Bless you, Magnus! Give us your hand, my old sea-dad. You always gave me comfort, even when I was a boy in the wilds of Spitzbergen. You taught me to splice, and reef, and steer. Bless you, Magnus! I couldn't have sailed without you." "But stay, my son, stay," continued this weird little man, holding up a warning finger; "those rushing winds--" "Yes, Magnus?" "They will bring danger on their wings." "I'll welcome it, Magnus," laughed McBain. "Those rushing winds will tear down on us, hurricane-high, tempest-strong. The great bergs, impelled by force of wind and might of wave, will dash each other to atoms." "All the better for us, Daddy Magnus," said the captain. "Were your voice as loud as cannon's roar you will be as one dumb amid the turmoil." "Then I'll steer by signs," said McBain. "Should our ship escape destruction, we will be enveloped by fogs, encircled by a darkness that will be felt." "Then we'll heave-to and wait till they evaporate. But there, my good Magnus, you see I'm not afraid of anything. I'd be unworthy of such a sea-dad as you if I were; so no more tragic airs, please. Thou mindest me, old Magnus, of the scene between Lochiel and the Wizard. "`Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet you in battle array,' "says the Wizard, and so on and so forth. "`False wizard, avaunt!' replies Lochiel, and all the rest of it, you know. But, beloved Magnus, I don't _say_ `avaunt!' to you. But just see how the cold spray is dashing inboard. So, not to put too poetic a point on it, I simply say, `Go down below, old man, and don't get wet, else your joints will ache in the morning with the rheumatiz.'" The morning broke beautifully fine and clear, the reefs were shaken out of the topsails, topgallant-sails and royals were set, and, indeed, all the square cloth she could carry, and away went the _Arrandoon_ before the wind, as happy, to all appearance, as the malleys and gulls that seemed to play at hide-and-seek with her, behind the comb-crested seas of olive-green. Ralph and Allan, arm-in-arm, were marching rapidly up and down one side of the quarter-deck, Rory and McFlail on the other, and ever and anon a merry laugh from some one of them rang out bright and joyously on the fresh frosty air. Towards noon stunsails were set, and the _Arrandoon_ looked more like a sea-bird than ever; she even seemed to sing to herself--so thought Rory and so thought the doctor--as she went nodding and curtseying along over the waves, with now a bend to starboard, and now a lean to port; now lowering her bows till the seas ahead looked mountains high, and anon giving a dip waterwards till her waist was wet with the seething spray, and her lower stunsail-booms seemed to tickle the very breast of old mother ocean. The wind was increasing, and there were times when our boys had to pause in their walk and grapple the mizzen rigging, laughing at each other as they did so. "Wo ho, my beauty?" said McBain. "Mr Mitchell, I daresay we must take in sail." "I'm afraid so, sir," replies Mitchell; "but--" and here he eyes the bellowing canvas--"it do seem a pity, sir, don't it?" But here "my beauty" gives a vicious plunge forwards, elevating herself aft like a kicking mare, and shipping tons of water over her bows. "I don't want to be wicked," the ship seems to say, "and I don't want to lose a spar, though I _could_ kick one off as easy as a daddy-longlegs gets rid of a limb; but if you don't ease me a bit I'll--" A bigger and more decided plunge into the sea, followed by a rising of her jibboom zenithwards, and the water comes roaring aft in one great bore, which seeks exit by the quarter-deck scupper-holes, and goes tumbling down the companion ladder, to the indignation of Peter and the disgust of Freezing Powders, who is standing on his head in an attitude of contemplation, and ships a green sea down his nostrils. Our heroes leap in time on to the top of the skylight, and there sit grinning delightedly as the waters go roaring past them, and floating thereon evidence enough that the men had been preparing dinner when Neptune boarded them, for yonder float potatoes and turnips and cabbages, to say nothing of a leg of Highland mutton and a six-pound piece of bacon. "Hands, shorten sail!" But next day--so changeable is a sailor's life--the wind had all got bottled up again or gone back to its cave; the sea was smooth as glass, and steam was up, but the sky was still clear, and the sun undimmed by the slightest haze. Just before lunch came the first signs that ice was not far ahead. The _Arrandoon_ encountered a great "stream," as it is called, of deep, snowy slush--I do not know what else to call it. It stretched away eastwards to westwards, as far as the eye from the crow's-nest could reach, and it was probably nine or ten miles wide. It lessened the good ship's way considerably, you may be sure. Her bows clove through it with a brushing sound; her screw revolved in it with a noise like dead leaves stirred by autumn winds. "Losh!" cried Sandy, the surgeon, looking curiously overboard, "what's this noo? Wonders will never cease!" "Och, sure!" replied Rory, mischievously, "you know well enough what it is; it's only speaking for speaking's sake you are." "The ne'er a bone o' ma knows, I do assure ye," said Sandy. "Well, doctor dear," said Rory, "it is simply the belt, or zone, that geographers call the `Arctic circle.'" But Sandy looked at him with a pitying smile. "Man--Rory?" he said, "I'm no' so sea-green as you tak me to be. I've a right good mind to pu' your lugs. Young men, sir, dinna enter Aberdeen University stirks and come out cuddies?" "Mon!" cried Rory, imitating Sandy's brogue, "if ye want to pu' my lugs you'll hae to catch me first;" and off he went round the deck, with the doctor after him. But Ralph caught him, if Sandy couldn't, and handed him over to justice. "Now," cried the surgeon, catching him by the ear, "whistle, and I'll let you free." It is no easy matter to whistle when you want to laugh, but when Rory at long last did manage to emit a labial note that passed muster as a whistle, the doctor was as good as his word, and Rory was free. Luncheon was barely finished, when down from the crow's-nest rang the welcome hail, "Ice ahead!" Our heroes rushed on deck, McBain was there before them, and when they stepped on to the "lid" of the ship, as Sandy once called the deck, they found the captain half-way up to the nest. There wasn't a bit of ice to be seen from the deck. "Hurrah for the foretop?" cried Rory, laying hold of a stay. "Who's coming?" "I will!" cried Allan. "I'm going below to finish lunch," said Ralph. "I'll be safer on deck, I think," said the canny doctor. But when Rory on the foretop struck an attitude of wonderment, and pointing away ahead, exclaimed, in rapture, "Oh, boys, what a scene is here!" the doctor thought he would give anything for a peep, so he summoned up his courage and began to ascend the rigging, slowly, and with about as much grace in his actions as a mud turtle would exhibit under the like circumstances. Allan roared, "Good doctor! good! Bravo, old man! Heave round like a brick! Don't look down." Rory was in a fit of merriment, and trying to stifle himself with his handkerchief. Suddenly down dropped that handkerchief; and this was just the signal four active lads were waiting for. Up they sprang like monkeys behind the surgeon, who had hardly reached the lubber-hole. Alas! the good medico didn't reach it that day, for before you could have said "cutlass" he was seized, hand and foot, and lashed to the rigging, Saint Andrew's-cross fashion. The surgeon of the _Arrandoon_ was spread-eagled, and Rory, the wicked boy! had his revenge. "My conscience!" cried Sandy; "what next, I wonder?" "It's a vera judeecious arrangement," sung Rory from the top. But the men were not hard on the worthy doctor, and the promise of several ounces of nigger-head procured him his freedom, and he soon regained the deck, a sadder and a wiser man. They were quickly among the ice--not bergs, mind you, only a stream of bits and pieces, of every shape and form, some like sheep and some like swans, and some like great white oxen. Here was a piece like a milking-pail; here was a lump like a hay-cock; yonder a gondola; yonder a boat; and yonder a couch on which the Naiades might recline and float, or Ino slumber. It was Rory who made the last remark. "And by this and by that!" he exclaimed, "there is a Naiad on it now! or it's Ino herself, by all that's amusing!" "Away, second whaler!"--this from McBain. "Get your rifle, boy Rory, and jump on board and fetch that seal!" Down rattled the boat from the davits, Rory in the bows; the next moment she was off, and tearing through the glazed water as fast as sturdy arms could row. The seal took one look up to see what was coming. Rory's rifle rang out sharp and clear in the frosty air, and the poor seal never lifted head again. The ship was by this time a goodly mile ahead, but there she stopped; then she went ahead again, rounded, and came back full speed to meet the boat, for they on board could see a danger that Rory couldn't--couldn't, did I say? Ah! but he soon did, and, with the roar of a maelstrom, down they came upon him--an enormous school of whales! The men lay on their oars thunderstruck. The sea around them seemed alive with the mighty monsters. How they plunged and ploughed and snorted and blew! The sea became roughened, as if a fierce wind was blowing over it; pieces of ice as large as boats were caught on the backs or tails of these brutes and pitched aside as one might a football. It occurred to Rory to fire at some of them. "Stay, stay!" roared the coxswain; "if you love your life, sir, and care for ours, fire not. _You_ may never have seen a whale angry--I have. Fire not, I beseech you!" It was a strange danger to have encountered, and Rory and his boat-mates were not sorry when it passed, and they once more stood in safety on the deck of the _Arrandoon_. But Rory soon regained his equanimity. "Five hundred whales!" he cried; "and they were all mine, Ralph, 'cause I found them! Sure, they were worth a million of money?" "So you've been a millionaire, Rory?" said McBain. "Yes, worse luck!" said Rory, in a voice of comic sadness, "a millionaire for a minute!" CHAPTER TWELVE. THE ISLE OF JAN MAYEN--RETROSPECTION--THE SEA OF ICE--THE DESERTED VILLAGE--CARRIED OFF BY A BEAR--DANCING FOR DEAR LIFE. What a tiny speck it looks in the map, that island of Jan Mayen, all by itself, right in the centre of the great Arctic Ocean. Of volcanic origin it undoubtedly is--every mountain, rock, and hill in it--and there is ample evidence that from yonder gigantic cone, that rises, like a mighty sugar-loaf or the Tower of Babel itself, to a height of 6,000 feet sheer into the blue and cloudless sky, at one time smoke and flames must oftentimes have burst, and showers of stones and ashes, and streams of molten lava. I have gazed on it by night, and my imagination has carried me back, and back, and back, through the long-distant past, and I have tried to fancy the sublimity of the scene during an eruption. The time is early spring. The long, dark winter has passed away; the cold-looking, rayless sun rises now, but skirts hurriedly across a small disc of southern sky, then speedily sinks to rest again, as though he shuddered to gaze upon scenery so bleak and desolate. The island of Jan Mayen, with its ridgy hills and its one mighty mountain, is clad in dazzling robes of virgin snow. Its rocky and precipitous shores rise not up, as yet, from the dark waters that in summer time wash round them, but from the sea of ice itself. As far as eye can reach, or north or south, or east or west, stretches this immeasurable ocean of ice. All flat and all snow-clad is it, like the wildest and loneliest of Highland moorlands in winter, and its very flatness gives it an air of greater lonesomeness, which the solitary hummocks here and there but tend to heighten. And through the short and dreary day one solitary cloud has rested like a pall on the summit of the mountain. But it is midnight now: in the deep blue of the sky big, bright stars are shining, that look like moons of molten silver, and seem far nearer than they do in southern climes. In the north the radiant bow of the Aurora is spread out, its transverse beams glancing and glistering, spears of light, that dance and glide and shimmer, changing their colours every moment from green to blue or red, from pale-yellow to the brightest of crimson. And the silence that reigns over all this field of ice is one that travellers have often experienced, often been impressed and awed by, but never yet found words to describe. Silence did I say? Yes! but listen! Subterranean thunders suddenly break it--thunders coming evidently from the bosom of the great mountain yonder, thunders that shake and crack and rend the very ice on which you stand, causing the bergs to grind and shriek like monsters in agony. The great cloud pall has risen higher and spread itself out, and now hangs horizontally over half the island, black and threatening, its blackness lit up ever and anon with flashes of lightning, sheet and forked, while, peal after peal, the thunder now rolls almost without intermission. And onward and onward rolls the cloud athwart the sky, blotting out the starlight--blotting out the beautiful Aurora--till the sea of ice for leagues around is canopied in darkness. But behold, over the mountain-top the cloud gets lighter in colour, for immense volumes of steam, solid sheets of water, and pieces of ice tons in weight, are being belched forth, or hurtled into the air with a continued noise that drowns the awful rhythm of the thunder itself. Then flames follow, shooting up into the sky many hundreds of feet, lighting up the scene with a lurid glare, while down the snow-clad sides of the great cone streams of fiery lava rush in fury, crimson, blue, or green. And gigantic rocks are precipitated into the air--rocks so large that, as they fall upon the ice miles distant from the burning crater, they smash the heaviest floes, and sink through into the sea. Great stones, too, are incessantly emitted, like balls of fire, that burst in the air, and keep up a sound like that of the loudest artillery. The sun will rise in due course, but his beams cannot penetrate the veil of saturnine darkness that envelops the sea of ice. And the fire will rage, the thunders will roll, and showers of stones and ashes fall for days, ay, mayhap for weeks or months, ere the mighty convulsion ceases, and silence once more reigns in and around this island of Jan Mayen. Towards this lonely isle of the ocean the _Arrandoon_ had been beating and pushing her way for days; and she now lay, with clewed sails and banked fires, among the flat but heavy bergs not five miles from it. There was no water in sight, for the iceless ocean had been left far, far astern, and the ship was now to all intents and purposes beset. Yet the ice was loose; it was not welded together by the fingers of King Frost, and if it remained so, the difficulty of getting out into the clear water again would be by no means insurmountable. Our heroes, the doctor included, were all on deck, dressed to kill, in caps of fur with ear lapels, coats of frieze with pockets innumerable, with boots that reached over the knees, and each was armed with a rifle and seal-club, with revolver in belt and short sheath-knife dangling from the left side. "And so," said the doctor, "this is the mighty sea of ice that I've heard so much about! Man! boys! I'm no so vera muckle struck with it. It is not unlike my father's peat moss in the dreary depths of winter. Where are the lofty pinnacled bergs I expected to see, the rocks and towers of ice, the green glistening gables, and the tall spires, like a hundred cathedrals dang into one?" "Ah!" said McBain, laughing, "just bide a wee, doctor lad, till we go farther north, and if you don't see ice that will outdo your every dream of romance, I'm neither Scot nor sailor. "But what is this?" continued the captain. "Who in the name of all that is marvellous have we here?" "I 'spects I'se Freezin' Powders, sah," was the reply of the little negro boy. "Leastways I hopes I is." Here the urchin touched his cap. "Freezin' Powders, at your service, sah--your under-steward and butler, sah?" "Well, my under-steward and butler," said McBain; "but whoever could have expected to see you rigged out in this fashion--pilot suit, fur cap, boots, and all complete? Why, who dressed you, my little Freezin' Powders?" "De minor ole gem'lam," replied the boy; "but don't dey fit, sah? Don't dey become dis chile? Look heah, sah!" and Freezing Powders went strutting up and down the quarter-deck, as proud as a pouter pigeon; and finished off by presenting arms with his seal-club in front of his good-natured captain. "Well," said McBain, much amused, "you are a comical customer. By `the minor ole gem'lam' I suppose you mean honest Magnus? But your English is peculiar, youngster." "My English is puffuk, sah!" replied the boy; "but lo! sah! suppose I not have dis suit of close, I freeze, sah! I no longer be Freezin' Powders, 'cause I freeze all up into one lump, sah! Now, sah, I can go on shoh wid de oder officers." "Ho! ho!" laughed McBain; "the _other_ officers. It's come to that, has it? But," he added, turning to Allan and Rory, "you'll look after the lad, won't you?" "That will we," said both in a breath. Here are the names of those who went on shore in Jan Mayen on this memorable day--Allan, Ralph, Rory, Seth, and the doctor, with three club-armed retainers, and lastly, Freezing Powders himself. They were a merry band. You could have heard them laughing and talking when they were miles away from the ship. They had to leap from one piece of ice to another; but as the bergs were from forty to fifty feet square--thus affording them a good run for their leaps--and as the pieces were pretty closely packed, jumping was no great hardship. When now and then they came to a bit of water that required a tolerable spring to get over, tall Ralph vaulted first, then brawny-chested Allan pitched Freezing Powders after him, whom Ralph caught as easily as if he had been a cricket-ball. They landed on the island in a kind of bay, where the land sloped down to the snow-clad beach. Not far from the sea they were much surprised to find the ruins of huts that had been. No smoke issued therefrom now, but there was ample proof that roaring fires had once burned in each hut. They were partly underground, and though built of wood and sealskins they were thatched and fortified with snow. The largest cot of all was in the centre, and entering this they found a key to the seeming mystery, for here were evidences of civilisation. Pots and pans stood on the empty hearth; a chair or two, a truckle bed, a deal table and a book-cupboard, formed the furniture, and to cap all a written document was found, which informed them that this village had been the encampment for the summer months of a party of American walrus-hunters, the captain of which had aided science by making innumerable observations of a meteorological and scientific nature. "I reckon," said Seth, "there ain't many parts o' the world where my enterprising countrymen hain't shown their noses." "All honour to them for that same," said Rory; "and troth, there isn't a mightier nation on the face of the earth bar the kingdom of Ireland." "Now, look here," said Allan, "this wee chap, Freezing Powders, will be far too tired if he goes with us; and here, by good luck, is a frozen ham in this enterprising Yankee's cupboard. I move we light a fire, hang it over it, and leave the little black butler as cook till we come back." "Bravo!" said Ralph. "Allan, you're a brick. You won't be afraid, will you, Freezing Powders?" "I stop and do de cookin', plenty quick," answered the boy, briskly. "Freezin' Powders never was afraid of nuffin in his life." So the fire was lighted--there was fuel enough in the hut to keep it going for a month; then, leaving the boy to watch the ham, away went our explorers, upwards and onwards, through the ruggedest glens imaginable; winding round rocks and hills of ice and snow, they soon lost sight of the primitive village, the distant ship, and the sea of ice itself. They wandered on and on for miles, pausing often to allow Rory to make a sketch of some more than usually wild and fantastic group of ice-clad rocks or charming bit of scenery; but wherever they went, or whichever way they turned, there loomed the great mountain cone of Jan Mayen above them. The scene was everywhere silent and desolate in the extreme, for not a breath of wind was blowing, not a cloud was in the sky, and no sign of life was there to greet them, not even a solitary gull or snowbird. It wanted two good hours to sunset when they once more returned to the deserted village, eager to test the flavour of the Yankee's ham, for walking on the snow had given them the appetite of healthy hunters. Their astonishment as well as horror may be imagined when, on entering the hut, they found a scene of utter confusion. The fire still burned, it is true, and yonder hung the ham; but the table and chairs were overturned, and the contents of even the rude bookcase scattered about the floor. _And Freezing Powders was gone_! He had been carried off by a bear. Of this there was plenty of testimony, if only in the huge footprints of the monster, which he had left in the snow. Not very distinct were they, however, for the surface of the snow was crisp and hard. But Seth was equal to the occasion, and at once--walking in a bee line, the trapper leading--they set out to track the bear, if possible, to his lair. The footprints led them southwards and west, through a region far more wild than that which they had already traversed. For a whole hour they walked in silence, until they found themselves at the top of a ravine, the rocks of which joined to form a sort of triangle. Half-roofed over was this triangle with a balcony of frozen snow, from which descended immense icicles, on which the roof leant, forming a kind of verandah. Seth paused, and pointed upwards. "The b'ar is yonder!" he whispered. "Stay here; the old trapper's feet are moccasined, he won't be heard. Gentlemen, Seth means to have that b'ar, or he won't come back alive!" So leaving his companions, onwards, all alone, steals Seth. A bear itself could not have crept more silently, more cautiously along than the trapper does. Those left behind waited in a fever of almost breathless suspense. The doctor stretched out his arm and took gentle hold of Rory's wrist. His pulse was over a hundred; so was the doctor's own, and he could easily hear his heart beat. How slowly old Seth seems to move. He is on hands and knees now, and many a listening pause he makes. Now he has reached the edge of the icy verandah, and peers carefully over. The bear is there, undoubtedly, for, see, he gives one anxious glance at his rifle--it is a double-barrelled bone-crusher. Crang-r-r-r! goes the rifle, and every rock in the island seems to re-echo the sound. The reverberation has not ceased, however, when there mingles with it a roar--a blood-curdling roar--that seems to shake the very ground. "Wah-o-ah! waugh! waugh! wah-o?" and a great pale-yellow bear springs from the cave, then falls, quivering and bleeding, on his side in the snow. Our heroes rush up now. "Any more of them?" cries Rory. "Wall, I guess not," said the old trapper. "Yonder lies the master; I've given him a sickener; and the missus ain't at home. But there is suthin' black in thar, though!" "Why," cried Allan, "I declare it is Freezing Powders himself!" and out into the bright light stalked the poor nigger boy, staring wildly round about, and seemingly in a dream. "Ah, gem'lams!" he said, slowly, "so you have come at last! What a drefful, _drefful_ fright dis poor chile have got! 'Spect I'll nebber get ober it; nebber no more!" "Come along," said Ralph. "Get on top of my shoulder. That's the style! You can tell us all about it when we reach the village." "Now," cried Allan, "look alive, lads, and whip old Bruin out of his skin, and bring along his jacket and paws!" When they did get back to the hut, and poor Freezing Powders had warmed himself and discussed a huge slice of broiled ham and a captain's biscuit, the boy got quite cheery again, and proceeded to relate his terrible adventure. "You see, gem'lams," he said, "soon as ebber you leave me I begin for to watch de ham, and turn he round and round plenty much, and make de fire blaze like bobbery. Mebbe one whole hour pass away. De flames dey crack, and de ham he frizzle. Den all to once I hear somebody snuff-snuffing like, and I look round plenty quick, and dere was--oh! dat great big awful bear--bigger dan a gator [alligator]. Didn't I scream and run jus'! And de bear he knock down de chairs and de tables, and den he catchee me in his mouf, all de same I one small mouse and he one big cat. You see, gem'lam, he smell de ham. `Dat bery nice,' he tink, `but de nigga boy better.' So he take dis chile. He nebber have take one nigga boy before dis, praps. Den he run off wid me ober de mountains. He no put one tooth in me all de time. When he come to de cave he put me down and snuff me. Den he say to himself, `I want some fun; I make play wid dis nigga boy befoh I gobbles 'im up.' So he make me run wid his big foot, and when I run away den he catchee me again, and he keep me run away plenty time, till I so tired I ready to drop. [Greenland bears have been known to play this cat-and-mouse game with seals before devouring them.] All de same, I not want to be gobble up too soon, gem'lams, so I make all de fun I can. I stand on my head, and I run on my four feet. I jump and I kick, and I dance, and I sing to de tune ob-- "`Plenty quick, nigga boy, Plenty fast you run, De bear will nebber gobble you up So long's you make de fun.' "Den de big, ugly yellow bear he berry much tickled, and he tink to hisself, `Well,' he tink, `'pon my word and honah! I nebber see nuffin like dis before--not in all my born days! I not eat dis nigga boy up till my mudder come home.' And all de time I make dance and sing-- "`Quicker, quicker, nigga boy, Faster, faster go, Amoosin' ob de ole bear, Among de Ahtic snow. "`Jing-a-ring, a-ring-a-ring, Sich somersaults I frow, In all his life dis nigger chile Ne'er danced like dis befoh.' "But now, gem'lams, I notice dat de bear he begin to make winkee-winkee wid both his two eyes. Den I dance all de same, but I begin to sing more slow and plaintive, gem'lams-- "`Oh! I'm dreaming 'bout my mudder dear Dat I leave on Afric's shoh, And de little hut among de woods Dat I ne'er shall see no moh. "`Sierra-lee-le-ohney, Sierra-lee-leon, Ah! who will feed de cockatoo When I is dead and gone?' "Dat song fix de yellow bear, gem'lams. He no winkee no more now; he sleep sound and fast, wid his big head on his big paws. Den I sing one oder verse, and I sleep, too, and I not hear nuffin more until de rifles make de bobbery and de yellow bear begin to cough." "Bravo!" cried Ralph, when Freezing Powders had finished his story. "Now, Allan, lad, cut us all another slice of that glorious ham, and let us be moving." "Yes," said Allan. "Here goes, then, for night is falling already, and the captain will be longing to hear of our adventures." CHAPTER THIRTEEN. MORE ABOUT FREEZING POWDERS--"PERSEVERANDO"--DINING IN THE SKY--THE DESCENT OF THE CRATER. A black man in a barrel of treacle is said by some to be emblematical of happiness. So situated, a black man without doubt enjoys a deal of bliss, but I question very much if it equals the joy poor Freezing Powders felt when he found himself once more safe on board the _Arrandoon_, and cuddled down in a corner with his old cockatoo. [It may be as well to state here that neither the negro boy nor the cockatoo is a character drawn at random; both had their counterparts in real life.] What a long story he had to tell the bird, to be sure!--what a "terrible tale," I might call it! As usual, when greatly engrossed in listening, the bird was busily engaged helping himself to enormous mouthfuls of hemp-seed, spilling more than he swallowed, cocking his head, and gazing at his little black master, with many an interjectional and wondering "Oh!" and many a long-drawn "De-ah me!" just as if he understood every word the boy said, and fully appreciated the dangers he had come through. "Well, duckie?" said the bird, fondly, when Freezing Powders had concluded. "Oh! der ain't no moh to tell, cockie," said the boy; "but I 'ssure you, when I see dat big yellow bear wid his big red mouf, I tink I not hab much longer to lib in dis world, cockie--I 'ssure you I tink so." Freezing Powders was the hero for one evening at all events. McBain made him recite his story and sing his daft, wild songs more than once, and the very innocence of the poor boy heightened the general effect. He was a favourite all over the ship from that day forth. Everybody in a manner petted him, and yet it was impossible to spoil him, for he took the petting as a matter of course, but always kept his place. His duties were multifarious, though light--he cleaned the silver and shined the boots, and helped to lay the cloth and wait at table. He went by different names in different parts of the ship. Ralph called him his cup-bearer, because he brought that young gentleman's matutinal coffee, without which our English hero would not have left his cabin for the world. Freezing Powders was message-boy betwixt steward and cook, and bore the viands triumphantly along the deck, so the steward called him "Mustard and Cress," and the cook "Young Shallots," while Ted Wilson dubbed him "Boss of the Soup Tureen;" but the boy was entirely indifferent as to what he was called. "Make your games, gem'lams," he would say; "don't be afraid to 'ffend dis chile. He nebber get angry I 'ssure you." When Freezing Powders had nothing in his hand his method of progression forward was at times somewhat peculiar. He went cart-wheel fashion, rolling over and over so quickly that you could hardly see him, he seemed a mist of legs, or something like the figure you see on a Manx penny. At other times "the doctor," as the cook was invariably called by the crew, would pop up his head out of the fore-hatch and bawl out,-- "Pass young Shallots forward here." "Ay, ay, doctor," the men would answer. "Shalots! Shalots! Shalots!" Then Freezing Powder's curly head would beam up out of the saloon companion. "Stand by, men!" the sailor who captured him would cry; and the men would form themselves into a line along the deck about three yards apart, and Freezing Powders would be pitched from one to the other as if he had been a ball of spun-yarn, until he finally fell into the friendly arms of the cook. About a week after the bear adventure De Vere, the aeronaut, was breakfasting in the saloon, as he always did when there was anything "grand in the wind," as Rory styled the situation. "Dat is von thing I admire very mooch," said the Frenchman, pointing to a beautifully-framed design that hung in a conspicuous part of the saloon bulkhead. "Ah," said Allan, laughing, "that was an idea of dear foolish boy Rory. He brought it as a gift to me last Christmas. The coral comes from the Indian Ocean; Rory gathered it himself; the whole design is his." "It's a vera judeecious arrangement," said Sandy McFlail, admiringly. The arrangement, as the doctor called it, was simple enough. Three pieces of coral, in the shape of a rose, a thistle, and shamrock, encased--nay, I may say enshrined--in a beautiful casket of crystal and gilded ebony. There was the milk-white rose of England and the blood-red thistle of Scotland side by side, and fondly twining around them the shamrock of old Ireland--all in black. Here was the motto underneath them-- "Perseverando." "There is nothing like perseverance," said Allan. "The little coral insect thereby builds islands, ay, and founds continents, destined to be stages on which will be worked out or fought out the histories of nations yet unborn. `Perseverando!' it is a grand and bold motto, and I love it." The Frenchman had been standing before the casket; he now turned quickly round to Allan and held out his hand. "You are a bold man," he said; "you will come with me to-day in de balloon?" "I will," said Allan. "We vill soar far above yonder mountain," continued De Vere; "we vill descend into the crater. We vill do vat mortal man has neever done before. Perseverando! Do you fear?" "Fear?" said Allan; "no! I fear nothing under the sun. Whate'er a man dares he can do." "Bravely spoken," cried the Frenchman. "Perseverando! I have room for two more." "Perseverando!" says Rory. "Perseverando for ever! Hoorah! I'm one of you, boys." Ralph was lying on the sofa, reading a book. But he doubled down a leaf, got up, and stretched himself. "Here," he said, quietly, "you fellows mustn't have all the fun; I'll go toe, just to see fair play. But, I say," he added, after a moment's pause, "I don't suppose there will be any refreshment-stalls down there--eh?" "No, that there won't," cried Allan. "Hi! Peter, pack a basket for four." "Ay, ay, sir?" said Peter. "And, I say, Peter--" This from Ralph. "Yes, sir," said the steward, pausing in the doorway. "Enough for twenty," said Ralph. "That's all, Peter." "Thank'ee, sir," said Peter, laughing; "I'll see to that, sir." It was some time before De Vere succeeded in gaining Captain McBain's consent to the embarkation of his boys on this wild and strange adventure, but he was talked over at last. "It is all for the good of science, I suppose," he said, half doubtfully, as he shook hands with our heroes before they took their places in the car. "God keep you, boys. I'm not at all sure I'll ever see one of you again." The ropes were let go, and upwards into the clear air rose the mighty balloon. "Here's a lark," said Allan. "A skylark," said Rory. "Let us sing, boys--let us sing as we soar, `Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves.'" Standing on the quarter-deck, and gazing upwards, McBain heard the voices growing fainter and fainter, and saw the balloon lessening and lessening, till the song could no longer be heard, and the balloon itself was but a tiny speck in the heaven's blue. Then he went down below, and busied himself all day with calculations. He didn't want to think. Meanwhile, how fared it with our boys? Here they were, all together, embarked upon as strange an expedition as it has ever probably been the lot of any youth or youths to try the chance of. Yet I do not think that anything approaching to fear found place in the hearts of one of them. The situation was novel in the extreme. With a slow and steady but imperceptible motion--for she was weightily ballasted--the "Perseverando," as they had named the balloon, was mounting skywards. There was not the slightest air or wind, nor the tiniest of clouds to be seen anywhere, and down beneath and around them was spread out a panorama, which but to gaze upon held them spell-bound. There was the island itself, with its rugged hills looking now so strangely flattened and so grotesquely contorted; to the west and to the north lay the white and boundless sea of ice, but far to the eastward and south was the ocean itself, looking dark as night in contrast with the solid ice. But see, yonder, where the ice joins the water, and just a little way from its edge, lie stately ships--two, three, five in all can be counted, and their sails are all clewed; and those innumerable black ticks on the snow, what can they be but seals, and men sealing? "Don't you long to join them?" said Allan, addressing his companions. "I don't," replied Rory; "in spite of the cold I feel a strange, dreamy kind of happiness all over heart and brain. Troth! I feel as if I had breakfasted on lotus-leaves." "And I," said Ralph, "feel as I hadn't breakfasted on anything in particular. Let us see what Peter has done up for us." And he stretched out his hand as he spoke towards a basket. "Ah?" cried the Frenchman, "not dat basket; dat is my Bagdads--my pigeons, my letter-carriers! You see, gentlemen, I have come prepared to combat eevery deeficulty." "So I see," said Ralph, coolly undoing the other basket; "what an appetite the fresh air gives a fellow, to be sure!" "Indeed," says Rory, archly, "it is never very far from home you've got to go for that same, big brother Ralph. But it's hardly fair, after all, to try to eat the Bagdads." "Remember one thing, though," replied Ralph; "if it should occur to me suddenly that you want your ears pulled you cannot run away to save yourself." "Indeed," said Rory, "I don't think that the frost has left any ears at all on me worth pulling, or worth speaking about either." "Ha?" cried Allan, "that reminds me; I've got those face mufflers. There! I'll show you how to put one on. The fur side goes inside-- thus; now I have a hole to breathe through, and a couple of holes for vision." "And a pretty guy you look!" "Oh! bother the looks," responded Ralph, "let us all be guys. Give us a mask, old man." They did feel more comfortable now that they had the masks on, and could gaze about them without the risk of being frozen. The cold was intense; it was bitter. "I'd beat my feet to keep them warm," said Rory, "if I didn't think I'd beat the bottom of the car out. Then we'd all go fluttering down like so many kittywakes, and it's Captain McBain himself that would be astounded to see us back so soon." "Gentlemen," said the Frenchman, "we are right over the mouth of the crater. I shall now make descent, with your permission. Then it vill not be so cold." "And is it inside the volcano," cries Rory, "you'd be taking us to warm us? Down into the crater, to toast our toes at Vulcan's own fireside? Sure, Captain De Vere, it is splicing the main-brace you're after, for you want to give us all a drop of the craytur." "Oh!--oh!" this from Ralph. "Oh! Rory--oh! how can you make so vile a pun? In such a situation, too!" The gentlest of breezes was carrying the balloon almost imperceptibly towards the north and west; meanwhile De Vere was permitting a gradual escape of gas, and the _Perseverando_ sunk gradually towards the mountain-top, the mouth of which seemed to yawn to swallow them up. There was a terrible earnestness about this daring aeronaut's face that awed even Rory into silence. "Stand by," he whispered; for in the dread silence even a whisper could be heard,--"stand by, Allan, to throw that bag of ballast over the moment I say the word." Viewing it from the sea of ice, no one could calculate how large is the extent of the crater on the top of that mighty mountain cone. It is perfectly circular, and five hundred yards at least in circumference, but it is deeper, far and away, than any volcanic crater into which it has ever been my fortune to peer. Even when the great balloon began to alight in its centre the gulf below seemed bottomless. The _Perseverando_ appeared to be sinking down--down--down into the blackness of darkness. To the perceptions of our heroes, who peered fearfully over the car and gazed below, the gulf was rising towards them and swallowing them up. I do not think I am detracting in the slightest from their character for bravery, when I say that the hearts of Ralph, Rory, and Allan, at all events, felt as if standing still, so terrible was the feeling of dread of some unknown danger that crept over them. As for De Vere, he was a fatalist of the newest French school, and a man that carried his life in his hand. He never attempted, it is true, any feat which he deemed all but impossible to perform; but, having embarked on an enterprise, he would go through with it, or he cared not to live. Strange though it may appear, it is just men like this that fortune favours. Probably because the wish to continue to exist is not uppermost in their minds, the wish and the hope to achieve success is the paramount feeling. Still slowly, very slowly, sunk the balloon, as if unwilling to leave her aerial home. And now a faint shade of light begins to mingle with the darkness beneath them; they are near the bottom of the crater at last. "Stand by once again," whispers De Vere, "to throw that anchor over as soon as I tell you." A moment of awful suspense. "Now! now!" hisses De Vere. Two anchors quit the car at the same time--one thrown by the aeronaut himself, one by Allan, and the ropes are speedily made fast. The balloon gives an upward plunge, the cables tighten, then all is still! "Ha! ha! she is fast!" cried De Vere, now for the first time showing a little excitement. "Oh, she is a beauty! she has behave most lofely! Look up, gentlemen!--look up!--behold the mighty walls of blue ice that surround us!--behold the circle of blue sky dat over-canopies us!--look, the stars are shining!" "Can it be night so soon?" exclaimed Allan, in alarm. "Nay, nay, gentlemen," said the enthusiastic Frenchman, "be easy of your minds. It is not night in the vorld outside, but here it is alvays night; up yonder the stars shine alvays, alvays, when de clouds are absent. And shine dey vill until de crack of doom. Now gaze around you. See, the darkness already begins to vanish, and you can see the vast and mighty cavern into which I have brought you. If my judgment serves me, it extends for miles around beneath de mountain. There!--you begin to perceive the gigantic stalactites that seem to support the roof!" "Ralph," cried Rory, seizing his friend by the hand, "do you remember, years and years ago, while we all sat round the fire in the tartan parlour of Arrandoon Castle, wishing we might be able to do something that no one, man or boy, had ever done before?" "I do--I do," answered Ralph. "Descend with me here, then," continued Rory, "and let us explore the cavern. Only a little, _little_ way, captain," he pleaded, seeing that De Vere shook his head in strong dissent. "You know not vat you do ask," said De Vere, solemnly. "Here are caves within caves, one cavern but hides a thousand more; besides, there are, maybe, and doubtless are, crevasses in de floor of dis awful crater, into which you may tumble, neever, neever to be seen again. Pray do not think of risking a danger so vast." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The day wore slowly to a close; many and many an anxious look did McBain take skywards, in hopes of seeing the returning balloon. But the sun set, tipping the distant hills with brightest crimson, twilight died away in the west, and one by one shone out the stars, till night and darkness and silence reigned over all the sea of ice. He went below at last. His feelings may be better imagined then described. He tried to make himself believe that nothing had occurred, and that the balloon had safely descended in some snow-clad valley, and that morning would bring good tidings. But for all this he could not for the life of him banish a dread, cold feeling that something terrible had occurred, the very novelty of which made it all the more appalling to think of. Presently the mate entered the saloon. "What cheer, Stevenson! Any tidings?" "A pigeon, sir," replied the mate, handing the bird into the captain's grasp. McBain's hands shook as he had never remembered them shake before, as he undid the tiny missive from the pigeon's leg. It ran briefly thus:-- "We are detained here in the crater all night. Do not be alarmed. To-morrow will, please Providence, see us safely home." CHAPTER FOURTEEN. ANXIOUS HOURS--EXPLORATION OF THE MOUNTAIN CAVERN--THE CAVE OF THE KING OF ICE, AND GHOULS OF A THOUSAND WINTERS--TRANSFORMATION SCENES-- SNOWBLIND--LOST. It would be difficult to say which was most to be pitied, McBain on board the _Arrandoon_, passing long hours of inconceivable anxiety, or our other heroes, left to spend the drear, cold night in the awful depths of that Arctic crater. It was with light hearts that Ralph and Rory descended from the car of the _Perseverando_ and commenced their perilous exploration of the vast and dimly-lighted cavern; but heavy hearts were left behind them, and hardly had they disappeared in the gloom ere the Frenchman exclaimed to Allan, "I greatly fear dat I have done wrong. Your two friends are big wid impulse; if anydings happen to them dere vill be for me no more peace in dis world." Allan was silent. But when hours passed away and there were no signs of their returning, when gloaming itself began to fall around them, and the stars at the crater's mouth assumed a brighter hue, Allan's anxiety knew no bounds, and he proposed to De Vere to go in search of his friends. "Ah! if dat vere indeed possible!" was the reply. "And why not?" said Allan. "For many reasons: de balloon vill even now hardly bear de strain on her anchors; de loss of even your veight vould require such delicate manipulation on my part, dat I fear I could not successfully vork in such small space. Alas! ve must vait. But there yet is hope." Meanwhile it behoves us to follow Ralph and Rory. They had faithfully promised De Vere they would go but a short distance from the car, and that promise they had meant to redeem. They found that the ground sloped downwards from the mouth of the crater, but there was no want of light, as yet at least, and thus not the slightest danger of being unable to find their way back, for were there not their footsteps in the snow to guide them? So onward they strolled, cheerfully enough, arm-in-arm, like brothers, and that was precisely how they felt towards each other. The road--if I may say "road" where there was no road--was rough enough in all conscience, and at times it was difficult for them to prevent stumbling over a boulder. "I wonder," said Rory, "how long these boulders have lain here, and I wonder what is beneath us principally, and what those vast stalactite pillars are formed of." "`Bide a wee,' as the doctor says," replied Ralph; "don't hurry me with too many questions, and don't forget that though I am ever so much bigger and stronger than you, I don't think I am half so wise. But the boulders may have lain here for ages: those ghostly-looking pillars are doubtless ice-clad rocks, partly formed through the agency of fire, partly by water. I think we stand principally on rocks and on ice, with, far, far down beneath us, fire." "Dear, dear!" said Rory, talking very seriously, and with the perfect English he always used when speaking earnestly; "what a strange, mysterious place we are in! Do you know, Ralph, I am half afraid to go much farther." "Silly boy!" said his companion, "how thoroughly Irish you are at heart--joy, tears, sunshine and fun, but, deep under all, a smouldering superstition." "Just like the fires," added Rory, "that roll so far beneath us. But you know, Ray,"--in their most affectionate and friendly moods Ralph had come to be "Ray" to Rory, and Rory "Row" to Ralph--"you know, Ray, that the silence and gloom of this eerie place are enough to make any one superstitious--any one, that is, whose soul isn't solid matter-of-fact." "Well, it _is_ silent. But I say, Row--" "Well, Ray?" "Suppose we try to break it with a song? I daresay they have never heard much singing down here." "Who?" cried Rory, staring fearfully into the darkness. "Oh!" said Ralph, carelessly, "I didn't mean any one in particular. Come, what shall we sing--`The wearing o' the green'?" "No, Ray, no; that were far too melancholic, though I grant it is a lovely melody." "Well, something Scotch, and stirring. The echoes of this cavern must be wonderful." They were, indeed; and when Rory started off into that world-known but ever-popular song, "Auld lang syne," and Ralph chimed with deep and sonorous bass, the effect was really grand and beautiful, for a thousand voices seemed to fill the cavern. They heard the song even in the car of the balloon, and it caused Allan to remark, smilingly, for they had not yet been long gone, "Ralph and boy Rory seem to be enjoying themselves; but I trust they won't be long away." Rory was quite lively again ere he reached the words-- "And we'll tak' a richt good-willy waught For auld lang syne." He burst out laughing. "Indeed, indeed! there is no wonder I laugh," he said; "fancy the notion of taking a `good-willy waught' in a place like this! And now," he added, "for a bit of a sketch." "Don't be long in nibbing it in, then." Rory was seated on a boulder now, tracing on his page the outlines of those strange, weird pillars that hands of man had never raised nor human eyes gazed upon before. So the silence once more became irksome, and the time seemed long to Ralph, but Rory had finished at last. Then the two companions, after journeying on somewhat farther, began to awaken the echoes by various shouts; and voices, some coming from a long distance, repeated clearly the last words. "Let us frighten those ghouls down there by rolling down boulders," said Rory. "Come on, then," said Ralph; "I've often played at that game." They had ten minutes of this work. It was evident this hill within a hill, this crater's point, was of depth illimitable from the distant hissing noises which the broken boulders finally emitted. "It's a regular whispering gallery," said Rory. "It is, Row. But do let us get back. See, there is already barely light enough to reveal our footsteps." "Ah! but, my boy," said Rory, "the nearer the car we walk the more light we'll have. And I have just one more surprise for you. You see this little bag?" "Yes. What is in it--sandwiches?" "Nay, my Saxon friend! but Bengal fires. Now witness the effects of the grand illumination of the Cave of the King of Ice by us, his two ghouls of a thousand winters!" The scene, under weird blue lights, pale green or crimson, was really magical. All the transformation scenes ever they had witnessed dwindled into insignificance compared to it. "I shall remember this to my dying day?" Rory exclaimed. "And I too!" cried Ralph, entranced. "Now the finale?" said the artist; "it'll beat all the others! This white light of mine will eclipse the glory of the rest as the morning sun does that of moonlight! It will burn quite a long time, too; I made it last night on purpose." It was a Bengal fire of dazzling splendour that now was lit, and our heroes themselves were astonished. "It beats the `Arabian Nights'!" cried Rory. "Look, look!" he continued, waving it gently to and fro, "the stalactites seem to dance and move towards us from out the gloom arrayed in robes of transplendent white. Yonder comes the King of Ice himself to bid us welcome." "Put it out! put it out!" murmured Ralph, with his hand on his brow. It presently burned out, but lo! the change!--total darkness! _Rory and Ralph were snowblind_! "Oh, boy Rory!" said Ralph, "that brilliant of yours has sealed our fate. It will be hours ere our eyes can be restored, and long before then the darkness of night will have enshrouded us. We are lost!" "Let us not lose each other, at all events," said Rory, feeling for his friend's arm, and linking it in his own. "You think we are lost; dear Ralph, I have more hopes. Something within me tells me that we were never meant to end our days in the awful darkness of this terrible cavern. Pass the night here it is certain we must, but to-morrow will bring daylight, and daylight safety, for be assured Allan and De Vere will not leave us, unless--" Here the hope-giver paused. "Unless," added Ralph--"for I know what you would say--an accident should be imminent--unless they _must_ leave. A balloon needs strange management." "Even then they will return to seek us by morning light. Do you know what, Ray?" he continued, "our adventures have been too foolhardy. Providence has punished us, but He will not utterly desert us." "Hope springs eternal in the human breast." The lamp of hope was flickering--had, indeed, burned out--in Ralph's heart, but his friend's words rekindled it. Perhaps Rory's true character never shone more clearly out than it did now, for, while trying to cheer his more than friend, he fully appreciated the desperateness of the situation, and had but little hope left in him, except his extreme trust in the goodness of a higher Power. "Could we not," said Ralph, "all snowblind as we are, try to grope our way upwards?" "No, no, no!" cried Rory; "success in that way is all but impossible; and, remember, we have but the trail of our footprints to guide us even by day." Something of the ludicrous invariably mixes itself up with the most tragic affairs of this world. I have seen the truth of this in the chamber of death itself, in storms at sea, and in scenes where men grappled each other in deadly strife. And it is well it should be so, else would the troubles of this world oftentimes swamp reason itself. The attempts of Rory to keep his companion in cheer, partook of the nature of the ludicrous, as did the attempts of both of them to keep warm. So hours elapsed, and sometimes sitting, sometimes standing and beating feet and hands for circulation's sake, and doing much talking, but never daring to leave the spot, at last says Rory, "Hullo, Ray! joy of joys! I've found a lucifer!" Almost at the same moment he lit it. They could see each other's faces--see a watch, and notice it was nearly midnight. They had regained sight! Joy and hope were at once restored. "Troth!" said Rory, resuming his brogue, "it's myself could be a baby for once and cry. Now what do ye say to try to sleep? We'll lie close together, you know, and it's warm we'll be in a jiffey?" So down they lay, and, after ten long shivering minutes, heat came back to their frozen bodies. They had not been talking all this time; it is but right to say they were better engaged. With warmth came _le gaiete_--to Rory, at least. "Have you wound your watch, Ray?" "No, Row? and I wouldn't move for the world!" After a pause, "Ray," says Row. "Yes, Row?" says Ray. "You always said you liked a big bed-room, Ray, and, troth, you've got one for once!" "How I envy you your spirits," answers Ray. "Don't talk about spirits," says Row, "and frighten a poor boy. I've covered up my head, and I wouldn't look up for the world. I'm going to repeat myself to sleep. Good night." "Good night," asks Ray, "but how do you do it?" "Psalms, Ray," Row replies. "I know them all. I'll be out of here in a moment. "`He makes me down to lie by pastures green, He leadeth me the quiet waters by.' "Isn't that pretty, Ray?" "Very, Row, but `pastures green' and `quiet waters' aren't much in my way. Repeat _me_ to sleep, Rory boy, and I promise you I won't pull your ears again for a month." "Well, I'll try," says Row. "Are your eyes shut?" "To be sure. A likely thing I'd have them open, isn't it?" "Then we're both going to a ball in old England." "Glorious," says Ray. "I'm there already." Then in slow, monotonous, but pleasing tones, Row goes on. He describes the brilliant festive scene, the warmth, the light, the beauty and the music, and the dances, and last but not least the supper table. It is at this point that our Saxon hero gives sundry nasal indications that this strange species of mesmerism had taken due effect, so Row leaves him at the supper table, and goes back to his "pastures green" and "quiet waters," and soon they both are sound enough. Let us leave them there; no need to watch them. Remember what Lover says in his beautiful song,-- "O! watch ye well by daylight, For angels watch at night." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Poor McBain! Worn out with watching, he had sunk at last to sleep in his chair. And day broke slowly on the sea of ice. The snow-clad crater's peak was the first to welcome glorious aurora with a rosy blush, which stole gradually downwards till it settled on the jagged mountain tips. Then bears began to yawn and stretch themselves, the sly Arctic foxes crept forth from snow-banks, and birds in their thousands--brightest of all the snowbird--came wheeling around the _Arrandoon_ to snatch an early breakfast ere they wended their way westward to fields of blood and phocal carnage. And their screaming awoke McBain. He was speedily on deck. Yonder was the _Perseverando_ slowly descending. During all the long cruise of the _Arrandoon_ nobody referred to the adventure at the crater of Jan Mayen without a feeling akin to sadness and contrition, for all felt that something had been done which ought not to have been done--there had been, as McBain called it, "a tempting of Providence." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Well, well, well," cried the skipper of the _Canny Scotia_--and he seemed to be in anything but a sweet temper. "Just like my luck. I do declare, mate, if I'd been born a hatter everybody else would have been born without heads. Here have I been struggling away for years against fortune, always trying to get a good voyage to support a small wife and a big family, and now that luck seems to have all turned in our favour, two glorious patches of seals on the ice yonder, a hard frost, and the ice beautifully red with blood, and no ship near us, then you, mate, come down from the crow's-nest with that confoundedly long face of yours, for which you ought to have been smothered at birth--" "I can't help my face, sir," cried the mate, bristling up like a bantam cock. "Silence!" roared the burly skipper. "Silence! when you talk to your captain. You, I say, _you_ come and report a big steamer in sight to help us at the banquet." The mate scratched his head, taking his hat off for the purpose. "Did I make the ship?" he asked with naive innocence. "Pooh!" the skipper cried; and next moment he was scrambling up the rigging with all the elegance, grace, and speed of a mud turtle. He was in a better humour when he returned. "I say, matie," he said, "yonder chap ain't a sealer; too dandy, and not boats enough. No, she is one of they spectioneering kind o' chaps as goes a prowling around lookin' for the North Pole. Ha! ha! ha! Come below, matie, and we'll have a glass together. She ain't the kind o' lady to interfere with our blubber-hunting." The mate was mollified. His face was soaped, and he shone. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. THE "ARRANDOON" ANCHORS TO THE "FLOE"--THE VISIT TO THE "CANNY SCOTIA"-- SILAS GRIG--A SAD SCENE--RORY RELIEVES HIS FEELINGS--STRANGERS COMING FROM THE FAR WEST. Seeing the skipper of the _Canny Scotia_ and his mate come below together smiling, the steward readily guessed what they wanted, so he was not dilatory in producing the rum-bottle and two tumblers. Then the skipper pushed the former towards the mate, and said,-- "Help yourself, matie." And the mate dutifully and respectfully pushed it back again, saying,-- "After you, sir." This palaver finished, they both half-filled their tumblers with the ruby intoxicant, added thereto a modicum of boiling coffee from the urn that simmered on top of the stove, then, with a preliminary nod towards each other, emptied their glasses at a gulp. After this, gasping for breath, they beamed on each other with a newly-found friendliness. "Have another," said the skipper. They had another, then went on deck. After ten minutes of attentive gazing at the _Arrandoon_, "Well," said the skipper, "I do call that a bit o' pretty steering; if it ain't, my name isn't Silas Grig." "But there's a deal o' palaver about it, don't you think so, sir?" remarked the mate. "Granted, granted," assented Silas; "granted, matie." The cause of their admiration was the way in which the _Arrandoon_ was brought alongside the great ice-floe. She didn't come stem on--as if she meant to flatten, her bows--and then swing round. Not she. She approached the ice with a beautiful sweep, describing nearly half a circle, then, broadside on to the ice, she neared it and neared it. Next over went the fenders; the steam roared from the pipe upwards into the blue air, like driven snow, then dissolved itself like the ghost of the white lady; the ship was stopped, away went the ice-anchors, the vessel was fast. And no noise about it either. There may not be much seamanship now-a-days, but I tell you, boys, it takes a clever man to manage a big steamer prettily and well. The _Arrandoon_ was not two hundred yards from the _Canny Scotia_. Now round go the davits on the port quarter, outward swings the boat, men and officers spring nimbly into her, blocks rattle, and down goes the first whaler, reaching the water with a flop, but not a plash, and with keel as even and straight as a ruled line. "I say, matie," said Silas Grig, in some surprise, "if that boat ain't coming straight away here, I hope I may never chew cheese again." So far as that was concerned, if Silas chose, he would at least have the chance of chewing cheese again, for the _Arrandoon's_ boat came rippling along towards them with a steady cluck-el-tee cluck-el-tee, which spoke well for the men at the oars. "Well," continued Silas, who, rough nut though he was, always meant well enough, "let us do the civil, matie; tell the steward to fill the rum-bottle, and pitch 'em a rope." The rope came in very handy; but there was no need for the rum; even in Greenland men can live without it--the officers of the _Arrandoon_ had found that out. McBain, with Allan and Rory,--the latter, by the way, seemed to have registered a vow to go everywhere and see everything,--stood on the quarter-deck of the _Canny Scotia_, the skipper of which craft was in front of him, a comical look of admiration on his round brick-coloured countenance, and his two hands deep in the pockets of his powerful pilot coat. "Ay, sir! ay!" he was saying; "well, I must say ye do surprise _me_." He put such an emphasis on the "me" that one would have thought that to surprise Silas Grig was something to be quite boastful of ever after. "All the way to the North Pole? Well, well; but d'ye think you'll find it?" "We mean to," said Rory, boldly. "Perseverando!" said Allan. "The _Perseverance_!" cried the skipper. "I know the ship, a Peterheader. Last time I saw her she had got in the nips, and was lying keel up on the ice, yards and rigging all awry of course; and, bother her, I hope she'll lie there till Silas Grig gets a voyage [a cargo], then when the _Scotia_ is full ship, the _Perseverance_ can get down off the shelf, and cabbage all the rest. Them's my sentiments. But come below, gentlemen, come below; there is room enough in the cabin of the old _Scotia_ for every man Jack o' ye. Come below." Silas was right. There was room, but not much to spare, and, squeezed in between Allan and McBain, poor Rory was hardly visible, and could only reach the table with one hand. The cabin of this Greenlandman can be described with a stroke of the pen, so to speak. It was square and not very lofty--a tall man required to duck when under a beam; the beams were painted white, the bulkheads and cabin doors--four in number--were grey picked out with green. One-half at least of the available space was occupied by the table; close around it were cushioned lockers; the only other furniture was the captain's big chair and a few camp-stools, a big square stove with a roaring fire, and a big square urn fixed on top thereof, which contained coffee, had never been empty all the voyage, and would not be till the end thereof. I suppose a bucket of water could hardly be called furniture, but there it stood close to the side of the stove, and the concentric rings of ice inside it showed the difficulty everybody must experience who chose to quench his thirst in the most natural way possible. Above, in the hollow of the skylight, hung a big compass, and several enormously long sealer's telescopes. "No rum, gentlemen?" said Silas; "well, you do astonish _me_; but you'll taste my wife's green ginger wine, and drink her health?" "That we will," replied McBain, "and maybe finish a bottle." "And welcome to ten," said Silas; "and the bun, steward, bring the bun. That's the style! My wife isn't much to look at, gentlemen, but, for a bun or o' drop o' green ginger, I'll back her against the whole world." After our heroes had done justice to the bun, and pledged the skipper's good lady in the green ginger, that gentleman must needs eye them again and again, with as much curiosity as if they had been some new and wonderful zoological specimens, that he had by chance captured. "All the way to the North Pole!" he muttered. "Well, well, but that _does_ get over Silas." Rory could not help laughing. "Funny old stick," said Silas, joining in his merriment, "ain't I?" He did look all that and more, with his two elbows on the table, and his knuckles supporting his chin, for his face was as round as a full moon orient, and just the colour of a new flower-pot; then he laughed more with one side of his face than the other, his eyes were nowhere in the folds of his face, and his nose hardly worth mentioning. After the laugh, beginning with Rory, had spread fairly round the table, everybody felt relieved. "I'm only a plain, honest blubber-hunter, gentlemen," said Silas Grig, apologetically, "with a large family and--and a small wife--but--but you do surprise _me_. There?" [It is but fair to say that, as a rule, captains of Greenlandmen are far more refined in manner than poor Silas.] But when McBain informed him that the _Arrandoon_ would lay alongside him for a week or more, and help him to secure a voyage, and wouldn't ship a single skin herself, Silas was more surprised than ever. Indeed, until this day I could not tell you what would have happened to Silas, had the mate not been providentially beside him to vent his feelings upon. On that unfortunate officer's back he brought down his great shoulder-of-mutton fist with a force that made him jump, and his breath to come and go as if he had just been popped under a shower-bath. "Luck's come," he cried. "Hey? hey?" And every "hey?" represented a dig in the mate's ribs with the skipper's thumb of iron. "Told ye it would, hey? Didn't I? hey?" "What'll the old woman say, hey? Hey, boys? Hey, matie? Hey? Hey?" "You gentlemen," said Silas, alter his feelings had calmed down a trifle, "are all for sport, and Silas has to make a voyage. But you'll have sport, gentlemen, that ye will. My men are sealing now. They're among the young seals. It has been nothing but flay, flay, flay, for the last two rounds of the sun, and there isn't such a very long night now, is there? And you saw the blood?" Saw the blood, reader! Indeed, our heroes had. Where was it that that blood was not? All the beautiful snow was encrimsoned with it on the distant field of ice, where the men were carrying on their ghastly work. It was as if a great battle had been fought there, and the dead crangs lay in dozens and hundreds. A crang means a carcass. Is the adjective "dead," then, not unnecessary? What else can a carcass or crang be but "dead"? Nay, but listen: let me whisper a truth in your ear, and I know your brave young blood will boil when I tell you: I've known our men, Englishmen and Scotchmen, flense the lambs while still alive. From the field of slaughter the skins were being dragged to the ship by men with ropes, so there were streaks of red all the way to the ship, and all the vessel's starboard side was smeared with blood. Indeed, I do not wish to harrow the feelings of my readers, and I shall but describe a few of the cruelties of sealing--no, on second thoughts, I will not even do that, because I know well you will believe me when I tell you these cruelties are very great, and believing this, if ever you have an opportunity of voting for a bill or signing a petition to get poor Greenland seals fair play, I know you will. Silas Grig and our heroes took a walk to the field of unequal strife, and Rory and Allan, to whom all they saw was very new, were not a little horrified as well as disgusted. "This," said McBain, "is the young-sealing. We are not going to assist you in this; we are sportsmen, not butchers, Captain Grig?" Silas grasped McBain's hand. "Your feelings do you credit, sir," he said--"they do. But I have feelings, too. Yes, a weather-beaten old stick like me has feelings! But I'm sent out here to make a voyage, and what can I do? I've a small wife and a large family; and my owners, too, would sack me if I didn't bring the skins. I say," he added, after a pause, "you know my mate?" "Yes," said McBain. "Well," said Silas, "you wouldn't, imagine that a fellow with such an ugly chunk o' a figure-head as that had feelings, eh? But he has, though; and during all this young-sealing business we both of us just drowns our feelings in the rum-bottle. Fact, sir! and old Silas scorns a lie. But, gentlemen, when all this wicked work is over, when we are away north from here, among the old seals, and when we can look at that sun again without seeing blood, then my matie and I banishes Black-Jack [the gallon measure from which rum is served is so called] and sticks to coffee and arrowroot; that we do!" They had turned their backs on the by no means inviting scene, and were walking towards the _Canny Scotia_ as Silas spoke. "But," said the Greenland mariner, "come and dine with the old man to-morrow. The last of the young seals will be on board by then, and we'll have had a wash down; we'll be clean and tidy like. Then hurrah for the old seals! That's sport, if you like!--that's fair play." "Ah!" said McBain, "your heart is in the right place, I can see that. I wish there were more like you. Do _you_ seal on Sunday? Many do." Silas looked solemn. "I knows they do," he said, "but Silas hasn't done so yet, and he prays he never may be tempted to." "Captain Grig, we'll come and dine with you, and we expect you to pay us the same compliment another day." "I daresay you fellows are glad to get home?" said Ralph, rising from the sofa and throwing down the volume he had been dreaming over. "Not a bit of it!" said Rory and Allan, both in one breath; and Rory added, "You don't know what a funny ship a real Greenlandman is! I declare you've lost a treat!" "Does it smell badly?" asked Ralph, with a slight curl of his upper lip. "Never a taste!" says Rory; "she's as sweet as cowslips or clover, or newly-made hay; and the bun was beautiful!" "The what?" said Ralph. "Don't tell him?" cried Allan; "don't tell him!" "And the green ginger!" said Rory, smacking his lips. "Ah, yes! the green ginger," said Allan; "I never tasted anything like that in all my born days!" "Hi, you, Freezing Powders!" cried Rory, "take my coat and out-o'-doors gear. D'ye hear? Look sharp?" "I'm coming, sah; and coming plenty quick!" "De-ah me!" from Cockie. "Now bring my fiddle, you young rascal, into my cabin;" for Rory, reader, had that young-sealing scene on his brain, and he would not be happy till he had played it away. And a wild, weird lilt it was, too, that he did bring forth. Extempore, did you ask? Certainly, for he played as he thought and felt; all his soul seemed to enter the cremona, and to well forth again from the beautiful instrument, now in tones of plaintive sorrow, now in notes of wrath; and then it stopped all at once abruptly. That was Rory's way; he had pitched fiddle and bow on the bed, and presently he returned to the saloon. "Are you better?" inquired Allan. Rory only gave a little laugh, and sat down to read. It had taken McBain nearly a fortnight to get clear away from the Isle of Jan Mayen, for the frost had set in sharp and hard, and the great ice-saws had to be worked, and the aid of dynamite called in to blast the pieces. They were now some ten miles to the north and east of the island, but, so far as he knew on the day of his visit to the _Scotia_, he had bidden it farewell for ever. It had not been for the mere sake of sport or adventure he had called in there, he had another reason. Old Magnus, before the sailing--ay, or even the building--of the _Arrandoon_, had heard that the island was inhabited by a party of wandering Eskimos. Wherever Eskimos were McBain had thought there must be dogs, and that was just what was wanting to complete the expedition--a kennel of sleigh-dogs. But, as we have seen, the Eskimo encampment was deserted, so McBain had to leave it disappointed. But, as it turned out, it was only temporarily deserted after all, and on the very day on which they had arranged to dine with Skipper Grig, two daring men, chiefs of a tribe of Eskimos, drawn in a rude sledge, were making their way towards the island. Their team consisted of over a dozen half-wild dogs, harnessed with ropes of skin and untanned leather. They seemed to fly across the sea of ice. Hardly could you see the dogs for the powdery snow that rose in clouds around them. Well might they hurry, for clouds were banking up in the west, a low wind came moaning over the dreary plain, and a storm was brewing, and if it burst upon them ere they reached the still distant island, then-- CHAPTER SIXTEEN. SILAS GRIG'S DINNER-PARTY--A NEW MEMBER OF THE MALACOPTERYGII--THE STORM ON THE SEA OF ICE--BREAK-UP OF THE MAIN PACK--ROUGHING IT AT SEA. While those two chiefs of the Eskimo Indians were hurrying their team of dogs across the sea of ice eastwards, ever eastwards, with the clouds rising behind them, with the wind whispering and moaning around them, and sometimes raising the powdery snow in little angry eddies, that almost hid the plunging dogs from their view, honest Silas Grig, though somewhat uneasy in his mind as to what kind of weather was brewing, busied himself nevertheless in preparing what he considered a splendid dinner for his coming guests. "But," he said to his mate, "it will just be like my luck, you know, if it comes on to blow big guns, and we've got to leave good cheer and put out to sea." "Ah! sir," said the mate, "don't forget luck has turned, you know." "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Silas, "really, matie, I _had_ a'most forgotten." And away forward he hurried, to see how the men were getting on scrubbing decks and cleaning brass-work, and how the cook was getting on with that mighty sirloin of beef. He took many a ran forward as the day advanced, often pausing, though, to give an uneasy glance windward, and at the sun, not yet hidden by the rising clouds. And often as he did so he shook his head and made some remark to his mate. "I tell ye, matie," he said once, "I don't quite like the looks o' 't. Those clouds ain't natural this time o' the year, and don't you see the spots in the sun? Why, he is holed through and through like an old Dutch cheese. Something's brewin'. But, talking of brewin', I wonder how the soup is getting on?" [In Greenland these sunspots are quite easily seen by the naked eye.] Silas's face was more the colour of a new flower-pot than ever, when McBain and our three heroes came alongside in their dashing gig, with its beautiful paint and varnish, snow-white oars, flag trailing astern, and rudder-ribbons, all complete. Rory was steering, and he brought her alongside with a regular admiral's sweep. "Why, she's going away past us!" cried Silas; "no, she ain't. It is the bow-and-bow business the young 'un's after." "In bow?" cried Rory. "Way enough--oars!" These were the only three orders Rory needed to give to his men. There was no shouting of "Easy sta'board!" or "Easy port!" as when a lubber is coxswain. Next moment they were all on deck, shaking hands with the skipper and his mate. The latter remained on deck; he didn't care for the company of "quality;" besides, he had to loosen sails, and have all ready to get in anchors at a minute's notice and put out to sea. The skipper of the _Canny Scotia_ had contrived another seat at table, so there was no such thing as crowding, and the dinner passed off entirely to his satisfaction. The pea-soup was excellent, neither too thick nor too thin, and the sippets done to a turn. Then came what Silas called the whitebait. "Which is only my fun, gentlemen," he observed, "seeing that they are bigger than sprats. Where do I get them? Hey? Why, turn up a piece of pancake-ice, and there they be sticking in the clear in hundreds, like bees in a honeycomb, and nothing out but their bits of tails." "It is curious," said Rory. "How do they bore the holes, I wonder?" "That, young gentleman," replied Silas, "I can't say, never having seen them at work. Maybe they melt the ice with their noses; they can't make the holes with their teeth, their bows are too blunt and humble like. Perhaps, after all, they find the holes ready-made, and just go in for warmth. Queer, ain't it?" "I believe," said Rory, "they belong to the natural order _Malacopterygii_." "The what?" cried Ralph; "but, pray, Row, don't repeat the word. Think of the small bones; and McFlail isn't here, you know." "Of which," continued Rory, "the _Clupeidae_" [Ralph groaned] "form one of the families, belonging to which are the herring, the sardine, the whitebait, and sprat." "They may be sprats, or they may be young sperm-whales, for anything I care," said Ralph; "but I do know they are jolly good eating. Captain Grig, may I trouble you again?" With the pudding came the green ginger, that Ralph was so anxious to taste. "The peculiarity of that pudding, gentlemen, is this," said Silas--"eaten hot it _is_ a pudding, eaten cold it is a bun. The peculiarity of the green--" What more he meant to have said will never be known, for at that moment the _Canny Scotia_ gave an angry cant to leeward, and away--extemporised seat and all--went the skipper down upon the sta'board bulkheads; the coalscuttle, the water-bucket, and the big armchair followed suit, and there was consequently some little confusion, and a speedy break-up of the dinner-party. McBain's boat was called away, for the ship had slipped her ice-anchors, and was drifting seaward, with the wind roaring wildly through rigging and cordage. The gale had come upon them as sudden as a thunderclap. Good-byes were hastily said, and away pulled the gig. She was in the lee of the ice and partly sheltered, otherwise they never would have regained the _Arrandoon_. As it was, the men were almost exhausted when they got alongside. Her anchors were well fast, and her cables were strong; there was little fear of dragging for some time, so the order was given to at once get up steam, and that, too, with all speed, for the force of the wind seemed to increase almost momentarily. On the _Arrandoon's_ decks you could scarcely have seen anything, for the snow blew blindingly from off the ice; there was little to be heard either, for the shrill, harsh whistling of the wind. Men flitted hither and thither like uneasy ghosts, making things snug, and battening down the principal hatches; on the bridge, dimly descried, was McBain, speaking-trumpet under arm, and beside him Stevenson. Down below, from fore to aft, everybody was engaged. In the stoke-hole they were busy, and making goodly use of the American hams; in the engine-room the engineers were looking well to their gear, with bits of greasy "pob" in their hands, humming songs as they gave a rub here and a nib there, though to what end or purpose I couldn't tell you, but evidently on the best of terms with themselves and their beautiful engine. The doctor was busy stowing his bottles away, and the steward was making the pantry shipshape, and our heroes themselves were stowing away all loose gear in their cabins. Presently they entered the saloon again, where was Freezing Powders making the cockatoo's cage fast with a morsel of lanyard. "Here's a pretty to-do!" the bird was saying, half choking on a billful of hemp. "Call the steward!--call the steward!--call the steward!" "You jus' console yourse'f," said the boy, "and don't take sich big mou'fuls o' hemp. Mind, you'll be sea-sick p'esently." "De-ah me!" "Yes, ye will--dreffully sea-sick. Den you wants to call de steward plenty quick." One ice-anchor came on board; the other--the bow--was cut adrift as the ship's stern swung round seaward. Almost at the same moment an explosion was heard close alongside, as if one of the boilers had burst. The great berg to which they had been anchored had parted company with the floe, and was evidently bent on going to sea along with the _Arrandoon_. Once they were a little way clear of the ice they could look about them, the snow no longer blowing over the vessel. The scene was peculiar, and such as can only be viewed in Greenland under like circumstances. The whole field of ice, as far as it was visible, was a smother of whirling drift; the lofty cone of Jan Mayen, which though miles to the south'ard and west, had been so well-defined an object against the blue of the sky, was now blurred and indistinct, and the grey, driving clouds every now and again quite hid the top of it from view. All along the edge of the pack the snow was being blown seaward like smoke, or like the white spray on the rocks where billows break. The eastern horizon was a chaos of dark, shifting billows, as tall as houses, and foam-tipped; but near by the ice, although the wind blew already with the force of a gale, and the surface of the water was churned into froth, there was not a wave bigger than you would see on a farmer's mill-pond. What a pity it seemed to leave this comparatively smooth water and steam away out into the centre of yonder mighty conflict 'twixt wind and wave. But well every one on board knew that to remain where they were was but to court destruction, for the noise that proceeded from the ice-fields told them the pack was breaking up. Ay, and bergs were already forging ahead of them, and surrounding them. Ere they were a mile from the floes they found this out, and the danger from the floating masses of ice was very real indeed. Every minute the pieces were hurtled with all the force of the waves against the sturdy vessel's weather-side, threatening to stave her; nor could McBain, who never left the bridge until the vessel was well out to sea, avoid at times stemming the bergs that appeared ahead of him. For often two would present themselves at one time, and one must be stemmed--the smaller of the twain; for to have come in collision bow on, would have meant foundering. But at length the danger was past as far as the ice was concerned, though now the seas were mountains high, and of Titanic force; so after an hour or two the _Arrandoon_ lay to, and having seen the lights all properly placed, and extra hands put on the look-out--having, in fact, done everything a sailor could do for the safety of his ship, McBain came down below. In shining oil-skins and dripping sou'-wester, he looked like some queer sea-monster that had just been caught and hauled on board. He looked a trifle more human, however, when the steward had marched off with his outer garments. "Is she snug?" asked Allan. "Ay, lads, as snug as she is likely to be to-night," replied McBain; "but she doesn't like it, I can tell you, and the gale seems increasing to hurricane force. How is the glass, Rory?" "Not so very low," said Rory; "not under twenty-nine degrees." "But concave at the top?" "Yes, sir." "Well, well," said McBain, "content yourselves, boys, for I think we'll have days of it. I for one don't want to see much more of the ice while this blow lasts. But what a splendid fire you have! Steward, mind you put on the guard last thing to-night." "Why the guard?" asked Rory. "Because," explained McBain, "I feel certain that many a good ship has been burned at sea by the fire falling out of the grate; a wave or a piece of ice hits her on the bows, the fire flies out of the stove, no one is below, and so, and so--" "Yes," said Ralph, "that is very likely, and pray don't let us speak of anything very dreadful to-night. List! how the wind roars, to be sure! But to change the subject--Peter." "Ay, ay, sir." "Is supper ready?" "Very nearly, sir." "Well, tell Seth to come, and Magnus." "Ho! ho!" said McBain, "that's it, is it?" "What a comfort on a night like this," Allan remarked, "it is to be shipmates with two such fellows as Ray and Row, the epicure and the poet--the one to cater for the corporeal, the other for the mental man." The ship was pitching angrily, dipping her bows deep down under the solid seas and raising them quickly again, but not neglecting to ship tons of water every time, which found its way aft, so that down in the saloon they could hear it washing about overhead and pouring past the ports into the sea. "Steady, sir, steady," cried Magnus, entering the saloon. He was speaking to Seth, who had preceded him. He didn't walk in, he came in head first, and was now lying all his length on the saloon floor. But Rory and Allan lifted him tenderly up again and seated him on the couch, amid such remarks as, "No bones broken, I do hope," "Gently does it, Seth, old man," "Have you really left your sea-legs forward?" "Call the steward," the last remark being the cockatoo's. "I reckon," said the old trapper, rubbing his elbows and knees, "there ain't any bones given way this time, but that same is more chance than good management." After supper--which was of Ralph's own choosing, I need not say more--a general adjournment was made to the after-cabin, or snuggery, and here every one adopted attitudes of comfort around the blazing stove, in easy-chairs, on sofas, or on rugs and skins on the deck; there they sat, or lounged, or lay. The elders had their pipes, the youngsters coffee. But with the pitching and rolling of the ship it was not very easy either to sit, or lounge, or lie, nor was it advisable to leave the coffee in the cup for any length of time; nevertheless everybody was happy, for wondrous little care had they on their minds. Oh! how wild and tempestuous the night was, and how madly the seas leapt and tossed around them! But they had a ship they could trust, and, better by far, a Power above them which they had learned to put confidence in. Seth, to-night, was in what Ralph called fine form. His stories of adventure, told in his dry, droll, inimitable way, were irresistible. De Vere's face never once lacked a smile on it; he loved to listen though he could not talk. Old Magnus also had some queer tales to tell, his relation of them affording Seth breathing space. Several times during the evening Rory played, and the doctor tooted, as he called it. Thus merrily and pleasantly sped the time--every one doing his best to amuse his neighbours--until eight bells rang out, then all retired. It is on such a night as this that the soundest sleep visits the pillow of your thorough sailor--the roar of the wind overhead, the rocking of the ship, and the sound of the waves close by the ear, all conduce to sweetest slumber. There was little if any improvement in the weather next day, nor for several days; but cold and stormy though it was, to be on the bridge, holding on--figuratively speaking--by the eyelids, was a glorious treat for our sailor heroes. The masts bent like fishing-rods beneath the force of the gale. At times the good ship heeled until her yard-ends ploughed the waves, and if a sea struck her then, the spray leapt higher than the main-truck, and the green water made a clean breach over her. On the second day the clouds were all blown away, but the wind retained its force, and the waves their power and magnitude. Every wave threatened to come inboard, and about one out of ten did. Those that didn't went singing astern, or got in under the _Arrandoon_, and tossed her all they could. The frost was intense, and in some way or other, I think, accounted for the strange singing noise emitted by those waves that went past without breaking. But it was when one great sea followed swiftly on the heels of another that the good ship suffered most, because she would probably be down by the head when she received salute number two. It was thus she had her bulwarks smashed, and one good boat rent into matchwood and cast away. It was no easy task to reach the bridge, nor to rush therefrom and regain the saloon companion. You had to watch the seas, and were generally pretty safe if you made use of arms and legs just after one or two big waves had done their worst; but Allan once, and Rory three times, were washed into the scuppers, and more bruised than they cared to own. Ralph seldom came on deck, and the doctor just once got his head above the companion; for this piece of daring he received a sea in the teeth, which he declared nearly cut his head off. He went down below to change his clothes, and never came up again. On the third day, in the dog-watch, the wind fell, and the sea went down considerably. Had the gale blown from the east, the sea would have been in no such hurry to go down, but it had continued all the time to blow steadily from off the ice. What a strange sight the _Arrandoon_ now presented! She was a ship of glass and snow. Funnel, masts, and rigging were, or seemed to be, composed of frosted crystal. The funnel, Rory declared, looked like a stalactite from "the cave of a thousand winters." Her bows were lumbered with ice feet thick, and from stem to stern there was no more liveliness in the good _Arrandoon_ than there is in a Dutch collier. As soon as the wind fell a man was sent up aloft, and the order was given,-- "All hands clear ship of ice." But hark! there is a shout from the crow's-nest. "Large ship down to leeward, sir, apparently in distress." CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. THE STORM--THE "CANNY SCOTIA" IN DISTRESS--RUM, MUTINY, ANARCHY, AND DEATH--SAVED--ADVENTURE WITH A SHE-BEAR--CAPTURE OF THE YOUNG. Has it not been said that the greatest pleasure on earth is felt on the sudden surcease of severe pain? I am inclined, though, to doubt the truth of this statement, and I think that nothing can equal the feeling of quiet, calm joy that is instilled into the heart on the instant one is plucked from the jaws of impending death. When the King of Terrors comes speedily, while the blood is up and the heart beating high, as he does to those who fall in the field of battle, his approach does not seem anything like so terrible as when he lags in his march towards his victim. One needs to have a hope that leads his thoughts beyond this world, to be brave and calm at such a moment. When the _Canny Scotia_ slipped her ice-anchors and was driven out to sea, to encounter all the fury of the gale that had so suddenly sprung up, she had not the advantages of the _Arrandoon_. She had no steam power, nor was she so well manned. She could therefore only scud under bare poles, or lie to with about as much canvas spread as would make a mason's apron. Silas didn't mean to be caught napping, however, and, as quickly as he could, he got the tarpaulins down over the hatches, took in all spare canvas, and did all he could for the best. Alas! the best was bad. The _Scotia_ made fearful weather, and twenty-four hours after it had come on to blow, she had not a topmast standing, two of her best boats had been carried away, her bulwarks looked like a badly-built farmer's paling, and, worse than all, she was stove amidships on the weather-side and under the water-line. When this last disaster was reported to Silas Grig, he called all hands to "make good repairs," and stem the flow of the water, which was rushing inboard like a mill-stream through the ugly hole in the vessel's side. Had it been calm weather, this might have been done effectually enough, but, under the circumstances, it was simply an impossibility. Everything was done, however, that could be done, but still the seas poured in at every lurch to windward. Then it was "All hands to the pumps." The men worked in relays, and cheerily, too, and for a time the water was sent overboard faster than it came in, albeit there were times when the green seas poured over the ship like mountain cataracts. But after some hours, either through the men flagging, or from the hole in the ship's side getting larger, the water in the hold began to gain rapidly on them. "Bring up black-jack!" cried the skipper to the steward, "and we'll splice the main-brace." "Now hurrah! lads!" he exclaimed, addressing the men after a liberal allowance of rum had been handed round. "Hurrah! heave round again. The storm has about spent itself and the sea is going down. We can keep her afloat if we try. Hurrah then, hurrah!" "Hurrah!" echoed the men in response, and, flushed with artificial strength, they once more set themselves with redoubled energy to keep the water under. There was no danger now from ice. The piece that had wrought them so much mischief was about the last they had seen. So for a time all went well, and if the water did not decrease it certainly did not rise. An hour went by, then a deputation came aft to beg for more rum, and the fate of this vessel, like that of many another lost at sea, seemed sealed by the awful drink curse. "It's hardly judicious," said Silas to his mate, "but I suppose they must have it." Ah! Silas Grig, it was not judicious to serve them with the first allowance. When hard work is over and finished, and men are worn out and tired, then is the time, if ever, to splice the main-brace; but when work has to be done that needs clear heads, and when danger is all around a ship, the farther away the rum is the better. They had it, though, and presently they were singing as they pumped-- singing, but not working half so hard as before. Then even the singing itself ceased; they were getting tired and drowsy, and yet another allowance of rum was asked and granted. The water rose higher in the hold. When the men heard this report they would work no more. With one accord they desisted from their labours, and a deputation of the boldest found their way aft. "It is no use, Captain Silas Grig," they said, addressing their skipper; "the ship is going down, and we mean to die jolly. Bring up the rum." "This is mutiny," cried the captain, pulling out a revolver. "I'll shoot the first man dead that dares go down that cabin staircase." "Captain," said one of the men, stepping forward, "will you let me speak to you? I've nothing but friendly feelings towards you." "Well," replied the skipper, "what have you to say?" "This," said the man; "let us have no murder. Put up your shooting-irons. It is all in vain. The men _will_ have rum. Hark! d'ye hear that?" "I heard a knocking below," said the skipper. "What does it mean?" Before the man could reply there was a wild shout from the half-deck. "It means," replied the man, "that the men have broken through the cabin bulkheads and supplied themselves." "Then Heaven help us!" said poor bewildered Silas. He staggered to the seat beside the skylight and sat down, holding on by the brass glass-guards. A moment after the mate joined him. "You haven't been drinking, matie," said Silas, glancing gloomily upwards, "have you?" "No, sir, nor the second mate, nor the steward, nor the spectioneer," was the mate's reply. "Give us your hand, sir. We've had words together often; let us forgive each other now. God bless you, sir, and if die together we must, we won't die like pigs, at all events." There was anarchy forward, anarchy and wild revelry, and cruel brawls and fighting, but the five men aft stuck together, and tried to comfort each other, though there was hardly a hope in their hearts that their vessel would be saved. A long evening wore away, a kind of semi-darkness settled over the sea, but this short night soon gave place once more to-day. Then down forward all was quiet; the revellers were sleeping the stertorous sleep of the drunkard. But the wind had fallen considerably, and the seas had gone down; the broken waves no longer sung in the frosty air, but the ship rolled like a half-dead thing in the trough of the sea. She was water-logged. With infinite difficulty the mates, with the steward's assistance, stretched more canvas, while the captain took the helm. She heeled over to it, and looked as if she hardly cared to right again. But this brought the hole in her side into view. Then they got heavy blankets up, and, working as they had never worked before, they managed in an hour and a half to staunch the leak from the outside. Hope began to rise in their hearts, and, at the bidding of the skipper, the steward went below and brought up a large tin of preserved soup. "Ah! men," said poor Silas, "this is better than all the rum in the world." And it was, for it gave them strength and heart. They went away down below next to the galley and half-deck, and tried to rouse some of the men. They found five of them stark and stiff, and from the others came nothing but groans and oaths. So they went to the pumps themselves, and worked away for hours for dear life itself. Oh! what a joyful sight it was for them when, in answer to their signal of distress, they saw the good ship _Arrandoon_ coming steaming down towards them. Then the grim raven Death, who had been hovering over the seemingly doomed ship, flapped his ragged wings and flew slowly away. They were saved! Oil was pumped upon the water between the _Arrandoon_ and _Scotia_, to round off the curling, comb-like peaks of the waves, and a boat was lowered from the steamer and sent to the assistance of the distressed vessel. The ship was pumped out, and next day, the weather becoming once more fine, she was towed towards the island of Jan Mayen, and made fast to a floe. She was next heeled over and the repairs completed. The _Arrandoon_ spared them a few spars, and plenty of willing hands to hoist them, so that in a few days the Greenland sealer was as strong as ever. Silas Grig was a very happy man now. The unfortunate wretches who had flown to meet their fate were sunk in the dark waters of the sea of ice, but this rough but kindly-hearted skipper never let one upbraiding word escape him towards his men, and the men knew they were forgiven, and liked their skipper none the less for his extreme forbearance. "Do you know what I have done?" said Silas to McBain. "You have forgiven your men, haven't you?" replied McBain. "Ay, that I have," said Silas, "but I have staved every cask of rum on board, and black-jack is thrown overboard." All along the west coast or shore of the island of Jan Mayen our heroes, on their re-arrival there, found that the water was comparatively clear, the bergs having been driven away out to sea on the wings of the wind, so that by breaking the light bay ice the boats could approach quite close to the snow-clad cliffs. Our three boys--for boys we must continue to call them for the sake of the days of "auld lang syne"--were glad to set foot on shore again, and with them went old Seth and the doctor. Freezing Powders was also invited, but his reply was, "No, sah! thank you all de same. But only dis chile not want anoder bad winter wid a yellow bear!" "`Adventure' you mean, don't you?" said Rory. "Dat is him, sah!" replied the boy. "I not want no more dancin' for de dear life." "But the yellow bear was killed, Freezing Powders," persisted Allan. "But him's moder not killed," said the lad, with round, open eyes. "You seem to hab 'tirely forgotten dat, sah; and p'raps de moder is much worse dan de son." So they went without him. Well armed were they, and provisioned for a day at all events. Somewhat to their surprise, they found smoke issuing from the once deserted huts, while a whole pack of dogs started up from where they had been lying and attempted to bar their progress. But the same two hardy chiefs of the Eskimos whom we last saw speeding along over the sea of ice, with the snow-wind roaring around them, came forth, quieted the dogs, and bade them kindly welcome. In their broken English they told them the tale of their adventurous journey across the pack from the far-off western land of Greenland, and of the narrow escape they had had from the violence of the sudden storm. Then they led the way, not into one of the small huts, but into the large central one. "We are making him fit and warm and good," they explained, "for our big 'Melican masta. He come directly. To-day we see his boat not far off-- a two-stick boat, with plenty mooch sail." The "two-stick boat" which the chiefs referred to was a saucy little Yankee yacht, that on this very morning was cruising off the island. Our heroes spent several hours in the hut, seated by the blazing logs, listening delightedly to a description of the strange country these chiefs called their home--a country that few white men have ever yet visited, and where certainly none have ever wintered. But I cannot repeat all the strangers told them about the manners and customs of their countrymen, the dress of the men and women, their fishing and hunting exploits, their fierce though petty wars with other tribes, and the wonderful life they lead throughout the summer and during the long, drear, sunless season of winter. "Ah!" said Rory, with a bit of a sigh, "I do like to hear these men talk about their wild land in the Far West. We must come again and make them tell us a deal more. I've half a mind to set out with them when they return, and live among them for some months. I say, Ray, wouldn't it be glorious to go surging over the ice-fields drawn by a hundred fleet-footed hounds?" "Drawn by a hundred hounds!" cried Allan, laughing. "Draw it mild, Rory." "Well," said Rory, "more or less, you know." "Besides," Ralph put in, "these are not hounds, Rory; there is more of the wolf about them than the hound." "Och, botheration?" replied Rory; "you're too particular. But if I went with these men, and dwelt among their tribes for a time, then I'd go to press when I came back to old England." "A book of adventure?" said Allan. "Ah, yes!" said Rory; "a book, if you please, but not dry-as-dust prose, my boys! I'd write an epic poem." Talking thus, away they went on an exploring expedition, Rory riding the high horse, building any number of castles in the air, and giving the reins to his wonderful imagination. "I reckon, Mr Rory," said Seth, "that you'd make the fortune of any publisher that liked to take you up. You try New York, I guess that'd suit you; and, if you like, you shall write the life of old trapper Seth." "Glorious!" cried Rory; "`A Life in the Forests of the Far West.' Hurrah! I'll do it! You wait a bit. Look, look! What is that?" "It's a white fox," said Seth, bowling the animal over before the others had time to draw a bead on it. But that white fox, with a few loons, and five guillemots--which, by the way, when skinned, are excellent eating--were all they bagged that day. McBain and Stevenson had better luck though, they had seen a gigantic bear prowling around among the rough ice beneath the cliffs, and had called away a boat and gone after it. "O! sah!" cried Freezing Powders, running up to McBain as he was going over the side. "Don't go, sah! I can see de yellow bear's moder and two piccaninnies on de ice. She is one berry bad woman. She make you dance to please de piccaninnies, den she gobble your head off. Don't you go, sah! You not look nice widout a head. Dat am my impression, sah." There was nothing of the sensational about McBain's adventure with the bear, but something of the sad. The captain of the _Arrandoon_ was not the man to take the life of even a bear while in company of her young ones, but he well knew how terrible and how bloodthirsty such an animal is, and how cunning in her ferocity. He shuddered as he thought of Allan or Rory heedlessly passing the cave or crevasse in the rocks where she lay concealed, and being pounced upon and dragged in to be torn limb from limb. So he determined she must die. Once landed, they almost immediately sighted her, and gave chase. Alone she might have escaped; but in dread terror the young ones leapt on her back and thus hampered her movements. [She-bears with young ones are easily got up to and killed on this account.] She then turned fiercely at bay, coming swiftly on to the attack, bent upon a fearful vengeance if she could only accomplish it. "Stand by, Stevenson," cried McBain, dropping on one knee, "to fire if I don't kill at once." The monster held her head low as she advanced, and a less experienced hunter would have made this the target. McBain knew better. He aimed at the lower part of the neck, and the bear fell pierced through the great artery of the heart. Yet so near had he allowed the animal to come before firing, that Stevenson, trembling for his safety, had brought his own rifle to the shoulder. Then those two poor young bears stood up to fight for their dead dam, giving vent to growls of grief and rage. "We can take them alive, sir," said Stevenson. "Come along, lads." This last sentence was addressed to the boat's crew. "Come along quick, and bring the ropes." Had old Seth been there, these young Bruins would soon have been lassoed. But McBain's men were not over expert at such work. They did manage to rope one in a few minutes, but the other gave them a deal of trouble--sport one man erroneously called it. He invariably flew at the man who tried to throw the rope, and the man invariably made his feet his friends, thus giving another man a chance to try his skill. If he failed he had to run next, and so on until at long last one more adroit or more fortunate than his fellow succeeded in throwing the lasso over the young bear's neck, and brought it half strangled to the ice. "A present for you, Captain Grig," cried McBain, pulling alongside the _Canny Scotia_ with his double capture. Silas was delighted when he saw the two live bears. "Heaven bless you, sir!" he exclaimed. "Why, sir, they'll fetch forty pounds each in the London _too_. Forty pounds, sir! Think o' that. Eighty pounds for the two o' them. Keep my little wife and all the family for a month o' Sundays. Hurrah! matie, luck's turned." CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. A NEW ARRIVAL--THE DOGS--TRAPPER SETH BECOMES KENNEL-MAN--PREPARATIONS FOR A GREAT SEAL HUNT--THE GREENLAND BEAR. On the very day that McBain shot the great she-bear--for it was one of the largest that ever fell before a sportsman's gun--on that day, and on the afternoon of that day, just as our heroes were about to leave the island and re-embark on the _Arrandoon_, there landed from off that saucy "little two-stick yacht" one of the tallest Yankees that ever stepped in boots. Seth squeezed the hand of this countryman of his till tears sprang into the stranger's eyes; and they were not tears of emotion, nor sentiment either, but of downright pain. "I say, siree?" cried the newcomer, shaking his hand and looking at the tips of his fingers, "patriotism and brotherly love are both beautiful things in their way, but when it comes to squeezing the blood out from under a fellow's finger-nails, then I say, bother brotherly love." "I'm proud to meet you, sir," exclaimed Seth, "let us shake hands once more." "Never a shake, old man," said the stranger; "let us admire each other at a respectable distance. But come, gentlemen all," he continued, turning to the others, "you ain't going on board just yet. Come up with me to my house. I daresay you've been there already; but come back and break bread with Nathaniel Cobb, sometimes called the Little Wonder, because I ain't much more'n seven feet high." Nat Cobb's boat's crew were Norwegians every one of them, short, somewhat squat, fair-haired fellows, but as active and bustling as a corresponding number of well-bred fox-terriers. A couple of them were moving on ahead now, with an immense basket between them. "That's the dinner," said the Little Wonder; "and you'll find there's enough for all hands, too." "Well, gentlemen," Nat said, when everybody had done justice to the good things placed before them, "let us drink each other's healths in a cup of fragrant mocha, for that's the wine for Greenland weather. Gentlemen, I look around me at your smiling faces, and I pledge you and bid you welcome to my island of Jan Mayen." "Hallo!" thought Rory, "_your_ island." "Yes, gentlemen," continued Nat, looking as if he really read Rory's thoughts, "_my_ island. Six months and more ago I annexed it, and to-morrow once again the stars and stripes will proudly flutter from yonder flagstaff, and the bird o' freedom will soar over this wild mountain land." Apart from his queer, half-boastful speech, Nat Cobb was a very agreeable companion. He was very frank at all events. After looking at Rory for the space of half a minute, he suddenly stretched out his hand. "I like you," he said, "muchly, and I like you all. It is from men like you that the mightiest republic in the world has been built. But why don't you speak more, Rory, as your messmates call you?" "Ach! troth?" said Rory, "and sure I'm driving _tandem_ with the thinking." "And you're wondering," said Nat, "where a piece of elongated mortality like myself stretches himself of a night on board the _Highflier_?" "Seeing," replied Rory, laughing, "that you're about as long as the keel, and maybe a bit longer, I may well wonder that same; and unless you lean against a mast, I don't quite see how you can stretch yourself." "Well, young sir, I'll tell you how I do it. I double up into four, and lie on my back! that is how it's done." The Little Wonder went off with our party to the _Arrandoon_; and as Yankees are ever ready to trade, he had not been long on board when McBain had purchased from him a dozen of his best dogs. They were to be kept until the ship returned from a week's sport among the old seals, then taken on board just before the _Arrandoon_ left for the extreme north. Old Seth was duly told off to superintend the erection of kennels, forward near the bows, and old Seth was in his glory in consequence. "I'll feel myself o' some kind o' use now," he said. "Kennel-man in ordinary to the _Arrandoon_, a free house and victuals found, I guess it ain't half a bad sitivation." About a week after this--the Greenland sealer having been made as good as new again--the Jan Mayen fleet sailed away from the island, and directed its course about north-and-by-east. First on the line went the noble _Arrandoon_ sailing, not steaming, for a nice beam wind was blowing; next came the _Canny Scotia_ with her tall, tapering spars; and the saucy _Highflier_, with her fore-and-aft canvas, brought up the rear. Nathaniel Cobb was Arctic meteorologist to a private company of American scientists, but his time was pretty much his own, and he didn't mind spending a week or a fortnight of it among the old seals. He wanted a skin or two anyhow, he said, to make a warm carpet for his "house," and some oil to burn for fuel, but promised that everything beyond what he really wanted which happened to fall to his gun should be given to Silas. Silas Grig was never happier in his life than he was now. Luck had indeed turned, fortune was about to favour him for once in a way. His would be a bumper ship, full to the hatches, with a bing of skins on deck that he wouldn't be able to find room for below. And when he returned to Peterhead, flags would fly and bands would play, and his little wife and he would live happy ever after. McBain wanted to show his young companions a little genuine sport, and at the same time do a good turn to honest Silas, by helping him to a voyage; while the former, on the other hand, were all excitement and bustle, for the _Arrandoon_ was about to be transformed into a sealer; and the idea being such a perfectly new one, was correspondingly appreciated. The little fleet kept well together; it would not have suited them to part company, although, even on a wind, without the aid of her boilers, the _Arrandoon_ could easily have shown her consorts a pair of clean heels. The doctor himself was led away with enthusiasm, and longed to draw a bead, as Seth called it, on a bear itself. He had chosen a rifle from the box, cleaned and polished it, and called it his own. "I've never shot a wild beast," he explained to Rory, "but, man, if I get the chance, I'll have a try." "Bravo!" cried Rory, "and you're sure to get the chance, you know." The ice was loose, although the weather was clear and very frosty. There was a heaving motion in the main pack that prevented the bergs from getting frozen together, but for all that the fleet kept well clear of it, for fear of getting beset. Patches of old seals might, it is true, have been found far in among the ice, but the risk was too great to run, so McBain kept to the outside edge, and the others followed his example. Silas Grig was invited on board the _Arrandoon_; and proud he was when the captain told him that he could choose five-and-twenty of his best men, and superintend their preparations for going after the seals. The third mate might be one of the number, but neither Stevenson nor Mitchell was to be allowed to go, although McBain did not object to these officers, or even the engineers, having a day's sport now and then. It was a glorious morning--for Greenland--when Captain McBain called all hands, in order that Silas might choose the men who were to assist him in making his fortune. The sun was shining as brightly as ever it does in England, and there wasn't too much wind to blow the cold through and through one. Either of the officers might have passed for old men, if white hairs make men look old, for their hair, whiskers, and moustachios were coated with hoar-frost ice. Our heroes had just finished breakfast, all of them having had a cold sea-bath to give them a glow before they sat down, and were now walking briskly up and down the quarter-deck, talking merrily and laughing. The _Scotia_ had her foreyard aback, and the _Arrandoon_ had also stopped her way, and yonder was Silas in his boat coming rapidly over the rippling water towards the steamer, the skipper himself standing like a gondolier and steering with an oar in true whaler fashion. "Now, lads," cried Silas, when the men of the _Arrandoon_ lay aft in obedience to orders. "You're a fine lot, I must say; every man Jack o' ye is better than the other; but I just want the men that have been to the country before. The men among ye that know a seal-club from a toastin'-fork, or a lowrie-tow from a bell-rope, just elevate a hand, will ye?" [Lowrie-tow--the rope with which the men drag the skins to the ship's side.] No less than fifteen gloved hands were waved aloft. Silas was delighted, and did not take long to choose the remaining ten. "You'll go on the ice by twos, you know, men," he continued, "and when one o' ye tumbles into the water, why, the other'll simply pull him out. Nothing easier." All these hands were to be clubsmen and draggers, while "the guns," as they were called, comprised the following: Ralph, Rory, Allan, Sandy the surgeon, De Vere the aeronaut, Seth trapper, and the third mate, seven in all, and warranted to give a good account of the seals, and keep the men steadily on drag if the sport was anything like good. Having made these preliminary arrangements, the men were dismissed, and Silas spent the rest of the day forward with old Ap the carpenter and the sail-maker. And very busy the whole four of them were, too, for three dozen daggers or seal-knives had to be fitted with sheaths of leather, and belts to go round the men's waists, and three dozen lowrie-tows, with the same number of seal-clubs, had to be got ready. I saw the other day an engraving of a sealing scene in Greenland, evidently done by an artist who had never been in the Arctic regions in his life, and who had therefore trusted to his imagination, which had led him far from the truth. In this picture there is a ship under canvas: error Number 1, for sealers always clue or brail up before the men go over the side. The ice is tall and pinnacled: error Number 2, for the ice the old seals lie on is either flat or hummocky. The men on the ice are leaping madly from berg to berg and clubbing _old_ seals: error Number 3, for unless old seals get positively frozen out of the water by the pieces becoming fast together, they will not wait to be clubbed. You may catch a weasel asleep, but never an old seal. Lastly, in this picture, the men are wielding clubs that have evidently been borrowed from some gymnasium: this constitutes error Number 4, for seal-clubs are nothing like these. They are more like an ancient battle-axe; the shaft is about four or five feet long and made of strong, tough wood, while through the top of this terrible weapon is run the part that does the execution--a square piece of iron or steel-- sharpened at one end, hammer-like at the other, and nearly a foot long. With this instrument a strong man has been known to lay a Greenland bear dead with one blow. No one of course would dare to attack a bear armed with a club alone, but instances have occurred where the bear has been the aggressor, and where the man had to defend himself as best he could. One word parenthetically about the great Polar or ice bear. Until I had first seen the carcass of one lying flensed on the ice, I could not have believed that any wild beast could attain such gigantic proportions. The footprints of this monster were as large as an ordinary pair of kitchen bellows. The pastern, or ankle, seemed as wide as the paw, and as near as I could guess about thirty inches round; the forearms and hind-legs were of tremendous strength; so too were the shoulders and loin. An animal like this with one stroke can slay the largest seal in Greenland, and could serve the biggest lion that ever roared in an African jungle precisely the same. As to the voice, it is hardly so fearful as the lion's, but heard, as I heard it one night on the pack, within two yards of me, it is sufficiently appalling, to say the least of it. It is a sort of half-cough, half roar. As trapper Seth described it after his adventure at the cave in Jan Mayen, when little Freezing Powders so nearly lost the number of his mess: "The roar of a healthy Greenland bear, when the owner of it is so close ye could kick him, is a kind o' confusin'; it shakes your innards considerable, and makes ye think the critter has swallowed the thick end of a thunderstorm and is tryin' to work it up again." An elephant--a tusker--is no joke when he loses his temper and comes after you, nor is a lion or tiger when he thinks he can do you a mischief, but I would rather face either of them twice over than I would an ice bear with his back up, if I myself were unarmed. I was very young, by the way, when I found myself confronted with my first Greenland bear, but I well remember both what my thoughts were at the time, and what were my feelings. The truth is, I had made the captain promise he would give me a chance to go and fight one of these terrible giants of the ice. He did so in good time, and I confess that as the boat neared the pack--I being in the bows--I suddenly discovered that I was not half so brave as I had previously imagined. The bear did not run away, as I fear I had almost wished that he would. He simply waited, looking at us somewhat inquiringly; and when I landed, all alone, mind you, he came along to meet me, and inquire what I wanted, and I hated him while I envied him for his coolness. He seemed to say, "Why, you're only a boy; just wait till I get alongside you, and I'll show you how I treat boys. I'll turn you inside out." I had to wait. Wild horses couldn't have tom me from the spot, where I had dropped on one knee. Oh! I can assure you, I would have liked, well enough, to run away, but with all the ship's crew looking at me--? No; death rather than live a coward. On came Bruin, much to my disgust; I would have felt as brave as a lion had he only shown me his heels. Then these questions chased each other through my brain: "How near will I let the beggar come before I fire? Shall I hit him on the head, or shoot him in the chest? and, What shall I do if the rifle misses fire?" Bruin still advanced at a shambling trot. Then I brought my rifle to the shoulder and took aim, glancing along the glimmering barrel till I could only see the _vise_ at the end, and immediately beyond that Bruin's yellow breast. Bang, bang! I dare say it really was myself who pulled those two triggers of my double-barrelled rifle, but at the time I felt as if I had nothing at all to do with it. Then there was a shout from the boat, and a shout from the ship. Bruin was dead, and I was the hero; but somehow I did not feel that I deserved the praise which I received. Yet, after all, I daresay I only felt in this encounter as most boys would have felt. Doing anything dangerous is always nasty at first, but when one gains confidence in himself, then is the time one knows-- "That strange joy that warriors feel In foemen worthy of their steel." CHAPTER NINETEEN. "SILAS GRIG, HIS YARN"--THE WHITE WHALE--AFLOAT ON AN ICEBERG--A DREARY JOURNEY--BEAR ADVENTURES--"THE SEALS! THE SEALS!" There was only one subject in the whole world that Silas Grig was thoroughly conversant with, and that was the manners and customs of his friends the seals. Had you started talking upon either politics or science, or the state of Europe or Ireland, Silas would have become silent at once. He would have retired within himself; his soul, so to speak, would have gone indoors, and not come out again until you had done. Such was Silas; and he confessed frankly that he had never sung a song nor made a speech in his lifetime. He was a perfect enthusiast while talking about the natural family _Phocidae_. No naturalist in the world knew half so much about them as Silas. On the evening of the day in which he had chosen his men from the crew of the _Arrandoon_, he was pronounced by both Ralph and Rory to be in fine form. He was full of anecdote, and even tales of adventure, so our heroes allowed him to talk, and indeed encouraged him to do so. "What!" he cried, his honest, fear-nothing face lighting up with smiles as he eyed Rory across the table after dinner. "Spin you a yarn, d'ye say? ah! boy, and you'll excuse me calling ye a boy. Silas never could tell a story, and I don't suppose he ever had an adventure as signified much to you in his life." "Never mind," insisted Rory, "you tell us something, and I'll play you that old tune you so dearly love." "Ah! but," said Silas, "if my matie were only here; now you wouldn't think, gentlemen,"--here he glanced round the table as seriously as if contradiction were most unlikely--"you wouldn't think that a fellow like that, with such an ugly chunk of a head, had any sentiment; but he has, though, and he owns the prettiest wife and the smartest family in all Peterhead." "Look here," cried Rory, "be quiet about your matie. Sure this is what we're waiting for." He exhibited the doctor's slate as he spoke, and on the back thereof, behold! in large letters, the words,-- "Silas Grig, His Yarn." Silas laughed till his sides ached, his eyes watered, the chair creaked, and the rafters rang. It was a pleasant sight to see. After this he lit up a huge meerschaum pipe, "hoping there was no offence," cleared his throat, turning his face upwards at the pendent compass, as if seeking help there. Then he began,-- "Of the earlier days of Silas Grig little need be said. I daresay he was no better and no worse than other boys. He nearly plagued the life out of his grandmother, and drove three maiden aunts to the verge of distraction, and made any amount of work for the tailor and the shoemaker; and when they couldn't stand him any longer at home they sent him to school, reminding the teacher ere they left him there, that to spare the rod was to spoil the child. The teacher didn't forget that; he whipped me three times a day, drilled me through the English grammar and Grey's arithmetic, then flogged me into Caesar; and when I translated the passage, `Caesar triduas vias fecit' [Caesar made three days' journey.] into `Caesar made three roads,' the dominie gave me such a dressing that I followed Caesar's example--I made three days' journey due north, and never returned to my maiden aunts, nor the dominie either. "I found myself now in the heart of what I then took to be a big town, for I wasn't very big myself, you know. It was only Peterhead, after all. I marched boldly down to the docks, and on board a great raking-masted Greenlandman. "`What use would you be?' inquired the skipper when I told him what I wanted. `Bless me!' he added, `you ain't any size at all; the bears would eat you up.' "`I'll have him,' said the doctor, `if you'll let me, captain. He can be my lob-lolly-boy and body-guard.' "And so, gentlemen, from that day to this I've been a sailor o' the northern seas; and there isn't much to be seen in these regions that old Silas hasn't come across, from Baffin's Bay to Kamschatka, from lonely Spitzbergen in the north to Iceland in the south." "And so you've been in Spitzbergen, have you?" said McBain. "Why, bless you, yes," replied Silas. "It was there I was in at the death of the great white whale, and a sad day it was for us, I can tell you. He was white with age. [Very old whales are sometimes found in the far northern seas covered with a kind of parasite, which gives them a white or light-grey appearance.] I should think he couldn't have been much under a hundred years old, and just as sly and wary as a hundred and forty foxes all rolled in to one. Many and many a boat had tried to catch him, but he had a way of diving and doubling to avoid the harpoons that some believed was rather more than natural; then when you thought he was miles and miles away, pop! up he would come among the very midst of the boats, and a funny thing it would be if he didn't knock one o' them to smithereens with that tail o' his. We killed him though. Our skipper himself speared him, but it was hours after that before he died. And before he died terrible was the revenge he took on his destroyers. Gentlemen, Silas Grig has no language in his vocabulary to describe the vicious wrath of that sea-demon. I think I see him now as he rose to the surface, blowing blood and spray, snorting with fury, with fire seeming to flash out of his little evil eyes. We in the boats thought our last hour had come, as he ploughed down through us. But our hearts stood still with fear and dread when he dashed past us and made for the ship itself. Onward with lightning speed went the brute, leaving a wake astern such as a man-o'-war might have left. "Our craft--a small brig--was lying with her foreyard aback. She looked as if sleeping on the gently rippling water. No one spoke in the boats, every eye was fixed on our ship--our home, and on the fearful monster advancing to attack her. We could see that the people left on the brig knew the whole extent of their danger, for they seemed all on deck. There were wild shouts, and guns were fired, but nothing availed to avert the catastrophe. Then, oh! the sad, despairing cry that rose to heaven from that doomed ship! It seems to ring in my ears whenever I think of it. The whale struck her right amidships, and she went over and down at once. No soul was saved; and when we rode up to the spot, there was nothing to be seen, and nothing to be heard, save the body of the great white whale, dead, on his side, with the waves lap-lapping against it as it slowly rose and fell. "For six long, cold, weary days we lived in the open boats, feeding on the flesh of the seals we happened to kill, and quenching our thirst with the snow we gathered from the ice. When we had almost despaired of being saved, for we were far to the nor'ard and east of the usual fishing-grounds, a Norwegian walrus-hunter picked us up, and landed us at last, in midwinter, on a dreary shore in Lapland. But, gentlemen, that is nothing to what we, the survivors of the ill-fated _Jonathan Grey_, suffered some years afterwards. The ship got `in the nips' coming out o' the pack. We were crushed just as you might crash an egg-shell between your fingers. Thirty of us embarked upon the very iceberg that had caused our ruin, with two casks of biscuit, and hardly clothes enough to cover us. Then it came on to blow, and, huddled together in the centre of the berg, we were blown out to sea, trying in vain to keep each other warm, and defend ourselves from the cruel cold seas that dashed over us, heavier than lead, more remorseless than the grave. Fifteen days were we on the berg, and every day some one dropped off, ay, and the living seemed to envy the quiet, calm sleep of the dead. A sail in sight at last; and how many of us, think you, were alive to see it? Three I only three! It was a year after this before I was fit to brave the Arctic seas again, and meanwhile I had met my Peggy--my little wife that is. Some difference, you will allow, gentlemen, between Silas Grig afloat on a solitary iceberg in a troubled northern sea, and Silas strolling on the top of a breezy cliff in the bright moonlight of midsummer, with Peggy on his arm, and just as happy as the sea-birds. "Were these the only times that I was cast away? No--for I lost my ship by fire once in the northern ice of Western Greenland, and it was two whole years before either myself or my messmates placed foot again on British soil. There wasn't a ship anywhere near us, and the nearest settlement was a colony of transported Danes, that lived about three hundred miles south of us. We saved all we could from the burning barque, and that was little enough; then we constructed rough sledges, and tied our food and chattels thereon, and set out upon our long, dreary march. It took us well-nigh two months to accomplish our journey, for the way was a rough one, and the region was wild and desolate in the extreme. It was late in autumn, and the sun shone by day, but his beams were sadly shorn by the falling snow. Five suns in all we could count at times, though four, you know, were merely mirages. We did not all reach the colony; indeed, many succumbed to the fatigue of the march, to frost-bites, and to scurvy; and we laid them to rest in hastily-dug graves, and the snow was their only winding-sheet. It was more than a year before we found a passage back to our own country, and kind though the poor people all were to us, the governor included, we had to rough it, I can tell you. But you see, sailors who choose the Arctic Seas as their cruising-grounds must expect to suffer at times. "Bears, did you say? Thousands! I've counted as many as fifty at one time on the ice, and I've had a few encounters with them too, myself, though I've known those that have had more. I've known men fight them single-handed, and come off scot-free, leaving Bruin dead on the ice. Dickie McInlay fought a bear with a seal-club. You may be sure the duel wasn't of his own proposing; but coming across the ice one day all alone, he rounded the corner of a hummock, and lo! and behold! there was a monstrous bear washing the blood off his chops after eating a seal. "`Ho! ho!' roared the bear. `I have dined, but you'll come in handy for dessert. Oho! Waugh, O! oh!' "Dick was a little bit of a fellow, but his biceps was as big, round, and just as hard as a hawser. "`If you come an inch nearer me,' cried Dickie, quite undaunted, `it'll be a dear day's work for ye, Mr Bruin.' "The bear crouched for a spring. He never did spring, though; but Dickie did; and he will tell you to this day that he never could understand how he managed to clear the space betwixt himself and the bear so speedily. Then there was a dull thud; Bruin never lifted head again, for the iron of Dickie's club was planted deep into his brain. "The doctor here," continued Silas, "can tell you what a terribly sharp and deadly weapon of offence a large amputating knife would prove, in the hands of a powerful man, against any animal that ever lived. But the doctor I don't think would care to attack a bear with one." "Indeed, no," said Sandy; "I would rather be excused." "But the surgeon of the _North Star_ did," said Silas. "I was witness myself to the awful encounter. But the poor surgeon was mad at the time; he had given way to the rum-fever--rum-fiend it should be called. With his knife in his hand he wandered off and away all by himself over the pack. I saw the fight between the bear and him commence, and sent men at once to assist him. When they reached the scene of action they found the huge bear lying dead, stabbed in fifty places at least. The snow for yards around had been trampled down in the awful struggle, and was yellow and red with blood. The doctor lay beside the bear, apparently asleep. I need not tell you that he slept the sleep that knows no waking. The poor fellow's body was crushed to pulp. "Charles Manning, a spectioneer of the _Good Resolve_, was lying on his back on the sunny side of a hummock, snatching a five-minutes' rest, for it was sealing time, when a bear crept up behind him, more stealthily than any cat could have done. He drew his paw upwards along the poor fellow's body. Only once, mind you, but he left him a mere empty shell." [The author is relating facts; names only are concealed.] "Ah! but, gentlemen, you should have seen a two-mile run I had not five years ago from a bear. Silas himself wouldn't have believed that Silas could have done the distance in double the time. He was coming home all by himself, when he burst his rifle firing at a seal, and just at that moment up popped a bear. "`All alone, are you, Silas?' Bruin seemed to say. "`Yes,' replied Silas, moving off; `and I don't want your company either. I know my way, thank you.' "`Oh, I daresay you do!' says the bear. `But it will only be friendly like if I see you home. Wait a bit.' "`Never a wait!' said Silas; and so the race began. "Of course they saw it from the ship, and sent men to meet me and settle Bruin. Puffed? I should think I was! I lay on my face for five minutes, with no more breath in my old bellows than there is in a dead badger?" "You've seen the sea-lion, I suppose, Captain Grig?" said Allan. "I have that!" replied Silas, "and the sea-bear, too, and I don't know which of the two I'd rather meet on the top of a berg, for they are vicious brutes both." "I've read some very interesting accounts of them," said Allan, "in the encyclopaedias." "So have I," laughed old Silas, "written by men who had never seen them out of the Brighton Aquarium. Pardon me, but you cannot study nature from books." "Do you know the _Stemmatopus cristatus_?" inquired Rory. "What ship, my boy?" said Silas, with one hand behind his ear; "I didn't catch the name o' the craft." "It isn't a ship," said Rory, smiling; "it is a great black seal, with a thing like a kettle-pot over his head." "Oho!" cried Silas; "now I know. You mean the bladder-nose. Ay, lad! and a dangerous monster he is. A Greenland sailor would almost as soon face a bear as fight one of those brutes single-handed." "But the books tell us," said Rory, "that, when surprised by the hunter, they weep copiously." "Bother such books!" said Silas. "What? a bladder-nose weep! Crocodile's tears, then, lad! Why, gentlemen, this monstrous seal is more fierce than any other I know. When once he gets his back up and erects that kettle-pot o' his, and turns round to see who is coming, stand clear, that's what Silas says, for he means mischief, and he's as willing to take his death as any terrier dog that ever barked. I would like to see some o' those cyclopaedia-building chaps face to face with a healthy bladder-nose on a bit o' bay ice. I think I know which o' them would do the weeping part of the business." "Down south here," said McBain--"if we can call it south--the seals have their young on the ice, don't they?" "You're right, sir," said Silas. "And where do they go after that?" "Away back to the far, far north," said Silas. "We follow them up as far as we can. They live at the Pole." "Ah!" said McBain; "and that, Captain Grig, is in itself a proof that there must be open water around the Pole." "I haven't a doubt about it!" cried Silas; "and if you succeed in getting there you'll see land and water too, mountains and streams, and maybe a milder climate. Seals were never made to live down in the dark water; they have eyes and lungs, even, if they are amphibious. But look! look! look, men, look!" Silas started up from the table as he spoke, excitement expressed in every lineament of his face. He pointed to the port from which at present the _Canny Scotia_ was plainly visible, about half a mile off, on the weather quarter. The men could be seen crowding up the rattlings, and even manning the yards, and wildly waving their caps and arms in the air. Silas threw the port open wide. "Listen!" he cried. Our heroes held their breath, while over the water from the distant barque came the sound of many voices cheering. Then the _Arrandoon's_ rigging is manned, and glad shout after glad shout is sent them back. Next moment Stevenson rushed into the cabin. "The seals! the seals!" was all he could say, or rather gasp. "Are there many?" inquired several voices at once.--"Millions on millions!" cried the mate; "the whole pack is black with them as far as ever we can see from the mainmast head." CHAPTER TWENTY. SEAL-STALKING--A GLORIOUS DAY'S SPORT--PIPER PETER AND THE BEAR--A STRANGE DUET--THE SEAL-STALKERS' RETURN. It was about midnight on the 24th of April when the seals were sighted. Midnight, and the sun was low down on the horizon, but, for three long months, never more would it set or sink behind the sea of ice. The weather was bright, bracing, beautiful. Not a cloud in the sky, and hardly wind enough to let the ships get well in through the pack, towards the place where the seals lay as thick as bees, and all unconscious of their approaching fate. But the _Arrandoon_ got steam up, and commenced forcing her way through the closely packed yet loosely floating bergs, leaving behind her a wake of clear water, which made it easy work for the _Scotia_ and the saucy little "two-stick yacht" to follow her example. My young reader must dismiss from his mind the idea of tall, mountainous, pinnacled icebergs, like those he sees in common engravings. The ice was in heavy pieces, it is true, from forty to sixty or seventy feet square, and probably six feet out of water, with hummocks here and there, and piles of bay ice that looked like packs of gigantic cards, but so flat and low upon the whole, that from the masthead a stretch of snow-clad ice could be seen, spreading westwards and north for many and many a mile. When even the power of steam failed to force the _Arrandoon_ farther into the pack, the ships were stopped, fires were banked and sails were clewed, and all hands prepared for instant action. The men girt their knives and steels around them, and threw their "Jowrie-tows" across their broad shoulders, and the officers, dressed in their sealing costume, seized their rifles and shot-belts. Next moment the bo's'n's shrill pipe sounded out in the still air, and the order was shouted,-- "All hands over the side." In five minutes more the ships were apparently deserted. You wouldn't have heard a sound on board, for few were left but stewards and cooks; while little boy Freezing Powders and his wonderful cockatoo had it all to themselves down in the saloon of the great steamship. The boy was bending down beside his favourite in the corner. "What's the row? What's the row? What's the row?" the bird was saying. "I don't know nuffin' more nor you do, Cockie," was the boy's reply; "but it strikes dis chile dat dey have all taken leave of der senses, ebery moder's son of dem. And de captain he have gone up into de crow's-nest, which looks for all de world like a big barrel of treacle, Cockie, and he have shut hisself in der, and nuffin' does he do but wave a long stick wid a black ball at de end of it. [The fan with which Greenland captains guide their men in the direction of the seals.] Dat is all de knows; but oh! Cockie, don't you take such drefful big mouf-fuls o' hemp. Supposin' anyting happen to you, Cockie, den I hab nobody to talk to dat fully understand dis chile." The _Canny Scotia_ was moored to the ice so close to the _Arrandoon_ that the captains of the respective ships could maintain a conversation without stressing their lungs to any very great extent. Talking thus, each in his own crow's-nest, they looked for all the world like a couple of chimney-sweeps conversing together from rival chimneys. The cooks were not idle in the galleys, they were busy boiling hams and huge joints of beef, and these, when cooked, were taken on deck; for sealing is hungry work, and every time a man brings a drag to the vessel's side he helps himself to a lordly slice and a biscuit. By-and-by the draggers began to drop in fast enough, each one hauling an immense skin with the fat or blubber attached; and these skins were all hoisted on board the _Scotia_, for all hands were working for Silas. But our heroes had the sport, and, taking it all in all, I do not think there is any sport in the world to compare to that of seal-stalking. Without any of the cowardliness of battue shooting, in which the poor surrounded animals are helpless, and cruelly and mercilessly slain, you have far more excitement, and the sport is not unattended with danger. To be a good seal-stalker you need the limbs of an athlete, the eye of an excellent marksman, and all the stealth and cunning of a tabby cat or a Coromanche Indian. If your nerves are not well strung, or your muscles not like iron, you may fail to leap across the lane of dark water that separates piece from piece; if you do fail and are not speedily helped out, the current may drag you beneath the bergs, or those dreadful sharks, that seldom are absent where blood is being spilled on the sea of ice, may seize and pull you down to a fearful death; if you are not a good shot, your seals will get away, for your bullet _must_ pierce either neck or head; and, lastly, if you are not cunning, if you do not stalk with stealth, your seals will escape with the speed of lightning. On warm, sunny days the seals lie close and sleep soundly, but they always have their sentries set. Kill the sentry, and many others are at your mercy; miss him, or merely wound him, and he gives the alarm _instanter_, and all the rest jump helter-skelter into the sea, according you a beautiful view of their tail-ends, which you don't find very advantageous in the way of making a bag. A good sealer, like a good skirmisher, takes advantage of every bit of cover, and many a death-blow is dealt from the shelter of a lump of loose ice. The gunners to-day, as they usually do, went on after the seals in skirmishing order, in one long line, each taking a breadth of about seventy or one hundred yards. It was an hour past midnight before they left the ships. When it was nine in the morning there was a kind of general assembly of the riflemen to breakfast, behind a large square hummock of packed bay ice, and only the very oldest among them could believe that it was so late. [These strange hummocks, which resemble, as already stated, huge packs of cards, are formed of pieces of bay ice about a foot thick, which has been broken up between two bergs, and finally thrown up out of the water altogether. They form quite a characteristic feature of a North Greenland icescape.] Why, to our own particular heroes it seemed scarcely an hour since they had left their ship, so great is the excitement of seal-stalking. But Ralph and Rory and Allan had done so well, and had managed to lay so many splendid seals dead on every piece of ice, that they earned high encomiums from the mate of the _Canny Scotia_; and even the doctor hadn't shot amiss, and proud was he to be told so. "But, my dear sirs," said Sandy, "I'd like to know why a good surgeon shouldn't be a good sportsman. Don't you know that the great Liston himself was sometimes summoned to an operation at the hospital, just as he was mounting his horse to ride off to the hunt, arrayed in scarlet and cords?" "And what did he do?" asked Rory. "Pass the pie," said Ralph. "Why," continued the doctor, enthusiastically, "doffed his scarlet coat and donned an old gown, whipped off a leg in one minute ten and a half seconds, and was in the saddle again five minutes after that." "Brayvo!" cried Captain Cobb, "doctor, you're a brick, and if ever you come out to New Jersey, come and see Cobb, and I guess he'll give you a good time of it." "Ray," said Rory. "Well, Row," said Ray. "Your face and hands are begrimed with powder, and there is a kind of wolfish look about you that is worth studying. You look like a frozen-out blacksmith who hasn't a penny to buy a bit of peas-pudding or a morsel of soap." "I'm hungry, anyhow," said Ray. "How good of McBain to send such a jolly breakfast! But I say, Row, d'ye remember the proverb about Claudius? Well, don't you call my face and hands black till you've washed your own. You look like a chimney-sweep who has been out of work for a week, and got no food since the day before yesterday." "Well, well," says Row, "but 'deed in troth, my dear big boy, nobody can wonder at your being successful as a seal-stalker, for what with the colour of your face, and the urgency, so to speak, of the two eyes of you, and that big fur cap, why the seals take you for one o' themselves, a big bladder-nose." "Pass the ham," said Ray; "Allan, some more coffee, I begin to feel like a giant refreshed." "I do declare upon mine honour," said De Vere, "dat dis is de most glorious pignig [picnic] I ever have de pleasure to attend. But just you look at mine friend Seth, how funnily he do dress." "It may be a funny way," said Allan, "but it is a most effectual one; dear old trapper Seth has killed more seals this morning than any two of us." Seth was dressed from top to toe in young seals' skins, the hair outwards, with the exception of the cap, which was of darker fur, and a black patch on his back. They were not loose garments, they were almost as tight as a harlequin's; but when Seth drew his fur cap over his face and threw himself on the ice, and began wriggling along, his resemblance to a saddle-seal was so preposterous that everybody burst into a hearty laugh. "That's the way I gets so near them," said Seth, standing once more erect. "Look, look!" cried Rory, and every eye was turned in the direction in which he pointed; and there, in a pool of dark water not twenty yards away, a dozen beautiful heads, with round, wondering eyes, had popped up to gaze at them. It was a lovely sight, and never a rifle was lifted to shoot. Presently they disappeared, but on the mate of the _Scotia_ giving vent to a loud whistle, up came the heads again, and there they remained as long as the mate whistled, for of all wild creatures in the world that I have ever come across, the Greenland seal is the most inquisitive; and no doubt the experience of some of my old-boy readers who have been to the country is the same as my own. Onwards, steadily onwards, all that day went our sportsmen; they did not even assemble again for another meal, and at five of the clock they found themselves fully four miles from the place where the ships lay. The field of seals which they had attacked was some ten miles square, and although they had worked their way into it for miles, nevertheless when the flags were hoisted to recall them, at two bells in the first dog-watch, the field of seals still remained about ten miles square. This may seem strange, but is thus accounted for. Out of say twenty seals on each berg, fifteen at least would escape, and these swam away under the pack, and again took the ice on the far-off edge of the field of seals. It being somewhat too far to drag the skins to the ship, bings had been made on the ice during the latter part of the day, so that no dead seals should be left unflensed upon the ice. When they wended their way homewards at the end of this glorious day's shooting a broom was stuck besom-side up, on each bing, with the name of the ship on the handles. This is done with the view of preventing other ships from appropriating the skins. This is the custom of the country--one of the unwritten laws of the sea of ice. While the gunners and their merry men were yet a long way off from the ships, there came a hail from the crow's-nest of the _Arrandoon_, which, by the way, McBain had hardly left all the time. Peter had brought him up coffee and food, and he had danced in the interval to keep himself warm. "On deck there?" "Ay, ay, sir," roared Peter, looking up. "Is dinner all laid?" "Ay, sir, and the cook is waiting." "Well, on with the kilt, Peter, if you're not afraid of getting your hocks frozen, get the bagpipes, and go and meet the hunters." Down below dived Peter, and he was up again in what sailors call "a brace of shakes," arrayed in full Highland costume, with the bagpipes over his arm. No wonder the cockatoo cried,-- "De-ah me?" when he saw Peter, and added, "Such a to-do! such a to-do! such a to-do!" Now the bears had been rather numerous on the pack that day, just as the sharks were in the water. Doubtless the sharks found many a poor wounded seal to close their vengeful jaws upon, for they are either too cowardly or not swift enough to catch a healthy phoca; but the bears had behaved themselves unusually well. They had had plenty to eat, at all events, and seemed to know that the men at work on the ice were laying up a store of provisions for them that would last them all the summer, so they had made no attempt to attack them. But on their way back to the ship the doctor, who was striding on a little way in advance of the rest, startled a huge monster who was sunning himself behind a hummock. It would be difficult to say whether the bear or the doctor was the more startled; at all events the latter fired and missed, and the former made off, running in the direction of the ships. But he hadn't gone above half a mile when who should Bruin meet but Peter, coming swinging along with his bagpipes under his arm. Never a gun had Peter, and never a club--only the pipes. As soon as they saw each other they both stopped short. "I do declare," Bruin seemed to say to himself, "here is a man or something all alone. But what a strange dress! I never saw anybody dressed like that before. Never mind, he looks sweet and nice; I'll have a bit." "I do declare," said Peter to himself, "if that isn't a big lump of a bear coming along, and I haven't even a stone to throw at him. Whatever shall I do at all, at all? Och! and och! this is the end of me now, at last. Sure enough it is marching to my own funeral I've been all the time, instead of going to meet the sportsmen. Oh! Peter, Peter! you'll never see your old mother in this world again, nor Scotland either. Yonder big bear is licking his chops to devour you. Yonder is the big hairy sarcophagus that'll soon contain your mangled remains. Who would have thought that Peter of Arrandoon would have lived to play his own coronach?" [Coronach--a funeral hymn or wail for the departed.] Hardly knowing what he did, poor Peter shouldered his pipes, and began to play a dreary, droning, yelling, squealing lament. At the same moment Bruin commenced to perform some of the queerest antics ever a bear tried before. He stretched first one leg, then another, and he stretched his neck and described circles in the air with his nose, keeping time with the music. Then he sat up entirely on one end. "Oh!" he seemed to say, "flesh and blood couldn't stand that; I must, yes, I must give vent to a Ho--o--o--o--o-- "And likewise to a Hoo--oo--oo--oo--oo!!" Reader, the voice of an asthmatical steam-engine, heard at midnight as it enters a tunnel, is a melancholy sound, so is the Welsh hooter, and the fog-horn of a Newcastle coal brig; but all combined, and sounding together, would be but a feeble imitation of the agonising notes of that great white bear as he sat on his haunches listening to Peter's pipes. Peter himself saw the effect his music had produced, and, like the "towsy tike" in _Tam o' Shanter_,-- "He hotched and blew wi' might and main." And, as if Peter had been a great magician, Bruin felt impelled to try to follow the notes, though I am bound to say he did not always keep even in the key-note. Surely such a duet was never heard before in this world. There was a small open space of water not far from the hummock on which the piper of the _Arrandoon_ had stationed himself; it was soon alive with the heads of hundreds of seals who had come up to listen; so, upon the whole, Peter had a most appreciative audience. But see yonder, is that a seal on the ice that is creeping closer and closer up behind the bear? Nay, for seals don't carry rifles; and now the newcomer levels his gun just for a moment, there is a puff of blue-white smoke, the bear springs high in the air, then falls prostrate on the snow. His ululations are over for ever and ay; the piper plays a merrier air, and advances with speed to meet old Seth and the rest of the sportsmen, who, glad as they are to see him alive, greet him with uproarious cheers and laughter. Then a procession is formed, and with Peter and his pipes striding on in front, thus do the seal-stalkers return to the _Arrandoon_. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. THE COMING FROST--SILAS WARNS THE "ARRANDOON" OF DANGER--FORGING THROUGH THE ICE--BESET--A STRANGE AND ALARMING ACCIDENT. So willingly and merrily worked all hands on the ice, that in less than three days the _Canny Scotia_ was almost a full, though by no means a bumper ship, and poor Silas began to see visions of future happiness in his mind's eye, when he should return to his native land and complete the joy of his family. Unfortunately, however, his good fortune did not last for the present. How seldom, indeed, good luck does last in this world of ours! One day, towards midnight, the sky apparently assumed a brighter blue. This seemed to concern Silas considerably. The good man was walking the deck at the time with his inseparable companion the first mate, neither of whom ever appeared now to court sleep or rest. "Matie," said Silas, pointing skywards, "do you see any difference in the colour yonder?" "That do I!" replied the mate. "And hasn't it got much colder?" "Well, both of us have been walking," the chief officer returned, "at the rate of several knots, just to keep the dear life in us, and I never saw you, sir, with your hands so deep in your pockets before." Down rushed the captain to consult his glass; he was speedily up again, however. "It is just as I thought," he said. "Now come up into the nest with me; there's room for both of us. Look!" he added, as soon as they had reached their barrel of observation, "the rascals know what is coming. They are taking the water, and before ten minutes there won't be a seal with his nose on that bit of pack. Heigho, matie! heigho! that is just like my luck. If I'd been born a tailor, every man would have been born a Highlander, and made his own kilts. But hi! up, matie, Silas doesn't mean to let his heart down yet for a bit. A black frost is on the wing. There is no help for that, but the _Arrandoon's_ people don't seem to know it. I must off over and tell them;" and even as he spoke Silas began descending the Jacob's ladder. "Call all hands!" he cried, as he disappeared over the side; "we must work her round as long as the pieces are anything loose-like." It was not a long journey to the big sister ship, and the sturdy legs of this ancient mariner would soon get him there. But he would not wait till alongside; he needs must hail her while still many yards from her dark and stately sides. "What ho, there!" he bawled. "_Arrandoon_ ahoy!" That voice of his was a wonderful one. It might have awakened the dead; it was like a ten-horse power speaking-trumpet lined with the roughest emery-paper. Seals heard it far down beneath the ice, and came to the surface to listen and to marvel. A great bear was sitting not twenty yards from Silas. He thought he should like to eat Silas, but he could not swallow that voice, so he went across the ice instead. Then the voice rolled in over the vessel's bulwarks, startled the officer on duty, and went ringing down below through the state-rooms, causing our sleeping heroes to tumble out of their bunks with double-quick speed, even the usually late and lazy Ralph evincing more celerity than ever he had done in his life before. They met, rubbing their eyes and looking cold and foolish, all in a knot in the saloon. Cold and foolish, and a little bit frightened as well, for the words of Silas sounded terribly like "the _Arrandoon_ on fire!" Not a bit of it, for there came the hail again, and distinct enough this time. "_Arrandoon_ ahoy! Is everybody dead on board?" "What _is_ the matter?" cried McBain, as soon as he got on deck, dressed as he was in the garments of night. "Black frost, Captain McBain," answered Silas, springing up the side, "and you'll soon find that matter enough, or my name ain't Grig, nor my luck like a bad wind, always veering in the wrong direction. The seals are gone, sir--every mother's son o' them! My advice is--but, dear me, gentlemen! go below and rig out. Why, here's four more of you! That ain't the raiment for a black frost! You look like five candidates for a choking good influenza!" This first bit of advice being taken in good part, "Now," continued Silas, "your next best holt, Captain McBain, will be to get up steam, and get her head pointed away for the blue water, else there is no saying we may not leave our bones here." "Ah!" exclaimed McBain, "we've no wish to do that. And here comes our worthy engineer. The old question, chief--How soon can you get us under way?" "With the American hams, sir," was the quiet reply, "in about twenty minutes; with a morsel of nice blubber that I laid in especially for the purpose of emergencies, in far less time than that." "Thanks!" said McBain, smiling; "use anything, but don't lose time." The ships lay far from the open sea. They had been "rove" a long way in through the pack, to get close to the seals, but, independently of that, floating streams of ice, one after another, had joined the outer edge of this immense field of bergs, placing them at a greater distance from the welcome water. Steam was speedily roaring, and ready for its work. Then, not without considerable difficulty, the vessel was put about, and the voyage seaward was commenced. Slow and tedious this voyage was bound to be, for there was so little wind it was useless to shake the sails loose, so the duty of towing her consorts devolved upon the _Arrandoon_. Instead of remaining on his own ship, Silas Grig came on board the steamer, where his services as iceman were fully appreciated. As yet the frost had made no appreciable difference to the solidity of the pack; a very gentle swell was moving the pieces--a swell that rolled in from seaward, causing the whole scene around to look like a tract of snow-clad land, acted on by the giant force of an earthquake. Forging ahead through such ice, even by the aid of steam, is hard, slow work; and, assisted as the _Arrandoon_ was by men walking in front of her and pushing on the bergs with long poles, hardly could she make a headway of half a mile an hour, and there were twenty good miles to traverse! It was a weary task, but the men bent their backs cheerfully to it, as British sailors ever do to a duty that has to be performed. [Light lie the earth on the breast of the gallant Captain Brownrigg, R.N., and green be the grass on his grave. My young readers know the story; it is such stories as his they ought to read; such men as he ought to be enshrined in their memory. Betrayed by treacherous Arabs, with a mere handful of men he fought their powerful dhow and guns; and even when hope itself had fled he made no attempt to escape, but fought on and fought on, till he fell pierced with twenty wounds. He was a heroic sailor, and _he was doing his duty_!] Even had it been possible to keep up the men's strength, forty hours must have elapsed ere the _Arrandoon_ would be rising and falling on blue water. But many hours had not gone by ere the men got a rest they little cared for--for down went the swell, the motion among the bergs was stilled, and frost began its work of welding them together. "Just like my luck, now, isn't it?" said Silas, when he found the ship could not be budged another inch, and was quite surrounded by heavy ice. "I don't believe in luck," said Captain McBain; "and, after all, things might have turned out even worse than they have." "Oh!" said Silas, "I'm not the man to grumble or growl. We are comfortable and jolly, and we have plenty to eat." "We won't have much sport, though," said Rory, with a sigh, "if we have to remain here long, for the bears will follow the seals, won't they?" "That they will," replied Silas, "and small blame to them; it is exactly what I should like to do myself." "Well, you can, you know," said McBain, laughing. "We have a splendid balloon. De Vere will take you for a fly I'm sure, if you'll ask him." "What! trust myself up in the clouds!" cried Silas; "thank you very much for the offer, but if ill-luck has kept following my footsteps all my life, ill-luck would be sure to follow me if I attempted any aerial flights, and I'd come down by the run." "Well, we're fairly beset, anyhow," said Rory, "and I daresay we'll have to try to make the best of it." So guns were placed disconsolately ill the racks, as soon as the terrible black frost had quite set in, or if they were taken out when a walk was determined on, it was only for fashion's sake, and for the fear that an occasional bear might be met with. But it was good fun breaking bottles with rifle bullets, and good practice as well. As the days went on, and there were no signs of the pack breaking up, a number of books were taken down to be perused, much time was spent in playing piano or violin, or both together, while after dinner the hours were devoted to talking. Many a racy yarn was told by Cobb, many an adventure by Seth, and many a queer experience by Silas Grig, and duly appreciated, too. So the evenings did not seem long, whatever the days did. Said Silas one morning to McBain, as they stood together leaning on the bulwarks. "I don't quite like the look of that ice, captain; it is precious big, and if it came on to press a bit, why, it would go clean through the ribs of us, strong though our good ships are. And that cockle-shell of Cobb's would be the very first to go down to the bottom." "Or up to the top," suggested McBain. "What?" laughed Silas; "would you clap your balloon top of her, and lift her out like?" "No, not that; but we could hoist her high and dry on top of the ice easily enough." "Well, I declare," cried Silas, clapping one brawny hand on his knee, "that is a glorious idea. And an old iceman like me to never think of it!" Then Silas's face fell, as he said,-- "Ah! but you couldn't hoist me up too. The _Canny Scotia_ would go down; that would be more of my luck." "Well, but I've thought of a plan. I have torpedoes on board. I'll have a go at this ice, anyhow." "Make a kind of harbour, you mean?" inquired Silas. "That's it," was the reply. "But," said Silas, still somewhat dubious, "you know the currents run like mill-streams in under the ice. Well, suppose your torpedoes were to be floated in under my ship, and went bursting off there?" "Well, your ship would be hoisted," replied McBain; "that would be all." "Ay!" said Silas, "that would be all; that would end all the luck, good or bad." "But there is no fear of any such accident. And now let us just have a try at it." Blowing up icebergs with torpedoes is by no means difficult, when you know how to do it, but sometimes the current will shift the guiding-pole or rope, and were it to get under the stern of the ship itself, it would make it awkward for the Arctic explorers. In the present instance everything went well, and berg after berg succumbed to the force of the gun-cotton, until the last, when, by some mismanagement, one torpedo was shifted right under a piece of ice on which stood, tools in hand, about ten men, besides Silas, Rory, and Captain McBain himself. Of course it was not likely that boy Rory was going to be far away when any fun was going on, so that is why he happened to be on top of this identical berg when the blowing-up took place. And here is precisely what was seen by disinterested bystanders--a smother of snow and water and ice, mixed, rising in shape of a rounded column over ten feet high, and, dimly visible in the misty midst thereof, a minglement of hands and heads and arms and legs. The sound accompanying the columnar rising was something between a puff and a thud; I cannot better describe it. Then there was a sudden collapse, and next moment the arms and the legs and the hands and the heads were all seen sprawling and struggling in the frothy, seething water below. It simply and purely looked as if they were all being boiled alive in a huge cauldron. But the strangest part of the story is to come. With the exception of a few trifling braises, not one of those who were thus surprised by so sudden a rise in the world was a bit the worse. The ducking in the cold sea was certainly far from pleasant, but dry clothes and hot coffee soon put that to rights, and they came up smiling again. Freezing Powders, who was on deck at the time of the accident, was dreadfully frightened, and ran down below instantly to report matters to his favourite. "What's the row? What's the row? What's the row?" cried the bird as the boy entered the saloon. "Don't talk so fast, Cockie, and I'll tell you," said Freezing Powders, sinking down on the deck with one arm on the cage. "I tink I'se all right at present, though my breaf is all frightened out of my body, and I must look 'bout as pale as you, Cockie." "De-ah me!" said Cockie. "But don't hang by de legs, Cockie. When you wants a mouf-ful of hemp just hop down for it, else de blood all run to your poor head, den you die in a fit?" "Poor de-ah Cockie! Pretty old Cockie!" said the bird, in mournful tones. "And now I got my breaf again, I try to 'splain to you what am de row. De drefful world round de ship is all white, Cockie, and to-day dey has commenced blowing it up, and jus' now, Cockie, dey has commenced to blow derselves up?" "De-ah me!" from Cockie. "Dat am quite true, Cockie, and de heads and de legs am flying about in all directions! It is too drefful to behold!" "Now then, young Roley Poley!" cried Peter, entering at that moment, "toddle away forward for some boiling-hot coffee, and run quicker than ever you ran in your life." "I'se off like a bird!" said Freezing Powders, darting out of the cabin as if there had been a boot after him. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. CAPTAIN COBB RETIRES--MORE TORPEDOING--THE GREAT ICE-HOLE--STRANGE SPORT--THE TERRIBLE ZUGAENA--THE DEATH STRUGGLE. Both Captain McBain and Silas Grig felt more easy in their minds when they had got fairly rid of the green-rooted monsters of icebergs that had lain so placidly yet so threateningly alongside their respective ships. And oh! by the way, how very calm, harmless, and gentle bergs like these _can_ look, when there is no disturbing element beneath them, their snow-clad tops asleep and glistening in the sunlight; but I have seen them angry, grinding and crashing together, each upheaval representing a height of from fifteen to thirty feet; each upheaval representing a strength hydraulic equal in force to the might of the great ocean itself. Our heroes had taken time by the forelock. They had "guncottoned the bergs," as Captain Cobb termed it, and lay for the time being in square ice-locked harbours, and could bid defiance to almost any ordinary occurrence, whether gale of wind in the pack or swell from the distant sea. As the days went by the black frost seemed only to increase in severity. "How long d'ye think," said Captain Cobb, one morning, while at breakfast in the _Arrandoon_--"how long d'ye think this state of affairs'll last? 'cause, mind ye, I begin to feel a kind o' riled already." McBain looked inquiringly at Silas. "If it's asking me you are," said the latter, "I makes answer and says, it may be for months, but it can't be for ever." "But the frost isn't likely to go for a week, is it now?" "That it won't, worse luck," was the reply. "Well, then, gentlemen," said Cobb, "this child is going off, straight away out o' here back to Jan Mayen." "Back to Jan Mayen?" "Back to Jan Mayen!" everybody said, or seemed to say, in one breath. "I reckon ye heard aright," said the imperturbable Yankee. "It's just like this, ye see," he continued. "I'm paid by my employers to make observations on the old island down yonder; stopping here ain't taking sights, but it's taking the company's dollars for nothing, so if you'll--either o' ye--lend me a hand or two, and promise to hoist up Cobb's cockle-shell in the event of a squeeze, Cobb himself is off home, 'tain't mor'n fifty miles." The journey was a dangerous one, nobody knew that better than the bold American himself, and it was a true sense of duty to his employers that caused him to undertake it. But having once made up his mind to a thing, Cobb was not the man to be deterred from accomplishing it. So, with many a good wish for his safety, accompanied by only three men, he set out on his long journey over the snow. Rory, from the deck of the _Arrandoon_, and McBain from the nest, watched them as long as they were in sight. Indeed, I am not at all sure that Rory did not feel a little sorry he had not asked leave to accompany them, so fond was he of adventure in every shape and form. It was a relief for him--and not for him alone--when McBain, in order to break the monotony of existence, and by way of doing something, proposed trying the effects of his torpedoes again at some distance from the ship, and forming a great ice-hole. "Things will come up to breathe, and look about them, you know," he explained, "and then we may get some sport, and Silas may bag a seal or two." Our heroes were overjoyed when the working party was called away. At last there was a prospect of doing something, and seeing an animal of some kind, for not only the bears, but the very birds had deserted them. Sometimes, indeed, a solitary snowbird would come flying around the ships. It would hover for awhile in the air, giving vent to many a peevish, mournful chirp, then fly away again. "No, no, no!" it seemed to say, "there is nothing good to eat down there--no raw flesh, no blood--and so I'm off again to the distant sealing ground, where the yellow bear prowls, and the snow is red with blood." A few hours' work with torpedoes, picks, and ice-saws, was enough to form an opening big enough for the purpose required. The broken pieces were either "landed high and dry," or sunk beneath the pack, and so the work was completed. "It'll entail a deal of trouble, gentlemen," said Dr McFlail, "to keep that hole clear with the temperature which we are at present enjoying-- or rather enduring." "There is that in the sea, doctor," said Silas, with a knowing nod, "which will save us the trouble." He wasn't wrong. Not an hour elapsed ere a few black heads, with great wondering eyes, appeared above the surface and peered around them, and blinked at the sun, and seemed to enjoy mightily a sniff of the fresh air and a blink of the daylight. "This is nice, now," they said, "and ever so much better than being down there in the dark--quite an oasis in the desert." Bang! bang! Two of them slowly sank to rise no more. "This won't do," said Allan; "it is only murder to shoot poor seals that we cannot land and make some good out off. What is to be done?" "Be quiet with ye!" said Rory. "Sure yonder is Seth himself, coming straight from the ship, in his suit of skins, and if he isn't up to some manoeuvre then my name isn't Roderick, that is all." Seth _was_ up to something; he had a coil of rope with him, and the nattiest little harpoon that ever was handled. "Fire away, gentlemen!" he said, lying down on the sunny side of a small hummock pretty close to the water's edge, "only don't hit the old trapper; he'd rather die in his bed if it be all the same to you." Undeterred by the fate that had befallen their companions, it was not long before other seals popped up to breathe. Our heroes were ready for them, and two again were killed, one being missed. Seth was ready for them, too. He sprang to his feet, and ere the smoke had melted in the thin air, one of the seals was neatly harpooned and dragged to the edge. Here it was gaffed, and lifted or pulled bodily on to the ice by help of Ralph's powerful arm. The harpoon was released, and before the other seal had time to sink it was served in precisely the same manner. The sport was exceedingly novel, and combined, as Rory said, "all the pleasures of shooting and fishing in one glorious whole." No work on natural history, so far as my reading goes, remarks upon the exceedingly great speed exhibited by the Greenland seal in his flight-- it is in reality a flight--through and beneath the water. I have often been astonished at the rapidity of their movements; so swiftly do they dart along that the eye can barely follow them for the moment or two they are visible. This power of swimming enables them to pursue their finny prey for many miles under an ice-pack; it doubtless also enables them to escape the fangs of their natural enemy, the great Greenland shark (_Scymnus borealis_), and on the present occasion it accounted for their appearance at the great breathing-hole made for them by the torpedoes and ice-saws of the _Arrandoon_. The water under the pack would be everywhere else as black and dark as midnight, but through this opening the sunshine would stream in straight and powerful rays, and not seals alone, but fishes and monsters of the deep of many kinds, would naturally come towards the light, as the salmon does to the glimmer from the torch of the Highland poacher. The sport obtained at the opening was not of a very exciting character on the first day, but next morn, to their joy, they found that a bear had been around, and had left the marks of his broad soles in the snow. Many more seals, too, came up to breathe, and more harpoons had to be requisitioned. Silas was once more in his glory at the prospect of adding a few more skins, and a few more tons of oil, to the cargo he had already shipped. Towards afternoon the fun grew fast and furious, and when Peter came in person to announce dinner, he could hardly get his officers to pay any heed to the summons. Even Cockie down in the saloon heard the noise, and must needs inquire, as he stretched his neck and fastened one bead of an eye on his little black master. "What's all the to-do about? What's all the to-do about?" "I don't know," was the reply of Freezing Powders. "I don't know no more nor you do, Cockie. I tinks dey has gone to blow derselves all to pieces again." Dinner was partaken of in a merrier mood that day than it had been for weeks. Silas was there, of course; in fact, he had become an honorary member of the _Arrandoon_ mess. "You see, Captain Grig," McBain had observed, "we must have you as much with as now as we can, for we soon go different roads, don't we?" "Ah! yes," replied Silas, with a bit of a sigh; "you go north; God send you safe back; and I go back to my little wife and large family." "Happy reunion, won't it be?" said Allan. The eyes of Silas sparkled, but his heart was too full of happy thoughts to say more than simply,-- "Yes." "Won't the green ginger fly?" said Rory. "I say, boys," Ralph put in, "this sort of thing positively gives a man a kind of an appetite." Rory looked at him with such a mischievous twinkle in his eyes that Ralph longed to pinch him. "Just as if ever you lost yours," said Rory. At this moment the sound of a rifle was heard, apparently close to the ship. "It's the trapper," cried Rory; "it's friend Seth. Sure enough I know the charming music of his long gun. Now, Ray, I'll wager my fiddle he has bagged a bear." Rory was right for once, and here is how it fell out. Several bears had that day scented the battle from afar, or were attracted by the noise of the malleys and gulls that were now wheeling around the ships in thousands. They stood aloof while shooting was going on, sitting on their haunches licking their chops, greedy, hungry, expectant; but as soon as the sportsmen went off to dine,-- "Now is our time," said one, "to get a bit of fresh meat." "Come on, then," cried another; "there are a hundred seals lying on the ice. Hurrah?" So down they came to the feast. They had not had such a treat for a whole day, and that is a long time for a bear to fast, and they made good use of their time, you may be sure, and so earnest were they, that they did not perceive a long, hairy creature that came creeping stealthily towards them. When at last one of them did observe this strange animal "with the tail of his eye," he said to himself,-- "Oh! it is only a tiny bit of a young seal, hunting for a lost mother, perhaps. Well, I'll have it presently by way of dessert." And almost immediately after, the sound that had startled our friends at _their_ dessert rang out in the clear, frosty air, and Bruin's head dropped never more to rise. His brother bears suddenly discovered they had eaten enough; anyhow, they remembered that it was always best to rise up from the table feeling that you could eat a little more, so they shambled away across the pack as fast as four legs could carry them. "Bravo, Seth, old boy," cried Rory and Allan, coming on the scene. Ralph only waited to finish some pastry, then he too joined them. "Why," said the latter, "it is the biggest bear we have seen yet." In true trapper fashion, Seth was already on his knees beside the enormous carcass, engaged with knife and fist and elbow, "working the rascal out of his jacket," as he called it, when Rory, who was not far from the edge of the water, started, or rather sprang back in horror. "Oh! Allan, Allan! Ray, Ray! look!" he cried. Well might he cry "look," for a more terrible or revolting apparition never raises head over the black waters of the Greenland ocean than the zugaena, or hammer-headed shark. The skull is in shape precisely what the name indicates, that of a gigantic hammer, with a great eye at each end, and the mouth beneath. This shark is not unfrequently met with in the northern seas, and he is just as fierce as he is fearful to behold. Allan and Ralph both saw the brute, and neither could repress a shudder. It appeared but for a few moments, then dived below again. Silas and McBain, coming up at the time, were told of the occurrence. "I know the vile beasts well," said Silas, "and they do say that they never appear in these seas without bringing a big slice o' ill-luck in their wake. That is unless you catches them, and sometimes that doesn't save the ship. When I was skipper o' the _Penelope_, and that is more than ten years ago, there wasn't a lazier chap in the crew than snuffy Sandy Foster. He wasn't a deal o' use down below, he did nothing on deck, and he never went aloft. He had two favourite positions: one was sitting before a joint of junk, with a knife in his hand; t'other was leaning against the bulwarks with a pipe in his mouth, and we never could make out which he liked best. "`Did ever you do anything clever in your life, Sandy?' I asked one day. "Sandy took his pipe out of his mouth and eyed the mainmast for fully half a minute. Then he brought his eyes round to my face, and said,-- "`Not that I can remember o', sir.' "`The first time, Sandy,' says I, `that you do anything clever, I'll give you a pair of the best canvas trousers in the ship.' "Sandy's eyes a kind of sparkled; I'd never seen them sparkle before. "`I'll win them,' said Sandy, `wait till ye see.' "And, indeed, gentlemen, I hadn't long to wait. One day the brig was dead before the wind under a crowd o' cloth, for there wasn't much wind, but a nasty rumble-tumble sea; there was no doubt, gentlemen, from the looks o' that sea, that we had just come through a gale o' wind, and there was evidence enough to go to jury on that there was another not far away. Well, it was just in the dusk o' the evening--we were pretty far south--that the cry got up,-- "`Man overboard.' "It was our bo's'n's boy, a lad of fourteen, who had gone by the run. Singing out to the mate to lay to, I ran forward, and if ever I forget the expression of the poor bo's'n's face as he wrung his hands and cried, `Oh, save my laddie! Oh, save my laddie!' my name will change to something else than Silas. "`I'll save him,' cried a voice behind me. Some one rushed past. There was a splash in the water next moment, and I had barely time to see it was Sandy. Before the boat reached the spot they were a quarter of a mile astern, but they were saved; they found the bo's'n's laddie riding `cockerty-coosie' on Sandy's shoulder, and Sandy spitting out the mouthfuls of salt water, laughing and crying,-- "`I've won the breeks! I've won the canvas breeks, boys!' "He had won them, and that right nobly, too. Well, after he had worn them for over a month, it became painfully evident even to Sandy that they sorely needed washing; but, woe is me! Sandy was too lazy to put a hand to them. But he thought of a plan, nevertheless, to save trouble. He steeped them in a soda ley, attached a strong line to them, and pitched them overboard to tow. "When, after two hours' towing, Sandy went to haul them up, great was his astonishment to find a great hammer-head spring half out of the water and seize them. Sandy had never seen so awful a monster before; he put it down as an evil spirit. "`Let go,' he roared; `let go my breeks, ye beast.' "Now, maybe, with those hooked teeth of his, the shark could not let go; anyhow, he did not. "`I dinna ken who ye are, or what ye are,' cried Sandy, `but ye'll no get my breeks. Ah! bide a wee.' "Luckily the dolphin-striker lay handy, Sandy made a grab at it, and next minute it was hard and fast in the hammer-head's neck. To see how that monster wriggled and fought, more like a fiend than a fish, when we got him on deck, would have--but look--look--r--" Seth had not been idle while his companions were talking. He had cut off choice pieces of blubber and thrown them into the sea; he had coiled his rope on the ice close by; then, harpoon in hand, he knelt ready to strike. Nor had he long to wait. The bait took, the bait was taken, the harpoon had left the trapper's hand and gone deep into the monster's body. I will not attempt to describe the scene that followed--it was a death-scene that no pen could do justice to--the wild struggle of the giant shark in the water, his mad and frantic motions ere clubbed to death on the ice, and his terrible appearance as he snapped his dreadful jaws at everything within reach; but here is a fact, strange and weird though it may read--fully half an hour after the creature seemed dead, and lying on its side, while our heroes stood silently round it, with the wild birds wheeling and screaming closely overhead, the zugaena suddenly threw itself on its stomach as if about to swim away. It was the last of its movements, and a mere spasmodic and painless one, though very distressing to witness. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. RORY'S REVERIE--SILAS ON THE SCYMNUS BOREALIS--THE BATTLE WITH THE SHARKS--RORY GETS IN FOR IT AGAIN--THROWN AMONG THE SHARKS. The ships still lay hard and fast in the ice-pack, many miles to the nor'ard and eastward of the Isle of Jan Mayen. There was as yet no sign of the frost giving way. Day after day the bay ice between the bergs got thicker and thicker, and the thermometer still stood steadily well down below zero. But the wind never blew, and there never was a speck of cloud in the brilliant sapphire sky, nor even haze itself to shear the sun of his beams; so the cold was hardly felt, and after a brisk walk or scamper over the ice our heroes felt so warm that they were in the habit of throwing themselves down on the snow on the southern side of a hummock of ice. Book in hand, Rory would sometimes lie thus for fully half an hour on a stretch. Not always reading, though; the fact of Rory's having a book in his hand was no proof that he was reading, for just as often he was dreaming; and I'll tell you a little secret-- there were a pair of beautiful eyes which were filled with tears when last he had seen them, there were two rosy lips that had quivered as they parted to breathe the word "good-bye." These, and a soft, small hand that had lain for a moment in his, haunted him by night and by day, and seemed ever present with him through all his wild adventures. Ah! but they didn't make him unhappy, though; no, but quite the reverse. He was reclining thus one day all by himself, about a quarter of a mile from his ship, when Ralph and McBain came gently up behind him, walking as silently as the crisp snow, that felt like powdered glass under their feet, would permit them. "Hullo! Rory," cried McBain, in a voice of thunder. Startled from his reverie, Rory sprang to his feet, and instinctively grasped his rifle. His friends laughed at him. "It is somewhat late to seize your rifle now, my boy," said McBain; "supposing now we'd been a bear, why, we would be eating you at this present moment." "Or making a mouse of you," added Ralph, "as the yellow bear did of poor Freezing Powders; and at this very minute you'd be-- "`Dancin' for de dear life Among de Greenland snow.'" "I was reading," said Rory, smiling, "that beautiful poem of Wordsworth, _We are seven_." "Wordsworth's _We are seven_?" cried Ralph, laughing. "Oh! Row, Row, you'll be the death of me some day. Since when did you learn to read with your book upside down?" "Had I now?" said Rory, with an amused look of candour. "In troth I daresay you are right." "But come on, Row, boy," continued Ralph, "luncheon is all ready, Peter is waiting, and after lunch Silas Grig is going to show as some fun." "What more malley-shooting?" asked Rory. "No, Row, boy," was the reply; "he is going to lead us forth to battle against the sharks." "Against the sharks!" exclaimed Rory, incredulous. "I'm not in fun, really," replied Ralph. "Silas tells us they are in shoals of thousands at present under us; that the sea swarms with them, some fifteen feet long, others nearer twenty." "Oh!" said Row; "this _is_ interesting. Come on; I'm ready." While the trio stroll leisurely shipwards over the snow, let me try to explain to my reader what Rory meant by malley-shooting, as taught them by Silas Grig. The term, or name, "malley," is that which is given by Greenlandmen to the Arctic gull. Although not so charming in plumage as the snowbird, it is nevertheless a very handsome bird, and has many queer ways of its own which are interesting to the naturalist, and which you do not find described in books. These gulls build their nests early in the season on the cliffs of Faroe and Shetland, and probably, though I have never found them, in sheltered caves of Jan Mayen and Western Greenland as well. Despite the extreme cold, they manage to bring forth and rear their young successfully, and are always ready to follow Greenland ships in immense flocks. Wherever work is going on, wherever the crack of the rifle is heard on the pack, wherever the snow is stained crimson and yellow with blood, the malleys will be there in daring thousands. The most curious part of the thing is this: they possess a power of either scent or sight, which enables them to discover their quarry, although scores of miles away from it. For example--the Arctic gulls, as a rule, do not follow a ship for sake of the bits of bread and fat that may be thrown overboard. Some of them do, I know, but I look upon these as merely the lazaroni, the beggars of their tribe; your healthy, youthful, aristocratic malley prefers something he considers better. Give him blubber to eat, or the flesh of a new slain seal, and he will follow you far enough. Now a ship may be lying becalmed off this pack, with no seals in sight, and doing nothing; if so she will be deserted by these birds. Not from the crow's-nest, though aided by the most powerful telescope, will you be able to descry a single gull; but no sooner is a sealskin or two hauled on deck to be cleared of their fat, than notice seems to be flashed to the far-off gulls, and in a few minutes they are winging around you, making the welkin ring with their wild, delighted screams. They alight in the water around a morsel of meat in such bunches, that a table-cloth would cover two dozen of them. Having had enough--and that "enough" means something enormous--they go off for a "fly," just as tumbling pigeons do. You may see them in hundreds high in air, sailing round and round, enjoying themselves apparently to the very utmost, and shrieking with joy. Now is the time for the skua to attack them. A bold, black, hawklike rascal is this skua, a robber and a thief. He never comes within gunshot of a ship. He is as wild and untamable as the north wind itself; yet, no sooner have the malleys commenced their post-prandial gambols than he is in the midst of them. He does not want to kill them; only some one or more must disgorge their food. On this the skua lives. No wonder that Greenland sailors call him the unclean bird. The malley-gull floats on the waves as lightly and gently as a child's toy air-ball would. His usual diet is fish, except in sealing times; and of the fish he catches the marauding skua never fails to get his share. It is for the sake of the feathers sailors shoot these birds on the ice, for they are nearly as well feathered as an eider duck. Getting tired of shooting seals in the water, Rory and Allan one day, leaving the others on the banks of the great ice-hole, determined to make a bag of feathers. And here is how they bagged their game. Armed with fowling-pieces, they retired to some distance from the water party and lay down behind a hummock of ice. Here they might have lain until this day without a bird looking twice in their direction had they not provided themselves with a lure. This lure was simply a pair of the wings of a gull, which one waved above his head, while the other prepared to fire right and left. And not a minute would these wings be waved aloft ere the gulls, with that strange curiosity inherent in all wild creatures, would begin to circle around, coming nearer and nearer, tack and half-tack, until they were within reach of the guns, when--down they came. But the untimely end of one brace nor twenty did not prevent their companions from trying to solve the mystery of the waving wings. Luncheon was on the table, and our friends were seated around it, all looking happy and hungry. Rory would have liked to have asked Silas Grig right straight away about the expedition against the sharks but for one thing--he didn't like to appear too inquisitive; and, for another, he was not quite sure even now that it was not one of Ralph's pretty jokes. But when everybody had been served, when weather and future prospects, the state of the thermometer and height of the barometer, had been discussed, Rory found he could not contain himself any longer. "What are you going to be doing after lunch?" he asked Silas, pointedly. "Aha, boy Rory!" was the reply; "we'll have such sport as you never saw the likes o' before!" Rory now began to see there really was no joke about the matter; and Ralph, who was sitting next to him, pinched him for his doubt and misbelief. The two young men could read each other's thoughts like books. "Do you mean to say you are going to catch sharks in earnest, you know?" asked Rory. "Well," said Silas, with a bit of a laugh, "I'm going to have as good a try at it as ever I had. And as for catching 'em in earnest, I'm thinking it won't be fun--for the sharks!" "It is the _Scymnus borealis_, isn't it?" said Dr Sandy McFlail, "belongin', if my memory serves me, to the natural family _Squalidae_--a powerful brute, and a vera dangerous, too." "You may call him the _Aurora borealis_ if you like, doctor," said Silas; "and as for his family connections I know nought, but I daresay he comes from a jolly bad stock." "Natural history books," said Allan, "don't speak of their being so very numerous." "Natural history books!" reiterated Silas, with some warmth of disdain. "What do they know? what can they teach a man? Write a complete history of all the creatures that move about on God's fair earth, that fly in His air or swim in His sea, and you'd fill Saint Paul's with books from top to bottom--from the mighty cellars beneath to the golden cross itself. No, take my advice, boy Rory; if you want to study nature, put little faith in books. The classification is handy, say you? Yes, doctor; and I've seen a stripling fresh from college look as proud as a two-year-old peacock because he could spin you off the Greek names of a few specimens in the British Museum, though he couldn't have told you the ways and habits of any one of them to save him from having his leave stopped. There is only one way, gentlemen, to study natural history; you must go to the great book of Nature itself--ay, and be content, and thankful, too, if, during even a long lifetime, you are able to learn the contents of even a single page of it." Rory, and the doctor, too, looked at Silas with a kind of new-born admiration; there was more in this man, with his weather-beaten, flower-pot-coloured face, than they had had any idea of. "If I had time, gentlemen," Silas added, "I could tell you some queer stories about sharks. `I reckon,' as poor old Cobb used to say, that some o' them would raise your hair a bit, too!" "And what kind of a monster is this Greenland shark?" asked Allan. "No more a monster," said Silas, "than I am. God made us both, and we have each some end to fulfil in life. But if you want me to tell you something about him, I'll confess to you I love the animal about as much as I do an alligator. He comes prowling around the icebergs when we are sealing to see what he can pick up in the shape of a dead or wounded seal, a chunk o' blubber, or a man's leg. He is neither dainty nor particular, he has the appetite of a healthy ostrich, and about as much conscience as a coal-carter's horse. He is as wary as a five-season fox, and when he pays your ship a visit when out at sea, he looks as humble and unsophisticated as a bull trout. He'll take whatever you like to throw him, though--anything, in fact, from a cow's-heel to the cabin boy--and he'll swallow a red-hot brick rather than go away with an empty stomach. But when he comes around the ice at old-sealing time he doesn't come alone, he brings his father and mother with him, and his uncles and aunts, and apparently all his natural family, as the doctor calls it. And fine fun they have, though they don't agree particularly well even _en famille_. I've seen five of them on to one seal crang, and there was little interchange of courtesies, I can tell you. He's not a brave fish, the Greenland shark, big and all as he is. If you fall into the water among a score of them your best plan is to keep cool and kick. Yes, gentlemen, by keeping cool and kicking plenty I've known more than one man escape without a bite. The getting out is the worst, though, for as long as you splash they keep at a distance and look on; they don't quite know what to make of you; but as soon as you get a hold of the end of the rope, and are being drawn out, look sharp, that's all, or it will be `Snap!' and you will be minus one leg before you can wink, and thankful you may be it isn't two. A mighty tough skin has the Greenland shark," continued Silas; "I've played upon the back of one for over half an hour with a Colt's revolver, and it just seemed to tickle him--nothing more. I don't think sharks have much natural affection, and they are no respecters of persons. I do believe they would just as soon dine off little Freezing Powders here as they would off a leg of McBain." "Oh, oh, Massa Silas!" cried Freezing Powders, "don't talk like dat; you makes my flesh all creep like nuffin' at all!" "They are slow in their movements, aren't they?" said the doctor. "Ay!" said Silas, "when they get everything their own way; but they are fierce, revengeful, and terrible in their wrath. An angry shark will bite a bit out of your boat, collar an oar, or do anything to spite you, though it generally ends in his having his own head split in the long run." [Silas Grig's description of the Greenland shark is a pretty correct one, so far as my own experience goes.--G.S.] "The men are all ready, sir," said Stevenson, entering the cabin at that moment, "to go over the side, sir." "Thank you," said the captain; "send them on to the ice, then, for a general skylark till we come up." When the officers did come up they found all the men on the ice, and a pretty row they were having. They were running, racing, jumping high leap and low leap, boxing, and fencing with single-sticks, quarter-staves, and foils; and last but not least, a party were dancing the wild and exciting reels of Scotland, with Peter playing to them just as loudly as he knew how to, although his eyes seemed starting from his head, and his face was as red as a dorking's comb in laying season. Then it was "Hurrah for the ice-hole!" and "Hurrah for the sharks!" Silas did not take very long to get his party--his fishing-party, as he called it--into working order. He evidently meant business, and expected it, too. He had seven or eight long lines, to each of which was attached a piece of chain and an immense shark-hook. These were baited with pieces of blubber; the men were armed with long knives and clubs. So sure was Silas Grig of capturing a big haul of these sea-fiends, the Greenland sharks, that he had a large fire of wood lighted on the ice at some little distance, and over it, suspended by a kind of shears, hung an immense cauldron. In this it was intended to boil the livers of the sharks in order to extract the oil, which is the most valuable part of the animal. Until tempted by huge pieces of seal-flesh hardly a shark showed fin; but when once their appetites were wetted then--! I cannot, nor will I attempt to describe this battle with the sharks, although such a fight I have been eyewitness to. Sometimes as many as two were hauled out at once; it required the united strength of fifteen or twenty men to land them. Then came the struggle on the ice, the clubbing, the axing, and the death, during which many a man bit the snow, though none were grievously wounded. Before the sun pointed to midnight, between thirty and forty immense sharks had been captured, and the oil from their livers weighed nearly a ton. Poor Rory--to whom all the best of the fun and all the worst misfortunes seemed always to fall--had a terrible adventure during the battle. Carried away by his enthusiasm, with club in hand, he was engaging one of the largest sharks landed. The brute bent himself suddenly, then as suddenly straightened himself out, and away went boy Rory, like an arrow from a cross-bow, alighting in the very centre of the pool. For a moment every one was struck dumb with horror! But Rory himself never lost his presence of mind. He remembered what Silas had said about splashing and kicking to keep the sharks at bay. Splash? I should think he did splash, and kick, too; indeed, kicking is hardly any name for his antics. He made a wheel of himself in the water. He seemed all arms and legs, and as for his head, it was just as often up as down, and _vice versa_; and all the while he was issuing orders to those on the bank--a word or two at a time, whenever his head happened to be uppermost, so that in the midst of the splashing and spluttering his speech ran like this: "Stand by"--(splutter, splutter)--"you fellows"--(splash, splash)--"up there"--(splutter) "to pull quick"--(splash)--"as soon as!"--(splutter, splutter)--"catch the rope."--(splash, splash)--"Now lads, now!"--(splutter, splutter, splash, splash, splutter, splutter, splash). "Hurrah!" he cried, when he found himself on the ice. "Hurrah! boys. Cheer, boys, cheer. Safe to bank! Hurrah! and both my legs as sound as a bell, and never a toe missing from any single one of the two o' them. Hurrah! Sure it's myself'll be Queen o' the May to-morrow. Hurrah!" Yes, reader, the very next day was May-day, and on that day there are such doings on Greenland ships as you never see in England. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. MAY-DAY IN THE ARCTIC REGIONS. May-day! May-day in England! Surely, even to the minds of the youngest among us, these words bring some pleasant recollections. "Ah! but," I think I hear you complain, "the May-days are not now what they were in the good old times; not the May-days we read of in books; not the May-days of merrie England. Where are the may-poles, with their circles of rosy-cheeked children dancing gleesomely around them? Where are the revels? Where are the games? Where is the little maiden persistent, who plagued her mother so lest she should forget to wake and call her early-- "`Because I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May?' "And echo answers, `Where?'" These things, maiden included, have passed away; they have fled like the fairies before the shriek of engine and rattle of railway wheels. But May-day in England! Why, there is some pleasure and some joy left in it even yet. Summer comes with it, or promises it will soon be on the wing. Already in the meadows the cattle wade knee-deep in dewy grass, and cull sweet cowslips and daisies. A balmier air breathes over the land; the rising sun is rosy with hope; the lark springs from his nest among the tender corn, and mounts higher to sing than he has ever done before; flowers are blooming on every brae; the mossy banks are redolent of wild thyme; roses begin to peep coyly out in the hedgerows, and butterflies spread their wings, as a sailor spreads a sail, and go fluttering away through the gladsome sunshine. And yonder--why, yonder _is_ a little maiden, and a very pretty one, too, though she isn't going to be Queen o' the May. No, but she is tripping along towards the glade, where the pink-blossomed hawthorn grows, and the yellow scented furze. She is going to-- Bathe her sweet face in May-morn dew, To make her look lovely all the year through. She glances shyly around her, hoping that no one sees her. You and I, dear reader, are far too manly to stand and stare so. Hey! presto! and the scene is changed. May-day! May-day in Greenland! An illimitable ocean of ice, stretching away on all sides towards every point of the compass from where those ships are lying beset. It looks like some measureless wold covered with the snows of midwinter. It is early morning, though the sun shines brightly in a sky of cloudless blue, and, save for the footfall of the solitary watchman who paces the deck of the _Arrandoon_, there is not a sound to be heard, the stillness everywhere is as the stillness of death. An hour or two goes slowly by, then the watchman approaches the great bell that hangs amidships. Dong-dong! dong-dong! dong-dong! dong-dong! Eight bells. The men spring up from hatch and companion-way, and soon the decks are crowded and the crew are busy enough. They have discussed their breakfast long ago, and have since been hard at work on the May-day garland, which they now proceed to hoist on high, 'twixt fore and main masts. That garland is quite a work of art, and a very gay one, too. Not a man in the ship that has not contributed a few ribbons to aid in decorating it. Those ribbons had been kept for this special purpose, and were the last loving gifts of sisters, wives, or sweethearts ere the vessel set sail for the sea of ice. But there is more to be done than hoisting the garland. The ship has to be dressed, and when this is finished, with her flags all floating around her, she will look as beautiful as a bride on her marriage morning. None the worse for the ducking and fright of the previous day, Rory was first up on this particular May-day, and tubbed and dressed long before either Allan or Ralph was awake. "Get up, Ray!" cried Rory, entering his friend's cabin. "Ray, _Ray_, Ray!" The last "Ray" was shouted. "Hullo! hullo!" cried Ray. "Oh! it's you, is it, Row? Is breakfast all ready, old man?" "Ray, arise, you lazy dog!" continued Row, shaking him by the shoulder. "This is May-morning, Ray, and I'm to be Queen of the May, my boy, I'm to be Queen of the May!" At half-past eight our heroes, Captain McBain included, went on deck in a body, and this was the time for the crew to cluster up the rigging, man the yards, and give voice to a ringing cheer; nay, not one cheer only, but three times three; and hardly had the sound died away ere it was taken up and re-echoed back by the crew of the _Canny Scotia_. It seemed that Captain Cobb's cockle-shell was not to be left out of the fun either, for the crew of even that tiny craft must man the rigging and cheer, though after the lusty roar that had gone up from the other ships, their voices sounded like that of a chicken learning to crow. After this, while the men went to work to rig a great platform on the upper deck, Peter, arrayed in fullest Highland costume, played pibroch after pibroch, and wild march after wild march, as he went strutting up and down the quarter-deck. The decks were cleared of everything that could be removed, and a great tent erected from mizen to foremast; when this was lined with flags there was but little light, but lamps in clusters were hung here and there, and a stove was brought up to give heat, so that the whole place was as gay as could be, and comfortable as well. At one end of the tent a platform was erected. There the piano was placed all handy, and Rory's fiddle and the doctor's flute, as well as several armchairs and a kind of a throne, the use of which will soon be seen. On the stage at one side was an immense tub nearly filled with cold, icy water; two steps led up to it, and on the edge thereof was a revolving chair. Very comfortable it looked indeed, but, on touching a spring, backwards it went, and whoever might be sitting on it had the benefit of a beautiful bath. My readers already guess what this is for. Yes, for May-day in Greenland is not only a day of fun and frolic, but the self-same kind of performance takes place as on southern ships while crossing the line. The day itself was dedicated to games on the ice, for not until towards evening would the real fun begin. The seals had a rest to-day, and so had the sharks; even the terrible zugaena wasn't once thought of, and Bruin himself might sit on one end licking his chops and looking on, so long as he kept at a respectful distance. The games were both Scotch and English, a happy medley in which all hands joined. The morning saw cricket and football matches in full swing, the afternoon golf--and golf played on hummocky ice _is_ golf--and hockey. Peter was the band, and right well he played; but when, tired of march quadrille, or pibroch, he burst into a Highland reel, and the crews began to dance--well, the scene on the snow grew exciting indeed. It was grotesque enough, too, in all conscience, for everybody, without exception, was dressed in fancy costume. No wonder, too, that Cockie, whom his master had brought on deck to look down on them from the bulwarks, lost all control of himself, and shouted, "Go on--go on--keep it up--keep it up." Then when Cockie began to throw his head back and shriek with laughter, the men couldn't resist it any longer; they joined in that laugh, and laughed till sides ached and eyes ran water, and many had to roll in the snow to prevent catastrophes. But the louder the men laughed, all the louder laughed Cockie, till Freezing Powders was obliged to run below with him at last. "Oh!" said his master, as he restored the cage to its corner, "I tell you all day, Cockie, you eat too much hemp. It's drefful, Cockie, to hear you laugh like all dat." Suddenly from the bows of the _Arrandoon_ a big gun is fired, and the revel stops. Then comes a hail from the crow's-nest,-- "Below there?" "Ay, ay!" roared McBain. "A procession coming along over the snow, sir, towards the ship." A consultation was at once held, and it was resolved to march forth to meet them. "It is Neptune, I know," said McBain, "for a snowbird this morning brought me a note to say he'd dine with us." It wasn't long before our friends came in sight of the royal party. It was Neptune, sure enough, trident and all, both his trident and he looking as large as life.--He was drawn along in a sledge by a party of naiads, and Amazon jades they looked. On one side of him walked his wife, on the other the Cock o' the North, while behind him came the barber carrying an immense razor and a bucket of lather. Silas Grig, I may as well mention, played Neptune, and Seth his wife--and a taller, skinnier, bristlier old lady you couldn't have imagined; and her attempts to act the lady of fashion, and her airs and graces, were really funny. The Cock o' the North was Ted Wilson. He was dressed in feathers from top to toe, with an immense bill, comb, and wattles, and acted his part well. He was introduced by Neptune as-- "One who ne'er has been to school, But keeps us fat--in fact, our fool; A fool, forsooth, yet full of wit As he can stand, or lie, or sit." After the usual introduction, salaams, and courtesies, Neptune made his speech in doggerel verse, with many an interruption both from his wife and his fool, telling how "his name was Neptune"--"though it might be Norval," added the Cock o' the North. How-- "From east to west, from pole to pole, Where'er waves break or waters roll, _My_ empire is--" _His Wife_--"And _you_ belong to _me_." _Cock o' the North_.--"All hail, great monarch of the sea!" _Neptune_--"The clouds pay tribute, and streams and rills Come singing from the distant hills." _His Wife_.--"_Do_ stop, my dear; you're _not_ a poet, And never were--" _Neptune_.--"Good sooth, I know it. But now lead on, our blood feels cold, For truth to tell, we're getting old. We and our wife have seen much service, Besides--the dear old thing is nervous, So to the ship lead on, I say, We'd see some fun on this auspicious day. My younger sons I fain would bless 'em." _His Barber_.--"And I can shave." _His Wife (rapturously_).--"And I can kiss 'em." The six poor lads who were to be operated on, and whose only fault was that they had never before crossed the line, trembled in their prison as they heard the big guns thunder forth, announcing the arrival of King Neptune. They trembled more when, dressed in white, they were led forth, a pair at a time, and seated blindfolded on the chair of the terrible tub, and duly shaved and blessed and kissed; but they trembled most when the bolt was drawn, and they tumbled head foremost into the icy water; but when, about twenty minutes thereafter, they were seen seated in a row in dry, warm clothing, you would not have known them for the same boys. Their faces were beaming with smiles, and each one busied himself discussing a huge basin of savoury sea-pie. They were not trembling then at all. At the dinner which followed, Neptune took the head of the table, with his wife on his right and McBain himself as vice-president. The dinner was good even for the _Arrandoon_, and that is saying a deal. In size, in odour, and beauty of rotundity, the plum-pudding that two stalwart men carried in and placed in front of Neptune, was something to remember for ever and a day. Size? Why, Neptune could have served it out with his trident. Ay! and everybody had two helps, and looked all the healthier and happier after them. Our three chief heroes were in fine form, Rory in one of his funniest, happiest moods. And why not? Had not he dubbed himself Queen o' the May? Yes, and well he sustained the part. I am not sure how Neptune managed to possess himself of so many bottles of Silas Grig's green ginger, but there they were, and they went all round the table, and even the men of the crew seemed to prefer it to rum. The toasts given by the men were not a few, and all did honour to the manliness of their hearts. The songs sung ere the table was cleared were all well worth listening to, though some were ballads of extreme length. Neptune was full of anecdotes of his life and adventures, and his wife also had a good deal to say about hers, which caused many a peal of laughter to rattle round the table. Some of the men recited pieces of their own composition. Here is one by the crew's pet, Ted Wilson to wit: The Ghost of the Cochin-Shanghai. 'Tis a tale of the Greenland ocean, A tale of the Northern seas, Of a ship that sailed from her native land On the wings of a favouring breeze; Her skipper as brave a seaman As ever set sail before, Her crew all told as true and bold As ever yet left the shore. And never a ship was better "found," She couldn't be better, I know, With beef in the rigging and porkers to kill, And tanks filled with water below; And turkeys to fatten, and ducklings and geese, And the best Spanish pullets to lay; But the pride of the ship, and the pet of the mess, Was a Brahma cock, Cochin-Shanghai. And every day when the watches were called, This cock crew so cheery O! With a shrill cock-a-lee, and a hoarse cock-a-lo, And a long cock-a-leerie O! But still as the grave was the brave bird at night, For well did he know what was best; Yes, well the cock knew that most of the crew Were weary and wanted their rest But one awful night he awoke in a fright, Then wasn't it dreary O! To hear him crow, with a hoarse cock-a-lo, And a shrill cock-a-leerie O! Oh! Then out of bed scrambled the men in a mass, "We cannot get sleep," they all cried; "May we never reach dock till we silence that cock, We'll never have peace till the villain is fried." All dressed as they were in the garments of night, Though the decks were deep covered with snow, They chased the cock round, with wild yell and bound, ####But they never got near him--no. And wherever he flew, still the bold Cochin crew, With a shrill cock-a-lee, and a hoarse cock-a-lo, And a long cock-a-leerie O! Now far up aloft defiant he stands, Like an eagle in eerie O! Till a sea-boot at last, knocked him down from the mast, And he sunk in the ocean below. But the saddest part of the story is this: He hadn't quite finished his crow, He'd got just as far as the hoarse cock-a-lo But failed at the leerie O! Oh-h! And that ship is still sailing, they say, on the sea, Though 'tis hundreds of years ago; Till they silence that cock they'll ne'er reach a dock, Nor lay down their burden of woe; For out on the boom, till the crack of doom, The ghost of the Cochin will crow, With his shrill cock-a-lee, and his hoarse cock-a-lo, But _never_ the leerie O! No! They tell me at times that the ship may be seen Straggling on o'er the billows o' blue, That the hardest of hearts would melt like the snow, To witness the grief of that crew, As they eye the cold waves, and long for their graves, Looking _so weary O_! Will he _never_ have done with that weird cock-a-lo, As get to the leerie O! Oh-h! Dinner discussed, the fun commenced. In the first place, there were sailors' dances, and the floor was kept pretty well filled one way or another. But certainly _the_ dances of the evening were the barber's "break-down," Rory's "Irish jig," and the doctor's "Hielan fling." They were _solos_, of course, and the barber was the first to take the floor; and oh! the shuffling and the double-shuffling, and the tripleing and double-tripleing of that wonderful hornpipe! No wonder he was cheered, and encored, and cheered again. Then came Rory, dressed in natty knickerbockers and carrying a shillelah! nobody could say at times which end of him was uppermost, or whether he did not just as often strike his seemingly adamantine head with his heels as with his shillelah. Lastly came Sandy McFlail in Highland costume, and being a countryman of my own, I must be modestly mum on the performance, only, towards the end of the "fling," you saw before you such a mist of waving arms and legs and plaid-ends, that you could not have been sure it was Sandy at all, and not an octopus. But hark! there comes a shriek from the pack, so loud that it drowns the sounds of music and merriment. Men grow suddenly serious. Again they hear it, and there is a perceptible movement--a kind of thrill under their feet. It is the wail that never fails to give the first announcement of the breaking up of the sea of ice. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. BREAKING UP OF THE GREAT ICE PACK--IN THE NIPS--THE "CANNY SCOTIA" ON HER BEAM-ENDS--STAVING OF THE "ARRANDOON." In the very midst of joy and pleasure in this so-called weary world, we are oftentimes very nigh to grief and pain. See yonder Swiss village by the foot of the mountain, how peacefully it is sleeping in the moonlight; not a sound is to be heard save the occasional crowing of a wakeful cock, or the voice of watch-dog baying the moon. The inhabitants have gone to bed hours and hours ago, and their dreams, if they dream at all, are assuredly not dreams of danger. But hark to that terrible noise far overhead. Is it thunder? Yes, the thunder of a mighty avalanche. Nearer and nearer it rolls, till it reaches the devoted village, then all is desolation and woe. See yet another village, far away in sunny Africa; its little huts nestle around the banyan-tree, the tall cocoa-palm, and the wide-spreading mango. They are a quiet, inoffensive race who inhabit that village. They live south of the line, far away from treacherous Somali Indians or wild Magulla men; they never even dreamt of war or bloodshed. They certainly do not dream of it now. "The babe lies in its mother's arms, The wife's head pillowed on the husband's breast." Suddenly there is a shout, and when they awake--oh! horror! their huts are all in flames, the Arab slavers are on them, and--I would not harrow your young feelings by describing the scenes that follow. But a ship--and this is coming nearer home--may be sailing over a rippling sea, with the most pleasant of breezes filling her sails, no land in sight, and every one, fore and aft, as happy as the birds on an early morning in summer, when all at once she rasps, and strikes-- strikes on a rock, the very existence of which was never even suspected before. In half an hour perhaps that vessel has gone down, and those that are saved are afloat in open boats, the breeze freshening every moment, the wavetops breaking into cold spray, night coming on, and dark, threatening clouds banking up on the windward horizon. When the first wail arose from the pack that announced the breaking up of the sea of ice, a silence of nearly a minute fell on the sailors assembled at the entertainment. Music stopped, dancing ceased, and every one listened. The sound was repeated, and multiplied, and the ship quivered and half reeled. McBain knew the advantage of remaining calm and retaining his presence of mind in danger. Because he was a true sailor. He was not like the sailor captains you read of in penny dreadfuls--half coal-heaver, half Herzegovinian bandit. "Odd, isn't it?" he muttered, as he stroked his beard and smiled; then in a louder voice he gave his orders. "Men," he said, "we'll have some work to do before morning--get ready. The ice is breaking up. Pipe down, boatswain. Mr Stevenson, see to the clearing away of all this hamper." Then, followed by Rory and the doctor, he got away out into the daylight. The ships were all safe enough as yet, and there was only perceptible the gentlest heaving motion in the pack. Sufficient was it, however, to break up the bay ice between the bergs, and this with a series of loud reports, which could be heard in every direction. McBain looked overboard somewhat anxiously; the broken pieces of bay ice were getting ploughed up against the ship's side with a noise that is indescribable, not so much from its extreme loudness as from its peculiarity; it was a strange mixture of a hundred different noises, a wailing, complaining, shrieking, grinding noise, mingled with a series of sharp, irregular reports. "It is like nothing earthly," said Rory, "that ever I heard before; and when I close my eyes for a brace of seconds, I could imagine that down on the pack there two hundred tom-cats had lain down to die, that twenty Highland bag-pipers--twenty Peters--were playing pibrochs of lament, and that just forenenst them a squad of militia-men was firing a _feu-de-joie_, and that neither the militia-men nor the pipers either were as self-contained as they should be on so solemn an occasion." The doctor was musing; he was thinking how happy he had been half an hour ago, and now--heigho; it was just possible he would never get back to Iceland again, never see his blue-eyed Danish maiden more. "Pleasures," he cried, "pleasures, Captain McBain--" "Yes," said McBain, "pleasures--" "Pleasures," continued the doctor,-- "`Are like poppies shed, You seize the flower, the bloom is fled.' "I'll gang doon below. Bed is the best place." "Perhaps," said McBain, smiling, "but not the safest. Mind, the ship is in the nips, and a berg might go through her at any moment. There is the merest possibility of your being killed in your bed. That's all; but that won't keep _you_ on deck." Mischievous Rory was doing ridiculous attitudes close behind the worthy surgeon. "What?" cried Sandy, in his broadest accent. "_That_ not keep me on deck! Man, the merest possibility of such a cawtawstrophy would keep me on deck for a month." "A vera judeecious arrangement," hissed Rory in his ear, for which he was chased round the deck, and had his own ears well pulled next minute. The doctor had him by the ear when Allan and Ralph appeared on the scene. "Hullo!" they laughed, "Rory got in for it again." "Whustle," cried Sandy. "I only said `a vera--'" began Rory. "Whustle, will ye?" cried the doctor. "I can't `whustle,'" laughed Rory. But he had to "whustle," and then he was free. "It's going to be a tough squeeze," said Silas to McBain. "Yes; and, worse luck, the swell has set in from the east," answered the captain. "I'm off to the _Canny Scotia_; good morning." "One minute, Captain Grig; we promised to hoist up Cobb's cockle-shell. Lend us a hand with your fellows, will you?" "Ay, wi' right good will," said Silas. There were plenty of spars on board the _Arrandoon_ big enough to rig shears, and these were sent overboard without delay, with ropes and everything else required. The men of the _Arrandoon_, assisted by those of the _Canny Scotia_, worked with a readiness and will worthy even of our gallant Royal Engineers. A shears was soon rigged, and a winch got up. On a spar fastened along the cockle-shell's deck the purchase was made, and, under the superintendence of brave little Ap, the work began. For a long time the "shell" refused to budge, so heavily did the ice press around her; the spar on her deck started though, several times. "Worse luck," thought little Ap. He had the spar re-fastened. Tried again. The same result followed. Then little Ap considered, taking "mighty" big pinches of snuff the while. "We won't do like that," he said to himself, "because, look you see, the purchase is too much on the perpendicular. Yes, yes." Then he had the spar elevated a couple of yards, and fastened between the masts, which he had strengthened by lashing extra spars to them. The result of this was soon apparent. The hawsers tightened, the little yacht moved, even the pressure of the ice under her helped to lift her as soon as she began to heel over, and, in half an hour afterwards, the cockle-shell lay in a very ignominious position indeed--beam-ends on the ice. "Bravo!" cried Silas, when the men had finished their cheering. "Bravo! what _would_ long Cobb say now? what would he say? Ha! ha! ha!" Silas Grig laughed and chuckled till his face grew redder than ever, but he would not have been quite so gay, I think, had he known what was so soon to happen to his own ship. Stevenson touched McBain on the shoulder. "The ice presses heavy on the rudder, sir." "Then unship it," said McBain. "And I'll unship mine," said Silas. Unshipping rudders is a kind of drill that few save Greenland sailors ever learn, but it is very useful at times, nevertheless. In another hour the rudders of the two ships were hoisted and laid on the bergs. So that was one danger past. But others were soon to follow, for the swell under the ice increased, the bergs all around them rolled higher and higher. The noise from the pack was terrific, as the pieces met and clashed and ground their slippery sides together. In an hour or two the bay ice had been either ground to slush, or piled in packs on top of the bergs, so that the bergs had freedom to fight, as it were. Alas! for the two ships that happened to be between the combatants. Their position was, indeed, far from an enviable one. Hardly had an hour elapsed ere the ice-harbours McBain and Silas had prided themselves in, were wrecked and disintegrated. They were then, in some measure, at the mercy of the enemy, that pressed them closely on every quarter. The _Canny Scotia_ was the worst off--she lay between two of the biggest bergs in the pack. McBain came to his assistance with torpedoes. He might as well have tried to blow them to pieces with a child's pop-gun. Better, in fact, for he would have had the same sport with less trouble and expense, and the result would have been equally gratifying. For once poor Silas lost his equanimity. He actually wrung his hands in grief when he saw the terrible position of his vessel. "My poor shippie," he said. "Heaven help us! I was building castles in the air. But she is doomed! My bonnie ship is doomed." At the same time he wisely determined not to be idle, so provisions and valuables were got on shore, and all the men's clothes and belongings. As nothing more could be done, Silas grew more contented. "It was just his luck," he said, "just his luck." Long hours of anxiety to every one went slowly past, and still the swell kept up, and the bergs lifted and fell and swung on the unseen billows, and ground viciously against the great sides of the _Arrandoon_. Now the _Canny Scotia_ was somewhat Dutchified in her build--not as to bows but as to bottom. She was not a clipper by any manner of means, and her build saved her. The ice actually ground her up out of the water till she lay with her beam-ends on the ice, and her keel completely exposed. [As did the _P--e_, of Peterhead, once for weeks. The men lived on the ice alongside, expecting the vessel to sink as soon as the ice opened. The captain, however, would not desert his ship, but slept on board, his mattress lying on the ship's side. The author's ship was beset some miles off at the same time.] But the _Arrandoon_ had no such build. The ice caught under her forefoot, and she was lifted twelve feet out of the water. No wonder McBain and our heroes were anxious. The former never went below during all the ten hours or more that the squeeze lasted. But the swells gradually lessened, and finally ceased. The _Arrandoon_ regained her position, and lost her list, but there lay the _Canny Scotia_, a pitiable sight to see, like some giant overthrown, silent yet suffering. When the pumps of the _Arrandoon_ had been tried, and it was found that there was no extra water in her, McBain felt glad indeed, and thanked God from his inmost heart for their safe deliverance from this great peril. He could now turn his attention to consoling his friend Silas. After dinner that day, said McBain,-- "Your cabin is all ready, Captain Grig, for of course you will sleep with us now." But Silas arose silently and calmly. "I needn't say," he replied, "how much I feel your manifold acts of kindness, but Silas Grig won't desert his ship. His bed is on the _Canny Scotia_." "But, my dear fellow," insisted McBain, "the ice may open in an hour, and your good ship go down." "Then," said Silas, "I go with her, and it will be for you to tell my owners and my little wife--heaven keep her!--that Skipper Grig stuck to his ship to the last." What could McBain say, what argument adduce, to prevent this rough old tar from risking his life in what he considered a matter of duty? Nothing! and so he was dumb. Then away went Silas home, as he called it, to his ship. He lowered himself down by a rope, clambered over the doorway of the cabin, took one glance at the chaos around, then walked tenderly _over_ the bulkhead, and so literally _down_ to his bed. He found the mattress and bed-clothes had fallen against the side, and so there this good man, this true sailor, laid him down and slept the sleep of the just. But the _Scotia_ did not go to the bottom; she lay there for a whole week, defying all attempts to move her, Silas sleeping on board every night, the only soul in her, and his crew remaining on the _Arrandoon_. At the end of that time the ice opened more; then the prostrate giant seemed to begin to show signs of returning life. She swayed slightly, and looked as if she longed once more to feel the embrace of her native element; seeing which, scientific assistance was given her. Suddenly she sprang up as does a fallen horse, and hardly had the men time to seek safety on the neighbouring bergs, when she took the water-- relaunched herself--with a violence that sent the spray flying in every direction with the force of a cataract. It would have been well had the wetting the crew received been the only harm done. It was not, for the bergs moved asunder with tremendous force. One struck the _Arrandoon_ in her weakest part--amidships, under the water-line. She was stove, the timbers bent inwards and cracked, and the bunks alongside the seat of accident were dashed into matchwood. Poor old Duncan Gibb, who was lying in one of these bunks with an almost united fracture of one of his limbs, had the leg broken over again. "Never mind, Duncan," said the surgeon, consolingly, "I didn't make a vera pretty job of it last time. I'll make it as straight as a dart this turn!" "Vera weel, sir; and so be it," was poor contented Duncan's reply, as he smiled in his agony. "Dear me, now!" said Silas, some time afterwards; "I could simply cry-- make a big baby of myself and cry. It would be crying for joy and grief, you know--joy that my old shippie should show so much pluck as to right herself like a race-horse, and grief to think she should go and stave the _Arrandoon_. The ungrateful old jade!" "Never mind," said McBain, cheerfully, "Ap and the carpenters will soon put the _Arrandoon_ all right. We will shift the ballast, throw her over to starboard, and repair her, and the place will be, like Duncan's leg, stronger than ever." It did not take very long to right Captain Cobb's cockle-shell, and all the vessels being now in position again, and the ice opening, it might have been as well to have got steam up at once, and felt the way to the open water. McBain decided to make good repairs first; it was just as easy to list the ship among the ice as out of it, and probably less dangerous. Besides, the water kept pouring in, and the beautiful arrangement of blankets and hammock-cloths which Ap had devised, hardly sufficed to keep it out.--This decision of the captain nearly cost the life of two of our best-loved heroes, and poor old Seth as well. But their adventure demands a chapter, or part of one at least, to itself. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. AN ADVENTURE ON THE PACK--SEPARATED FROM THE SHIP--DESPAIR--THE DREAM OF HOME--UNDER WAY ONCE MORE. Nothing in the shape of adventure came amiss to Rory. He was always ready for any kind of "fun," as he called every kind of excitement. Such a thing as fear I do not believe Rory ever felt, and, as for failing in anything he undertook, he never even dreamt of such a thing. He had often proposed escapades and wild adventures to his companions at which they hung fire. Rory's line of argument was very simple and unsophisticated. It may be summed up in three sentences--first, "Sure we've only to try and we're bound to do it." If that did not convince Allan or Ralph, he brought up his first-class reserve, "Let us try, _anyhow_;" and if that failed, his second reserve, "It's _bound_ to come right in the end." Had Rory been seized by a lion or tiger, and borne away to the bush, those very words would have risen to his lips to bring him solace, "It's bound to come right in the end." The few days' delay that succeeded the accident to the _Arrandoon_, while she had to be listed over, and things were made as uncomfortable as they always are when a ship is lying on an uneven keel, threw Rory back upon his books for enjoyment. That and writing verses, and, fiddle in hand composing music to his own words, enabled him to pass the day with some degree of comfort; but when Mr Stevenson one morning, on giving his usual report at breakfast-time, happened to say,-- "Ice rather more open to-day, sir; a slight breeze from the west, and about a foot of rise and fall among the bergs; two or three bears about a mile to leeward, and a few seals," then Rory jumped up. "Will you go, Allan," he cried, "and bag a bear? Ralph hasn't done breakfast." "Bide a wee, young gentleman," said McBain, smiling. "I really imagined I was master of the ship." "I beg your pardon, Captain McBain," said Rory, at once; and with all becoming gravity he saluted, and continued, "Please, sir, may I go on shore?" "Certainly not," was the reply; and the captain added, "No, boy, no. We value even Rory, for all the trouble he gives us, more than many bears." Rory got hold of his fiddle, and his feelings found vent in music. But no sooner had McBain retired to his cabin than Rory threw down his much beloved instrument and jumped up. "Bide a wee; I'll manage," he cried. "Doctor," he added, disarranging all the medico's hair with his hand-- Sandy's legs were under the mahogany, so he could not speedily retaliate--"Sandy, mon, I'll manage. It'll be a vera judeecious arrangement." Then he was off, and presently back, all smiles and rejoicing: "Come on, Allan, dear boy," he cried. "We're going, both of us, and Seth and one man, and we're going to carry a plank to help us across the ice. Finish your breakfast, baby Ralph. I wouldn't disturb myself for the world if I were you." "I don't mean to," said Ralph, helping himself to more toast and marmalade. "What are you grinning at now?" asked Rory of the surgeon. "To think," said Sandy, laughing outright, "that our poor little boy Rory couldn't be trusted on the ice without Seth and a plank. Ha, ha, ha! my conscience!" "Doctor," said Rory. "Well?" said the doctor. "Whustle," cried Rory, making a face. "I'll whustle ye," said Sandy, springing up. But Rory was off. On the wiry shoulders of Seth the plank was borne as easily as if it had been only an oar; the man carried the rope and sealing clubs. The plank did them good service, for whenever the space between two bergs was too wide for a safe leap it was laid down, and over they went. They thus made good progress. There was a little motion among the ice, but nothing to signify. The pieces approached each other gradually until within a certain distance. Then was the time to leap, and at once, too, without fear and hesitation. If you did hesitate, and made up your mind to leap a moment after, you might fail to reach the next berg, and this meant a ducking at the very least. But a ducking of this kind is no joke, as the writer of these lines knows from experience. You strip off your clothes to wring out the superabundance of water, and by the time you put them on again, your upper garments, at all events, are frozen harder than parchment. You have to construe the verb _salto_ [_Salto_--I leap, or jump] from beginning to end before you feel on good terms with yourself again. But falling into the sea between two bergs may not end with a mere ducking. A man may be sucked by the current under the ice, or he may instantly fall a prey to that great greedy monster, the Greenland shark. Well the brute loves to devour a half-dead seal, but a man is caviare to his maw. Again, if you are not speedily rescued, the bergs may come slowly together and grind you to pulp. But our heroes escaped scot-free. So did the bears which they had come to shoot. "It is provoking!" said Rory. "Let us follow them a mile or so, at all events." They did, and came in sight of one--an immensely great brute of a Bruin--who, after stopping about a minute to study them, set off again shambling over the bergs. Then he paused, and then started off once more; and this he did many times, but he never permitted them to get within shot. All this time the signal of recall was floating at the masthead of the _Arrandoon_, but they never saw it. They began to notice at last, though, that the bergs were wider apart, so they wisely determined to give up the chase and return. Return? Yes, it is only a little word--hardly a simpler one to be found in the whole English vocabulary, whether to speak or to spell; and yet it is a word that has baffled thousands. It is a word that we should never forget when entering upon any undertaking in which there is danger to either ourselves or others. It is a word great generals keep well in view; probably it was just that word "return" which prevented the great Napoleon from landing half a million of men on our shores with the view of conquering the country. The man of ambition was afraid he might find a difficulty in getting his Frenchmen back, and that Englishmen would not be over kind to them. Rory and his party could see the flag of recall now, and they could see also the broad black fan being waved from the crow's-nest to expedite their movements. So they made all the haste in their power. There was no leaping now, the plank had to be laid across the chasms constantly. But at last they succeeded in getting just half-way to the ship, when, to their horror, they discovered that all further advance was a sheer impossibility! A lane of open water effectually barred their progress. It was already a hundred yards wide at least, and it was broadening every minute. South and by west, as far as eye could reach, stretched this canal, and north-west as well. They were drifting away on a loose portion of the pack, leaving their ship behind them. Their feelings were certainly not to be envied. They knew the whole extent of their danger, and dared not depreciate it. It was coming on to blow; already the face of that black lane of water was covered with angry little ripples. If the wind increased to a gale, the chances of regaining their vessel were small indeed; more likely they would be blown out to sea, as men have often been under similar circumstances, and so perish miserably on the berg on which they stood. To be sure, they were to leeward, and the _Arrandoon_ was a steamer; there was some consolation in that, but it was damped, on the other hand, by the recollection that, though a steamer, she was a partially disabled one. It would take hours before she could readjust her ballast and temporarily make good her leak, and hours longer ere she could force and forge her way to the lane of water, through the mile of heavy bergs that intervened. Meanwhile, what might not happen? Both Rory and Allan were by this time good ice-men, and had there been but a piece of ice big enough to bear their weight, and nothing more, they could have embarked thereon and ferried themselves across, using as paddles the butt-ends of their rifles. But there was nothing of the sort; the bay ice had all been ground up; there was nothing save the great green-sided, snow-topped bergs. And so they could only wait and hope for the best. "It'll all come right in the end," said Rory. He said this many times; but as the weary hours went by, and the lane widened and widened, till, from being a lane, it looked a Jake, the little sentence that had always brought him comfort before seemed trite to even Rory himself. The increasing motion of the berg on which they stood did not serve to reassure them, and the cold they had, from their forced inactivity, to endure, would have damped the boldest spirits. For a time they managed to keep warm by walking or running about the berg, but afterwards movement itself became painful, so that they had but little heart to take exercise. The whole hull of the _Arrandoon_ was hidden from their view behind the hummocky ice, and thus they could not tell what was going on on deck, but they could see no smoke arising from the funnel, and this but served further to dishearten them. Even gazing at those lanes of water that so often open up in the very midst of a field of ice, is apt to stir up strange thoughts in one's mind, especially if one be, like Rory, of a somewhat poetical and romantic disposition. The very blackness of the water impresses you; its depth causes a feeling akin to awe; you know, as if by instinct, that it is deep--terribly, eeriesomely deep. It lies smiling in the sunshine as to surface, but all is the blackness of darkness below. Up here it is all day; down there, all night. The surface of the water seems to divide two worlds--a seen and an unseen, a known and an unknown and mysterious--life and death! Tired at last of roaming like caged bears up and down the berg, one by one they seated themselves on the sunny side of a small hummock. They huddled together for warmth, but they did not care to talk much. Their very souls seemed heavy, their bodies seemed numbed and frozen, but their heads were hot, and they felt very drowsy, yet bit their lips and tongues lest they might fall into that strange slumber from which it is said men wake no more. They talked not at all. The last words were spoken by Seth. Rory remembered them. "I'm old," he was muttering; "my time's a kind o' up; but it do seem hard on these younkers. Guess I'd give the best puma's skin ever I killed, just to see Rory safe. Guess I'd--" Rory's eyes were closed, he heard no more. He was dreaming. Dreaming of what? you ask me. I answer, in the words of Lover,-- "Ask of the sailor youth, when far His light barque bounds o'er ocean's foam What charms him most when evening star Smiles o'er the wave? To dream of home." Yes, Rory was dreaming of home. All the home he knew, poor lad! He was in the Castle of _Arrandoon_. Seeing, but all unseen, he stood in the cosy tartan parlour where he had spent so many happy hours. A bright fire was burning in the grate, the curtains were drawn, in her easy-chair sat Allan's mother with her work on her lap, the great deerhound lay on the hearthrug asleep, and Helen Edith was bending over her harp. How boy Rory longed to rush forward and take her by the hand! But even in his partial sleep he knew this was but a dream, and he feared to move lest he might break the sweet spell. But languor, pain, and cold, all were forgotten while the vision lasted. But list! a horn seems to sound beyond the castle moat. Rory, in his dream, wonders that Helen hears it not; then the boy starts to his feet on the snow. The vision has fled, and the sound of the horn resolves itself into the shout,-- "Ahoy--oy--hoy! Ahoy! hoy!" Every one is on his feet at the same time, though both Allan and Rory stagger and fall again. But, behold! a boat comes dancing down the lane of water towards them, and a minute after they are all safe on board. The labour of getting that boat over the ice had been tremendous. It had been a labour of love, however, and the men had worked cheerily and boldly, and never flinched a moment, until it was safely launched in the open water and our heroes were in it. The _Arrandoon_, the men told them, had got up steam, and in a couple of hours at most she would reach the water. Meanwhile they, by the captain's orders, were to land on the other side, and make themselves as comfortable as possible until her arrival. Rory and Allan were quite themselves again now, and so, too, was honest Seth,-- "Though, blame me," said he, "if I didn't think this old trapper's time had come. Not that that'd matter a sight, but I did feel for you youngsters, blame me if I didn't;" and he dashed his coat-sleeve rapidly across his face as he spoke. And now a fire was built and coffee made, and Stevenson then opened the Norwegian chest--a wonderful contrivance, in which a dinner may be kept hot for four-and-twenty hours, and even partially cooked. Up arose the savoury steam of a glorious Irish stew. "How mindful of the captain?" said Allan. "It was Ralph that sent the dinner," said Stevenson, "and he sent with it his compliments to Rory." "Bless his old heart," cried Rory. "I don't think I'll ever chaff him again about the gourmandising propensities of the Saxon race." "And the doctor," continued the mate, "sent you some blankets, Mr Rory. There they are, sir; and he told me to give you this note, if I found you alive." The note was in the Scottish dialect, and ran as follows:-- "_My conscience, Rory! some folks pay dear for their whustle. But keep up your heart, ma wee laddie. It's a vera judeecious arrangement_." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ In a few days more the _Arrandoon_ had made good her repairs, and as the western wind had freshened, and was blowing what would have been a ten-knot breeze in the open sea, the steamer got up steam and the sailing-ship canvas, and together they took the loose ice, and made their way slowly to the eastward. The bergs, though some distance asunder, were still sufficiently near to considerably impede their way, and, for fear of accident, the _Arrandoon_ took the cockle-shell, as she was always called now, in tow. For many days the ships went steadily eastward, which proved to them how extensive the pack had been. Sometimes they came upon large tracts of open water, many miles in extent, and across this they sailed merrily and speedily enough, considering that neither of the vessels had as yet shipped her rudder. This they had determined not to do until they were well clear of the very heavy ice, or until the swell went down. So they were steered entirely by boats pulling ahead of them. Open water at last, and the cockle-shell bids the big ships adieu, spreads her white sails to the breeze, and, swanlike, goes sailing away for the distant isle of Jan Mayen. Ay, and the big ships themselves must now very soon part company, the _Scotia_ to bear up for the green shores of our native land, the _Arrandoon_ for regions as yet unknown. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. WORKING ALONG THE PACK EDGE--AMONG THE SEALS AGAIN--A BUMPER SHIP-- ADVENTURES ON THE ICE--TED WILSON'S PROMOTION. The _Arrandoon_ was steaming slowly along the pack edge, wind still westerly, the _Canny Scotia_, with all canvas exposed, a mile or more to leeward of her. Both were heading in the same direction, north and by east, for McBain and our heroes had determined not to desert Silas until he really had what he called a voyage--in other words, a full ship. "We can spare the time, you know," the captain had said to Ralph; "a fortnight, will do it, and I dare say Rory here doesn't object to a little more sport before going away to the far north." "That I don't," Rory had replied. "If we fall among the old seals, a fortnight will do it." "Ay," Allan had said, "and won't old Silas be happy!" "Yes," from McBain; "and, after all, to be able to give happiness to others is certainly one of the greatest pleasures in this world." Dear reader, just a word parenthetically. I am so sure that what McBain said is true, that I earnestly advise you to try the experiment suggested by his words, for great is the reward, even in this world, of those who can conquer self and endeavour to bring joy to others. The _Arrandoon_ steamed along the pack edge, but it must not be supposed that this was a straight line, or anything like it. Indeed it was very much like any ordinary coastline, for here was a bay and yonder a cape, and yonder again, where the ice is heavier, a bold promontory. But Greenlandmen call a bay a "bight," and a cape they call a "point-end." Let us adopt their nomenclature. The _Canny Scotia_, then, avoided these point-ends; she kept well out to sea, well away from the pack, for there was not over-much wind, and Silas Grig had no wish to be beset again. But the _Arrandoon_, on the other hand, steamed, as I have said, in a straight line. She scorned to double a point, but went steadily on her course, ploughing her way through the bergs. There was one advantage in this: she could the more easily discover the seals, for in the month of May these animals, having done their duty by their young, commence their return journey to the north, the polar regions being their home _par excellence_. They are in no hurry getting back, however. They like to enjoy themselves, and usually for every one day's progress they make, they lie two or three on the ice. The capes, or point-ends, are favourite positions with them, and on the bergs they may be seen lying in scores, nor if the sun be shining with any degree of strength are they at all easily disturbed. It is their summer, and they try to make the best of it. Hark now to that shout from the crow's-nest of the _Arrandoon_. "A large patch of seals in sight, sir." Our heroes pause in their walk, and gaze upwards; from the deck nothing is visible to windward save the great ice-pack. "Where away?" cries Stevenson. "On the weather bow, sir, and a good mile in through the pack." "What do you think, sir?" says Stevenson, addressing his commander. "Shall we risk taking the ice again?" "Risk, Stevenson?" is the reply. "Why, man, yes; we'll risk anything to do old Silas a good turn. We'll risk more yet, mate, before the ship's head is turned homewards." Then the ship is stopped, and signals are made to Silas, who instantly changes his course, and, after a vast deal of tacking and half-tacking, bears down upon them, and being nearly alongside, gets his main-yard aback, and presently lowers a boat and comes on board the _Arrandoon_. Our heroes crowd around him. "Why," they say, "you are a perfect stranger; it is a whole week since we've seen you." "Ay," says Silas, "and a whole week without seeing a seal--isn't it astonishing?" "Ah! but they're in sight now," says McBain. "I'm going to take the ice, and I'll tow you in, and if you're not a bumper ship before a week, then this isn't the _Arrandoon_, that's all." Silas is all smiles; he rubs his hands, and finally laughs outright, then he claps his hand on his leg, and,-- "I was sure of it," says Silas, "soon as ever I saw your signal. `Matie,' says I, `yonder is a signal from the _Arrandoon_. I'm wanted on board; seals is in sight, ye maybe sure. Matie,' says I, `luck's turned again;' and with that I gives him such a dig in the ribs that he nearly jumped out of the nest." "Make the signal to the _Scotia_, Stevenson," says McBain, "to clew up, and to get all ready for being taken in tow. Come below, Captain Grig, lunch is on the table." Fairly seated at the table, honest Silas rubbed his hands again and looked with a delighted smile at each of his friends in turn. There was a bluff heartiness about this old sailor which was very taking. "I declare," he said, "I feel just like a schoolboy home for a holiday?" Rory and Silas were specially friendly. "Rory, lad," he remarked, after a pause, "we won't be long together now." "No," replied Rory; "and it isn't sorry I am, but really downright _sad_ at the thoughts of your going away and leaving us. I say, though--happy thought!--send Stevenson home with your ship and you stay with us in place of him." Silas laughed. "What _would_ my owners say, boy? and what about my little wife, eh?" "Ah! true," said Rory; "I had forgotten." Then, after a pause, he added, more heartily, "But we'll meet again, won't we?" "Please God!" said Silas, reverently. "I think," Rory added, "I would know your house among a thousand, you have told me so much about it--the blue-grey walls, the bay windows, the garden, with its roses and--and--" "The green paling," Silas put in. "Ah, yes! the green paling, to be sure; how could I have forgotten that? Well, I'll come and see you; and won't you bring out the green ginger that day, Silas!" "_And_ the bun," added Silas. "_And_ the bun," repeated Rory after him. "And won't my little wife make you welcome, too! you may bet your fiddle on that!" Then these two sworn friends grasped hands over the table, and the conversation dropped for a time. But there perhaps never was a much happier Greenland skipper than Silas Grig, when he found his ship lying secure among the ice, with thousands on thousands of old seals all around him. The weather continued extremely fine for a whole week. The little wind there had been, died all away, and the sun shone more warmly and brightly than it had done since the _Arrandoon_ came to the country. The seals were so cosy that they really did not seem to mind being shot, and those that were scared off one piece of ice almost immediately scrambled on to another. "Fire away!" they seemed to say; "we are so numerous that we really won't miss a few of us. Only don't disturb us more than you can help." So the seals hugged the ice, basking in the bright sunshine, either sleeping soundly or gazing dreamily around them with their splendid eyes, or scratching their woolly ribs with their flippers for want of something to do. And bang, bang, bang! went the rifles; they never seemed to cease from the noon of night until mid-day, nor from mid-day until the noon of night again. The draggers of skins went in pairs for safety, and thus many a poor fellow who tumbled into the sea between the bergs, escaped with a ducking when otherwise he would have lost his life. Ralph--long-legged, brawny-chested Saxon Ralph--was among "the ducked," as Rory called the unfortunates. He came to a space of water which was too wide even for him. He would not be beaten, though, so he pitched his rifle over first by way of beginning the battle. Then he thought, by swinging his heavy cartridge-bag by its shoulder-strap the weight would help to carry him over. He called this jumping from a tangent. It was a miserable failure. But the best of the fun--so Rory said, though it could not have been fun to Ralph--was this: when he found himself floundering in the water he let go the bag of cartridges, which at once began to sink, but in sinking caught his heel, and pulled him for the moment under water. Poor Ralph! his feelings may be better imagined than described. "I made sure a shark had me!" he said, quietly, when by the help of his friend Rory, he had been brought safely to bank. It was not very often that Ralph had a mishap of any kind, but, having come to grief in this way, it was not likely that Rory would throw away so good a chance of chaffing him. He suddenly burst out laughing at luncheon that day, at a time when nobody was speaking, and when apparently there was nothing at all to laugh about. "What now, Rory? what now, boy?" said McBain, with a smile of anticipation. "Oh!" cried Rory, "if you had only seen my big English brother's face when he thought the shark had him!" "Was it funny?" said Allan, egging him on. "Funny!" said Rory. "Och I now, funny is no name for it. You should have seen the eyes of him!--and his jaw fall!--and that big chin of his. You know, Englishmen have a lot of chin, and--" "And Irishmen have a lot of cheek," cried Ralph. "Just wait till I get you on deck, Row boy." "I'd make him whustle," suggested the doctor. "Troth," Rory went on, "it was very nearly the death o' me. And to see him kick and flounder! Sure I'd pity the shark that got one between the eyes from your foot, baby Ralph." "Well," said Ralph, "it was nearly the death of me, anyhow, having to take off all my clothes and wring them on top of the snow." "Oh! but," continued Rory, assuming seriousness, and addressing McBain, "you ought to have seen Ralph just then, sir. That was the time to see my baby brother to advantage. Neptune is nobody to him. Troth, Ray, if you'd lived in the good old times, it's a gladiator they'd have made of you entirely." Here came a low derisive laugh from Cockie's cage, and Ralph pitched a crust of bread at the bird, and shook his fingers at Rory. But Rory kept out of Ralph's way for a whole hour after this, and by that time the storm had blown clean away, so Rory was safe. Allan had his turn next day. The danger in walking on the ice was chiefly owing to the fact that the edges of many of the bergs had been undermined by the waves and the recent swell, so that they were apt to break off and precipitate the unwary pedestrian into the water. Here is Allan's little adventure, and it makes one shudder to think how nearly it led him to being an actor in a terrible tragedy. He was trudging on after the seals with rifle at full cock, for he expected a shot almost immediately, when, as he was about to leap, the snowy edge of the berg gave way, and down he went. Instinctively he held his rifle out to his friend, who grasped it with both hands, the muzzle against his breast, and thus pulled him out. It seemed marvellous that the rifle did not go off. [Both these adventures are sketched from the life.] When safe to bank, and when he noticed the manner in which he had been helped out, poor Allan felt sick, there is no other name for it. "Oh, Ralph, Ralph!" he said, clutching his friend by the shoulder to keep himself from falling, "what if I had killed you?" When told of the incident that evening after dinner, McBain, after a momentary silence, said quietly,-- "I'm not sorry such a thing should have happened, boys; it ought to teach you caution; and it teaches us all that there is Some One in whose hands we are; Some One to look after us even in moments of extremest peril." But I think Allan loved Ralph even better after this. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Two weeks' constant sealing; two weeks during which the crews of the _Arrandoon_ and _Canny Scotia_ never sat down to a regular meal, and never lay down for two consecutive hours of repose, only eating when hungry and sleeping when they could no longer keep moving; two weeks during which nobody knew what o'clock it was at any particular time, or which was east or west, or whether it were day or night. Two weeks, then the seals on the ice disappeared as if by magic, for the frost was coming. "Let them go," said Silas, shaking McBain warmly by the hand. "Thanks to you, sir, I'm a bumper ship. Why, man, I'm full to the hatches. Low freeboard and all that sort of thing. Plimsoll wouldn't pass us out of any British harbour. But, with fair weather and God's help, sir, we'll get safely home." "And now," McBain replied, "there isn't a moment to lose. We must get out of here, Captain Grig, or the frost will serve us a trick as it did before." With some difficulty the ships were got about and headed once more for the open sea. None too soon, though, for there came again that strange, ethereal blue into the sky, which, from their experiences of the last black frost, they had learned to dread. The thermometer sank, and sank, and sank, till far down below zero. The _Arrandoon_ took her "chummy ship" in tow. "Go ahead at full speed," was the order. No, none too soon, for in two hours' time the great steam-hammer had to be set to work to break the newly-formed bay ice at the bows of the _Arrandoon_, and fifty men were sent over the side to help her on. With iron-shod pikes they smashed the ice, with long poles they pushed the bergs, singing merrily as they worked, working merrily as they sang, laughing, joking, stamping, shouting, and cheering as ever and anon the great ship made another spurt, and tore along for fifty or a hundred yards. Handicapped though she was by having the _Scotia_ in tow, the _Arrandoon_ fought the ice as if she had been some mighty giant, and every minute the distance between her and the open water became less, till at last it could be seen even from the quarter-deck. But the frost seemed to grow momentarily more intense, and the bay- ce stronger and harder between the bergs. Never mind, that only stimulated the men to greater exertions. It was a battle for freedom, and they meant to win. With well-meaning though ridiculous doggerel, Ted Wilson led the music,-- "Work and keep warm, boys; heave and keep hot, Jack Frost thinks he's clever; we'll show him he's not. Beyond is the sea, boys; Let us fight and get free, boys; One thing will keep boiling, and that is the pot. With a heave O! Push and she'll go. To work and to fight is the bold sailor's lot. Heave O--O--O! "Go fetch me the lubber who won't bear a hand, We'll feed him on blubber, we'll stuff him with sand. But yonder our ships, boys, Ere they get in the nips, boys, We'll wrestle and work, as long's we can stand, Then cheerily has it, men, Heave O--O--O! Merrily has it, men, Off we go, O--O--O!" Yes, reader, and away they went, and in one more hour they were clear of the ice, _the Arrandoon_ had cast the _Scotia_ off, and banked her fires, for, together with her consort, she was to sail, not steam, down to the island of Jan Mayen, where they were to take on board the sleigh-dogs, and bid farewell to Captain Cobb, the bold Yankee astronomer.--There was but little wind, but they made the most of what there was. Silas dined on board that day, as usual. They were determined to have as much of the worthy old sailor as they could. But before dinner one good action was performed by McBain in Captain Grig's presence. First he called all hands, and ordered them aft; then he asked Ted Wilson to step forward, and addressed him briefly as follows: "Mr Wilson, I find I can do with another mate, and I appoint you to the post." Ted was a little taken aback; a brighter light came into his eyes; he muttered something--thanks, I suppose--but the men's cheering drowned his voice. Then our heroes shook hands with him all around, and McBain gave the order,-- "Pipe down." But as soon as Ted Wilson returned to his shipmates they shouldered him, and carried him high and dry right away forward, and so down below. CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. A WONDERFUL YANKEE--"MAKING OFF" SKINS--PREPARING TO "BEAR UP"--THE SUMMER HOME OF THE GIANT WALRUS--THE SHIPS PART. In two days the ships sighted the island of Jan Mayen. As they neared it, they found the ice so closely packed around the shore that all approach even by boats was out of the question, so the sails were clewed, the ice-anchors got out, and both ships made fast to the floe. It was not long ere Captain Cobb was on board the _Arrandoon_, to welcome our heroes back to "_his_ island of Jan Mayen." He was profuse in his thanks for what he called the clever kindness of Captain McBain, in saving his little yacht from a fatal accident among the ice; and, of course, they would do him the honour to come on shore and dine with him. He would take it as downright "mean" if they did not. There was no resisting such an appeal as this, so, leaving their ships in charge of their respective mates, both McBain and Silas, in company with our heroes--Sandy McFlail, Seth, and all--they trudged off over the snowy bergs to take dinner in the hut of the bold Yankee astronomer. Very unprepossessing, indeed, was the building to behold from the outside, but no sooner had they entered, than they opened their eyes wide with astonishment. When our young friends had visited it before, the hut looked neither more nor less than a big hall, or rather barn. But now--why, here were all the luxuries of civilised life. The place was divided into ante-room, saloon, and bed-chamber, and each apartment seemed more comfortable than another. The walls of the saloon were covered with rich tapestry, the floor with a soft thick carpet. There were couches and easy-chairs and skins _galore_, and books and musical instruments. A great stove, of American pattern, burned in the centre, giving out warmth and making the room look doubly cheerful, and overhead swung an immense lamp, which shed a soft, effulgent light everywhere, so that one did not miss the windows, of which the hut was _minus_. At one end of this apartment was a dining-table, as well laid and as prettily arranged as if it stood in the dining-hall of a club-room in Pall Mall, and beside the table were two sable waiters clad in white. Captain Cobb seemed to thoroughly enjoy the looks of bewilderment and wonder exhibited on the faces of his guests. "Why," said McBain at last, "pardon me, but you Yankees are about the most wonderful people on the face of the earth." "Waal," said the Yankee, "I guess we like our little comforts, and don't see any harm in having them." "So long's we deserve them," put in Seth, who, at that moment, really felt very proud of being a Yankee. "Bravo! old man," cried his countryman; "let us shake your hand." "And now, gentlemen," he continued, "sit in. I reckon the keen air and the walk have given ye all an appetite." Soups, fish, _entries_, joints--why I do not know what there was not in the bill-of-fare. It was a banquet fit for a king. "I can't make out how you manage it," said McBain. "Do you keep a djin?" Cobb laughed and summoned the cook. If he was not a djin, he was just as ugly. Four feet high--not an inch more--with long arms, black skin, flat face, and no nose at all worth mentioning. He was dressed as a _chef_, however, and very polite, for at a motion from his master, he salaamed very prettily and retired. At dessert the host produced a zither, and, accompanying himself on this beautiful instrument, sang to them. He drawled while talking, but he sang most sweetly, and with a taste and feeling that quite charmed Rory, and held Silas and the doctor spell-bound. He was indeed a wonderful Yankee. "Do you know," said Rory, "I feel for all the world like being in an enchanted cave? Do sing again, if only one song." It is needless to add that our friends spent the evening most enjoyably. It was a red-letter night, and one they often looked back to with pleasure, and talked about as they lay around their snuggery fire, during the long dreary time they spent in the regions round the Pole. "I'm glad, anyhow," said Captain Cobb, as he bade them good-bye on the snow-clad beach, "that I've made it a kind o' pleasant for ye. Don't forget to call as you come back, and if Cobb be here, why, Cobb will bid you welcome. Farewell." By eight bells in next morning watch everything was ready for a start. The dogs--twelve in number--were got on board and duly kennelled, and the old trapper was installed as whipper-in. "But I guess," said Seth, "there won't be much whipping-in in the play. Trapper Seth is one of those rare old birds who know the difference between a dog and a door-knocker. Yes, Seth knows that there's more in a good bed and a biscuit, with a kind word whenever it is needed, than there is in all the cruel whips in existence." The kennelling for the poor animals was got up under the supervision of Ap and Seth himself. It was built on what the trapper called "scientific principles." There was a yard or ran in common for the whole pack; but the large, roomy sleeping compartment had a bench, on which all twelve dogs could sleep or lie at once, yet nevertheless it was divided by boards about a foot high into six divisions. This was to prevent the dogs all tumbling into a heap when the ship rolled. The bedding was straw and shavings; of the former commodity McBain had not forgotten to lay in a plentiful supply before leaving Scotland. There was, besides, a whole tankful of Spratts' biscuits, so that what with these and the ship's scraps, it did not seem at all likely that the dogs would go hungry to bed for some time to come. Seth was now much happier on board than ever he had been, because he had duties to perform and an office to fill, humble though it might be. At half-past eight Silas came on board the _Arrandoon_ to breakfast. Allan and Rory were tramping rapidly up and down the deck to keep themselves warm, for, though the wind was blowing west-south-west, it was bitterly cold, and the "barber" was blowing. The barber is a name given to a light vapoury mist that, when the frost is intense and the wind in pertain directions, is seen rising off the sea in Greenland. I have called it a mist, but it in reality partakes more of the nature of steam, being due to the circumstance of the air being ever so much colder than the surface of the water. Oh! but it is a cold steam--a bitter, biting, killing steam. Woe be to the man who exposes his ears to it, or who does not keep constantly rubbing his nose when walking or sailing in it, for want of precaution in this respect may result in the loss of ears or nose, and both appendages are useful, not to say ornamental. "Good morning," cried Silas, jumping down on to the deck. "The top of the morning to you, friend Silas," said Rory; "how do you feel after your blow-out at Captain Cobb's?" "Fust-rate," said Silas--"just fust-rate; but where is Ralph and the captain?" "Ralph!" said Rory; "why, I don't suppose there is a bit of him to be seen yet, except the extreme tip of his nose and maybe a morsel of his Saxon chin; and as for the captain, he is busy in his cabin. Breakfast all ready, is it, Peter? Thank you, Peter, we're coming down in a jiffy." Just as they entered the saloon by one door, McBain came in by another. "Ah! good morning, Captain Grig," he cried, extending his hand. "Sit down. Peter, the coffee. And now," he continued, "what think you of the prospect? It isn't exactly a fair wind for you to bear up, is it?" "The wind would do," said Silas; "but I'm hardly what you might call tidy enough to bear up yet. It'll take us a week to make off our skins, and a day more to clean up. I'd like to go home not only a bumper ship, but a clean and wholesome sweet ship." "Well, then," McBain said, "here is what I'll do for you." "But you've done so much already," put in Silas, "that really--" "Nonsense, man," cried McBain, interrupting him; "why, it has been all fun to us. But I was going to say that instead of lying here for a week, you had better sail north with us, Spitzbergen way, and my men will help you to make off and tidy up. Who knows but that after that you may get a fair wind to carry you right away south into summer weather in little over a week?" "Bless your heart!" said Silas; "the suggestion is a grand one. I close with your offer at once. You see, sir, we Greenlandmen generally return to harbour all dirty, outside anyhow, with our sides scraped clean o' paint, and our masts and spars as black as a collier's." "_You_ shan't, though," said McBain. "We'll spend a bucket or two of paint over him, won't we, boys?" "That will we," said Ralph and Allan, both in one breath. "And I'll tell you what I'll do," added Rory. "Something nice, I'm certain," said Silas. "I'll paint and gild that Highland lassie of yours that you have for a figure-head." "Glorious! glorious!" cried Silas Grig. "Why, my own wife won't know the ship. And, poor wee body! she'll be down there looking anxiously enough out to sea when she hears I'm in the offing. Oh, it will be glorious! Won't my matie be pleased when he hears about it!" "I say, though," said Rory, "I'll change the pattern of your Highland lassie's tartan. She came to the country a Gordon, she shall return a McGregor." "Or a McFlail," suggested Sandy. "Ha! ha! ha!" This was an impudent, derisive laugh from Cockie's cage, which made everybody else laugh, and caused Sandy to turn red in the face. After breakfast the ice-anchors were cast off and got on board, and sail set. The _Arrandoon_ led, keeping well clear of the ice, and taking a course of north-east and by north. When well off the ice, and everything working free and easy, McBain called all hands, and ordered the men to lay aft. "Men," he said, "you all signed articles to complete the voyage with me to the Polar regions and back. Most of you knew, as you put your names to the paper, what you were about, because you had been here before, but some of you didn't. Now I am by no means short-handed, and if any of you thinks he has had enough of it already, and would like to return to his country, step forward and say so now, and I'll make arrangements with Captain Grig for your passage back." Not a man stirred. "I will take it as a favour," continued the captain, "if any one who has any doubts on his mind will come forward now. I want only willing hands with me." "We _are_ willing, we are willing hands," the men shouted. "Beg your pardon, sir," said bold Ted Wilson, stepping forward, "but I know the crew well. I'm sure they all feel thankful for your kind offer, but ne'er a man Jack o' them would go back, if you offered to pay him for doing so." The captain bowed and thanked Ted, and the men gave one hearty cheer and retired. Once fairly at sea, McBain sent two whalers on board the _Scotia_, their crews rigged out in working dress, and making off was at once commenced. Upright boards were made fast here and there along the decks; the skins, with their two or three inches of blubber attached, were handed up from below, and the men set to work in this way--they stood at one side of the board and spread the skin in front of them on the other; then they leant over, and first cutting off all useless pieces of flesh, etc, they next cleaned the blubber from off the skin. This was by other hands cut into pieces about a foot square, carried away, and sent below to be deposited in the tanks. Other workmen removed the cleaned skins. These were dashed over with rough salt, rolled tightly and separately up, and cast into tanks by themselves. This latter duty devolved upon the mates, and old Silas himself stood, with book in hand, "taking tally," that is, counting the number of skins as they were passed one by one below. The refuse, or "orra bits," as Scotch sailors call them, were thrown overboard by bucketfuls, and over these thousands of screaming gulls fought on the surface of the water, and scores of sharks immediately beneath. It was a busy scene, and one that can only be witnessed in Greenland north. In three days all the skins were made off and stowed away. All this time the men had been as merry as sheep-shearers, and only on the last day did Silas splice the main-brace, even then diluting the rum with warm coffee. Then came the cleaning up, and scouring of decks below and above, and white-washing and mast-scraping. After this McBain sent his painters on board, and in less than four-and-twenty hours she looked like a new ship. And Rory was busy below on the 'tween decks. The Highland lassie had been unshipped, and taken below for him to paint and gild. Rory, mind you, did not wish it to be unshipped. He would have preferred being swung overboard. There would have been more fun in it, he said. But Silas would not hear of such a thing. The cold, he feared, would benumb him so that he might drop off into the sea, to the infinite joy and satisfaction of a gang of unprincipled sharks that kept up with the ship, but to the everlasting sorrow of him, Captain Silas Grig. When the ship was all painted, and the masts scraped and varnished, and the Highland lassie--brightly arrayed in gold and McGregor tartan-- re-shipped, why then, I do not think a prouder or happier man than Silas Grig ever trod a quarter-deck. The day after this everybody on the _Arrandoon_ was busy, busy, busy writing letters for home. They were thus engaged, when a shout came from the crow's-nest,-- "Heavy ice ahead!" It was the ice-bound shores of the southernmost islands of Spitzbergen they had sighted. They passed between several of these, and grandly beautiful they looked, with their fantastically-shaped sides glittering green and blue and white in the sunshine. These islands seemed to be the northern home or summer retreat of the great bladder-nosed seal and the giant walrus. They basked on the smaller bergs that floated around them, while hundreds of strange sea-birds nodded half asleep on the snow-clad rocks. It was here where the two ships parted, the _Canny Scotia_ bearing up for the sunny south, the _Arrandoon_ clewing sails and lighting fires to steam away to The Unknown Land. There were tears in poor Rory's eyes as he shook hands with Silas, and he could not trust himself to say much. Indeed, there was little said on either hand, but the farewell wishes were none the less heartfelt for all that. There is always somewhat of humour mixed up with the sad in life. It was not wanting on this occasion. Silas had brought a servant with him when he came to say adieu. This servant carried with him a mysterious-looking box. It was all he could do to lift it. Seeing McBain look inquiringly at it,-- "It's just a drop of green ginger," said Silas. "When you tap it, boys, when far away from here, you won't forget Silas, I know. I won't forget you, anyhow," he continued; "and look here, boys, if a prayer from such a rough old salt as I am availeth, then Heaven will send you safely home again, and the first to welcome you will be Silas Grig. Good-bye, God be wi' ye." "Good-bye, God be wi' ye." CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. NORTHWARD HO!--HOISTING BEACONS--THE WHITE FOG--THE GREAT SEA-SERPENT. "Good-bye, and God be with you." It was a prayer as heartfelt and fervent as ever fell from the lips of an honest sailor. The _Arrandoon_ steamed away, and soon was hidden from view behind a lofty iceberg, and all that Silas Grig, as he stood on his own quarter-deck, could now hear, was the sad and mournful wail of Peter's bagpipes. Peter was playing that wild and plaintive melody which has drawn tears from so many eyes when our brave Highland regiments were departing for some far-off seat of wax, to be-- "Borne on rough seas to a far-distant shore, Maybe to return to Lochaber no more." "Heigho! matie," sighed Silas, talking to his chief officer and giving orders all in one breath, "I don't think we'll--haul aft the jib-sheet-- ever see them again. I don't think they can--take a pull on the main-brace--ever get back from among that fearful--luff a little, lad, luff--ice, matie. And the poor boys, if any one had told Silas he could have loved them as much as he does in so short a time, he would have laughed in his face. Come below, matie, and we'll have a drop o' green ginger. Keep her close, Mortimer, but don't let her shiver." "Ay, ay, sir," said the man at the wheel. In a few hours the wind got more aft, and so, heading now for more southern climes, away went the _Canny Scotia_, with stun'sails up. I cannot say that she bounded over the waters like a thing of life. No; but she looked as happy and frisky as a plough-horse on a gala day, that has just been taken home from the miry fields, fed and groomed, and dressed with ribbons and started off in a light spring-van with a load of laughing children. But eastwards and north steamed the _Arrandoon_. Indeed, she tried to do all the northing she could, with just as little easting as possible. She passed islands innumerable; islands that we fail to see in the chart, owing, no doubt, to the fact that they are usually covered entirely with ice and snow, and would be taken for immense icebergs. But this was a singularly open year, and there was no mistaking solid rocky land for floating ice. The bearings of all these were carefully put down in the charts--I say charts, because not only the captain and mate, but our young heroes as well, took the daily reckoning, and kept a log, though I am bound in the interests of truth to say that Ralph very often did not write up his log for days and days, and then he impudently "fudged" it from Rory's. "Are you done with my log?" Rory would sometimes modestly inquire of Ralph as he sat at the table busily "fudging." "Not yet, youngster," Ralph would reply; "there, you go away and amuse yourself with your fiddle till I'm done with it, unless you specially want your ears pulled." McBain landed at many of these islands, and hoisted beacons on them. These beacons were simply spare spars, with bunches of light wood lashed to their top ends, so that at some little distance they looked like tall brooms. He hoisted one on the highest peak of every island that lay in his route. They came at length to what seemed the very northernmost and most easterly of these islands, and on this McBain determined to land provisions and store them. It would tend to lighten the ship; and "on the return voyage," said the captain, "if so be that Providence shall protect and spare us, they will be a welcome sight." This done, the voyage was continued, and the sea becoming clearer of ice towards the west, the course was altered to almost due north. The wind drawing round more to the south, the fires were banked, and the vessel put under easy sail. The water all round looked black and deep; but, with all the caution of your true sailor, McBain had two men constantly in the chains to heave the lead, with a watch continually in the crow's-nest to give warning of any sudden change in the colour of the water. More than once such a change was observed, the surface becoming of a yellowish ashen hue away ahead of them. Then the main or fore yard was hauled aback, and a boat despatched to investigate, and it was found that the strange appearance was caused by myriads of tiny shrimplets, what the northern sailor calls "whale's food." Whether this be whale food or not I cannot say for certain, but several times our heroes fell in with a shoal of bottle-noses, disporting themselves among these curious ashen-hued streams. This formed a temptation too great to resist, for the oil would do instead of fuel when they wintered away up in the extreme north. So boats were lowered--not two but four, for these brutes are as wild as the winds and more wily than any old fox. No less than four were "bagged," as Rory called it. They were not large, but the blubber obtained from them was quite sufficient to fill one large tank. The best of it was, that Ralph--big, "plethoric" (another of Rory's pretty words), Saxon Ralph, made quite a hero of himself by manfully guiding his boat towards a floundering monster that was threatening destruction to the third whaler, which was fast to her, and skilfully spearing her at the very nick of time. Rory was in the same boat, and drenched in blood from head to heels though both of them were, he must needs get up and shake his "baby brother" by the hand. "Oh, sure!" said Rory, with tears in his eyes, "it's myself that is proud of the English race, after all. They haven't the fire of the Gael; but only just awaken them!--Dear Ray, you're a broth of a boy, entirely." "What do you think," said McBain, one morning just after breakfast--"what do you think, Rory, I'm going to make to-day?" "Sure, I don't know," said Rory, all interest. "Why, fenders," said McBain. "Fenders?" ejaculated Rory, with wider eyes. "Fenders? troth it'll be fire-irons you'll be making next, sir; but what do you want with fenders?" "You don't take," said Ralph. "It is fenders to throw overboard when the ice is too obtrusive, isn't it, sir?" "That's it," said the captain, laughing. "Sometimes the bergs may be a bit too pressing with their attentions, and then I'll hang these over. That's it." It took nearly a fortnight to complete the manufacture of these fenders or trusses, for each of them was some twelve feet long by three in diameter composed of compressed straw and shielded by knitted ropework. To the captain's foresight in making these fenders, they several times owed the safety of their gallant ship during the winter that followed. A whole month passed away. The sun now set every night, and the still, long day began to get sensibly shorter. The progress northward was hindered by dense white fogs, which at times hugged the ship so closely that, standing by the bowsprit, you could not see the jibboom-end. The vessel, as Sandy McFlail expressed it, seemed enveloped in huge sheets of wet lint. Then the fog would lift partially off and away--in other words, it seemed to retire and station itself at some distance, with the ice looming through it in the most magical way. At these times the ship would be stopped, and our heroes were allowed to take boat exercise around the _Arrandoon_, with strict injunctions not to go beyond a certain distance of the vessel. Their laughing and talking and singing never failed to bring up a seal or two, or a round-eyed wondering walrus, or an inquisitive bladder-nose, but the appearance of these animals, as they loomed gigantic through the fog, was sometimes awful in the extreme. When a malley or gull came sweeping down towards them it looked as big as the fabulous Roc that carried away Sinbad the Sailor, and Rory would throw himself in the bottom of the boat and pretend to be in a terrible fright. [The optical illusions caused among the ice by these fogs are well and humorously described in a book just to hand called "The Voyage of the _Vega_" (Macmillan and Co). I myself wrote on the same subject _thirteen years ago_, in a series of articles on Greenland North.] "Oh! Ray, boy, look at the Roc," he would cry. "I'm come for, sure enough. Do catch hold of me, big brother. Don't let the great baste carry me off. Sure, he'll fly up to the moon with me, as the eagle did with Daniel O'Rourke." I think the fog must have caused delusions in sound as well as sight, else why the following. They were pulling gently about, one day, in the first whaler, when, borne along on the slight breeze that was blowing, came a sound as of happy children engaged at play. The merry laughter and the occasional excited scream or shout were most distinctly audible. "Whatever can it be?" cried Allan, looking very serious, his somewhat superstitious nature for a moment gaining the ascendency. "Sure," said Rory, "you needn't pull so long a face, old man; it's only the childer just got out of school." The "childer" in this instance were birds. "It's much clearer to-day," said Stevenson, one morning, as he made his usual report. "We can see the clouds, and they're all on the scud. I expect we'll have wind soon, sir." "Very well, Mr Stevenson," was the reply, "be ready for it, you know; have the fires lit and banked, and then stand by to get the ice-anchors and fenders on board," (the ship was fast to a berg). "There is a line of ice to the westward, sir, about a quarter of a mile off, and clear water all between." "Thank you, Mr Stevenson." But Stevenson did not retire. He stopped, hesitatingly. "You've something to ask me, I think?" said McBain. "I've something to tell you," replied the mate, with a kind of a forced laugh. "I dare say you will think me a fool for my pains, but as sure as you gentlemen are sitting there at breakfast this morning, about five bells in the middle watch I saw--and every man Jack of us saw--" "Saw what?" said McBain. "Sit down, man; you are looking positively scared." "We saw--_the great Sea-Serpent_!" [What is herein related really occurred as described. I myself was a witness to the event, being then in medical charge of the barque _Xanthus_, recently burned at sea.] McBain did not attempt to laugh him out of his story, but he made him describe over and over again what he had seen; then he called the watch, and examined them verbally man by man, and found they all told the self-same tale, talking soberly, earnestly, and truthfully, as men do who feel they are stating facts. The terrible monster they averred came from the northwards, and was distinctly visible for nearly a minute, passing between the ship and the ice-line which Stevenson had mentioned. They described his length, which could not have been less than seventy or eighty yards, the undulations of his body as he swept along on the surface of the water, the elevated head, the mane and--some added--the awful glaring eyes. It did not come on to blow as the mate predicted, so the ship made no move from her position, but all day long there was but little else talked about, either fore or aft, save the visit of the great sea-serpent, and as night drew on the stories told around the galley fire would have been listened to with interest by any one at all fond of the mysterious and awful. "I mean," said Rory, as he retired, "to turn out as soon as it is light, and watch; the brute is sure to return. I've told Peter to call me." "So shall I," said Allan and the doctor. "So shall I," said Ralph. "Well, boys," said McBain, "I'll keep you company." When they went on deck, about four bells in the middle watch, they were not surprised to find all hands on deck, eagerly gazing towards the spot where they had seen "the maned monster of the deep,"--as poet Rory termed him--disappear. It was a cold, dull cheerless morning; the sun was up but his beams were sadly shorn--they failed to pierce the thick canopy of clouds and mist that overspread the sky, and brought the horizon within a quarter of a mile of them. They could, however, easily see the ice-line--long and low and white. A whole hour passed, and McBain at all events was thinking of going below, when suddenly came a shout from the men around the forecastle. "Look! look! Oh! look! Yonder he rips! There he goes!" Gazing in the direction indicated, the hearts of more than one of our heroes seemed to stand still with a strange, mysterious fear, for there, rushing over the surface of the dark water, the undulated body well-defined against the white ice-edge, was--what else could it be?-- the great sea-serpent! "I can see his mane and head and eyes," cried Rory. "Oh! it is too dreadful." Then a shout from the masthead,-- "He is coming this way." It was true. The maned monster had altered his course, and was bearing straight down upon the _Arrandoon_. No one moved from his position, but there were pale, frightened faces and starting eyes; and though the men uttered no cry, a strange, frightened moan arose, a fearful quavering "Oh-h-h?"--a sound that once heard is never to be forgotten. Next moment, the great sea-serpent, with a wild and unearthly scream, bore down upon the devoted ship, then suddenly resolved itself _into a long flight of sea-birds_ (Arctic divers)! So there you have a true story of the great sea-serpent, but I am utterly at a loss to describe to you the jollity and fun and laughing that ensued, as soon as the ridiculous mistake was discovered. And nothing would suit Ted Wilson but getting up on the top of the bowsprit and shouting,-- "Men of the _Arrandoon_, bold sailors all, three cheers for the great sea-serpent. Hip! hip! hip! Hurrah!!!" Down below dived Ralph, followed by all the others. "Peter! Peter! Peter!" he cried. "Ay, ay, sir," from Peter. "Peter, I'm precious hungry." "And so am I," said everybody. Peter wasn't long in laying the cloth and bringing out the cold meat and the pickles, and it wasn't long either before Freezing Powders brought hot coffee. Oh! didn't they do justice to the good things, too! "I dare say," said the doctor, "this is our breakfast." "Ridiculous!" cried Ralph, "ridiculous! It's only a late supper, doctor. We'll have breakfast just the same." "A vera judeecious arrangement," said Sandy. CHAPTER THIRTY. LAND HO! THE ISLE OF DESOLATION--THE LAST BLINK OF SUNSHINE--THE AURORA BOREALIS--STRANGE ADVENTURE WITH A BEAR. "Well, Magnus," said Captain McBain one day to his old friend, "what think you of our prospects of gaining the North Pole, or your mysterious island of Alba?" Magnus was seated at the table in the captain's own room, with an old yellow, much-worn chart spread out before him, the only other person in the cabin, save these two, being Rory, who, with his chin resting on his hands and his elbows on the table, was listening with great interest to the conversation. "Think of it?" replied the weird wee man, looking up and glaring at McBain through his fierce grey eyebrows. "Think of it, sir? Why we are nearly as far north now as _we_ were in 1843. We'll reach the Isle of Alba, sir, if--" "If what, good Magnus?" asked McBain, as the old man paused. "If what?" "If that be all you want," answered Magnus. "Nay, nay, my faithful friend," cried the captain, "that isn't all. We want to reach the Pole, to plant the British flag thereon, and return safely to our native shores again." "So you will, so you will," said Magnus, "if--" "What, another `if,' Magnus?" said McBain. "What does this new `if' refer to?" "If," continued Magnus, "Providence gives us just such another autumn as that we have had this year. If not--" "Well, Magnus, well?" "We will leave our bones to lie among the eternal snows until the last trump shall sound." After a pause, during which McBain seemed in deep and earnest thought. "Magnus," he said, "my brave boys and I have determined to push on as far as ever we can. We have counted all the chances, we mean to do our utmost, and we leave the rest to Providence." Allan had entered while he was speaking, and he said, as the captain finished,-- "Whatever a man dares he can do." "Brave words, my foster-son," replied McBain, grasping Allan's hand, "and the spirit of these words gained for the English nation the victory in a thousand fights." "Besides, you know," added Rory, looking unusually serious, "it is sure to come right in the end." The _Arrandoon_, wonderful to relate, had now gained the extreme altitude of 86 degrees north latitude, and although winter was rapidly approaching, the sea was still a comparatively open one. Nor was the cold very intense; the frosts that had fled away during the short Arctic summer had not yet returned. The sea between the bergs and floes was everywhere calm; they had passed beyond the region of fogs, and, it would almost seem, beyond the storm regions as well, for the air was windless. So on they steamed steadily though slowly, never relaxing their vigilance; so careful, indeed, in this respect was McBain, that the man in the chains as well as the "nest hand" were changed every hour, and only old and tried sailors were permitted to go on duty on these posts. "Land ahead!" was the shout one day from the nest. The day, be it remembered, was now barely an hour long. "Land ahead on the port bow!" "What does it look like, Mr Stevenson?" cried the captain. The mate had run up at the first hail. "I can just see the tops of a few hills, sir," was the reply, "towering high over the icebergs." The _Arrandoon_ bore away for this strange land. In three hours' time they were lying off one of the dreariest and most desolate-looking islands it has ever been the lot of mariners to behold. It looked like an island of some worn-out planet, whose internal fires have gone for ever out, from which life has long since fled, which possesses no future save the everlasting night of silence and death. Some slight repairs were required in the engine-room, so the _Arrandoon_ lay here for a week. "To think," said McBain, as he stood on the bridge one day with our heroes, "that in the far-distant past that lonely isle of gloom was once clad in all the bright colour of tropical vegetation, with wild beasts roaming in its jungles and forests, and wild birds filling its groves with music,--an island of sunshine, flowers, and beauty! And now behold it." An expedition was got up to explore the isle, and to climb its highest peak to make observations. McBain himself accompanied it, so did Allan, Rory, and Seth. It was no easy task, climbing that snowy cone by the light of stars and Aurora. But they gained the summit ere the short, short day broke. To the north and west they saw land and mountains, stretching away and away as far as eye could follow them. To the east and north water studded with ugly icebergs that looked as if they had broken away from the shores of the western land. "But what is that in the middle of yonder ice-floe to the south and west?" cried Rory. "As I live," exclaimed McBain, as he eyed the object through the glass, "it is a ship of some kind, evidently deserted; and it is quite as evident that we are not the only explorers that have reached as far north as this island." The mystery was explained next day, and a sad story brought to light. McBain and party landed on the floe and walked towards the derelict. She was sloop-rigged, with sails all clewed, and her hull half hidden in snow. After a deal of difficulty they succeeded in opening one of the companion hatches, and making their way down below. No less than five unburied corpses lay huddled together in the little cabin. From their surroundings it was plain they had been walrus-hunters, and it was not difficult to perceive that the poor fellows had died from cold and hunger _many, many years before_. Frozen in, too far up in this northern sea, they had been unable to regain the open water, and so had miserably perished. Next day they returned and laid the mortal remains of these unfortunate men in graves in the snow, and even Rory was much more silent and thoughtful than usual as they returned to the ship. Was it not possible that they might meet with a similar fate? The poor fellows they had just buried had doubtless possessed many home ties; their wives and mothers had waited and wished a weary time, till at long last the heart had grown sick with hope deferred, and maybe the grave had long since closed over them. Such were some of Rory's thoughts, but after dinner McBain "brought him up with a round turn," as he phrased it. "Rory," he cried, "go and play to us. Freezing Powders, you young rascal, bring that cockatoo of yours up on the table and make us laugh." Rory brightened up and got hold of his fiddle; and "All right, sah," cried Freezing Powders. "I bring de old cockatoo plenty quick. Come along, Cockie, you catchee my arm and pull yourse'f up. Dat's it." "Come on," cried Cockie, hopping on the table and at once commencing to waltz and polka round. "Come on; play up, play up." A queer bird was Cockie. He cared for nobody except his master and Rory. Rory he loved solely on account of the fiddle, but his affection for Freezing Powders was very genuine. When his master was glad, so was Cockie; when the little nigger boy felt tired, and threw himself down beside the cage to rest, then Cockie would open his cage door and back tail foremost under the boy's arm, heaving as he did so a deep, delighted sigh, as much as to say, "Oh, what joy it is to nestle in here?" Cockie was not a pretty bird; his bill was worn and all twisted awry, and his eyes looked terribly old-fashioned, and the blue, wrinkled skin around them gave him quite an antediluvian look. He was white in colour--or, more correctly speaking, he had been white once; but time, that steals the roses from the softest cheeks, had long since toned him down to a kind of yellow lilac, so he did not look a very respectable bird on the whole. "You ought to wash him," McBain said, one day. "Wash him, sah?" said Freezing Powders; "is dat de 'xpression you make use of, sah? Bless you, sah! I have tried dat plenty much often; I have tried to wash myself, too. No good in eeder case, sah; I 'ssure you I speak de truf." "Come on I come on?" cried Cockie. "Play up! play up! La de lal, de lal, de lal!" And round spun the bird, keeping time to the merry air, and every now and then giving a "whoop?" such as could only be emitted by Cockie himself, a Connemara Irishman, or a Cuscarora Indian. But this is a remarkable thing, Cockie danced and whirled in one direction till he found his head getting light, then he reversed the action, and whirled round the other way! [This description of the wonderful bird is in no way overdrawn.] It really seemed as if he would tire Rory out. "Lal de dal!" he sung: "our days are short--whoop!--our lives are merry--lal de dal, de dal, de _whoop_!" But Rory changed his tactics; he began to play _The Last Rose of Summer_, leaning down towards the table. Cockie stopped at once, and backed, tail foremost, in under the musician's hands, crouching down with a sigh to listen. But Rory went off again into the _Sprig of Shillelagh_, and off went Cockie, too, dancing more madly than ever with a small flag in his mouth that Freezing Powders had handed him. Then he stopped at last, and walked about gasping, pitching penholders and pencils in all directions. "Here's a pretty to-do!" he said; and when somebody laughed, Cockie simply shrieked with laughter till he had everybody joining him and holding their sides, and feeling sore all over. Verily, Cockie was a cure! No wonder his master loved him. In a few days the _Arrandoon_ left the desolate island, which Rory had named "Walrus Isle." Everybody was on deck as the vessel slowly steamed away. Most of the land was already shrouded in gloom, only in the far distance a tall mountain cone was all ablaze with a crimson glory, borrowed from the last blink of sunshine. Yes, the god of day had sunk to rest, and they would bask no more in his cheering beams for many a long and weary month to come. "Give us a bass, Ray, old boy!" cried Rory; "and you, doctor, a tenor." And he started,-- "Shades of evening, close not o'er us, Leave our lonely bark awhile, Morn, alas! will not restore us Yonder dim and distant isle." Ah, reader! what a glorious thing music is; I tell you, honestly and truthfully, that I do not believe I could have come through half the trials and troubles and griefs and worries I have had in life, if I had not at times been able to seek solace and comfort from my old cremona. Our heroes thought at first they would greatly miss the light of the sun, but they soon got quite used to the strange electric light emitted by the splendid Aurora, combined with that which gleamed more steadily downwards from the brilliant stars. These stars were seen to best advantage in the south; they seemed very large and very near, and whether it was the reflection of the Aurora, or whether it was real, I never could tell, but they seemed to shine with differently coloured lights. There were pure white stars, mostly low on the horizon; there were crimson and green changing stars, and yellow and rose-coloured changing stars, and some of a pale-golden hue, the soft light of which was inexpressibly lovely. But any effort of mine to paint in words the extreme beauty of the heavens on clear nights would prove but a painful failure, so I leave it alone. The chief bow of the Aurora is, I may just mention, composed apparently of spears of ever-changing rainbow-coloured light continually falling back into masses and phalanxes, and anon advancing and clashing, as it were. While walking on the ice-fields, if you listen, you can hear a strange whispering, hissing sound emitted from these clashing, mixing spears. The following letters, whispered rapidly, give some faint idea of this mysterious sound,-- "Ush-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh." You can also produce a somewhat similar noise by rubbing your fingers swiftly backwards and forwards on a sheet of paper. But indeed the whole firmament, when the sky was clear, was precisely as Rory described it--"one beautiful poem." Many bears were now seen, and nearly all that were seen were killed. They were enormously large and fierce, foolishly fierce indeed, for they seldom thought of taking to flight. There were unicorns (narwhals) in the sea in scores, and walruses on the flat ice by the dozen. It was after these latter that Master Bruin came prowling. A nice juicy walrus-steak a Greenland bear will tell you is the best thing in the world for keeping the cold out. Old trapper Seth had strange ways of hunting at times. One example must suffice. Our heroes had been out after a walrus which they had succeeded in killing. A bear or two had been seen an hour or two before that, evidently on the prowl, and probably very hungry. Now, nothing will fetch these kings of the northern ice more surely than the scent of blood. "Young gentlemen," said Seth, "there's a b'ar about somewheres, and I reckon he ain't far off either. Now, we'll just whip this old walrus out o' his skin, and Seth will creep in, and you'll see what you'll see." He was very busy with his knife as he spoke, and in a few minutes the crang was got out and thrown into the water, the head being left on. Into the skin crept the trapper, lying down at full length with his rifle close by his side, and by his directions away pulled the boat. It was not two hundred yards off, when up out of the sea scrambled a huge bear. "Hullo," says Bruin, shaking himself like a dozen great Newfoundland dogs rolled into one--"hullo! they've killed the wallie and left him. Now won't I have a blow-out just?" and he licked his great chops in anticipation. "Dear me?" continued Bruin, as the walrus turned right round and confronted him; "why, they haven't quite killed you! Never mind, wallie, I'll put you out of pain, and I'll do it ever so gently. Then I'll just have one leetle bite out of your loin, you know." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "I guess you won't this journey," said Seth, bringing his rifle into position as the bear prepared to spring. "I reckon it'll be the other way on, and b'ar's steak ain't to be sneezed at when it's nicely cooked." Bang! It was very soon over with that poor bear; he never even changed the position into which he had thrown himself, but lay there dead, with his great head on his paws like a gigantic dog asleep. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. A COUNCIL--PREPARING FOR WINTER QUARTERS--THE ISLE OF ALBA AND ITS MAMMOTH CAVES--MAGNUS'S TALE--AT HIS BOY'S GRAVE. The word "canny" is often applied to Scotchmen in a somewhat disparaging sense by those who do not know the meaning of the word, nor the true character of the people on whom they choose to fix the epithet. The word is derived from "can," signifying knowledge, ability, skill, etc, and probably a corruption of the Gaelic "caen" (head). The Scotch are pre-eminently a thinking nation, and, as a rule, they are individually skilful in their undertakings; they like to look before they leap, they like to know what they have to do before they begin, but having begun, they work or fight with all their life and power. It was "canniness" that won for Robert Bruce the Battle of Bannockburn, it was the canniness of Prince Charles Stuart that enabled him to defeat Sir John Cope at the Battle of Dunbar. There is no nation in the world possesses more "can" than the Scotch, although they are pretty well matched by the Germans. Prince Bismarck is the canniest man of the century. "A Berlin! A Berlin!" was the somewhat childish cry of the volatile Gaul, when war broke out betwixt his sturdy neighbour and him. Yes, fair France, go to Berlin if you choose, only first and foremost you have to overthrow--what? Oh! only one man. A very old one, too. Yonder he is, in that tent in the corner of a field, seated at a table, quietly solving, one would almost think, a chess problem. And so it is, but he is playing the game with living men, and every move he makes is carefully studied. That old man in the tent, to which the wires converge from the field of battle, is General von Moltke, the best soldier that the world has ever known since the days of Bonaparte and Wellington, and the _canniest_. But the word "canny" never implies over-frugality or meanness, and I believe my readers will go a long way through the world, without meeting a Scotchman who would not gladly share the last sixpence he had in the world to benefit a friend. Our Captain McBain was canny in the true sense of the word, and it was this canniness of his that induced him to call his officers, and every one who could think and give an opinion, into the saloon two days after the events described in the last chapter. After making a short speech, in which he stated his own ideas freely, he called upon them to express theirs. "If," he concluded, "you think we have gone far enough north with the ship, here, or near here, we will anchor; if you think we ought to push on, I will take that barrier of ice to the north-east, and push and bore and forge and blast my way for many miles farther, and it may be we will strike the open water around the Pole, if such open water exists." "We are now," said Stevenson, after consulting for a short time with the second mate, with Magnus, and De Vere the aeronaut--"we are now nearly 88 degrees north and 76 degrees west from the meridian; the season has been a wonderful one, but will we have an open summer to find our way back again if we push on farther?" "No," cried old Magnus, with some vehemence; "no, such seasons as these come but once in ten years." "I see how the land lies," said McBain, smiling, "and I am glad that we are all of the same way of thinking. Well, gentlemen, this decides me; we shall winter where we are." "Hurrah!" cried Stevenson; "we wouldn't have gone contrary to your wishes for the world, captain, but I'm sure we will be all delighted to go into winter quarters." After this the _Arrandoon_ was kept away more to the west, where the water was clearer of bergs, and where mountainous land was seen to lie. They steamed along this land or shore for many miles, although lighted only by the bright silvery stars and the gleaming Aurora. They came at length to a small landlocked bay or gulf, entirely filled with flat ice. The ship was stopped, and all hands ordered away to a clear a passage by means of ice-saws and torpedoes. After many hours of hard work this was successfully accomplished, and the vessel was warped in till she lay close under the lee of the braeland, that rose steeply up from the surface of the sea. Those braes were to the north and west of them, and would help to shelter the ship from at least one of the coldest winds. "Well, boys," said McBain that day as they sat down to dinner, and he spoke more cheerfully than he had done since the departure of the _Scotia_,--"well, boys, here we are safe and snug in winter quarters. How do you like the prospect of living here for three months without ever catching a blink of the sun?" "I for one don't mind it a bit," said Allan. "It'll do us all good; but won't we be glad to see the jolly visage of old Sol again, when he peeps over the hills to see whether we are dead or alive!" "I'm sure," said Rory, "that I will enjoy the fun immensely." "What fun?" asked Ralph. "Why, the new sensation," replied Rory; "a winter at the Pole." "You're not quite there yet," said Ralph; "but as for me, I think I'll enjoy it too, though of course winter in London would be more lively. Why, what is that green-looking stuff in those glasses, doctor?" "That's your dram," said Sandy. "Why it's lime-juice," cried Rory, tasting his glass and making a face. "So it is," said Ralph. "Where are the sugar-plums, doctor?" "Yes," cried Rory; "where are the plums? Oh!" he continued, "I have it--a drop of Silas Grig's green ginger, steward, quick." And every day throughout the winter, when our heroes swallowed their dose of lime-juice, they were allowed a tiny drop of green ginger to put away the taste, and as they sipped it, they never failed to think and talk of honest Silas. And lime-juice was served out by the surgeon to all hands. They knew well it was to keep scurvy at bay, so they quietly took their dose and said nothing. The sea remained open for about a week longer, and scores of bears were bagged. [These animals are said to bury themselves in the snow during winter, and sleep soundly for two or three months. This, however, is doubtful.] This seemed, indeed, to be the autumn home of the King of the Ice. Then the winter began to close in in earnest, and all saving the noonday twilight deserted them. The sky, however, remained clear and starry, and many wonderful meteors were seen almost nightly shooting across the firmament, and for a time lighting up the strange and desolate scene with a brightness like the noon of day. The Aurora was clearer and more dazzling after the frost came, so that as far as light was concerned the sun was not so much missed. On going on deck one morning our heroes were astonished to find a light gleaming down upon them from the maintop, of such dazzling whiteness that they were fain, for the moment, to press their hands against their eyes. It was an electric candle, means for erecting which McBain had provided himself with before leaving the Clyde. So successful was he with his experiment that the sea of ice on the one hand, and the braeland on the other, seemed enshrouded in gloom. Rory gazed in ecstasy, then he must needs walk up to McBain and shake him enthusiastically by the hand, laughing as he remarked,-- "'Deed, indeed, captain, you're a wonderful man. Whatever made you think of this? What a glorious surprise. Have you any more in store for us? Really! sir, I don't know what your boys would do without you at all at all." Thus spoke impulsive young Rory, as McBain laughingly returned his hand-shake, while high overhead the new light eclipsed the radiance of the brightest stars. But what is that strange, mournful cry that is heard among the hills far up above them? It comes nearer and still more near, and then out from the gloom swoops a gigantic bird. Attracted by the light, it has come from afar, and now keeps wheeling round and round it. Previously there had not been a bird visible for many days, but now, curious to relate, they come in hundreds, and even alight close by the ship to feed on the refuse that has been thrown overboard. "It is strange, isn't it, sir?" said Rory. "It is, indeed," replied McBain, adding, after a pause, "Rory, boy, I've got an idea." "Well," said Rory, "I know before you mention it that it is a good one." "Ah! but," said McBain, "I'm not going to mention it yet awhile." "I vill vager," said the aeronaut, who stood beside them, gazing upwards at the bright light and the circling birds--"I vill vager my big balloon dat de same idea has struck me myself." "Whisper," said the captain. The aeronaut did so, and McBain burst out laughing. "How funny!" he remarked; "but you are perfectly right, De Vere; only keep it dark for a bit." "Oh yes," said De Vere, laughing in turn; "very dark; as dark as--" "Hush?" cried McBain, clapping a hand on his mouth. "How tantalising!" said Rory. "You'll know all about it in good time," McBain said; "and now, boys, we've got to prepare for winter in right good earnest. Duty before pleasure, you know. Now here is what I propose." What he did propose was set about without loss of time. Little Ap was summoned aft. "Can you build barrows?" asked McBain. Little Ap took an immense pinch of snuff before he replied. "I have built many a boat," he said, "but never a barrow. But look, you see, with the help of the cooper and the carpenters I can build barrows by the dozen. Yes, yes, sir." "Bravo, Ap!" cried McBain; "then set about it at once, for we are all going to turn navvies. We are going," he added, "to excavate a cave half-way up that brae yonder on the starboard quarter. It will be big enough, Ap, to hold the whole ship's crew, officers and all. It will be a glorious shelter from the cold, and it will--" "Stop," cried Sandy McFlail. "Beg your pardon, sir, but let me finish the sentence: it will give the men employment and keep sickness away." "That's it, my worthy surgeon," said McBain. "Bravo!" said Sandy. "I look upon that now as--" Sandy paused and reddened a little. "As a vera judeecious arrangement," said Rory, laughing. "Out with it, Sandy, man." Rory edged off towards the door of the saloon as he spoke; the doctor kicked over his chair and made a dart after him, but Rory had fled. Hardly, however, was the surgeon re-seated ere his tormentor keeked in again. "Eh! mon, Sandy McFlail," he cried; "you'll want to take a lot more salt in your porridge, mon, before ye can catch Rory Elphinston." On the hillside, fifty feet above the sea level, they commenced operations, and in a fortnight's time the cave was almost completed; and not only that, but a beautiful staircase leading up to it. The soil was not hard after the outer crust was tapped, although some veins of quartz were alighted upon which required to be blasted. Several times they came across the trunks of huge trees that seemed to have been scorched by fire, the remains, doubtless, of the primeval forest that had once clad these hills with a sea of living green. Nor were bones wanting; some of immense size were turned up and carefully preserved. Rory made a careful study of the remains of the animal and vegetable life which were found, and the result of this was his painting two pictures representing the Past and Present of the strange land where their vessel now lay. The one represented the _Arrandoon_ lying under bare poles and yards in the ice-locked bay, with the wild mountainous land beyond, peak rising o'er peak, and crag o'er crag, all clad in the garments of eternal winter, and asleep in the uncertain light of the countless stars and the radiant Aurora. But the other picture! Who but Rory--who but an artist-poet could have painted that? There are the same formations of hill and dale, the same towering peaks and bold bluffs, but neither ice nor snow is there; the glens and valleys are clad in waving forests; flowers and ferns are there; lichens, crimson and white, creep and hang over the brown rocks; happy birds are in the sky; bright-winged butterflies seem flitting in the noonday sunshine, and strange animals of monstrous size are basking on the sea-shore. Rory's pictures were admired by all hands, but the artist had his private view to begin with, and, among others like privileged, aft came weird old Magnus. First he was shown the picture of the Past. He gazed at it long and earnestly, muttering to himself, "Strange, strange, strange." But no sooner was the companion picture placed before him, than he started from the chair on which he had been sitting. "I was right! I was right?" he cried. "Oh! bless you, boy Rory; bless you, Captain McBain. This--this is the Isle of Alba. Yonder are the dear hills. I thought I could not be mistaken, and not far off are the mammoth caves. I can guide you, gentlemen, to the place where lies wealth untold. This is the happiest day of old Magnus's life." "Sit down, Magnus," said McBain, kindly; "sit down, my old sea-dad. Gentlemen, gather round us; Magnus has something to tell us I know. Magnus," he continued, taking the old man's thin and withered hand in his, "I have often thought you knew more about this Isle of Alba than you cared to tell. What is the mystery? You have spoken so often about these mammoth caves. How know you there is wealth of ivory lying there?" "I have no story to relate," said Magnus, talking apparently to himself; "only a sad reminiscence of a voyage I took years and years ago to these same dreary latitudes. I had a son with me, a son I loved for his dead mother's sake and his own. I commanded a sloop--'twas but a sloop--and we sailed away from Norwegian shores in search of the ivory mines. We reached this very island. The year was an open one, just like this; myself and my brave fellows found ivory in abundance; in such abundance that our sloop would not carry a thousandth part of it, for, gentlemen, in ages long gone by, this island and those around it were the homes of the mammoth and the mastodon. We collected all the ivory and placed it in one cave. How I used to gloat over my treasure! It was all for my boy. He would be the richest man in Northern Europe. My boy, my dear boy, with his mother's eyes! I had only to go back to Norway with my sloop and charter a large vessel, and return to the Isle of Alba for my buried treasure." Here poor old Magnus threw his body forward and covered his face with his skinny hands, and the tears welled through his fingers, while his whole form was convulsed with sobs. "My boy--died!" was all he could utter. "He sleeps yonder--yonder at the cave's mouth. Yonder--yonder. To-morrow I will guide you to the cave, and we will see my boy." The old man seemed wandering a little. "I would sleep now," he added. "To-morrow--to-morrow." There was a strange light in Magnus's eye next day when he joined the search party on deck, and a strange flush on his cheek that seemed to bode no good. "I'll see my boy," he kept repeating to himself, as he led the way on shore. "I'll see my boy." He walked so fast that his younger companions could hardly keep pace with him. Along the shore and upwards through a glen, round hills and rocks, by many a devious path, he led them on and on, till they stood at last at the foot of a tall perpendicular cliff, with, close beside it, a spar or flagstaff. They knew now that Magnus had not been raving, that they were no old man's dream, these mammoth caves, but a glorious reality. "Quick, quick," cried Magnus, pointing to a spot at the foot of the spar. "Clear away the snow." Our heroes were hardly prepared for the sight that met their eyes, as soon as Magnus had been obeyed, for there, encased in a block of crystal ice, lay the form of a youth of probably sixteen summers, dressed in the blue uniform of a Norwegian sailor, with long fair hair floating over his shoulders. Time had wrought no change on the face; this lad, though buried for twenty years, seemed even now only in a gentle slumber, from which a word or touch might awake him. "My boy! my boy!" was the cry of the old man, as he knelt beside the grave, kissed the cold ice, and bedewed it with his tears. "Look up, look up; 'tis your father that is bending over you. But no, no, no; he'll never speak nor smile again. Oh! my boy, my boy!" Rory was in tears, and not he alone, for the roughest sailor that stood beside the grave could not witness the grief of that old man unmoved. McBain stepped forward and placed his hand kindly on his shoulder. Magnus turned his streaming eyes just once upwards to his captain's face, then he gave vent to one long, sobbing sigh, threw out his arms, and dropped. Magnus was no more. They made his grave close to that of his boy's, and there, side by side, these twain will sleep till the sea gives up its dead. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. THE TERRIBLE SNOWSTORM--SOMETHING LIKE AN AQUARIUM--THE MAMMOTH CAVES AND THEIR STARTLING TREASURES--THE JOURNEY POLEWARDS--COLLAPSE OF THE BALLOON--"GOD SAVE THE QUEEN." Four long months have passed away since poor old Magnus dropped dead on the grave of his son. The sun has once more appeared above the horizon, bringing joy to the hearts of the officers and crew of the _Arrandoon_. Despite every effort to keep their spirits up, the past winter has been a weary one. Had the stars always shone, had the glorious Aurora always flickered above them, it might have been different; but shortly after the cave was finished and furnished, divided into compartments, and made comfortable with chairs and sofas, and carpets and skins, a terrible storm came on them from the north-west. Never had our young heroes, never had McBain himself, known such cold, or such fierce winds and depth of snow. For three whole weeks did this Arctic storm rage, and during this time it would have been certain death for any one to have ventured ten yards from the mouth of the cavern. But the wind fell at last, the clouds dispersed, and once more the goodly stars shone forth, and the bright Aurora. Then they ventured to creep out from their friendly shelter. The Arctic night seemed now as bright as day; they could hardly believe that the sun was not hidden behind some of those quartz-like clouds, that were still banked up on the south-eastern horizon. But where was the ship? where was their lordly _Arrandoon_? For a moment it seemed as if the ice had opened and swallowed her up. They rubbed their wondering eyes and looked again. Three silver streaks glimmering against the dark blue of the sky represented her topmasts; all the rest of her was buried beneath the snow. And as far as they could see seaward it was all a waste of smooth dazzling white, with here and there only the points and peaks of the icebergs appearing above it. As soon as the snow had sunk, which it soon did many feet, McBain had got his crew ready to start for the mammoth mines. The weather had continued fine, only there were whole weeks during which the wind blew so cuttingly fierce that no work or walking either could be attempted. The troglodytes--an expression of Rory's--were, therefore, a good deal confined to their cave, and it was well for them then that they had books to read and the wherewithal to amuse themselves in many other ways. The following is a remark that Rory had made to Ralph and Allan one day, after nearly three months of the winter had passed away. "Which of you troglodytes is going with me to-morrow to see the sun rise?" "Not I, thanks," said Ralph. "Pass the ham, old man; that bit of bear-steak was a treat." "I'll go," said Allan. "Hurrah!" cried Rory. "It is you that's the brave boy after all. We'll have friend Seth, too, and the dogs. It's the first time they've been out; it will do us all good." This sledging-party had been a merry one, but they were obliged to leave the dogs at the foot of the mountain, and climb, as best they could, to the top, where, sure enough, they were soon rewarded by a glimpse, just one thrilling glimpse, of the king of day. They could not refrain from shouting aloud with joy. They shouted and cheered, and though, well-nigh three miles from the cave, the troglodytes there heard it, so intense was the silence, and gave them back shout for shout and cheer for cheer. They had seen something, though, from the hill-top that had very much astonished them. In the centre of this curious island, and entirely surrounded by mountains, was a lake of open water, as black as ink it looked in contrast with the snow-clad braeland around it, and right in the centre thereof played an enormous geyser, or natural fountain. It was evidently of volcanic origin. The days got longer and longer, and in five months from the time they had entered the cave day and night were about equal. But I must not omit telling you of the strange experiment that had suggested itself to McBain while gazing upwards at the birds--lured from afar--circling round the electric light. It was nothing more nor less than that of paying a visit, by means of a diving-bell and the electric light, to the denizens of the deep--the creatures that lived in the ocean under the ice. Everything was got ready under the supervision of the aeronaut, ably assisted by the carpenter and crew and little Ap. The bell itself was an immense one, and most carefully constructed to float or sink at will. Inside it was quite as comfortable as the room in the lift of some of our large hotels. Ralph seldom went far out of his way in search of adventure, but this new and wonderful experiment seemed to possess an irresistible charm even for him. As for Rory, he was, as Sandy McFlail said, "half daft" over the idea. McBain was most careful in seeing that everything was in working order; and the bell was sunk and re-sunk empty a dozen times in the water before he would allow any one to venture down in it. The snow had been previously cleared away all from and around the ship, and an immense ice-hole made for the purpose of conducting the experiment. When all seemed safe, and it was found that the bell, sunk to a depth of forty feet, was acted on by no current, but rose straight to the surface of the ice-hole when wanted, then the captain himself and De Vere ventured down. They remained beneath for fully twenty minutes--and anxious minutes they were to those on the surface; then the signal to hoist was given, and presently up bobbed the bell, and was raised to the level by the derrick, when out stepped De Vere and McBain. "Smiling all over, sure!" said Rory, "and looking as clean and sweet and pretty as if they'd just popped out of a band-box." The diving-bell was called "the band-box" after this. But it was after dark that the real experiment was to take place. "Troth!" said Rory at dinner that day, "will you fellows never have done eating? It's myself that is longing to get away down to the bottom of the sea." The four of them entered the band-box--Allan, Ralph, the doctor, and Rory; then they were slowly lowered down--down--down amid a darkness that could be felt. But presently a green glimmer of light shone in through the strong window of the bell; they could see each other's faces. The light got stronger and stronger as the electric ball came nearer and nearer, till at last it stopped stationary about twelve yards from their window, making the sea all round, beneath, and above it as bright as noon. "Yonder is the stage, boys," cried Rory; "but where are the performers?" They had not long to wait for these. Fish, first of the smaller kinds, came sailing round the light; presently these fled in all directions, and a monster shark took up the room. He soon had company, for dozens of others came floating around, and not sharks only, but creatures of more hideous forms than anything even Rory could have imagined in his wildest dreams. "Oh!" cried the young poet, "if Gustave Dore were only here to see this terrible sight!" "It beats," said Sandy, "the Brighton Aquarium all to pieces. Oh?" he screamed, shrinking into a corner of the band-box, as a huge hammer-headed shark sidled up to the window, crooked his awful eyes, and stared in. "Oh, Rory, man, signal quick! I want to get up out o' here. No more divin'-bells for me, lad." For nearly six weeks it became the regular custom to visit this submarine vivarium every night after dinner. "It was just as good," Ralph and Allan said, "as going to a show." "And a deal better," added Rory. Even the mates and the crew begged for a peep at the wonders displayed in the depths of the illuminated sea. "Well," said Ted Wilson, when he ascended after his first view, "I'm a sadder and a wiser man, and I'll dream of what I've seen this night as long as ever I live." They found the mouth of the mammoth cave, near which lay all that was mortal of poor old Magnus and his son, after days and days of digging; but when at long last they succeeded in forcing an entrance, one glance around them proved that they had indeed fallen upon riches and wealth untold. Those vast tusks and teeth of the mighty monsters of an age long past and gone were of the purest ivory, more white and hard than any they had ever seen before. "Why, sure," said Rory, "the cave of Aladdin was nothing to this!" "The next thing, gentlemen," said the captain, "is to transport our treasure to the good ship _Arrandoon_. Seth, old friend, your dogs will be wanted now in good earnest." "I reckon," replied Seth, "they're all ready, sir, and just mad enough to eat each other's collars, 'cause they don't get anything to do." What a change it was to have sunshine and a comparative degree of warmth again. Rough and toilsome enough was the road between the ship and the mammoth cave, but the snow was crisp and hard. The dogs were wild with delight, and so were our heroes, and so hard did everybody work all day that no one thought any more about the diving-bell and the denizens of the deep. After dinner they needed rest. Rory took his boat, or canoe, with him once or twice, and, all alone, he embarked on the volcanic lake and paddled round the geyser. In three weeks from the day they had found the entrance to the cave they had transported all the ivory to the _Arrandoon_. They were now what Silas would have called a "bumper ship." If they should succeed in regaining their own country, Rory would be able to live all his days in peace and comfort, independent of the whims of his Irish tenantry, and Allan--ah, yes, poor Allan!--began to dream of home now. Already, in imagination, he saw Glentruim a fair and smiling valley, every acre of it tilled, comfortable cottages sending their blue smoke heavenwards from the green birchen woods, a new and beautiful church, and the castle restored, himself once more resuming his rights of chief of his clan, and his dear mother and sister honoured and respected by all. "I'll roast an ox whole, boys!" he cried, one evening, jumping up from the sofa in the snuggery, where he had been lying thinking and dreaming of the future. "A whole ox; nothing less!" Rory and Ralph burst out laughing. "A vera judeecious arrangement!" cried Sandy. "But where will ye get the ox? I'm getting tired o' bear-beef, and wouldn't mind a slice out of a juicy stot's rump." "Oh, dear!" said Allan, smiling; "I forgot you hadn't been following the train of my thoughts. I was back again in Arrandoon." "Hurrah!" cried Rory. "Gather round the fire, boys; sit in, captain; sit in, Sandy; let us talk about home and what we all will do when we get there." Little, little did they know then the hardships that were in store for them. Summer had fairly set in, but as yet there were not the slightest signs of the ice breaking up. Several balloon flights were made, the aeronaut always making most careful calculations for days before starting, and generally succeeding in catching a favourable time. Then the principal adventure of the whole cruise was undertaken--a great sledging journey towards the Pole itself. The sledges, specially prepared for the purpose, were got out and carefully loaded with everything that would be found necessary. For a time the _Arrandoon_ was to be left with but a few hands, or "ship-keepers," as they are called, on her. The great snowstorm of the previous winter McBain judged, and rightly too, would be in favour of the expedition; it smoothed the roughness of the ice, and made sledging even pleasurable. De Vere had two sledges, devoted to carrying his balloon and the means wherewith to inflate it. Ted Wilson was left in charge of the ship, with little Ap, the cook, and carpenter's crew, to say nothing of little Freezing Powders and Cockie. "If you do find the North Pole," cried Ted Wilson, as a parting salutation to one of his companions, "do fair Johnick, Bill, fair Johnick--bring us a bit." I have to tell of no terrible hardships or sufferings experienced by our heroes during this memorable sledge journey. They accomplished on an average about twelve miles a day, or seventy miles a week, and they invariably rested on the Sabbath, merely taking exercise on that day to keep up the warmth of their bodies. They suffered but little from the cold, but it must be remembered that by this time they had become thoroughly inured to the rigours of the Arctic regions. It was easy to keep warm trudging along over the snow, and helping to drag the sledge by day. The dogs they found were a great acquisition. Under the wise and judicious management of Trapper Seth they were most tractable, and their strength seemed something marvellous. They were fat and sleek, and comfortable-looking, too, and had entirely lost the gaunt, hungry, wolfish appearance they presented when Captain Cobb first sent them on board. Well did they work for, and richly did they deserve, the four Spratts' biscuits given to each of them daily; that, followed by a mouthful of snow, was all they cared for and all they needed to make them the happiest of the happy. A short halt was made for luncheon every noon, and at six o'clock they stopped for the night, and dinner was cooked. This was Seth's duty, and, considering the limited means at his command, he succeeded wonderfully. The tent was erected over a large pit in the snow, the sledges being drawn up to protect it against the prevailing wind. But of this there was but little. After dinner they gathered around a great spirit-lamp stove, wrapped in skins and blankets, and generally talked themselves to sleep. But Seth always slept with the dogs. "I like to curl up," he explained, "with the animiles. They keeps me warm, they do; and, gentlemen, Seth's bones ain't quite so young as they used to be." For weeks our heroes journeyed on towards the Pole, but they came to the end of what McBain called the snowfields at last, and all farther progress by sledge was practically at an end. Before them stretched away to the utmost limits of the horizon The Sea of Ancient Ice, a chaos of boulders, over which it would take a week at least to drag the sledges even a distance of ten miles, Now came the balloon to the rescue, but who were to go in it? Its car would, big as it was, contain but four. The four were finally selected; they were McBain, the aeronaut himself, Allan, and Rory. Upwards mounted the great balloon, upwards but sailing southwards; yet well had De Vere counted his chances. Ballast was thrown out, and they rose into the air with inconceivable rapidity, and McBain soon perceived that the direction had now changed, and that the balloon was going rapidly northwards. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ To those left behind on the snowfields the time dragged on very slowly indeed, and when four-and-twenty hours had gone by, and still there was no sign of the return of the aeronauts, Ralph's anxiety knew no bounds. He seemed to spend most of his time on the top of a large iceberg, gazing northwards and skywards in hopes of catching a glimpse of the balloon. But all in vain, and so passed six-and-thirty hours, and so passed forty-eight and fifty. Something must have happened. Grief began to weigh like lead on poor Ralph's heart. A hundred times in an hour he reproached himself for not having gone in the balloon instead of Rory. He was strong, Rory was not, and if anything had happened to his more than brother, he felt he could never forget it and never forgive himself. Despair was slowly taking the place of grief; he was walking up and down rapidly on the snow, for he could not rest,--he had taken neither food nor sleep since the balloon departed,--when there was a shout from the man on the outlook. "Something black on the northern horizon, sir, but no signs of the balloon." "Hurrah?" cried Ralph. "Now, men, to the rescue. Let us go and meet them, and help them over this sea of boulders." In three hours more McBain and party were back in camp, safe and sound, terribly tired, but able to tell all their story. "We've planted the dear old flag as far north as we could get," said McBain, "and left it there." "Ay," said Rory, "and kissed and blessed it a hundred times over." "And but for the accident to the balloon, which we were obliged to abandon, we would have been back long ere now." "But we have not seen de open sea around de Pole," said De Vere. "No," said McBain; "there is no such sea; that is all a myth; only the sea of ancient ice, and land, with tall, cone-shaped mountains on it, evidently the remains of extinct volcanoes. Oh! it was a dreary, dreary scene. No signs of life, never a bird or bear, and a silence like the silence of death." "It was on one of those hills," added Rory, "we planted the flag--`the flag that braved a thousand years the battle and the breeze.' It was a glorious moment, dear Ralph, when we saw that bit of bunting unfurled. How Allan and myself wished you'd been with us. It was so funny, too, because, you see, there was no north, no east, and no west; everything was south of us. The whole world lay down beneath us, as it were, all to the south'ard, and we could walk round the world, so to speak, a dozen times in a minute." "Yes, it is curious," replied Ralph, musing in silence for a moment. Then he stretched out his hand and grasped Rory's. He did not speak. There was no need, Rory knew well what he meant. "Now, boys and men," cried the captain, "we have to return thanks to Him who has safely guided us through all perils into these distant regions, and pray that He may permit us to return in safety to our native land. Let us pray." A more heartfelt prayer than that of those hardy sailors probably never ascended on high. Afterwards a psalm was sung, to a beautiful old melody, and this closed the service; but next morning, ere they started to return to the _Arrandoon_, another spar was erected on the top of the biggest and highest iceberg. On this the English colours were _nailed_, and around it the crew assembled, and cheer after cheer rent the air, and, as Sandy McFlail afterwards observed, hats and bonnets were pitched on high, till they positively darkened the air, like a flock o' craws. Then "Give us a good bass and tenor, boys," cried Rory, and he burst into the grand old National Anthem,-- "God save our Gracious Queen, Long may Victoria reign, God save the Queen." CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. ANOTHER WINTER AT THE POLE--CHRISTMAS DAY--THE CURTAIN RISES ON THE LAST ACT--SICKNESS--DEATH--DESPAIR. The summer was far advanced before Captain McBain and his crew returned to where their vessel lay off the island of Alba. They had fully expected to see some signs of the ice breaking up, so as to allow them to get clear and bear up for home, but the chance of this taking place seemed as far off as ever. If the truth must be told, the captain had counted upon a break-up of the sea of ice shortly after midsummer at the very latest. But midsummer went past, the sun each midnight began to decline nearer and nearer to the northern horizon, and it already seemed sadly probable that another winter would have to be passed in these desolate regions. McBain could not help recalling the words of old Magnus, "Open seasons do not come oftener than once in ten years." If this indeed were true, then he, his boys and his crew, were doomed to sufferings more terrible than tongue could tell or pen relate-- sufferings from which there could be no escape save through the jaws of death. Provisions would hardly last throughout another winter, and until the ice broke up and they were again free, there could be no chance of getting those that had been stored on the northernmost isle of Spitzbergen. The sky remained clear and hard, and McBain soon began to think he would give all he possessed in life for the sight of one little cloud not bigger than a man's hand. But that cloud never came, and the sun commenced to set and the summer waned away. The captain kept his sorrow very much to himself; at all events he tried to talk cheerfully and hopefully when in the company of any of our young heroes; but they could mark a change, and well they knew the cause. The ice-hole was opened, but, strange to say, although they captured sharks and other great fish innumerable, neither seal nor walrus ever showed head above the water. Bears were pretty numerous on the ice, and now McBain gave orders to preserve not only the skins but even the flesh of those monsters. It was cut in pieces and buried in the ice and snow, well up the braeland near to the mouth of the cave, in which they had found shelter during all the dark months of the former winter. The fact that no seals appeared at the ice-hole proved beyond a doubt that the open water was very far indeed to the southward of them. How they had rejoiced to see the sun rise for the first time in the previous spring; how their hearts sank now to see him set! "Boys," said McBain one day, after he had remained silent for some time, as if in deep thought--"boys, I fear we won't get out of this place for many months to come. How do you like the prospect?" He smiled as he spoke; but they could see the smile was a simulated one. "Never mind," said Ralph and Allan; "we'll keep our hearts up, never fear; don't you be unhappy on our account." "I'll try not to be," said McBain, "and I'm sure I shall not be so on my own." "Besides, captain dear," added Rory, "it's sure to come right in the end." McBain laid his hand on boy Rory's head, and smiled somewhat sadly. "You're always hopeful, Rory," he said. "We must pray that your words may come true." And, indeed, besides waiting with a hopeful trust in that all-seeing Providence who had never yet deserted them in their direst need, there was little now to be done. As the days got shorter and shorter, and escape from another winter's imprisonment seemed impossible, the crew of the _Arrandoon_ was set to work overhauling stores. It was found that with strict economy the provisions would last until spring, but, with the addition of the flesh of sharks and bears, for a month or two longer. It was determined, therefore, that the men should not be put upon short allowance, for semi-starvation--McBain was doctor enough to know--only opened the door for disease to step in, in the shape perhaps of that scourge called scurvy, or even the black death itself. When the sun at last sank to rise no more for three long months, so far from letting down their hearts, or losing hope, the officers and crew of our gallant ship once more settled down to their "old winter ways," as Seth called them. They betook themselves to the cave in the hillside, which, for sake of giving the men exercise, McBain had made double the size, the mould taken therefrom and the rocks being used to erect a terrace near the entrance. This was surrounded by a balustrade or bulwark, with a flagstaff erected at one end, and on this was unfurled the Union Jack. Watches were kept, and meals cooked and served, with as much regularity as if they had been at sea, while the evenings were devoted to reading, music, and story-telling round the many great fires that were lighted to keep the cave warm. Where, it may be asked, did the fuel come from? Certainly not from the ship. The coals were most carefully stored, and retained for future service; but tons on tons of great pine-logs were dug from the hill-sides. And glorious fires they made, too. It was, as Rory said, raking up the ashes of a long-past age to find fuel for a new one. Once more the electric light was got under way, and twice a week at least the diving-bell was sunk. This was a source of amusement that never failed to give pleasure; but so intense was the frost at times that it was a matter of no small difficulty to break the ice on the water. The captain was untiring in his efforts to keep his men employed, and in as happy a frame of mind as circumstances would admit of. There was no snowstorm this winter, and very seldom any wind; the sky was nearly always clear, and the stars and Aurora brighter than ever they had seen them. Christmas--the second they had spent together since leaving the Clyde-- passed pleasantly enough, though there was no boisterous merriment. Songs and story-telling were in far greater request than dancing. Never, perhaps, was Rory in better spirits for solo-playing. He appeared to know intuitively the class of music the listeners would delight in, and his rendering of some of the old Scottish airs seemed simply to hold them spell-bound. As the wild, weird, plaintive notes of the violin, touched by the master fingers of the young poet, fell on their ears, they were no longer ice-bound in the dreary regions of the pole. It was no longer winter; it was no longer night. They were home once more in their native land; home in dear auld Scotland. The sun was shining brightly in the summer sky, the purple of the heather was on the moorland, the glens and valleys were green, and the music of merle and mavis, mingling with the soft croodle of the amorous cushat, resounded from the groves. No wonder that a few sighs were heard when Rory ceased to play; he had touched a chord in their inmost hearts, and for the time being had rendered them inexpressibly happy. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ It is well to let the curtain fall here for a short time; it rises again on the first scene of the last act of this Arctic drama of ours. Three months have elapsed since that Christmas evening in the cave when we beheld the crew of the _Arrandoon_ listening with happy, hopeful, upturned faces to the sweet music that Rory discoursed from his darling instrument. Only three months, but what a change has come over the prospects of sill on board that seemingly doomed ship! Often and often had our heroes been face to face with death in storms and tempests at sea, in fighting with wild beasts, and even with wild men, but never before had they met the grim king of terrors in the form he now assumed. For several weeks the men had been falling ill, and dying one by one, and already no less than nine graves had been dug and filled under the snow on the mountain's side. The disease, whatever it was, resisted all kinds of treatment, and, indeed, though the symptoms in every case were similar at the commencement, no two men died in precisely the same way. At first there was an intense longing for home; this would be succeeded in a few days by loss of all appetite, by distaste for food or exertion of any kind, and by fits of extreme melancholy and depression. The doctor did his best. Alas! there are diseases against which all the might of medical skill is unavailing. Brandy and other stimulants were tried; but these only kept the deadly ailment at bay for a very short time; it returned with double force, and poor sufferers were doubly prostrated in consequence. There was no bodily pain, except from a strange hollow cough that in all cases accompanied the complaint, but there was rapid emaciation, hot, burning brow, and hands and feet that scorched like fire, and while some fell into a kind of gentle slumber from which they awoke no more in this world, others died from sheer debility, the mind being clear to the last--nay, even brighter as they neared the bourne from which no traveller ever returns. As the time went on--the days were now getting long again, for spring had returned--matters got even worse. It was strange, too, that the very best and brightest of the crew were the first to be attacked and to die. I do not think there was a dry eye in the ship when the little procession wound its way round the hillside bearing in its unpretending coffin the mortal remains of poor Ted Wilson. All this long cruise he had been the life and soul of the whole crew. No wonder that the words of the beautiful old song _Tom Bowling_ rose to the mind of more than one of the crew of the _Arrandoon_ when Ted was laid to rest: "His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was warm and soft, Faithful below he did his duty, And now he's gone aloft." Just one week after the burial of Ted Wilson, De Vere, the French aeronaut, was attacked, and in three days' time he was dead. He had never been really well since the journey to the vicinity of the Pole, and the loss of his great balloon was one which he never seemed to be able to get over. He was quite an enthusiast in his profession, and, as he remarked to McBain one day, "I have mooch grief for de loss of my balloon. I had give myself over to de thoughts of mooch pleasant voyaging away up in de regions of de upper air. I s'all soar not again until I reach England." It was sad to hear him, as he lay half delirious on the bed of his last illness, muttering, muttering to himself and constantly talking about the home far away in sunny France that he would never see again. Either the doctor or one or other of our young heroes was constantly in the cabin with him. About an hour before his demise he sent for Ralph. "I vould not," he said, "send for Rory nor for Allan, dey vill both follow me soon. Oh I do not you look sad, Ralph, dere is nothing but joy vere ve are going. Nothing but joy, and sunshine, and happiness." He took a locket from his breast. It contained the portrait of a grey-haired mother. "Bury dis locket in my grave," he said. He took two rings from off his thin white fingers. "For my sister and my mother," he said. He never spoke again, but died with those dear names on his lips. Ralph showed himself a very hero in these sad times of trouble and death. He was here, there, and everywhere, by night and by day; assisting the surgeon and helping Seth to attend upon the wants of the sick and dying; and many a pillow he soothed, and many a word of comfort he gave to those who needed it. The true Saxon character was now beautifully exemplified in our English hero. He possessed that noble courage which never makes itself uselessly obtrusive, which fritters not itself away on trifles, and which seems at most times to lie dormant or latent, but is ever ready to show forth and burn most brightly in the hour of direst need. Sorrows seldom come singly, and one day Stevenson, in making his usual morning report, had the sad tidings to add that cask after cask of provisions had been opened and found bad, utterly useless for human food. McBain got up from his chair and accompanied the mate on deck. "I would not," he said, "express, in words what I feel, Mr Stevenson, before our boys; but this, indeed, is terrible tidings." "It can only hasten the end," said Stevenson. "You think, then, that that end is inevitable?" "Inevitable," said Stevenson, solemnly but emphatically. "We are doomed to perish here among this ice. There can be no rescue for us but through the grave." "We are in the hands of a merciful and an all-powerful Providence, Mr Stevenson," said McBain; "we must trust, and wait, and hope, and do our duty." "That we will, sir, at all events," said the mate; "but see, sir, what is that yonder?" He pointed, as he spoke, skywards, and there, just a little way above the highest mountain-tops, was a cloud. It kept increasing almost momentarily, and got darker and darker. Both watched it until the sun itself was overcast, then the mate ran below to look at the glass. It was "tumbling" down. For three days a gale and storm, accompanied with soft, half-wet snow, raged. Then terrible noises and reports were heard all over the pack of ice seaward, and the grinding and din that never fails to announce the break-up of the sea of ice. "Heaven has not forgotten us," cried McBain, hopefully; "this change will assuredly check the sickness, and perhaps in a week's time we will be sailing southwards through the blue, open sea, bound for our native shores." McBain was right; the hopes raised in the hearts of the men did check the progress of the sickness. When at last the wind fell, they were glad to see that the clouds still remained, and that there were no signs of the frost coming on again. The pieces of ice, too, were loose, and all hands were set to work to warp the ship southwards through the bergs. The work was hard, and the progress made scarcely a mile a day at first. But they were men working for their lives, with new-born hope in their hearts, so they heeded not the fatigue, and after a fortnight's toil they found the water so much more open that by going ahead at full speed in every clear space, a fair day's distance was got over. For a week more they strove and struggled onwards; the men, however, were getting weaker and weaker for want of sufficient food. How great was their joy, then, when one morning the island was sighted on which McBain had left the store of provisions! Boats were sent away as soon as they came within a mile of the place. Sad, indeed, was the news with which Stevenson, who was in charge, returned. The bears had made an attack on the buried stores. They had clawed the great cask open, and had devoured or destroyed everything. Hope itself now seemed for a time to fly from all on board. With a crew weak from want, and with fearful ice to work their way through, what chance was there that they would ever succeed in reaching the open water, or in proceeding on their homeward voyage even as far as the island of Jan Mayen, or until they should fall in with and obtain relief from some friendly ship? They were far to the northward of the sealing grounds, and just as far to the east. McBain, however, determined still to do his utmost, and, though on short allowance, to try to forge ahead. For one week more they toiled and struggled onwards, then came the frost again and all chance of proceeding was at an end. It was no wonder that sickness returned. No wonder that McBain himself, and Allan and Rory, began to feel dejected, listless, weary, and ill. Then came a day when the doctor and Ralph sat down alone to eat their meagre and hurried breakfast. "What prospects?" said Ralph. "Moribund!" was all the doctor said just then. Presently he added-- "There, in the corner, lies poor wee Freezing Powders, and, my dear Ralph, one hour will see it all over with him. The captain and Allan and Rory can hardly last much longer." "God help us, then," said Ralph, wringing his hands, and giving way to a momentary anguish. The unhappy negro boy was stretched, to all appearance lifeless, close by the side of his favourite's cage. Despite his own grief, Ralph could not help feeling for that poor bird. His distress was painful to witness. If his great round eyes could have run over with tears, I am sure they would have done so. I have said before that Cockie was not a pretty bird, but somehow his very ugliness made Ralph pity him now all the more. Nor was the grief of the bird any the less sad to see because it was exhibited in a kind of half ludicrous way. He was not a moment at rest, but he seemed really not to know what he was doing, and his anxious eye was hardly ever withdrawn from the face of the dying boy:--jumping up and down from his perch to his seed-tin and back again, grabbing great mouthfuls of hemp, which he never even broke or tried to swallow, and blowing great sighs over his thick blue tongue. And the occasional sentence, too, the bird every now and then began but never finished,-- "Here's a--" "Did you--" "Come--" All spoke of the anguish in poor Cockie's breast. A faint moaning was heard in the adjoining cabin, and Ralph hurried away from the table, and Sandy was left alone. CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. A SAILOR'S COTTAGE--THE TELEGRAM--"SOMETHING'S IN THE WIND"--THE GOOD YACHT "POLAR STAR"--HOPE FOR THE WANDERERS. A cottage on a cliff. A cliff whose black, beetling sides rose sheer up out of the water three hundred feet and over; a cliff around which sea-birds whirled in dizzy flight; a cliff in which the cormorant had her home; a cliff against which all the might of the German Ocean had dashed and chafed and foamed for ages. Some fifty yards back from the edge of this cliff the cottage was built, of hard blue granite, with sturdy bay windows--a cottage that seemed as independent of any storm that could blow as the cliff itself was. In front was a neat wee garden, with nicely gravelled walks and edging of box, and all round it a natty railing painted an emerald green. At the back of the cottage were more gravelled walks and more flower garden, with a summer-house and a smooth lawn, from the centre of which rose a tall ship's mast by way of flagstaff, with ratlines and rigging and stays and top complete. Not far off was a pigeon-house on a pole, and not far from that still another pole surmounted by a weather-vane, and two little wooden blue-jackets, that whenever the wind blew, went whirling round and round, clashing swords and engaging in a kind of fanatic duel, which seemed terribly real and terribly deadly for the time being. It was a morning in early spring, and up and down the walk behind the cottage stepped a sturdy, weather-beaten old sailor, with hair and beard of iron-grey, and a face as red as the newest brick that ever was fashioned. He stood for a moment gazing upwards at the strutting fantails. "Curr-a-coo--curr-a-coo," said the pigeons. "Curr-a-coo--curr-a-coo," replied the sailor. "I dare say you're very happy, and I'm sure you think the sun was made for you and you only. Ah! my bonnie birdies, you don't know what the world is doing. You don't--hullo?" "Yes, my dear, you may say hullo," said a cheerful little woman, with a bright, pleasant face, walking up to him, and placing an arm in his. "Didn't you hear me tapping on the pane for you?" "Not I, little wife, not I," said Silas Grig. "I've been thinking, lass, thinking--" "Well, then," interrupted his wife, "don't you think any more; you've made your hair all white with thinking. Just come in and have breakfast. That haddock smells delicious, and I've made some nice toast, and tried the new tea. Come, Silas, come." Away went the two together, he with his arm around her waist, looking as happy, the pair of them, as though their united ages didn't make a deal over a hundred. "Come next month," said Silas, as soon as he had finished his first cup of tea--"come next month, little wife, it will just be two years since I first met the _Arrandoon_. Heigho?" "You needn't sigh, Silas," his wife remarked. "They may return. Wonders never cease." "Return?" repeated Silas, with a broken-hearted kind of a laugh, "Nay, nay, nay, we'll meet them no more in this world. Poor Rory! He was my favourite. Dear boy, I think I see him yet, with his fair, laughing face, and that rogue of an eye of his." Rat-tat. Silas started. "The postman?" he said; "no, it can't be. That's right, little woman, run to the door and see. What! a telegram for me!" Silas took the missive, and turned it over and over in his hand half a dozen times at least. "Why, my dear, who _can_ it be from?" he asked with a puzzled look, "and what _can_ it be about? _Can_ you guess, little wife? Eh? can you?" "If I were you, Silas," said his wife, quietly, "I'd open it and see." "Dear me! to be sure," cried Silas. "I didn't think of that. Why, I declare," he continued, as soon as he had read it, "it is from Arrandoon Castle, and the poor widow, Allan's mother, wants to see me at once. I'm off, little woman, at once. Get out my best things. The blue pilots, you know. Quick, little woman--quick! Bear a hand! Hurrah!" Silas Grig didn't finish that second cup of tea. He was dressed in less than ten minutes, had kissed his wife, and was hurrying away to the station. Indeed, Silas had never in his life felt in such a hurry before. "It'll be like my luck," he muttered, "if I miss this train." But he did not miss it, and it was a fast one, too, a flying train, that every day went tearing along through Scotland, and was warranted to land him at Inverness six hours after he first stepped on board. No sooner was Silas seated than he pulled out the telegram again, and read it over and over at least a dozen times. Then he looked at the back of it, as if it were just possible that some further information might be found there. Then he read the address, and as he could not get anything more out of it he folded it up and replaced it in his pocket, merely remarking, "I'll vow something's in the wind." Silas had bought a newspaper. He had meant to read; he tried to read as hard as ever he had tried to do anything, but it was all in vain. His mind was in too great a ferment, so he threw down the paper and devoted himself to gazing out of the window at the glorious panorama that was passing before him; but if anybody else had been in the same compartment, he or she would have heard this ancient mariner frequently muttering to himself, and the burden of all his remarks was, "Something's in the wind, I'm sure of that!" A fast train? A flying train? Yes, a deal too much so, many would have thought, but she could not fly a bit too fast for Silas. Yet how she did rattle and rush and roar along the lines, to be sure! The din she made only deepening for a moment as she dived under a bridge or brushed past a wayside station, too insignificant by far to waste a thought upon! Now she passes a country village, with rows of trim-built cottages and tidy gardens, with lines for clothes to dry, and fences where children hang or perch and wave their caps at the flying train. Now she shaves past rows of platelayers, who stand at attention or extend their grimy arms like signal yards, while a blue-coated jack-in-a-box waves a white flag from his window to show that all is safe. Now she ploughs through some larger junction, over a whole field of rails that seems to run in every conceivable direction; but she makes her way in safety in a whirl of dust, and next she shrieks as she plunges into the darkness of a long, dreary tunnel. Ah! but she is out again into the glare of the day, and again the telegraph posts go popping past as fast as one could wink. Five miles now on a stretch of level country as straight as crow could fly, through fields and woods and past thriving farms, with far beyond on the horizon hills, hills, hills. 'Tis spring-time, spring changing into summer, summer coming six good weeks before its time. Look, Silas, look! crimson flowers are already peeping red through the greenery of cornfields, drowsy-looking cows are wading knee-deep in grass and buttercups, the braelands are snowed over with the gowan's bloom. Birds are singing in meadow and copse, the yellow furze is blossoming on heathy moorlands. Great black spruces raise their tall heads skywards, and their every branch is tipped with a tassel of tender green; rowan-trees seem studded with roses of a pearly hue, and the feathery larches are hung round with a fringe-work of darkest crimson. Is it not glorious, Silas? is it not all beautiful? Did ever you see a sky more blue before, or cloudlets more fleecy and light? "I'll stake my word," replies Silas, "that something's in the wind." Wilder scenery now, dark, frowning mountains, lonely glens, heathlands, highlands, canons, and tarns, then a long and fertile flat, every sod of which marks a Scottish warrior's grave. Inverness at last! "Boat gone, is it?" cried Silas. "Like my luck. But why didn't she wait for the train? Tell me that, eh?" "Yes, sir; dare say I could, sir." This from an ostler in answer to another query of friend Silas. "Five-and-twenty mile, sir. I've just the horse that'll suit. Three hours to a tick, sir, rough though the road is, sir. I'll be ready in twenty minutes. Thank'ee, sir, much obliged. Now then, Donald, bustle about, will you? Get out the bay mare. Look sharp, gentleman's only got five minutes to feed." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "It can't be Captain Grig already," said Mrs McGregor. "And yet who else can it be?" said Helen Edith. "I'll run out and see," said Ralph's father, who had been spending some weeks at the castle. "Ha! welcome, honest Silas Grig," he cried, rushing up and literally receiving Silas with open arms as he jumped from the high-wheeled dogcart. "A thousand welcomes. Well, I do declare you haven't let the grass grow under your feet. How your horse steams! Take him round, driver, and see to his comfort, then go to the kitchen and see to your own. Old Janet is there. Now, Silas," continued Mr Leigh, "before you go to talk to the ladies, I'll tell you what we have arranged. We have thought well over all you said when you were here in the autumn, and I've chartered a German Arctic cruiser, and we're going to put you in command. She is lying at Peterhead, everything ready, crew and all, stores and all. Our prayers will follow you, dear Captain Grig, and if you find our poor boys, or even bring us tidings of their fate, we will be ever grateful. Nay, nay, but `grateful' poorly expresses my meaning. We will--" "Not another word," cried Silas, "not one single word more, sir, or as sure as my name is Silas Grig I'll clap my fingers in my ears." He shook Mr Leigh's hand as he spoke. "I'll find the boys if they be alive," he said. "I knew, sir, when I got the telegram there was something in the wind. I told my little wife I was quite sure of it. Ha! ha! ha!" Silas was laughing, but it was only to hide the tears with which his eyes were swimming. "When can you start, my dear Silas?" "To-night. At once. Give me a fresh horse and five minutes for a mouthful of refreshment, and off I start; and I'll take command to-morrow before the sun is over the foreyard." "To-night?" cried Mr Leigh, smiling. "No, no, no." "But I say `yo, yo, yo,'" said Silas, "and `yo heave, O,' and what Silas says he means. There! Ah, ladies, how are you? Nay, never cry, Miss McGregor. I'm going straight away to the Arctic Sea, and I'm sure to bring your brother back, and Rory as well, to say nothing of honest Ralph and Peter the piper. So cheer ye up, my little lass, If Silas Grig doesn't come back in company with the bonnie _Arrandoon_, may he never chew cheese again!" There was no getting over the impetuosity of this honest old sailor, but there was withal a freshness and happiness about him, which made every one he talked with feel as hopeful as he was himself. Before dinner was done both Mrs McGregor and her lovely daughter were smiling and laughing as they had not smiled or laughed for months before, and when Silas asked for a song, the latter went quite joyfully to the harp. You see it appeared quite a foregone conclusion with everybody that night, that Silas would find the lost explorers and bring them safely home. The moon rose in all its majesty as nine tolled forth from the clock-tower of the ancient castle. Then Silas said "good-bye," and, followed by many a blessing and many a prayer, the dogcart wound away up through the solemn pine forest, and was soon lost to view. He was just as good as his word. He took command of his new ship--a splendid sea-going yacht--before noon next day. Almost immediately afterwards he summoned both officers and men and mustered them all aft, and somewhat startled them by the following curt speech: "Gentlemen and men of the _Polar Star_, we'll sail to-morrow morning. We touch nowhere until we enter harbour here again. Any one that isn't ready to go can step on shore and stop there. All ready, eh? Bravo, men! You'll find your skipper isn't a bad fellow to deal with, but he means to crack on! No ship that ever sailed 'twixt Pekin and London, no clipper that ever left Aberdeen, or yacht from New York city, ever did such cracking on as I mean to do. Go to your duty. Pipe down." Then Silas Grig inspected the ship. He was pleased with her get-up and her rig-out, only he ordered extra spars and extra sails, and these were all on board ere sundown. "The old man means business," said the first mate to the second. "That he does!" replied the inferior officer. The _Polar Star_ sailed away from Peterhead on the very day that poor Ted Wilson was laid in his grave beneath the eternal snows of Alba. Could Silas have seen the desperate position of the _Arrandoon_ just then, how little hopes he would have entertained of ever reaching her in time to save the precious lives on board! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The doctor was left alone in the saloon of the great ship. The silence that reigned both fore and aft was oppressive even to dismalness. For a moment or two Sandy buried his face in his hands, and tears welled through his fingers. "Oh," he whispered, "it is terrible! The silence of death is all about us! Our men dying forward, our captain doomed, and Allan and Rory. Ay, and poor Ralph will be next; I can see that in his face. Not one of us can ever reach his native land again! I envy-- yes, I envy the dead in their quiet graves, and even wish it were all past--all, all over?" "Doctor!" a kindly hand was laid on his shoulder. Sandy started to his feet, he cared not who saw his face, wet though it was with tears. "Doctor, don't you take on so," said Stevenson. "Speak, man I speak quick! There is hope in your face!" cried the doctor. "There is hope in my heart, too," said the mate--"only a glint, only a gleam; but it is there. The frost is gone; the ice is open again." "Then quick," cried the surgeon, "get up steam! that alone can save the dying. Energy, energy, and something to do. _I_ can do nothing more to save my patients while this hopeless silence lies pall-like around us. Break it, dear mate, with the roar of steam and the rattle of the engine's screw!" "Listen," said the mate. "There goes the steam. Our chief has not been long." Round went the screw once more, and away moved the ship. Poor McBain came staggering from his cabin. Ghastly pale he looked. He had the appearance of one risen from the grave. He clutched Sandy by the shoulder. "We are--under--way?" he gasped. "Yes, yes," said the surgeon. "Homeward bound, captain." "Homeward bound," muttered the captain, pressing his hand on his brow, as if to recall his memory, which for a time had been unseated from her throne. For a minute or two the surgeon feared for his captain's life or reason. "Drink this, dear sir," he said; "be seated, too, you are not over well, and there is much to be done." "Much to be done?" cried McBain, as soon as he had quaffed the medicine. "I'm better. Thank you, good doctor; thank you, Sandy. There is much to be done. Those words have saved your captain's life." Sandy gave a big sigh of relief and hastened away to Rory's cabin. Rory had been lying like a dead thing for hours, but now a new light seemed to come into his eye. He extended his hand to Sandy and smiled. "We are positively under steam again, Sandy?" he said. Sandy, like a wise surgeon, did not tell him the frost was quite gone. Joy kills, and Sandy knew it. "Yes," he said, carelessly, "we'll get down south a few miles farther, I dare say. It is nice, though, isn't it, to hear the old screw rattling round again?" "Why, it is music, it is life?" said Rory. "Sandy, I'm going to be well again soon. I know and feel I am." Then Ralph burst into the cabin. "I say, Sandy," he said, "run and see dear old Allan; he says he is going to get up, and I know he is far, far too weak." Sandy had to pass through the saloon. Freezing Powders was sitting bolt upright in the corner, and Cockie was apparently mad with joy. The bird couldn't speak fast enough, and he seemed bent on choking himself with hemp. "Peter, Peter, Peter, Peter," he was saying, "here's a pretty, pretty, pretty to-do. Call the steward, call the steward. Come on, come on, come on." "Oh, Cockie," Freezing Powders said, "I'se drefful, drefful cold, Cockie. 'Spects I'se gwine to die, Cockie. 'Spects I is--Oh! de-ah, what my ole mudder say den?" "Come, come," cried Sandy, "take this, you young sprout, and don't let me catch you talking about dying. There now, pull yourself together." "I'll try," said the poor boy, "but I 'spects I'se as pale as deaf (death)." CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE. THE RESCUE--HOMEWARD BOUND--ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. I never have been able to learn with a sufficient degree of exactitude whether it was the _Polar Star_ that first sighted the _Arrandoon_, or whether the _Arrandoon_ was the first to catch a glimpse of the _Polar Star_. And with such conflicting evidence before me, I do not see very well how I could. What evidence have I before me, do you ask? Why the logs of the two ships, written by their two captains respectively. I give below a portion of two extracts, both relating to the joyful event. Extract first from the log of the good yacht _Polar Star_:--"June 21st, 18--. At seven bells in the forenoon watch--ice heavy and wind about a south-south-west--caught sight of the _Arrandoon's_ topmasts bearing about a north and by east. Praise God for all His goodness." Extract second, from the log of the _Arrandoon_:--"June 21st, 18--. Seven bells in the forenoon watch--a hail from the crow's-nest, `A schooner among the ice to the south'ard and west of us, can just raise her topmasts, think she is bearing this way.' Heaven be praised, we are saved." Yes, dear reader, the _Arrandoon_ was saved. The news that a vessel was in sight spread through the ship like wildfire; those that were hale and well rushed on deck, the sick tottered up, and all was bustle and excitement, and the cheer that arose from stem to stern reminded McBain of the good old times, a year ago, when every man Jack of his crew was alive and well. It had been a very narrow escape for them, for, although not far from the open water where the _Polar Star_ lay with foreyard aback, they were unable to reach it, being once more frozen in, and had not good Silas appeared at the time he did, probably in a few weeks at most there would not have been a single human being living on board the lordly _Arrandoon_. No sooner had Silas satisfied himself with his own eyes that it was the _Arrandoon_ that lay ice-bound to the nor'ard of him, than he called away the boats and gave orders to load them with the best of everything, and to follow his whaler. His whaler took the ice just as eight bells were struck on the _Polar Star_, and next moment, guided by the fan in the crow's-nest of the yacht, he was hastening over the rough ice towards the _Arrandoon_. McBain and his boys, and the doctor as well, were all on deck, when who should heave round the corner of an iceberg but Captain Silas Grig himself, looking as rosy and ten times more happy than they had last seen him. He was still about fifty yards away, and for a moment or two he stood undecided; it seemed, indeed, that he wished not to walk but to jump or fly the remaining fifty intervening yards. Then he took off his cap, and--Scotch fashion--tossed it as high into the air as he possibly could. "_Arrandoon_, ahoy!" he shouted. "_Arrandoon_, ahoy! Hurrah!" There was not a soul on board that did not run aft to meet Silas as he sprang up the side. Even Freezing Powders, with Cockie on his shoulder, came wondering up, and Peter must needs get out his bagpipes and strike into _The Campbells are coming_. And when Silas found himself once more among his boys, and shaking hands with them all round; when he noticed the pale faces of Allan and Rory, and the pinched visage of the once strong and powerful McBain, and read in their weak and tottering gait the tale of all their sufferings, then it must be confessed that the bluff old mariner had to turn hastily about and address himself to others in order to hide a tear. "Indeed, gentlemen all," said Silas, many, many months after this, "when I saw you all looking so peaky and pale, as I first jumped down on to your quarter-deck, I never felt so near making an old ass o' myself in all my born days!" For three weeks longer the _Arrandoon_ lay among the ice before she got fairly clear, and, consorted by the _Polar Star_, bore up for home. Three weeks--but they were not badly spent--three weeks, and all that time was needed to restore our invalids to robust health. And that only shows how near to death's door they must have been, because to make them well they had the best medicine this world can supply, and Silas Grig was the physician. "Silas Grig! Silas Grig!" cried Rory, one morning at breakfast, about a fortnight after the reunion, "sure you're the best doctor that ever stepped in shoe-leather! No wonder we are all getting fat and rosy again! First you gave us a dose of hope--we got that before you jumped on board; then you gave us joy--a shake of your own honest hand, the sound of your own honest voice, and letters from home. What care I that my tenantry--`the foinest pisintry in the world'--haven't paid up? I've had letters from Arrandoon. What, Ray boy! more salmon and another egg? Just look at the effects of your physic, Dr Silas Grig!" Silas laughed. "But," he said, "there is one thing you haven't mentioned." "Tell us," said Rory: "troth, it's a treat to hear ye talking?" "The drop o' green ginger," said Silas. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Nor were these three weeks spent in idleness, for during that time the whole ship, from stem to stern, was redecorated; and when at last she was once more clear of the ice, once more out in the blue, she looked as bran new and as span new as on the day when she steamed down the wide, romantic Clyde. I do not know any greater pleasure in life than that of being homeward bound after a long, long cruise at sea,-- "Good news from home, good news for me, Has come across the deep blue sea." So runs the song. Good news from home is certainly one of the rover's joys, but how much more joyous it is to be "rolling home, rolling home" to get that good news, eye to eye and lip to lip! Once fairly under way, the weather seemed to get warmer every day. They reached Jan Mayen in a week; they found the rude village deserted, and Captain Cobb they would never be likely to meet again. So they left the island, and on the wings of a favouring breeze bore away for Iceland. Here Sandy McFlail, Doctor of Medicine of the University of Aberdeen, and surgeon of the good ship _Arrandoon_, begged to be left. Ah! poor Sandy was sadly in love with that blue-eyed, fair-haired Danish maiden. He fairly confessed to Rory, who had previously promised not to laugh at him, "that he had never seen a Scotch lassie to equal her, and that if she weren't a `doctor's leddy' before six months were over it would not be his, Sandy McFlail's, fault." "You are quite right, Sandy," said Rory in reply--"quite right; and do you know what it will be, Sandy?" "What?" asked Sandy. "A vera judeecious arrangement," cried Rory, running off before Sandy had a chance of catching him by the ear and making him "whustle." But right fervent were the wishes for the doctor's welfare when he bade his friends adieu. And,-- "You'll be sure to send us a piece o' the bride-cake," said Ralph. "I'm no vera sure," said Sandy, "if it will ever come the length o' bride-cake. But," he added, bravely, "a body can only just try." "Bravo!" cried Allan; "whatever a true man honestly dares he can do." "And it's sure to come right in the end," said Rory. So away went Sandy's boat, and away went the _Arrandoon_, firing the farewell guns, and as gaily bedecked in flags as if it had been Sandy's wedding morning. The _Arrandoon_ sailed nearly all the way home, for a favouring breeze was blowing, and with stunsails set, low and aloft, she looked like some gigantic sea-bird; and bravely, too, the little _Polar Star_ kept her in sight. As for Silas, he did not live on board his own ship at all, but on board the _Arrandoon_. There was so much to be said and to say that they could not spare him. The inhabitants of Glentruim turned out _en masse_ to welcome the wanderers home. It was a day long to be remembered in that part of the Highlands of Scotland. The young chief, Allan McGregor, was not allowed to walk across one inch of his own grounds towards his castle of Arrandoon--no, nor to ride nor to drive; he must even be carried shoulder high, while slogans rent the air, and blue bonnets darkened it, and claymores were drawn and waved aloft, and the dogs all went daft, and danced about, barking at everybody, plainly showing that they had taken leave of their senses for one day, and weren't a bit ashamed of having done so. Behind the procession marched Freezing Powders, with Cockie on his shoulder. The poor bird did not know what to make of all this Highland din, all this wild rejoicing. But he evidently enjoyed it. "Keep it up, keep it up, keep it up?" he cried; "here's a pretty, pretty, pretty to-do! Go on, go on! Come on, come on--ha! ha! ha! ha! Lal de dal de dal lei al!" And off went Cockie into the maddest dance that ever legs of bird performed. And Freezing Powders got frightened at last, and tried to lecture the bird into a quieter state of mind. "I 'ssure you, Cockie," said Freezing Powders, "you is overdoin' it. Try to 'llay your feelin's, Cockie--try to 'llay your feelin's. As sure as nuffin' at all, Cockie, you'll have a drefful headache in de mornin'." But Cockie only bowed and becked and danced and laughed the more, till at last Freezing Powders, looking upon the case as one of desperation, extracted from his pocket a red cotton handkerchief--the same he carried Cockie in when Captain McBain first met him on the Broomielaw--and in this he rolled Cockie as in the days of yore; but even then all the way to the castle Cockie was constantly finding corners to pop his head through, and let every one within hearing know that, though captured, he was as far from being subdued as ever. Poor old Janet was beside herself with joy. She had been preparing pastry and getting ready puddings for days and days. She was fain to wipe her eyes with very joy when she shook hands once more with Ralph and Allan, and her old favourite, Rory. She was a little subdued when she looked at old Seth; she was just a trifle afraid of him, I believe. But she soon became herself again, and finished off by catching up Freezing Powders, Cockie and all, and bearing them off in triumph to the cosiest corner of the kitchen. That same night fires were lit on every hill around Glentruim, and the reflection of them was seen southwards over all the wilds of Badenoch, and northward to the borders of Ross. A few weeks after the return home Rory paid his promised visit to Silas at his little cottage by the sea, his cottage on the cliff-tops. Silas's flag fluttered right gaily in the wind that day, the summer flowers were all in bloom in the garden, and the green paling looked brighter, probably, than ever it had done, for the sun shone as it seldom shines--shone as if it had been paid to shine for the occasion, and the clouds lay low on the horizon, as if they had been paid to keep out of the way for once. The flag fluttered gaily, and the two little blue-jackets on the top of the pole ever and anon made such terrible onslaughts upon each other, that the only wonder was there was a bit of them left, that they did not demolish each other entirely, like the traditional cats of Kilkenny. Silas had gone to the station to meet Rory. Silas was dressed, as he thought, like a landsman. Silas really thought that nobody could tell he was a sailor, because he wore a blue frock-coat and a tall beaver hat. And Silas's little wife was all bustle and nervousness; but Rory had not been in the house half an hour ere all this was gone, and she was quietly happy, with a kind of feeling at her heart that she had known Rory all his life, and had even nursed him when he was quite a little mite. Day and dinner and all passed off right cheerily, and of course with dessert Silas nodded to his little wife, and his little wife opened a bottle of fresh green ginger, and produced the bun--the wonderful bun, which was a pudding one day and a cake the next. Silas kept smirking and nodding so long at Rory over his first drop of green ginger, that Rory knew he was going to say something, and so, by way of encouragement,-- "Out with it, Silas," says Rory. "Only this," says Silas: "Success to the wooing." Well, who else in all the wide world could Rory have taken advice from except from Silas, in one little matter that deeply concerned his future welfare? "Go in and win," had been Silas's advice. "Go in and win, like the man you are. Faint heart never gained fair lady." It is pleasant for me to be able to state that Rory took his old friend's advice to the letter. Now we know that the course of true love never did run smooth, and the course of Rory's wooing proved no exception to the proverb, but everything came right in the end, as Rory himself was fond of observing, and all is well that ends well. Just one year after this visit to Silas, Rory led Helen Edith McGregor to the altar. What a beautiful bride she made--more modest and bonnie than the rose just newly blown, or gowans tipped with dew! Rory and Allan were not greater friends after the wedding than they had been before--that were impossible; but they were now brothers, and Allan made a vow that Rory should make his home in Glentruim. There is a mansion there now as well as a castle, and in it dwell Rory and his wife. Years have passed since the days of which I have been writing; they have not made very much change in our Irish hero. He is still the painter, still the poet, only there is not one only, but two little listeners now, that gaze up round-eyed and wonderingly at their father, whenever he takes up his magical instrument, the violin! Old Ap teaches these little ones to cut boats out of scraps of wood, and to rig small yachts in the summer evenings. The glen and castle both are wonderfully improved. There is some good after all in ambition, if it is an honest one, and some truth, too, in the motto of the Camerons, "Whatever a man dares he can do." Every year Ralph, brave English Ralph, comes to the castle on _the_ twelfth, and always spends a month; and every year Allan and Rory go southwards to Leigh Hall to return the visit. And they never go without taking Silas and McBain with them, so you may be sure these are very happy, very pleasant seasons. What about Seth? Oh, merely this, Ralph offered to take him back to his own country, and to re-instal him as an Arctic Crusoe in his far northern home. "Gentlemen," said Seth, "I'm right sensible of all your kindness, but I guess I'm getting old, and if my young friend here wouldn't mind, I'd prefer leaving my bones in the glen here. Civilisation has kind o' spoiled the old trapper, and he'd feel sort o' lonely now in his old farm. There ain't many b'ars in the glen, I reckon; but never mind, old Seth can still draw a bead on a rabbit." "And so you shall," said Allan. "I'll make you my warren-master, and head of all my keepers." So Seth has settled down to end his days in peace. He dwells in one of the prettiest little Highland cottages that ever you saw. It gets snowed over in winter sometimes, it is true, and that might be looked upon as a drawback; but oh, to see it in summer, when the feathery birches nod green around it and the heather is all in bloom! Peter played a little trick on poor old Seth, which I cannot help recording. "It will never do, you know," Peter told him, "for a Highland keeper on the estate of Glentruim not to wear the kilt." "Guess you're a kind o' right," said Seth, "but, bless you, Peter, my legs ain't o' no consequence, they ain't a bit thicker than old Bran the deerhound's, and I reckon they're just about the same shape." "Well," replied Peter, "I grant you that is a kind of an objection, but then custom is everything, you know." So, lo and behold! one fine summer morning, who should stalk into the castle yard but old trapper Seth arrayed in full Highland costume. No wonder the dogs barked and ran away! no wonder Allan and Rory laughed till their sides ached and they could hardly hold their guns! no wonder old Janet shouted and screamed with merriment, and Cockie whistled shrill, and Freezing Powders nearly went into a fit! No, Seth's legs were but little thicker than Bran's. Seth arrayed in skins from head to heel was passable, but Seth in a kilt!!! Poor Seth! it was somewhat unkind of Peter. However, the trapper never wore a kilt again. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The End. 
40177	----	[Illustration: "Would it hurt me to walk? I can't bear to be so much trouble"--_Page 258_] THE CARTER GIRLS By NELL SPEED AUTHOR OF "The Molly Brown Series," "The Tucker Twins Series," etc. [Illustration] A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers New York Printed in U. S. A. Copyright, 1917, BY HURST & COMPANY MADE IN U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. THE CARTERS 5 II. POWER OF ATTORNEY 22 III. SILK STOCKINGS AND LAMB CHOPS 35 IV. GONE! 53 V. LEWIS SOMERVILLE 65 VI. THE RECONSTRUCTION 85 VII. A COINCIDENCE 106 VIII. GWEN 116 IX. SOME LETTERS 137 X. OFF FOR THE MOUNTAINS 153 XI. THE CAMP 164 XII. HANTS 189 XIII. THE AVENGING ANGEL 199 XIV. THE WEEK-ENDERS 209 XV. LETTERS FROM WEEK-END CAMP 224 XVI. THE HIKE 232 XVII. FIRST AID 244 XVIII. THE DIAGNOSIS 261 XIX. THE QUEST 271 XX. THE WALLET 282 XXI. WHERE IS BOBBY? 297 THE CARTER GIRLS. CHAPTER I. THE CARTERS. "I don't believe a word of it!" "But, Helen, the doctor ought to know." "Of course he ought to know, but does he know? If doctors agreed among themselves, I'd have more use for them. A poor patient has to submit to having everything the doctors are interested in for the time being. A specialist can always find you suffering with his specialty. Didn't old Dr. Davis treat Father for malaria because he himself, forsooth, happened to be born in the Dismal Swamp, got malaria into his system when he was a baby and never got it out? All his patients must have malaria, too, because Dr. Davis has it." "Yes, Helen, that is so, but you see Father's symptoms _were_ like malaria in a way," and Douglas Carter could not help laughing at her sister, although she well knew that the last doctor's diagnosis of her father's case was no laughing matter. "Oh, yes, and then the next one, that bushy-whiskered one with his stomach pump and learned talk of an excess of hydrochlorics! Of course he found poor dear Daddy had a stomach, though he had never before been aware of it. All the Carters are such ostriches----" "So we are if we blindly bury our heads in the sand and refuse to see that this last doctor is right, and----" "I meant ostrich stomachs and not brains." "Shhh! Here come the children! Let's don't talk about it before them yet. They'll have to know soon enough." And Douglas, the eldest of the five Carters, tried to smooth her troubled brow and look as though she and Helen had been discussing the weather. "Know what? I'm going, too, if it's a movie," declared Lucy, a long-legged, thirteen-year-old girl who reminded one of nothing so much as a thorough-bred colt--a colt conscious of its legs but meaning to make use of those same legs to out-distance all competitors in the race to be run later on. "I don't believe it's movies," said Nan, the fifteen-year-old sister, noting the serious expression of Douglas's usually calm countenance. "I believe something has happened. Is it Bobby?" That was the very small brother, the joy and torment of the whole family. The Carters formed stair steps with a decided jump off at the bottom. Douglas was eighteen; Helen, seventeen; Nan, fifteen; Lucy, thirteen; and then came a gap of seven years and Bobby, who had crowded the experiences of a lifetime into his six short years, at least the life-long experiences of any ordinary mortal. He was always having hair-breadth escapes so nearly serious that his family lived in momentary terror of each being the last. "No, it's not Bobby," said Douglas gravely. "It's Father!" "But nothing serious! Not Daddy!" exclaimed the two younger girls and both of them looked ready for tears. "Can't the new doctor cure him?" "Yes, he thinks he can, but it is going to be up to us to help," and Douglas drew Lucy and Nan down on the sofa beside her while Helen stopped polishing her pretty pink nails and planted herself on an ottoman at her feet. "All of you must have noticed how thin Father is getting and how depressed he is----" "Yes, yes! Not a bit like himself!" "Well, it wasn't malaria, as Dr. Davis thought; and it wasn't stomach trouble, as Dr. Drew thought; and the surgeon's X-ray could not show chronic appendicitis, as Dr. Slaughter feared,----" "Feared, indeed!" sniffed Helen. "Hoped, you mean!" "But this new nerve specialist that comes here from Washington, so highly recommended----" "If he was doing so well in Washington, why did he come to Richmond?" interrupted the scornful Helen, doubtful as usual of the whole medical fraternity. "I don't know why, honey, but if he can help Father, we should be glad he did come." "If, indeed! Another barrel of tonics and bushel of powders, I suppose!" "Not at all! This new man, Dr. Wright, says 'no medicine at all.' Now this is where we come in." "Mind, Helen, Douglas says 'come in,' not 'butt in,'" said Lucy pertly. "You interrupt so much that Nan and I don't know yet what's the matter with Daddy and how we are to help him." "Well, who's interrupting now? I haven't said a word for half an hour at least," said Helen brazenly. "Oh, oh, what'll I do?" which was Carter talk for saying, "You are fibbing." "You're another!" "Girls, girls, this is not helping. It's just being naughty," from the eldest. "Go on, Douglas, don't mind them. Helen and Lucy would squabble over their crowns and harps in Heaven," said the peace-loving Nan. And the joke of squabbling in Heaven restored order, and Douglas was able to go on with what she had to tell. "Dr. Wright says it is a case of nervous prostration and that a complete change is what Father needs and absolute rest from business. He thinks a sea trip of two months, and a year in the country are absolutely essential." "And will that make him all the way well?" asked Helen. "If it does, I'll take off my yachting cap to this Dr. Wright as having some sense, after all. I mean to have a lovely new yachting suit for the trip." Helen was by all odds the most stylish member of the family, and, some thought, the beauty; but others preferred the more serene charm of Douglas, who was a decided blonde with Titian hair and complexion to match. Helen's hair was what she scornfully termed a plain American brown, neither one thing nor the other, but it was abundant and fine and you may be sure it was always coiffed in the latest twist. Nan had soft dark curls and dreamy dark eyes and spoke with a drawl. She did not say much, but when she did speak it was usually to say something worth listening to. Lucy was as yet too coltish to classify, but she had a way of carrying her bobbed head with its shock of chestnut hair and tilting her pretty little pointed chin which gave her sisters to understand that she intended to have her innings later on, but not so very much later on. "A new yachting suit! Just listen to Helen! Always got to be dressing up!" declared Lucy, ever ready for battle with the second sister. "I should think you would blush," and, indeed, Helen's face was crimson. "Oh, I did not mean to forget Father, but if I have to have a new suit, I just thought I would have it appropriate for the sea trip." "I'm going to learn how to climb like a sailor," from Lucy. "I'm going to take a chest full of poetry to read on the voyage," from Nan. "But, girls, girls! We are not to go,--just Father and Mother! The way we are to help is to stay at home and take care of ourselves and Bobby. How do you think Father could get any rest with all of us tagging on?" "Not go! Douglas Carter, you are off your bean! How could we get along without Mother and Father and how under Heaven could they get along without us? What does Mother say?" asked Helen. "She hasn't said anything yet. The doctor is still with Father. Dr. Wright says Father must have quiet and no discussions going on around him. He says every one must be cheerful and arrangements must be made for the trip without saying a word to Father." "Is Mother to make them?" drawled Nan, and everybody laughed. It was an excruciating joke to expect Mrs. Carter to make a move or take the initiative in anything. Her rôle was ever to follow the course of least resistance, and up to this time that course had led her only by pleasant places. Like some pretty little meadow stream she had meandered through life, gay and refreshing, if shallow withal, making glad the hearts of many just by her pleasant sweetness; but no one had expected any usefulness from her, so she had given none. Twenty years ago, fresh from the laurels of a brilliant winter, her debutante year in New Orleans, the beautiful Miss Sevier had taken the White Sulphur by storm. Only one figure at one German had been enough to show Robert Carter that she was the only girl for him; and as he was the type that usually got what he started out to get, and also was by all odds the best looking young man at the White, besides being a very promising architect who had plenty of work waiting for him in Richmond, Annette Sevier naturally succumbed to his wooing, and in three weeks' time their engagement was announced. She was an exquisite girl, a Creole beauty of a daintiness and charm that appealed to every fibre of Bob Carter's being. She had been a beautiful girl and was still a beautiful woman; under forty, she looked more like the elder sister of her great girls than like their mother. "I confess to Bobby," she would say, "and maybe to Lucy, although her long legs make me a little doubtful of her being really mine--but you other girls, you must be changelings." Robert Carter had worked hard to keep his dainty love in all the comforts that she needed. I will not say expected or demanded,--she did neither of those disagreeable or ungraceful things. Comfort and elegance were just necessary to her environment and one could no more accuse her of selfishness than tax a queen for receiving homage. If a dainty, elegant wife with no idea that money was more than something to spend takes hard work to keep, surely four growing girls with the extravagant ideas of the young persons of the day meant redoubled and tripled labour. Then there was Bobby! It took still more money to furnish him with all the little white linen sailor suits that his doting mother considered necessary for him. She thought nothing of having two dozen made up at one time, and those of the purest and finest linen. Bob, Sr., looking over the bill for those same two dozen suits, did have a whimsical thought that with all that equipment it would be gratifying if just once he could see Bob, Jr., clean; but the only way to see Bobby clean was to lie in wait for him on the way from the bath; then and then only was he clean. As a rule, however, Robert Carter accepted the bills as part of the day's work. If they were larger than usual, then he would just work a little harder and get more money. An inborn horror of debt kept him out of it. He had all the orders he could fill and was singularly successful in competitive designs. His health had always been perfect and his energy so great that action was his normal state. And now what was this thing that had come upon him? A strange lassitude that made it almost impossible for him to get up in the morning, a heaviness of limbs and an irascibility that was as foreign to him as weakness. It had been going on for several weeks and he had run the gamut of doctors, impatient of their failures. They agreed on only one thing and that was that he must rest. How could he rest? Weren't there five pairs of legs demanding silk stockings (even Lucy insisted that her lean shanks be clothed in the best)? Suits and hats must be bought with each change of season for the whole family, shirtwaists and shoes, lingerie of the finest. It took four servants besides the chauffeur to run their establishment. Their butcher's bills were only equalled by the dairy bills, their grocery bills by their gasoline. "Rest, indeed! They might as well tell Uncle Sam to rest," said the sick man to himself. "Who is going to pay for the silk stockings if I rest?" The doctor had come, the last one on his list of doctors, a young man from Washington, a nerve specialist. He had asked him quite seriously if he had had any hallucinations, seen things he could not quite account for, and Carter had answered somewhat grimly: "Silk stockings and French chops!" And the doctor, being a very knowing young man, had understood. "You see, Mr. Carter, any one in your run-down nervous condition is apt to brood over fancied troubles until it is not uncommon for him to be in a measure delirious. Now I am going to be quite frank with you, which is a course not usually pursued by nerve specialists but one I feel to be wisest. You have presumed on your strength and endurance for many years. Physically you have stood the test, but your nerves, which are in a way the mind or soul of the muscles and organs, have at last rebelled, and now you are going to have to submit to inactivity for at least a year----" "A year! My God, man, you are crazy!" "Yes, a year. Would not that be better than going to pieces completely and living on, a useless hulk? There, I thought that would make you sit up. Why should you not rest? What is eating you?" Dr. Wright had a very brusque manner which was, indeed, in keeping with his appearance. He was a stalwart, broad-shouldered man, considerably under thirty. His face, rough-hewn but not heavy, was redeemed from plainness by the bluest blue eyes that were ever seen, with exceedingly long black lashes. His teeth were good but his rather long upper lip did not disclose the fact except on the rare occasions when he laughed. He had more control over his mouth than his eyes, as his eyes laughed continually whether he would or no. His brows were heavy and shaggy and he had a trick of pulling them down over his eyes as though he wanted to have his little laugh to himself, since those eyes would laugh. There was no laugh in his eyes now, but rather a stern kindness as he slangily invited the confidence of the older man, his patient. "Eating me? Why, money, of course. I have absolutely nothing but what I earn,--and look at my family! They have always had everything I could give them and----" "And now they must wake up and pay for their beds of ease," said the physician grimly. "Have you no property?" "Well, I own the house we live in; at least I almost own it. If a shoemaker's children do go barefoot, an architect does build and own the house he lives in," and the sick man managed to smile. "That's good! Any other property?" "I've a side of a mountain in Albemarle County. I took it for a bad debt from a country store-keeper--a kind of miser--but I believe I'd rather have the debt, as at least I had no taxes to pay on the debt." Mr. Carter and Dr. Wright were alone during this conversation as Mrs. Carter had left the room to endeavor to compose herself. The little meadow brook had struck a rocky bed at last and its shallow waters were troubled. What was to become of her? Her Bob ill! Too ill to be worried about anything! And this beetle browed young doctor scared her with his intent gaze; there was no admiration or homage in it, only a scarcely veiled disapproval. She felt like a poor little canary with a great Tom-cat peering at her, scorning her as too insignificant even for a mouth-full. And how was it her fault that she was so useless? Was it the canary's fault that he had been born in a cage and some one took care of him and he had never had to do like other birds and grub for his living? She was just about as capable of doing what this Dr. Wright expected of her as the canary would have been had he told the bird to come out of his cage and begin not only to grub worms for himself but for the kind person who had always fed him and maybe for the family as well. "Mrs. Carter," said Dr. Wright, trying evidently not to be too stern as the little woman fluttered back into the room, a redness about her eye-lids and a fresh sprinkling of powder on her pretty nose, "I want your husband to give you power of attorney so you can transact any business for him that is necessary----" "Me? Oh, Dr. Wright, not me! I can't write a check and don't know how to do sums at all. Couldn't you do it?" "Douglas will do," feebly muttered the invalid. "Is Douglas your son?" "Oh, no! She is our eldest daughter." "It is strange how you Virginians, with the most womanly women I know of anywhere, are constantly giving them masculine names. Shall I ask Miss Douglas to come to you?" Dr. Wright was evidently for early action and meant to push his point without more ado. "Oh, Doctor, couldn't you see her first and tell her what it is you want? I don't quite understand." "Yes, Mrs. Carter, if you wish it. And now I must ask you to keep your husband very quiet, no talking, no discussions, sleep, if he can get it, and very nourishing food. I will write out what I want him to eat and will ask you to see that he gets it and gets it on schedule time." Poor little canary! The time has come for you to begin to grub! CHAPTER II. POWER OF ATTORNEY. When Dr. Wright entered the library where the four girls were holding their consultation, he thought that without doubt they made a very charming group. But his soul was wroth within him at womenkind who could let a man like the one he had just left upstairs slave himself almost into insensibility that they might be gorgeously clothed and delicately fed. Silk stockings and lamb chops! Both very expensive luxuries! Well, they would learn their lesson young, which was a blessing. Rump steaks and bare feet or maybe cotton stockings and sandals would not be so hard on them as on the poor little weakling upstairs with her pretty eyes already reddened at the first breath of disaster. The library at the Carters' home was a beautiful room with not one jarring note. Low bookshelves built into the walls were filled with books in rich bindings. Costly rugs covered the floors. The walls were hung with signed etchings and rare prints. Ordinarily George Wright would have taken great pleasure in such a room, but now he only looked upon it as just so much more evidence of the selfishness of the females of the Carter family and the unremitting toil of the male. He had not yet met any of the girls, but without hesitation he came forward, his step singularly light for one of his build. He spoke before Helen, whose back was towards the door, had even become aware of his presence. She gave a little gasp, sprang from the low ottoman, and faced the young physician, a spirit of antagonism showing from the first in her flashing eyes and sensitive nostrils. Helen had what Nan called "a speaking nose," and every emotion was shown as clearly by her nose as by some persons' eyes and others' mouths. "I want to speak to Miss Douglas Carter; but since all of you are here, perhaps it might be just as well for me to speak to all of you." The last part of his speech was made to Helen, whose attitude of defiance was unmistakable. "I am Douglas," said the elder girl, rising and giving her hand graciously to the young man whose blue eyes showed no gleam of humour now and whose long upper lip was pulled down so far and so grimly that his perfect teeth could not do their part towards taking from the rugged homeliness of his face. "This is Helen, this Nan, and this Lucy." The girls shook hands with him, all but Helen. She bowed, but as she bowed backwards, as it were, that is, jerked her chin up rather than down, it did not pass for courtesy. "Won't you sit down?" asked Douglas. "Well, yes,--I've got to talk to you girls like a Dutch uncle and I might just as well get down to it." "I have an engagement," said Helen icily, consulting her tiny wrist watch, "so I will be excused." "What time is your engagement?" "Whenever I choose to keep it." "Well, then I think you will choose to keep it a little later. I have one, too, but am going to spare a few minutes to talk about your father, and I think it best for all of you to be present." Douglas drew Helen down beside her. The girl was trembling just like a young horse who has felt the first spur. Robert Carter had always said that Helen was the best child in the world just so long as she had her own way. Fortunately her own way was not a very wrong way as a rule, but if there were a clash of wills, good-by to the will that was not hers. Who was this bushy-eyebrowed young Caliban who came there ordering her about? She would show him! But in the meantime Douglas had an arm around her and Caliban was talking. "Your father is a very ill man and as his physician I feel compelled to have a very serious conversation with the family." "Will he die?" whispered Lucy, all pertness gone from her young face. "No, my dear, he will not die; but he may do worse than die unless he can be allowed to take the rest that he should have been taking for years." "What could be worse than death?" sobbed Nan. "Uselessness! Chronic nervous prostration! His nerves have lost their elasticity and nothing will cure him but a long rest, absolutely free from care. Worries of all kinds, business, financial, family, every kind, must be kept from him. As I told your mother yesterday, a sea voyage would be the best thing for him, a long, lazy trip. When one gets on the water out of sight of land he kind of loses his identity in the immensity of Creation. That is what I want your father to do--lose his identity. Your mother must go with him to nurse him--he won't need much nursing, fortunately. And now you girls have got to decide among yourselves what is best to do. I know your financial affairs are none of my business----" "Ahem----" from Helen. "But I have to make your business my business for the time being on account of my patient. Your father tells me he has absolutely no income except what he gets from his profession. You know that, I suppose?" "Why no--that is--we----" hesitated Douglas. "Father never talked business with us." "Um hum! I see! Just gave you ample allowances and let you spend 'em?" "We have never had allowances," spoke Nan with her funny drawl. "Just made bills instead." Dr. Wright flashed an amused look at the girl and for the first time they became aware of the fact that he had a very handsome set of teeth. "Well, now, for a year I see nothing but for you to manage with very little and maybe not that. You own this house." "Of course!" from the scornful Helen. "We can easily keep house here while our parents are away." "But, Helen, keep house on what?" asked Douglas. "Why, just keep house! Just go on living here." "But when Father stops working, there is no more money. Can't you see?" "Well, then, we will have to charge." "Yes, charge on, and when your father gets well, if he does get well, he will have an accumulation of bills to meet which will be so good for his health, won't it?" The young man looked the scorn which he felt for Helen and addressed all of his remarks after that to Douglas, who listened attentively and gratefully. She well knew it was no pleasant task for him to plunge into their financial affairs, but he explained to her that it was important for his patient to leave town immediately if the change was to come in time, and that left no opportunity for them to consult the friends and relatives who would be the natural ones to go to in this predicament. "Your mother wishes you to act in her stead and your father is to give you power of attorney so you can attend to any business for him. Can I trust you to get them ready, without bustle and confusion, by to-night? They can take the train to New York leaving here at eight. They can take a boat to the Bermudas and Panama which sails to-morrow. I will go to New York with them and see that they get off safely." "Oh, you are very kind," murmured Douglas. "Not at all! I have business in New York, anyhow, and I know the surgeon on that particular boat, an old classmate of mine, and I want to put him on to your father's case. But now we come to the part you girls are to play. It is going to be pretty hard on you, but you are not to see your father before he goes. It would be exciting for him and I want him to avoid all excitement. Arrangements must be made and we must get him off quietly, without bustle. If he sees you, he will begin to question you about what you are going to do while he is away, and as you don't know yourselves, the old habit that is as much a part of the whole family as fingers and toes will assert itself, and the burden will fall on him, as usual, and I can assure you I will not answer for the consequences if one more ounce of worry is put on that tired brain. I am going to bring a notary public so he can give you, Miss Douglas, power of attorney to transact any business for him. I am loath to bring even this matter to him, but that is necessary. As for what you are to do with yourselves after your parents leave, that is, of course, for you and your friends to decide. My province as a nerve specialist ends when I get my patient away, but begins again on his return, and if he comes back and finds debts waiting for him, I am pretty sure all the good of the voyage will be done away with. I think his mania is to keep out of debt. How he has managed to do it I can't see, but he tells me the bills are paid up to date. I am awfully sorry for all of you, but I am much sorrier for that fine, unselfish nature upstairs who has borne the heat of the burden absolutely unassisted until he has fallen under it." "Oh, Dr. Wright! Don't! Don't!" wailed Douglas. "Brute!" hissed Helen, but whether she meant the young doctor or Helen Carter she wasn't herself quite certain. "Your mother----" he continued. "Don't you dare to criticise our mother!" interrupted Helen. "My dear young lady, I was merely going to remark that your mother seems to be absolutely necessary to the peace and happiness of your father, otherwise I would insist upon his going away alone. Often in these cases it is best for the patient to get entirely away from all members of his family, but I think she has a good effect on him. I must go now and get the notary public so you can enter into your office of vice regent. I'll also make arrangements for the railroad trip and long-distance my friend, the surgeon on the steamer. I'll be back in a jiffy," and Dr. Wright smiled very kindly at Douglas, whose young countenance seemed to have aged years in the last few minutes. "I am trusting you to keep the house quiet and get things in readiness without once appealing to your father." "I'll do my best." "That's all any one can do," and George Wright was grateful that there was one person in the house he could look to for sense and calmness. He noted with added confidence that Douglas was very like her father in coloring and that the general shape of their features was similar. "I hope they won't manage to break her in two as they have him," he said to himself. "We are going to help Douglas all we can," drawled Nan. "Indeed we are!" exclaimed Lucy. Helen said nothing and did not acknowledge the bow that included her as the young doctor made his exit from the room. Piercing shrieks came from the rear before the front door was reached! "Give it to me! Give it to me! I ain't done makin' my puddin' an' it'll be ruint if you don't give it to me! Marmer! Marmer! Make 'em give it to me!" A door noisily opened above and a rather sharp call descended from the court of appeals. "What does he want? Whatever it is, give it to him!" "But, Mis' Carter, he done been in de silber draw' and 'stracted de tea strainer an' dat new fangled sparrowgrass flapper an' done took de bes' fluted bum bum dish fer tow mold his mud pies. I done tol' him not tow meddle in de mud no mo' fo' to-morrow as he is been washed an' dressed in his las' clean suit till de wash comes in. Jes' look at him! An' jes' listen tow him." The irate old butler, Oscar, held by the hand the screaming, squirming Bobby. One could hardly help listening to him and it was equally hard to help looking at him. His beauty was almost unearthly: a slender little fellow of six, with dark brown hair that curled in spite of the barber's shears, the mouth of a cherub and eyes that were the envy of all his sisters--great dark eyes that when once you looked in them you were forced to give up any anger you might feel for him and just tumble head over heels in love with him. That is what Dr. Wright did. He just fell in love with him. Enraged for a moment by the noise that he was trying so hard to make the household feel must be kept from his patient, he started angrily down the hall toward the angelic culprit with a stern: "Shhh! Your father is ill! You must stop that racket!" But one look in those eyes, and he changed his tactics. Taking the naughty child by his dirty little hand, he said: "Say, Bob, how would you like to come out with me in my car and help me? I've a lot of work to do and need some one to blow my horn for me and stick out an arm when we turn the corners." "Bully! How much wages does you give?" "A milk shake if you are good, and another kind if you are bad! Is it a go?" "Sure!" And once more quiet reigned in the house. The upstairs door closed much more softly than it had opened, and Oscar cheerfully cleaned the silver that Bobby had left in such a mess. CHAPTER III. SILK STOCKINGS AND LAMB CHOPS. "Well! What are we to do about it?" queried Nan as the front door closed on the doctor and their precious torment. "Do? Do what has come to us to do as quickly as we can. I am going to see that mother's clothes are packed and father's, too. It does seem strange to be looking after his things. Oh, girls, just think how we have always let him do it himself! I can't remember even having darned a sock for him in all my life," and Douglas gave a little sob. "This is no time for bawling, though, I am going to let Dr. Wright see that I am not just a doll baby." "Dr. Wright, indeed!" sniffed Helen. "Hateful, rude thing!" "Why, Helen, I don't see why you need have it in for him. I think he was just splendid! But I can't wait to tell you what I think about him; I must get busy." Douglas picked up her burden with very much her father's look and hastened off to do her young and inexperienced best. "As for saying we can't see Father before he goes, it is nothing but his arbitrariness that dictates such nonsense," stormed Helen to the two younger girls. "He is just constituting himself boss of the whole Carter family. I intend to see Father and let him know how much I love him. I'd like to know how it would help any to have poor dear Daddy go off without once seeing his girls. Hasn't he always been seeing us and haven't we always taken all our troubles to him? How would we like it if he'd let us go on a trip and not come near to wish us _bon voyage_? You silly youngsters can be hoodwinked by this bumptious young doctor if you like, but I just bet you he can't control me! I've a great mind to go up to Father's room right this minute." "If you go, I'm going, too," from Lucy. "Neither one of you is going," said Nan quietly. "Helen, you are acting this way just because you are ashamed of yourself. You ought to be ashamed. I know I am so mortified I can hardly hold up my head. We have been actually criminal in our selfishness. I don't intend ever as long as I live to get a new dress or a new hat or a new anything, and when I do, I'm going to shop on the wrong side of Broad and get the very cheapest and plainest I can find." "Nonsense! What does this ugly young man know of our affairs and what money Daddy has in the bank? I don't see that he is called on to tell us when we shall and shan't make bills. He is pretending that our own Father is crazy or something. Won't answer for the consequences! I reckon he won't. Why should he be right in his diagnosis any more than Dr. Davis or Dr. Drew or Dr. Slaughter or any of the rest of them? Nervous prostration! Why, that is a woman's disease. I bet Daddy will be good and mad when he finds out what this young idiot is giving him. How we will tease him!" "But Dr. Wright is not an idiot and is not ugly and is doing the very best he can do. Do you think he liked giving it to us so? Of course he didn't. I could see he just hated it. He would have let us alone except he sees we haven't a ray of sense among us, except maybe Douglas. She showed almost human intelligence." "Speak for yourself, Miss Nan. Maybe you haven't any sense, but, thank you, I've got just as much as Douglas or that nasty old Dr. Wright or anybody else, in fact." "Well, take in your sign then! You certainly are behaving like a nut now." "And you? You think it shows sense to say that man is not ugly? Why, I could have done a better job on a face with a hatchet. He's got a mug like Stony Man, that big mountain up at Luray that looks like a man." "That's just what I thought," said Nan, "and that is what I liked about him. He looked kind of like a rocky cliff and his eyes were like blue flowers, growing kind of high up, out of reach, but once he smiled at me and I knew they were not out of reach, really. When he smiled sure enough and showed his beautiful white teeth, it made me think of the sun coming out suddenly on the mountain cliff." "Well, Nan, if you can get some poetry out of this extremely commonplace young man you are a wonder. I am going down to see about my new hat, so I'll bid you good-by." "If you are getting another new hat, I intend to have one, too!" clamored Lucy. "Helen," said Douglas, coming back into the library. "Of course you are going to countermand the order for the hat that, after all, you do not really need." "Countermand it! Why, please?" "You heard what Dr. Wright said, surely. You must have taken in the seriousness of this business." "Seriousness much! I heard a very bumptious young doctor holding forth on what is no doubt his first case, laying down the law to us as though he were kin to us about what we shall eat and wear!" "Helen, you astonish me! I thought you thought that you loved Father more than any of us." "So I do! None of you could love him as much as I do. I love him so much that I do not intend to stand for this nonsense about his going off for months on a dirty old boat without ever even being allowed to hug his girls. I bet he won't let this creature boss him any more than I will. Daddy said I could have another hat just so I get a blue one. He doesn't think the one I got is becoming, either," and Helen flounced off up to her room. "Douglas, what do you think is the matter with her? I have never seen Helen act like this before," said Nan anxiously. "I think she is trying to shut her eyes to Father's condition. Helen never could stand anything being the matter with Father. You know she always did hate and despise doctors, too. Has ever since she was a little girl when they took out her tonsils. She seemed to think it was their fault. She will come to herself soon," and Douglas wiped off another one of the tears that would keep coming no matter how hard she tried to hold them back. Indeed, Helen was a puzzle to her sisters, and had they met her for the first time as you, my readers have, no doubt they would have formed the same opinion of her as you must have: a selfish, heartless, headstrong girl. Now Helen was in reality none of these terrible things, except headstrong. Thoughtless she was and spoiled, but generous to a fault, with a warm and loving heart. Her love for her father was intense and she simply would not see that he was ill. As Douglas said, she disliked and mistrusted all doctors. If the first and second and third were wrong in their diagnoses, why not the fourth? As for this absurd talk about money--what business was it of this young stranger to put his finger in their financial pie? She shut her mind up tight and refused to understand what Dr. Wright had endeavored to explain to them, that there was no time to call in consultation their old friends and relatives. Besides, he wanted no excitement for the sick man, no adieux from friends, no bustle or confusion. He just wanted to spirit his patient away and get him out of sight of land as fast as possible. How could a perfect stranger understand her dear father better than she, his own daughter, did? Nervous prostration, indeed! Why, her father had nerves of steel. You could fire a pistol off right by his ear and he would not bat an eyelash! She worked herself up even to thinking that they were doing a foolish thing to allow this beetle-browed young man to carry off their mother and father, sending them to sea in a leaky boat, no doubt, with some plot for their destruction all hatched up with this ship's surgeon, this one time classmate. "To be sure, he was nice to Bobby," she said to herself as she sat in her room, undecided whether to go get the new hat in spite of Douglas or perhaps twist the other one around so it would be more becoming. "That may be part of his deep laid scheme--to get the confidence of the child and maybe kidnap him. "I'll give in about the hat, but I'll not give in about seeing Daddy before he goes--I'm going to see him right this minute and find out for myself just how sick he is, and if he, too, is hypnotized into thinking this doctor man is any good. He shan't go away if he doesn't want to. Poor little Mumsy is too easy and confiding." So Helen settled this matter to her own satisfaction, convincing herself that it was really her duty to go see her father and unearth the machinations of this scheming Dr. Wright, who was so disapproving of her. That really was where the shoe pinched with poor Helen: his disapproval. She was an extremely attractive girl and was accustomed to admiration and approval. Her youngest sister, Lucy, was about the only person of her acquaintance who found any real fault with her. Why, that young man seemed actually to scorn her! What reason had he to come pussy-footing into the library where she and her sisters were holding an intimate conversation, and all unannounced speak to them with his raucous voice so that she nearly jumped out of her skin? Come to think of it, though, his voice was not really raucous, but rather pleasant and deep. Anyhow, he took her at a disadvantage from the beginning and sneered at her and bossed her, and she hated him and did not trust him one inch. "Daddy, may I come in?" Without knocking, Helen opened her father's door and ran into his room. He was lying on the sofa, covered with a heavy rug, although it was a very warm day in May. His eyes were closed and his countenance composed and for a moment the girl's heart stopped beating--could he be dead? He looked so worn and gaunt. Strange she had not noticed it before. She had only thought he was getting a little thin, but she hated fat men, anyhow, and gloried in her father's athletic leanness, as she put it. Most men of his age, forty-three, had a way of getting wide in the girth, but not her father. Forty-three! Why, this man lying there looked sixty-three! His face was so gray, his mouth so drawn. Robert Carter opened his eyes and sighed wearily. "Who is that?" rather querulously. "Oh, Helen! I must have been asleep. I dreamed I was out far away on the water. Just your mother and I, far, far away! It was rather jolly. Funny I was trying to add up about silk stockings and I made such a ridiculous mistake. You see there are five of you who wear silk stockings, not counting Bobby and me. I wasn't counting in socks. Five persons having two legs apiece makes ten legs--silk stockings cost one dollar apiece, no, a pair--fifty cents apiece--that makes five dollars for ten legs. Everybody has to put on a new pair every day, so that makes three hundred and sixty-five pairs a year, three hundred and sixty-six in leap year, seven hundred and thirty stockings--that makes one thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five dollars--thirty, in leap year--just for stockings. Seems preposterous, doesn't it? But here was my mistake, right here--people don't have to put on a new pair every day but just a clean pair, so I have to do my calculating all over. You can help me, honey. How many pairs of silk stockings does it take to run one of you? You just say one, and I can compute the rest." "Oh, Daddy, I don't know," and Helen burst out crying. "Well, don't cry about it. It seems funny for stockings to make any one cry. Do you know, I've been crying about them, too? It is so confusing for people to have two legs and for leap year to have one more day, so some years people have to have more--maybe not have more, but change them oftener. I cry out of one eye about stockings, and the other sheds tears about French chops. I feel very much worried about French chops. It seems they sell them by the piece and not by the pound as they do loin chops--ten cents apiece, so the bills say. We usually get a dozen and a half for a meal--eighteen--that's a dozen and a half. Now there are seven of us and the four servants, that makes eleven, not quite a dozen. What I am worried about is that some of you don't get two chops apiece. I am wondering all the time which ones don't eat enough. There is nothing at all on one little French chop, although I'm blessed if I could make one go down me now. But, honey, promise me if your mother and I do take this trip that this young man, whose name has escaped me, is going to arrange for us, that you will find out who it is among you who eats only one chop and make 'em eat more. I am afraid it is Nan and Bobby. They are more like your mother, and of course fairies don't really eat anything to speak of--but it must be of the best--always of the best. She has never known anything but luxury, and luxury she must have. What difference does it make to me? I love to work--but the days are too short. Take some off of the night then--six hours in bed is enough for any man. Edison says even that is too much. What's that young man's name? Well, whatever it is, I like him. He should have been an architect--I bet his foundations would have gone deep enough and the authorities would never have condemned one of his walls as unsafe. That's what they did to me, but it wasn't my fault--Shockoe Creek was the trouble--creeping up like a thief in the night and undermining my work." As Robert Carter rambled on in this weird, disconnected way, the tears were streaming down his face and Helen, crouched on the floor by his side, was sobbing her heart out. Could this be her Daddy? This broken, garrulous man with the gray face and tears, womanish tears, flowing shamelessly from his tired eyes? Dr. Wright was right! Their father was a very ill man and one more ounce of care would be too much for his tired brain. Had she done him harm? Maybe her coming in had upset his reason, but she had not talked, only let him ramble on. A car stopping at the door! The doctor and Bobby returning with the notary public! What must she do? Here she was in her father's room, disobeying the stern commands of the physician who could see with half his professional eye that she had harmed his patient. She had time to get out before the doctor could get upstairs--but no! not sneak! "I may be a murderess and am a selfish, headstrong, bad, foolish, vain, extravagant wretch, but I am not a sneak and I will stay right here and take the ragging that I deserve--and no doubt will get," remembering the lash that Dr. Wright had not spared. The doctor entered the room very quietly, "Pussy-footing still," said Helen to herself. He gave her only a casual glance, seeming to feel no surprise at her presence, but went immediately to his patient, who smiled through his tears at this young man in whom he was putting his faith. "I've been asleep, doctor, and thought I was out on the water. When Helen came in I awoke, but I was very glad for her to come in so she could promise me to look into a little matter of French chops that was worrying me. She and I have been having a little crying party about silk stockings. They seem to make her cry, too. Funny for me to cry. I have never cried in my life that I can remember, even when I got a licking as a boy." "Crying is not so bad for some one who never has cried or had anything to cry for." Helen had a feeling maybe he meant it for her but he never looked at her. "And now, Mr. Carter, I have a notary public downstairs and I am going to ask you to sign a paper giving to your daughter, Douglas, power of attorney in your absence. You get off to New York this evening and sail to-morrow." "But, Dr. Whatsyourname, I can't leave until I attend to tickets and things," feebly protested the nervous man. "Tickets bought; passage on steamer to Bermuda and Panama engaged; slow going steamer where you can lie on deck and loaf and loaf!" "Tickets bought? I have never been anywhere in my life where I have not had to attend to everything myself. It sounds like my own funeral. I reckon kind friends will step in then and attend to the arrangements." "Well, let's call this a wedding trip instead of a funeral. I will be your best man and you and your bride can spend your honeymoon on this vessel. The best man sometimes does attend to the tickets and in this case even decided where the honeymoon should be spent. I chose a Southern trip because I want you to be warm. Very few persons go to Bermuda in May, but I feel sure you will be able to rest more if you don't have to move around to keep warm." "Yes, that's fine, and Annette is from the extreme South and delights in warmth and sunlight. I feel sure you have done right and am just lying down like a baby and leaving everything to you," and Robert Carter closed his eyes, smiling feebly. At a summons from the doctor, Douglas and the notary public entered the room. Helen, who had stayed to get the blowing up that she had expected from Dr. Wright, not having got it, still stayed just because she did not know how to leave. No one noticed her or paid the least attention to her except the notary, who bowed perfunctorily. "This is the paper. You had better read it to see if it is right. It gives your daughter full power to act in your absence." Dr. Wright spoke slowly and gently and his voice never seemed to startle the sick man. "Is Miss Carter of age?" asked the notary. "Otherwise she would have some trouble in any legal matter that might arise." "Of age! No! I am only eighteen." "I never thought of that," said Mr. Carter. "Nor I, fool that I am," muttered the young physician. "Oh, well, let me make you her guardian, or better still, give you power of attorney," suggested Mr. Carter. "Me, oh, I never bargained for that!" The patient feebly began to weep at this obstacle. You never can tell what is going to upset a nervous prostrate. "Well, all right. I can do it if it is up to me," the doctor muttered. "Put my name in where we have Miss Carter's," he said to the notary. "George Wright is my name." "I'm so glad to know your name; that is one of the things that has been worrying me," said the patient, as he signed his name and the notary affixed his seal after the oaths were duly taken. CHAPTER IV. GONE! "I am waiting, Dr. Wright," said Helen, after the notary public had taken his departure and Douglas had gone to put finishing touches to the very rapid packing of steamer trunks, Mrs. Carter helping in her pathetically inefficient way. Helen stood at the top of the stairs to intercept the doctor as he left the patient's room. "Waiting for what?" "For you to tell me you were astonished to find me in my father's room when you had given express orders that none of us were to see him." "But I was not astonished." "Oh, you expected to find me?" "I did not know whether I should find you, but I knew very well you would go there." "So you thought I would sneak in and sneak out?" "I did not call it sneaking but I was pretty sure you had no confidence in me and would do your own sweet will. I hope you are satisfied now that it was best not to excite your father." "But I did not excite him. He just talked in that terrible way himself. You are cruel to say I made him worse!" "But I did not say so. Certainly, however, you made him no better. He said himself he waked when you came in and you did not deny it. Of course, sleep is always 'kind Nature's sweet restorer.' If you will let me pass, I will now go to see Miss Douglas about ordering your car for the train this evening. We have only about an hour's time and there is still a great deal to do. There is the expressman now for the trunks." "Can't even trust me to order the chauffeur to have the car at the door," cried Helen bitterly to herself as the doctor went past her. "I am of no use to any one in the whole world and I wish I were dead." The look of agony in the girl's face made an impression on the young man in spite of the strong resentment he felt toward her. He was somewhat like Helen in that he was not accustomed to disapproval, and being flouted by this schoolgirl was not a pleasant morsel to swallow. He felt sure of his diagnosis of Mr. Carter's case, for, having served for several years as head assistant in a large sanitarium in New York, he was well acquainted with the symptoms of nervous prostration. Of course, his sending the patient on a sea voyage instead of placing him in a sanitarium was somewhat of a risk, but he felt it was the best thing to do, reading the man's character as he had. Helen's scorn and doubt of him and her seeming selfishness had certainly done little to recommend her in his eyes, but gentleness and sympathy were the strongest points in George Wright's make-up, and as he went by the girl he could read in her face agony, extreme agony and desperation. He went up the steps again, two at a time, and said gently: "Miss Helen, would you be so kind as to see about the car for me? Order it for 7.45. I am going to put them on at the downtown station and get them all installed in the drawing-room with the door shut so they need not see all the Richmond people who are sure to be taking this night train to New York and getting on at Elba, the uptown stop." "Yes--and thank you." "By Jove," thought the young man, "that girl is some looker! If she had the sense of her sister Douglas, I believe she would be pretty nice, too." Helen's whole countenance had changed. From the proud, scornful girl, she had turned again into her own self, the Helen her sisters knew and loved. "You might see that Bobby is kept kind of quiet, too. Tell him I will take him out with me again soon and let him blow my horn and poke out his arm when we turn the corners, if he will be quiet for an hour." "All right," said Helen meekly, wondering at her own docility in so calmly being bossed by this person whom she still meant to despise. She interviewed the chauffeur, ordering the car at the proposed time, and then captured Bobby, who was making his way to his father's room. She inveigled him into the back yard where she kept him in a state of bliss, having her supper out there with him and playing tea party to his heart's content, even pretending to eat his wonderful mud "pies an' puddin's." It was almost time for the dread departure and still she kept watch over Bobby. The mother came out in the back yard to kiss her children good-by. Poor little mother! The meadow brook has surely come on rocky places now. What effect is it to have? Perhaps the channel will be broadened and deepened when the shoals are past. Who knows? Gone, at last! No one even to wave farewell, so implicitly did the Carter household obey the stern mandates of the doctor. Even the negro servants kept in the background while their beloved master and mistress were borne away by the smoothly rolling car. "Seems mos' lak a funeral," sobbed Oscar, "lak a funeral in yellow feber times down in Mobile, whar I libed onct. Nobody went to them funerals fer fear er ketching sompen from de corpse. Saddes' funerals ebber I seed." The girls were sure those funerals could not have been any sadder than this going away of their parents. Once more they gathered in the library, as forlorn a family as one could find in the whole world, they were sure. Their eyes were red and their noses redder. Douglas had had the brunt of the labor in getting the packing done and had held out wonderfully until it was all over, and now she had fallen in a little heap on the sofa and was sobbing her soul out. Nan was doing her best to comfort her while Lucy was bawling like a baby on Helen's shoulder, truce between the two declared for the time being. "I feel just like the British would if the Rock of Gibraltar had turned into brown sugar and melted into the sea," declared Helen, when the storm had blown itself out and a calmness of despair had settled down on all of them. "That's just it," agreed Nan. "Father has always been just like Gibraltar to us. His picture would have done just as well for the Prudential Life Insurance ad as Gibraltar did." "If you could just have heard him talk as he did to me. Oh, girls, I feel as though I had killed him!" and Helen gave a dry sob that made Lucy put an arm around her. "I have sworn a solemn swear to myself: I am not going to wear a single silk stocking nor yet a pair of them until Father comes home, and not then unless he is well. I have some old cotton ones that I got for the Camp-Fire Girls' hike, the only ones I ever had since I can remember, and I am going to wear those until I can get some more. I hate 'em, too! They make my toes feel like old rusty potatoes in a bag." This made the girls laugh. A laugh made them feel better. Maybe behind the clouds the sun was, after all, still shining and they would not have to wear rubbers and raincoats forever. "You remind me of the old man we saw up at Wytheville who had such very long whiskers, having sworn never to cut them off or trim them until the Democrats elected a President," drawled Nan. "Those whiskers did some growing between Cleveland's and Wilson's Administrations. You remember when Wilson was elected and he shaved them off, his wife made a big sofa cushion out of them; and the old man had become so used to the great weight on his chin, that now he was freed from it, his chin just naturally flew up in the air and made him look like his check rein was too tight." "Yes, I remember," declared Lucy; "and his wife said she was going to strap the cushion back on where his whiskers used to be if he didn't stop holding his head so haughty." Another laugh and the sun came out in their hearts. Dr. Wright had assured them that their father would be well. He had had many patients who had been in much worse condition who were now perfectly well. Mr. Carter's case had been taken hold of in time and the doctor was trusting to his splendid constitution and the quiet of the ocean to work wonders in him. In the meantime, it was necessary for the girls to begin to think about what they were to do. "I think we had better not try to come to any conclusion to-night," said Douglas, "we are all of us so worn out, at least I am. We will sleep on it and then to-morrow get together and all try to bring some plan and idea. There was almost no money left in the bank after the tickets for the voyage were bought and money put in Mother's bag for incidentals." "Poor little Muddy, just think of her having to be the purse bearer! I don't believe she knows fifty cents from a quarter," sighed Nan. "Well, Mother will have to go to school just like the rest of us. I fancy we only know the difference in size and not much about the value of either. Dr. Wright wrote a check for the amount in bank, showing from Father's check book, and after he had paid for the tickets, he left the rest for me to put to my account. I am awfully mortified, but I don't know how to deposit money--and as for writing a check--I'd sooner write a thesis on French history. I know I could do it better." Douglas smothered a little sigh. This was no time to think of self or to repine about her private ambitions, but somehow the thought would creep in that this meant good-by to college for her. She had planned to take examinations for Bryn Mawr early in June and was confident of passing. She had her father's ability to stick to a thing until it was accomplished, and no matter how distasteful a subject was to her, she mastered it. This was her graduating year at school. Now all joy of the approaching commencement was gone. She was sorry that her dress was already bought, and in looking over the check book, she had found it was paid for, too. Forty dollars for one dress and that of material that had at the best but little wearing quality! Beautiful, of course, but when a family had been spending money as freely as this family had always done, what business had one of them with a forty dollar white dress with no wear to it when the balance in the bank showed only eighty-three dollars and fifty-nine cents? A sharp ringing of the front door bell interrupted Douglas's musings and made all of the sisters conscious of their red eyes and noses. "Who under Heaven? It is nine o'clock!" "Cousin Lizzie Somerville, of course. She always rings like the house was on fire." It was Miss Elizabeth Somerville, a second cousin of their father. She came into the library in rather unseemly haste for one of her usual dignity. "Where is your father?" she demanded, without the ceremony of greeting the girls. "I must see him immediately. Your mother, too, of course, if she wants to come down, but I must see your father." "But he is gone!" "Gone where? When will he return?" "In about two months," said Helen coolly. Helen was especially gifted in tackling Cousin Lizzie, who was of an overbearing nature that needed handling. "He and Mother have gone to Bermuda." "Bermuda in the summer! Nonsense! Tell me when I can see him, as it is of the greatest importance. I should think you could see that I am in trouble and not stand there teasing me," and since it was to be a day of tears, Cousin Lizzie burst out crying, too. "Oh, Cousin Lizzie, I am so sorry! I did not mean to tease. I am not teasing. Father is ill, you must have noticed how knocked up he has been looking lately, and the doctor has taken him with Mother to New York. They have just gone, and they are to sail on a slow steamer to Bermuda and Panama in the morning. Please let us help you if we can." "You help! A lot of silly girls! It is about my nephew Lewis!" and the poor lady wept anew. CHAPTER V. LEWIS SOMERVILLE. "Lewis! What on earth can be the matter with him?" chorused the girls. "Matter enough! He has been shipped!" "Shipped? Oh, Cousin Lizzie, you can't mean it!" exclaimed Douglas, drying her eyes as she began to realize that she was not the only miserable person in the world whose ambitions had gone awry. "I am sure if he has been fired, it is from no fault of his own," declared Nan, who was a loyal soul and always insisted that her friends and relatives were in the right until absolute proof to the contrary was established. "Well, whether it was his fault or not, I am not prepared to say. 'Where there is so much smoke there must be some fire.'" The girls had to smile at this, as there was never a time when Cousin Lizzie did not have a proverb ready to suit the occasion. "Yes, but the fire might not have been of his kindling," insisted Nan. "Please tell us what the trouble is, Cousin Lizzie, if you don't mind talking about it," begged Douglas. "Has Lewis really left West Point for good? I can't believe it." "The trouble is: 'Evil communications corrupt good manners.' If Lewis had not been with the companions that he has chosen, he would not have gotten into this trouble. Surely Solomon was wise indeed when he said: 'Whoso keepeth the law is a wise son, but he that is a companion of riotous men shameth his father.' I am glad my poor brother is dead and not here to witness his son's disgrace." "Cousin Lizzie, I do not believe that Lewis has done anything disgraceful," insisted Nan, speaking almost quickly for once. "Well, it is a disgrace in my mind for the son and grandson of Confederate soldiers to be dismissed from a Yankee institution, whether he was in fault or not. 'As a bird that wandereth from her nest, so is a man that wandereth from his place.' A Somerville's place is in the South and it was always against my wishes that Lewis went to West Point." "Please tell us what the trouble is, what Lewis did or didn't do at West Point," said Helen in the determined voice that usually made Cousin Lizzie stop her proverbs long enough to give the information required. "'Hazing a plebe,' is what he said. What a plebe is or what hazing is I do not know, but whatever it is, Lewis says he was not mixed up in it, but he, with eight other second classmen, were let out. The words are his, not mine. All I know is that he was discharged and is at my house now in a state of dejection bordering on insanity." "Poor boy! We are so sorry for him. What is he going to do now?" asked Douglas. Here was another disappointment for Douglas. Her cousin, Lewis Somerville, was one of the dearest friends she had in the world. He was two years her senior and had made it his business since they were tiny tots to protect her and look after her on all occasions. They had had a plan for the following year that now, of course, had fallen through. She was to have come to West Point from Bryn Mawr to the finals. He would then have been a third classman and able to make her have a rip-roaring time, as he had expressed it. Lewis in a state of dejection bordering on insanity! That was unbelievable. If there ever was a gayer, happier person than Lewis, she had never seen him. "Do? Goodness knows!" "Well, all I can say," put in Nan, "is that Uncle Sam is a fool not to know that Lewis is a born soldier, and if he wants to prepare himself to defend his country, he should be allowed to do so. Oh, I don't care what he has done--I just know he hasn't done it!" "I'm going to 'phone him this minute and tell him to come around here!" and Helen jumped up from her seat, thereby waking Lucy, who had dropped asleep on her shoulder, worn out with the stress of emotion. "If you are, so am I--whatever it is," declared Lucy, rubbing her eyes, as determined as ever to keep up with Helen or die in the attempt. "Hello! is this you, Lewis?" as the connection was quickly made. "Well," in a tired, dreary voice. "What is it?" "This is me, Lewis, Helen Carter! We are all sitting up here dressed in our best waiting for you to come to see us. Douglas says if you don't hurry she, for one, is going to bed." "What's that?" in a little brisker tone. "Say, Lewis, we are in an awful lot of trouble. You know Father is ill and has had to go away and we don't know what is to become of us. We need your advice terribly----" "Be 'round in a jiffy," and so he was. "That was very tactful of you, Helen," said Cousin Lizzie lugubriously. "You know 'Misery loves company.'" But a peal from the front door bell interrupted further quotations and Lewis Somerville came tearing into the house in answer to Helen's S. O. S. He did look as dejected as one of his make-up could. It is hard to be dejected very long when one is just twenty, in perfect health, with naturally high spirits and the strength to remove mountains tingling in the veins. A jury of women could not have shipped the young would-be soldier, and it must have taken very hard-hearted men, very determined on maintaining discipline, deliberately to have cut this young fellow's career in two. Our army must be full of very fine young men if they can so lightly give up such a specimen as this Lewis Somerville. Imagine a young giant of noble proportions, as erect as an ash sapling that has had all the needed room in which to grow, a head like Antinous and frank blue eyes that could no more have harbored a lie than that well-cut, honest mouth could have spoken one. "I didn't do it and just to let me know that you don't believe I did, you have got to kiss me all around." "Nonsense, Lewis! Helen and I are too old to kiss you even if you are a cousin," and Douglas got behind Cousin Lizzie. "Quite right, Douglas, 'The heart of the prudent getteth knowledge.' Lewis is not such very close kin, besides." "Why, Aunt Lizzie, I did not expect you to desert me." "'It is not good to eat much honey, so for men to search their own glory is not glory.'" "Well, Nan and Lucy will kiss me, anyhow. They believe I did not do it." "We are sure you are telling the truth," said Douglas gravely. "We do not know yet what they say you did." "They say I helped a lot of fellows tie a plebe to a tree and drop ice down his back, making out it was red hot pennies, until the fellow fainted from his fancied injuries. I never did it, but if I had, it wouldn't have been a patching on the things the second classmen did to me last year when I was a plebe, and wild horses would not have dragged a complaint from me. It was done by some men who are my chums, but I declare I was not with the crowd." "We know it! we know it!" from all the girls. "But I don't want to talk about myself--I am so anxious to hear what is the matter with Cousin Robert. Let's let up on me and talk about your trouble, and if I can help, please command me." "Father is very ill," said Douglas soberly. "He has been working too hard for a long time and now his nerves have just given way and he has had to stop and go on a trip. Dr. Wright assures us that he has stopped in time and a sea trip and a year's rest will completely restore him. It has come on us so suddenly that we have not had time to catch our breath even." "And who is this Dr. Wright?" asked Cousin Lizzie. "I thought Dr. Davis was your family physician. Some Yankee, I'll be bound, with all kinds of new notions." "He is from Washington recently, but I believe he came originally from New York State." "Do you mean that you let a perfect stranger pick up your parents and send them off on a journey without consulting a soul?" "But it was important to avoid all confusion and discussion. Dr. Wright has been lovely about it all. He even got a notary public so I could be given power of attorney to attend to any business that might come up. It so happened, though, that my being under age was a drawback and Father gave him power of attorney instead." "Douglas Carter! Do you mean to say that a strange young Yankee doctor that has only been living in Richmond a little while has the full power to sell your father out and do anything he chooses with his estate? Preposterous!" "But there isn't any estate," objected Douglas, and Helen could not help a little gleam of satisfaction creeping into her eyes. She was not the only person who felt that Dr. Wright had been, to say the least, presumptuous. "No estate! Why I thought Robert Carter was very well off. What has he done with his money, please?" "We have just lived on it. We didn't know," sadly from Douglas. "I never heard of such extravagance. 'A fool and his money are soon parted.'" "We have got just exactly eighty-three dollars and fifty-nine cents in the bank. Father owns this house and a side of a mountain in Albemarle, and that is all." "Mercy, child! I can't believe it." "We have got to live somehow, and I believe we all feel that it would be very bad for Father to come back and find debts to be paid off. He has such a horror of debt that he has always paid the bills each month. What do you think we could do--something to make money, I mean? Father was in such a nervous state we could not consult him, and Mother, poor little Mother, of course she does not understand business at all." "Humph! I should say not! And what do you chits of girls know about it, either? Are you meaning to stay alone, all un-chaperoned, until this Yankee doctor thinks it is time to let your parents return? Just as like as not there is nothing the matter with your father but a touch of malaria." "We had not thought of a chaperone, as we have been so miserable about Father we could not think of ourselves. If we are going to make a living, we won't need chaperones, anyhow." "Make a living, indeed! You are to stay right here in your home and I will come stay with you, and you can curtail your expenses somewhat by dismissing one servant and giving up your car. Robert Carter is not the kind of man who would want his eighteen-year-old daughter and others even younger to go out into the world to make a living. He would rather die than have such a thing happen." "But we are not going to have him die," broke in Helen. "I thought just as you do, Cousin Lizzie, until I saw him this afternoon and realized how worried he has been. We are going to do something and there are to be no debts awaiting him, either. What do you think of boarders? Do you think we could get any?" "Who on earth would board with us, here in Richmond? Everybody knows what a trifling lot we are. If we have boarders, it will have to be on the side of the mountain in Albemarle," said Nan, and as usual every one stopped to hear what she had to say. "Besides, a boarding house in summer shuts up shop in cities. Country board is the thing. Let's rent our house furnished for a year and go to the mountains." "But there are nothing but trees and rocks on the side of the mountain in Albemarle," objected Douglas; "not a piece of a house except a log cabin near the top built by the sick Englishman who used to live there." "No room for boarders in that, I know, as Father pointed it out to me once from the train when we were on our way to Wytheville. It had one room and maybe two. It must command a wonderful view. You could see it for miles and miles and when you get up there, there is no telling what you can see. It would make a great camp--Girls! Girls! Cousin Lizzie! Lewis! All of you! I've got a scheme! It just came to me!" and Helen jumped up and ran around and hugged everybody, even the cousin she and Douglas had grown too big to kiss. "Well, cough it up! We are just as anxious as can be to share your idea, or is it so big it got stuck on the way," laughed Lewis, accepting the caress as it was meant. "Let's have a boarding camp, with Cousin Lizzie to chaperone us! I know just lots of girls who would simply die to go, and Albemarle is close enough for week-enders to pour in on us." "Hurrah! Hurrah! And I bid to be man-of-all work! I know rafts of fellows who would want to come." "Yes, and let's call it Week End Camp," said Nan. "Week to be spelled W-E-A-K. What do you think of the plan, Cousin Lizzie? If you are to be chaperone, it seems to me you should be consulted the first thing." "Don't ask me, child. Things are moving too rapidly for me. We must go a little more slowly," and truly the old lady did look dazed indeed. "'More haste, less speed,' is a very good adage." "Well, Cousin Lizzie, it does sound crazy in a way, but do you know, I believe we could really do it and do it very well," said Douglas. "I consider Helen a genius to have thought of such a thing. I don't think the outlay need be very great, and surely the living would be cheap when once we get there." "But, my dear, at my age I could not begin to eat out of doors. I have not done such a thing since I can remember but once, and then I went with the United Daughters of the Confederacy on a picnic. The undertaker went ahead with chairs and tables so everything was done in decency and order." Nan's "Funeral baked meats!" made them all laugh, even Cousin Lizzie. "I am going to have a short khaki suit with leggins coming way up," declared Helen, who could not contemplate anything without seeing herself dressed to suit the occasion. "Me, too," sleepily from Lucy, who was trying to keep awake long enough to find out what it all meant. "Aunt Lizzie, I wish you would consent. It all depends on you. You could eat in the cabin and sleep in the cabin and not camp out at all. I could go up right away and build the camp. I'd just love to have something to do. Bill Tinsley, from Charlottesville, got shipped with me and I'm pretty sure he'd join me. You'd like Bill, he's so quaint. We are both of us great carpenters and could make a peach of a job of it. Do, please, Aunt Lizzie!" Could this be the young man who, only ten minutes ago, she had described as being in a state of dejection bordering on insanity? This enthusiastic boy with his eyes dancing in joyful anticipation of manual labor to be plunged into? If she consented to go to the mountains, thereby no doubt making herself very uncomfortable, she might save her beloved nephew from doing the thing that she was dreading more than all others, dreading it so much that she had been afraid to give voice to it: going to France to fight with the Allies. "Well, Lewis, if this plan means that you will find occupation and happiness, I will consent. I can't bear to think of your being idle. 'Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do.'" "Oh, Cousin Lizzie, I think you are just splendid!" exclaimed Helen. And, indeed, Miss Elizabeth Somerville was splendid in her way. She was offering herself on the altar of aunthood. It was a real sacrifice for her to consent to this wild plan of going to the mountains. She hated snakes, and while she did not confess that she hated Nature, she certainly had no love for her. Her summer outings had meant, heretofore, comfortable hotels at the springs or seashore, where bridge was the rule and Nature the exception. The promise of being allowed to sleep in the cabin and even eat in it was not any great inducement. A log cabin, built and lived in and finally, no doubt, died in, by a sick Englishman was not very pleasant to contemplate. Miss Lizzie was very old-fashioned in all her ideas with the exception of germs, and she was very up-to-date as to them. No modern scientist knew more about them or believed in them more implicitly. Oh, well! She could take along plenty of C. N. and sulphur candles and crude carbolic. That would kill the germs. She would find out the latest cure for snake bite, and with a pack of cards for solitaire perhaps she could drag out an existence until Robert Carter and Annette got home from this mad trip. All she hoped was that nobody would wake her up to see the sun rise and that she would not be called on to admire the moon every time there was a moon. "I hope we can get the daily paper," she moaned feebly. "I hate to go too far from the daily paper." "We'll get it if I have to build a flying machine and fly to Richmond for it," declared Lewis. "The place is not half a mile from the post office," said Helen. "At least, that is the way it looks from the train. When can we get started? I don't think it is worth while to go back to school any more. We can all of us just stop." "Oh, Helen, of course we can't! Douglas is going to graduate, and Lucy and I have our exams next week. What would Father say at our giving up right now? You can quiturate all you've a mind to, but I intend to go on and graduate and go to college like Douglas," said Nan. "I am afraid I'll have to give up college, but I am going to take my Bryn Mawr examinations just the same because I want Father to know I can stand them." Douglas hoped sincerely that the tear she felt gathering would evaporate before it dropped. "Give up college! Why, Douglas Carter, I don't see what you mean. You have been full of it all winter," exclaimed Helen. "But Helen, you know perfectly well there is no more money." "Oh, I keep on forgetting!" "There is one thing that I have forgotten, too, and I feel awfully bad about it after all his kindness," said Douglas. "That is, we must make no decided plans until we consult Dr. Wright." "Consult Dr. Wright, indeed! I'd like to know what's it to him," said Helen wrathfully. "Can't we even go on a summer trip without asking his permission?" "Well, I think inasmuch as he has power of attorney and we can't do anything without money that we shall have to consult him. He'll be home to-morrow night and we can ask him immediately. I am pretty sure he will think it a good thing, though." "Maybe, but for goodness' sake, don't tell him it was my idea originally, as he hates me as much as I hate him, and if _he_ had thought of it, I just know I'd never have consented or thought it a good plan." "Well, I know one thing," said Miss Somerville, "I am dead tired and this child here is asleep. We had better go to bed and get all the rest we can if we are going to camp out for the summer." How different the night was from what the Carters had looked forward to! Sleepless misery was what they had been sure would be their lot, and instead, they went to their beds with their heads full of their week-end boarding camp. Father was to get well on his voyage and come back to join them in Albemarle. Instead of finding debts piled on debts, their camp was to pay and he was to find his girls actually making a living. "Cotton stockings will be the appropriate things to wear at camp," was the last thought Helen had. "I don't see how I could spend the summer in town after the oath I have taken. I couldn't show my face, or rather my feet, on the street." CHAPTER VI. THE RECONSTRUCTION. "Helen, I actually slept all night." "So did I. If any one had told me I could sleep a wink, I would have been furious. I wish we could hear from Father. You saw Cousin Lizzie felt just exactly as I did about that Dr. Wright. He may be all right and he may be all wrong. If he is all wrong, couldn't he make us dance, though? He could sell us out, lock, stock and barrel, pocket the proceeds and skidoo." "Oh, Helen, how can you even give such a horrid idea a moment's lodgement in your mind? Dr. Wright is as good as he looks, I am sure. He certainly looks kind and honest." "Well, he ought to be honest he is so ugly." The girls were still in bed, which they had shared ever since they had been promoted from cradles. It was Saturday morning and the day before had been the one of trial. "Father likes him a lot and trusts him." "Ye--s, I know--but then, you see----" "Yes, I see he is a very fine young man who thought, and quite rightly, that we had been blindly selfish and heartless to let Father work so hard; and he let us know what he thought of us and it got your goat." "Is that the way you are going to express yourself in your B. M. exams? Because if it is, you will win a scholarship surely." "If I only could!... Come in!" in answer to a knock at the door. "Telegraph fer you, Miss Douglas. I hope an' trus' 'tain't no bad news 'bout yo' maw and paw," said the housemaid, bringing in a dreaded yellow envelope. "Uncle Oscar, he dreamed 'bout aigs las' night an' they was whole an' entire, an' all de dream books say dat it is a sho' sign an' symbol er trouble. De trouble is in de shell an' time alone will hatch it out." "Well, this is good news, Susan," laughed Douglas as she quickly scanned the message: "'Your father and mother slept well and are now enjoying breakfast at Pennsylvania Station. Will see you this evening. George Wright.'" "Well, Glory be! It can't be Mr. Carter what the bad luck is layin' fer. I 'low it is dat lo' down nigger Jim, Uncle Oscar's sister's step-son, what got stuck in de lonesome ribs by a frien' at meetin' las' Sunday with one er these here unsafety razors," and Susan took herself off to give out in the kitchen that no doubt Jim was going to die, since Mr. Carter was improving. "Now, Helen, don't you think Dr. Wright is very thoughtful? You just said you wished we could hear from Father." "He does seem to think of lots of things. I couldn't help admiring him for the way he got the drawing room for them and put them on the train at the downtown station to keep them from having to see so many people. That night train is always full of people we know and they all of them get on at Elba. I bet you he got his telegram in ten words, though. I know he is economical and would die rather than spill over. Let me see it. Humph! Nineteen words. I wonder he didn't send it collect." "Oh, Helen! How can you be so hard on the poor young man? I believe you are just pretending to hate him so. I am glad it is Saturday and no school. I think we had better go see real estate agents the first thing this morning and try to rent our house furnished for the summer. I am pretty sure Dr. Wright would approve of that. And also see about selling the car." "Selling the car! Why, Douglas, how on earth will we do without it?" "Of course we must sell it. Helen Carter, I actually believe you think that if you give up wearing silk stockings for a year we can live on your resolution. Do you realize that the cash we have in bank would just about pay the chauffeur and keep us in gasoline for a month?" "Oh, I am such a dunce! I am afraid my being poor has a kind of musical comedy effect in my mind so far. What are you going to do with me, Douglas?" "Nothing, honey, but you must not get angry with me when I call you down about money. I feel so responsible somehow." "Angry with you! Why, I think you are just splendid, and I am going to be so careful I just know you will never have to call me down." Douglas smiled, knowing very well that Helen and economy were not meant to dwell together. "There is only one thing I am going to make all of you promise, that is NOT TO CHARGE," with great emphasis. "Oh, of course not after we get started, but how are we to get our outfits for the mountains? Our khaki skirts and leggins and things that are appropriate? And then the cotton stockings that I have sworn to wear until Father is well! I have to have a new set of them. Ugh! how I hate 'em!" "But, Helen, we have our Camp-Fire outfits that are thoroughly suitable for what we are going to do. There are loads of middy blouses in the house, so I am sure we need buy no more of them. As for stockings--it seems to me you had better wear out what stockings you have, even if they are silk, before you buy any more." "Never! You don't seem to understand the significance of my oath. When a pilgrim of old swore to put on sackcloth and travel to some distant shrine, he didn't say he would not go to the expense of sackcloth since he had plenty of velvet suits on hand, did he now? No! He went and bought some sackcloth if he didn't happen to have any in the house and gave his velvet suits to the poor or had his hand-maidens pack them up in frankincense and myrrh or something until he got back----" "All right! All right! But please don't give away anything to the poor. If Cousin Lizzie should hear of your doing such a thing she would certainly say: 'Charity begins at home.'" "I won't give them away if you think I shouldn't, but I'd like to put temptation out of my reach. I hope we can get off to the mountains real soon as I am sure I have no desire to flaunt my penance in the face of the Richmond public. Don't you think, Douglas, that I might have the fifty-nine cents that is in the bank so things will balance better, and with fifty-nine cents I can get three pair of sixteen-and-two-third-cent stockings? I'll bring back the nine cents change." Helen was quite solemn in her request, but Douglas was forced to laugh at her lugubrious countenance. "Yes, dear, if you really feel so strongly about the cotton stockings. Haven't you any money at all in your purse? I have a little, I believe." "Well, I never thought of that! Sure I have!" and Helen sprang out of bed, where they were still lolling while the above conversation was going on, and hunted wildly in a very much mussed drawer for her silver mesh bag. "Hurrah! Three paper dollars and a pile of chicken feed silver! I can get cotton stockings for a centipede with that much money." It was a very pretty room that Douglas and Helen Carter shared. Robert Carter had brought to bear all the experience he had gained in building other persons' houses to make his own house perfect. It was not a very large house but every detail had been thought out so not one brick was amiss. Convenience and Beauty were not sacrificed to one another but went hand in hand. The girls loved their room with its dainty pink paper and egg-shell paint. They had not been in the house long enough for the novelty to wear off, as it was only about a year old. As Douglas lay in her luxurious bed while Helen, being up in search of money, took first bath, she thought of the bitterness of having strangers occupy their room. How often she had lain in that soft, comfortable nest and fancied that it must be like the heart of a pink rose. And the charming private bath-room must be given up, too. She could hear Helen splashing away, evidently enjoying her morning shower as she was singing with many trills and folderols, trying seemingly to hear herself above the noise of the running water. "Poor Helen!" thought Douglas. "It is harder, somehow, for her than any of us. Lucy is young enough to learn the new trick of being poor very easily, and Nan is such a philosopher; and dear little Bobby won't see the difference just so he can have plenty of mud to play in; and I--oh, well--I have got so much to do I can't think about myself--I must get up and do it, too. Here I am selfishly lying in bed when I know Nan and Lucy want to hear the news from Father just as much as I did." So, slipping on a kimono, she ran into the room across the hall, shared by the two younger girls. They were up and almost dressed. "Lucy and I thought maybe we could help, so we hurried. I know you've lots to do," said Nan. "That was dear of you both. Of course we won't have so much to do right now, as we have to wait for Dr. Wright to come home; and then if we can rent the house furnished, we must get everything in order. But first listen to the good news!" and she read the telegram. "Isn't that splendid and wasn't it kind of Dr. Wright to send it to you?" "I think so. If only Helen would not feel so unkindly to him! She utterly refuses to like him," and Douglas sighed. "I don't intend to like him either, then!" exclaimed Lucy. "He shan't boss me if he isn't going to boss Helen." "How absurd you are," laughed Nan. "You are so afraid that Helen will get something you don't have that you won't even let her have a private little dislike without wanting to have some, too. I bet if Helen got the smallpox you would think yourself abused if you didn't get it, too." "And in your heart of hearts you know you do like him," said Douglas with a severity that she felt such silliness warranted. "Well, if I do--and--and--maybe I do, I'm not going to take anything off of him that Helen won't." "Well, I reckon Dr. Wright will be glad to wash his hands of us, anyhow," said Nan. "I can't see that it would be any sweet boon to look after you and Helen or any of us, for that matter." "I should think not," laughed Douglas; "but you see his having power of attorney from Father makes it necessary for us to consult with him about some things, selling the automobile, for instance, and renting the house." "Selling the car!" wailed Lucy. "I think it is foolishness to do that. I'd like to know how you are to occupy Dan, the chauffeur, if we haven't a car to keep him busy." "Oh, you incorrigible girls! Of course we will have to let the chauffeur go immediately; and I've got to tell the servants to-day that we can't keep them. I'll give them all a week's warning, of course." "I understand all that," said Nan, "so please don't bunch me in with the incorrigibles." "But, Douglas, Oscar has been with us since long before we were born. I don't see how you can have the heart to dismiss him," and Lucy looked resentfully at her older sister. "Heart! I haven't the heart to let any of them go, but it would be a great deal more heartless to have them work for us with no money to pay them with." "Now, Lucy Carter, you've pretty near made Douglas cry. You sound like a half-wit to me. Heartless, indeed! If you had half of Douglas's heart and one-fourth of her sense, you wouldn't make such remarks," and Nan put her arms around Douglas. "No, she didn't make me cry, but what does make me feel bad is that Lucy and Helen can't even now realize the state of affairs. I hated to have to tell Helen she mustn't charge anything more, no matter what it is she wants." "Charge! I should say not! I think I would walk on my uppers all the rest of my life before I'd put any more burden like that on Father," declared Nan. "But don't people always charge when they haven't got any money? What will we do when we need things?" asked Lucy. "Do without," said Douglas wearily. She saw it was going to take more than a few hours or a few days to make two of her sisters realize the necessity for reconstruction of their lives. "Helen and I are going right after breakfast to see real estate agents about getting us a tenant, and Helen is going to purchase some cotton stockings. She still persists in sticking to the letter of her oath not to wear silk stockings until Daddy is home and well." "I'm going to wear cotton stockings, too, if Helen is." "So you are, so are all of us, but we are going to keep on with the ones we have until we go to the country. Helen is spending her own money, some she had, on these stockings and no one is buying them for her," and Douglas went back to her room to dress and take up the burden of the day that was beginning to seem very heavy to her young shoulders. "If only Helen and Lucy could see without being knocked down and made to see," she thought. "Poor Father, if he had only not been so unselfish how much better it would have been for all of us now that we have got to face life!" True to their determination, Douglas and Helen went to several real estate agents. None of them were very encouraging about renting during the summer months to reliable tenants, but all of them promised to keep an eye open for the young ladies. "Your father gone off sick?" asked one fatherly old agent. "Well, I saw him going to pieces. Why, Robert Carter did the work of three men. Just look at the small office force he kept and the work he turned out! That meant somebody did the drudgery, and that somebody was the boss. What do the fellows in his office think of this?" "I--I--don't know," stammered Douglas. She couldn't let the kind old man know that she had not even thought of informing the office of her father's departure. How could she think of everything? Before seeing any more agents, she and Helen betook themselves to their father's office, a breezy apartment at the top of a great bank building. Two young men were busily engaged on some architectural drawings. They stopped work and came eagerly forward to inquire for Mr. Carter. Their consternation was great on hearing of his sudden departure and their grief and concern very evident. "We will do all we can to keep things going," said the elder of the two. "You bet we will!" from the other, who had but recently been advanced from office boy. "There is a big thing Mr. Carter has been working on for some time, a competitive design for a country club in North Carolina. It is about done and I will do my best to finish it as I think he would want it, and get it off. Did he leave power of attorney with any one? You see, Mr. Carter has two accounts, in different banks, one, his personal account, and one, his business one." "Yes, Dr. Wright, his physician, was given power of attorney. There was no time to let any of you know as it was important to have Father kept very quiet, with no excitement. Dr. Wright will come in to see you on Monday, I feel sure. He does not get back from New York until to-night." "More work and responsibility for the doctor," thought Douglas. "More power over us than we dreamed even," was in Helen's mind. "We want to rent our house, furnished, for the summer, giving possession immediately, or almost immediately," continued Douglas; "perhaps you may hear of some one who will be interested." "I know of some one right now," eagerly put in Dick, the promoted office boy. "It is a family who have been driven from Paris by the war. They have been living there for years--got oodlums of money and no place to spend it now, poor things! They want a furnished house for six months with privilege of renewing the lease for a year." "Oh, please, could you send them to me or me to them right off?" "Yes, Miss Carter, that's easy! If you go home, I'll have the folks up there in an hour." "How kind you are!" "Not a bit of it! I'm so glad I happened to know about them--and now you will be saved an agent's fee." "How much do you think we should ask for our house?" said Douglas, appealing to both young men. "Well, that house is as good a one as there is in Richmond for its size," said Mr. Lane, the elder. "I know, because I helped on it. There is not one piece of defective material in the whole building. Even the nails were inspected. If it had been on Franklin Street, I'd say one hundred a month, unfurnished, with all the baths it has in it; but since it is not on Franklin, I believe one hundred, furnished, would be a fair price." "Oh, wouldn't that be fine, Douglas?" spoke Helen for the first time. She had been very quiet while these business conferences had been going on. "That will be a whole lot of money. Now we need not feel so poverty stricken." "Certainly families do live on less," and the young man smiled. "I think Mr. Carter usually takes out about six hundred a month for his household expenses--of course, that's not counting when he buys a car. I know it is none of my business, but I am very much interested to know what you young ladies are going to do with yourselves. If I can be of any assistance, you must call on me." "Oh, we've got the grandest scheme! I thought of it myself, so I am vastly proud of it. We are going up to Albemarle County, where Father owns a tract of land right on the side of a mountain, and there we are going to spend the summer and take boarders and expect to make a whole lot of money." "Take boarders? Is there a house there? I understood from Mr. Carter that it was unimproved property." "So it is. That is the beauty of it. We intend to camp and all the boarders will camp, too." The young men could not contain themselves but burst out laughing. They had not seen much of their employer's family but they well knew the luxurious lives they lived and their helplessness. It was funny to hear this pretty butterfly of a girl talking about taking boarders and making money at it. "It does sound funny," said Douglas when the laugh in which she and Helen had joined subsided, "but we are really going to do it--that is, I think we are," remembering that the Power of Attorney had not yet been consulted and nothing could really be determined on until then. "I don't know about our making lots of money, but we can certainly live much more cheaply camping than any other way." "That's so!" agreed Mr. Lane. "Now maybe this is where Dick and I can help. Camps have to be built and we can get up some plans for you. There is a book of them just issued and we can get a working plan for you in short order." "That is splendid. We have a cousin, Lewis Somerville, who is home now and has nothing to do, and he is going up to Albemarle ahead of us and build the camp. I'll tell him to come down and see you and you can tell him all about it." Then the girls, with many expressions of gratitude, hastened home to prepare for the poor rich people who had been driven from Paris and now had no place to spend their money. They stopped on Broad Street long enough for Helen to spend one of her precious dollars for six sixteen-and-two-third-cent stockings. "Do you think it would be very extravagant if I spent a dime in market for flowers?" asked Helen. "It would make the house look more cheerful and might make the poor rich people like it better." "Why, no, I don't think that would be very extravagant," laughed Douglas. So they went over to the Sixth Street market, where the old colored women sit along the side-walk, and purchased a gay bunch of wild phlox for a dime. And then Helen could not resist squandering another nickel for a branch of dogwood. They jitneyed home, another extravagance. There was no tangible reason why they should not have ordered out their own car for this business trip they had been forced to take, but it had seemed to both of them a little incongruous to ride in a seven-seated touring car on the mission they had undertaken. "It doesn't gee with cotton stockings, somehow," declared Helen, "to step out of a good car like ours. Jitneys are much more in keeping." The exiles from Paris came with the faithful Dick; liked the house; did not mind the price, although furnished houses during the summer months are somewhat a drug in the real estate market; and were ready to close the bargain just as soon as Dr. Wright should return. The son, an æsthetic looking youth of seventeen, who was Dick's acquaintance, was carried away with the wild phlox and went into ecstasies over the branch of dogwood which Helen had placed near a Japanese print in the library. "Let's take it, Mamma! It is perfect!" he exclaimed as he stood enraptured by the effect. Helen always declared that the market flowers rented the house, and so they may have. CHAPTER VII. A COINCIDENCE. "Almost time for Dr. Wright!" exclaimed Douglas. "I believe I heard the R. F. & P. stop at Elba. I do wonder what he is going to say." "He is going to say we are a set of fools and lunatics and refuse to let us have any money to start the camp. Since we have been so extravagant and selfish for all these years, he'll think we ought to go to the poor house, where we belong," said Helen, frowning. "I can see him now looking through his eyebrows at me with the expression of a hairy wildman in a show." Dr. Wright came with good news of the travelers. He had not only seen them safely on board but had sailed with them, coming back with the pilot. He reported Mr. Carter as singularly calm and rested already and Mrs. Carter as making an excellent nurse. Evidently he was rather astonished that that poor lady could make herself useful, and Helen, detecting his astonishment, was immediately on the defensive; but as Dr. Wright was addressing his remarks principally to Douglas, almost ignoring her, she had no chance to let him know what she thought of his daring even to think slightingly of poor little Mumsy. "I have a scheme for you girls, too, if you won't think I am presumptuous to be making suggestions," he said, now including all four of the sisters. Of course, Douglas and Nan assured him that they considered it very kind of him to think of them at all, but Helen tossed her head and said nothing. Lucy waited to see what Helen would do and did the same thing, but she could not help smiling at the young doctor when he laughed out-right at her ridiculous mimicry of Helen. He flushed, however, showing he was not quite so callous to Helen's scorn and distrust as he would have liked to appear. "I think the wisest thing for you to do would be to rent this house, furnished, if you can find a tenant----" "We've done it!" exclaimed Helen triumphantly. "That is, we have got a tenant if you think it is best," explained Douglas. "We were going to do nothing without your approval." "Oh, come now! I have no jurisdiction over you," laughed the young man. "Isn't power of attorney jurisdiction?" asked Lucy. "Nan says I can't have any more stockings until you permit me." "Well, well! I must be a terrible bugaboo to you! I don't feel at all qualified to judge of your stockings, little girl, or anything else pertaining to the female attire. It was the merest accident that I was given power of attorney. I am not in the least an appropriate person to be having it. I only consented to have it wished on me when I saw your father was becoming excited and tired over the unexpected hitch when the notary spoke of Miss Douglas's not being of age. I have transferred what cash your father has to your sister's account. I must find out from you whom you want to look after your affairs and consult that person----" "But, Dr. Wright, we would lots rather have you, if you don't mind!" exclaimed Douglas. "Any of our kinsmen that we might call on would insist upon our coming to live with them or make us go to some stuffy boarding house or something. They would not look at it as I believe you would at all. We have a scheme, too, but we want to hear yours first." "My scheme was, as I say, first to rent your house, furnished, and then all of you, with some suitable older person and some man whom you can trust, go and camp out on the side of the mountain in Albemarle. What do you say to it?" The girls burst out laughing, even Helen. "Dr. Wright, this is absolutely uncanny!" exclaimed Douglas. "That is exactly what we were planning!" "Only we were going you some better and were to have boarders," drawled Nan. "Boarders, eh, and what do you know about keeping boarders?" laughed the doctor. "We know enough not to do the way we have been done by at summer boarding houses where we have been sometimes." "Well, all I can say is that I think you are a pretty spunky lot. Please tell me which one of you thought up this plan. There must surely have been a current of mental telepathy flowing from one of you girls to me. It was you, I fancy, Miss Douglas." "No, I am never so quick to see a way out. It was Helen." "Yes, Helen thought of it, but I came mighty near doing it," declared Lucy. "I would have done it all the way but I went to sleep." Helen looked as though she did not at all relish having anything even so intangible as a current of mental telepathy connecting her with one whom she was still determined to look upon as an enemy. He was gazing at her with anything but the eyes of an enemy, however, and Nan's remark about his eyes looking like blue flowers high up on a cliff that you must climb to reach, came back to her. She felt that those flowers were in easy reach for her now; that all she had to do to make this rugged young man her friend was to be decently polite. But her pride was still hurt from his former disapproval and while his present attitude was much better, she still could not bring herself to smile at him. She was very quiet while the other girls unfolded their plans for the camp. She did not take so much pleasure in it now that it was not altogether her scheme. To think that while she was working it up this bumptious young doctor was doing the same thing! "The keeping boarders part of it was mine, though," she comforted herself by thinking. Dr. Wright was really astonished by the quickness with which these spoiled girls had acted and their eagerness to begin to be something besides the butterflies they had seemed. Douglas told him of the plans for the camp that the assistant in the office was to draw for them, and then showed him some of the advertisements of their boarding camp that Nan had been working on all day. "This is sure to draw a crowd of eager week-enders," he declared. "In fact, I believe you will have more boarders than the mountain will hold." "I thought it best to have kind of catchy ads that would make people wonder what we were up to anyhow," said Nan. "Now this one is sure to draw a crowd: 'A week-end boarding camp, where one can have all of the discomforts of camping without the responsibility.' Here is another: 'Mountain air makes you hungry! Come to The Week-End Camp and let us feed you.'" "Fine!" laughed the young man. "But please tell me how you plan to feed the hungry hordes that are sure to swarm to your camp. Do you know how to cook?" "Helen can make angel's food and I know how to make mayonnaise, but sometimes it goes back on me," said Nan with the whimsical air that always drew a smile from Dr. Wright. "I can make angel's food, too," declared Lucy. "Well, angel's food and mayonnaise will be enough surely for hungry hordes." "Of course, we are going to take some servants with us," said Helen, breaking the vow of silence that she was trying to keep in Dr. Wright's presence. "Old Oscar, our butler, and Susan, the housemaid, have both volunteered to go. I can make more things than angel's food, and, besides, I am going to learn how to do all kinds of things before we go." "That's so, you can make devil's food," teased Nan. "Somehow I didn't like to mention it." "Cook is going to teach me to make all kinds of things. I am going to get dinner to-morrow and have already made up bread for breakfast. I am going to buy some of the cutest little bungalow aprons to cook in, pink and blue. I saw them down town this morning. They are what made me think of learning how to cook." "I'm going to learn how to cook, too, and I must have some aprons just like Helen's." "All of us are Camp Fire Girls," said Douglas to the doctor, "and of course we have learned some of the camping stunts, but we have not been as faithful as we might have been." "I am an old camper and can put you on to many things if you will let me." "We should be only too glad," responded Douglas sincerely. "One of the first things is canvas cots. Don't try to sleep on all kinds of contrived beds. Get folding cots and insure comfortable nights. Another is, don't depend altogether on camp fires for cooking. Kerosene stoves and fireless cookers come in mighty handy for steady meal getting. It will be another month at least before you go, won't it?" "Just about, I think, if we can manage it. We have school to finish and I have some college exams that I want to take, although I see no prospect of college yet. Another thing I want to discuss with you, Dr. Wright, is selling our car. I think that might bring in money enough for us to pay for all the camp fixtures and run us for awhile." "Certainly; I'll see about that for you immediately." The young man took his departure with a much higher opinion of the Carter sisters than he had held twenty-four hours before. As for the Carter sisters: they felt so grateful to him for his kindness to their parents and to them that their opinion of him was perforce good. Helen still sniffed disdainfully when his name was mentioned, but she could not forget the expression of approval in his blue eyes when he found that the camping scheme was hers. CHAPTER VIII. GWEN. Bill Tinsley was as keen on the camp building plan as Lewis Somerville had said he would be. "Sleeping on my arms," was his telegram in answer to the letter he got from Lewis, a letter with R. S. V. P. P. D. Q. plainly marked on the envelope. "Good old Bill! I almost knew he would tumble at the chance. All of you will like Bill, I know." "What does he mean by sleeping on his arms?" asked Lucy. "I should think it would make him awfully stiff." "Oh, that means ready to go at a moment's notice. I bet his kit is packed now." Mr. Lane and Dick had worked hard on the plans for the camp and had them ready when the would-be builder called for them. Then Mr. Lane and Lewis made a flying trip to Greendale to look into the lay of the land and to decide on a site for the dining pavilion. It was a spot about one hundred yards from the log cabin, built by the aforesaid sick Englishman, that seemed to them to be intended for just their purpose. It was a hollowed out place in the mountain side, not far from the summit, and four great pine trees formed an almost perfect rectangle of forty by twenty-five feet. In the centre stood a noble tulip poplar. "Pity to sacrifice him," said Bill Tinsley, whom they had picked up at Charlottesville on their way to Greendale. Bill was a youth of few words but of frequent mirth expressed in uncontrollable fits of laughter that nothing could stop, not even being shipped from West Point. It was this very laugh that had betrayed the hazers. If Bill had only been able to hold in that guffaw of his they would never have been caught. His laugh was unmistakable and through it the whole crowd of wrongdoers was nabbed, poor Lewis along with them although he was innocent. "No more to blame for laughing than a lightning bug for shining," he had declared to Lewis; "but I wish I had died before I got you into this, old fellow." "Well, it can't be helped, but I bet you will be laughing on the other side of your face before you know it." The youths had remained fast friends and now that this chance had come for them to be of service and to use the surplus energy that was stored up in their splendidly developed muscles, they were happy at the prospect of being together again. Mr. Lane took careful measurements and adapted his plans so as to utilize the four trees as natural posts and the great tulip poplar as a support for the roof. Under the pavilion the space was to be made into kitchen and store room. Some little excavating would be necessary for this as measurements showed that one edge of the pavilion would rest almost on the mountain side while the other stood ten feet from the ground. "I am trying to spare you fellows all the excavating possible, as that is the tedious and uninteresting part of building," explained Mr. Lane. "Oh, we can shovel that little pile of dirt away in no time," declared Lewis, feeling his muscles twitch with joy at the prospect of removing mountains. Mr. Lane smiled, knowing full well that it was at least no mole hill they were to tackle. Within a week after Mr. and Mrs. Carter had sailed on their health-seeking voyage, Lewis and his chum were _en route_ for Greendale, all of the lumber for their undertaking ordered and their tools sent on ahead by freight. Bill had gone to Richmond, ostensibly to consult a dentist, but in reality to see the Carter girls, who had aroused in him a great curiosity. "They must be some girls," had been his laconic remark. "So they are, the very best fun you ever saw," Lewis had assured him. "They took this thing of waking up and finding themselves poor a great deal better than you and I did waking up and finding ourselves nothing but civilians when we had expected to be major generals, at least." The Carter girls had one and all liked Bill, when Lewis took him to call on them the evening of his arrival in Richmond. "There is something so frank and open in his countenance," said Helen. "His mouth!" drawled Nan. "Did you ever see or hear such a laugh?" "He is a great deal nicer than your old Dr. Wright, who looks as though it would take an operation on his risibles to get a laugh out of him." Bill had offered the services of a battered Ford car he had in Charlottesville as pack mule for the camp and it was joyfully accepted. He and Lewis stopped in Charlottesville on their way to Greendale and got the tried old car, making the last leg of their trip in it. They had decided to sleep in the Englishman's cabin, as the little log house that went with the property was always called, but Miss Somerville had made them promise to burn sulphur candles before they went in and was deeply grieved because her beloved nephew refused to carry with him a quart bottle of crude carbolic acid that she felt was necessary to ward off germs. It was late in the afternoon as the faithful Ford chugged its way up the mountain road to the site of the proposed camp. The boys had stopped at the station at Greendale and taken in all the tools they could stow away, determined to begin work at excavating the first thing in the morning. "Let's lay out the ground this afternoon," proposed Lewis. "There's nothing to lay out since the four pine trees mark the corners. I, for one, am going to lay out myself and rest and try to decide which one of your cousins is the most beautiful." "Douglas, of course! The others can't hold a candle to her, although Helen is some looker and Nan has certainly got something about her that makes a fellow kind of blink. And that Lucy is going to grow up to her long legs some day and maybe step ahead of all of them." "Well, I'm mighty glad you thought about giving me this job of working for such nice gals." These young men always spoke of themselves as being in the employ of the Carter girls, and all the time they were building the camp they religiously kept themselves to certain hours as though any laxity would be cheating their bosses. Besides, the regular habits that two years at West Point had drilled into them would have been difficult to break. "I don't know how to loaf," complained Lewis. "That's the dickens of it." "Me, neither!" "They say the Government makes machines of its men." "True! I am a perpetual motion machine." They were busily engaged on their first morning in the mountains, plying pick and shovel. They bent their brave young shoulders to the task with evident enjoyment in the work. When they did straighten up to get the kinks out of their backs, they looked out across a wonderful country which they fully appreciated as being wonderful, but raving about landscapes and Nature was not in their line and they would quickly bend again to the task in a somewhat shamefaced way. The orchards of Albemarle County in Virginia are noted and the green of an apple tree in May is something no one need be ashamed to admire openly, but all these boys would say on the subject was: "Good apple year, I hope." "Yep! Albemarle pippins are sho' good eats." Moving mountains was not quite so easy as they had expected it to be. They remembered what Mr. Lane had said about excavating when the sun showed it to be high noon and after five hours' steady work they had made but little impression on the pile they were to dig away. "Gee, we make no impression at all!" said Lewis. "I verily believe little Bobby Carter could have done as much as we have if he had been turned loose to play mud pies here." "Well, let's stop and eat. I haven't laughed for an hour," and Bill gave out one of his guffaws that echoed from peak to peak and started two rabbits out of the bushes and actually dislodged a great stone that went rolling down the side of the mountain into an abyss below. At least, his laugh seemed to be the cause but Bill declared it was somebody or something, and to be sure a little mountain boy came from behind a boulder, grinning from ear to ear. "What be you uns a-doin'?" "Crocheting a shawl for Aunty," said Lewis solemnly. "Well, we uns is got a mule an' a scoop that could make a shawl fer Aunty quicker'n you uns." This brought forth another mighty peal from Bill and another stone rolled down the mountain side. "Good for you, son!" exclaimed Lewis. "Suppose you fetch the mule here this afternoon and we'll have a sewing bee. What do you say, Bill? Do you believe we would ever in the world get this dirt moved?" "Doubt it." "Do you uns want we uns to drive the critter? We uns mostly goes along 'thout no axtra chawge." "Sure we want you. What do you charge for the mule and driver?" "Wal, time was when Josephus brought as much as fifty cents a day, but he ain't to say so spry as onct, an' now we uns will be satisfied to git thirty cents, with a feedin' of oats." "Oats! Who has oats? Not I. The only critter we have eats gasoline. I tell you, son, you feed Josephus yourself and we will feed you and pay you fifty cents a day for your animal. I don't believe a mule could work for thirty cents and keep his self-respect." "Wal, Josephus an' we uns don't want no money what we uns don' arn," and the little mountain boy flushed a dark red under his sunburned, freckled face. He was a very ragged youngster of about twelve. His clothes smacked of the soil to such an extent that you could never have told what was their original color. What sleeves there were left in his shirt certainly must once have been blue, but the body of that garment showed spots of candy pink calico, the kind you are sure to find on the shelves of any country store. His trousers, held up by twine, crossed over his wiry shoulders, were corduroy. They had originally been the color of the earth and time and weather had but deepened their tone. His eyes shone out very clear and blue in contrast to the general dinginess of his attire. His was certainly a very likable face and the young men were very much attracted to the boy, first because of his ready wit, shown from his first words, and then because of his quick resentment at the possibility of any one's giving him or his mule money they had not earned. "Of course, you are going to earn it," reassured Lewis. "Now you go home and get your mule and as soon as we can cook some dinner for ourselves and satisfy our inner cravings, we will all get to work. You and Josephus can dig and Bill and I will begin to build." "Please, sir, wouldn't you uns like Gwen to cook for you uns and wash the platters an' sich? She is a great han' at fixin's." "Gwen! Who is Gwen?" Another stone slipped from behind the boulder from which the boy had emerged and then a young girl came timidly forth. "I am Gwen," she said simply. She was a girl of about fourteen, very slim and straight, with wide grey eyes that looked very frankly into those of the young men, although you felt a timidity in spite of her directness. Her scant blue dress was clean and whole and her brown hair was parted and braided in two long plaits, showing much care and brushing. "Oh, how do you do, Miss Gwen? I am Lewis Somerville and this is my friend and fellow laborer, Mr. William Tinsley." The girl made a little old-fashioned courtesy with a quaint grace that charmed the laborers. "Do you want me to cook and clean for you?" "Of course we do! What can you cook?" "I have learned to cook some very good dishes at the Mountain Mission School. Maybe you would not like them, though." "Of course we would like them! When can you start?" "When you wish!" "Well, I wish now," put in Bill. "I never tasted meaner coffee than you made last night except what I made myself this morning, and as for your method of broiling bacon--rotten--rotten!" The girl followed Lewis to the Englishman's cabin and after being shown the provisions, she said she thought she could manage to get dinner without his assistance. He showed her how to light the hard alcohol stove which was part of their outfit and then gave her carte blanche with the canned goods and groceries. Gwen shook her head in disapproval at sight of the pile of dirty dishes left from breakfast. It would take more than West Point training to make men wash dishes as soon as a meal is over. Lewis and Bill had a method of their own and never washed a plate until both sides had been eaten from, and not then until they were needed immediately. Supper had been eaten from the top side; breakfast, from the bottom. There were still some clean plates in the hamper, so why wash those yet? In an incredibly short time Gwen called the young men to dinner. They lay stretched at their ease on a grassy slope near the cabin, quite pleased with themselves and their luck in having found a mule to move the dirt and a girl to cook their food all in one morning. "What do you make of her?" asked Lewis. "She doesn't talk or walk like a mountain girl." "Mission School!" commented Bill, looking at the slim, erect back of the girl as she went up the hill to the spring. She had refused their offer of help and said she wanted to get the water herself. "I don't believe Mission School would have her walking that way. Don't you fancy the boy goes to school, too? Look how he slouches." Just then the boy, whose name was Josh, appeared, leading Josephus. Surely there never was such a specimen of horse flesh as that mule. Maud in the comic supplement was beautiful compared to him. His legs had great lumps on them and he was forced to walk with his feet quite far apart to keep from interfering. He was sway backed and spavined and blind in one eye, but there was a kindly expression in his remaining eye that reassured one. One fore leg was shorter than the other, which gave him a leaning, tumbling look that seemed to threaten to upset his equilibrium at every step. "Well, God bless my soul!" exclaimed Lewis. "Is that Josephus?" "Yes, sir! He ain't so measly as he looks. He kin do a sight of scrapin' an' dumpin'," and the boy reached an affectionate arm up around the old animal's neck. Josephus responded by snorting in his master's ear. "We uns done brought the implee-ment to make Aunty's shawl," pointing to a rusty old road shovel that Josephus had hitched to him. "Good! as soon as Miss Gwen feeds us, we will see what he can do in the way of fancy work." Gwen was a born cook and the domestic science that had been so ably taught in the Mission School had developed her talent wonderfully. She had turned up two empty boxes and smoothed some wrapping paper over them. A bunch of mountain laurel glorified an old soup can and made a beautiful centre piece. The coffee was hot and clear and strong; the hoecake brown and crisp on the outside and soft and creamy within, just as a hoecake should be; the bacon vied with the hoecake in crispness, with no pieces limp and none burned. She had opened a can of baked beans and another of spaghetti, carefully following the directions on the cans as how to serve the contents. "Well, don't this beat all?" said Bill as he sank down by the improvised table. "But you must come and eat with us, you and Josh," insisted Lewis. "Oh, no, the table isn't big enough, and, besides, I must go on baking hoecakes." "Well, Josh, you come, anyhow." "No, sir, thanky! We uns will wait for Gwen. We uns ain't fitten to sit down with the likes of you uns, all dirty with we uns' meat a-stickin' through the rags." "Nonsense!" exclaimed Lewis, "if you are fit to sit with Miss Gwen, you are fit to sit with us. We don't mind your meat sticking through, and as for being dirty--why don't you wash?" Gwen gave a laugh of delight. "There now, Josh, what do I tell you all the time? Rags don't make a bit of difference if you are just clean." "Wal, we uns'll eat with Josephus if we uns has to wash. This ain't no time of the week for washin'." But while the young men were enjoying the very appetizing food, Josh did sneak off to the stream and came back with his face and hands several shades fairer. That afternoon was a busy one for all on that mountain side. Gwen gave the cabin a thorough cleaning, washed all the dishes and put papers on the shelves that were already in the cabin, unpacked the provisions and placed them with the dishes neatly on the shelves and in the old cupboard that still stood in the corner, left there by the Englishman. She went back to her home for yeast and made up a sponge, planning to have hot rolls for breakfast. Josephus showed the mettle of his pasture by scraping and dumping about three times as much dirt in an hour as the two West Pointers had been able to move in a whole morning's work. Josh did very spirited driving, pretending all the time that his steed had to be handled very carefully or he would run away, road-shovel and all. "How did your mule happen to have one leg shorter than the other?" teased Lewis. "Wal, that's a mounting leg. He got that walkin' round the mounting. All critters in the mountings is built that a way. Ain't you an' Mr. Bill there a-planning that there buildin' after we unses' mule, with short legs up the hill an' long legs down?" Bill almost fell out of the poplar tree where he had climbed to saw off limbs for twenty feet or more. He laughed so loud and long at the way Josh had gotten ahead of his friend in repartee that Gwen came out of the cabin to see what was the matter. Bill's laugh was a very disconcerting thing until you got used to him. That first day showed much accomplished. The excavating was half done; the post holes were dug and logs cut and trimmed and planted ready for the beams. A load of lumber arrived before sundown and that meant no delay in the to-morrow's work. Six o'clock found them very tired and hungry but Gwen had supper all ready for them, a great dish of scrambled eggs and flannel cakes. She had brought from home a pitcher of milk that stayed delightfully cool in the mountain spring. "There'll be buttermilk to-morrow," she said, blushing with pleasure at the praise the young men bestowed on her culinary efforts. "Splendid and more splendid!" exclaimed Lewis. "And will you and your brother just come every day and take care of us?" "You mean Josh? He is not my brother." "Oh, cousin, then?" "No, he is no relation to me. I live with his mother, though, Aunt Mandy. I have lived with her for five years. I am very fond of Josh, but if he were my brother, I'd simply make him take baths." "Can't you anyhow as it is?" "No," sadly. "He thinks it is foolishness. Teacher has told him time and time again and even sent him home, five miles across the mountains, but he won't wash for her or for me. Aunt Mandy thinks it is foolishness, too, but she makes him bathe oftener than he used to in summer." "Boys will be boys and it is hard to make them anything else. I remember the time well when bathing was something that I thought grown-ups wished on me just for spite, and now a cold shower every morning is as necessary to my happiness as dirt used to be when I was a kid. Bill and I are going to pipe from the spring up there and concoct a shower somehow under the pavilion." "That will be glorious. Father always meant to use that spring and get a shower at the cabin." "Your father!" "Yes, my father was the man who built the Englishman's cabin. He died five years ago." "Gee whilikins! Now I understand!" CHAPTER IX. SOME LETTERS. From Lewis Somerville to Douglas Carter. Greendale, Va., May --, 19--. Dear Douglas: Bill and I are coming on finely. Already the noble palace is rearing its head. We've got the posts planted and the uprights and rafters in place and will begin on the roof to-morrow. Bill is a perfect glutton for work. Speaking of gluttons--we've got a cook. A perfect gem of a cook who has been born and bred at Lonesomehurst and doesn't mind the country. We are going to hang on to her like grim Death to a dead nigger. The funny thing about her is she is a real lady. I spotted it from the beginning from a certain way she had with her. She is only fourteen and her father, who, by the way, was the Englishman who built this cabin and used to own the side of the mountain, has been dead five years; but before he died this child evidently learned to eat with a fork and to take a daily bath and to keep her hair smooth. She handles the King's English with the same respect and grace she does a fork, and her speech is very marked because of the contrast between it and the we uns and you uns and you allses of the ordinary mountaineer. She has lived ever since her father's death with Aunt Mandy, a regular old mountain character who looks as though she might have stepped out of one of John Fox's books. She is the same back and front, concave both ways--slightly more convex in the back than the front. She stands a good six feet in her stocking feet (although I doubt her ever having on a pair). I have never seen her without a snuff stick in her mouth except once and then she had a corn-cob pipe. She is as sharp as a tack and woe be to the one who engages her in a contest of wit. Josh is her son and Josephus her mule. Mr. Mandy is dead, and Aunt Mandy and Josh, who is twelve, I think, have scratched a living out of their "clarin'" with the help of Josephus, who is as much of a character as Aunt Mandy and Josh. When the Englishman died, Aunt Mandy took the little orphan Gwendolin to her house, never dreaming that there was anything for her to do but take her. She has been as good as gold to the girl and shared her corn pone and drippings with a heart of charity. Gwen is surely making up to her now for all her kindness as she does all the housework for her foster mother and all kinds of sewing and knitting, which she sells to the summer boarders down at the hotel at Greendale. I am crazy to engage Gwen and Josh for you girls but am afraid of butting in on your arrangements. Josh is delicious. He did not learn to wash from an English father nor to handle a fork, nor yet to speak the King's English--but good old Aunt Mandy has endowed him plentifully with a keen wit and as good and kind a heart as she herself has. Maybe he does not speak the King's English but one thing sure: the King himself could not boast a finer sense of honor and pride. I have done one thing that may be butting in, but it seems to me to be so necessary that I am sure you will forgive me: I have had Josh and Josephus plow up a piece of land on top the mountain, where the Englishman once had a garden, and there I have planned to set out a lot of vegetables. It is late to start a garden but there are lots of things that will come in mighty handy for you when you have a camp full of boarders. This was Gwen's suggestion. Aunt Mandy and Josh are enlarging their garden with a hope of selling things to you and they are also planning to sell you milk. I say all right to that, provided Gwen does the milking, but I am sure if Josh does it, it will look like cocoa by the time we get it, no matter how much it is strained. He is certainly one dirty boy but I comfort myself with the thought that it is clean Mother Earth dirt, the kind Bobby gets on him, and, after all, that isn't so germy. We are having glorious weather and I do wish you girls could be here, but no doubt if you were, we would not eat up work quite so fast as we are doing now. We are enjoying ourselves greatly and are getting over our terrible disappointment. If Uncle Sam doesn't want us to soldier for him in times of peace we will show him what we are good for in times of war. I did think right seriously of enlisting with the Canadians and going over to help the Allies, but somehow I have a feeling I won't butt in on Europe's troubles but wait for one of our own which is sure to turn up sooner or later. In the meantime, thanks to you girls, we work so hard in the day time that when night comes there is nothing to do but sleep. I could sleep on a rock pile I am so tired, but instead of a rock pile, a nice canvas cot serves me very well. We have all kinds of schemes for comfort but I am not going to tell you of them as they may not pan out as we expect, and then if they do come right, we can surprise you with them. Bill sends his regards. He stayed awake for a little while one night trying to decide which one of you was the most beautiful, but as he had to give it up, he has lost no more sleep on the subject. One thing that makes us work so hard is that we feel that as soon as we get the place habitable you will come and inhabit. My love to the girls and Bobby. Tell him there is so much mischief he can get in up here, I know he is going to have the time of his life. Your devoted cousin, LEWIS SOMERVILLE. Miss Elizabeth Somerville to Lewis Somerville. Richmond, Va. My dear Nephew: Your letters have been most satisfactory and I am deeply grateful to you for writing so frequently and in such detail. I spent yesterday afternoon with the Carter girls and Douglas read me your last letter to her. I must say your description of the mountain woman and her son is far from pleasant. You are very much mistaken, germs do lurk in the earth. Tetanus and hookworm are both taken in directly from the earth, and meningitis is considered by some of the best authorities to be a product of rotting wood. Did the Englishman die of T. B.? If he did, no power on earth will make me sleep in that cabin. The daughter no doubt has inherited the disease from her parent and is this moment stirring the dread germ into your batter cakes. She sounds to be very industrious and efficient. Do not praise her too much but remember: "A new broom sweeps clean." Please find out from this girl what was the matter with her father. Did you burn the sulphur candles? The Carter's tenants take possession of their house next week and then all of the girls and that Bobby, who is certainly a living illustration of "Spare the rod and spoil the child," will come to me until it is time to go to the mountains. It will be quite a care for me, but I do not forget that my mother, your grandmother, was brought up in their grandfather's house. "Cast your bread upon the waters and after many days," etc. Old Cousin Robert Carter left no money but many debts, debts to himself just like this one that I owe him. Please let me know by return mail what was the matter with the Englishman and if he died of T. B.'s. Your devoted AUNT LIZZIE. Telegram from Lewis Somerville to his Aunt Lizzie. Englishman had melancholia and committed suicide. Lungs sound. LEWIS. From Douglas Carter to Lewis Somerville. Richmond, Va., May --, 19--. My dear Lewis: You don't know how we appreciate your kindness in going up to the mountains and working so hard for us. We feel as though we could never repay you and Mr. Tinsley for your kindness. Everything you have to say about the camp sounds delightful. As for your butting in--you know you couldn't do that. If you think Josh and the little English girl would be good ones to have for the Week-End Boarding Camp, why you just engage them. We are so inexperienced that sometimes I think we are perfectly crazy to undertake this thing, but then I think if the boarders don't like our ways they don't have to stay, and certainly one week-end would not kill them. They don't have to come back, either. Nan's funny ads have called forth all kinds of replies and already we have many applications for board. One woman wants us to take care of her six children as she wants to go to the war zone as Red Cross nurse. We had to turn that down as Bobby will be about all we can manage in the way of kids. She only wanted to pay two full boards for the six children as she declared their ages aggregated only thirty-seven, which would not be as much as two full grown persons. Some of our school friends are eager to go, and as Cousin Lizzie has a reputation for being a very strict chaperone, their mothers are willing. Mr. Lane and Dick, the two young men in Father's office, are both coming up when they can and they are going to send us some of their friends. While you have been working so hard, we, too, have not been idle. Of course, school has kept me very busy as I am anxious to take my exams and make all the points I can for college, whether I am to go next year or not. Helen has decided that her schooling just now is of very little importance since she has no idea of going in for college, so she has simply quit; but she is very busy, busier than any of us perhaps. She is learning all the cooking that our cook can teach her in the few days she is to be with us, and she has also joined a domestic science class at the Y. W. C. A. and has added jelly roll and chocolate pie to her list of culinary accomplishments. Dr. Wright made a splendid suggestion: that each one of us learns to cook a meal, a different menu for each girl. If we do that, we can change about and give the boarders some variety, and then the responsibility would not rest too heavily on any one of us. Nan and I are trying it and on Saturday I am to serve the family a dinner under cook's directions. Helen, of course, scorns Dr. Wright's suggestion and Lucy says she won't learn anything Helen won't. Susan, this housegirl who is to go with us, cannot cook at all, but we are to have her wash the dishes and make up beds, or cots, and set the tables, etc. Oscar will wait on the table and help with the dishes. We are looking out for a cook, but the trouble is good cooks are already cooking. This old woman who has been with us for years is weeping all the time because she is too afraid of snakes to go to the mountains. I have found her a good home and next week she leaves us. Oscar says he can cook but he has lived with us, as Lucy says, since before we were born, and no one has ever known of his so much as making a cup of tea or a piece of toast, and I am afraid that he has hid his light under a bushel for so long that it has perhaps gone out. We have sold the car and all debts are paid, and we have a tidy little sum to buy camping outfits and also provisions. Mr. Lane assures me that the store room will be large enough for a quantity of provisions, so we are ordering everything by the barrel, except pepper, of course. It saves a lot and Schmidt pays the freight. We already have a list as long as I am of things we have to get, and every day one of us thinks of more things. We are filled with admiration for you that you should have thought of a garden. Have you looked into the matter of chickens? I remember when we have boarded in the country chickens were what we and all the other boarders clamored for. I want to have fried chicken on my menu that I am to learn to cook, but they are so terribly high now in town that I shall have to put in a substitute and learn how to fry chickens when they get cheaper, which they will surely do later on. Dear Cousin Lizzie, who has been kindness itself, is to take us to her home after this week, where we will stay until we go to the mountains. It is so good of her to go with us. I just know she hates it and we must all of us try to make things as easy for her as possible. Will the cabin be comfortable? When the other things are freighted, I am going to send a little iron bed with a good mattress, also an easy chair for her to be comfortable in. Please remember me to Mr. Tinsley. All the girls send messages to both of you. Very sincerely, DOUGLAS CARTER. From Mrs. Carter to her children. My darling children: I am writing this on the steamer but expect to mail it at Bermuda. You are in my thoughts every moment, but my dreams of you are so sweet and peaceful that somehow I feel that you are all right. I know you are anxious about your beloved father and I am very happy to tell you that he is much better. It seems that every day puts new life in him. At first he lay so quiet and slept so much that a strange dread filled my heart. The young surgeon on board, who is a friend of Dr. Wright, assured me that sleep was the best thing for him, but while he slept, I would get so lonely that I could hardly stand it. I had time to think much of what a poor wife I have been to him and foolish mother to all of you. I have not worried him with my grievance against myself, however, and I am not going to worry you, but am going to be less selfish with him and may even be stricter with you. He lets me wait on him now and he thinks it is a great joke to lie still and ask me to bring water or to fill his pipe or do something equally easy. Sometimes he worries about his business, but I won't let him talk about it. He thinks he hasn't any money left, but of course I know that is nonsense. Dr. Wright told me he would look after you girls and see that you were well taken care of. As for money,--why, you don't need much cash and our credit at the shops is perfectly good, and you can get what you need. If you summer in the mountains, which is what Dr. Wright hinted you might do, you must all of you have plenty of little afternoon frocks. I hate to see girls at the springs wear the same clothes morning and afternoon. Don't be dowdy, I pray of you. You had better take Susan wherever you go so she can look after Bobby, who is too large for a nurse, I know, but who needs much attention. Susan can look after your clothes, too, and do up your lace collars and keep your boots cleaned. Keep the other servants in town on full pay and be sure that they have plenty of provisions. I think nothing is so horrid as the habit some persons have of letting servants shift for themselves while they are off enjoying themselves at the springs. I am hoping for letters when we land at Bermuda. I am hungry for news of all of you. Your poor father talks a great deal of you and wants to go over incidents of your childhood. He says he is relying on your good sense to keep you from harm until we return. We both of us liked Dr. Wright very much,--at least, your father liked him. I was too afraid of him to call it liking but I trusted him implicitly, and now that your father is so much better, I know that his treatment was exactly the right thing. This young surgeon on board says that Dr. Wright is one of the very finest young men in the profession and his friends expect great things of him. Our quarters are very comfortable and, strange to say, although the food is far from dainty, I am enjoying it very much. It is well cooked and everything is spotlessly clean. They have room for only thirty passengers on this boat as it is entirely given up to freight. This young surgeon has accepted a position on the boat so he can have time to do some writing he is deep in. It is a very lazy, peaceful life and somehow I feel that your father and I have always been on this boat and that all the rest of it is a dream--even my dear children are just dream children. I believe that is the state of mind that Dr. Wright wanted your father to attain. I think he has attained it, too. He worries less and less and will lie for hours in his deck chair watching the sailors at work, seemingly with no care in the world. Tell my dear little Bobby he must be very good and must mind all his sisters, even Lucy. There is no scrap of news too small to interest us and you must tell us what you are doing and all the doings of your friends. Give our kindest regards to all the servants and tell them I know they are taking good care of you in our absence. Good by, my darlings, Your MOTHER. Bobby to his father. richmond, vA. Dere farther? i am sho mising U. These here gurls is sech tickular feblemales they Dont let a feller git no durt on him atall. I is printin this my silf but arsker is tellin me how to spil them Few wourds what i aint come tow yit in my book, dr Right is awl right wich is a joak. he has reglar ingauged me as his shover to hole out my arum whin we gose Round cornders. also to set in his cyar an keep the big hudlams from Swipang it. They has bin mutch trubble in richmond latly becuze of swipars. They jes takes cyars and joy riders in them and leaves them in some Dish in the subbubs? whitch gose tow show they is jes half way bunglars or robers. Plese tell my muther that i aint never seed any lady yet what is so nice as she Is. I helped dr. Right mend a tior yestiddy. it war a puctuashun an speakin of them things I hope you and muther is noticing how i am a usin punctuashuns in my letter? sumtime i Am goin to make a joak to dr. Right bout that whin he runs over a broaken botle, i aint quiet sho how i will uze it but i can bring it in sumhow. Did you all no that we air po now! i is goin to dress in ovarawls and aint never goin to wash no more when onct we gits in the mauntings. they is a boy up there what never washis an lewis Somevil say they is a cow up thair what gives choclid. whineva that nice boy milks. Helen bernt her thum tryin to brile a stake an lucy had to bern hern to. boath of them bernt the stake awlso. Dugles saiz i have rit enuf but i still have mutch to tel. i am very good when i am a slep an when dr. Right lets me be his siztant. he is bout the nisest man i ever seed but helen saiz he looks like a man she can mak with a Hatchet. i done tole him what she saiz an he got right redd an sed he was bliged to my fare sister. I awlso tole helen what he sed an that wuz when she bernt her thum. No more from me at presence, bobbY. From Gwen to Teacher. Greendale, Va. May --, 19--. My dear Teacher: At first, I missed the school so much that I felt as though I could hardly stand to have you away for four long months. Now I am so busy that it is growing much easier for me. Even Josh says he misses you, too, but I think he is very happy in not having to bathe. I make him say some lessons to me every day and practice his penmanship. Some gentlemen from Richmond, the capital of the state, situated on the James, are now building a camp on the land that my father at one time owned. They have engaged Josh and me to serve in the capacity of cook and gardener. I, of course, am the cook. I find I can apply the knowledge that you have imparted to me at school, and the young gentlemen are very kind in praising my culinary efforts. I learned that word from Mr. Somerville who used it quite often and then I looked it up in my school dictionary and now have added it to my vocabulary. At first, I felt almost faint when I had to go in the cabin where Father and I used to live, but it was necessary if I was going to do anything for these young gentlemen, and now the horror of the cabin has passed from me. I believe I would not even mind being there at night, but Josh says he is afraid of haunts. Of course he expresses himself as "feard er hants." Josh distresses me because he will not try to speak proper English. He is so good except for not washing and saying we uns, etc. I try not to be critical of my surroundings, remembering as I ever must, how good Aunt Mandy and Josh have been to me, because even before Father died Aunt Mandy was the only woman I could remember who had ever been loving to me. I do wish they liked to wash more than they do, though. I try to keep Aunt Mandy's cabin clean and she likes it now that she does not have to do it herself. I set the table carefully, too, and she likes the flowers I put in the centre. I think Aunt Mandy would have been cultured if she had ever had the chance. She loves beautiful things like sunsets and distant mountains. I think Mr. Somerville and Mr. Bill Tinsley like beautiful things, too, but they are like Josh in some respects. I believe Josh would just as soon have some one see him cry as to come right out and say he was really admiring a view. These young gentlemen don't mind saying girls are pretty, in fact, they are quite frank about saying they are even beautiful and have long discussions about which young lady is the most beautiful of some sisters, the Misses Carter, who are coming up here to be the mistresses of this camp. I am very eagerly awaiting their arrival. I am to be employed regularly by them, so Mr. Somerville has just informed me, and I am going to make a great deal of money, enough to enable me to buy the books I need and have some warm clothes for next winter and to pay for my schooling. I appreciate the kindness of the Mission School in giving me my tuition so far, and now I am extremely happy that I will be able to pay something, and that will give the chance to some other child in the mountains to get an education. The young ladies are to give me ten dollars a month for four months. Don't you consider this a rare opportunity? Josh and Josephus are also employed by the month. I am afraid that my letter is composed in a stilted manner. You remember that is the complaint you have always made in my compositions, but I find it impossible to be free and easy in my writing. Very sincerely and affectionately, GWENDOLIN BROWN. CHAPTER X. OFF FOR THE MOUNTAINS. On the train at last and headed for the mountains! That month of preparation had been about the busiest in the lives of the Carter girls. Douglas had graduated at school and taken her examinations for college, besides being the head and guiding star of the family. Her father's burden seemed to have fallen on her young shoulders; everything was brought to her to decide. Helen was fully capable of taking the initiative but her extravagant tendencies were constantly cropping up, and Douglas was afraid to give her free rein for fear she would overturn them in a ditch of debt. The letter from their mother had been unfortunate in a measure since it had but strengthened Helen's ideas on what was suitable in the way of clothes. She wanted to plunge into the extravagance of outing suits and pig-skin shoes and all kinds of extremely attractive camping get-ups advertised in New York papers. Douglas was firm, however, and Helen was forced to content herself with a love of a corduroy skirt, cold gravy in color, with sport pockets and smoked pearl buttons. Lucy had pouted a whole day because she could not have one, too, just like it. Nan was a great comfort to Douglas as she was fully sensible of the importance of their not charging anything, no matter how small, so that when their father did recover he would not have debts awaiting him. The only trouble about Nan was she was so often in a dream, and her memory was not to be depended upon. With all the good intentions in the world she would forget to deliver a most important message, or would promise and mean to attend to something and then lose herself in a book of poetry and forget it absolutely. Lucy was gay and bright and very useful when it came to running errands. Her only trouble was the constant sparring with Helen, whom she secretly admired more than any one in the world. Master Bobby had spent a blissful month of "shoving" for Dr. Wright. Dr. Wright had a theory that all children were naturally good and that when they were seemingly naughty it was only because they were not sufficiently occupied. "Give the smallest child some real responsibility and he is sure to be worthy of it. If their brains and hands and feet are busy with something that they feel is worth while, children are sure to be happy." Bobby had sat in his car a half hour at a time, while the doctor was busy with patients, perfectly happy and good, contenting himself with playing chauffeur. He would occasionally toot the horn just to let the passer-by understand that he was on the job. The beloved home had been put in apple pie order and handed over to the poor, rich fugitives from the war zone. The kind old cook had bidden them a tearful farewell and betaken herself to her new place after careful admonishings of her pupil, Helen, not to let nobody 'suade her that any new fangled yeast is so good as tater yeast. The real fun in the venture was buying the provisions and necessary camping outfits. That was money that must be spent and they could do it with a clear conscience. The lists were written and rewritten and revised a score of times until they could not think of a single thing that had been left out. The freight was sent off several days ahead of them to give poor Cousin Lizzie's bed time to get there before them. Poor Cousin Lizzie, indeed! She was brave about the undertaking up to the time of starting, but when she was handed into the common coach, there being no parlor car on that morning train, she almost gave up. Nothing but the memory of old Cousin Robert Carter's kindness to her mother sustained her. "A good man leaveth an inheritance to his children's children," she muttered as she sank on the dusty, dingy cushions of the very common, common day coach. "That is surely what old Cousin Robert Carter did. I have not ridden in such a coach for more than thirty years, I am sure. Why was this train chosen? There must be good trains running to the mountains that have chair cars." "Yes, Cousin Lizzie," said Douglas, "but you see Greendale is a very small station and only the very accommodating accommodations stop there. The trains with chair cars stop only at the big places." Douglas was very tired and looked it. She was very pale and her firm mouth would tremble a little in spite of her self-control. No one seemed to notice it, as every one was tired and every one had been busy. She felt when they were once off that she could rest, if only Cousin Lizzie would not complain too much and if Helen and Lucy would not squabble and if dear little Bobby would not poke his head too far out of the window. Dr. Wright came down to see them off and as he shook hands with Douglas, he looked very searchingly at her tired face. "You must be selfish when you get to the mountains and rest for a week," he said. "You are about all in." "Oh, I'll be all right in a few minutes. It is just getting started that has tired me. Bobby, please don't poke your head out,--your arm, either. Don't you know something might come along and chop you right in two?" "I'm a shover for this here train. If I don't stick my arm way out the train a-runnin' up behind us will c'lision with us." "See here, young man, you are still in my employ and I don't intend to have you working for the C. & O. while you are working for me. When my chauffeur travels to the mountains, he has to keep his hands inside the windows and his head, too. He must be kind to his sisters, especially his Sister Douglas, who is very tired. I am really letting you off duty so you can take care of Douglas. You see, when a lot of women start on a trip they have to have some man with them to look after them." "That's so, boss, an' I'm goin' to be that man. Women folks is meant to look after eatin's an' to sew up holes an' things. I'm hungry right now!" exclaimed Bobby, man-like, finding some work immediately for the down-trodden sex. "All aboard!" called the brakeman. Dr. Wright was bidding hasty adieux when it was discovered that Nan had left the carefully prepared lunch basket in the waiting-room. Poor Nan! She had been occupied trying to remember some lines of Alfred Noyes about a railroad station and had carelessly placed the basket on the seat beside her, and then, in the excitement of getting Oscar and Susan into the colored coach and picking up all the many little parcels and shawls and small pillows that Cousin Lizzie always traveled with, she had forgotten it. "Oh, let me get off and get it," she implored, but Dr. Wright gently pushed her back into her seat and hastily whispered something to her that made her smile instead of cry, which she was on the verge of doing. She sat quite quietly while the engine puffed its way out of the shed and Dr. Wright jumped off the moving train. She waved to him and he gave her a reassuring smile. "He is like the hills," she thought. "'I will look unto the hills from whence cometh my help.'" "Nan, how could you?" started Helen, and Lucy chimed in with: "Yes, how could you?" "I am so sorry, but maybe it will come all right, anyhow." "Come all right, anyhow!" sniffed Cousin Lizzie. "It is all right now as far as I am concerned. I certainly could not taste a mouthful in such surroundings as these." Douglas put her tired head on the dingy, dusty red plush upholstery and closed her eyes. Food made no difference to her. All she wanted was rest. Bobby opened the package of chewing gum that his employer had slipped him as advance wages, and forgot all about the hunger that he had declared a moment before. "I ain't a keering, Nan, 'bout no lunch. I am goin' to buy all the choclid an' peanuts what the man brings in the train an' old lunch ain't no good nohow." Nan kept on smiling an enigmatic smile that mystified Helen and Lucy. They were accustomed to Nan's forgetting things but she was usually so contrite and miserable. Now she just smiled and peeped out the window. "I don't believe she gives a hang," whispered Lucy to Helen. "Looks that way. If she had spent hours making the sandwiches, as I did, maybe she would not be so calm about it." "I made some of them, too." "Oh, yes, so you did,--about three, I should say." "Lots more. You're all the time thinking you make all the sandwiches." Douglas opened her tired eyes at the sharp tone of voice that Lucy had fallen into. "Girls, please don't squabble." "All right, we won't! You go to sleep, honey, and I'll keep Bobby from falling out the window and agree with Lucy about everything even if she insists that Dr. Wright is an Adonis. Come here, Bobby. Helen is going to make up a really true story to tell you," and Helen lifted her little brother from the seat by Douglas. In a few moments he was so absorbed in the wonderful true story about bears and whales that a little boy named Bobby had shot and caught, he did not notice that the train had stopped at the first station after leaving Richmond. Some excitement on the platform made them all look out the window. The conductor had waved to the engineer his signal for starting when a car came dashing madly up to the station. Frantic pulling of ropes by the accommodating conductor on the accommodating accommodation! A belated traveler, no doubt! "It's my 'ployer!" screamed Bobby. "Look at him park his car! Ain't he some driver, though?" It was Dr. Wright, breaking laws as to speed, presuming on the Red Cross tag that the doctors attach to their cars. Several policemen had noted him as he sped through the suburbs, but felt surely it was a matter of life and death when they saw the Red Cross tag, and let him go unmolested and unfined. "Here it is, Miss Nan!" he called as he waved the heavy basket, endangering the precious sandwiches. Eager hands drew the basket through an open window while a grinning brakeman and a rather irate conductor got the train started once more. "Here's some aromatic ammonia! Make Miss Douglas take a teaspoonful in a glass of water," he said to Helen as he handed a small vial to her over Bobby's head. "It almost made me miss the train, but she must have it." "Oh, Dr. Wright, I am so much obliged to you. You are very kind to us." "Helen's been making up a wonderfulest true story for me," called Bobby, leaning out dangerously far to see the last of his 'ployer. "So I'm being good an' not worrying Douglas." There was unalloyed approval now in the blue, blue eyes, and Helen thought, as the young doctor gave one of his rare smiles, that he was really almost handsome. CHAPTER XI. THE CAMP. The lunch did not go begging. Even Cousin Lizzie forgot her disgusting surroundings and deigned to partake of Helen's very good lettuce sandwiches. She even pronounced the coffee from the thermos bottle about the best she had tasted for many a day. "My cook doesn't make very good coffee. I don't know what she does to it. When we go back to Richmond I think I shall get you to show her how you make it, Helen." Helen smiled and had not the heart to tell her cousin that her own cook had made the coffee, after all. Of all the young Carters, Miss Somerville was fondest of Helen. She had infinite patience with her foibles and thought her regard for dress and style just as it should be. "A woman's appearance is a very important factor and too much thought cannot be given it," she would say. Miss Somerville had boasted much beauty in her youth and still was a very handsome old lady, with a quantity of silver white hair and the complexion of a débutante. "Gentlemen are more attracted by becoming clothes than anything else," she declared, "and of course it is nothing but hypocrisy that makes women say they do not wish to attract the opposite sex." Miss Somerville, having had many opportunities to marry, and having chosen single blessedness of her own free will, always spoke with great authority of the male sex. She always called them gentlemen, however, and the way she said "gentlemen" made you think of dignified persons in long-tailed coats and high stocks who paid their addresses on bended knees. "Only one more station before we get to Greendale!" exclaimed Douglas. "I feel real rested." "That's cause I'se been so good," said the angel Bobby. "I ain't a single time had my head an' arm chopped off. I tell you, I don't do shover's work for the C. & O. for nothin'. My boss don't 'low me to work for nobody but jest him." "You have been as good as gold," said Douglas, "and now I am going to buy you some candy," she added, as the train boy came through crying his wares. "Choclid?" "Suppose you have marshmallows instead. They are so much less evident on your countenance," suggested Helen. "All right! I'd jest as soon 'cause that nice dirty boy in the mountings kin milk me some choclid out'n the cow whenever I gits hungry." "What a filthy trip it has been!" said Cousin Lizzie as she shook the cinders from her black taffeta suit. "Yes, it is grimy," declared Helen, "and I came off without my Dorine. I had just got a new one. I do hate to arrive anywhere with a shiny nose. Lend me your vanity box, Douglas, please." "Vanity box! I never thought about bringing it. It is packed with the other extra, useless things in Cousin Lizzie's trunk room. It never entered my head that we would want a vanity box at a mountain camp." "Well, I don't intend to have a shiny nose in a mountain camp any more than any other place. I hate to look greasy." "Have a marshmallow," drawled Nan. "They are great beautifiers." So Helen powdered her nose with some of Bobby's candy, much to the amusement of that infant. Lewis and Bill were waiting for the travelers at the station at Greendale with the ramshackle little car, which they had christened the Mountain Goat because of its hill climbing proclivities. Josh was also there, with the faithful Josephus hitched to an old cart to carry the luggage up to the camp. The porter from the summer hotel of Greendale was on the platform as the train stopped and he immediately came forward, thinking these stylish passengers were for his hostelry; but the little mountain boy stepped in front of him and said: "We uns is you allses baggage man," and he seized their grips and parcels and won their hearts as well with his merry blue eyes and soft voice. "Oh, you must be the dirty boy what's got a choclid cow!" exclaimed Bobby. "I'm a dirty boy, too, now I'm come to live in the mountings an' I'm goin' to be a baggage man, too, if Dr. Wright will let me off from being a shover up here where th' ain't no traffic cops to 'rest you if'n you don't stick out yo' arm goin' round the cornders. I'd most ruther be a baggage man than a shover if'n I can sit in front with you and drive the mule." All this poured forth in one breath while the young men were greeting the ladies. "All aboard!" shouted the brakeman and the signal was given for the engineer to start. "Oh, where are Oscar and Susan?" from a distracted Douglas. "Stop, please stop!" Oscar was discovered peacefully sleeping and Susan so deep in her beloved dream book that she was oblivious to the passing of time and miles. They were dragged from the colored coach by the amused brakeman and dumped on the platform as the train made its second rumbling start upgrade. The bringing of these two servants had been a problem to our girls. They were both of them kind and faithful but were strictly urban in their raising, and how the real rough country would affect them remained to be seen. They sniffed scornfully at the small station with its stuffy waiting-rooms, one for coloreds and one, whites, and looked at the great mountains that closed them in with distrust and scorn. "Uncle Oscar, this place jes' ain't no place at all," grumbled Susan. "Look at that shack over yonder what passes fer a sto', and this here little po' white boy settin' up yonder on the seat with our Bobby! He needn't think he is goin' ter 'sociate with the quality. You, Bobby, git down from thar an' come hol' my han'!" "Hol' your grandmother's han'! I ain't no baby. I'm a 'spressman an' am a gointer hol' the mule. That was pretty near a joke," he said, looking confidingly into the eyes of his new friend. "One reason I was so good a-comin' up here was because we let Susan go in the Jim Crow coach to keep Uncle Oscar comp'ny, 'cause when she is ridin' anywhere near me she's all time wantin' me to hol' her han.'" "We thought we'd make two loads of you," said Lewis, when the greetings were over. "Bill can go ahead with Aunt Lizzie and some of you while the rest of us walk, and when he puts you out at the camp he can come back and meet us half way." "Douglas must ride," declared Helen. "She is so tired." "I'm a lot rested now." "Yes, sure, you must ride," said Lewis, a shade of disappointment in his tone as he had been rather counting on having a nice little walk and talk with his favorite cousin. "Say, Lewis, you run the jitney first. Legs stiff and tired sitting still," said Bill magnanimously. So while Lewis was cheated out of a walk with Douglas, he had the satisfaction of having her sit beside him as he drove the rickety car up the winding mountain road. Miss Somerville was packed in the back with Nan and Lucy, but when Lucy found that Helen was to walk, she decided to walk, too. Susan was put in her place, and so her feelings were somewhat mollified. "Josephus ain't above totin' one of the niggers 'long with the trunks," said Josh, determined to get even for the remarks he had heard Oscar and Susan make in regard to "po' white trash." The antagonism that exists between the mountaineer and darkey is hard to overcome. So Oscar, the proud butler of "nothin' but fust famblies," was forced either to walk up the mountain, something he dreaded, or climb up on the seat of the cart by the despised "po' white trash." He determined on the latter course and took his seat in dignified silence with the expression of one who says: "My head is bloody but unbowed." "The freight came and we have hauled it up and unpacked the best we could. I am afraid it is going to be mighty rough for you girls and for poor Aunt Lizzie, who is certainly a brick for coming, but we have done our best," said Lewis to Douglas. "Rough, indeed! Who would expect divans and Turkish rugs at a camp? We are sure to like it and we are so grateful to you and Mr. Tinsley. But look at the view! Oh, Cousin Lizzie, just look at the view!" "Now see here, Douglas, I said I would come and chaperone Cousin Robert Carter's granddaughters if no one would make me look at views. Views do not appeal to me." She couldn't help looking at the view, though, as there was nothing else to look at. "I's jes' lak you, Miss Lizzie. I don' think a thing er views. I ain't never seed one befo' but I heard tell of 'em. Looks lak a view ain't nothin' but jes' seem' fur, an' if'n th'ain't nothin' ter see, what's the use in it?" Wordsworth's lines came to Nan and she whispered them to herself as she looked off across the wonderful valley: "'The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This sea that bares her bosom to the moon, The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be A pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.'" She intended to whisper it to herself but as the march of the lines took possession of her, she spoke them out loud without knowing it. On the ninth line she came out strong with, "'Great God! I'd rather be--'" Miss Somerville and Susan looked at her in amazement. Her dark eyes were fixed on the despised view with a look of a somnambulist. "Lawd a mussy! Miss Nan done got a tech er heat!" "Blow your horn, Lewis. Didn't you hear Nan?" from Miss Somerville. "She must see something coming." Nan went off into such a peal of laughter that Bill Tinsley himself could not have vied with her. She blushingly admitted it was just some poetry she was repeating to herself, which made Miss Somerville agree with Susan that Miss Nan had a "tech er heat." "You had better have a dose of that aromatic ammonia and lie down for a while when we get to the top," suggested Miss Lizzie dryly. The road stopped at the cabin some distance from the pavilion, so they alighted and Lewis turned the car on a seemingly impossible place and careened down the mountain to pick up the others before they were exhausted with the climb. The cabin was in perfect order and so clean that even Miss Lizzie was destined to find it difficult to discover germs. Gwen had rubbed and scrubbed and then beautified to the best of her ability. She had purchased a few yards of coarse scrim at the store and fresh curtains were at the windows. The white iron bed was made up in spotless counterpane and pillows, and on the freshly scrubbed pine floor was a new rag rug of her own weave. The open fireplace was filled with fragrant spruce boughs, and on the high mantel and little deal table she had put cans of honeysuckle and Cherokee roses. She had longed for some vases but had not liked to ask the young men to buy them. She felt that the curtains were all the expense she should plunge them into. When Gwen had seen the car approaching she had shyly gone behind the cabin. She dreaded in a measure meeting these girls and their cousin. She had become accustomed to the presence of the young gentlemen, but what would the girls think of her? Wouldn't they think she was odd and funny looking? She was quite aware of the fact that she was very different in appearance from the girls in cities. She had pored over too many illustrated papers not to know how other girls her age dressed and looked. Her scant blue dress was made after a pattern sent to the Mission School by some interested ladies. It was supposed to be the best pattern for children to use where the cloth must be economically cut. So it was and singularly picturesque in its straight lines, but Gwen was but human and now that fashion sheets plainly said wider skirts and flaring, here she was in her narrow little dress! She hated it. Bare legs and feet, too! Her instinct was to turn and flee around the mountain to the arms of Aunt Mandy, who thought she was the most wonderful little girl in all the world. But there was the kind of fighting blood in her that could not run. The spirit of a grandfather who had been one of the heroes of Balaclava made her hold up her proud little head and go boldly around to the front of the cabin to face the dreadful ladies. "Oh, you must be Gwen!" exclaimed Douglas, coming forward with both hands to greet the girl. "Mr. Somerville has told us how splendidly you have taken care of them and I know you must have arranged this room for Cousin Lizzie. It is lovely." Gwen no longer felt like one of the Light Brigade. This was not the jaws of Death and the mouth of Hell. This sweet young lady didn't even notice her bare feet, and the scanty skirt made no difference at all. She introduced her to Miss Somerville and to her sister, Nan, who was also graciousness itself. Miss Somerville was a little stiff, reminding Gwen of the old ladies on the hotel piazza who bought the lace and tatting that she and Aunt Mandy made on the long winter evenings when the sun went down behind the mountains so early. "Yes, the room will do very well." It was rather faint praise and took very little time to say when one considered that Gwen had spent days on her task. But Nan and Douglas made up to her for their cousin's seeming coldness by going into raptures over the cabin. "Lewis did not tell us he was going to whitewash the room for Cousin Lizzie," said Nan. "I whitewashed it myself. The young gentlemen were so occupied with constructing the pavilion that I could not bear to interrupt them." Nan and Douglas could not help smiling at the little English girl's stilted language but they hid their amusement. "I prepared the attic room for the negro maid. Would you like to go up and see that?" "Yes, indeed! Come on, Susan, and see your room. It is to be right up over Cousin Lizzie's." "Well, praise be to my Maker that I ain't goin' to have to sleep in the air. My lungs is weak at best an' no doubt the air would be the death of me." Susan's figure belied her words, as she was an exceedingly buxom girl with a chest expansion that Sandow might have envied her. The attic was entered by a trap door from the room below and in lieu of stairs there was nothing but a ladder made chicken-steps style: small cross pieces nailed on a board. The attic room was scrubbed as clean as Miss Lizzie's. The low ceiling and very small windows certainly suited Susan's idea of sanitation, as very little air could find its way into the chamber. A rough wooden bed was built against the wall, as is often the way in mountain cabins, more like a low, deep shelf than a bed. Gwen had stuffed a new tick with nice clean straw and Susan bid fair to have pleasant dreams on her fresh bed. A night spent without dreams of some kind was one wasted in the eyes of the colored girl who consulted her dream book constantly. Josh had railed at Gwen for putting a bunch of black-eyed Susans in the attic room. "Waitin' on a nigger! Humph! You uns ain't called on to lower yo'sef that a way. Niggers is niggers an' we uns would ruther to bust than fetch an' carry fer 'em." "This seems a very small thing to do," Gwen had answered. She did not share the mountaineer's prejudice against the black race. "I have no doubt this girl will like flowers just as much as Miss Somerville." So she did and a great deal more, as she expressed her appreciation of the tomato can of posies, and Miss Somerville had not even noticed the bouquets in her room. As Susan followed the girls up the funny steps and her head emerged through the trap door, her eyes immediately fell on the flowers. "Well, Gawd be praised! My dream is out! I done fell asleep in the cyars an' dream I see little chillun picking flowers in a fiel'. My book say that is one er two interpretations: you is either goin' ter have fresh flowers laid on yer grabe er some one is goin' ter make you a prisint er flowers. I thank yer, little miss, fer the bowkay." "Indeed, you are welcome," and Gwen gave her a grave smile. Susan had been quite doubtful at first what her attitude should be with this white girl who went barefooted and whitewashed cabins herself. She knew very well how to treat po' white trash: like the dust under her feet. There was no other way for a self-respecting colored girl to treat them. But this white girl was different, somehow. "She got a high steppin' way that is mo' like quality," she declared to Oscar later. "She calls that slab-sided, shanty-boat 'ooman Aunt Mandy, but I 'low they ain't no kin. Now that there Josh is low flung. I think Miss Douglas is crazy to let Bobby run around with him as much as she do. I bet his maw would stop it fast enough." The Carter girls' enthusiasm and praise for the camp fully repaid the young men for their untiring labor. The pavilion was really a thing of beauty, built right up in the trees, as it were, like a great nest. It had no walls, but the roof projected far enough to keep out anything short of horizontal rain. An artistic rustic seat encircled the great poplar trunk in the centre and rough benches were built around three sides of the hall. Stairs went down on the fourth side to the kitchen in the basement, and outside, steps gave entrance to the pavilion. The whole building was screened. This was to be dining-room, living-room, dance hall and everything and anything they chose to make of it. The girls had reserved their victrola in renting the house and it now had the place of honor near the circular seat. "We just unpacked it this morning," said Lewis. "There was no use in music with no girls to dance with." "Aren't men strange creatures?" laughed Helen. "Now girls love to dance so, they dance with each other, but two men would just as soon do fancy work as dance with one another." "Sooner," muttered Bill. "Let's have a spin!" So a spirited "one-step" was put on and then the youths felt themselves to be overpaid for their work as they danced over the floor that had been the cause of many an aching joint and mashed thumb. Joints were not aching now and mashed thumbs were miraculously cured by clasping the hands of these pretty girls. That first supper in the mountains was a very merry one. Miss Elizabeth was much refreshed by a nap and came to the pavilion quite resigned to life. She had nothing but praise for the handiwork of her beloved nephew, and even included the laconic Bill in her compliments. She wished, however, he would not be so sudden in his laughter as she was afraid it betrayed the vacant mind. Gwen had made a delicious fricassee of chicken in the fireless cooker, the mysteries of which she had been taught at the mission school. Hot biscuit and honey from Aunt Mandy's hive completed the feast. "What delicious biscuit!" exclaimed Douglas. "Isn't Gwen a wonder?" "'Scuse me, Miss Douglas, but I made them biscuit," said Susan, who was waiting on the table. "But, Susan, I thought you said you couldn't cook a thing!" "That was in Richmond. I ain't boun' by no regulations of no club whin I leaves the city. You see in my club, which is called the Loyal Housemaids, we swars never to 'tend to two 'fessions at onct. When we is housemaids, we is housemaids, but out here where th'ain't ter say no house, I kin do as I's a mind, and I sho' did want ter make some biscuit ter go with that there fricassy. Uncle Oscar an' I is goin' ter share the cookin'. An' Miss Gwen is goin' ter do the haid wuck. We ain't conversant with the fi'less cooker an' we don't know nothin' 'tall 'bout lightin' kerosene stoves." Our girls were much gratified by Susan's willingness to turn in and be of some real assistance. The work when only the family were there would be light, but if the many week-enders who had announced their intention of coming to their camp materialized, they well knew that it would take the combined efforts of them all to feed the hungry hordes and to wash the many dishes and make up the many cots. The laundering of the bed linen and towels would amount to more than they could cope with, so they had decided to patronize a laundry in Charlottesville, for all the flat work. Bobby was in a state of extreme bliss. He had been allowed to help Josh feed Josephus and now he was permitted to come to supper without doing more towards purifying himself than just "renching the Germans" off his hands and face. He was to sleep in the tent with his Cousin Lewis, too. The girls' tent was pitched just behind the Englishman's cabin, while the masculine quarters were nearer the pavilion. "We will put up other tents as we need them," said Lewis. "We have chopped down enough trees and cleared enough ground to camp the whole of Richmond." "Thank goodness, our boarders won't come for a week yet and we can have time to enjoy ourselves for a while," sighed Douglas. She was very tired but it was not the miserable fatigue she had felt in town. It was a good healthy tired that meant a night's rest with nothing to think about but how good life was and how kind people were. Everything was certainly working out well. Cousin Lizzie was behaving in a wonderful way for an old lady who thought much of her ease and had no love of Nature. Helen and Lucy were too interested to squabble at all and so were getting on splendidly. Bobby was behaving himself beautifully, and even the servants were rising to the occasion and evidently intending to do their best. The only fly in the ointment was their attitude towards Josh and his towards them. He openly called them "niggers," and they called him "po' white" right to his face. Gwen, they seemed to have accepted at her face value and not judged by her bare feet and scanty frock. "Niggers, an' min' you, Miss Douglas, we don't 'low nobody but us to call us out of our names that way," said Oscar. "Niggers is reg'lar bloodhoun's an' they kin smell out quality same as geologists kin. Me'n Susan knows that that there little Miss Gwen is a lady bawn." "I believe she is, Oscar, and I hope you and Susan will be just as nice to her as you can be." "We'll do our best, but land's sake, Miss Douglas, don' arsk us to be gentle with that there Josh. He is low flung and mischeevous to that extent." "All right, Oscar," laughed Douglas, "but don't be too hard on him." Lewis had told her that Josh was fully capable of taking care of himself and in the trial of wits Josh would certainly come out ahead. "He already done scart Susan to death, tellin' her about hants in the mountings. He says that Miss Gwen's paw was pestered by a ringin' an' buzzin' in his haid that drove him 'stracted, and he used to roam the mountings trying to git shet of the sound, til bynby he couldn't stan' it no mo an' up'n jumped off'n a place called the Devil's Gorge and brack ev'y bone in his body. An' he sayed the Englishman still hants these here parts an' you can hear the buzzin' an' ringin' sometimes jes' as plain as the po' man uster hear it in his life time. He say he won't come over here arfter nightfall to save yo neck." "What nonsense!" declared Douglas. "Well, all the buzzing on earth won't keep me awake," but before she went to sleep, she recounted the ridiculous tale to her three sisters, who shared the tent with her. They agreed that they would have to ask Lewis to speak to Josh about telling such things to poor Susan, who was already eaten up with superstition. "Ain't it grand to sleep in a----?" but Lucy was asleep before she said what it was grand to sleep in. Nan tried to recall some lines of Wordsworth that Gwen reminded her of, but "The sweetest thing that ever grew," was all she could think of before sleep got her, too. Helen forgot to put olive oil on her eyebrows, a darkening process she was much interested in, and went off into happy, dreamless slumber. Douglas shut her tired eyes and sleep claimed her for its own before she could count ten. CHAPTER XII. HANTS. "Help! Help!" The call was followed by a blood-curdling shriek that drowned the noise of tree frogs and whip-poor-wills. Douglas and Nan both awoke with a start and Helen stirred in her sleep. Lewis, over at the men's tent, made a mental note that he must go out with a gun early in the morning and try to shoot that screech owl. Bill, whose passion next to soldiering was base ball, muttered an unintelligible something about: "Ball two! Strike one! Rotten umpire!" Oscar heard it, and remembering the terrible tales Josh had been telling, drew his blanket up close over his wool. "Walls don't keep hants out no better'n canvas, but all the same I'd like to know they was somethin' more substantiated around this nigger than jist a dog tent. I's gonter git some cotton to stuff in my years 'ginst anudder night," he said to himself. "Help! Help!" again rang out. "The debble is got me! Gawd in Hebben help me!" "Susan!" gasped the three older girls. They were out of their cots and into kimonos by the help of a flash light Helen had under her pillow, before the call came again. The three-quarter moon had set but the stars gave light enough for them to see the two young men in full tilt, coming to their assistance, rifles in hand and striped bath gowns flapping around bare legs. "Help! My sweet Gawd, help!" Miss Somerville had more fear of germs than anything else, so slept with her door wide open. Being a very thorough person in anything she undertook whether it was solitaire, knitting scarves, chaperoning or sleeping, Miss Somerville was now sleeping with all her might. She had pitched her--what would be called a snore in a plebeian person, but we will call it her breathing,--she had pitched her breathing in harmony with the tree frogs and katydids and was now hitting off a very pretty tune. Up the chicken steps the young folks trooped, Lewis in front with the flash light, Miss Somerville still sleeping the sleep of the virtuous and just. Poor Susan was lying on her shelf-like bed, her head covered up, having emerged only for yelling purposes and then quickly covering herself again. Her great feet were sticking out at the bottom and on them were perched three large hornets, stinging at their ease. A kerosene lamp, turned down too low and smelling at an unseemly rate, was on the box that served as a table. The windows were tightly closed because of her weak lungs and the air could almost have been cut with its combination of odors, cheap-scented soap, musk and just plain Susan. "Susan, Susan! What is the matter?" demanded Douglas. "Oh, little Mistis! That English hant has got me by the toe. I was expecting him after what that there po' white boy done tol' me, but I thought maybe he would be held off by Miss Lizzie Somerville. Hants ain't likely to worry the quality." "Nonsense, Susan, nothing has you by the toe," said Helen sternly. "You must have had nightmare." "But look at the hornets!" exclaimed Nan. "Why, the room is full of them." Then such an opening of windows and tumbling down that trap door as ensued! Susan had bounced out of bed to join them, regardless of the young men, but since she was enveloped in a high-necked, very thick pink outing flannel gown she was really more clothed than any of them. "I'd fight 'em if I had on more clothes," declared Bill, as he landed on the floor below. "Ouch! One got me on the shin then," from Lewis. "One's down my neck!" squealed Helen. "Shut the trap door so they won't disturb Cousin Lizzie," commanded Douglas. They got out of doors without Miss Somerville's even dropping a stitch from the raveled sleeve of care she was so industriously knitting. "You could almost two-step to it," drawled Nan, nursing a stung finger. Bill went off into one of his uncontrollable bursts of laughter and the peaceful sleeper stirred. "Shh! Bill, you must dry up," warned Lewis. "I'll get out another cot and Susan can finish the night in Aunt Lizzie's room." "Oh, Mr. Lewis, please don't make me go back in yonder. The debble will git me sho next time. I's safter out under the ferment of the stars." "You can come into our tent, Susan," said Helen kindly. "We are not going to have you scared to death." So the extra cot was brought and room was made for the poor, trembling vision in pink outing flannel. "Tell us what it was that got you scared," asked Nan when they had once more settled themselves and the young men had gone back to their quarters, much relieved at the way things had turned out. "Well, that there low-flung Josh was tellin' me 'bout a English hant what had suffered with a buzzin' an' roarin' in his haid ter that extent he done los' his reason an' one dark night he up'n kilt hissef. An' they do say that the po' man still ain't got no rest from the buzzin' an' he hants these parts, and sometimes them what is 'dicted ter hants kin hear de buzzin' and roarin', 'cause even though the hant is laid the buzzin' an' roarin' roams the mountings lak a lost soul. Whin I gits in the baid, I was plum tuckered out so I didn' wase no time but was soon sleepin' the sleep that falls alike on the jest an' the onjest. I wuck up with a smotherin' feelin'." "I should think you would, with not a bit of air in your room!" "I wuck up, as I say, kinder smotherin' like an' then I hears the English hant as plain as day. Bzzzz! Bzzzz! Brrrr! Brrrr! 'My Gawd,' says I, 'pertect me.' I tun over in the baid an' then the buzzin' sounded lak the rushin' of mighty water. 'Mebbe he will pass on by me an' go to Uncle Oscar,' thinks I. 'He was the one what scoffed at Josh's tellin' of the tale.' I kivered my haid an' then that hant got me by the toe." "But, Susan," laughed Douglas, "of course you know it was a hornet that had you by the toe." "You mought think it, Miss Douglas, but hants is powerful slick the way they kin change theysefs ter natural things. That debble jes' changed ter hornesses ter mysterfy all of you white folks. He was a debble hant up ter the physological moment all of you appeared. I knows lots about hants from my books." "Well, I know a lot about hornets from experience," said Helen, trying to reach the stung place between her shoulders. "Me, too," drawled Nan. "My finger is twice its natural size." "Well, let's all of us go to sleep now," said Douglas. "You are not afraid in here, are you, Susan?" "No'm----" and the girl was off asleep in less time than it had taken her to arouse most of the campers. "Helen," whispered Douglas, "I am afraid Josh is responsible for the hornets. It sounds as though he had prepared his way to scare Susan by telling the ghost story first." "I am afraid it is so. We will have to see to that youngster." "I think Lewis can handle him. I'll ask him in the morning. In the meantime, I will tell Susan not to mention the 'hants' and maybe Josh will give himself away with curiosity." It was a hard task her young mistresses had set Susan. "Thain't nothin' 'tall ter hants if you cyarn't tell about 'em," she grumbled. "Well, just wait a day, Susan, and then you can tell all you've a mind to." At breakfast that morning Miss Somerville complained that her rest had been very much broken but that she had slept much better than she had ever expected to. "I am at best a light sleeper," she remarked. "The smallest thing disturbs me. Now I distinctly heard Mr. Tinsley laugh, although he must have been in his own tent." This was too much for poor Bill, who went off into one of his specialties. "I'd ruther to laugh like that than sing like Robinson Crusoe in the victrola," said Bobby. "I kin holler real loud but I ain't nothin' of a big laugher. Josh, he don't make no noise 'tall when he laughs. He jist shakes his innards. He was shakin' em this morning 'cause Susan said she had a bee sting on her toe, the reason she is a-limpin' so." Helen and Douglas exchanged glances with the young men, whom they had informed of their suspicions regarding the humorous Josh. "Douglas," said Miss Somerville, "I can't see why Bobby should use the language of a negro. He is quite old enough to begin to speak properly." "Well, you see, Cousin Lizzie, he is really nothing but a baby, and Mother and Father have never corrected him because Father said he would drop it soon enough and he thinks it is so amusing." "Baby, your grandmother! I am 'most a man an' Josh is goin' ter learn me how to say we uns an' you uns like he does. He says his teacher an' Gwen is tryin' to make him talk properer, but he ain't goin' to talk no way but what his four bears talks. I wish I had four bears what could talk. I forgot to ask Josh to tell me about them bears but I will, some time." CHAPTER XIII. THE AVENGING ANGEL. "Josh," said Lewis to the mountain boy, whose blue eyes had an extra twinkle in them that morning as he hitched his mule to a nearby pine tree, waiting for orders, "are you afraid of hornets?" "Not if we uns kin git some kerosene smeared on in time." "Well, you smear on some kerosene in time and go get that hornet's nest out of Susan's room." "Well, bless Bob! How did you uns know we uns put it thar under her bed?" "Never mind how I knew it. You just go and get it and take it far from the camp and then come back here and report for work." Josh winked at Josephus and went to do Mr. Somerville's bidding. "He don't look mad," thought Josh. "I hope he ain't mad with we uns." Josh had met his idol in Lewis Somerville. Boylike he admired strength more than anything in the world, and could not this young giant lift a log and place it on his shoulders and carry it to the desired spot as easily as he himself could carry a twig? There was a poetical streak in this mountain boy, too, that saw in Lewis the young knight. "'Tain't nothin' to fool a nigger," he comforted himself by saying. "Well, sir," he said cheerfully to Lewis, "the hornets is all good as dead. What must we uns do now?" "Now you are going to take your punishment for being no gentleman." "Gentleman! Huh! We uns ain't never set up to be no gentleman." "Oh, I didn't know that. When I hired you to come work for my cousins, I understood, of course, that you were a gentleman. Otherwise I would not have considered you for a moment. Do you suppose I would have any one come around these ladies who are everything in the world to me if he were not a gentleman?" "There's that nigger, Oscar! We uns is as good as he is. He ain't no gentleman." "He is as good a gentleman as there is in the land. He came up here with these young ladies whom he has known ever since they were babies rather than desert them when he thought he might be needed. I have never known Oscar to say a coarse word or do an ungentle act. I, too, have known him all my life. He is a good, clean man, inside and out, and would cut off his hand before he would scare a helpless woman." "'Twan't nothin' but a nigger 'ooman!" "You say nothing but a negro as though that were the lowest thing in the world, and still just now you spoke with a certain pride of being as good as one. Now I tell you, you are not as good as one unless you act better. You have a long line of free English ancestors behind you and these poor things are but recently out of slavery. Now you come with me and take your punishment if you want to stay and work for this camp." Josh looked rather startled. Did this young gentleman mean to beat him, and all because he had put a hornet's nest under a silly colored girl's bed? Josh had received many a licking from his raw-boned mother, and when Aunt Mandy whipped, she whipped. He was not afraid of the physical hurt of a beating, but that line of English ancestors of which Lewis had spoken all rebelled in this, their little descendant, against being beaten by any one who was no blood kin. "March!" said Lewis. Well, if he were to go to execution like a soldier, he could stand it better. With flashing eyes and head well up, Josh walked on by Lewis's side. The camp builders had fashioned, with great ingenuity, a shower bath to one side of the kitchen and store-room under the pavilion. The mountain spring was dug out into a very respectable reservoir, and this was piped down to furnish running water in the kitchen and a strong shower in this rough lean-to of a bath-room. The water was cold and clear and the fall was so great that the spray felt like needles. The young men reveled in this vigorous bathing and the Carter girls had taken a go at it and one and all pronounced it grand. Josh looked upon this enthusiasm on the subject of mere bathing as affectation. Miss Somerville might have had the same attitude of mind towards persons who liked Limberger cheese or read Sanskrit for pleasure. Lewis directed his prisoner to this bath-house. "Anyhow, we uns ain't gonter git licked befo' the niggers," thought Josh with some satisfaction. "Now take off your clothes," said Lewis sternly. So he was more thorough than his mother. She contented herself with tickling him on his bare legs, and if the black snake whip could cut through the thin rags he called clothes, all well and good. Josh never remembered her having tackled him in a state of nature. He made no demur, however. If this, his idol, chose to beat him naked, he could do it. He hoped he would draw the blood just so he, Josh, could show these people from the valley how a mountain boy could take what was coming to him without a whimper. He dropped the ragged shirt and trousers that constituted his entire clothing and stood before the avenging hero, a thin, wiry little figure about the color of a new potato that has but recently left its bed. "Now, sir!" he flung out defiantly. "Stand in the middle of the room," and Lewis began to roll up his shirt sleeves. Josh closed his eyes for a moment. Where was the stick or whip? Did the young gentleman mean to spank him like a baby? That would be too much. Even Aunt Mandy had given up spanking years and years ago. "Ugh!" Josh jumped as something struck him suddenly and remembered, as a drowning man might, an incident in his childhood when Aunt Mandy was still in the spanking era. She had gone for him with a hair brush and had inadvertently turned the brush up-side-down and he had got the full benefit of the bristles on his bare hide. Lewis had turned on the shower full force and the little new potato was emerging from its coating of Mother Earth. Gasping and spluttering, Josh stood his ground. He wanted to run into a far corner to escape this terrible fusillade, but an inward grit that was greater than the outward show made him stay in the spot where his commander had first placed him. Lewis gradually lessened the force of the shower and once more the culprit could breathe. He gave a long, gasping sigh and then grinned into the face of his monitor. "Gee, that was the wust beatin' we uns ever got! Somehow all the nigger-hate ain't washed out'n we unses' hide yit. Mebbe you uns had best turn it on agin." "All right, but take this soap first and lather yourself all over." That was more than Josh had bargained for, but the soap was nice and fresh smelling and the lather came without labor. This form of ablution was very different from what Josh had been accustomed to. His idea of a bath had always been first the toting of much water from the spring, a truly difficult task, for, with the short sightedness of country people, of course their cabin was built far above the spring instead of below it. This letting gravity help do the work is a comparatively new thing and one that country people have not generally adopted. Then, to Josh, the bath meant chopping of more wood to make the fire to heat the water. Then a steaming wash tub and the doughty Aunt Mandy equipped with a can of foul-smelling, home-made soft soap and a scrubbing brush. This delightful tingling of his unaccustomed skin with the nice white soap was a sensation that seemed to Josh the most wonderful he had ever experienced. All of these delights with no labor attached to the enjoyment of them! Just turn a handle and there you are, clean and cool, laundried while you wait. "Kin we uns do this every week?" "Every day, if you've a mind to. It certainly improves your appearance. Don't you feel good?" "Yessirree! Jes' like a mockin' bird sounds on a mornin' in May when his wife wants him to come on and help her build the nes' aginst the time when she has got to lay the eggs, and he wants to sing all day and jes' use las' year's nes'. Don't know as we uns ever did feel quite so like a--a--gentleman." "Good for you, Josh! Now put on your clothes. Here's a towel. We've got a lot of work to do to-day, and you and Josephus must help." "All right, sir! Wish Josephus could a had the beatin' we uns done got. 'Twould sho have made him feel like he had a extra feedin' er oats. We uns is 'bliged to you uns, sir. You uns done made a gentleman out'n we uns an' mebbe a few more showers will turn we uns into a nigger lover," and Josh's blue eyes twinkled merrily from the setting of a clean, pink face. Bobby was the only person not pleased by the improvement in Josh. "Grown-ups is all time wantin' to clean up folks. Josh was a million times prettier dirty, an' now he can't make choclid milk no mo'. I think Cousin Lewis is done ruint him." After that morning, whenever Josh was wanted and not to be found he could usually be discovered taking a shower bath. He evidently felt he must make up for lost time, all those years when he had gone crusty, as he expressed it. CHAPTER XIV. THE WEEK-ENDERS. "If the weather only holds!" exclaimed Douglas. "This first week-end is the most important of all. If the boarders have a good time they will want to come back, and then they will give us such a good name that others will want to come, too." "People who can't rise above mere weather should be taught a lesson," declared Helen. "Nonsense, child!" from Miss Somerville. "Weather is something no one can rise above. A week of rain in these mountains would make all of us ready to kill each other and then commit suicide." "I hope we won't be put to the test," said Nan. "I should hope not! 'Continual dripping on a rainy day' is a proverbial evil. I hope some bridge players will be numbered among the guests. I am hungry for a game." "Why, Cousin Lizzie, you know we don't mind playing a bit," said Helen. "Why don't you ask us whenever you want to?" "Don't mind playing? Bless you, child! Who wants to play with people who play because they 'don't mind playing'? I can see that game now! 'What's trumps?' 'Whose play is it?' 'I thought I had played!' 'I must have reniged as I find I have a heart, after all.' No, no! When I play cards, I want the game made up of devotees. How would you like a partner in the dance who danced merely out of good-nature and kept forgetting whether he was dancing the schottische or mazurka?" As no one had danced either of those obsolete dances for at least thirty years, the girls could not help a few sly smiles. How rapidly that first week had flown! They had settled now into regular camp life, even Miss Somerville. She had secretly decided that Nature was not half bad and had once found herself admiring a sunset. She had kept her admiration to herself, however, for fear some over-zealous person might make her get up and see a sunrise. Oscar and Susan, with Gwen doing the head work, had managed the cooking beautifully for the few people they had to serve. It remained to be seen how things would go when the boarders poured in for the week-end. Pour in they did, six more than the girls had prepared for; but Lewis and Bill with their ready inventions made beds for the boys of spruce boughs, and immediately put in an order for more cots and an extra tent. There were two careful mammas who had come along to look after their daughters and an old bachelor who had a niece in tow; so Cousin Lizzie made up her table of bridge and every one was happy, especially the daughters of the careful mammas and the niece who was in tow. If one must be chaperoned, it is certainly pleasant to have the chaperone interested in something besides chaperoning. The Mountain Goat made three round trips to the station to meet passengers on the afternoon train on that first Friday, and other enthusiastic campers walked up the mountain. Josephus was very busy with a cart full of bags and bundles. One of the stipulations that the girls had made in their advertisements was that every one must bring his or her own blankets. This was at the instigation of Dr. Wright, who said it would be very difficult to furnish blankets enough; and also for sanitary reasons he knew it to be wise. Sheets are easy to have washed, but blankets are not so simple a proposition. The twenty week-enders were all young with the exception of the two careful mammas, the old bachelor with the niece in tow, and two stiff-backed spinsters who must have had some good reason of their own for coming to camp in the mountains but they did not give it. They looked very grim and uncompromising as they sat on the back seat of the Goat with a plump and pleasing little stenographer, who was to take her much-needed holiday at the camp, wedged in between them. "They must be geologists," whispered Douglas to Lewis. Douglas and Lucy had gone to the station to meet the newcomers, while Helen and Nan were to receive them at camp. "One of them had a little hammer sticking out of her pocket." "Well, let's hope they will keep their hammers for rocks and not knock the camp with them." "Do you know, I did an awfully foolish thing? I put Tillie Wingo on the front seat with Bill and forgot to introduce them. Helen would never have done such a tactless thing." "Well, a small thing like an introduction here or there won't stop Tillie. I bet she talks poor Bill blue in the face," laughed Lewis. So she did. Miss Hill, the pleasant stenographer, told Helen that not for one moment did Tillie stop talking on that zig-zag ride up the mountain. She poured forth a stream of delightful high-pitched nothings into Bill's crimson ear. Bill, as was his habit, said nothing, and, like the tar baby, kept on saying nothing. She had his ear; his eye must perforce remain on the perilous road; his tongue was his to hold, and he held it. Once he let forth a great laugh which had the effect of shutting Tillie up for almost thirty seconds; but it was not time to go to sleep yet and Tillie was accustomed to talk until she went to sleep and sometimes even afterwards. "A week-end camp is a most original idea and every one in Richmond is simply wild about it. You see, the Carters are very popular and if they decide to do something, lots of people will want to be doing it, too. Helen Carter is considered the best dressed girl in Richmond, not that she dresses more than any of the other girls but she has such good taste. All of us girls are wild about her clothes. I adore camping! I'd join the Camp-Fire but somehow khaki is not becoming to me. Do you know, I do not think that muddy tan is becoming to decided blondes--not that I am such a very decided blonde. I know lots of girls who wear it who are not near so highly colored as I am--but somehow I think tan takes all the life out of a blonde. Of course, one can wear white up close to the face, but even then the tan kind of ruins a blonde complexion. I prefer blue and pink and lavender and green and, of course, yellow, and I think grey is just sweet for a blonde. I am wild for a black dress but my mother is so old-fashioned she thinks no one under thirty should wear black unless, of course, there happens to be a death in the family. Under those circumstances, I fancy she would let me wear black. I would not wear heavy mourning but just some diaphanous, gauzy thing with tulle--although I do think that organdy collars and cuffs set one off terrifically well. I think I would make a splendid widow--don't you?" It was here that Bill gave his great guffaw, but it was also at a particularly ticklish place in the road, so he could not look at his blonde passenger. Tillie stopped for the aforesaid thirty seconds and then decided that the dumb young man running the car was a common chauffeur and perhaps she had better change her form of conversation to one not suggesting equality. It never entered her head to stop talking. "Richmond is just running over with jitneys now. They make such a dust you can't see whether they are coming or going. Did you ever run a jitney? They say there is lots of money in them. I should think you would do better doing that than doing this--of course, though, you know best, and perhaps you get your board thrown in up here. Mamma said she knew that the Carter girls would not know how to feed people because they have always led such soft lives, but I said I was coming, anyhow. I am dying to fall off. I really should have walked up the mountain instead of riding as that would be a good way to start, but I had on my best shoes and I knew it would ruin them. Douglas Carter wrote me to be sure and bring a blanket, but I simply could not get one in my grip and I said I would sleep cold before I would be seen carrying a great old blanket over my arm like lots of these people. It was horribly hot in Richmond and I did not think it could be cold coming just this little way. I think it is so brave and noble for the Carter girls to try to help their father this way. They do say he is dippy and was quite wild-eyed. I have a friend who was on the sleeper with Mr. and Mrs. Carter when they went to New York, and he says they shut themselves up in the drawing room and acted awful queer. He didn't say just how, but it must have been something fierce. What is this funny looking place? Is this the camp? My, ain't it odd? I am very much obliged to you for bringing me up. Please look after my suitcase for me--it is the large one, really a small trunk, but I had no idea of mashing my new pink into a pulp just for the sake of reducing my luggage. Here, this is for you--and please get my baggage," and Tillie handed the astonished Bill a quarter. "Didn't know what to say, so I just took it," Bill told Lewis afterward. "First money I've earned since I was a kid and picked blackberries for Grandmother to jam, at five cents a quart. Dog, if I would not rather pick the berries, briars and all! I felt like hollering to somebody to throw something over the cage, that the canary was making such a fuss I couldn't think." Josh, too, was the victim of tips but he indignantly returned the money that was proffered him with this remark: "We uns ain't beholden to nobody, but is employed regular by Mr. Somerville, we uns and Josephus." That is often the spirit of the mountaineer. He will sell anything but cannot stomach a tip. Helen and Nan received the guests as they piled out of the Mountain Goat or came up the winding road on foot. It was a very exciting moment for our girls. This was really the beginning of their great adventure. Were they to succeed or not? The week-enders were there, for once at least, but could these girls make it so agreeable that they would want to come back? "Do look at Tillie Wingo, Nan! Did you ever see such a goose? She has on ten dollar champagne shoes and a blue Georgette crêpe that would melt in a mist!" "Yes, she is some goose, but she will pay us just as sensible board as anybody else, so we must not be too critical," and Nan went forward to meet the pretty blonde Tillie and the stiff-backed spinsters and the pleasant Miss Hill, and Helen smothered her indignation at Tillie's bad taste in being so unsuitably dressed for camping and did her best to make it pleasant for her, Georgette crêpe, champagne shoes and all. There was much enthusiasm from the new arrivals as they inspected the camp. Every one went into ecstasies over the view and the arrangements. Miss Somerville awaited them in the pavilion, where she stood as at a reception, receiving the guests with great formality. "These young persons must understand fully that I am the chaperone, and I think a dignified reception of them will be conducive to good behavior on their part," she had said to Helen as she dressed herself in a black silk afternoon gown and arranged her beautiful white hair in its shining puffs. At Gwen's instigation, afternoon tea was served as soon as the formal reception was over--tea for those so inclined and grape-juice-lemonade for the more frivolous. A card table was unfolded for Miss Somerville, the two anxious mothers and the old bachelor with a niece in tow. "Quite like the springs," whispered Cousin Lizzie to Helen, as she got brand new packs of cards for the opening game of the season. Our girls had thought they would have to be quite busy entertaining the week-enders, but they found to their delight that they could entertain themselves. There were more than enough of the male element to go around and in an incredibly short time they had sorted themselves to their mutual satisfaction and were either dancing to the latest record, which Tillie Wingo had put in her bursting semi-trunk, in lieu of a blanket, or were roaming over the mountain side. Lil Tate, Lucy's boon companion and school-mate, had come and the two girls had gone off arm in arm, while Frank Maury, a callow youth of fifteen, walked shyly after them, hoping they would take him in their train and fearing every moment that they might. His hopes and fears were both realized and by supper time the three were sworn allies; Frank had determined to come up the next week and bring Skeeter, his chum, and Lil had declared she was going to make her mother let her spend the whole summer with Lucy. "Mamma's an awful 'fraid cat about me and just would come along. Thank goodness, she and Miss Somerville have got cards to occupy 'em and she has forgotten there isn't but one of me," laughed Lil, who was a sprightly little brunette. "I wisht I had been born triplets and then she wouldn't have to be so particular." "Gee, I'm glad I ain't a girl--but I like girls a lot--" stammered Frank. "Skeeter and I think they are just great," and so they chattered on. Bobby was not so happy. His friend Josh was too busy with Josephus and the luggage to have him around, and no boon companion had arrived for him. He had been made to wash and dress, which, he considered, was a great breach of faith on the part of his sisters. He had it firmly placed in his memory that he had been promised by some one that when he got to the mountains he would never have to wash and dress. He sat with a very disconsolate mien in a corner of the pavilion, watching Tillie's pretty little feet in their champagne shoes twirling round and around, every few moments with another pair of masculine shoes accompanying them, as Tillie was never long without a flock of the opposite sex in her wake. She could hardly get around the pavilion before the dance was broken into by some eager swain. She was noted as being able to dance down more partners than any girl in Richmond, and it was slyly hinted that she was so long-winded because of her never ceasing practice in conversation. Bobby looked gloomily at the twinkling feet. They were too clean for him, those champagne-colored shoes. His own feet were disgustingly clean, too. Maybe he could rectify that with a judicious sprinkling of grape juice and then some clay sifted over them. He would try! Just then the stiff-backed spinsters, who turned out to be educators off on a botanical and geological spree, bore down on him and seating themselves on each side of him began: "Little boy, are you enjoying your stay in the mountains?" "Naw!" "Ah, perhaps you are too idle and need occupation. Can you read and write?" "Naw, I can't read writin' but I can read readin'." "You should have a task set you every day and then vacation would not hang so heavily on your hands. Some useful bit of information imparted to you would be edifying and useful." "Pshaw! That's the way Cousin Lizzie talks. She's our chapel roan an' knows mo'n anybody 'bout Solomon an' all his glory. She done learnt me a verse already onct this mornin'." "Ah, indeed! And can you repeat it to us?" "Yes! I reckon 'twas the grape juice an' victrola that made her choose this one: 'Wine is a mucker an' strong drink is rag time.' I kin learn mos' anything," and Bobby hastened off to put the clay on his feet before the grape juice bath had time to dry. CHAPTER XV. LETTERS FROM WEEK-END CAMP. From Tillie Wingo to Her Best Friend Grace. Greendale, Va. Saturday Morning. My darling Grace: Such a time as we are having--I've almost danced up my new ten dollar shoes, but I am sure glad I wore them as they have been much admired. There are oodlums of men up here and some of the prettiest dancers I have ever met. I must tell you what a terrible break I made. There is a man here named Bill Tinsley, and do you know I took him for a jitney driver the first day I got here and gave him a tip--twenty-five cents. He took it like a mutt and now he has a hole in it and wears it around his neck and everybody thinks it is an awful joke on me. I must say that it is hard to tell one kind of man from another when nobody introduces you. He is awful dum but dances like Volinine. He never opens his face except to feed it and to laugh and he laughs louder and more than anybody I have ever met before. Speaking of feeding, the eats are fine. I don't see how the Carter girls ever learned how to do it but they have the best things! I hoped it would be bum as I want to fall off. I have always been a perfect thirty-six and must say I don't relish taking on flesh, but I can't resist fried chicken and waffles. I am almost sorry I brought my new pink as I really need some kind of outing dress, but I did not have room for so many things and I do think that it is best to have plenty of dancing frocks rather than sport suits that after all do not become me very much. We have chaperones to burn as Miss Elizabeth Somerville is here and Mrs. Tate may stay a long time so Lil can be here with Lucy Carter. I am dying to stay but $2.00 per is right steep for yours truly. I don't think that is much for what you get and I think the Carter girls are real smart to charge a good price as long as they are giving you good things. Helen Carter does a lot of the cooking and has the sweetest little bungalow aprons to cook in. They are pink and blue, just my style, and when I get a trousseau I intend to have one. We danced last night until eleven and then old Miss Somerville made all of us go to bed. She couldn't see to play cards was the reason she was so proper. Little dinky kerosene lamps that blow out in the wind are not much for card playing but they do fine for dancing. The boys say they are going to bring up some electric lanterns the next week-end so the old lady can see to play and she will forget the time. Did you ever sleep in a tent, Grace? Well, it is great--I was real sorry I didn't have a blanket when it blew up so cold. It was right down nippy. I wasn't going to say a thing but I was sorry I hadn't even brought a sweater--one of the fellows didn't have a blanket either but I heard him say he was going to sleep in his clothes. A blue Georgette crêpe and a pink chiffon wouldn't help me much and all of my clothes are diaphanous this summer. I am sharing a tent with two old maids and a sten from Richmond. Do you know when I went to my tent I found six blankets on my cot and Susan the maid brought me two more? It had got out among the men that I didn't have a blanket, how I can't imagine, and they sent me theirs. Now wasn't that too sweet of them? I sent them all back but a lovely cadet blue--it was so becoming I chose that. It turned out to be Mr. Tinsley's so I believe he is not mad about the tip I gave him. We are going on a walk this morning over to a terrible place called the Devil's Gorge. I am going to wear Lucy Carter's shoes and Nan's skirt and Helen's middy blouse and Douglas has a hat for me. The sten in the tent with me lent me some stockings. You see I brought nothing but silk ones. After we got to bed last night and I was almost asleep but was talking to the sten, who is a very nice agreeable girl--the old maids were both snoring--we heard a car chugging up the hill and it seems two more men had arrived, motored all the way from Richmond. It was a Dr. Wright and a boy named Dick. I heard Helen Carter, in the next tent, just raising Cain and saying he was very inconsiderate to come in on them at night that way, but before they could so much as get up to see where they were to sleep, they got a message that the new comers had brought their own blankets and hammocks and no one was to stir for them. I met Dr. Wright at breakfast and I think he is real cute. Helen Carter is mighty rude to him and I can't see how he stands it. Helen has lovely manners usually but she certainly does pick him up quick. He is a general favorite with the rest of the family though, and Bobby is just wild about him. No more at present. I don't see how I ever wrote this much as there has been a lot of noise and I know ten times I have been begged to stop writing and come dance. It looks like rain but I do hope it won't. My blue will melt I know if it rains. Your best friend, TILLIE WINGO. Skeeter from Frank Maury. Hello Skeeter! Come in, the water's fine! Say, Skeeter, what's the reason you can't light right out and come up to camp? Be sure and bring a blanket, the nights are cold as flugians. Miss Douglas Carter says that they call it a week-end camp just for cod, but we can stay through the week if we've a mind. Bully eats and plenty of 'em, and say, Skeeter, two mighty prime girls--no nonsense about them but spunky and up to snuff. They are named Lucy Carter and Lil Tate. They say they'd like to meet you a lot. If you come we can play five hundred when we are not climbing the mountains and hunting bee trees. Lucy has some chores she has to do but Lil and I help and we get through in a jiffy. It is just fun. I talk like I been here a month and it is just one night. Anyhow, Lil and I helped this morning and we are going to do it every morning. You see, these Carter girls are running this camp for the spondulix they can get out of it and it means all of them have got to spit on their hands and turn in. Lucy has to help wipe the dishes when they have many folks. I blew in the glasses and polished them so fine that Miss Helen said she would like to hire me. I ain't going to tell you more of the camp because I am sure you will be here yourself soon. It beats the beach all hollow. These girls are sure slick, these Carter girls. They have a camp fire going all the time to make it look al frescoish, but they do their cooking mostly on stoves and in fireless cookers. They roast the potatoes in the camp fire and bring them to the table with ashes on 'em to make 'em look more campyfied; and they have a big iron pot hanging over the fire but they never have anything in it but water. Say, Skeeter, when you come, bring your fish lines as there is a stream that looks like fish. Let a fellow know when to look for you. Yrs. truly, FRANK MAURY. Susan Jourdan to Melissa Thompson, the former cook at the Carters'. Dere ant Melisser? i am sogournin hear most profertably to all consearned. me and uncle Oscur is took over the Brunt of the laber but the yung ladys is very konsiderable of us and all of them healps at every chanst. miss Helun is astonishun in her caperbilitys, morn what we thort posserble. We had upwards of thirty last night for super and it took a sight of vittles to fill them folks. We want countin on morn twenty-four and want countin' on them eatin quite so much but miss Helun took holt and stirred up some batty kates and got em started to fryin befoar the waffles give out and all the folks turned in then and et batty kates like they aint never already filled up on waffles. White folks are sure quick to think in times of stress. Niggers jest lay down and give up when anything suddint turns up like extry stomiks but white gals aint nocked out by sich things. Now uncle Oscur and me would have to know long time befoar han about batty kates but miss Helun just waltzed in and made em. it war the las think they learnt her to make at the XYWZ whar she tuck a coarse in culminary cookin. Theys a yung lady here named miss Guen who is a mistery to me and uncle Oscur. she is bar futed and dressed in a dress no biggern a flower sax but she talks properern miss Lizy sumervil and hoalds up her haid ekal to mis Carter herself, she is a gret han at cookin and shen Me together kin git up a sweet meel. She was floared by the Nos. last nite tho and shen Me was bout givin up when miss Helun stept in. miss Helun looks Sweet in her bugaboo apern i think dr. Right thinks so too but when he started to say something to her bout it she pritty near bit his haid off. she is got it in for him good and wright but the others is dafty bout Him and Bobby thinks he is the angle Gabrul hisself. I aint writ you bout a low flung mounting boy up hear what put a hornets nest under my baid the fust nite we sogourned hear. he is impruved now because of mr. Lewis who sayed his say to Him and thin made him take a bath when it want morn Chewsday. We gits along with him by gittin out of his Way. Ill give it to him that he is smart enuf and kin work. He is got strange notions tho and whin some of the compny handed him a little change for his trouble in totin up they bags he got insulted. uncle Oscur and I says we would like some of them insults heeped on us. no more from yours in haste at preasant. I dreemed bout teeth last nite wich is sure sine of death but miss Nan sayed it was because i sleapt with a wad of chueing gum in my mouth and it sprung my Gaw and maid my teeth ake. we are xpecting a large Crowd for the 4th of july. it air a strange thing to me that white folks should make so mutch noise on the day that our rase was given its freedom. The folks is all lawd in prase of my biskit which is no trubble at all to roll out. the yung folks is all gone on a walk what they calls a hyke. They is going to a fearsum spot known as the devilsgorge. twas there that miss Guens paw made way with his life. miss Guen and i is to serve lunch for miss Lizzie sumervil and some ladies and a gent who is too crepit to hyke. They is endorsed in cards and done forgot to chapperroon. thaint none here what needs watching. that pretty miss Tillie wingo is mighty flity but thaint no meanness in her. the bows act like beas round a honie pot with her. She don't talk nothin but fulishnes and gigglin but men fokes is sometimes took with that sawt of tainment. miss Nan done say she thinks twould be good bizness if they ask miss Tillie to stay on as a gest. She earns her keep and weakenders will come here jest cause of her. miss Duglas say so too but miss Helun says let her stay but make her get sum sootable duds as shes got no i dear of lending her her noo accordeonroy skurt perchused specally for the mountings and she sayed she seen miss Tillie eying it with Mutt Ise. I am enjoyn poar helth and hope it finds you the same. respeect. SUSAN JOURDAN. CHAPTER XVI. THE HIKE. You could plainly see the Devil's Gorge from Camp Carter, that is, you could see a dent in the neighboring mountain, and no one but Josh knew that it was two hours' steady walking to that purplish dimple. Two hours' steady walking is not possible with twenty-odd persons, and so it took nearer four to reach the end of their journey. There were many pauses to rest and to tie shoe strings and refresh themselves at gurgling springs. Josh led the way with Josephus as pack mule, the lunch strapped on his back and Bobby perched on top like a Great Mogul. Josephus was at a great disadvantage as his short fore leg was down hill. "Never mind, he'll play thunder goin' back," Josh consoled himself and Bobby, who had to sit very carefully to keep from falling off on the down side. Josephus limped cheerfully on as though there were nothing he enjoyed more than a hike where he was allowed to carry the lunch. "He is such a cheerful old mule that I just know if he had been born a canary bird he would be singing all the time," declared Nan. "I think he has a most enviable disposition." "Yes, his disposition is more to be envied than his job," suggested one of the party. "Never mind, we will lighten his load for him before we return. I am starved." "Who is it that is hungry?" "Me, me!" from so many mouths that the educating spinsters' precise "I, I," was lost in the avalanche of me's. Those worthy ladies were in a seventh heaven of bliss. They had found many botanical specimens which they pounced upon for future analysis, and their little hammers were going whack! whack! at every boulder that poor Josephus stumbled over. They were really very nice and kind, and as for their backbones, it was not their fault that they had pokers instead of vertebrae. The Devil's Gorge was worth the long walk, even to those who had no hammers. Great rocks were piled high on top of one another and all down the mountain side was an enormous crack in solid rock. "Geewhiz! Something must have been doing here once to make such a mess," declared Lewis Somerville. "Just look at that great rock balanced there on that little one! It would take just a push to send it clattering down. To think that one great heave of Mother Earth must have sent it up, and there it has been just as it is for centuries!" said Douglas. "Well, we uns bets Mr. Bill could send it over with one er his side splitters." And with that from Josh, Bill gave a sample of his laugh that did not dislodge the great boulder but made Tillie Wingo stop talking for a whole minute. "You uns ain't lowing to eat here, is you uns?" asked Josh rather plaintively. "Well, this is a pretty good place," suggested Dr. Wright, who had found a pleasant companion in Miss Hill although he had made some endeavor at first to walk beside Helen. But that young lady swished her cold-gravy corduroy skirt by him and refused to be walked beside. Helen was looking particularly charming on that day, although she could but confess to herself that she was a little tired. Making sandwiches for such a lot of persons was no joke, and she had been at it for hours before they started on the hike. She had had plenty of helpers, but sandwiches were her particular stunt and she had had a finger in every one. Dr. Wright's last glimpse of Helen as she had sat in the coach of the moving train, telling a truly true made-up story to Bobby, had remained a very pleasant picture in his mind. He had decided that there was a lot of sweetness in the girl and certainly a great deal of cleverness and charm--if she would only not feel that her thorny side was the one always to be presented to him. When he had handed her the aromatic ammonia for Douglas and she had thanked him so sweetly, he had felt that surely the hatchet was buried between them and now they were to be friends. He had been thinking of her a good deal during the past week and had quite looked forward to the possibility of becoming better acquainted with her. Helen had really meant to be nice, but on the young doctor's arrival a spirit of perverseness had seized her and she had her thorns all ready to prick him whenever he approached her, hoping for some share of the sweetness she could lavish on others: on Bobby, for instance. That youngster always declared Helen was his favorite sister, and there was never a time when Bobby was too dirty or too naughty for Helen to think he was not the sweetest and most kissable thing in the world. As Bobby's conversation when he was with his 'ployer was taken up a great deal with Helen, and vice versa, those two young persons perforce heard much of one another. Helen was grateful to Dr. Wright for his kindness to Bobby and at the same time was a little jealous of Bobby's affection and admiration for him. "It isn't like me," she would argue to herself, "but somehow this man seems always to be putting me in the wrong, and now he even has Bobby loving him more than he does me, and as for the girls--they make me tired!" That very morning when they were dressing for the hike and she was putting on her cold-gravy corduroy skirt, grey pongee shirtwaist and grey stockings and canvas shoes--all thought out with care even to the soft grey summer felt hat and the one touch of color: a bright red tie knotted under the soft rolling collar--she had been irritated almost to a point of tears because Nan, who was all ready, came running back into the tent to put on some khaki leggins because Dr. Wright said it would be wise to wear them, as a place like the Devil's Gorge was sure to be snaky. Douglas and Lucy had done the same thing and had wanted her to. "Indeed I won't! How did he happen to be the boss of this camp? His power of attorney does not extend to me, I'll have him know! Besides, do you think I am going to ruin the whole effect of my grey costume with those old mustard colored leggins? Not on your life!" "Helen is very tired; that's what makes her so unreasonable," Nan had whispered to Douglas as they left the tent to Helen and her costume. "She has worked so hard all morning on the sandwiches. When I finished the deviled eggs, I wanted her to let me help, but she wouldn't." "Yes, I know. I was so busy in the tents, making up cots and straightening up things, that I had to leave it all to you and Helen, but I thought Gwen and Susan were there to help." "So they were, but Susan has a slap dash way of making sandwiches that does not appeal to Helen, and while Gwen is very capable, she cannot take the initiative in anything unless she has been taught it at school. The next time we make sandwiches she will do it much better. She was so anxious to make them just right that she was slower than Brer Tarripin." "I asked Gwen to go with us this morning, but she shrank back in such horror at the mention of the Devil's Gorge that I realized I had been cruel, indeed, to speak of the place to her. That's where her father killed himself, you know." "Yes, poor girl! Doesn't it seem strange that there were no papers of any sort found to show where he came from?" Just then Dr. Wright joined them and they told him of the little English girl and how her father had killed himself and how, there being no papers to show that he had made a payment on the mountain property, Old Dean, the country storekeeper, had foreclosed at the Englishman's death and the property had later been given to their father in payment of a debt Dean owed him for services in rebuilding the hotel at Greendale, also owned by Dean. "Aunt Mandy says it was only about a thousand dollars in all," explained Douglas, "and she was under the impression that Mr. Brown had paid cash for the land, but he was so reticent no one knew much about him and old Dean said that he had never paid anything. Of course Dean is the rich member of the community and gives them credit at his store, so all the mountaineers are under his thumb, more or less. Father got only half the land." When Helen appeared, she fancied Dr. Wright looked disapprovingly at her because of her legginless state, but on the contrary he was thinking what a very delightful looking person she was and never even thought of leggins. He only thought how nice it would be if she would permit him to walk by her side and hold back the low hanging branches and briars so that her bright, animated face would escape the inevitable scratches that attend a hike in the mountains. He liked the way she walked, carrying her head and shoulders in rather a gallant way. He liked the sure-footed way she stepped along in her pretty grey canvas ties. He liked the set and hang of her corduroy skirt and the roll of the soft collar of her shirt--above all, he liked the little dash of red at her throat. She reminded him of a scarlet tanager, only they were black, and she was grey, grey like a dove--but there was certainly nothing dovelike about her, certainly nothing meek or cooing as she swished by him. No one laughed more or chattered more than Helen did on that hike, not even Tillie Wingo herself, the queen bee of laughers and chatterers; but Nan noticed that the last mile of their walk her sister's carriage was not nearly so gallant, and Dr. Wright noticed that the scarlet of her tie was even more brilliant because of an unwonted paleness of her piquant face. He tapped his breast pocket to be sure that the tiny medicine case he always carried with him was safe. "You never can tell what will happen when a lot of youngsters start off on a hike, and it is well to have 'first aid to the injured' handy," he had said to himself. "Wal, if you uns is lowing to eat here, reckon we uns will drive Josephus round the mounting a bit. We uns feels like it's a feedin' the Devil and starvin' God to eat in sech a spot," and Josh prepared to unload his mule after he had assisted Bobby to the ground. "Oh, please don't eat here," begged Nan, "this is where the Englishman died." "Where? Where?" the others demanded, and Josh, nothing loath to tell the dramatic incident and emboldened by the crowd and broad daylight, when hants were powerless, told again the tale of the man with the sad, tired face who was always trying to get away from the ringing and roaring in his head; how he had drifted into Greendale and bought the land with the cabin on it from old Dean and taken his little girl up there where they had lived about two years; and then how one night he had not come home, and Gwen had come to their cabin early in the morning to ask them to hunt her father, and after long search they had found him down in the Devil's Gorge--dead. "Dead's a door nail and Gwen left 'thout so much as a sho 'nuf name, 'cause the Englishman allus called hisself Brown, but the books what Gwen fetched to we allses' house is got another name writ in 'em, an' my maw, she says that Gwen's jes' as likely to be named one as tother. My maw says that she don't hold to the notion that the Englishman took his own life, but that was what the coroner said--susanside--an' accordin' to law we uns is bleeged to accept his verdict." "I agree with your mother," said Dr. Wright. "It is more apt to have been vertigo that toppled the poor man over. That ringing in the head is so often accompanied with vertigo." They carried the provisions around the mountain, out of sight of the gruesome spot, and under a mighty oak tree ate their very good luncheon. CHAPTER XVII. FIRST AID. "It is strange we haven't seen a single snake," said one of the visiting girls. "Thank goodness for it!" exclaimed another. "I was almost afraid to come camping because of snakes." "We haven't seen any around the camp at all," Douglas assured them. Bill and Lewis exchanged sly glances, for the truth of the matter was they had killed several in the early days when they were breaking ground for the pavilion--had killed and kept mum on the subject. "Girls are just as afraid of dead snakes as alive ones, so let's keep dark about them," Lewis had said, and they had also sworn Josh to secrecy. "There is one thing to be remembered about snakes," said Dr. Wright, "most snakes, at least, that they are as afraid of you as you are of them and they are seldom the aggressors; that is, they do not consider themselves so. They strike when they think that you have encroached on their trail. If you look carefully where you walk, there is no danger ever of being bitten by a snake, and very few snakes will come deliberately where you are. I will wager anything that Josh here has never stepped on a snake." "We uns done it onct but Maw lambasted we uns with a black snake whip fer not lookin' whar we uns trod, so's ain't never had no accident since. Maw, she said if the har of a dog was good fer the bite, that a black snake whip would jest about cure we uns fer most gittin' bit by a rattler." "Oh, he didn't bite you, then?" "Naw, 'cause we uns war jes up from the measles an' Maw had put some ole boots on we uns. Maw says that the best cure for snake bite is to have the measles an' wear ole boots so you uns don't git bit." "Very sound reasoning," laughed Dr. Wright. "In the mountains, top boots or leggins would cure all snake bites." "Helen wouldn't wear her leggins," declared Bobby, "'cause she said you couldn't come attorney-generaling her about her clothes, and mustard don't help cold gravy none, anyhow." "Oh, Bobby!" gasped Helen. "So it won't, Bobby," said Dr. Wright, somewhat mystified as to the hidden meaning of mustard and cold gravy but feeling sure that there was some significance in it. He did not interpret it as did Mrs. Bardell the cryptic notes from Mr. Pickwick concerning tomato sauce as being love messages, but well knew that they were more nearly proofs of dislike if not hate from Helen. "Nothing can help cold gravy in my opinion," drawled Nan, "not even heating it up." "How about cold shoulders?" asked the doctor. "Or icy mitts?" "Or glacial reserve?" "Or chilling silence?" Suggestions from different ones of the picnickers. "What will melt frigid replies?" "Or frozen glances?" "Hot air!" from Bill. "Melt anything." And then he gave a laugh at his own wit that bid fair to dislodge the great rock so delicately balanced in the Devil's Gorge. "Let's go explore the Devil's Gorge now!" suggested Helen, springing to her feet, forgetting all about her fatigue, only thankful for the foolishness that had been started by Nan to hide her sister's embarrassment. What would Dr. Wright think of her? He must have understood very well what Bobby meant by attorney-generaling, if the mustard and cold gravy was a mystery. The girls held back when they looked down the frightful abyss so well named, but the spinster educators went on, determined to get geological specimens if they died for it, and Helen, in a spirit of bravado, leaped ahead of the exploring party and sprang down the rocks like a veritable mountain goat. Her cheeks were still glowing over the remarks of that enfant terrible, Bobby. "Be careful, Helen!" called Lewis Somerville, who had constituted himself squire of spinsters and was helping those intrepid geologists down the slippery rocks. Helen tossed her head at her cousin and went on in her mad descent, swinging from rock to rock with the occasional help of a scrub oak that had somehow gained foothold on the barren boulders. "Look out for snakes, Helen!" cried Douglas, who had turned back with the rest of the party. But Helen heeded nothing and seemed bent on reaching the lowest point of the chasm. It flashed across her mind that she was a little like the Englishman. He was trying to escape from the buzzing and roaring in his head while she was in a mad race with her conscience. Why should she be so unkind and sharp with Dr. Wright? She didn't know. She could hear the people above talking and their voices seemed thin and far away, so deep had she penetrated into the gorge. "Jest a leetle below whar Miss Helen is standing was whar they picked up the Englishman," she could hear Josh's peculiar mountain voice recite before the party moved off back toward the temporary camp where they had had luncheon. The ladies on science bent, their squire, Dr. Wright and she were the only explorers left. "Right down there is where that poor man fell," she said to herself. "I don't believe it was suicide, either," and then she blushed for agreeing with Dr. Wright. "But it would be so easy to fall from any of these slippery crags. He might have been on the opposite cliff, which is certainly a precarious spot, and vertigo might have attacked him, and he might have gone over backwards, clutching at the scrub oaks as he fell, and gone down, down--why, what is that hanging in the tree there?" Something was certainly caught in the branches of a dwarf tree that clung to the unfriendly rocks with determined roots--something that looked like a wallet, but she could not be sure. "Lewis!" she called, but Lewis was so taken up with hanging by his toes and reaching for a particularly rare specimen of fern that one of the dames wanted for her collection, that he did not hear her calling. "Will I do?" asked Dr. Wright from somewhere above her. "Oh, no, I thank you. I don't want anything." And then the buzzing conscience started up and she said more cordially, "I see something hanging in a scrub oak over there that I am going to get." "Let me get it for you," and the young doctor started to swing himself down the cliff to the ledge where Helen was standing. Before he reached her, however, she had determined to make the attempt herself. It was not much of a jump for one as athletic as Helen. It was several feet below where she was standing and the gorge narrowed at that point, making little more than a step across to the opposite ledge. She gave a flying leap and landed safely, clutching the scrub oak in whose branches the wallet was lodged. Dr. Wright reached the spot where she had been standing just as she touched the rock below. He could not help admiring her grace and athletic figure as she made the jump, although his heart was sore at her persistent unkindness to him. He did not want to find her attractive and determined to let this visit to the camp be his last. She seemed to think that he had courted the power of attorney that had been thrust upon him, or why should she have said whatever she had said that had caused Bobby's prattling? It was thoroughly ungenerous of her and unkind and he for one was not going to place himself in a position to have to endure it. The other members of the family were so very nice to him that he did not relish letting the summer go by without visiting them again--and Bobby--dear little shover. He could but confess, however, that their kindness was outweighed in his heart by Helen's unkindness, and he determined to stay away. A second after Helen had made her triumphant leap, she gave a sharp cry. Dr. Wright started toward her and his keen gaze saw an ugly snake gliding away across the rocks, disappearing in a crevice. "My God, Helen! Did he bite you?" No bitterness now was in the young man's heart as he jumped the chasm and landed by Helen's side, just as she sank trembling to the ground. She said afterwards it was not because it hurt so much, only for a moment was the pain intense, but she felt a kind of horror as though the poison had penetrated her very soul. She was filled with fear that could only have been equalled by Susan's dread of hants. "Where is it?" the doctor questioned with a voice of such sympathy and tenderness that Helen's thoughts went back to a time in her childhood when she had her tonsils removed. When she came from under the anesthetic, her father was holding her hand and he spoke to her in just such a tone. "My heel! Just above the shoe!" she gasped. "Take off your shoe and stocking as quick as you can." She obeyed without question and Dr. Wright, with a deftness surprising in a man, twisted a handkerchief around her ankle just above the injured spot, and so tightly did he bind it, that it was all Helen could do to keep from crying out. "I know it hurts, but we have to bear it." His "we" made her feel in some way that it hurt him, too. But what was he doing? Without a word he had knelt and had his mouth to the wound and was sucking out the poison. Helen hid her face in her hands. It took only a moment and then the kind voice said: "Now we have a little more to stand." He quickly opened his miniature case and, handing her a tiny phial, told her to take two of the pellets, which she did, while he got out a small hard alcohol lamp and lighted it. Then, producing the proper instruments from the wonderful case, he proceeded to cauterize the wound. Helen gritted her teeth and made not one murmur. "Your father's own daughter," was all he said as he put up his instruments, but that was as music in the ears of Helen. He then produced a small bottle from another pocket and washed out his own mouth with a thoroughness that explained his exceedingly perfect teeth. "The wound is a very slight one and I truly believe you will have absolutely no trouble, but you must take every precaution and be very quiet for a day or so. Lewis and I together will carry you up to Josephus. A snake bite can be of little consequence if it is taken hold of immediately. Can you stand the ligature a little tighter?" "Ye--s!" "Ah, I see it is tight enough. You can put your stocking on again, but first I must make assurance doubly sure and cut out a great hole where the rascal attacked you. There might be poison in it." He deftly bandaged the injured ankle with a roll of gauze he produced from yet another pocket, first treating the wound with iodine. "I wish I had some permanganate of potash but I fancy the work is already done and the iodine will be all right. He got you on the Achilles tendon. I wonder if it is your only vulnerable spot, too." "No, it is not. I am full of vulnerable spots! Oh, Dr. Wright, I am not nearly so mean as I seem. I am so sorry I was so rude to you--I--I am going to be better. I am sorry I did not wear the leggins and I am sorry I did not look where I was stepping--I am sorry I jumped over the gorge when I saw you coming. I just did it to irritate you. I am sorry to have caused you all this trouble and I am so grateful to you that I can hardly----" but here Helen actually blubbered, something that she never did. "Why, you poor little girl! I haven't a doubt that I have been as horrid as you have thought I was and dictatorial and interfering and mean--and everything. Please forgive me and suppose we just be the good friends that somehow I believe we were cut out to be, you and Bobby and I;" and he took the girl's hand in his and patted it gently while she wept on. "Can't you stop crying, honey?" "I be--be--believe I could if I had a handkerchief, but I've lost mine." "And mine is made into a ligature. Would a few yards of gauze help any?" And then they both laughed while he unwound the gauze. All of this had taken but a few minutes and Lewis and the scientific devotees had no idea that anything so terrifying as a snake bite was going on. They came in view just as Helen dried her eyes on the few yards of gauze. "Hello! What's up?" "Oh, Lewis, a snake bit me!" "Gee! A rattler?" Dr. Wright held up a warning finger behind Helen's back. "He got out of the way so fast we did not get a good look at him, but it is not a bad bite, and everything has been done that could be done, and now Miss Helen is going to take one more of these little green pellets and you and I are going to carry her up to Josephus." The ladies were very solicitous and anxious to do anything in their power, but they were calm and quiet and Helen thanked her stars that the rest of the party had gone back and not ventured so far into the gorge. "It would have been awful to have them buzzing all around me, yelling and screaming and squealing," she said to herself, and then the thought came to her of the horror all the girls had of snakes and the consternation her accident would cause among the week-enders. But why need they know? It was her own fault that she had been bitten, and such a thing need never happen again if only proper precautions were taken, such as leggins and looking where you stepped and keeping away from the Devil's Gorge, where snakes were sure to abound. "Dr. Wright, do you think it would be possible to keep this thing perfectly quiet? I am so afraid that my being bitten by a snake would give our camp such a bad name that it would be a failure from now on." "Of course it could be kept quiet. What do you think, Somerville?" "Me! Why, I'm game to keep my mouth shut." "We agree with you perfectly, Miss Carter, and will say nothing at all in regard to the accident," the spinsters assured her, and they looked so kind and sensible that Helen's heart was warmed to them and she wondered that she had not noticed before what very intelligent, good faces both of them had. "All right," said Dr. Wright, "it is perfectly ethical for a physician to keep his patient's malady to himself. Miss Helen Carter is suffering from an injury to her ankle. If the inquisitive choose to make of it a sprain it is their own affair. Now, Lewis, how shall we manage? It will be pretty awkward for us to make a basket of our hands going up this cliff," and with that he stooped and picked Helen up in his arms, and with no more exertion than if she had been Bobby, he made his way up the mountain. "Would it hurt me to walk? I can't bear to be so much trouble." "It is best to keep very quiet. I am pretty sure there is going to be no trouble, but I must have you behave just exactly as though there was." "Lewis, you get Douglas off by herself and let her know what it was, but wait until we are back in camp. Tell her so she won't be scared, and let her know it is all right before you let her know what it is." "I believe the rattlesnake is called crotalus horridus," said one of the wise ladies. Dr. Wright wished she would stop talking about snakes and especially rattlers, as he wanted to get Helen's mind off the terrifying occurrence. "We are not sure this was a rattlesnake," he said. "I think it was," she whispered to him. "I remember as I jumped I heard something that sounded like dry leaves." Did the young man hold her closer to him or was it just a fancy on her part? "It knocks me all up to think about it," he muttered. "I am glad, so glad I followed you." "I am, too!" A wave of crimson flooded the young man's face. He didn't know why, but his blood was singing in his veins and his breath came quickly. If it had not been for the presence of the respectable spinsters, he was sure he would have had to kiss that piquant face so close to his. "Come on, Doc, my time now to take up the white man's burden. Helen is no featherweight and you are red in the face and panting from carrying her this far." "Not a bit of it!" and Dr. Wright held on to his burden while Lewis endeavored to relieve him. "Well, let's cut the baby in two, like my Aunt's favorite character in history." "If I give up, it will be for the same reason the woman in the Bible did," laughed Dr. Wright. "You remember it was the woman who had the right who gave up?" The spinsters were still talking about the habits and customs of the horridus crotalus. "They know so much and keep piling on so much more, I fancy if they didn't give out some of their learning, they would bust," whispered Lewis, as he grasped his cousin in a bear hug and started to finish the journey to the temporary camp. "Do you remember a limerick, I think Oliver Hereford's?" asked Helen: "'There was once a homo teetotalus Who stepped on a horridus crotalus, "Hic!" clavit in pain, "I've got 'em again!" Ejacit this homo teetotalus.'" CHAPTER XVIII. THE DIAGNOSIS. There was a great outcry from the party when Helen appeared in the arms of Lewis with an ostentatious bandage on her ankle, so that the verdict of a sprain was established without the attending physician's having to perjure himself with a false diagnosis. Helen was looking very pale and tired, and thankful indeed was she for the bony back of Josephus, that was destined to bear her home. She and Bobby both found room on the patient old mule, who started off with his usual bird-like spirit, seemingly proud of his fair burden. "I am afraid we are too much for Josephus," Helen said to Josh. "Naw'm! Josephus is proud to tote the likes of you allses. He is jes' a been tellin' we uns that he is thankful his short leg is up the mounting so Miss Helen will ride mo' easy like." "Well, I'll give him some sugar when we get home," laughed Helen. Dr. Wright kept close by the side of the mule wherever the trail permitted and once or twice held out his hand to feel the pulse of the patient. That is the danger of snake bite: that the pulse may become feeble. The old treatment of whisky, drunk in large quantities, is now thought to have been the cause of more deaths from snake bites than the bites themselves. Persons unaccustomed to liquor could not stand the large doses that were poured down them by well-meaning friends. The present day treatment is: strychnia to keep up the pulse and the thorough burning out of the wound, after it has been sucked by a healthy mouth. A sprained ankle is nothing to dampen the spirits of youth and so the crowd went back as gaily as it came. Helen could not help thinking how differently they would have behaved had they known the true inwardness of her having to ride on the back of the mule that reminded her of nothing so much as a saw-horse. Had they understood that a rattlesnake had taken a nip out of her tendon Achilles, it would have put an end to their cheerfulness and also an end to their week-end boarders if she was not mistaken. "Suppose it is going to do me as it did old Uncle Snake-bit Peter we used to see up at Wytheville," she said to herself, "with his leg all drawn up and shrivelled." She got giddy at the thought and then it was that Dr. Wright, who seemed to know exactly what was in her mind, put out his hand and felt her pulse and then gave her another tiny pellet. He looked so good and so dependable and seemed so confident that all was going well with her, she felt she must perforce have faith in him. "'I will look unto the hills from whence cometh my help,'" came to her lips, and she whispered the text softly. "What is it?" "Nothing," she blushed, "I was talking to myself." "You were blowing down my neck," said Bobby, who was perched in front of her. "If you were whiskering to me, I didn't hear what you said. 'Tain't perlite to whisker in comp'ny, and, 'sides, I always tell my 'ployer what you say 'bout him, anyhow." Helen was silent. Would she ever be able to live down all the unkind things she had said about Dr. Wright? How could he be so nice to her? Of course, she understood that he had done what any physician would have done in treating the wound, although he might have called Lewis Somerville to do the extremely objectionable part of the process of cleaning the bite. Since Lewis was a cousin and in the mountains as protector to her and her sisters, it might have been up to him to render first aid, since the tendon Achilles is so situated that it would take a contortionist to administer treatment to oneself. If Dr. Wright had only done his duty as laid down in the code of medical ethics, he certainly had a wonderfully pleasing sick room manner and his patients must one and all give him praise for sympathy and understanding. "Gwen done promised me'n Josh to have some gingerbread made by the time we gits back from hiking," broke in Bobby. "I is a-hopin' that all this joltin' is gonter shake down my lunch some, 'cause sho's you's born I don't want what I done et. If Josephus stumbles agin I reckon my stomick will growl an' then I'm most sho' I kin hole a leetle mo' if it's gingerbread. Gwen kin make the bes'es' an' sof'es' an' blackes' gingerbread what I ever et." At the mention of Gwen, Helen's thoughts went back to the Devil's Gorge where her father had met such a tragic end, and the wallet she had seen in the branches of the scrub oak tree flashed in her mind's eye. "The wallet! The wallet! We forgot to get it out of the tree," she exclaimed. "By Jove! So we did! Somehow, other things seemed more important." "I wonder what it was. It might have been in the Englishman's pocket, and when he fell down the cliff, it might have got caught in the branches of the scrub oak. I wish I knew." Camp looked very peaceful and homelike when the hikers returned. The card players were still at it and seemed all unconscious of the lengthening shadows. Mrs. Tate took occasion while she was dummy to embrace her offspring and to suggest that she put witchhazel on her sunburned countenance. The bachelor uncle played through his no trump hand before he could assure himself of his niece's safety. Miss Lizzie Somerville had felt no uneasiness about the crowd, because was not her beloved Lewis taking care of them? She was somewhat concerned when she learned that her favorite among the girls had sprained her ankle but thanked her stars that it was only a sprain and not a snake bite or something terrible. "I have a dread of snakes," she said as she stood over Helen in the tent where Dr. Wright had tenderly borne her, and where she lay on her cot, thankful indeed to be off the sharp back of Josephus and at rest on what was not exactly a luxurious bed but very comfortable to her tired bones. "It was a blessing that Dr. Wright was with you and could bind up your ankle so nicely. Does it pain you much, child?" "No'm, not much! Not at all right now." "Well, as I said before, I am thankful it was not a snake bite as I was sure none of you had carried whisky with you, and that is the only thing to use when a snake bites you, so I have always been told. No matter what your habits or convictions are, you must drink whisky if a snake bites you. Am I not right, doctor?" "Well, whisky is better than nothing, but there are things that are better than whisky," smiled the young man, wishing that Miss Somerville would get away from the painful subject and realizing more than ever how wise Helen had been to conceal the real cause of her being out of the running. "Strychnia is the treatment of modern science, as it is more efficacious than whisky to keep up the pulse." He felt Helen's pulse while he was talking, which seemed to Miss Somerville rather unnecessary concern for a sprained ankle, and she went off murmuring to herself: "'There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea four, which I know not: The way of an eagle in the air, the way of a serpent upon a rock, the way of a ship in the midst of the sea, and the way of a man with a maid.'" Douglas came in, white and scared. Lewis had broken the news to her as gently as possible, but the sound of snake bite was a terrible one to her young ears. She, too, remembered old Uncle Snake-bit Peter and his withered limb. "Helen, Helen!" she cried and burst into tears. "Why, Douglas, buck up! Dr. Wright says I am doing splendidly and there is nothing to fear. He did everything that could be done, and because he was right on the spot, it was attended to so quickly that the poison could not get into my system. I feel fine, and mean to be up a great deal sooner than I would if it had been just a common sprain. We must keep it dark, though, and not let a soul know it is anything but what they think it is." Douglas was reassured by the calm confidence of the doctor and relieved, indeed, to see that Helen was meaning to obey him in everything. "She had better stay perfectly quiet for several days just to be sure, and I will treat the poor heel where I had to cauterize it. That will, of course, be sore for a while." "All right," said Helen with unaccustomed meekness, "but I did think I might get up to-morrow. But I'll be good as I want to get well, perfectly well, so I can go to the Devil's Gorge again and get the wallet." "But would you venture there again?" "Certainly! But next time I'll wear high shoes and leggins and look where I step. I think I deserve some of Aunt Mandy's black snake whip as a punishment. I do wish I knew what was in that wallet--if it was a wallet." The doctor smiled and left the tent to the sisters, who clung to each other with all the affection they had. They realized what they meant to one another more than they ever had before, now that this thing had occurred that might have proved very serious. "We mustn't let a soul know what the trouble is, Douglas. Of course, you realize it would send our week-end boarders anywhere but to the mountains." "Yes, I see it would, just the way they all talk about snakes. I tell you one thing, though--we must make leggins obligatory for hikers. Maybe it would be well to order a few extra pair when we order the blankets for those persons, like Tillie Wingo, who will not do what they are told." "I believe so, too. And now, honey, please get Gwen to bring me something very simple for my supper. I believe I'll join the bread and milk club to-night and not try to eat anything heavy. I feel so sleepy I can hardly keep my eyes open. I do hope I am not going to dream about snakes. I'd sleep better if I only knew what was in the wallet I saw hanging in the tree." CHAPTER XIX THE QUEST. Perhaps Helen might have slept better had she known what was in the wallet, but it would have been difficult. Dr. Wright, accompanied by Douglas, crept silently into the tent just before the camp broke up for the night and found her pulse absolutely normal. His patient was sleeping so peacefully that he sought his hammock thoroughly contented with the treatment he had administered in the first case of snake bite that he had met in his practice. Dawn was in the neighborhood of four o'clock. It was so still it seemed impossible that thirty persons were camping on that mountain side. The night noises had ceased. Katy-dids and tree-frogs, who had been making as much clatter as though they had been getting out a morning paper, had gone home to rest until it should be time to commence on the next edition. This lull between night and morning lasted only a few moments and then there was "the earliest pipe of half-awakened birds." At the first sleepy note, Dr. Wright stirred in the hammock which he had stretched tightly between two giant pines a little way from the camp. He had told himself he was to awake at dawn, and now that he had done it, what was it all about? He lay still for a few moments drowsily drinking in the beauties of the dawn. A mocking bird had constituted himself waker-up of the bird kingdom since he could speak all languages. He now began to call the different bird notes and was sleepily answered from bush and tree. When he felt that a sufficient number was awake to make it worth his while, he burst into a great hymn of praise and thanksgiving; at least that was what it seemed to the young doctor, the only human being awake on that mountain side. "I'd like to join you, old fellow, I'm so thankful that Helen is safe," and then he remembered why he had set himself the task of waking at dawn. He slid from his hammock and in a short while was taking the trail of the day before, back to the Devil's Gorge. It seemed but a short walk to the athletic young man as he swung his long legs, delighting in the exercise. He reached the gorge in much less than half the time it had taken the hikers of yesterday. The morning light was clear and luminous but the gorge was as gruesome as ever. Sun light never penetrated its gloom, and Dr. Wright noticed that no birds seemed to sing there. He let himself carefully down the cliff, practicing what he had preached and looking where he stepped. In the exact spot where Helen had jumped, he saw a snake coiled as though waiting for another pretty little gray shoe to come his way. "It may not be the same snake," muttered the young man, "but I am going to presume it is and kill him if I can." He was standing on the ledge where Helen had been when she called to Lewis Somerville, just before the fatal leap. The wallet was in plain view, caught in a crotch of the scrub oak, and the hateful snake was curled up directly under the tree as though put there by some evil magician to guard a secret treasure. "You needn't look at me with your wicked eyes. I am going to kill you if I can, and why, I don't know, because I believe in a way you have done me a pretty good turn. Helen trusts me now, at least!" He raised a great bowlder over his head and with a sure aim hurled it down on the serpent, who was even then making his strange rattle like dry leaves in the wind. "That was your swan song, old boy," and so it was. The snake was crushed by the blow, only his tail sticking out, twitching feebly, the rattle vibrating slowly, making a faint lonesome sound. "I think I'll take this for a souvenir!" The doctor got out one of his ever ready instruments and deftly extracted the rattle from the now harmless reptile. "Some day we may laugh over this," but I don't know why this made him blush as it did, there all by himself in the Devil's Gorge. The rattle in his pocket, he started back up the cliff, when he suddenly remembered his quest. "Well, by Jove, it looks as though that mysterious wallet was destined to be left in the branches of the dwarf oak!" he exclaimed, as he made his way back down to the spot and this time got the leather wallet. It was very tightly wedged into the tree, in fact, it had become incorporated, as it were, into the growth of the tree, and one of the gnarled and twisted limbs had to be cut away before he could free the object of his morning walk. It was a bulky pocket-book, made of alligator skin which, because of its toughness, had evidently been able to withstand the weather that Dr. Wright felt sure it must have had to undergo for years, judging by the way the branches of the tree had grown around it. "I won't open it now, but will take it to Helen. It was her find and I am not going to jump her claim." The camp was stirring when he returned. Much shouting from the bath-house assured him that the boys were undergoing a shower of the freezing mountain water. He waited until the last glowing, damp-haired youth filed out and then took a sprinkle himself, which refreshed him greatly but left him so hungry that the delightful odors from the open air kitchen almost maddened him. Roe herring he was sure of,--that is always unmistakable; hot rolls were holding their own in the riot of smells; bacon was asserting itself; there was a burnt sugar effect that must mean fried June apples; and threading its way through the symphony of fragrance and rising supreme over all was a coffee motive. "Do you blame any one for stealing food when he is hungry?" he asked Gwen, whom he found in the pavilion setting the tables. "I don't." "You have been up a long time, sir. I saw you a little after four on the trail near Aunt Mandy's." "Were you up then?" "Oh, yes, sir. I always get up early to milk and put the cabin in order before I come over here. It will be a little while before breakfast. Shall I get you a cup of coffee now?" "That would be very kind of you! I am famished, and perhaps a cup of coffee would keep me from disgracing myself when breakfast is ready." Gwen had changed a great deal in the few weeks since she had come so shyly from behind the bowlder to offer herself as factotum to Lewis and Bill. She still had the modest demeanor, but had lost her extreme shyness and also much of her primness. She was now a more natural girl of fourteen, thanks to Nan and Lucy, who had tried to make her feel at home with them. Shoes and stockings had helped her to recover from her timidity. She had always had an idea that people were looking at her bare feet. Over her skimpy little dress she now wore a bungalow apron, which was vastly becoming to her Puritan type of beauty. The first money she made had been spent on shoes and aprons. Helen had wanted to present her with these things, but Gwen and Josh were alike in wanting nothing they had not honestly earned. As the girl came towards the doctor, bearing in her steady little brown hands a tray with a smoking cup of coffee and a hot buttered roll, just to tide him over until breakfast, he thought he had never seen a more attractive child. "And it wasn't because she was feeding me, either," he said to Helen later on, "but because she had such a fine upstanding look to her and because her hand was so capable and steady and her gaze so open and honest. No great lady, trained in the social graces, could have handed one a cup of coffee with more assurance and ease of manner." "Miss Helen was asking for you," said Gwen, as she put down the delectable tray. "Oh, is she all right?" and the physician jumped up, ready to leave his untasted food if he were needed. "Oh, yes, she is as well as can be, and when I took her some coffee early this morning, she told me she had slept so well and was famished for food. I am going to straighten up her tent just as soon as the girls are out of it, so you can go in to see her. I told her I had seen you taking a walk at four o'clock. She wants to see you." "I wonder if heavenly messengers wear blue aprons and tennis shoes," the young man said to himself, "because if they do, I am sure Gwen is one of them." He patted his breast pocket to make sure the bulky wallet was there, hoping it held in some way good for the little English girl but determined to say nothing about it until Helen had her first peep. "Can it be possible that I am falling in love with Helen?" he muttered. "She is not more than seventeen, and, besides, it was only yesterday that I determined never to put myself in the way of being insulted by her again so long as I should live. Here I am starving to death (this roll and coffee will be only a drop in the bucket of my great appetite) and still I'd rather go see her than eat the breakfast I can smell cooking. I promised the father and mother to look after the children while they were taking my prescription, and this is a fine way to do it: to fall in love with one of them! Besides, Helen is not a bit prettier than Douglas, not so clever as Nan, and so spoiled that she can be certainly very disagreeable, but still--still--she is Helen--and Bobby loves her best of all. Anyhow, I think I'll eat my breakfast first before I go to her, since she does not need my professional services." "I never see folks eat like these here week-enders," declared Oscar, as breakfast progressed and he came to the kitchen for more hot rolls. He also brought directions from Douglas for Susan to scramble a dish of eggs for some of the late comers who found nothing but herring tails for their portion of a dish ever dear to the heart of all Virginians. "I don't see how the young ladies 'spects to clar nothin' out'n their ventur'some if'n all the payin' guests eats ekal to these here," said Susan, as she took another pan of rolls out of the oven and put a skillet on the stove to get hot for the eggs. "I's done been to many springs an' sich with Mis Carter when I was a-nussin' of Bobby an' I never yet seed any of the pr'ietors knock up a dish er eggs fer no sleepy haids. Fus' come, fus' serve, an' las' come satisfy theyselves with herrin' tails an' coffee drugs. Miss Gwen done made three pots er coffee already an' she mought jes' as well be pourin' it down the bottomless pit fer all the showin' it's done made. If'n these folks is gonter eat all mornin', I'd like ter know whin we's ter git the dishes washed." "Well, dey won't need no scrapin'," laughed Oscar, as he bore away the plates heaped with crusty turnovers. "I been a-bettin' on Mr. Bill Tinsley, but looks lak Dr. Wright kin hole his own with the bes' of them." "One thing sho," grumbled Susan, who had the customary bad humor of the Sunday morning cook, "th'ain't no use'n a clock up'n in this here camp. Whin you gits through with breakfast, it's time ter begin dinner." CHAPTER XX. THE WALLET. "Did you sleep?" "Like a top!" "Bad dreams?" and Dr. Wright felt the pulse of the healthy looking patient, who, with the help of Gwen, had donned a very becoming boudoir cap and negligée, two articles of clothing that she had brought to camp in spite of the jeerings of her sisters, who did not see how they could be used. Helen had not had an illness since she was a child and had her tonsils out, and certainly a camp was no place to sport a filmy lace cap and a negligée of pale blue silk and lace. "It is almost worth while having a sn--having a sprained ankle just to prove to my sisters that I was wise in bringing this cap and sacque," she had laughingly told Gwen, who was assisting her. "I bet snake bite is going to come popping out of my mouth, willy nilly," she said to herself. "I almost gave it away that time." Gwen, who loved pretty things and scented from afar the admiration Dr. Wright was beginning to hold for Helen, considered it very wise to have brought the dainty garments. She could not help thinking, with something akin to bitterness, of her own yellow cotton night gowns that Aunt Mandy considered superfluous articles of clothing; and of the coarse, gray flannel bed-sacque she had worn the summer before when she had caught the measles from Josh; and of how she must have looked when the old country doctor came to see her. The tent was tidy and sweet when George Wright entered to see how his patient fared. Gwen had spread the steamer rugs over the cots and had even placed a bunch of honeysuckle on the little table at Helen's bedside. She had had to purloin the table from Miss Somerville's cabin, but that lady was willing to give up more than a table for her favorite young cousin. Helen blushed a little when the young man asked her if she had had any bad dreams. The fact was she had had very pleasant dreams in which he had largely figured. She had dreamed that Josephus had turned into Pegasus and that, as she flew along on his shapely back, she had met Dr. Wright floating by on a white cloud and he had wanted to feel her pulse. She had put out her hand and as he felt her pulse, he had jumped from the white cloud square onto the back of Pegasus, and together they rode through the air, the winged horse looking kindly on them with much the benevolent expression of Josephus. "No, my dreams were pleasant," she smiled. Dr. Wright certainly took a long time to feel any one's pulse, but the truth was that he had forgotten to count, so taken up he was with the fact that pale blue was quite as becoming to Helen as gray with a dash of scarlet. I think if he had felt his own pulse, he would have been astonished at how far from normal his heart beats were at that moment. "I have brought you the wallet from the Devil's Gorge. Here it is for you to open!" "Oh, Dr. Wright! Is that where you were going when Gwen saw you so early this morning?" "Yes!" "I think you are very good to take that tramp for Gwen," she said, taking the bulky wallet in her hand. "I didn't take it for Gwen, but for you." Gwen had left the tent for a moment. "But you would have done it for Gwen, I am sure." "Yes, of course, but perhaps not on an empty stomach," laughed the doctor. "But why don't you open the pocketbook?" "Because it is Gwen's! She must be the one to open it." "But you are not sure it is hers. I brought it for you to have the pleasure of opening it." "Yes, I am sure it is hers, and I'd take more pleasure in seeing her open it than doing it myself." Just then Gwen returned with a pitcher of fresh water. Helen held up the wallet and said: "Did you ever see this before?" Gwen turned pale and her steady little hands, that could usually carry a brimming cup of coffee safely to its destination without once slopping over, shook so that she spilled the water from the pitcher. "Oh, Miss Helen! Where did you find it?" "Never mind now where we found it! You open it and see if you can identify it," said Helen kindly. She realized that Gwen was to have excitement enough in opening this wallet of her father's, lost as it had been for five years, without having to picture, as she would surely do, his death, the fall from the cliff and this pocketbook slipping from his coat and lodging in the tree. The wallet was evidently an expensive one: alligator skin lined with Russian leather. The silver clasp was rusty and Gwen's trembling hands could hardly force the sliding catch, but Helen motioned for Dr. Wright not to assist her. She felt, somehow, that the girl would rather do it all herself. They were silent while the little English girl fumbled the lock and finally sprung it. The wallet was stuffed full of papers and letters. In one compartment was some silver, several gold pieces and some English coins. The papers were yellow with age, but so stout was the alligator skin that the many rains that must have fallen during the five years the wallet had been wedged in that scrub oak's branches, had not wet them nor defaced them. "Be very careful, Gwen, there may be all kinds of precious documents in there," exclaimed Helen, as some of the papers floated to the floor of the tent and some fluttered to her own cot. Gwen had sunk to the floor in a little heap and was sobbing. "I can remember so well how my father used to open up this pocketbook and pore over these letters. I was never allowed to touch it. He kept his money in it and receipts and things." "Look, here is a receipt for one thousand dollars in cash payment for land!" exclaimed Helen, as a yellow slip of paper fell on her coverlet. The paper was written in a bold black hand so that any one might read it: Received payment from St. John Brownell for 100 acres of land at Greendale, Albemarle County, Va. $1,000 in cash. (Signed) ABNER DEAN. The signature was in violet ink and very shaky. Helen recognized it as old Dean's writing, as when he sent up any produce to the camp from his store at Greendale, it had been her duty to go over the bill which invariably accompanied the goods. "Why, Gwen, Gwen! That old wretch has cheated you out of your land! Do you know, he handed over to Father, for money he owed him, land that did not belong to him, and this minute our camp is built on your property?" Helen was very much excited, and as for Gwen,--she was pale and trembling. "I'd like to get up out of this bed and go horse-whip him----" "Please, can I do it for you?" from the doctor. "But wouldn't it be better to get a lawyer to take the matter up and have the thing legally adjusted?" "We-e-ll, ye-s! Maybe---- But I'd certainly like to make that old man suffer some. Wouldn't you, Gwen?" But the little English girl was so busy sorting the papers that had fallen from her father's old wallet that she did not hear. "What is that in the back of the pocketbook where the other fastening is?" asked the doctor. "Money and more money! Why, Gwen, look at the bills!" Helen was right. In a neat and orderly manner in yet another closed compartment of the wallet were placed greenbacks and yellowbacks of high denominations. The girls feverishly counted out $1,500. "No wonder it was so fat! We had better not say anything about having all this money in camp. It ought to be in the bank, Gwen, as it might be stolen from you. Dr. Wright will deposit it for you in Richmond and you can draw on it as you need." Gwen handed over the bills to the young man without a moment's delay. "Wait now, let's count it again to make sure, and I will give you a receipt for the amount." "Oh, that's not necessary, is it, Miss Helen?" "Certainly not!" And then Helen blushed to think how short a time had elapsed since she had expressed all kinds of doubts about the honesty of this man, because, forsooth, he had been given power of attorney over a paltry $83.59! Here she was advising this little mountain waif to hand over to Dr. Wright what seemed to them a large fortune without even a receipt. George Wright smiled and quietly wrote a receipt for the amount. "It would be safer to let me carry this money for you because it might get out that you have it, and it would be easier to get it from you than me. I will deposit it at the Virginia Trust Co. in Richmond, and will send you the bank book immediately. You can invest it or not as you see fit. It would bring in forty-five dollars a year if you put it in the savings bank." "Oh, that would be enough for me to go to school on and even be a boarder at school! But I want some of it to buy a new mule for Aunt Mandy. Josephus is so old and feeble." "You had better not tell Josh you think so," laughed the doctor. "But will you be contented, child, just to stay on in the mountains for the rest of your life?" "This is the only home I have. Where else can I go?" "You can go wherever we are," cried Helen impulsively, and Dr. Wright's admiration for her was increased if possible. "Oh, Miss Helen, you are so good! But Aunt Mandy needs me and maybe if I stay here I can make Josh wash, even in the winter time." "Well, maybe you can," said the doctor kindly, "and it is a great thing to be needed and to see some chance of improving your fellow man. You could, with economy, get yourself through college on this money." "And then, of course, you own the land our camp is built on," remembered Helen. "That is a thousand dollars more." "But I don't want that," exclaimed Gwen. "It has been so wonderful to have all of you here and so good to me." "But, my dear child, the land belongs to you and this Abner Dean will have to be the one to suffer, not you or the Carters. If you will let me, I will consult a lawyer in Richmond and have him take hold of the matter. Don't you find a deed of some sort among those papers?" There was no deed among the papers and, in fact, one never was found. The mystery was never solved how such an intelligent man as St. John Brownell evidently was had contented himself with a mere receipt for the $1,000 paid Abner Dean. He was perhaps suffering so with the nervous complaint which finally caused his death, that he had accepted the simplest method which presented itself to establish himself in a place where he hoped to find some peace. While Helen was confined to her couch with the spurious sprained ankle, she helped Gwen unravel the story of her life from the letters found in the wonderful wallet. It was not such an extraordinary story, after all. St. John Brownell was of good family and education but evidently of small means, being the younger son of one of the many daughters of an impoverished earl. He had married young, come to America, and taken up teaching as a profession. His wife had died and then had come on him the strange malady that had caused him so much agony. Cities were hateful to him and he had decided that his small patrimony would serve best in some locality where the living was very inexpensive. Helen gathered from some of the letters that this patrimony amounted to about $3,000. He seemed to have arrived in the mountains with that much money in cash. He had bought the one hundred acres of land on the side of the mountain, hoping to improve it, possibly by going into Albemarle pippins. Gwen thought he had perhaps put his money into cash expecting to place it in a bank in Virginia; but as his malady gained on him all money dealings became very hateful and irksome to him, and he had evidently procrastinated until he had become in the habit of just carrying that roll of money around with him. Gwen could recall nothing of her mother, but she remembered being in a kindergarten in New York and of course remembered coming to Virginia, and her father's every characteristic was as fresh in her mind as though he had died only yesterday. The poor man had never been too miserable to be anything but gentle and loving to his little daughter, and he had spared no pains in teaching her, so that at nine years, her age when he had died, Gwen had been quite as well educated as many a child of twelve. "Aren't you going to write to some of your father's family, Gwen?" asked Helen, who had become so absorbed in the research that she felt like a full-fledged detective. "I think not," and Gwen shook her head sadly. "He must have gone completely out of their lives. I can't remember his getting any letters after we came to Virginia. Some day, maybe, I can make enough money to go to England, and then I will hunt them up and peep at them through the shutters, and if they look kind and nice, I'll make myself known to them." "Perhaps you are right. They may be all kinds of pills and they might come over here and take you back with them whether you wanted to go or not. And you might have to live in stuffy chambers in London and never see the mountains any more." "Dreadful! That would kill me!" And so Gwen went on living with kind Aunt Mandy, little by little cleaning up that good woman until she became reconciled to water and almost fond of it. George Wright consulted a lawyer friend who took Gwen's affairs in hand and by skillful management brought old Abner Dean to the realization that it would be best for him to execute a deed to the land bought by St. John Brownell, arranging it so Gwen would own the property without any string tied to it. He was forced to pay the money to Mr. Carter, and then the girls, having unwittingly built on Gwen's land, rented it from her. Land had increased twofold in value since the Englishman had made his purchase, and the timber had grown so there was every indication that by careful management Gwen would have a good deal more money to add to her bank account. Before Dr. Wright went back to Richmond, he told Helen he had killed the snake, if not the one who had taken a nip out of her tendon Achilles, at least one just as good or just as bad, whichever way she chose to look at it. "Poor old snake!" exclaimed Helen. "He shouldn't have been punished for acting according to his nature. I am the one that should have been punished, because I hope I acted not according to my nature." "Well, haven't you been punished?" Helen said nothing. She felt in her heart that she had not been punished at all but had been favored, in that through that rattlesnake she had gained a real friend in the young doctor. CHAPTER XXI. WHERE IS BOBBY? "Where is Bobby, Helen?" asked Douglas, coming into the tent where Helen was having an enforced invalidism. She had promised Dr. Wright to be quiet until he returned to camp, which he was planning to do in a week. "I want to make you glad to see me and if my coming means you are no longer in durance vile I know I shall be welcome," he had said when he told her good-by after a little more pulse taking. "We shall always be glad to have you," she had replied impersonally. He did think she might have used a singular pronoun but he was grateful to her for any small scrap of politeness. As for Helen, it was difficult for her to get over a certain sharpness of manner she had up to this time carefully kept for the young physician. When she had fooled herself into thinking she hated him there had been times when she had forgotten to be rude in spite of her intentions and now, when she meant to be mild and gentle, sometimes the old habit of studied disagreeableness got the better of her. That long week of enforced idleness had chastened her spirit wonderfully. She was so gentle that Douglas sometimes thought maybe she was ill. The rattler seemed to have extracted the poison from her system, rather than injected it. "Only one more day!" she was thinking when Douglas came in. Dr. Wright was expected on the morrow and then she could be up and doing once more. There were absolutely no ill effects from the wound and that tiny excuse for a bandage had wholly disappeared. It seemed foolish to be nursing up herself like this, but then she had promised and Helen Carter never broke her word. "Bobby, you say? Why, he must have gone with Josh." "No, Josh was to go a long way for some chickens and I thought Bobby would get too tired." "Maybe Lewis took him to the station with him." "Of course! I hear the goat chugging up the mountain now. I'll go see." But no Bobby! The mountain goat was laden with packages and two previous boarders who could not wait for the week-end to return to camp. No one had seen Bobby for hours and hours it developed on investigation. "He done pestered the life out'n me all mornin'," declared Oscar, "an' I done tol' him go fin' Susan and worry her some." "Yes, an' I sint him back to you." "Well, he ain't never come." "He came to me for a story," confessed Nan, "but I was so interested in my book I couldn't stop. I'm so sorry." "He wanted to go with Lil and me but we didn't want him tagging on," and Lucy looked ready to weep. "He came to me and wanted me to build a log cabin out of sticks but I had my accounts to go over," groaned Douglas. "I sent him to Helen but she hasn't seen him." "Well, he is around somewhere," comforted Lewis. "Sure!" declared Bill. "All hands turn out and hunt." The sisters all felt guilty consciences for not having looked after their little brother, all but Helen, who was the only one who had not seen him. "I was the only one who had time for him and I am the only one he didn't come to," she cried. "If I only hadn't promised Dr. Wright to stay still until he got here! I know I could find Bobby." "But, honey, there are lots of hunters and you must do what the doctor told you," begged Douglas. "Oh, I'll mind him all right--that is unless Bobby stays lost too long and then I'll have to get up and break my word if I lose my immortal soul in the act." Staying still while the hue and cry for her dear little brother was going on was about the hardest job Helen Carter ever undertook. She imagined all sorts of terrible things. Maybe gypsies had stolen him. Maybe a rattlesnake had bitten him and he was even now dying from it. Maybe he had fallen down the mountain side and had dashed his brains out on some boulder. Worse than anything he might be lost forever, wandering over the mountains trying to find his way home, crying and calling, scared almost to death, tired and hungry, dying finally of starvation and exposure. Taking Bill's advice, all hands turned out to hunt for the lost boy. In five minutes Helen was the only person left in camp, even Miss Elizabeth Somerville and the newly arrived boarders joining in the search. There were many paths leading from camp and up and down these the crowd scattered. Dear little Bobby! No one thought him a nuisance now. Nan and Gwen made their way to Aunt Mandy's cabin, thinking perhaps he had gone there in search of Josh. Aunt Mandy came out with kindly words of discouragement and gruesome tales of a child her mother told her of who wandered off and never was found. "That there Bobby looks like a angel anyhow. Children like him is hard to raise. We uns is been a tellin' of Gwen and Josh that Bobby is too purty for a boy. He looks to we uns more like a gal angel." Gwen tried to stop her but the old woman went on until Nan was almost in tears. If she had not been so distressed she would have found this amusing, but with Bobby gone for hours a sense of humor did not help much. "Oh, Gwen! Where can he be?" "Let's keep on down this path for a while. He and Josh often go this way." "If Josh would only come! I know he could find him." "He will be found soon, I am sure. His little legs cannot carry him very far and I am sure he would not get out of the trails. He may be back at camp now. You turn back and let me follow this trail for a mile or so. You are tired, I know." "No, indeed, I'm not; if I were it would serve me right. If only I had stopped and told him a story! I am so selfish when I get steeped in a book. What will Mother say if Bobby is lost?" "Oh, but I am sure we will find him." The girls wandered on, stopping every now and then to call to the lost child. Sometimes they would be answered by an echo and then would stop and listen and call again. Douglas got in the car with Lewis, who whisked her down the mountain side to the station. "Maybe he has carried out his threat of running away. He is always saying he is going back to Richmond when he gets tired of the camp, which he does occasionally when he has nothing to occupy him. If I had only stopped adding up expenses and built the log cabin for him! I have neglected him, I am sure--and what will Father and Mother say? I wish I had let him go with Josh. He always takes such good care of him." "We are going to find him, Douglas, I feel sure. Why, the little shaver could not walk very far." He was not at the station and no one had seen him. Old Abner Dean came out of his store and actually seemed to feel some concern for the boy. He was a hard old man but not hard enough to resist the charm of Bobby's eyes. "He could not have come to the station without some one seeing him, and now I am going to take you home. He may be found by this time and if he is not I'll start out again. There is no use in your going," said Lewis, feeling very sorry for the distracted sister and very uneasy himself in spite of his repeated assurances to Douglas that the little shaver was all right wherever he might be. "First let's go down this road a little way. He might have turned off before he got to the station. He knows that this is the road Josephus and Josh took this morning." "All right! Anywhere that there is a chance of finding him!" Lucy and Lil with Frank and his friend Skeeter, went over the mountain. Lucy and Lil were feeling very much cut up that they had refused to let poor little Bobby tag along earlier in the day. "I should have taken him with me," wailed Lucy. "Maybe I can never take care of him again. S'pose wild cats get him." "But they wouldn't attack in daylight," declared Frank. "But we might not find him before dark and wolves and snakes and wild cats and all kinds of things might get him. I promised Mother I'd be good to him, too." Lucy was sniffing dismally and Lil joined her friend in her demonstration of woe. They came to the reservoir where Bobby loved to play and was not allowed to come alone. It was not deep but then a little child does not need much water to drown in. "It is so clear that if he is in the bottom we can see him, that's one comfort," suggested Skeeter, but the rest of them could not extract much joy from the fact. "I am scared to look in!" exclaimed Lucy, hiding her eyes. "Nothing in there but a bullfrog," reassured Frank, so they left the reservoir and climbed on up the mountain. Susan and Oscar took the path around the mountain. The two devoted servants were so deeply concerned about their darling Bobby, very precious now that he was lost, that they felt there was no way to express their concern but by quarreling with each other. "Whin I sint him to you, why'n you keep keer er him?" grumbled Oscar. "Wherefore you didn't keep keer er him yo' se'f?" "I ain't no nuss!" "Me neither! I done hi'ed out fur a housemaid. I is demeanin' of my rightful oaths to be adoin' what I is. If the haid of our sassiety should git wind of all the occupations I is a occupying I ain't got a doubt she would read me out in meetin'." "Well, nobody ain't a goin' to blow 'bout what wuck you does but yo'se'f. I can't see but what you keeps to yo' vows well enough. If lookin' after chillums aint 'ooman's wuck I lak to know what is." Every now and then they stopped their wrangling to shout for the lost boy. "Bo--oob--by! You, Bo--oob--by! I got some ca--an--dy fur yer," called Susan. "'Andyfuryer!" came back from the next mountain. "Thar he is!" declared Oscar. "Thar he is much! That there is what Miss Nan calls a ego. It's some kind er a beast I reckon what mocks folks. Sounds lak hants ter me. I done dream of trouble last night anyhow. I dream I was a gittin' married--" "That would sho' be trouble to the groom," chuckled Oscar. "My dream book says that dreamin' of marriage is sho sign er death. I reckon our little Bobby is dead by this time. Out here cold and starved in the mountings." "Well, he done et a good breakfast this mornin' and ain't starved yit as 'tain't time ter dish up dinner yit. An' if he is cold I'd lak ter know whar he done foun' a cool spot. I sho is a sweatin' myse'f." "Go 'long, you ole nigger! You ain't got no feelin'." "I's got as much feelin' as you is but I's got enough ter worry 'bout without makin' up troubles. I want ter find that there Bobby an' I feel turrible bad 'bout his a gittin' lost but I ain't agoin' ter trouble my haid about his bein' cold and hongry whin the sun is a shinin' down on my back as hot as a mustard plarster an' I done see the boy put away two full batches of waffles with enough scrambled eggs to feed a whole fambly. His appletite done pick up wonderful sense we been a campin' out." Miss Elizabeth Somerville had to help in the search, too, although Bill Tinsley tried to persuade her that he and Tillie Wingo could do her part and she had better go back to the pavilion, but go she would down the rocky path. "'Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him,'" she declaimed grimly. "If I had my way I should give that child a good whipping when he is found. He knows perfectly well he should not have gone off without asking." The search kept up for more than an hour and still no sign of little Bobby. Even the most cheerfully sanguine of the campers began to feel dubious. Helen lay on her cot in an agony of suspense. The search party had none of them returned. She began to fear that the worst might have happened to her beloved little brother. If she could only get up and help! She regretted the promise she had made Dr. Wright. How could she stay still until the next day? She knew she could find Bobby if any one could. Did he not love her best of all the sisters? How strange that he had not come to her when Douglas sent him! She would have told him stories and amused him. "Maybe he did come while I was taking that little nap," she thought. "It was only for a moment that I dozed off and usually he is quick enough to awaken any one who is sleeping." The truth of the matter was that Bobby was loath to have anybody sleep. He was famous as a waker. "There is a car! I hear it coming up the mountain. I do hope it is Douglas and she has got him." She waited what seemed hours but was in reality but a minute. "Douglas!" she called. "Lewis! Somebody! Have you found him?" Her voice rang out very loud in the empty camp. "May I come in?" Dr. Wright's voice just outside her tent. "Oh, Dr. Wright! Bobby is lost! May I get up and help hunt? I'm so glad you have come!" "So am I. I was called to Charlottesville in consultation and came on up here for a visit. Tell me about Bobby." "He's been lost for hours and hours. Everybody is out hunting and I promised I'd stay here until you came, but oh, Dr. Wright, it has been hard to keep my word." "You poor little girl! But you mustn't worry, Bobby can take care of himself anywhere he happens to be." "You bet I can!" came from under Helen's cot and then a tousled sleepy little figure followed the voice. "Oh, Bobby, Bobby!" cried Helen, hugging the little wretch close in her arms. "Didn't you know we were nearly scared to death about you?" "Nope! How's I to know? I drap off to sleep, I reckon. I was so tired er gettin' driv from one to the tother all mornin' that I got so sleepy I couldn't stay awake. When I got driv to you by Douglas and found you snoozin' I jes' crawled in under your bed and must a snoozed some myself." "To think of his being right here all the time! Please go tell the rest he is found. Tell them I found him." "Yes, tell 'em Helen is wuth mor'n all of them put together. She kin do more findin' of things lyin' up in the bed than all the crowd can a huntin' all over the mountain." Bobby soon became the center of attraction. Everybody had to give him a hug and everybody was sorry they had "driv" him off. Douglas promised him an Indian outfit; Nan promised to tell him all the stories she knew; Lucy invited him to tag along with her whenever he wanted to; Lewis Somerville gave him a new knife if he promised never to use it unless Josh was with him to pick up the pieces he cut off himself; Susan immediately put on some molasses to cook for an always welcome candy pulling; Oscar gave him an especial invitation to a chicken picking he was to hold that afternoon. Helen was allowed to get up by the cautious young doctor since the snake bite was entirely gone. Her manner to him was so gentle he could not help feeling that he himself, as well as a physician who was releasing her, was welcome to the camp. * * * * * During this visit Dr. Wright found much food for thought--serious and otherwise. As he watched the Carter girls, happily active in their daily tasks, bravely puzzling over their problems in economy, unselfishly entertaining their week-end guests, he contrasted their life on the side of the mountain in Albemarle with the sheltered existence they had known--and marveled and rejoiced. The summer was doing wonderful things for all the members of the camping party. Miss Somerville had seen a sunrise and had waxed enthusiastic over it. Susan had learned to sleep with her windows open and to realize that some of her dreams were indicative of what had happened rather than what was going to happen. Namely! a fearful dream she had had of fresh meat did not mean sure death, as the dream book said, but that she had eaten too much beefsteak the night before. Oscar had learned that there was a lot of good in po' whites when once they began to wash. Josh, in turn, had learned the value of cold water on character as well as hide. Lewis Somerville and his chum, Bill, had learned the power of honest toil to assuage the mental anguish they had had to contend with because of their interrupted careers. They were planning for the future instead of looking back and regretting the past. Bobby was learning more than any of the party. He had learned how to find a bee tree and where the sparrow hawk nests; he had learned how to skin up any tree he could get his arms around and how to slide down without barking his shins; he had learned how to scrooch up his toes when the path was stony and not hurt his feet walking in briars. Josh was his tutor and had even taught him when to say we uns and you allses. Josephus had learned where to go for lump sugar, and whenever Helen appeared, the old mule limped after her, putting his head on one side and singing like a canary bird; at least, that was what Nan said he did. So even Josephus could be numbered among those who had benefited by the healthful, unselfish, out-of-door life on the mountain side. Lucy, perhaps, of all the Carter girls, had changed the least under the new influences. Her attitude toward the world in general and Helen in particular remained about the same: she was adoring and belligerent, imitative and rebellious, as variable as a weather vane in March. The fact that Helen had been bitten by a snake was carefully kept from Lucy for fear she would go do likewise. She tried very hard to stay in bed one day with a would-be sprained ankle, but the delights of the mountains were too alluring. She hobbled out of bed before the day was over and by evening was fox trotting with Skeeter, who, by the way, had answered Frank Maury's letter in person by return mail. But if Lucy took the business end of the summer venture lightly, Douglas, Helen and Nan shouldered its responsibilities seriously and gloried in its success. Their enthusiasm did not wane nor did their determination falter: their father should not be burdened by debts on his home-coming. How they clung to their purpose and how they met the remaining experiences of the summer, their friends may discover, if they will, in "The Carter Girls' Week-End Camp." THE END. [Illustration] The Girl Scouts Series BY EDITH LAVELL A new copyright series of Girl Scouts stories by an author of wide experience in Scouts' craft, as Director of Girl Scouts of Philadelphia. Clothbound, with Attractive Color Designs. PRICE, 65 CENTS EACH. THE GIRL SCOUTS AT MISS ALLEN'S SCHOOL THE GIRL SCOUTS AT CAMP THE GIRL SCOUTS' GOOD TURN THE GIRL SCOUTS' CANOE TRIP THE GIRL SCOUTS' RIVALS THE GIRL SCOUTS ON THE RANCH THE GIRL SCOUTS' VACATION ADVENTURES THE GIRL SCOUTS' MOTOR TRIP For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publishers A. L. BURT COMPANY 114-120 EAST 23rd STREET NEW YORK [Illustration] Marjorie Dean High School Series BY PAULINE LESTER Author of the Famous Marjorie Dean College Series These are clean, wholesome stories that will be of great interest to all girls of high school age. All Cloth Bound Copyright Titles PRICE, 65 CENTS EACH MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL FRESHMAN MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL SOPHOMORE MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL JUNIOR MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL SENIOR For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publishers A. L. BURT COMPANY 114-120 EAST 23rd STREET NEW YORK [Illustration] Marjorie Dean College Series BY PAULINE LESTER. Author of the Famous Marjorie Dean High School Series. Those who have read the Marjorie Dean High School Series will be eager to read this new series, as Marjorie Dean continues to be the heroine in these stories. All Clothbound. Copyright Titles. PRICE, 65 CENTS EACH. MARJORIE DEAN, COLLEGE FRESHMAN MARJORIE DEAN, COLLEGE SOPHOMORE MARJORIE DEAN, COLLEGE JUNIOR MARJORIE DEAN, COLLEGE SENIOR For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publishers. A. L. BURT COMPANY 114-120 East 23rd Street New York [Illustration] The Camp Fire Girls Series By HILDEGARD G. FREY A Series of Outdoor Stories for Girls 12 to 16 Years. All Cloth Bound Copyright Titles PRICE, 65 CENTS EACH THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN THE MAINE WOODS; or, The Winnebagos go Camping. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT SCHOOL; or, The Wohelo Weavers. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT ONOWAY HOUSE; or, The Magic Garden. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS GO MOTORING; or, Along the Road That Leads the Way. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS' LARKS AND PRANKS; or, The House of the Open Door. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ON ELLEN'S ISLE; or, The Trail of the Seven Cedars. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ON THE OPEN ROAD; or, Glorify Work. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS DO THEIR BIT; or, Over the Top with the Winnebagos. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS SOLVE A MYSTERY; or, The Christmas Adventure at Carver House. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT CAMP KEEWAYDIN; or, Down Paddles. For sale by booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publishers A. L. BURT COMPANY 114-120 EAST 23rd STREET NEW YORK Transcriber's Note In this text-version italics has been indicated with _italics_. Small capitals has been changed to all capitals. A few obvious printer's errors have been corrected. Otherwise the original has been preserved, including inconsistencies in spelling, hyphenation or accentuation. 
420	----	Dorothy and the Wizard in Oz A Faithful Record of Their Amazing Adventures in an Underground World; and How with the Aid of Their Friends Zeb Hugson, Eureka the Kitten, and Jim the Cab-Horse, They Finally Reached the Wonderful Land of Oz by L. Frank Baum "Royal Historian of Oz" --To My Readers-- 1. The Earthquake 2. The Glass City 3. The Arrival of the Wizard 4. The Vegetable Kingdom 5. Dorothy Picks the Princess 6. The Mangaboos Prove Dangerous 7. Into the Black Pit and Out Again 8. The Valley of Voices 9. They Fight the Invisible Bears 10. The Braided Man of Pyramid Mountain 11. They Meet the Wooden Gargoyles 12. A Wonderful Escape 13. The Den of the Dragonettes 14. Ozma Uses the Magic Belt 15. Old Friends are Reunited 16. Jim, the Cab-Horse 17. The Nine Tiny Piglets 18. The Trial of Eureka, the Kitten 19. The Wizard Performs Another Trick 20. Zeb Returns to the Ranch To My Readers It's no use; no use at all. The children won't let me stop telling tales of the Land of Oz. I know lots of other stories, and I hope to tell them, some time or another; but just now my loving tyrants won't allow me. They cry: "Oz--Oz! more about Oz, Mr. Baum!" and what can I do but obey their commands? This is Our Book--mine and the children's. For they have flooded me with thousands of suggestions in regard to it, and I have honestly tried to adopt as many of these suggestions as could be fitted into one story. After the wonderful success of "Ozma of Oz" it is evident that Dorothy has become a firm fixture in these Oz stories. The little ones all love Dorothy, and as one of my small friends aptly states: "It isn't a real Oz story without her." So here she is again, as sweet and gentle and innocent as ever, I hope, and the heroine of another strange adventure. There were many requests from my little correspondents for "more about the Wizard." It seems the jolly old fellow made hosts of friends in the first Oz book, in spite of the fact that he frankly acknowledged himself "a humbug." The children had heard how he mounted into the sky in a balloon and they were all waiting for him to come down again. So what could I do but tell "what happened to the Wizard afterward"? You will find him in these pages, just the same humbug Wizard as before. There was one thing the children demanded which I found it impossible to do in this present book: they bade me introduce Toto, Dorothy's little black dog, who has many friends among my readers. But you will see, when you begin to read the story, that Toto was in Kansas while Dorothy was in California, and so she had to start on her adventure without him. In this book Dorothy had to take her kitten with her instead of her dog; but in the next Oz book, if I am permitted to write one, I intend to tell a good deal about Toto's further history. Princess Ozma, whom I love as much as my readers do, is again introduced in this story, and so are several of our old friends of Oz. You will also become acquainted with Jim the Cab-Horse, the Nine Tiny Piglets, and Eureka, the Kitten. I am sorry the kitten was not as well behaved as she ought to have been; but perhaps she wasn't brought up properly. Dorothy found her, you see, and who her parents were nobody knows. I believe, my dears, that I am the proudest story-teller that ever lived. Many a time tears of pride and joy have stood in my eyes while I read the tender, loving, appealing letters that came to me in almost every mail from my little readers. To have pleased you, to have interested you, to have won your friendship, and perhaps your love, through my stories, is to my mind as great an achievement as to become President of the United States. Indeed, I would much rather be your story-teller, under these conditions, than to be the President. So you have helped me to fulfill my life's ambition, and I am more grateful to you, my dears, than I can express in words. I try to answer every letter of my young correspondents; yet sometimes there are so many letters that a little time must pass before you get your answer. But be patient, friends, for the answer will surely come, and by writing to me you more than repay me for the pleasant task of preparing these books. Besides, I am proud to acknowledge that the books are partly yours, for your suggestions often guide me in telling the stories, and I am sure they would not be half so good without your clever and thoughtful assistance. L. FRANK BAUM Coronado, 1908. 1. The Earthquake The train from 'Frisco was very late. It should have arrived at Hugson's Siding at midnight, but it was already five o'clock and the gray dawn was breaking in the east when the little train slowly rumbled up to the open shed that served for the station-house. As it came to a stop the conductor called out in a loud voice: "Hugson's Siding!" At once a little girl rose from her seat and walked to the door of the car, carrying a wicker suit-case in one hand and a round bird-cage covered up with newspapers in the other, while a parasol was tucked under her arm. The conductor helped her off the car and then the engineer started his train again, so that it puffed and groaned and moved slowly away up the track. The reason he was so late was because all through the night there were times when the solid earth shook and trembled under him, and the engineer was afraid that at any moment the rails might spread apart and an accident happen to his passengers. So he moved the cars slowly and with caution. The little girl stood still to watch until the train had disappeared around a curve; then she turned to see where she was. The shed at Hugson's Siding was bare save for an old wooden bench, and did not look very inviting. As she peered through the soft gray light not a house of any sort was visible near the station, nor was any person in sight; but after a while the child discovered a horse and buggy standing near a group of trees a short distance away. She walked toward it and found the horse tied to a tree and standing motionless, with its head hanging down almost to the ground. It was a big horse, tall and bony, with long legs and large knees and feet. She could count his ribs easily where they showed through the skin of his body, and his head was long and seemed altogether too big for him, as if it did not fit. His tail was short and scraggly, and his harness had been broken in many places and fastened together again with cords and bits of wire. The buggy seemed almost new, for it had a shiny top and side curtains. Getting around in front, so that she could look inside, the girl saw a boy curled up on the seat, fast asleep. She set down the bird-cage and poked the boy with her parasol. Presently he woke up, rose to a sitting position and rubbed his eyes briskly. "Hello!" he said, seeing her, "are you Dorothy Gale?" "Yes," she answered, looking gravely at his tousled hair and blinking gray eyes. "Have you come to take me to Hugson's Ranch?" "Of course," he answered. "Train in?" "I couldn't be here if it wasn't," she said. He laughed at that, and his laugh was merry and frank. Jumping out of the buggy he put Dorothy's suit-case under the seat and her bird-cage on the floor in front. "Canary-birds?" he asked. "Oh no; it's just Eureka, my kitten. I thought that was the best way to carry her." The boy nodded. "Eureka's a funny name for a cat," he remarked. "I named my kitten that because I found it," she explained. "Uncle Henry says 'Eureka' means 'I have found it.'" "All right; hop in." She climbed into the buggy and he followed her. Then the boy picked up the reins, shook them, and said "Gid-dap!" The horse did not stir. Dorothy thought he just wiggled one of his drooping ears, but that was all. "Gid-dap!" called the boy, again. The horse stood still. "Perhaps," said Dorothy, "if you untied him, he would go." The boy laughed cheerfully and jumped out. "Guess I'm half asleep yet," he said, untying the horse. "But Jim knows his business all right--don't you, Jim?" patting the long nose of the animal. Then he got into the buggy again and took the reins, and the horse at once backed away from the tree, turned slowly around, and began to trot down the sandy road which was just visible in the dim light. "Thought that train would never come," observed the boy. "I've waited at that station for five hours." "We had a lot of earthquakes," said Dorothy. "Didn't you feel the ground shake?" "Yes; but we're used to such things in California," he replied. "They don't scare us much." "The conductor said it was the worst quake he ever knew." "Did he? Then it must have happened while I was asleep," he said thoughtfully. "How is Uncle Henry?" she enquired, after a pause during which the horse continued to trot with long, regular strides. "He's pretty well. He and Uncle Hugson have been having a fine visit." "Is Mr. Hugson your uncle?" she asked. "Yes. Uncle Bill Hugson married your Uncle Henry's wife's sister; so we must be second cousins," said the boy, in an amused tone. "I work for Uncle Bill on his ranch, and he pays me six dollars a month and my board." "Isn't that a great deal?" she asked, doubtfully. "Why, it's a great deal for Uncle Hugson, but not for me. I'm a splendid worker. I work as well as I sleep," he added, with a laugh. "What is your name?" said Dorothy, thinking she liked the boy's manner and the cheery tone of his voice. "Not a very pretty one," he answered, as if a little ashamed. "My whole name is Zebediah; but folks just call me 'Zeb.' You've been to Australia, haven't you?" "Yes; with Uncle Henry," she answered. "We got to San Francisco a week ago, and Uncle Henry went right on to Hugson's Ranch for a visit while I stayed a few days in the city with some friends we had met." "How long will you be with us?" he asked. "Only a day. Tomorrow Uncle Henry and I must start back for Kansas. We've been away for a long time, you know, and so we're anxious to get home again." The boy flicked the big, boney horse with his whip and looked thoughtful. Then he started to say something to his little companion, but before he could speak the buggy began to sway dangerously from side to side and the earth seemed to rise up before them. Next minute there was a roar and a sharp crash, and at her side Dorothy saw the ground open in a wide crack and then come together again. "Goodness!" she cried, grasping the iron rail of the seat. "What was that?" "That was an awful big quake," replied Zeb, with a white face. "It almost got us that time, Dorothy." The horse had stopped short, and stood firm as a rock. Zeb shook the reins and urged him to go, but Jim was stubborn. Then the boy cracked his whip and touched the animal's flanks with it, and after a low moan of protest Jim stepped slowly along the road. Neither the boy nor the girl spoke again for some minutes. There was a breath of danger in the very air, and every few moments the earth would shake violently. Jim's ears were standing erect upon his head and every muscle of his big body was tense as he trotted toward home. He was not going very fast, but on his flanks specks of foam began to appear and at times he would tremble like a leaf. The sky had grown darker again and the wind made queer sobbing sounds as it swept over the valley. Suddenly there was a rending, tearing sound, and the earth split into another great crack just beneath the spot where the horse was standing. With a wild neigh of terror the animal fell bodily into the pit, drawing the buggy and its occupants after him. Dorothy grabbed fast hold of the buggy top and the boy did the same. The sudden rush into space confused them so that they could not think. Blackness engulfed them on every side, and in breathless silence they waited for the fall to end and crush them against jagged rocks or for the earth to close in on them again and bury them forever in its dreadful depths. The horrible sensation of falling, the darkness and the terrifying noises, proved more than Dorothy could endure and for a few moments the little girl lost consciousness. Zeb, being a boy, did not faint, but he was badly frightened, and clung to the buggy seat with a tight grip, expecting every moment would be his last. 2. The Glass City When Dorothy recovered her senses they were still falling, but not so fast. The top of the buggy caught the air like a parachute or an umbrella filled with wind, and held them back so that they floated downward with a gentle motion that was not so very disagreeable to bear. The worst thing was their terror of reaching the bottom of this great crack in the earth, and the natural fear that sudden death was about to overtake them at any moment. Crash after crash echoed far above their heads, as the earth came together where it had split, and stones and chunks of clay rattled around them on every side. These they could not see, but they could feel them pelting the buggy top, and Jim screamed almost like a human being when a stone overtook him and struck his boney body. They did not really hurt the poor horse, because everything was falling together; only the stones and rubbish fell faster than the horse and buggy, which were held back by the pressure of the air, so that the terrified animal was actually more frightened than he was injured. How long this state of things continued Dorothy could not even guess, she was so greatly bewildered. But bye and bye, as she stared ahead into the black chasm with a beating heart, she began to dimly see the form of the horse Jim--his head up in the air, his ears erect and his long legs sprawling in every direction as he tumbled through space. Also, turning her head, she found that she could see the boy beside her, who had until now remained as still and silent as she herself. Dorothy sighed and commenced to breathe easier. She began to realize that death was not in store for her, after all, but that she had merely started upon another adventure, which promised to be just as queer and unusual as were those she had before encountered. With this thought in mind the girl took heart and leaned her head over the side of the buggy to see where the strange light was coming from. Far below her she found six great glowing balls suspended in the air. The central and largest one was white, and reminded her of the sun. Around it were arranged, like the five points of a star, the other five brilliant balls; one being rose colored, one violet, one yellow, one blue and one orange. This splendid group of colored suns sent rays darting in every direction, and as the horse and buggy--with Dorothy and Zeb--sank steadily downward and came nearer to the lights, the rays began to take on all the delicate tintings of a rainbow, growing more and more distinct every moment until all the space was brilliantly illuminated. Dorothy was too dazed to say much, but she watched one of Jim's big ears turn to violet and the other to rose, and wondered that his tail should be yellow and his body striped with blue and orange like the stripes of a zebra. Then she looked at Zeb, whose face was blue and whose hair was pink, and gave a little laugh that sounded a bit nervous. "Isn't it funny?" she said. The boy was startled and his eyes were big. Dorothy had a green streak through the center of her face where the blue and yellow lights came together, and her appearance seemed to add to his fright. "I--I don't s-s-see any-thing funny--'bout it!" he stammered. Just then the buggy tipped slowly over upon its side, the body of the horse tipping also. But they continued to fall, all together, and the boy and girl had no difficulty in remaining upon the seat, just as they were before. Then they turned bottom side up, and continued to roll slowly over until they were right side up again. During this time Jim struggled frantically, all his legs kicking the air; but on finding himself in his former position the horse said, in a relieved tone of voice: "Well, that's better!" Dorothy and Zeb looked at one another in wonder. "Can your horse talk?" she asked. "Never knew him to, before," replied the boy. "Those were the first words I ever said," called out the horse, who had overheard them, "and I can't explain why I happened to speak then. This is a nice scrape you've got me into, isn't it?" "As for that, we are in the same scrape ourselves," answered Dorothy, cheerfully. "But never mind; something will happen pretty soon." "Of course," growled the horse, "and then we shall be sorry it happened." Zeb gave a shiver. All this was so terrible and unreal that he could not understand it at all, and so had good reason to be afraid. Swiftly they drew near to the flaming colored suns, and passed close beside them. The light was then so bright that it dazzled their eyes, and they covered their faces with their hands to escape being blinded. There was no heat in the colored suns, however, and after they had passed below them the top of the buggy shut out many of the piercing rays so that the boy and girl could open their eyes again. "We've got to come to the bottom some time," remarked Zeb, with a deep sigh. "We can't keep falling forever, you know." "Of course not," said Dorothy. "We are somewhere in the middle of the earth, and the chances are we'll reach the other side of it before long. But it's a big hollow, isn't it?" "Awful big!" answered the boy. "We're coming to something now," announced the horse. At this they both put their heads over the side of the buggy and looked down. Yes; there was land below them; and not so very far away, either. But they were floating very, very slowly--so slowly that it could no longer be called a fall--and the children had ample time to take heart and look about them. They saw a landscape with mountains and plains, lakes and rivers, very like those upon the earth's surface; but all the scene was splendidly colored by the variegated lights from the six suns. Here and there were groups of houses that seemed made of clear glass, because they sparkled so brightly. "I'm sure we are in no danger," said Dorothy, in a sober voice. "We are falling so slowly that we can't be dashed to pieces when we land, and this country that we are coming to seems quite pretty." "We'll never get home again, though!" declared Zeb, with a groan. "Oh, I'm not so sure of that," replied the girl. "But don't let us worry over such things, Zeb; we can't help ourselves just now, you know, and I've always been told it's foolish to borrow trouble." The boy became silent, having no reply to so sensible a speech, and soon both were fully occupied in staring at the strange scenes spread out below them. They seemed to be falling right into the middle of a big city which had many tall buildings with glass domes and sharp-pointed spires. These spires were like great spear-points, and if they tumbled upon one of them they were likely to suffer serious injury. Jim the horse had seen these spires, also, and his ears stood straight up with fear, while Dorothy and Zeb held their breaths in suspense. But no; they floated gently down upon a broad, flat roof, and came to a stop at last. When Jim felt something firm under his feet the poor beast's legs trembled so much that he could hardly stand; but Zeb at once leaped out of the buggy to the roof, and he was so awkward and hasty that he kicked over Dorothy's bird-cage, which rolled out upon the roof so that the bottom came off. At once a pink kitten crept out of the upset cage, sat down upon the glass roof, and yawned and blinked its round eyes. "Oh," said Dorothy. "There's Eureka." "First time I ever saw a pink cat," said Zeb. "Eureka isn't pink; she's white. It's this queer light that gives her that color." "Where's my milk?" asked the kitten, looking up into Dorothy's face. "I'm 'most starved to death." "Oh, Eureka! Can you talk?" "Talk! Am I talking? Good gracious, I believe I am. Isn't it funny?" asked the kitten. "It's all wrong," said Zeb, gravely. "Animals ought not to talk. But even old Jim has been saying things since we had our accident." "I can't see that it's wrong," remarked Jim, in his gruff tones. "At least, it isn't as wrong as some other things. What's going to become of us now?" "I don't know," answered the boy, looking around him curiously. The houses of the city were all made of glass, so clear and transparent that one could look through the walls as easily as through a window. Dorothy saw, underneath the roof on which she stood, several rooms used for rest chambers, and even thought she could make out a number of queer forms huddled into the corners of these rooms. The roof beside them had a great hole smashed through it, and pieces of glass were lying scattered in every direction. A nearby steeple had been broken off short and the fragments lay heaped beside it. Other buildings were cracked in places or had corners chipped off from them; but they must have been very beautiful before these accidents had happened to mar their perfection. The rainbow tints from the colored suns fell upon the glass city softly and gave to the buildings many delicate, shifting hues which were very pretty to see. But not a sound had broken the stillness since the strangers had arrived, except that of their own voices. They began to wonder if there were no people to inhabit this magnificent city of the inner world. Suddenly a man appeared through a hole in the roof next to the one they were on and stepped into plain view. He was not a very large man, but was well formed and had a beautiful face--calm and serene as the face of a fine portrait. His clothing fitted his form snugly and was gorgeously colored in brilliant shades of green, which varied as the sunbeams touched them but was not wholly influenced by the solar rays. The man had taken a step or two across the glass roof before he noticed the presence of the strangers; but then he stopped abruptly. There was no expression of either fear or surprise upon his tranquil face, yet he must have been both astonished and afraid; for after his eyes had rested upon the ungainly form of the horse for a moment he walked rapidly to the furthest edge of the roof, his head turned back over his shoulder to gaze at the strange animal. "Look out!" cried Dorothy, who noticed that the beautiful man did not look where he was going; "be careful, or you'll fall off!" But he paid no attention to her warning. He reached the edge of the tall roof, stepped one foot out into the air, and walked into space as calmly as if he were on firm ground. The girl, greatly astonished, ran to lean over the edge of the roof, and saw the man walking rapidly through the air toward the ground. Soon he reached the street and disappeared through a glass doorway into one of the glass buildings. "How strange!" she exclaimed, drawing a long breath. "Yes; but it's lots of fun, if it IS strange," remarked the small voice of the kitten, and Dorothy turned to find her pet walking in the air a foot or so away from the edge of the roof. "Come back, Eureka!" she called, in distress, "you'll certainly be killed." "I have nine lives," said the kitten, purring softly as it walked around in a circle and then came back to the roof; "but I can't lose even one of them by falling in this country, because I really couldn't manage to fall if I wanted to." "Does the air bear up your weight?" asked the girl. "Of course; can't you see?" and again the kitten wandered into the air and back to the edge of the roof. "It's wonderful!" said Dorothy. "Suppose we let Eureka go down to the street and get some one to help us," suggested Zeb, who had been even more amazed than Dorothy at these strange happenings. "Perhaps we can walk on the air ourselves," replied the girl. Zeb drew back with a shiver. "I wouldn't dare try," he said. "Maybe Jim will go," continued Dorothy, looking at the horse. "And maybe he won't!" answered Jim. "I've tumbled through the air long enough to make me contented on this roof." "But we didn't tumble to the roof," said the girl; "by the time we reached here we were floating very slowly, and I'm almost sure we could float down to the street without getting hurt. Eureka walks on the air all right." "Eureka weights only about half a pound," replied the horse, in a scornful tone, "while I weigh about half a ton." "You don't weigh as much as you ought to, Jim," remarked the girl, shaking her head as she looked at the animal. "You're dreadfully skinny." "Oh, well; I'm old," said the horse, hanging his head despondently, "and I've had lots of trouble in my day, little one. For a good many years I drew a public cab in Chicago, and that's enough to make anyone skinny." "He eats enough to get fat, I'm sure," said the boy, gravely. "Do I? Can you remember any breakfast that I've had today?" growled Jim, as if he resented Zeb's speech. "None of us has had breakfast," said the boy; "and in a time of danger like this it's foolish to talk about eating." "Nothing is more dangerous than being without food," declared the horse, with a sniff at the rebuke of his young master; "and just at present no one can tell whether there are any oats in this queer country or not. If there are, they are liable to be glass oats!" "Oh, no!" exclaimed Dorothy. "I can see plenty of nice gardens and fields down below us, at the edge of this city. But I wish we could find a way to get to the ground." "Why don't you walk down?" asked Eureka. "I'm as hungry as the horse is, and I want my milk." "Will you try it, Zeb?" asked the girl, turning to her companion. Zeb hesitated. He was still pale and frightened, for this dreadful adventure had upset him and made him nervous and worried. But he did not wish the little girl to think him a coward, so he advanced slowly to the edge of the roof. Dorothy stretched out a hand to him and Zeb put one foot out and let it rest in the air a little over the edge of the roof. It seemed firm enough to walk upon, so he took courage and put out the other foot. Dorothy kept hold of his hand and followed him, and soon they were both walking through the air, with the kitten frisking beside them. "Come on, Jim!" called the boy. "It's all right." Jim had crept to the edge of the roof to look over, and being a sensible horse and quite experienced, he made up his mind that he could go where the others did. So, with a snort and a neigh and a whisk of his short tail he trotted off the roof into the air and at once began floating downward to the street. His great weight made him fall faster than the children walked, and he passed them on the way down; but when he came to the glass pavement he alighted upon it so softly that he was not even jarred. "Well, well!" said Dorothy, drawing a long breath, "What a strange country this is." People began to come out of the glass doors to look at the new arrivals, and pretty soon quite a crowd had assembled. There were men and women, but no children at all, and the folks were all beautifully formed and attractively dressed and had wonderfully handsome faces. There was not an ugly person in all the throng, yet Dorothy was not especially pleased by the appearance of these people because their features had no more expression than the faces of dolls. They did not smile nor did they frown, or show either fear or surprise or curiosity or friendliness. They simply started at the strangers, paying most attention to Jim and Eureka, for they had never before seen either a horse or a cat and the children bore an outward resemblance to themselves. Pretty soon a man joined the group who wore a glistening star in the dark hair just over his forehead. He seemed to be a person of authority, for the others pressed back to give him room. After turning his composed eyes first upon the animals and then upon the children he said to Zeb, who was a little taller than Dorothy: "Tell me, intruder, was it you who caused the Rain of Stones?" For a moment the boy did not know what he meant by this question. Then, remembering the stones that had fallen with them and passed them long before they had reached this place, he answered: "No, sir; we didn't cause anything. It was the earthquake." The man with the star stood for a time quietly thinking over this speech. Then he asked: "What is an earthquake?" "I don't know," said Zeb, who was still confused. But Dorothy, seeing his perplexity, answered: "It's a shaking of the earth. In this quake a big crack opened and we fell through--horse and buggy, and all--and the stones got loose and came down with us." The man with the star regarded her with his calm, expressionless eyes. "The Rain of Stones has done much damage to our city," he said; "and we shall hold you responsible for it unless you can prove your innocence." "How can we do that?" asked the girl. "That I am not prepared to say. It is your affair, not mine. You must go to the House of the Sorcerer, who will soon discover the truth." "Where is the House of the Sorcerer?" the girl enquired. "I will lead you to it. Come!" He turned and walked down the street, and after a moment's hesitation Dorothy caught Eureka in her arms and climbed into the buggy. The boy took his seat beside her and said: "Gid-dap Jim." As the horse ambled along, drawing the buggy, the people of the glass city made way for them and formed a procession in their rear. Slowly they moved down one street and up another, turning first this way and then that, until they came to an open square in the center of which was a big glass palace having a central dome and four tall spires on each corner. 3. The Arrival Of The Wizard The doorway of the glass palace was quite big enough for the horse and buggy to enter, so Zeb drove straight through it and the children found themselves in a lofty hall that was very beautiful. The people at once followed and formed a circle around the sides of the spacious room, leaving the horse and buggy and the man with the star to occupy the center of the hall. "Come to us, oh, Gwig!" called the man, in a loud voice. Instantly a cloud of smoke appeared and rolled over the floor; then it slowly spread and ascended into the dome, disclosing a strange personage seated upon a glass throne just before Jim's nose. He was formed just as were the other inhabitants of this land and his clothing only differed from theirs in being bright yellow. But he had no hair at all, and all over his bald head and face and upon the backs of his hands grew sharp thorns like those found on the branches of rose-bushes. There was even a thorn upon the tip of his nose and he looked so funny that Dorothy laughed when she saw him. The Sorcerer, hearing the laugh, looked toward the little girl with cold, cruel eyes, and his glance made her grow sober in an instant. "Why have you dared to intrude your unwelcome persons into the secluded Land of the Mangaboos?" he asked, sternly. "'Cause we couldn't help it," said Dorothy. "Why did you wickedly and viciously send the Rain of Stones to crack and break our houses?" he continued. "We didn't," declared the girl. "Prove it!" cried the Sorcerer. "We don't have to prove it," answered Dorothy, indignantly. "If you had any sense at all you'd known it was the earthquake." "We only know that yesterday came a Rain of Stones upon us, which did much damage and injured some of our people. Today came another Rain of Stones, and soon after it you appeared among us." "By the way," said the man with the star, looking steadily at the Sorcerer, "you told us yesterday that there would not be a second Rain of Stones. Yet one has just occurred that was even worse than the first. What is your sorcery good for if it cannot tell us the truth?" "My sorcery does tell the truth!" declared the thorn-covered man. "I said there would be but one Rain of Stones. This second one was a Rain of People-and-Horse-and-Buggy. And some stones came with them." "Will there be any more Rains?" asked the man with the star. "No, my Prince." "Neither stones nor people?" "No, my Prince." "Are you sure?" "Quite sure, my Prince. My sorcery tells me so." Just then a man came running into the hall and addressed the Prince after making a low bow. "More wonders in the air, my Lord," said he. Immediately the Prince and all of his people flocked out of the hall into the street, that they might see what was about to happen. Dorothy and Zeb jumped out of the buggy and ran after them, but the Sorcerer remained calmly in his throne. Far up in the air was an object that looked like a balloon. It was not so high as the glowing star of the six colored suns, but was descending slowly through the air--so slowly that at first it scarcely seemed to move. The throng stood still and waited. It was all they could do, for to go away and leave that strange sight was impossible; nor could they hurry its fall in any way. The earth children were not noticed, being so near the average size of the Mangaboos, and the horse had remained in the House of the Sorcerer, with Eureka curled up asleep on the seat of the buggy. Gradually the balloon grew bigger, which was proof that it was settling down upon the Land of the Mangaboos. Dorothy was surprised to find how patient the people were, for her own little heart was beating rapidly with excitement. A balloon meant to her some other arrival from the surface of the earth, and she hoped it would be some one able to assist her and Zeb out of their difficulties. In an hour the balloon had come near enough for her to see a basket suspended below it; in two hours she could see a head looking over the side of the basket; in three hours the big balloon settled slowly into the great square in which they stood and came to rest on the glass pavement. Then a little man jumped out of the basket, took off his tall hat, and bowed very gracefully to the crowd of Mangaboos around him. He was quite an old little man and his head was long and entirely bald. "Why," cried Dorothy, in amazement, "it's Oz!" The little man looked toward her and seemed as much surprised as she was. But he smiled and bowed as he answered: "Yes, my dear; I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Eh? And you are little Dorothy, from Kansas. I remember you very well." "Who did you say it was?" whispered Zeb to the girl. "It's the wonderful Wizard of Oz. Haven't you heard of him?" Just then the man with the star came and stood before the Wizard. "Sir," said he, "why are you here, in the Land of the Mangaboos?" "Didn't know what land it was, my son," returned the other, with a pleasant smile; "and, to be honest, I didn't mean to visit you when I started out. I live on top of the earth, your honor, which is far better than living inside it; but yesterday I went up in a balloon, and when I came down I fell into a big crack in the earth, caused by an earthquake. I had let so much gas out of my balloon that I could not rise again, and in a few minutes the earth closed over my head. So I continued to descend until I reached this place, and if you will show me a way to get out of it, I'll go with pleasure. Sorry to have troubled you; but it couldn't be helped." The Prince had listened with attention. Said he: "This child, who is from the crust of the earth, like yourself, called you a Wizard. Is not a Wizard something like a Sorcerer?" "It's better," replied Oz, promptly. "One Wizard is worth three Sorcerers." "Ah, you shall prove that," said the Prince. "We Mangaboos have, at the present time, one of the most wonderful Sorcerers that ever was picked from a bush; but he sometimes makes mistakes. Do you ever make mistakes?" "Never!" declared the Wizard, boldly. "Oh, Oz!" said Dorothy; "you made a lot of mistakes when you were in the marvelous Land of Oz." "Nonsense!" said the little man, turning red--although just then a ray of violet sunlight was on his round face. "Come with me," said the Prince to him. "I wish to meet our Sorcerer." The Wizard did not like this invitation, but he could not refuse to accept it. So he followed the Prince into the great domed hall, and Dorothy and Zeb came after them, while the throng of people trooped in also. There sat the thorny Sorcerer in his chair of state, and when the Wizard saw him he began to laugh, uttering comical little chuckles. "What an absurd creature!" he exclaimed. "He may look absurd," said the Prince, in his quiet voice; "but he is an excellent Sorcerer. The only fault I find with him is that he is so often wrong." "I am never wrong," answered the Sorcerer. "Only a short time ago you told me there would be no more Rain of Stones or of People," said the Prince. "Well, what then?" "Here is another person descended from the air to prove you were wrong." "One person cannot be called 'people,'" said the Sorcerer. "If two should come out of the sky you might with justice say I was wrong; but unless more than this one appears I will hold that I was right." "Very clever," said the Wizard, nodding his head as if pleased. "I am delighted to find humbugs inside the earth, just the same as on top of it. Were you ever with a circus, brother?" "No," said the Sorcerer. "You ought to join one," declared the little man seriously. "I belong to Bailum & Barney's Great Consolidated Shows--three rings in one tent and a menagerie on the side. It's a fine aggregation, I assure you." "What do you do?" asked the Sorcerer. "I go up in a balloon, usually, to draw the crowds to the circus. But I've just had the bad luck to come out of the sky, skip the solid earth, and land lower down than I intended. But never mind. It isn't everybody who gets a chance to see your Land of the Gabazoos." "Mangaboos," said the Sorcerer, correcting him. "If you are a Wizard you ought to be able to call people by their right names." "Oh, I'm a Wizard; you may be sure of that. Just as good a Wizard as you are a Sorcerer." "That remains to be seen," said the other. "If you are able to prove that you are better," said the Prince to the little man, "I will make you the Chief Wizard of this domain. Otherwise--" "What will happen otherwise?" asked the Wizard. "I will stop you from living and forbid you to be planted," returned the Prince. "That does not sound especially pleasant," said the little man, looking at the one with the star uneasily. "But never mind. I'll beat Old Prickly, all right." "My name is Gwig," said the Sorcerer, turning his heartless, cruel eyes upon his rival. "Let me see you equal the sorcery I am about to perform." He waved a thorny hand and at once the tinkling of bells was heard, playing sweet music. Yet, look where she would, Dorothy could discover no bells at all in the great glass hall. The Mangaboo people listened, but showed no great interest. It was one of the things Gwig usually did to prove he was a sorcerer. Now was the Wizard's turn, so he smiled upon the assemblage and asked: "Will somebody kindly loan me a hat?" No one did, because the Mangaboos did not wear hats, and Zeb had lost his, somehow, in his flight through the air. "Ahem!" said the Wizard, "will somebody please loan me a handkerchief?" But they had no handkerchiefs, either. "Very good," remarked the Wizard. "I'll use my own hat, if you please. Now, good people, observe me carefully. You see, there is nothing up my sleeve and nothing concealed about my person. Also, my hat is quite empty." He took off his hat and held it upside down, shaking it briskly. "Let me see it," said the Sorcerer. He took the hat and examined it carefully, returning it afterward to the Wizard. "Now," said the little man, "I will create something out of nothing." He placed the hat upon the glass floor, made a pass with his hand, and then removed the hat, displaying a little white piglet no bigger than a mouse, which began to run around here and there and to grunt and squeal in a tiny, shrill voice. The people watched it intently, for they had never seen a pig before, big or little. The Wizard reached out, caught the wee creature in his hand, and holding its head between one thumb and finger and its tail between the other thumb and finger he pulled it apart, each of the two parts becoming a whole and separate piglet in an instant. He placed one upon the floor, so that it could run around, and pulled apart the other, making three piglets in all; and then one of these was pulled apart, making four piglets. The Wizard continued this surprising performance until nine tiny piglets were running about at his feet, all squealing and grunting in a very comical way. "Now," said the Wizard of Oz, "having created something from nothing, I will make something nothing again." With this he caught up two of the piglets and pushed them together, so that the two were one. Then he caught up another piglet and pushed it into the first, where it disappeared. And so, one by one, the nine tiny piglets were pushed together until but a single one of the creatures remained. This the Wizard placed underneath his hat and made a mystic sign above it. When he removed his hat the last piglet had disappeared entirely. The little man gave a bow to the silent throng that had watched him, and then the Prince said, in his cold, calm voice: "You are indeed a wonderful Wizard, and your powers are greater than those of my Sorcerer." "He will not be a wonderful Wizard long," remarked Gwig. "Why not?" enquired the Wizard. "Because I am going to stop your breath," was the reply. "I perceive that you are curiously constructed, and that if you cannot breathe you cannot keep alive." The little man looked troubled. "How long will it take you to stop my breath?" he asked. "About five minutes. I'm going to begin now. Watch me carefully." He began making queer signs and passes toward the Wizard; but the little man did not watch him long. Instead, he drew a leathern case from his pocket and took from it several sharp knives, which he joined together, one after another, until they made a long sword. By the time he had attached a handle to this sword he was having much trouble to breathe, as the charm of the Sorcerer was beginning to take effect. So the Wizard lost no more time, but leaping forward he raised the sharp sword, whirled it once or twice around his head, and then gave a mighty stroke that cut the body of the Sorcerer exactly in two. Dorothy screamed and expected to see a terrible sight; but as the two halves of the Sorcerer fell apart on the floor she saw that he had no bones or blood inside of him at all, and that the place where he was cut looked much like a sliced turnip or potato. "Why, he's vegetable!" cried the Wizard, astonished. "Of course," said the Prince. "We are all vegetable, in this country. Are you not vegetable, also?" "No," answered the Wizard. "People on top of the earth are all meat. Will your Sorcerer die?" "Certainly, sir. He is really dead now, and will wither very quickly. So we must plant him at once, that other Sorcerers may grow upon his bush," continued the Prince. "What do you mean by that?" asked the little Wizard, greatly puzzled. "If you will accompany me to our public gardens," replied the Prince, "I will explain to you much better than I can here the mysteries of our Vegetable Kingdom." 4. The Vegetable Kingdom After the Wizard had wiped the dampness from his sword and taken it apart and put the pieces into their leathern case again, the man with the star ordered some of his people to carry the two halves of the Sorcerer to the public gardens. Jim pricked up his ears when he heard they were going to the gardens, and wanted to join the party, thinking he might find something proper to eat; so Zeb put down the top of the buggy and invited the Wizard to ride with them. The seat was amply wide enough for the little man and the two children, and when Jim started to leave the hall the kitten jumped upon his back and sat there quite contentedly. So the procession moved through the streets, the bearers of the Sorcerer first, the Prince next, then Jim drawing the buggy with the strangers inside of it, and last the crowd of vegetable people who had no hearts and could neither smile nor frown. The glass city had several fine streets, for a good many people lived there; but when the procession had passed through these it came upon a broad plain covered with gardens and watered by many pretty brooks that flowed through it. There were paths through these gardens, and over some of the brooks were ornamental glass bridges. Dorothy and Zeb now got out of the buggy and walked beside the Prince, so that they might see and examine the flowers and plants better. "Who built these lovely bridges?" asked the little girl. "No one built them," answered the man with the star. "They grow." "That's queer," said she. "Did the glass houses in your city grow, too?" "Of course," he replied. "But it took a good many years for them to grow as large and fine as they are now. That is why we are so angry when a Rain of Stones comes to break our towers and crack our roofs." "Can't you mend them?" she enquired. "No; but they will grow together again, in time, and we must wait until they do." They first passed through many beautiful gardens of flowers, which grew nearest the city; but Dorothy could hardly tell what kind of flowers they were, because the colors were constantly changing under the shifting lights of the six suns. A flower would be pink one second, white the next, then blue or yellow; and it was the same way when they came to the plants, which had broad leaves and grew close to the ground. When they passed over a field of grass Jim immediately stretched down his head and began to nibble. "A nice country this is," he grumbled, "where a respectable horse has to eat pink grass!" "It's violet," said the Wizard, who was in the buggy. "Now it's blue," complained the horse. "As a matter of fact, I'm eating rainbow grass." "How does it taste?" asked the Wizard. "Not bad at all," said Jim. "If they give me plenty of it I'll not complain about its color." By this time the party had reached a freshly plowed field, and the Prince said to Dorothy: "This is our planting-ground." Several Mangaboos came forward with glass spades and dug a hole in the ground. Then they put the two halves of the Sorcerer into it and covered him up. After that other people brought water from a brook and sprinkled the earth. "He will sprout very soon," said the Prince, "and grow into a large bush, from which we shall in time be able to pick several very good sorcerers." "Do all your people grow on bushes?" asked the boy. "Certainly," was the reply. "Do not all people grow upon bushes where you came from, on the outside of the earth?" "Not that I ever hear of." "How strange! But if you will come with me to one of our folk gardens I will show you the way we grow in the Land of the Mangaboos." It appeared that these odd people, while they were able to walk through the air with ease, usually moved upon the ground in the ordinary way. There were no stairs in their houses, because they did not need them, but on a level surface they generally walked just as we do. The little party of strangers now followed the Prince across a few more of the glass bridges and along several paths until they came to a garden enclosed by a high hedge. Jim had refused to leave the field of grass, where he was engaged in busily eating; so the Wizard got out of the buggy and joined Zeb and Dorothy, and the kitten followed demurely at their heels. Inside the hedge they came upon row after row of large and handsome plants with broad leaves gracefully curving until their points nearly reached the ground. In the center of each plant grew a daintily dressed Mangaboo, for the clothing of all these creatures grew upon them and was attached to their bodies. The growing Mangaboos were of all sizes, from the blossom that had just turned into a wee baby to the full-grown and almost ripe man or woman. On some of the bushes might be seen a bud, a blossom, a baby, a half-grown person and a ripe one; but even those ready to pluck were motionless and silent, as if devoid of life. This sight explained to Dorothy why she had seen no children among the Mangaboos, a thing she had until now been unable to account for. "Our people do not acquire their real life until they leave their bushes," said the Prince. "You will notice they are all attached to the plants by the soles of their feet, and when they are quite ripe they are easily separated from the stems and at once attain the powers of motion and speech. So while they grow they cannot be said to really live, and they must be picked before they can become good citizens." "How long do you live, after you are picked?" asked Dorothy. "That depends upon the care we take of ourselves," he replied. "If we keep cool and moist, and meet with no accidents, we often live for five years. I've been picked over six years, but our family is known to be especially long lived." "Do you eat?" asked the boy. "Eat! No, indeed. We are quite solid inside our bodies, and have no need to eat, any more than does a potato." "But the potatoes sometimes sprout," said Zeb. "And sometimes we do," answered the Prince; "but that is considered a great misfortune, for then we must be planted at once." "Where did you grow?" asked the Wizard. "I will show you," was the reply. "Step this way, please." He led them within another but smaller circle of hedge, where grew one large and beautiful bush. "This," said he, "is the Royal Bush of the Mangaboos. All of our Princes and Rulers have grown upon this one bush from time immemorial." They stood before it in silent admiration. On the central stalk stood poised the figure of a girl so exquisitely formed and colored and so lovely in the expression of her delicate features that Dorothy thought she had never seen so sweet and adorable a creature in all her life. The maiden's gown was soft as satin and fell about her in ample folds, while dainty lace-like traceries trimmed the bodice and sleeves. Her flesh was fine and smooth as polished ivory, and her poise expressed both dignity and grace. "Who is this?" asked the Wizard, curiously. The Prince had been staring hard at the girl on the bush. Now he answered, with a touch of uneasiness in his cold tones: "She is the Ruler destined to be my successor, for she is a Royal Princess. When she becomes fully ripe I must abandon the sovereignty of the Mangaboos to her." "Isn't she ripe now?" asked Dorothy. He hesitated. "Not quite," said he, finally. "It will be several days before she needs to be picked, or at least that is my judgment. I am in no hurry to resign my office and be planted, you may be sure." "Probably not," declared the Wizard, nodding. "This is one of the most unpleasant things about our vegetable lives," continued the Prince, with a sigh, "that while we are in our full prime we must give way to another, and be covered up in the ground to sprout and grow and give birth to other people." "I'm sure the Princess is ready to be picked," asserted Dorothy, gazing hard at the beautiful girl on the bush. "She's as perfect as she can be." "Never mind," answered the Prince, hastily, "she will be all right for a few days longer, and it is best for me to rule until I can dispose of you strangers, who have come to our land uninvited and must be attended to at once." "What are you going to do with us?" asked Zeb. "That is a matter I have not quite decided upon," was the reply. "I think I shall keep this Wizard until a new Sorcerer is ready to pick, for he seems quite skillful and may be of use to us. But the rest of you must be destroyed in some way, and you cannot be planted, because I do not wish horses and cats and meat people growing all over our country." "You needn't worry," said Dorothy. "We wouldn't grow under ground, I'm sure." "But why destroy my friends?" asked the little Wizard. "Why not let them live?" "They do not belong here," returned the Prince. "They have no right to be inside the earth at all." "We didn't ask to come down here; we fell," said Dorothy. "That is no excuse," declared the Prince, coldly. The children looked at each other in perplexity, and the Wizard sighed. Eureka rubbed her paw on her face and said in her soft, purring voice: "He won't need to destroy ME, for if I don't get something to eat pretty soon I shall starve to death, and so save him the trouble." "If he planted you, he might grow some cat-tails," suggested the Wizard. "Oh, Eureka! perhaps we can find you some milk-weeds to eat," said the boy. "Phoo!" snarled the kitten; "I wouldn't touch the nasty things!" "You don't need milk, Eureka," remarked Dorothy; "you are big enough now to eat any kind of food." "If I can get it," added Eureka. "I'm hungry myself," said Zeb. "But I noticed some strawberries growing in one of the gardens, and some melons in another place. These people don't eat such things, so perhaps on our way back they will let us get them." "Never mind your hunger," interrupted the Prince. "I shall order you destroyed in a few minutes, so you will have no need to ruin our pretty melon vines and berry bushes. Follow me, please, to meet your doom." 5. Dorothy Picks the Princess The words of the cold and moist vegetable Prince were not very comforting, and as he spoke them he turned away and left the enclosure. The children, feeling sad and despondent, were about to follow him when the Wizard touched Dorothy softly on her shoulder. "Wait!" he whispered. "What for?" asked the girl. "Suppose we pick the Royal Princess," said the Wizard. "I'm quite sure she's ripe, and as soon as she comes to life she will be the Ruler, and may treat us better than that heartless Prince intends to." "All right!" exclaimed Dorothy, eagerly. "Let's pick her while we have the chance, before the man with the star comes back." So together they leaned over the great bush and each of them seized one hand of the lovely Princess. "Pull!" cried Dorothy, and as they did so the royal lady leaned toward them and the stems snapped and separated from her feet. She was not at all heavy, so the Wizard and Dorothy managed to lift her gently to the ground. The beautiful creature passed her hands over her eyes an instant, tucked in a stray lock of hair that had become disarranged, and after a look around the garden made those present a gracious bow and said, in a sweet but even toned voice: "I thank you very much." "We salute your Royal Highness!" cried the Wizard, kneeling and kissing her hand. Just then the voice of the Prince was heard calling upon them to hasten, and a moment later he returned to the enclosure, followed by a number of his people. Instantly the Princess turned and faced him, and when he saw that she was picked the Prince stood still and began to tremble. "Sir," said the Royal Lady, with much dignity, "you have wronged me greatly, and would have wronged me still more had not these strangers come to my rescue. I have been ready for picking all the past week, but because you were selfish and desired to continue your unlawful rule, you left me to stand silent upon my bush." "I did not know that you were ripe," answered the Prince, in a low voice. "Give me the Star of Royalty!" she commanded. Slowly he took the shining star from his own brow and placed it upon that of the Princess. Then all the people bowed low to her, and the Prince turned and walked away alone. What became of him afterward our friends never knew. The people of Mangaboo now formed themselves into a procession and marched toward the glass city to escort their new ruler to her palace and to perform those ceremonies proper to the occasion. But while the people in the procession walked upon the ground the Princess walked in the air just above their heads, to show that she was a superior being and more exalted than her subjects. No one now seemed to pay any attention to the strangers, so Dorothy and Zeb and the Wizard let the train pass on and then wandered by themselves into the vegetable gardens. They did not bother to cross the bridges over the brooks, but when they came to a stream they stepped high and walked in the air to the other side. This was a very interesting experience to them, and Dorothy said: "I wonder why it is that we can walk so easily in the air." "Perhaps," answered the Wizard, "it is because we are close to the center of the earth, where the attraction of gravitation is very slight. But I've noticed that many queer things happen in fairy countries." "Is this a fairy country?" asked the boy. "Of course it is," returned Dorothy promptly. "Only a fairy country could have veg'table people; and only in a fairy country could Eureka and Jim talk as we do." "That's true," said Zeb, thoughtfully. In the vegetable gardens they found the strawberries and melons, and several other unknown but delicious fruits, of which they ate heartily. But the kitten bothered them constantly by demanding milk or meat, and called the Wizard names because he could not bring her a dish of milk by means of his magical arts. As they sat upon the grass watching Jim, who was still busily eating, Eureka said: "I don't believe you are a Wizard at all!" "No," answered the little man, "you are quite right. In the strict sense of the word I am not a Wizard, but only a humbug." "The Wizard of Oz has always been a humbug," agreed Dorothy. "I've known him for a long time." "If that is so," said the boy, "how could he do that wonderful trick with the nine tiny piglets?" "Don't know," said Dorothy, "but it must have been humbug." "Very true," declared the Wizard, nodding at her. "It was necessary to deceive that ugly Sorcerer and the Prince, as well as their stupid people; but I don't mind telling you, who are my friends, that the thing was only a trick." "But I saw the little pigs with my own eyes!" exclaimed Zeb. "So did I," purred the kitten. "To be sure," answered the Wizard. "You saw them because they were there. They are in my inside pocket now. But the pulling of them apart and pushing them together again was only a sleight-of-hand trick." "Let's see the pigs," said Eureka, eagerly. The little man felt carefully in his pocket and pulled out the tiny piglets, setting them upon the grass one by one, where they ran around and nibbled the tender blades. "They're hungry, too," he said. "Oh, what cunning things!" cried Dorothy, catching up one and petting it. "Be careful!" said the piglet, with a squeal, "you're squeezing me!" "Dear me!" murmured the Wizard, looking at his pets in astonishment. "They can actually talk!" "May I eat one of them?" asked the kitten, in a pleading voice. "I'm awfully hungry." "Why, Eureka," said Dorothy, reproachfully, "what a cruel question! It would be dreadful to eat these dear little things." "I should say so!" grunted another of the piglets, looking uneasily at the kitten; "cats are cruel things." "I'm not cruel," replied the kitten, yawning. "I'm just hungry." "You cannot eat my piglets, even if you are starving," declared the little man, in a stern voice. "They are the only things I have to prove I'm a wizard." "How did they happen to be so little?" asked Dorothy. "I never saw such small pigs before." "They are from the Island of Teenty-Weent," said the Wizard, "where everything is small because it's a small island. A sailor brought them to Los Angeles and I gave him nine tickets to the circus for them." "But what am I going to eat?" wailed the kitten, sitting in front of Dorothy and looking pleadingly into her face. "There are no cows here to give milk; or any mice, or even grasshoppers. And if I can't eat the piglets you may as well plant me at once and raise catsup." "I have an idea," said the Wizard, "that there are fishes in these brooks. Do you like fish?" "Fish!" cried the kitten. "Do I like fish? Why, they're better than piglets--or even milk!" "Then I'll try to catch you some," said he. "But won't they be veg'table, like everything else here?" asked the kitten. "I think not. Fishes are not animals, and they are as cold and moist as the vegetables themselves. There is no reason, that I can see, why they may not exist in the waters of this strange country." Then the Wizard bent a pin for a hook and took a long piece of string from his pocket for a fish-line. The only bait he could find was a bright red blossom from a flower; but he knew fishes are easy to fool if anything bright attracts their attention, so he decided to try the blossom. Having thrown the end of his line in the water of a nearby brook he soon felt a sharp tug that told him a fish had bitten and was caught on the bent pin; so the little man drew in the string and, sure enough, the fish came with it and was landed safely on the shore, where it began to flop around in great excitement. The fish was fat and round, and its scales glistened like beautifully cut jewels set close together; but there was no time to examine it closely, for Eureka made a jump and caught it between her claws, and in a few moments it had entirely disappeared. "Oh, Eureka!" cried Dorothy, "did you eat the bones?" "If it had any bones, I ate them," replied the kitten, composedly, as it washed its face after the meal. "But I don't think that fish had any bones, because I didn't feel them scratch my throat." "You were very greedy," said the girl. "I was very hungry," replied the kitten. The little pigs had stood huddled in a group, watching this scene with frightened eyes. "Cats are dreadful creatures!" said one of them. "I'm glad we are not fishes!" said another. "Don't worry," Dorothy murmured, soothingly, "I'll not let the kitten hurt you." Then she happened to remember that in a corner of her suit-case were one or two crackers that were left over from her luncheon on the train, and she went to the buggy and brought them. Eureka stuck up her nose at such food, but the tiny piglets squealed delightedly at the sight of the crackers and ate them up in a jiffy. "Now let us go back to the city," suggested the Wizard. "That is, if Jim has had enough of the pink grass." The cab-horse, who was browsing near, lifted his head with a sigh. "I've tried to eat a lot while I had the chance," said he, "for it's likely to be a long while between meals in this strange country. But I'm ready to go, now, at any time you wish." So, after the Wizard had put the piglets back into his inside pocket, where they cuddled up and went to sleep, the three climbed into the buggy and Jim started back to the town. "Where shall we stay?" asked the girl. "I think I shall take possession of the House of the Sorcerer," replied the Wizard; "for the Prince said in the presence of his people that he would keep me until they picked another Sorcerer, and the new Princess won't know but that we belong there." They agreed to this plan, and when they reached the great square Jim drew the buggy into the big door of the domed hall. "It doesn't look very homelike," said Dorothy, gazing around at the bare room. "But it's a place to stay, anyhow." "What are those holes up there?" enquired the boy, pointing to some openings that appeared near the top of the dome. "They look like doorways," said Dorothy; "only there are no stairs to get to them." "You forget that stairs are unnecessary," observed the Wizard. "Let us walk up, and see where the doors lead to." With this he began walking in the air toward the high openings, and Dorothy and Zeb followed him. It was the same sort of climb one experiences when walking up a hill, and they were nearly out of breath when they came to the row of openings, which they perceived to be doorways leading into halls in the upper part of the house. Following these halls they discovered many small rooms opening from them, and some were furnished with glass benches, tables and chairs. But there were no beds at all. "I wonder if these people never sleep," said the girl. "Why, there seems to be no night at all in this country," Zeb replied. "Those colored suns are exactly in the same place they were when we came, and if there is no sunset there can be no night." "Very true," agreed the Wizard. "But it is a long time since I have had any sleep, and I'm tired. So I think I shall lie down upon one of these hard glass benches and take a nap." "I will, too," said Dorothy, and chose a little room at the end of the hall. Zeb walked down again to unharness Jim, who, when he found himself free, rolled over a few times and then settled down to sleep, with Eureka nestling comfortably beside his big, boney body. Then the boy returned to one of the upper rooms, and in spite of the hardness of the glass bench was soon deep in slumberland. 6. The Mangaboos Prove Dangerous When the Wizard awoke the six colored suns were shining down upon the Land of the Mangaboos just as they had done ever since his arrival. The little man, having had a good sleep, felt rested and refreshed, and looking through the glass partition of the room he saw Zeb sitting up on his bench and yawning. So the Wizard went in to him. "Zeb," said he, "my balloon is of no further use in this strange country, so I may as well leave it on the square where it fell. But in the basket-car are some things I would like to keep with me. I wish you would go and fetch my satchel, two lanterns, and a can of kerosene oil that is under the seat. There is nothing else that I care about." So the boy went willingly upon the errand, and by the time he had returned Dorothy was awake. Then the three held a counsel to decide what they should do next, but could think of no way to better their condition. "I don't like these veg'table people," said the little girl. "They're cold and flabby, like cabbages, in spite of their prettiness." "I agree with you. It is because there is no warm blood in them," remarked the Wizard. "And they have no hearts; so they can't love anyone--not even themselves," declared the boy. "The Princess is lovely to look at," continued Dorothy, thoughtfully; "but I don't care much for her, after all. If there was any other place to go, I'd like to go there." "But IS there any other place?" asked the Wizard. "I don't know," she answered. Just then they heard the big voice of Jim the cab-horse calling to them, and going to the doorway leading to the dome they found the Princess and a throng of her people had entered the House of the Sorcerer. So they went down to greet the beautiful vegetable lady, who said to them: "I have been talking with my advisors about you meat people, and we have decided that you do not belong in the Land of the Mangaboos and must not remain here." "How can we go away?" asked Dorothy. "Oh, you cannot go away, of course; so you must be destroyed," was the answer. "In what way?" enquired the Wizard. "We shall throw you three people into the Garden of the Twining Vines," said the Princess, "and they will soon crush you and devour your bodies to make themselves grow bigger. The animals you have with you we will drive to the mountains and put into the Black Pit. Then our country will be rid of all its unwelcome visitors." "But you are in need of a Sorcerer," said the Wizard, "and not one of those growing is yet ripe enough to pick. I am greater than any thorn-covered sorcerer that every grew in your garden. Why destroy me?" "It is true we need a Sorcerer," acknowledged the Princess, "but I am informed that one of our own will be ready to pick in a few days, to take the place of Gwig, whom you cut in two before it was time for him to be planted. Let us see your arts, and the sorceries you are able to perform. Then I will decide whether to destroy you with the others or not." At this the Wizard made a bow to the people and repeated his trick of producing the nine tiny piglets and making them disappear again. He did it very cleverly, indeed, and the Princess looked at the strange piglets as if she were as truly astonished as any vegetable person could be. But afterward she said: "I have heard of this wonderful magic. But it accomplishes nothing of value. What else can you do?" The Wizard tried to think. Then he jointed together the blades of his sword and balanced it very skillfully upon the end of his nose. But even that did not satisfy the Princess. Just then his eye fell upon the lanterns and the can of kerosene oil which Zeb had brought from the car of his balloon, and he got a clever idea from those commonplace things. "Your Highness," said he, "I will now proceed to prove my magic by creating two suns that you have never seen before; also I will exhibit a Destroyer much more dreadful that your Clinging Vines." So he placed Dorothy upon one side of him and the boy upon the other and set a lantern upon each of their heads. "Don't laugh," he whispered to them, "or you will spoil the effect of my magic." Then, with much dignity and a look of vast importance upon his wrinkled face, the Wizard got out his match-box and lighted the two lanterns. The glare they made was very small when compared with the radiance of the six great colored suns; but still they gleamed steadily and clearly. The Mangaboos were much impressed because they had never before seen any light that did not come directly from their suns. Next the Wizard poured a pool of oil from the can upon the glass floor, where it covered quite a broad surface. When he lighted the oil a hundred tongues of flame shot up, and the effect was really imposing. "Now, Princess," exclaimed the Wizard, "those of your advisors who wished to throw us into the Garden of Clinging Vines must step within this circle of light. If they advised you well, and were in the right, they will not be injured in any way. But if any advised you wrongly, the light will wither him." The advisors of the Princess did not like this test; but she commanded them to step into the flame and one by one they did so, and were scorched so badly that the air was soon filled with an odor like that of baked potatoes. Some of the Mangaboos fell down and had to be dragged from the fire, and all were so withered that it would be necessary to plant them at once. "Sir," said the Princess to the Wizard, "you are greater than any Sorcerer we have ever known. As it is evident that my people have advised me wrongly, I will not cast you three people into the dreadful Garden of the Clinging Vines; but your animals must be driven into the Black Pit in the mountain, for my subjects cannot bear to have them around." The Wizard was so pleased to have saved the two children and himself that he said nothing against this decree; but when the Princess had gone both Jim and Eureka protested they did not want to go to the Black Pit, and Dorothy promised she would do all that she could to save them from such a fate. For two or three days after this--if we call days the periods between sleep, there being no night to divide the hours into days--our friends were not disturbed in any way. They were even permitted to occupy the House of the Sorcerer in peace, as if it had been their own, and to wander in the gardens in search of food. Once they came near to the enclosed Garden of the Clinging Vines, and walking high into the air looked down upon it with much interest. They saw a mass of tough green vines all matted together and writhing and twisting around like a nest of great snakes. Everything the vines touched they crushed, and our adventurers were indeed thankful to have escaped being cast among them. Whenever the Wizard went to sleep he would take the nine tiny piglets from his pocket and let them run around on the floor of his room to amuse themselves and get some exercise; and one time they found his glass door ajar and wandered into the hall and then into the bottom part of the great dome, walking through the air as easily as Eureka could. They knew the kitten, by this time, so they scampered over to where she lay beside Jim and commenced to frisk and play with her. The cab-horse, who never slept long at a time, sat upon his haunches and watched the tiny piglets and the kitten with much approval. "Don't be rough!" he would call out, if Eureka knocked over one of the round, fat piglets with her paw; but the pigs never minded, and enjoyed the sport very greatly. Suddenly they looked up to find the room filled with the silent, solemn-eyed Mangaboos. Each of the vegetable folks bore a branch covered with sharp thorns, which was thrust defiantly toward the horse, the kitten and the piglets. "Here--stop this foolishness!" Jim roared, angrily; but after being pricked once or twice he got upon his four legs and kept out of the way of the thorns. The Mangaboos surrounded them in solid ranks, but left an opening to the doorway of the hall; so the animals slowly retreated until they were driven from the room and out upon the street. Here were more of the vegetable people with thorns, and silently they urged the now frightened creatures down the street. Jim had to be careful not to step upon the tiny piglets, who scampered under his feet grunting and squealing, while Eureka, snarling and biting at the thorns pushed toward her, also tried to protect the pretty little things from injury. Slowly but steadily the heartless Mangaboos drove them on, until they had passed through the city and the gardens and come to the broad plains leading to the mountain. "What does all this mean, anyhow?" asked the horse, jumping to escape a thorn. "Why, they are driving us toward the Black Pit, into which they threatened to cast us," replied the kitten. "If I were as big as you are, Jim, I'd fight these miserable turnip-roots!" "What would you do?" enquired Jim. "I'd kick out with those long legs and iron-shod hoofs." "All right," said the horse; "I'll do it." An instant later he suddenly backed toward the crowd of Mangaboos and kicked out his hind legs as hard as he could. A dozen of them smashed together and tumbled to the ground, and seeing his success Jim kicked again and again, charging into the vegetable crowd, knocking them in all directions and sending the others scattering to escape his iron heels. Eureka helped him by flying into the faces of the enemy and scratching and biting furiously, and the kitten ruined so many vegetable complexions that the Mangaboos feared her as much as they did the horse. But the foes were too many to be repulsed for long. They tired Jim and Eureka out, and although the field of battle was thickly covered with mashed and disabled Mangaboos, our animal friends had to give up at last and allow themselves to be driven to the mountain. 7. Into the Black Pit and Out Again When they came to the mountain it proved to be a rugged, towering chunk of deep green glass, and looked dismal and forbidding in the extreme. Half way up the steep was a yawning cave, black as night beyond the point where the rainbow rays of the colored suns reached into it. The Mangaboos drove the horse and the kitten and the piglets into this dark hole and then, having pushed the buggy in after them--for it seemed some of them had dragged it all the way from the domed hall--they began to pile big glass rocks within the entrance, so that the prisoners could not get out again. "This is dreadful!" groaned Jim. "It will be about the end of our adventures, I guess." "If the Wizard was here," said one of the piglets, sobbing bitterly, "he would not see us suffer so." "We ought to have called him and Dorothy when we were first attacked," added Eureka. "But never mind; be brave, my friends, and I will go and tell our masters where you are, and get them to come to your rescue." The mouth of the hole was nearly filled up now, but the kitten gave a leap through the remaining opening and at once scampered up into the air. The Mangaboos saw her escape, and several of them caught up their thorns and gave chase, mounting through the air after her. Eureka, however, was lighter than the Mangaboos, and while they could mount only about a hundred feet above the earth the kitten found she could go nearly two hundred feet. So she ran along over their heads until she had left them far behind and below and had come to the city and the House of the Sorcerer. There she entered in at Dorothy's window in the dome and aroused her from her sleep. As soon as the little girl knew what had happened she awakened the Wizard and Zeb, and at once preparations were made to go to the rescue of Jim and the piglets. The Wizard carried his satchel, which was quite heavy, and Zeb carried the two lanterns and the oil can. Dorothy's wicker suit-case was still under the seat of the buggy, and by good fortune the boy had also placed the harness in the buggy when he had taken it off from Jim to let the horse lie down and rest. So there was nothing for the girl to carry but the kitten, which she held close to her bosom and tried to comfort, for its little heart was still beating rapidly. Some of the Mangaboos discovered them as soon as they left the House of the Sorcerer; but when they started toward the mountain the vegetable people allowed them to proceed without interference, yet followed in a crowd behind them so that they could not go back again. Before long they neared the Black Pit, where a busy swarm of Mangaboos, headed by their Princess, was engaged in piling up glass rocks before the entrance. "Stop, I command you!" cried the Wizard, in an angry tone, and at once began pulling down the rocks to liberate Jim and the piglets. Instead of opposing him in this they stood back in silence until he had made a good-sized hole in the barrier, when by order of the Princess they all sprang forward and thrust out their sharp thorns. Dorothy hopped inside the opening to escape being pricked, and Zeb and the Wizard, after enduring a few stabs from the thorns, were glad to follow her. At once the Mangaboos began piling up the rocks of glass again, and as the little man realized that they were all about to be entombed in the mountain he said to the children: "My dears, what shall we do? Jump out and fight?" "What's the use?" replied Dorothy. "I'd as soon die here as live much longer among these cruel and heartless people." "That's the way I feel about it," remarked Zeb, rubbing his wounds. "I've had enough of the Mangaboos." "All right," said the Wizard; "I'm with you, whatever you decide. But we can't live long in this cavern, that's certain." Noticing that the light was growing dim he picked up his nine piglets, patted each one lovingly on its fat little head, and placed them carefully in his inside pocket. Zeb struck a match and lighted one of the lanterns. The rays of the colored suns were now shut out from them forever, for the last chinks had been filled up in the wall that separated their prison from the Land of the Mangaboos. "How big is this hole?" asked Dorothy. "I'll explore it and see," replied the boy. So he carried the lantern back for quite a distance, while Dorothy and the Wizard followed at his side. The cavern did not come to an end, as they had expected it would, but slanted upward through the great glass mountain, running in a direction that promised to lead them to the side opposite the Mangaboo country. "It isn't a bad road," observed the Wizard, "and if we followed it it might lead us to some place that is more comfortable than this black pocket we are now in. I suppose the vegetable folk were always afraid to enter this cavern because it is dark; but we have our lanterns to light the way, so I propose that we start out and discover where this tunnel in the mountain leads to." The others agreed readily to this sensible suggestion, and at once the boy began to harness Jim to the buggy. When all was in readiness the three took their seats in the buggy and Jim started cautiously along the way, Zeb driving while the Wizard and Dorothy each held a lighted lantern so the horse could see where to go. Sometimes the tunnel was so narrow that the wheels of the buggy grazed the sides; then it would broaden out as wide as a street; but the floor was usually smooth, and for a long time they travelled on without any accident. Jim stopped sometimes to rest, for the climb was rather steep and tiresome. "We must be nearly as high as the six colored suns, by this time," said Dorothy. "I didn't know this mountain was so tall." "We are certainly a good distance away from the Land of the Mangaboos," added Zeb; "for we have slanted away from it ever since we started." But they kept steadily moving, and just as Jim was about tired out with his long journey the way suddenly grew lighter, and Zeb put out the lanterns to save the oil. To their joy they found it was a white light that now greeted them, for all were weary of the colored rainbow lights which, after a time, had made their eyes ache with their constantly shifting rays. The sides of the tunnel showed before them like the inside of a long spy-glass, and the floor became more level. Jim hastened his lagging steps at this assurance of a quick relief from the dark passage, and in a few moments more they had emerged from the mountain and found themselves face to face with a new and charming country. 8. The Valley of Voices By journeying through the glass mountain they had reached a delightful valley that was shaped like the hollow of a great cup, with another rugged mountain showing on the other side of it, and soft and pretty green hills at the ends. It was all laid out into lovely lawns and gardens, with pebble paths leading through them and groves of beautiful and stately trees dotting the landscape here and there. There were orchards, too, bearing luscious fruits that are all unknown in our world. Alluring brooks of crystal water flowed sparkling between their flower-strewn banks, while scattered over the valley were dozens of the quaintest and most picturesque cottages our travelers had ever beheld. None of them were in clusters, such as villages or towns, but each had ample grounds of its own, with orchards and gardens surrounding it. As the new arrivals gazed upon this exquisite scene they were enraptured by its beauties and the fragrance that permeated the soft air, which they breathed so gratefully after the confined atmosphere of the tunnel. Several minutes were consumed in silent admiration before they noticed two very singular and unusual facts about this valley. One was that it was lighted from some unseen source; for no sun or moon was in the arched blue sky, although every object was flooded with a clear and perfect light. The second and even more singular fact was the absence of any inhabitant of this splendid place. From their elevated position they could overlook the entire valley, but not a single moving object could they see. All appeared mysteriously deserted. The mountain on this side was not glass, but made of a stone similar to granite. With some difficulty and danger Jim drew the buggy over the loose rocks until he reached the green lawns below, where the paths and orchards and gardens began. The nearest cottage was still some distance away. "Isn't it fine?" cried Dorothy, in a joyous voice, as she sprang out of the buggy and let Eureka run frolicking over the velvety grass. "Yes, indeed!" answered Zeb. "We were lucky to get away from those dreadful vegetable people." "It wouldn't be so bad," remarked the Wizard, gazing around him, "if we were obliged to live here always. We couldn't find a prettier place, I'm sure." He took the piglets from his pocket and let them run on the grass, and Jim tasted a mouthful of the green blades and declared he was very contented in his new surroundings. "We can't walk in the air here, though," called Eureka, who had tried it and failed; but the others were satisfied to walk on the ground, and the Wizard said they must be nearer the surface of the earth then they had been in the Mangaboo country, for everything was more homelike and natural. "But where are the people?" asked Dorothy. The little man shook his bald head. "Can't imagine, my dear," he replied. They heard the sudden twittering of a bird, but could not find the creature anywhere. Slowly they walked along the path toward the nearest cottage, the piglets racing and gambolling beside them and Jim pausing at every step for another mouthful of grass. Presently they came to a low plant which had broad, spreading leaves, in the center of which grew a single fruit about as large as a peach. The fruit was so daintily colored and so fragrant, and looked so appetizing and delicious that Dorothy stopped and exclaimed: "What is it, do you s'pose?" The piglets had smelled the fruit quickly, and before the girl could reach out her hand to pluck it every one of the nine tiny ones had rushed in and commenced to devour it with great eagerness. "It's good, anyway," said Zeb, "or those little rascals wouldn't have gobbled it up so greedily." "Where are they?" asked Dorothy, in astonishment. They all looked around, but the piglets had disappeared. "Dear me!" cried the Wizard; "they must have run away. But I didn't see them go; did you?" "No!" replied the boy and the girl, together. "Here,--piggy, piggy, piggy!" called their master, anxiously. Several squeals and grunts were instantly heard at his feet, but the Wizard could not discover a single piglet. "Where are you?" he asked. "Why, right beside you," spoke a tiny voice. "Can't you see us?" "No," answered the little man, in a puzzled tone. "We can see you," said another of the piglets. The Wizard stooped down and put out his hand, and at once felt the small fat body of one of his pets. He picked it up, but could not see what he held. "It is very strange," said he, soberly. "The piglets have become invisible, in some curious way." "I'll bet it's because they ate that peach!" cried the kitten. "It wasn't a peach, Eureka," said Dorothy. "I only hope it wasn't poison." "It was fine, Dorothy," called one of the piglets. "We'll eat all we can find of them," said another. "But WE mus'n't eat them," the Wizard warned the children, "or we too may become invisible, and lose each other. If we come across another of the strange fruit we must avoid it." Calling the piglets to him he picked them all up, one by one, and put them away in his pocket; for although he could not see them he could feel them, and when he had buttoned his coat he knew they were safe for the present. The travellers now resumed their walk toward the cottage, which they presently reached. It was a pretty place, with vines growing thickly over the broad front porch. The door stood open and a table was set in the front room, with four chairs drawn up to it. On the table were plates, knives and forks, and dishes of bread, meat and fruits. The meat was smoking hot and the knives and forks were performing strange antics and jumping here and there in quite a puzzling way. But not a single person appeared to be in the room. "How funny!" exclaimed Dorothy, who with Zeb and the Wizard now stood in the doorway. A peal of merry laughter answered her, and the knives and forks fell to the plates with a clatter. One of the chairs pushed back from the table, and this was so astonishing and mysterious that Dorothy was almost tempted to run away in fright. "Here are strangers, mama!" cried the shrill and childish voice of some unseen person. "So I see, my dear," answered another voice, soft and womanly. "What do you want?" demanded a third voice, in a stern, gruff accent. "Well, well!" said the Wizard; "are there really people in this room?" "Of course," replied the man's voice. "And--pardon me for the foolish question--but, are you all invisible?" "Surely," the woman answered, repeating her low, rippling laughter. "Are you surprised that you are unable to see the people of Voe?" "Why, yes," stammered the Wizard. "All the people I have ever met before were very plain to see." "Where do you come from, then?" asked the woman, in a curious tone. "We belong upon the face of the earth," explained the Wizard, "but recently, during an earthquake, we fell down a crack and landed in the Country of the Mangaboos." "Dreadful creatures!" exclaimed the woman's voice. "I've heard of them." "They walled us up in a mountain," continued the Wizard; "but we found there was a tunnel through to this side, so we came here. It is a beautiful place. What do you call it?" "It is the Valley of Voe." "Thank you. We have seen no people since we arrived, so we came to this house to enquire our way." "Are you hungry?" asked the woman's voice. "I could eat something," said Dorothy. "So could I," added Zeb. "But we do not wish to intrude, I assure you," the Wizard hastened to say. "That's all right," returned the man's voice, more pleasantly than before. "You are welcome to what we have." As he spoke the voice came so near to Zeb that he jumped back in alarm. Two childish voices laughed merrily at this action, and Dorothy was sure they were in no danger among such light-hearted folks, even if those folks couldn't be seen. "What curious animal is that which is eating the grass on my lawn?" enquired the man's voice. "That's Jim," said the girl. "He's a horse." "What is he good for?" was the next question. "He draws the buggy you see fastened to him, and we ride in the buggy instead of walking," she explained. "Can he fight?" asked the man's voice. "No! he can kick pretty hard with his heels, and bite a little; but Jim can't 'zactly fight," she replied. "Then the bears will get him," said one of the children's voices. "Bears!" exclaimed Dorothy. "Are these bears here?" "That is the one evil of our country," answered the invisible man. "Many large and fierce bears roam in the Valley of Voe, and when they can catch any of us they eat us up; but as they cannot see us, we seldom get caught." "Are the bears invis'ble, too?" asked the girl. "Yes; for they eat of the dama-fruit, as we all do, and that keeps them from being seen by any eye, whether human or animal." "Does the dama-fruit grow on a low bush, and look something like a peach?" asked the Wizard. "Yes," was the reply. "If it makes you invis'ble, why do you eat it?" Dorothy enquired. "For two reasons, my dear," the woman's voice answered. "The dama-fruit is the most delicious thing that grows, and when it makes us invisible the bears cannot find us to eat us up. But now, good wanderers, your luncheon is on the table, so please sit down and eat as much as you like." 9. They Fight the Invisible Bears The strangers took their seats at the table willingly enough, for they were all hungry and the platters were now heaped with good things to eat. In front of each place was a plate bearing one of the delicious dama-fruit, and the perfume that rose from these was so enticing and sweet that they were sorely tempted to eat of them and become invisible. But Dorothy satisfied her hunger with other things, and her companions did likewise, resisting the temptation. "Why do you not eat the damas?" asked the woman's voice. "We don't want to get invis'ble," answered the girl. "But if you remain visible the bears will see you and devour you," said a girlish young voice, that belonged to one of the children. "We who live here much prefer to be invisible; for we can still hug and kiss one another, and are quite safe from the bears." "And we do not have to be so particular about our dress," remarked the man. "And mama can't tell whether my face is dirty or not!" added the other childish voice, gleefully. "But I make you wash it, every time I think of it," said the mother; "for it stands to reason your face is dirty, Ianu, whether I can see it or not." Dorothy laughed and stretched out her hands. "Come here, please--Ianu and your sister--and let me feel of you," she requested. They came to her willingly, and Dorothy passed her hands over their faces and forms and decided one was a girl of about her own age and the other a boy somewhat smaller. The girl's hair was soft and fluffy and her skin as smooth as satin. When Dorothy gently touched her nose and ears and lips they seemed to be well and delicately formed. "If I could see you I am sure you would be beautiful," she declared. The girl laughed, and her mother said: "We are not vain in the Valley of Voe, because we can not display our beauty, and good actions and pleasant ways are what make us lovely to our companions. Yet we can see and appreciate the beauties of nature, the dainty flowers and trees, the green fields and the clear blue of the sky." "How about the birds and beasts and fishes?" asked Zeb. "The birds we cannot see, because they love to eat of the damas as much as we do; yet we hear their sweet songs and enjoy them. Neither can we see the cruel bears, for they also eat the fruit. But the fishes that swim in our brooks we can see, and often we catch them to eat." "It occurs to me you have a great deal to make you happy, even while invisible," remarked the Wizard. "Nevertheless, we prefer to remain visible while we are in your valley." Just then Eureka came in, for she had been until now wandering outside with Jim; and when the kitten saw the table set with food she cried out: "Now you must feed me, Dorothy, for I'm half starved." The children were inclined to be frightened by the sight of the small animal, which reminded them of the bears; but Dorothy reassured them by explaining that Eureka was a pet and could do no harm even if she wished to. Then, as the others had by this time moved away from the table, the kitten sprang upon the chair and put her paws upon the cloth to see what there was to eat. To her surprise an unseen hand clutched her and held her suspended in the air. Eureka was frantic with terror, and tried to scratch and bite, so the next moment she was dropped to the floor. "Did you see that, Dorothy?" she gasped. "Yes, dear," her mistress replied; "there are people living in this house, although we cannot see them. And you must have better manners, Eureka, or something worse will happen to you." She placed a plate of food upon the floor and the kitten ate greedily. "Give me that nice-smelling fruit I saw on the table," she begged, when she had cleaned the plate. "Those are damas," said Dorothy, "and you must never even taste them, Eureka, or you'll get invis'ble, and then we can't see you at all." The kitten gazed wistfully at the forbidden fruit. "Does it hurt to be invis'ble?" she asked. "I don't know," Dorothy answered; "but it would hurt me dre'fully to lose you." "Very well, I won't touch it," decided the kitten; "but you must keep it away from me, for the smell is very tempting." "Can you tell us, sir or ma'am," said the Wizard, addressing the air because he did not quite know where the unseen people stood, "if there is any way we can get out of your beautiful Valley, and on top of the Earth again." "Oh, one can leave the Valley easily enough," answered the man's voice; "but to do so you must enter a far less pleasant country. As for reaching the top of the earth, I have never heard that it is possible to do that, and if you succeeded in getting there you would probably fall off." "Oh, no," said Dorothy, "we've been there, and we know." "The Valley of Voe is certainly a charming place," resumed the Wizard; "but we cannot be contented in any other land than our own, for long. Even if we should come to unpleasant places on our way it is necessary, in order to reach the earth's surface, to keep moving on toward it." "In that case," said the man, "it will be best for you to cross our Valley and mount the spiral staircase inside the Pyramid Mountain. The top of that mountain is lost in the clouds, and when you reach it you will be in the awful Land of Naught, where the Gargoyles live." "What are Gargoyles?" asked Zeb. "I do not know, young sir. Our greatest Champion, Overman-Anu, once climbed the spiral stairway and fought nine days with the Gargoyles before he could escape them and come back; but he could never be induced to describe the dreadful creatures, and soon afterward a bear caught him and ate him up." The wanders were rather discouraged by this gloomy report, but Dorothy said with a sigh: "If the only way to get home is to meet the Gurgles, then we've got to meet 'em. They can't be worse than the Wicked Witch or the Nome King." "But you must remember you had the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman to help you conquer those enemies," suggested the Wizard. "Just now, my dear, there is not a single warrior in your company." "Oh, I guess Zeb could fight if he had to. Couldn't you, Zeb?" asked the little girl. "Perhaps; if I had to," answered Zeb, doubtfully. "And you have the jointed sword that you chopped the veg'table Sorcerer in two with," the girl said to the little man. "True," he replied; "and in my satchel are other useful things to fight with." "What the Gargoyles most dread is a noise," said the man's voice. "Our Champion told me that when he shouted his battle-cry the creatures shuddered and drew back, hesitating to continue the combat. But they were in great numbers, and the Champion could not shout much because he had to save his breath for fighting." "Very good," said the Wizard; "we can all yell better than we can fight, so we ought to defeat the Gargoyles." "But tell me," said Dorothy, "how did such a brave Champion happen to let the bears eat him? And if he was invis'ble, and the bears invis'ble, who knows that they really ate him up?" "The Champion had killed eleven bears in his time," returned the unseen man; "and we know this is true because when any creature is dead the invisible charm of the dama-fruit ceases to be active, and the slain one can be plainly seen by all eyes. When the Champion killed a bear everyone could see it; and when the bears killed the Champion we all saw several pieces of him scattered about, which of course disappeared again when the bears devoured them." They now bade farewell to the kind but unseen people of the cottage, and after the man had called their attention to a high, pyramid-shaped mountain on the opposite side of the Valley, and told them how to travel in order to reach it, they again started upon their journey. They followed the course of a broad stream and passed several more pretty cottages; but of course they saw no one, nor did any one speak to them. Fruits and flowers grew plentifully all about, and there were many of the delicious damas that the people of Voe were so fond of. About noon they stopped to allow Jim to rest in the shade of a pretty orchard, and while they plucked and ate some of the cherries and plums that grew there a soft voice suddenly said to them: "There are bears near by. Be careful." The Wizard got out his sword at once, and Zeb grabbed the horse-whip. Dorothy climbed into the buggy, although Jim had been unharnessed from it and was grazing some distance away. The owner of the unseen voice laughed lightly and said: "You cannot escape the bears that way." "How CAN we 'scape?" asked Dorothy, nervously, for an unseen danger is always the hardest to face. "You must take to the river," was the reply. "The bears will not venture upon the water." "But we would be drowned!" exclaimed the girl. "Oh, there is no need of that," said the voice, which from its gentle tones seemed to belong to a young girl. "You are strangers in the Valley of Voe, and do not seem to know our ways; so I will try to save you." The next moment a broad-leaved plant was jerked from the ground where it grew and held suspended in the air before the Wizard. "Sir," said the voice, "you must rub these leaves upon the soles of all your feet, and then you will be able to walk upon the water without sinking below the surface. It is a secret the bears do not know, and we people of Voe usually walk upon the water when we travel, and so escape our enemies." "Thank you!" cried the Wizard, joyfully, and at once rubbed a leaf upon the soles of Dorothy's shoes and then upon his own. The girl took a leaf and rubbed it upon the kitten's paws, and the rest of the plant was handed to Zeb, who, after applying it to his own feet, carefully rubbed it upon all four of Jim's hoofs and then upon the tires of the buggy-wheels. He had nearly finished this last task when a low growling was suddenly heard and the horse began to jump around and kick viciously with his heels. "Quick! To the water or you are lost!" cried their unseen friend, and without hesitation the Wizard drew the buggy down the bank and out upon the broad river, for Dorothy was still seated in it with Eureka in her arms. They did not sink at all, owing to the virtues of the strange plant they had used, and when the buggy was in the middle of the stream the Wizard returned to the bank to assist Zeb and Jim. The horse was plunging madly about, and two or three deep gashes appeared upon its flanks, from which the blood flowed freely. "Run for the river!" shouted the Wizard, and Jim quickly freed himself from his unseen tormenters by a few vicious kicks and then obeyed. As soon as he trotted out upon the surface of the river he found himself safe from pursuit, and Zeb was already running across the water toward Dorothy. As the little Wizard turned to follow them he felt a hot breath against his cheek and heard a low, fierce growl. At once he began stabbing at the air with his sword, and he knew that he had struck some substance because when he drew back the blade it was dripping with blood. The third time that he thrust out the weapon there was a loud roar and a fall, and suddenly at his feet appeared the form of a great red bear, which was nearly as big as the horse and much stronger and fiercer. The beast was quite dead from the sword thrusts, and after a glance at its terrible claws and sharp teeth the little man turned in a panic and rushed out upon the water, for other menacing growls told him more bears were near. On the river, however, the adventurers seemed to be perfectly safe. Dorothy and the buggy had floated slowly down stream with the current of the water, and the others made haste to join her. The Wizard opened his satchel and got out some sticking-plaster with which he mended the cuts Jim had received from the claws of the bears. "I think we'd better stick to the river, after this," said Dorothy. "If our unknown friend hadn't warned us, and told us what to do, we would all be dead by this time." "That is true," agreed the Wizard, "and as the river seems to be flowing in the direction of the Pyramid Mountain it will be the easiest way for us to travel." Zeb hitched Jim to the buggy again, and the horse trotted along and drew them rapidly over the smooth water. The kitten was at first dreadfully afraid of getting wet, but Dorothy let her down and soon Eureka was frisking along beside the buggy without being scared a bit. Once a little fish swam too near the surface, and the kitten grabbed it in her mouth and ate it up as quick as a wink; but Dorothy cautioned her to be careful what she ate in this valley of enchantments, and no more fishes were careless enough to swim within reach. After a journey of several hours they came to a point where the river curved, and they found they must cross a mile or so of the Valley before they came to the Pyramid Mountain. There were few houses in this part, and few orchards or flowers; so our friends feared they might encounter more of the savage bears, which they had learned to dread with all their hearts. "You'll have to make a dash, Jim," said the Wizard, "and run as fast as you can go." "All right," answered the horse; "I'll do my best. But you must remember I'm old, and my dashing days are past and gone." All three got into the buggy and Zeb picked up the reins, though Jim needed no guidance of any sort. The horse was still smarting from the sharp claws of the invisible bears, and as soon as he was on land and headed toward the mountain the thought that more of those fearsome creatures might be near acted as a spur and sent him galloping along in a way that made Dorothy catch her breath. Then Zeb, in a spirit of mischief, uttered a growl like that of the bears, and Jim pricked up his ears and fairly flew. His boney legs moved so fast they could scarcely be seen, and the Wizard clung fast to the seat and yelled "Whoa!" at the top of his voice. "I--I'm 'fraid he's--he's running away!" gasped Dorothy. "I KNOW he is," said Zeb; "but no bear can catch him if he keeps up that gait--and the harness or the buggy don't break." Jim did not make a mile a minute; but almost before they were aware of it he drew up at the foot of the mountain, so suddenly that the Wizard and Zeb both sailed over the dashboard and landed in the soft grass--where they rolled over several times before they stopped. Dorothy nearly went with them, but she was holding fast to the iron rail of the seat, and that saved her. She squeezed the kitten, though, until it screeched; and then the old cab-horse made several curious sounds that led the little girl to suspect he was laughing at them all. 10. The Braided Man of Pyramid Mountain The mountain before them was shaped like a cone and was so tall that its point was lost in the clouds. Directly facing the place where Jim had stopped was an arched opening leading to a broad stairway. The stairs were cut in the rock inside the mountain, and they were broad and not very steep, because they circled around like a cork-screw, and at the arched opening where the flight began the circle was quite big. At the foot of the stairs was a sign reading: WARNING. These steps lead to the Land of the Gargoyles. DANGER! KEEP OUT. "I wonder how Jim is ever going to draw the buggy up so many stairs," said Dorothy, gravely. "No trouble at all," declared the horse, with a contemptuous neigh. "Still, I don't care to drag any passengers. You'll all have to walk." "Suppose the stairs get steeper?" suggested Zeb, doubtfully. "Then you'll have to boost the buggy-wheels, that's all," answered Jim. "We'll try it, anyway," said the Wizard. "It's the only way to get out of the Valley of Voe." So they began to ascend the stairs, Dorothy and the Wizard first, Jim next, drawing the buggy, and then Zeb to watch that nothing happened to the harness. The light was dim, and soon they mounted into total darkness, so that the Wizard was obliged to get out his lanterns to light the way. But this enabled them to proceed steadily until they came to a landing where there was a rift in the side of the mountain that let in both light and air. Looking through this opening they could see the Valley of Voe lying far below them, the cottages seeming like toy houses from that distance. After resting a few moments they resumed their climb, and still the stairs were broad and low enough for Jim to draw the buggy easily after him. The old horse panted a little, and had to stop often to get his breath. At such times they were all glad to wait for him, for continually climbing up stairs is sure to make one's legs ache. They wound about, always going upward, for some time. The lights from the lanterns dimly showed the way, but it was a gloomy journey, and they were pleased when a broad streak of light ahead assured them they were coming to a second landing. Here one side of the mountain had a great hole in it, like the mouth of a cavern, and the stairs stopped at the near edge of the floor and commenced ascending again at the opposite edge. The opening in the mountain was on the side opposite to the Valley of Voe, and our travellers looked out upon a strange scene. Below them was a vast space, at the bottom of which was a black sea with rolling billows, through which little tongues of flame constantly shot up. Just above them, and almost on a level with their platform, were banks of rolling clouds which constantly shifted position and changed color. The blues and greys were very beautiful, and Dorothy noticed that on the cloud banks sat or reclined fleecy, shadowy forms of beautiful beings who must have been the Cloud Fairies. Mortals who stand upon the earth and look up at the sky cannot often distinguish these forms, but our friends were now so near to the clouds that they observed the dainty fairies very clearly. "Are they real?" asked Zeb, in an awed voice. "Of course," replied Dorothy, softly. "They are the Cloud Fairies." "They seem like open-work," remarked the boy, gazing intently. "If I should squeeze one, there wouldn't be anything left of it." In the open space between the clouds and the black, bubbling sea far beneath, could be seen an occasional strange bird winging its way swiftly through the air. These birds were of enormous size, and reminded Zeb of the rocs he had read about in the Arabian Nights. They had fierce eyes and sharp talons and beaks, and the children hoped none of them would venture into the cavern. "Well, I declare!" suddenly exclaimed the little Wizard. "What in the world is this?" They turned around and found a man standing on the floor in the center of the cave, who bowed very politely when he saw he had attracted their attention. He was a very old man, bent nearly double; but the queerest thing about him was his white hair and beard. These were so long that they reached to his feet, and both the hair and the beard were carefully plaited into many braids, and the end of each braid fastened with a bow of colored ribbon. "Where did you come from?" asked Dorothy, wonderingly. "No place at all," answered the man with the braids; "that is, not recently. Once I lived on top the earth, but for many years I have had my factory in this spot--half way up Pyramid Mountain." "Are we only half way up?" enquired the boy, in a discouraged tone. "I believe so, my lad," replied the braided man. "But as I have never been in either direction, down or up, since I arrived, I cannot be positive whether it is exactly half way or not." "Have you a factory in this place?" asked the Wizard, who had been examining the strange personage carefully. "To be sure," said the other. "I am a great inventor, you must know, and I manufacture my products in this lonely spot." "What are your products?" enquired the Wizard. "Well, I make Assorted Flutters for flags and bunting, and a superior grade of Rustles for ladies' silk gowns." "I thought so," said the Wizard, with a sigh. "May we examine some of these articles?" "Yes, indeed; come into my shop, please," and the braided man turned and led the way into a smaller cave, where he evidently lived. Here, on a broad shelf, were several card-board boxes of various sizes, each tied with cotton cord. "This," said the man, taking up a box and handling it gently, "contains twelve dozen rustles--enough to last any lady a year. Will you buy it, my dear?" he asked, addressing Dorothy. "My gown isn't silk," she said, smiling. "Never mind. When you open the box the rustles will escape, whether you are wearing a silk dress or not," said the man, seriously. Then he picked up another box. "In this," he continued, "are many assorted flutters. They are invaluable to make flags flutter on a still day, when there is no wind. You, sir," turning to the Wizard, "ought to have this assortment. Once you have tried my goods I am sure you will never be without them." "I have no money with me," said the Wizard, evasively. "I do not want money," returned the braided man, "for I could not spend it in this deserted place if I had it. But I would like very much a blue hair-ribbon. You will notice my braids are tied with yellow, pink, brown, red, green, white and black; but I have no blue ribbons." "I'll get you one!" cried Dorothy, who was sorry for the poor man; so she ran back to the buggy and took from her suit-case a pretty blue ribbon. It did her good to see how the braided man's eyes sparkled when he received this treasure. "You have made me very, very happy, my dear!" he exclaimed; and then he insisted on the Wizard taking the box of flutters and the little girl accepting the box of rustles. "You may need them, some time," he said, "and there is really no use in my manufacturing these things unless somebody uses them." "Why did you leave the surface of the earth?" enquired the Wizard. "I could not help it. It is a sad story, but if you will try to restrain your tears I will tell you about it. On earth I was a manufacturer of Imported Holes for American Swiss Cheese, and I will acknowledge that I supplied a superior article, which was in great demand. Also I made pores for porous plasters and high-grade holes for doughnuts and buttons. Finally I invented a new Adjustable Post-hole, which I thought would make my fortune. I manufactured a large quantity of these post-holes, and having no room in which to store them I set them all end to end and put the top one in the ground. That made an extraordinary long hole, as you may imagine, and reached far down into the earth; and, as I leaned over it to try to see to the bottom, I lost my balance and tumbled in. Unfortunately, the hole led directly into the vast space you see outside this mountain; but I managed to catch a point of rock that projected from this cavern, and so saved myself from tumbling headlong into the black waves beneath, where the tongues of flame that dart out would certainly have consumed me. Here, then, I made my home; and although it is a lonely place I amuse myself making rustles and flutters, and so get along very nicely." When the braided man had completed this strange tale Dorothy nearly laughed, because it was all so absurd; but the Wizard tapped his forehead significantly, to indicate that he thought the poor man was crazy. So they politely bade him good day, and went back to the outer cavern to resume their journey. 11. They Meet the Wooden Gargoyles Another breathless climb brought our adventurers to a third landing where there was a rift in the mountain. On peering out all they could see was rolling banks of clouds, so thick that they obscured all else. But the travellers were obliged to rest, and while they were sitting on the rocky floor the Wizard felt in his pocket and brought out the nine tiny piglets. To his delight they were now plainly visible, which proved that they had passed beyond the influence of the magical Valley of Voe. "Why, we can see each other again!" cried one, joyfully. "Yes," sighed Eureka; "and I also can see you again, and the sight makes me dreadfully hungry. Please, Mr. Wizard, may I eat just one of the fat little piglets? You'd never miss ONE of them, I'm sure!" "What a horrid, savage beast!" exclaimed a piglet; "and after we've been such good friends, too, and played with one another!" "When I'm not hungry, I love to play with you all," said the kitten, demurely; "but when my stomach is empty it seems that nothing would fill it so nicely as a fat piglet." "And we trusted you so!" said another of the nine, reproachfully. "And thought you were respectable!" said another. "It seems we were mistaken," declared a third, looking at the kitten timorously, "no one with such murderous desires should belong to our party, I'm sure." "You see, Eureka," remarked Dorothy, reprovingly, "you are making yourself disliked. There are certain things proper for a kitten to eat; but I never heard of a kitten eating a pig, under ANY cir'stances." "Did you ever see such little pigs before?" asked the kitten. "They are no bigger than mice, and I'm sure mice are proper for me to eat." "It isn't the bigness, dear; its the variety," replied the girl. "These are Mr. Wizard's pets, just as you are my pet, and it wouldn't be any more proper for you to eat them than it would be for Jim to eat you." "And that's just what I shall do if you don't let those little balls of pork alone," said Jim, glaring at the kitten with his round, big eyes. "If you injure any one of them I'll chew you up instantly." The kitten looked at the horse thoughtfully, as if trying to decide whether he meant it or not. "In that case," she said, "I'll leave them alone. You haven't many teeth left, Jim, but the few you have are sharp enough to make me shudder. So the piglets will be perfectly safe, hereafter, as far as I am concerned." "That is right, Eureka," remarked the Wizard, earnestly. "Let us all be a happy family and love one another." Eureka yawned and stretched herself. "I've always loved the piglets," she said; "but they don't love me." "No one can love a person he's afraid of," asserted Dorothy. "If you behave, and don't scare the little pigs, I'm sure they'll grow very fond of you." The Wizard now put the nine tiny ones back into his pocket and the journey was resumed. "We must be pretty near the top, now," said the boy, as they climbed wearily up the dark, winding stairway. "The Country of the Gurgles can't be far from the top of the earth," remarked Dorothy. "It isn't very nice down here. I'd like to get home again, I'm sure." No one replied to this, because they found they needed all their breath for the climb. The stairs had become narrower and Zeb and the Wizard often had to help Jim pull the buggy from one step to another, or keep it from jamming against the rocky walls. At last, however, a dim light appeared ahead of them, which grew clearer and stronger as they advanced. "Thank goodness we're nearly there!" panted the little Wizard. Jim, who was in advance, saw the last stair before him and stuck his head above the rocky sides of the stairway. Then he halted, ducked down and began to back up, so that he nearly fell with the buggy onto the others. "Let's go down again!" he said, in his hoarse voice. "Nonsense!" snapped the tired Wizard. "What's the matter with you, old man?" "Everything," grumbled the horse. "I've taken a look at this place, and it's no fit country for real creatures to go to. Everything's dead, up there--no flesh or blood or growing thing anywhere." "Never mind; we can't turn back," said Dorothy; "and we don't intend to stay there, anyhow." "It's dangerous," growled Jim, in a stubborn tone. "See here, my good steed," broke in the Wizard, "little Dorothy and I have been in many queer countries in our travels, and always escaped without harm. We've even been to the marvelous Land of Oz--haven't we, Dorothy?--so we don't much care what the Country of the Gargoyles is like. Go ahead, Jim, and whatever happens we'll make the best of it." "All right," answered the horse; "this is your excursion, and not mine; so if you get into trouble don't blame me." With this speech he bent forward and dragged the buggy up the remaining steps. The others followed and soon they were all standing upon a broad platform and gazing at the most curious and startling sight their eyes had ever beheld. "The Country of the Gargoyles is all wooden!" exclaimed Zeb; and so it was. The ground was sawdust and the pebbles scattered around were hard knots from trees, worn smooth in course of time. There were odd wooden houses, with carved wooden flowers in the front yards. The tree-trunks were of coarse wood, but the leaves of the trees were shavings. The patches of grass were splinters of wood, and where neither grass nor sawdust showed was a solid wooden flooring. Wooden birds fluttered among the trees and wooden cows were browsing upon the wooden grass; but the most amazing things of all were the wooden people--the creatures known as Gargoyles. These were very numerous, for the place was thickly inhabited, and a large group of the queer people clustered near, gazing sharply upon the strangers who had emerged from the long spiral stairway. The Gargoyles were very small of stature, being less than three feet in height. Their bodies were round, their legs short and thick and their arms extraordinarily long and stout. Their heads were too big for their bodies and their faces were decidedly ugly to look upon. Some had long, curved noses and chins, small eyes and wide, grinning mouths. Others had flat noses, protruding eyes, and ears that were shaped like those of an elephant. There were many types, indeed, scarcely two being alike; but all were equally disagreeable in appearance. The tops of their heads had no hair, but were carved into a variety of fantastic shapes, some having a row of points or balls around the top, others designs resembling flowers or vegetables, and still others having squares that looked like waffles cut criss-cross on their heads. They all wore short wooden wings which were fastened to their wooden bodies by means of wooden hinges with wooden screws, and with these wings they flew swiftly and noiselessly here and there, their legs being of little use to them. This noiseless motion was one of the most peculiar things about the Gargoyles. They made no sounds at all, either in flying or trying to speak, and they conversed mainly by means of quick signals made with their wooden fingers or lips. Neither was there any sound to be heard anywhere throughout the wooden country. The birds did not sing, nor did the cows moo; yet there was more than ordinary activity everywhere. The group of these queer creatures which was discovered clustered near the stairs at first remained staring and motionless, glaring with evil eyes at the intruders who had so suddenly appeared in their land. In turn the Wizard and the children, the horse and the kitten, examined the Gargoyles with the same silent attention. "There's going to be trouble, I'm sure," remarked the horse. "Unhitch those tugs, Zeb, and set me free from the buggy, so I can fight comfortably." "Jim's right," sighed the Wizard. "There's going to be trouble, and my sword isn't stout enough to cut up those wooden bodies--so I shall have to get out my revolvers." He got his satchel from the buggy and, opening it, took out two deadly looking revolvers that made the children shrink back in alarm just to look at. "What harm can the Gurgles do?" asked Dorothy. "They have no weapons to hurt us with." "Each of their arms is a wooden club," answered the little man, "and I'm sure the creatures mean mischief, by the looks of their eyes. Even these revolvers can merely succeed in damaging a few of their wooden bodies, and after that we will be at their mercy." "But why fight at all, in that case?" asked the girl. "So I may die with a clear conscience," returned the Wizard, gravely. "It's every man's duty to do the best he knows how; and I'm going to do it." "Wish I had an axe," said Zeb, who by now had unhitched the horse. "If we had known we were coming we might have brought along several other useful things," responded the Wizard. "But we dropped into this adventure rather unexpectedly." The Gargoyles had backed away a distance when they heard the sound of talking, for although our friends had spoken in low tones their words seemed loud in the silence surrounding them. But as soon as the conversation ceased, the grinning, ugly creatures arose in a flock and flew swiftly toward the strangers, their long arms stretched out before them like the bowsprits of a fleet of sail-boats. The horse had especially attracted their notice, because it was the biggest and strangest creature they had ever seen; so it became the center of their first attack. But Jim was ready for them, and when he saw them coming he turned his heels toward them and began kicking out as hard as he could. Crack! crash! bang! went his iron-shod hoofs against the wooden bodies of the Gargoyles, and they were battered right and left with such force that they scattered like straws in the wind. But the noise and clatter seemed as dreadful to them as Jim's heels, for all who were able swiftly turned and flew away to a great distance. The others picked themselves up from the ground one by one and quickly rejoined their fellows, so for a moment the horse thought he had won the fight with ease. But the Wizard was not so confident. "Those wooden things are impossible to hurt," he said, "and all the damage Jim has done to them is to knock a few splinters from their noses and ears. That cannot make them look any uglier, I'm sure, and it is my opinion they will soon renew the attack." "What made them fly away?" asked Dorothy. "The noise, of course. Don't you remember how the Champion escaped them by shouting his battle-cry?" "Suppose we escape down the stairs, too," suggested the boy. "We have time, just now, and I'd rather face the invis'ble bears than those wooden imps." "No," returned Dorothy, stoutly, "it won't do to go back, for then we would never get home. Let's fight it out." "That is what I advise," said the Wizard. "They haven't defeated us yet, and Jim is worth a whole army." But the Gargoyles were clever enough not to attack the horse the next time. They advanced in a great swarm, having been joined by many more of their kind, and they flew straight over Jim's head to where the others were standing. The Wizard raised one of his revolvers and fired into the throng of his enemies, and the shot resounded like a clap of thunder in that silent place. Some of the wooden beings fell flat upon the ground, where they quivered and trembled in every limb; but most of them managed to wheel and escape again to a distance. Zeb ran and picked up one of the Gargoyles that lay nearest to him. The top of its head was carved into a crown and the Wizard's bullet had struck it exactly in the left eye, which was a hard wooden knot. Half of the bullet stuck in the wood and half stuck out, so it had been the jar and the sudden noise that had knocked the creature down, more than the fact that it was really hurt. Before this crowned Gargoyle had recovered himself Zeb had wound a strap several times around its body, confining its wings and arms so that it could not move. Then, having tied the wooden creature securely, the boy buckled the strap and tossed his prisoner into the buggy. By that time the others had all retired. 12. A Wonderful Escape For a while the enemy hesitated to renew the attack. Then a few of them advanced until another shot from the Wizard's revolver made them retreat. "That's fine," said Zeb. "We've got 'em on the run now, sure enough." "But only for a time," replied the Wizard, shaking his head gloomily. "These revolvers are good for six shots each, but when those are gone we shall be helpless." The Gargoyles seemed to realize this, for they sent a few of their band time after time to attack the strangers and draw the fire from the little man's revolvers. In this way none of them was shocked by the dreadful report more than once, for the main band kept far away and each time a new company was sent into the battle. When the Wizard had fired all of his twelve bullets he had caused no damage to the enemy except to stun a few by the noise, and so be as no nearer to victory than in the beginning of the fray. "What shall we do now?" asked Dorothy, anxiously. "Let's yell--all together," said Zeb. "And fight at the same time," added the Wizard. "We will get near Jim, so that he can help us, and each one must take some weapon and do the best he can. I'll use my sword, although it isn't much account in this affair. Dorothy must take her parasol and open it suddenly when the wooden folks attack her. I haven't anything for you, Zeb." "I'll use the king," said the boy, and pulled his prisoner out of the buggy. The bound Gargoyle's arms extended far out beyond its head, so by grasping its wrists Zeb found the king made a very good club. The boy was strong for one of his years, having always worked upon a farm; so he was likely to prove more dangerous to the enemy than the Wizard. When the next company of Gargoyles advanced, our adventurers began yelling as if they had gone mad. Even the kitten gave a dreadfully shrill scream and at the same time Jim the cab-horse neighed loudly. This daunted the enemy for a time, but the defenders were soon out of breath. Perceiving this, as well as the fact that there were no more of the awful "bangs" to come from the revolvers, the Gargoyles advanced in a swarm as thick as bees, so that the air was filled with them. Dorothy squatted upon the ground and put up her parasol, which nearly covered her and proved a great protection. The Wizard's sword-blade snapped into a dozen pieces at the first blow he struck against the wooden people. Zeb pounded away with the Gargoyle he was using as a club until he had knocked down dozens of foes; but at the last they clustered so thickly about him that he no longer had room in which to swing his arms. The horse performed some wonderful kicking and even Eureka assisted when she leaped bodily upon the Gargoyles and scratched and bit at them like a wild-cat. But all this bravery amounted to nothing at all. The wooden things wound their long arms around Zeb and the Wizard and held them fast. Dorothy was captured in the same way, and numbers of the Gargoyles clung to Jim's legs, so weighting him down that the poor beast was helpless. Eureka made a desperate dash to escape and scampered along the ground like a streak; but a grinning Gargoyle flew after her and grabbed her before she had gone very far. All of them expected nothing less than instant death; but to their surprise the wooden creatures flew into the air with them and bore them far away, over miles and miles of wooden country, until they came to a wooden city. The houses of this city had many corners, being square and six-sided and eight-sided. They were tower-like in shape and the best of them seemed old and weather-worn; yet all were strong and substantial. To one of these houses which had neither doors nor windows, but only one broad opening far up underneath the roof, the prisoners were brought by their captors. The Gargoyles roughly pushed them into the opening, where there was a platform, and then flew away and left them. As they had no wings the strangers could not fly away, and if they jumped down from such a height they would surely be killed. The creatures had sense enough to reason that way, and the only mistake they made was in supposing the earth people were unable to overcome such ordinary difficulties. Jim was brought with the others, although it took a good many Gargoyles to carry the big beast through the air and land him on the high platform, and the buggy was thrust in after him because it belonged to the party and the wooden folks had no idea what it was used for or whether it was alive or not. When Eureka's captor had thrown the kitten after the others the last Gargoyle silently disappeared, leaving our friends to breathe freely once more. "What an awful fight!" said Dorothy, catching her breath in little gasps. "Oh, I don't know," purred Eureka, smoothing her ruffled fur with her paw; "we didn't manage to hurt anybody, and nobody managed to hurt us." "Thank goodness we are together again, even if we are prisoners," sighed the little girl. "I wonder why they didn't kill us on the spot," remarked Zeb, who had lost his king in the struggle. "They are probably keeping us for some ceremony," the Wizard answered, reflectively; "but there is no doubt they intend to kill us as dead as possible in a short time." "As dead as poss'ble would be pretty dead, wouldn't it?" asked Dorothy. "Yes, my dear. But we have no need to worry about that just now. Let us examine our prison and see what it is like." The space underneath the roof, where they stood, permitted them to see on all sides of the tall building, and they looked with much curiosity at the city spread out beneath them. Everything visible was made of wood, and the scene seemed stiff and extremely unnatural. From their platform a stair descended into the house, and the children and the Wizard explored it after lighting a lantern to show them the way. Several stories of empty rooms rewarded their search, but nothing more; so after a time they came back to the platform again. Had there been any doors or windows in the lower rooms, or had not the boards of the house been so thick and stout, escape could have been easy; but to remain down below was like being in a cellar or the hold of a ship, and they did not like the darkness or the damp smell. In this country, as in all others they had visited underneath the earth's surface, there was no night, a constant and strong light coming from some unknown source. Looking out, they could see into some of the houses near them, where there were open windows in abundance, and were able to mark the forms of the wooden Gargoyles moving about in their dwellings. "This seems to be their time of rest," observed the Wizard. "All people need rest, even if they are made of wood, and as there is no night here they select a certain time of the day in which to sleep or doze." "I feel sleepy myself," remarked Zeb, yawning. "Why, where's Eureka?" cried Dorothy, suddenly. They all looked around, but the kitten was no place to be seen. "She's gone out for a walk," said Jim, gruffly. "Where? On the roof?" asked the girl. "No; she just dug her claws into the wood and climbed down the sides of this house to the ground." "She couldn't climb DOWN, Jim," said Dorothy. "To climb means to go up." "Who said so?" demanded the horse. "My school-teacher said so; and she knows a lot, Jim." "To 'climb down' is sometimes used as a figure of speech," remarked the Wizard. "Well, this was a figure of a cat," said Jim, "and she WENT down, anyhow, whether she climbed or crept." "Dear me! how careless Eureka is," exclaimed the girl, much distressed. "The Gurgles will get her, sure!" "Ha, ha!" chuckled the old cab-horse; "they're not 'Gurgles,' little maid; they're Gargoyles." "Never mind; they'll get Eureka, whatever they're called." "No they won't," said the voice of the kitten, and Eureka herself crawled over the edge of the platform and sat down quietly upon the floor. "Wherever have you been, Eureka?" asked Dorothy, sternly. "Watching the wooden folks. They're too funny for anything, Dorothy. Just now they are all going to bed, and--what do you think?--they unhook the hinges of their wings and put them in a corner until they wake up again." "What, the hinges?" "No; the wings." "That," said Zeb, "explains why this house is used by them for a prison. If any of the Gargoyles act badly, and have to be put in jail, they are brought here and their wings unhooked and taken away from them until they promise to be good." The Wizard had listened intently to what Eureka had said. "I wish we had some of those loose wings," he said. "Could we fly with them?" asked Dorothy. "I think so. If the Gargoyles can unhook the wings then the power to fly lies in the wings themselves, and not in the wooden bodies of the people who wear them. So, if we had the wings, we could probably fly as well as they do--as least while we are in their country and under the spell of its magic." "But how would it help us to be able to fly?" questioned the girl. "Come here," said the little man, and took her to one of the corners of the building. "Do you see that big rock standing on the hillside yonder?" he continued, pointing with his finger. "Yes; it's a good way off, but I can see it," she replied. "Well, inside that rock, which reaches up into the clouds, is an archway very much like the one we entered when we climbed the spiral stairway from the Valley of Voe. I'll get my spy-glass, and then you can see it more plainly." He fetched a small but powerful telescope, which had been in his satchel, and by its aid the little girl clearly saw the opening. "Where does it lead to?" she asked. "That I cannot tell," said the Wizard; "but we cannot now be far below the earth's surface, and that entrance may lead to another stairway that will bring us on top of our world again, where we belong. So, if we had the wings, and could escape the Gargoyles, we might fly to that rock and be saved." "I'll get you the wings," said Zeb, who had thoughtfully listened to all this. "That is, if the kitten will show me where they are." "But how can you get down?" enquired the girl, wonderingly. For answer Zeb began to unfasten Jim's harness, strap by strap, and to buckle one piece to another until he had made a long leather strip that would reach to the ground. "I can climb down that, all right," he said. "No you can't," remarked Jim, with a twinkle in his round eyes. "You may GO down, but you can only CLIMB up." "Well, I'll climb up when I get back, then," said the boy, with a laugh. "Now, Eureka, you'll have to show me the way to those wings." "You must be very quiet," warned the kitten; "for if you make the least noise the Gargoyles will wake up. They can hear a pin drop." "I'm not going to drop a pin," said Zeb. He had fastened one end of the strap to a wheel of the buggy, and now he let the line dangle over the side of the house. "Be careful," cautioned Dorothy, earnestly. "I will," said the boy, and let himself slide over the edge. The girl and the Wizard leaned over and watched Zeb work his way carefully downward, hand over hand, until he stood upon the ground below. Eureka clung with her claws to the wooden side of the house and let herself down easily. Then together they crept away to enter the low doorway of a neighboring dwelling. The watchers waited in breathless suspense until the boy again appeared, his arms now full of the wooden wings. When he came to where the strap was hanging he tied the wings all in a bunch to the end of the line, and the Wizard drew them up. Then the line was let down again for Zeb to climb up by. Eureka quickly followed him, and soon they were all standing together upon the platform, with eight of the much prized wooden wings beside them. The boy was no longer sleepy, but full of energy and excitement. He put the harness together again and hitched Jim to the buggy. Then, with the Wizard's help, he tried to fasten some of the wings to the old cab-horse. This was no easy task, because half of each one of the hinges of the wings was missing, it being still fastened to the body of the Gargoyle who had used it. However, the Wizard went once more to his satchel--which seemed to contain a surprising variety of odds and ends--and brought out a spool of strong wire, by means of which they managed to fasten four of the wings to Jim's harness, two near his head and two near his tail. They were a bit wiggley, but secure enough if only the harness held together. The other four wings were then fastened to the buggy, two on each side, for the buggy must bear the weight of the children and the Wizard as it flew through the air. These preparations had not consumed a great deal of time, but the sleeping Gargoyles were beginning to wake up and move around, and soon some of them would be hunting for their missing wings. So the prisoners resolved to leave their prison at once. They mounted into the buggy, Dorothy holding Eureka safe in her lap. The girl sat in the middle of the seat, with Zeb and the Wizard on each side of her. When all was ready the boy shook the reins and said: "Fly away, Jim!" "Which wings must I flop first?" asked the cab-horse, undecidedly. "Flop them all together," suggested the Wizard. "Some of them are crooked," objected the horse. "Never mind; we will steer with the wings on the buggy," said Zeb. "Just you light out and make for that rock, Jim; and don't waste any time about it, either." So the horse gave a groan, flopped its four wings all together, and flew away from the platform. Dorothy was a little anxious about the success of their trip, for the way Jim arched his long neck and spread out his bony legs as he fluttered and floundered through the air was enough to make anybody nervous. He groaned, too, as if frightened, and the wings creaked dreadfully because the Wizard had forgotten to oil them; but they kept fairly good time with the wings of the buggy, so that they made excellent progress from the start. The only thing that anyone could complain of with justice was the fact that they wobbled first up and then down, as if the road were rocky instead of being as smooth as the air could make it. The main point, however, was that they flew, and flew swiftly, if a bit unevenly, toward the rock for which they had headed. Some of the Gargoyles saw them, presently, and lost no time in collecting a band to pursue the escaping prisoners; so that when Dorothy happened to look back she saw them coming in a great cloud that almost darkened the sky. 13. The Den of the Dragonettes Our friends had a good start and were able to maintain it, for with their eight wings they could go just as fast as could the Gargoyles. All the way to the great rock the wooden people followed them, and when Jim finally alighted at the mouth of the cavern the pursuers were still some distance away. "But, I'm afraid they'll catch us yet," said Dorothy, greatly excited. "No; we must stop them," declared the Wizard. "Quick Zeb, help me pull off these wooden wings!" They tore off the wings, for which they had no further use, and the Wizard piled them in a heap just outside the entrance to the cavern. Then he poured over them all the kerosene oil that was left in his oil-can, and lighting a match set fire to the pile. The flames leaped up at once and the bonfire began to smoke and roar and crackle just as the great army of wooden Gargoyles arrived. The creatures drew back at once, being filled with fear and horror; for such as dreadful thing as a fire they had never before known in all the history of their wooden land. Inside the archway were several doors, leading to different rooms built into the mountain, and Zeb and the Wizard lifted these wooden doors from their hinges and tossed them all on the flames. "That will prove a barrier for some time to come," said the little man, smiling pleasantly all over his wrinkled face at the success of their stratagem. "Perhaps the flames will set fire to all that miserable wooden country, and if it does the loss will be very small and the Gargoyles never will be missed. But come, my children; let us explore the mountain and discover which way we must go in order to escape from this cavern, which is getting to be almost as hot as a bake-oven." To their disappointment there was within this mountain no regular flight of steps by means of which they could mount to the earth's surface. A sort of inclined tunnel led upward for a way, and they found the floor of it both rough and steep. Then a sudden turn brought them to a narrow gallery where the buggy could not pass. This delayed and bothered them for a while, because they did not wish to leave the buggy behind them. It carried their baggage and was useful to ride in wherever there were good roads, and since it had accompanied them so far in their travels they felt it their duty to preserve it. So Zeb and the Wizard set to work and took off the wheels and the top, and then they put the buggy edgewise, so it would take up the smallest space. In this position they managed, with the aid of the patient cab-horse, to drag the vehicle through the narrow part of the passage. It was not a great distance, fortunately, and when the path grew broader they put the buggy together again and proceeded more comfortably. But the road was nothing more than a series of rifts or cracks in the mountain, and it went zig-zag in every direction, slanting first up and then down until they were puzzled as to whether they were any nearer to the top of the earth than when they had started, hours before. "Anyhow," said Dorothy, "we've 'scaped those awful Gurgles, and that's ONE comfort!" "Probably the Gargoyles are still busy trying to put out the fire," returned the Wizard. "But even if they succeeded in doing that it would be very difficult for them to fly amongst these rocks; so I am sure we need fear them no longer." Once in a while they would come to a deep crack in the floor, which made the way quite dangerous; but there was still enough oil in the lanterns to give them light, and the cracks were not so wide but that they were able to jump over them. Sometimes they had to climb over heaps of loose rock, where Jim could scarcely drag the buggy. At such times Dorothy, Zeb and the Wizard all pushed behind, and lifted the wheels over the roughest places; so they managed, by dint of hard work, to keep going. But the little party was both weary and discouraged when at last, on turning a sharp corner, the wanderers found themselves in a vast cave arching high over their heads and having a smooth, level floor. The cave was circular in shape, and all around its edge, near to the ground, appeared groups of dull yellow lights, two of them being always side by side. These were motionless at first, but soon began to flicker more brightly and to sway slowly from side to side and then up and down. "What sort of place is this?" asked the boy, trying to see more clearly through the gloom. "I cannot imagine, I'm sure," answered the Wizard, also peering about. "Woogh!" snarled Eureka, arching her back until her hair stood straight on end; "it's den of alligators, or crocodiles, or some other dreadful creatures! Don't you see their terrible eyes?" "Eureka sees better in the dark than we can," whispered Dorothy. "Tell us, dear, what do the creatures look like?" she asked, addressing her pet. "I simply can't describe 'em," answered the kitten, shuddering. "Their eyes are like pie-plates and their mouths like coal-scuttles. But their bodies don't seem very big." "Where are they?" enquired the girl. "They are in little pockets all around the edge of this cavern. Oh, Dorothy--you can't imagine what horrid things they are! They're uglier than the Gargoyles." "Tut-tut! be careful how you criticise your neighbors," spoke a rasping voice near by. "As a matter of fact you are rather ugly-looking creatures yourselves, and I'm sure mother has often told us we were the loveliest and prettiest things in all the world." Hearing these words our friends turned in the direction of the sound, and the Wizard held his lanterns so that their light would flood one of the little pockets in the rock. "Why, it's a dragon!" he exclaimed. "No," answered the owner of the big yellow eyes which were blinking at them so steadily; "you are wrong about that. We hope to grow to be dragons some day, but just now we're only dragonettes." "What's that?" asked Dorothy, gazing fearfully at the great scaley head, the yawning mouth and the big eyes. "Young dragons, of course; but we are not allowed to call ourselves real dragons until we get our full growth," was the reply. "The big dragons are very proud, and don't think children amount to much; but mother says that some day we will all be very powerful and important." "Where is your mother?" asked the Wizard, anxiously looking around. "She has gone up to the top of the earth to hunt for our dinner. If she has good luck she will bring us an elephant, or a brace of rhinoceri, or perhaps a few dozen people to stay our hunger." "Oh; are you hungry?" enquired Dorothy, drawing back. "Very," said the dragonette, snapping its jaws. "And--and--do you eat people?" "To be sure, when we can get them. But they've been very scarce for a few years and we usually have to be content with elephants or buffaloes," answered the creature, in a regretful tone. "How old are you?" enquired Zeb, who stared at the yellow eyes as if fascinated. "Quite young, I grieve to say; and all of my brothers and sisters that you see here are practically my own age. If I remember rightly, we were sixty-six years old the day before yesterday." "But that isn't young!" cried Dorothy, in amazement. "No?" drawled the dragonette; "it seems to me very babyish." "How old is your mother?" asked the girl. "Mother's about two thousand years old; but she carelessly lost track of her age a few centuries ago and skipped several hundreds. She's a little fussy, you know, and afraid of growing old, being a widow and still in her prime." "I should think she would be," agreed Dorothy. Then, after a moment's thought, she asked: "Are we friends or enemies? I mean, will you be good to us, or do you intend to eat us?" "As for that, we dragonettes would love to eat you, my child; but unfortunately mother has tied all our tails around the rocks at the back of our individual caves, so that we can not crawl out to get you. If you choose to come nearer we will make a mouthful of you in a wink; but unless you do you will remain quite safe." There was a regretful accent in the creature's voice, and at the words all the other dragonettes sighed dismally. Dorothy felt relieved. Presently she asked: "Why did your mother tie your tails?" "Oh, she is sometimes gone for several weeks on her hunting trips, and if we were not tied we would crawl all over the mountain and fight with each other and get into a lot of mischief. Mother usually knows what she is about, but she made a mistake this time; for you are sure to escape us unless you come too near, and you probably won't do that." "No, indeed!" said the little girl. "We don't wish to be eaten by such awful beasts." "Permit me to say," returned the dragonette, "that you are rather impolite to call us names, knowing that we cannot resent your insults. We consider ourselves very beautiful in appearance, for mother has told us so, and she knows. And we are of an excellent family and have a pedigree that I challenge any humans to equal, as it extends back about twenty thousand years, to the time of the famous Green Dragon of Atlantis, who lived in a time when humans had not yet been created. Can you match that pedigree, little girl?" "Well," said Dorothy, "I was born on a farm in Kansas, and I guess that's being just as 'spectable and haughty as living in a cave with your tail tied to a rock. If it isn't I'll have to stand it, that's all." "Tastes differ," murmured the dragonette, slowly drooping its scaley eyelids over its yellow eyes, until they looked like half-moons. Being reassured by the fact that the creatures could not crawl out of their rock-pockets, the children and the Wizard now took time to examine them more closely. The heads of the dragonettes were as big as barrels and covered with hard, greenish scales that glittered brightly under the light of the lanterns. Their front legs, which grew just back of their heads, were also strong and big; but their bodies were smaller around than their heads, and dwindled away in a long line until their tails were slim as a shoe-string. Dorothy thought, if it had taken them sixty-six years to grow to this size, that it would be fully a hundred years more before they could hope to call themselves dragons, and that seemed like a good while to wait to grow up. "It occurs to me," said the Wizard, "that we ought to get out of this place before the mother dragon comes back." "Don't hurry," called one of the dragonettes; "mother will be glad to meet you, I'm sure." "You may be right," replied the Wizard, "but we're a little particular about associating with strangers. Will you kindly tell us which way your mother went to get on top the earth?" "That is not a fair question to ask us," declared another dragonette. "For, if we told you truly, you might escape us altogether; and if we told you an untruth we would be naughty and deserve to be punished." "Then," decided Dorothy, "we must find our way out the best we can." They circled all around the cavern, keeping a good distance away from the blinking yellow eyes of the dragonettes, and presently discovered that there were two paths leading from the wall opposite to the place where they had entered. They selected one of these at a venture and hurried along it as fast as they could go, for they had no idea when the mother dragon would be back and were very anxious not to make her acquaintance. 14. Ozma Uses the Magic Belt For a considerable distance the way led straight upward in a gentle incline, and the wanderers made such good progress that they grew hopeful and eager, thinking they might see sunshine at any minute. But at length they came unexpectedly upon a huge rock that shut off the passage and blocked them from proceeding a single step farther. This rock was separate from the rest of the mountain and was in motion, turning slowly around and around as if upon a pivot. When first they came to it there was a solid wall before them; but presently it revolved until there was exposed a wide, smooth path across it to the other side. This appeared so unexpectedly that they were unprepared to take advantage of it at first, and allowed the rocky wall to swing around again before they had decided to pass over. But they knew now that there was a means of escape and so waited patiently until the path appeared for the second time. The children and the Wizard rushed across the moving rock and sprang into the passage beyond, landing safely though a little out of breath. Jim the cab-horse came last, and the rocky wall almost caught him; for just as he leaped to the floor of the further passage the wall swung across it and a loose stone that the buggy wheels knocked against fell into the narrow crack where the rock turned, and became wedged there. They heard a crunching, grinding sound, a loud snap, and the turn-table came to a stop with its broadest surface shutting off the path from which they had come. "Never mind," said Zeb, "we don't want to get back, anyhow." "I'm not so sure of that," returned Dorothy. "The mother dragon may come down and catch us here." "It is possible," agreed the Wizard, "if this proves to be the path she usually takes. But I have been examining this tunnel, and I do not see any signs of so large a beast having passed through it." "Then we're all right," said the girl, "for if the dragon went the other way she can't poss'bly get to us now." "Of course not, my dear. But there is another thing to consider. The mother dragon probably knows the road to the earth's surface, and if she went the other way then we have come the wrong way," said the Wizard, thoughtfully. "Dear me!" cried Dorothy. "That would be unlucky, wouldn't it?" "Very. Unless this passage also leads to the top of the earth," said Zeb. "For my part, if we manage to get out of here I'll be glad it isn't the way the dragon goes." "So will I," returned Dorothy. "It's enough to have your pedigree flung in your face by those saucy dragonettes. No one knows what the mother might do." They now moved on again, creeping slowly up another steep incline. The lanterns were beginning to grow dim, and the Wizard poured the remaining oil from one into the other, so that the one light would last longer. But their journey was almost over, for in a short time they reached a small cave from which there was no further outlet. They did not realize their ill fortune at first, for their hearts were gladdened by the sight of a ray of sunshine coming through a small crack in the roof of the cave, far overhead. That meant that their world--the real world--was not very far away, and that the succession of perilous adventures they had encountered had at last brought them near the earth's surface, which meant home to them. But when the adventurers looked more carefully around them they discovered that there were in a strong prison from which there was no hope of escape. "But we're ALMOST on earth again," cried Dorothy, "for there is the sun--the most BEAU'FUL sun that shines!" and she pointed eagerly at the crack in the distant roof. "Almost on earth isn't being there," said the kitten, in a discontented tone. "It wouldn't be possible for even me to get up to that crack--or through it if I got there." "It appears that the path ends here," announced the Wizard, gloomily. "And there is no way to go back," added Zeb, with a low whistle of perplexity. "I was sure it would come to this, in the end," remarked the old cab-horse. "Folks don't fall into the middle of the earth and then get back again to tell of their adventures--not in real life. And the whole thing has been unnatural because that cat and I are both able to talk your language, and to understand the words you say." "And so can the nine tiny piglets," added Eureka. "Don't forget them, for I may have to eat them, after all." "I've heard animals talk before," said Dorothy, "and no harm came of it." "Were you ever before shut up in a cave, far under the earth, with no way of getting out?" enquired the horse, seriously. "No," answered Dorothy. "But don't you lose heart, Jim, for I'm sure this isn't the end of our story, by any means." The reference to the piglets reminded the Wizard that his pets had not enjoyed much exercise lately, and must be tired of their prison in his pocket. So he sat down upon the floor of the cave, brought the piglets out one by one, and allowed them to run around as much as they pleased. "My dears," he said to them, "I'm afraid I've got you into a lot of trouble, and that you will never again be able to leave this gloomy cave." "What's wrong?" asked a piglet. "We've been in the dark quite a while, and you may as well explain what has happened." The Wizard told them of the misfortune that had overtaken the wanderers. "Well," said another piglet, "you are a wizard, are you not?" "I am," replied the little man. "Then you can do a few wizzes and get us out of this hole," declared the tiny one, with much confidence. "I could if I happened to be a real wizard," returned the master sadly. "But I'm not, my piggy-wees; I'm a humbug wizard." "Nonsense!" cried several of the piglets, together. "You can ask Dorothy," said the little man, in an injured tone. "It's true enough," returned the girl, earnestly. "Our friend Oz is merely a humbug wizard, for he once proved it to me. He can do several very wonderful things--if he knows how. But he can't wiz a single thing if he hasn't the tools and machinery to work with." "Thank you, my dear, for doing me justice," responded the Wizard, gratefully. "To be accused of being a real wizard, when I'm not, is a slander I will not tamely submit to. But I am one of the greatest humbug wizards that ever lived, and you will realize this when we have all starved together and our bones are scattered over the floor of this lonely cave." "I don't believe we'll realize anything, when it comes to that," remarked Dorothy, who had been deep in thought. "But I'm not going to scatter my bones just yet, because I need them, and you prob'ly need yours, too." "We are helpless to escape," sighed the Wizard. "WE may be helpless," answered Dorothy, smiling at him, "but there are others who can do more than we can. Cheer up, friends. I'm sure Ozma will help us." "Ozma!" exclaimed the Wizard. "Who is Ozma?" "The girl that rules the marvelous Land of Oz," was the reply. "She's a friend of mine, for I met her in the Land of Ev, not long ago, and went to Oz with her." "For the second time?" asked the Wizard, with great interest. "Yes. The first time I went to Oz I found you there, ruling the Emerald City. After you went up in a balloon, and escaped us, I got back to Kansas by means of a pair of magical silver shoes." "I remember those shoes," said the little man, nodding. "They once belonged to the Wicked Witch. Have you them here with you?" "No; I lost them somewhere in the air," explained the child. "But the second time I went to the Land of Oz I owned the Nome King's Magic Belt, which is much more powerful than were the Silver Shoes." "Where is that Magic Belt?" enquired the Wizard, who had listened with great interest. "Ozma has it; for its powers won't work in a common, ordinary country like the United States. Anyone in a fairy country like the Land of Oz can do anything with it; so I left it with my friend the Princess Ozma, who used it to wish me in Australia with Uncle Henry." "And were you?" asked Zeb, astonished at what he heard. "Of course; in just a jiffy. And Ozma has an enchanted picture hanging in her room that shows her the exact scene where any of her friends may be, at any time she chooses. All she has to do is to say: 'I wonder what So-and-so is doing,' and at once the picture shows where her friend is and what the friend is doing. That's REAL magic, Mr. Wizard; isn't it? Well, every day at four o'clock Ozma has promised to look at me in that picture, and if I am in need of help I am to make her a certain sign and she will put on the Nome King's Magic Belt and wish me to be with her in Oz." "Do you mean that Princess Ozma will see this cave in her enchanted picture, and see all of us here, and what we are doing?" demanded Zeb. "Of course; when it is four o'clock," she replied, with a laugh at his startled expression. "And when you make a sign she will bring you to her in the Land of Oz?" continued the boy. "That's it, exactly; by means of the Magic Belt." "Then," said the Wizard, "you will be saved, little Dorothy; and I am very glad of it. The rest of us will die much more cheerfully when we know you have escaped our sad fate." "I won't die cheerfully!" protested the kitten. "There's nothing cheerful about dying that I could ever see, although they say a cat has nine lives, and so must die nine times." "Have you ever died yet?" enquired the boy. "No, and I'm not anxious to begin," said Eureka. "Don't worry, dear," Dorothy exclaimed, "I'll hold you in my arms, and take you with me." "Take us, too!" cried the nine tiny piglets, all in one breath. "Perhaps I can," answered Dorothy. "I'll try." "Couldn't you manage to hold me in your arms?" asked the cab-horse. Dorothy laughed. "I'll do better than that," she promised, "for I can easily save you all, once I am myself in the Land of Oz." "How?" they asked. "By using the Magic Belt. All I need do is to wish you with me, and there you'll be--safe in the royal palace!" "Good!" cried Zeb. "I built that palace, and the Emerald City, too," remarked the Wizard, in a thoughtful tone, "and I'd like to see them again, for I was very happy among the Munchkins and Winkies and Quadlings and Gillikins." "Who are they?" asked the boy. "The four nations that inhabit the Land of Oz," was the reply. "I wonder if they would treat me nicely if I went there again." "Of course they would!" declared Dorothy. "They are still proud of their former Wizard, and often speak of you kindly." "Do you happen to know whatever became of the Tin Woodman and the Scarecrow?" he enquired. "They live in Oz yet," said the girl, "and are very important people." "And the Cowardly Lion?" "Oh, he lives there too, with his friend the Hungry Tiger; and Billina is there, because she liked the place better than Kansas, and wouldn't go with me to Australia." "I'm afraid I don't know the Hungry Tiger and Billina," said the Wizard, shaking his head. "Is Billina a girl?" "No; she's a yellow hen, and a great friend of mine. You're sure to like Billina, when you know her," asserted Dorothy. "Your friends sound like a menagerie," remarked Zeb, uneasily. "Couldn't you wish me in some safer place than Oz." "Don't worry," replied the girl. "You'll just love the folks in Oz, when you get acquainted. What time is it, Mr. Wizard?" The little man looked at his watch--a big silver one that he carried in his vest pocket. "Half-past three," he said. "Then we must wait for half an hour," she continued; "but it won't take long, after that, to carry us all to the Emerald City." They sat silently thinking for a time. Then Jim suddenly asked: "Are there any horses in Oz?" "Only one," replied Dorothy, "and he's a sawhorse." "A what?" "A sawhorse. Princess Ozma once brought him to life with a witch-powder, when she was a boy." "Was Ozma once a boy?" asked Zeb, wonderingly. "Yes; a wicked witch enchanted her, so she could not rule her kingdom. But she's a girl now, and the sweetest, loveliest girl in all the world." "A sawhorse is a thing they saw boards on," remarked Jim, with a sniff. "It is when it's not alive," acknowledged the girl. "But this sawhorse can trot as fast as you can, Jim; and he's very wise, too." "Pah! I'll race the miserable wooden donkey any day in the week!" cried the cab-horse. Dorothy did not reply to that. She felt that Jim would know more about the Saw-Horse later on. The time dragged wearily enough to the eager watchers, but finally the Wizard announced that four o'clock had arrived, and Dorothy caught up the kitten and began to make the signal that had been agreed upon to the far-away invisible Ozma. "Nothing seems to happen," said Zeb, doubtfully. "Oh, we must give Ozma time to put on the Magic Belt," replied the girl. She had scarcely spoken the words then she suddenly disappeared from the cave, and with her went the kitten. There had been no sound of any kind and no warning. One moment Dorothy sat beside them with the kitten in her lap, and a moment later the horse, the piglets, the Wizard and the boy were all that remained in the underground prison. "I believe we will soon follow her," announced the Wizard, in a tone of great relief; "for I know something about the magic of the fairyland that is called the Land of Oz. Let us be ready, for we may be sent for any minute." He put the piglets safely away in his pocket again and then he and Zeb got into the buggy and sat expectantly upon the seat. "Will it hurt?" asked the boy, in a voice that trembled a little. "Not at all," replied the Wizard. "It will all happen as quick as a wink." And that was the way it did happen. The cab-horse gave a nervous start and Zeb began to rub his eyes to make sure he was not asleep. For they were in the streets of a beautiful emerald-green city, bathed in a grateful green light that was especially pleasing to their eyes, and surrounded by merry faced people in gorgeous green-and-gold costumes of many extraordinary designs. Before them were the jewel-studded gates of a magnificent palace, and now the gates opened slowly as if inviting them to enter the courtyard, where splendid flowers were blooming and pretty fountains shot their silvery sprays into the air. Zeb shook the reins to rouse the cab-horse from his stupor of amazement, for the people were beginning to gather around and stare at the strangers. "Gid-dap!" cried the boy, and at the word Jim slowly trotted into the courtyard and drew the buggy along the jewelled driveway to the great entrance of the royal palace. 15. Old Friends are Reunited Many servants dressed in handsome uniforms stood ready to welcome the new arrivals, and when the Wizard got out of the buggy a pretty girl in a green gown cried out in surprise: "Why, it's Oz, the Wonderful Wizard, come back again!" The little man looked at her closely and then took both the maiden's hands in his and shook them cordially. "On my word," he exclaimed, "it's little Jellia Jamb--as pert and pretty as ever!" "Why not, Mr. Wizard?" asked Jellia, bowing low. "But I'm afraid you cannot rule the Emerald City, as you used to, because we now have a beautiful Princess whom everyone loves dearly." "And the people will not willingly part with her," added a tall soldier in a Captain-General's uniform. The Wizard turned to look at him. "Did you not wear green whiskers at one time?" he asked. "Yes," said the soldier; "but I shaved them off long ago, and since then I have risen from a private to be the Chief General of the Royal Armies." "That's nice," said the little man. "But I assure you, my good people, that I do not wish to rule the Emerald City," he added, earnestly. "In that case you are very welcome!" cried all the servants, and it pleased the Wizard to note the respect with which the royal retainers bowed before him. His fame had not been forgotten in the Land of Oz, by any means. "Where is Dorothy?" enquired Zeb, anxiously, as he left the buggy and stood beside his friend the little Wizard. "She is with the Princess Ozma, in the private rooms of the palace," replied Jellia Jamb. "But she has ordered me to make you welcome and to show you to your apartments." The boy looked around him with wondering eyes. Such magnificence and wealth as was displayed in this palace was more than he had ever dreamed of, and he could scarcely believe that all the gorgeous glitter was real and not tinsel. "What's to become of me?" asked the horse, uneasily. He had seen considerable of life in the cities in his younger days, and knew that this regal palace was no place for him. It perplexed even Jellia Jamb, for a time, to know what to do with the animal. The green maiden was much astonished at the sight of so unusual a creature, for horses were unknown in this Land; but those who lived in the Emerald City were apt to be astonished by queer sights, so after inspecting the cab-horse and noting the mild look in his big eyes the girl decided not to be afraid of him. "There are no stables here," said the Wizard, "unless some have been built since I went away." "We have never needed them before," answered Jellia; "for the Sawhorse lives in a room of the palace, being much smaller and more natural in appearance than this great beast you have brought with you." "Do you mean that I'm a freak?" asked Jim, angrily. "Oh, no," she hastened to say, "there may be many more like you in the place you came from, but in Oz any horse but a Sawhorse is unusual." This mollified Jim a little, and after some thought the green maiden decided to give the cab-horse a room in the palace, such a big building having many rooms that were seldom in use. So Zeb unharnessed Jim, and several of the servants then led the horse around to the rear, where they selected a nice large apartment that he could have all to himself. Then Jellia said to the Wizard: "Your own room--which was back of the great Throne Room--has been vacant ever since you left us. Would you like it again?" "Yes, indeed!" returned the little man. "It will seem like being at home again, for I lived in that room for many, many years." He knew the way to it, and a servant followed him, carrying his satchel. Zeb was also escorted to a room--so grand and beautiful that he almost feared to sit in the chairs or lie upon the bed, lest he might dim their splendor. In the closets he discovered many fancy costumes of rich velvets and brocades, and one of the attendants told him to dress himself in any of the clothes that pleased him and to be prepared to dine with the Princess and Dorothy in an hour's time. Opening from the chamber was a fine bathroom having a marble tub with perfumed water; so the boy, still dazed by the novelty of his surroundings, indulged in a good bath and then selected a maroon velvet costume with silver buttons to replace his own soiled and much worn clothing. There were silk stockings and soft leather slippers with diamond buckles to accompany his new costume, and when he was fully dressed Zeb looked much more dignified and imposing than ever before in his life. He was all ready when an attendant came to escort him to the presence of the Princess; he followed bashfully and was ushered into a room more dainty and attractive than it was splendid. Here he found Dorothy seated beside a young girl so marvelously beautiful that the boy stopped suddenly with a gasp of admiration. But Dorothy sprang up and ran to seize her friend's hand drawing him impulsively toward the lovely Princess, who smiled most graciously upon her guest. Then the Wizard entered, and his presence relieved the boy's embarrassment. The little man was clothed in black velvet, with many sparkling emerald ornaments decorating his breast; but his bald head and wrinkled features made him appear more amusing than impressive. Ozma had been quite curious to meet the famous man who had built the Emerald City and united the Munchkins, Gillikins, Quadlings and Winkies into one people; so when they were all four seated at the dinner table the Princess said: "Please tell me, Mr. Wizard, whether you called yourself Oz after this great country, or whether you believe my country is called Oz after you. It is a matter that I have long wished to enquire about, because you are of a strange race and my own name is Ozma. No, one, I am sure, is better able to explain this mystery than you." "That is true," answered the little Wizard; "therefore it will give me pleasure to explain my connection with your country. In the first place, I must tell you that I was born in Omaha, and my father, who was a politician, named me Oscar Zoroaster Phadrig Isaac Norman Henkle Emmannuel Ambroise Diggs, Diggs being the last name because he could think of no more to go before it. Taken altogether, it was a dreadfully long name to weigh down a poor innocent child, and one of the hardest lessons I ever learned was to remember my own name. When I grew up I just called myself O. Z., because the other initials were P-I-N-H-E-A-D; and that spelled 'pinhead,' which was a reflection on my intelligence." "Surely no one could blame you for cutting your name short," said Ozma, sympathetically. "But didn't you cut it almost too short?" "Perhaps so," replied the Wizard. "When a young man I ran away from home and joined a circus. I used to call myself a Wizard, and do tricks of ventriloquism." "What does that mean?" asked the Princess. "Throwing my voice into any object I pleased, to make it appear that the object was speaking instead of me. Also I began to make balloon ascensions. On my balloon and on all the other articles I used in the circus I painted the two initials: 'O. Z.', to show that those things belonged to me. "One day my balloon ran away with me and brought me across the deserts to this beautiful country. When the people saw me come from the sky they naturally thought me some superior creature, and bowed down before me. I told them I was a Wizard, and showed them some easy tricks that amazed them; and when they saw the initials painted on the balloon they called me Oz." "Now I begin to understand," said the Princess, smiling. "At that time," continued the Wizard, busily eating his soup while talking, "there were four separate countries in this Land, each one of the four being ruled by a Witch. But the people thought my power was greater than that of the Witches; and perhaps the Witches thought so too, for they never dared oppose me. I ordered the Emerald City to be built just where the four countries cornered together, and when it was completed I announced myself the Ruler of the Land of Oz, which included all the four countries of the Munchkins, the Gillikins, the Winkies and the Quadlings. Over this Land I ruled in peace for many years, until I grew old and longed to see my native city once again. So when Dorothy was first blown to this place by a cyclone I arranged to go away with her in a balloon; but the balloon escaped too soon and carried me back alone. After many adventures I reached Omaha, only to find that all my old friends were dead or had moved away. So, having nothing else to do, I joined a circus again, and made my balloon ascensions until the earthquake caught me." "That is quite a history," said Ozma; "but there is a little more history about the Land of Oz that you do not seem to understand--perhaps for the reason that no one ever told it you. Many years before you came here this Land was united under one Ruler, as it is now, and the Ruler's name was always 'Oz,' which means in our language 'Great and Good'; or, if the Ruler happened to be a woman, her name was always 'Ozma.' But once upon a time four Witches leagued together to depose the king and rule the four parts of the kingdom themselves; so when the Ruler, my grandfather, was hunting one day, one Wicked Witch named Mombi stole him and carried him away, keeping him a close prisoner. Then the Witches divided up the kingdom, and ruled the four parts of it until you came here. That was why the people were so glad to see you, and why they thought from your initials that you were their rightful ruler." "But, at that time," said the Wizard, thoughtfully, "there were two Good Witches and two Wicked Witches ruling in the land." "Yes," replied Ozma, "because a good Witch had conquered Mombi in the North and Glinda the Good had conquered the evil Witch in the South. But Mombi was still my grandfather's jailor, and afterward my father's jailor. When I was born she transformed me into a boy, hoping that no one would ever recognize me and know that I was the rightful Princess of the Land of Oz. But I escaped from her and am now the Ruler of my people." "I am very glad of that," said the Wizard, "and hope you will consider me one of your most faithful and devoted subjects." "We owe a great deal to the Wonderful Wizard," continued the Princess, "for it was you who built this splendid Emerald City." "Your people built it," he answered. "I only bossed the job, as we say in Omaha." "But you ruled it wisely and well for many years," said she, "and made the people proud of your magical art. So, as you are now too old to wander abroad and work in a circus, I offer you a home here as long as you live. You shall be the Official Wizard of my kingdom, and be treated with every respect and consideration." "I accept your kind offer with gratitude, gracious Princess," the little man said, in a soft voice, and they could all see that tear-drops were standing in his keen old eyes. It meant a good deal to him to secure a home like this. "He's only a humbug Wizard, though," said Dorothy, smiling at him. "And that is the safest kind of a Wizard to have," replied Ozma, promptly. "Oz can do some good tricks, humbug or no humbug," announced Zeb, who was now feeling more at ease. "He shall amuse us with his tricks tomorrow," said the Princess. "I have sent messengers to summon all of Dorothy's old friends to meet her and give her welcome, and they ought to arrive very soon, now." Indeed, the dinner was no sooner finished than in rushed the Scarecrow, to hug Dorothy in his padded arms and tell her how glad he was to see her again. The Wizard was also most heartily welcomed by the straw man, who was an important personage in the Land of Oz. "How are your brains?" enquired the little humbug, as he grasped the soft, stuffed hands of his old friend. "Working finely," answered the Scarecrow. "I'm very certain, Oz, that you gave me the best brains in the world, for I can think with them day and night, when all other brains are fast asleep." "How long did you rule the Emerald City, after I left here?" was the next question. "Quite awhile, until I was conquered by a girl named General Jinjur. But Ozma soon conquered her, with the help of Glinda the Good, and after that I went to live with Nick Chopper, the Tin Woodman." Just then a loud cackling was heard outside; and, when a servant threw open the door with a low bow, a yellow hen strutted in. Dorothy sprang forward and caught the fluffy fowl in her arms, uttering at the same time a glad cry. "Oh, Billina!" she said; "how fat and sleek you've grown." "Why shouldn't I?" asked the hen, in a sharp, clear voice. "I live on the fat of the land--don't I, Ozma?" "You have everything you wish for," said the Princess. Around Billina's neck was a string of beautiful pearls, and on her legs were bracelets of emeralds. She nestled herself comfortably in Dorothy's lap until the kitten gave a snarl of jealous anger and leaped up with a sharp claw fiercely bared to strike Billina a blow. But the little girl gave the angry kitten such a severe cuff that it jumped down again without daring to scratch. "How horrid of you, Eureka!" cried Dorothy. "Is that the way to treat my friends?" "You have queer friends, seems to me," replied the kitten, in a surly tone. "Seems to me the same way," said Billina, scornfully, "if that beastly cat is one of them." "Look here!" said Dorothy, sternly. "I won't have any quarrelling in the Land of Oz, I can tell you! Everybody lives in peace here, and loves everybody else; and unless you two, Billina and Eureka, make up and be friends, I'll take my Magic Belt and wish you both home again, IMMEJITLY. So, there!" They were both much frightened at the threat, and promised meekly to be good. But it was never noticed that they became very warm friends, for all of that. And now the Tin Woodman arrived, his body most beautifully nickle-plated, so that it shone splendidly in the brilliant light of the room. The Tin Woodman loved Dorothy most tenderly, and welcomed with joy the return of the little old Wizard. "Sir," said he to the latter, "I never can thank you enough for the excellent heart you once gave me. It has made me many friends, I assure you, and it beats as kindly and lovingly today as it every did." "I'm glad to hear that," said the Wizard. "I was afraid it would get moldy in that tin body of yours." "Not at all," returned Nick Chopper. "It keeps finely, being preserved in my air-tight chest." Zeb was a little shy when first introduced to these queer people; but they were so friendly and sincere that he soon grew to admire them very much, even finding some good qualities in the yellow hen. But he became nervous again when the next visitor was announced. "This," said Princess Ozma, "is my friend Mr. H. M. Woggle-Bug, T. E., who assisted me one time when I was in great distress, and is now the Dean of the Royal College of Athletic Science." "Ah," said the Wizard; "I'm pleased to meet so distinguished a personage." "H. M.," said the Woggle-Bug, pompously, "means Highly Magnified; and T. E. means Thoroughly Educated. I am, in reality, a very big bug, and doubtless the most intelligent being in all this broad domain." "How well you disguise it," said the Wizard. "But I don't doubt your word in the least." "Nobody doubts it, sir," replied the Woggle-Bug, and drawing a book from its pocket the strange insect turned its back on the company and sat down in a corner to read. Nobody minded this rudeness, which might have seemed more impolite in one less thoroughly educated; so they straightway forgot him and joined in a merry conversation that kept them well amused until bed-time arrived. 16. Jim, The Cab-Horse Jim the Cab-horse found himself in possession of a large room with a green marble floor and carved marble wainscoting, which was so stately in its appearance that it would have awed anyone else. Jim accepted it as a mere detail, and at his command the attendants gave his coat a good rubbing, combed his mane and tail, and washed his hoofs and fetlocks. Then they told him dinner would be served directly and he replied that they could not serve it too quickly to suit his convenience. First they brought him a steaming bowl of soup, which the horse eyed in dismay. "Take that stuff away!" he commanded. "Do you take me for a salamander?" They obeyed at once, and next served a fine large turbot on a silver platter, with drawn gravy poured over it. "Fish!" cried Jim, with a sniff. "Do you take me for a tom-cat? Away with it!" The servants were a little discouraged, but soon they brought in a great tray containing two dozen nicely roasted quail on toast. "Well, well!" said the horse, now thoroughly provoked. "Do you take me for a weasel? How stupid and ignorant you are, in the Land of Oz, and what dreadful things you feed upon! Is there nothing that is decent to eat in this palace?" The trembling servants sent for the Royal Steward, who came in haste and said: "What would your Highness like for dinner?" "Highness!" repeated Jim, who was unused to such titles. "You are at least six feet high, and that is higher than any other animal in this country," said the Steward. "Well, my Highness would like some oats," declared the horse. "Oats? We have no whole oats," the Steward replied, with much deference. "But there is any quantity of oatmeal, which we often cook for breakfast. Oatmeal is a breakfast dish," added the Steward, humbly. "I'll make it a dinner dish," said Jim. "Fetch it on, but don't cook it, as you value your life." You see, the respect shown the worn-out old cab-horse made him a little arrogant, and he forgot he was a guest, never having been treated otherwise than as a servant since the day he was born, until his arrival in the Land of Oz. But the royal attendants did not heed the animal's ill temper. They soon mixed a tub of oatmeal with a little water, and Jim ate it with much relish. Then the servants heaped a lot of rugs upon the floor and the old horse slept on the softest bed he had ever known in his life. In the morning, as soon as it was daylight, he resolved to take a walk and try to find some grass for breakfast; so he ambled calmly through the handsome arch of the doorway, turned the corner of the palace, wherein all seemed asleep, and came face to face with the Sawhorse. Jim stopped abruptly, being startled and amazed. The Sawhorse stopped at the same time and stared at the other with its queer protruding eyes, which were mere knots in the log that formed its body. The legs of the Sawhorse were four sticks driving into holes bored in the log; its tail was a small branch that had been left by accident and its mouth a place chopped in one end of the body which projected a little and served as a head. The ends of the wooden legs were shod with plates of solid gold, and the saddle of the Princess Ozma, which was of red leather set with sparkling diamonds, was strapped to the clumsy body. Jim's eyes stuck out as much as those of the Sawhorse, and he stared at the creature with his ears erect and his long head drawn back until it rested against his arched neck. In this comical position the two horses circled slowly around each other for a while, each being unable to realize what the singular thing might be which it now beheld for the first time. Then Jim exclaimed: "For goodness sake, what sort of a being are you?" "I'm a Sawhorse," replied the other. "Oh; I believe I've heard of you," said the cab-horse; "but you are unlike anything that I expected to see." "I do not doubt it," the Sawhorse observed, with a tone of pride. "I am considered quite unusual." "You are, indeed. But a rickety wooden thing like you has no right to be alive." "I couldn't help it," returned the other, rather crestfallen. "Ozma sprinkled me with a magic powder, and I just had to live. I know I'm not much account; but I'm the only horse in all the Land of Oz, so they treat me with great respect." "You, a horse!" "Oh, not a real one, of course. There are no real horses here at all. But I'm a splendid imitation of one." Jim gave an indignant neigh. "Look at me!" he cried. "Behold a real horse!" The wooden animal gave a start, and then examined the other intently. "Is it possible that you are a Real Horse?" he murmured. "Not only possible, but true," replied Jim, who was gratified by the impression he had created. "It is proved by my fine points. For example, look at the long hairs on my tail, with which I can whisk away the flies." "The flies never trouble me," said the Saw-Horse. "And notice my great strong teeth, with which I nibble the grass." "It is not necessary for me to eat," observed the Sawhorse. "Also examine my broad chest, which enables me to draw deep, full breaths," said Jim, proudly. "I have no need to breathe," returned the other. "No; you miss many pleasures," remarked the cab-horse, pityingly. "You do not know the relief of brushing away a fly that has bitten you, nor the delight of eating delicious food, nor the satisfaction of drawing a long breath of fresh, pure air. You may be an imitation of a horse, but you're a mighty poor one." "Oh, I cannot hope ever to be like you," sighed the Sawhorse. "But I am glad to meet a last a Real Horse. You are certainly the most beautiful creature I ever beheld." This praise won Jim completely. To be called beautiful was a novelty in his experience. Said he: "Your chief fault, my friend, is in being made of wood, and that I suppose you cannot help. Real horses, like myself, are made of flesh and blood and bones." "I can see the bones all right," replied the Sawhorse, "and they are admirable and distinct. Also I can see the flesh. But the blood, I suppose is tucked away inside." "Exactly," said Jim. "What good is it?" asked the Sawhorse. Jim did not know, but he would not tell the Sawhorse that. "If anything cuts me," he replied, "the blood runs out to show where I am cut. You, poor thing! cannot even bleed when you are hurt." "But I am never hurt," said the Sawhorse. "Once in a while I get broken up some, but I am easily repaired and put in good order again. And I never feel a break or a splinter in the least." Jim was almost tempted to envy the wooden horse for being unable to feel pain; but the creature was so absurdly unnatural that he decided he would not change places with it under any circumstances. "How did you happen to be shod with gold?" he asked. "Princess Ozma did that," was the reply; "and it saves my legs from wearing out. We've had a good many adventures together, Ozma and I, and she likes me." The cab-horse was about to reply when suddenly he gave a start and a neigh of terror and stood trembling like a leaf. For around the corner had come two enormous savage beasts, treading so lightly that they were upon him before he was aware of their presence. Jim was in the act of plunging down the path to escape when the Sawhorse cried out: "Stop, my brother! Stop, Real Horse! These are friends, and will do you no harm." Jim hesitated, eyeing the beasts fearfully. One was an enormous Lion with clear, intelligent eyes, a tawney mane bushy and well kept, and a body like yellow plush. The other was a great Tiger with purple stripes around his lithe body, powerful limbs, and eyes that showed through the half closed lids like coals of fire. The huge forms of these monarchs of the forest and jungle were enough to strike terror to the stoutest heart, and it is no wonder Jim was afraid to face them. But the Sawhorse introduced the stranger in a calm tone, saying: "This, noble Horse, is my friend the Cowardly Lion, who is the valiant King of the Forest, but at the same time a faithful vassal of Princess Ozma. And this is the Hungry Tiger, the terror of the jungle, who longs to devour fat babies but is prevented by his conscience from doing so. These royal beasts are both warm friends of little Dorothy and have come to the Emerald City this morning to welcome her to our fairyland." Hearing these words Jim resolved to conquer his alarm. He bowed his head with as much dignity as he could muster toward the savage looking beasts, who in return nodded in a friendly way. "Is not the Real Horse a beautiful animal?" asked the Sawhorse admiringly. "That is doubtless a matter of taste," returned the Lion. "In the forest he would be thought ungainly, because his face is stretched out and his neck is uselessly long. His joints, I notice, are swollen and overgrown, and he lacks flesh and is old in years." "And dreadfully tough," added the Hungry Tiger, in a sad voice. "My conscience would never permit me to eat so tough a morsel as the Real Horse." "I'm glad of that," said Jim; "for I, also, have a conscience, and it tells me not to crush in your skull with a blow of my powerful hoof." If he thought to frighten the striped beast by such language he was mistaken. The Tiger seemed to smile, and winked one eye slowly. "You have a good conscience, friend Horse," it said, "and if you attend to its teachings it will do much to protect you from harm. Some day I will let you try to crush in my skull, and afterward you will know more about tigers than you do now." "Any friend of Dorothy," remarked the Cowardly Lion, "must be our friend, as well. So let us cease this talk of skull crushing and converse upon more pleasant subjects. Have you breakfasted, Sir Horse?" "Not yet," replied Jim. "But here is plenty of excellent clover, so if you will excuse me I will eat now." "He's a vegetarian," remarked the Tiger, as the horse began to munch the clover. "If I could eat grass I would not need a conscience, for nothing could then tempt me to devour babies and lambs." Just then Dorothy, who had risen early and heard the voices of the animals, ran out to greet her old friends. She hugged both the Lion and the Tiger with eager delight, but seemed to love the King of Beasts a little better than she did his hungry friend, having known him longer. By this time they had indulged in a good talk and Dorothy had told them all about the awful earthquake and her recent adventures, the breakfast bell rang from the palace and the little girl went inside to join her human comrades. As she entered the great hall a voice called out, in a rather harsh tone: "What! are YOU here again?" "Yes, I am," she answered, looking all around to see where the voice came from. "What brought you back?" was the next question, and Dorothy's eye rested on an antlered head hanging on the wall just over the fireplace, and caught its lips in the act of moving. "Good gracious!" she exclaimed. "I thought you were stuffed." "So I am," replied the head. "But once on a time I was part of the Gump, which Ozma sprinkled with the Powder of Life. I was then for a time the Head of the finest Flying Machine that was ever known to exist, and we did many wonderful things. Afterward the Gump was taken apart and I was put back on this wall; but I can still talk when I feel in the mood, which is not often." "It's very strange," said the girl. "What were you when you were first alive?" "That I have forgotten," replied the Gump's Head, "and I do not think it is of much importance. But here comes Ozma; so I'd better hush up, for the Princess doesn't like me to chatter since she changed her name from Tip to Ozma." Just then the girlish Ruler of Oz opened the door and greeted Dorothy with a good-morning kiss. The little Princess seemed fresh and rosy and in good spirits. "Breakfast is served, dear," she said, "and I am hungry. So don't let us keep it waiting a single minute." 17. The Nine Tiny Piglets After breakfast Ozma announced that she had ordered a holiday to be observed throughout the Emerald City, in honor of her visitors. The people had learned that their old Wizard had returned to them and all were anxious to see him again, for he had always been a rare favorite. So first there was to be a grand procession through the streets, after which the little old man was requested to perform some of his wizardries in the great Throne Room of the palace. In the afternoon there were to be games and races. The procession was very imposing. First came the Imperial Cornet Band of Oz, dressed in emerald velvet uniforms with slashes of pea-green satin and buttons of immense cut emeralds. They played the National air called "The Oz Spangled Banner," and behind them were the standard bearers with the Royal flag. This flag was divided into four quarters, one being colored sky-blue, another pink, a third lavender and a fourth white. In the center was a large emerald-green star, and all over the four quarters were sewn spangles that glittered beautifully in the sunshine. The colors represented the four countries of Oz, and the green star the Emerald City. Just behind the royal standard-bearers came the Princess Ozma in her royal chariot, which was of gold encrusted with emeralds and diamonds set in exquisite designs. The chariot was drawn on this occasion by the Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger, who were decorated with immense pink and blue bows. In the chariot rode Ozma and Dorothy, the former in splendid raiment and wearing her royal coronet, while the little Kansas girl wore around her waist the Magic Belt she had once captured from the Nome King. Following the chariot came the Scarecrow mounted on the Sawhorse, and the people cheered him almost as loudly as they did their lovely Ruler. Behind him stalked with regular, jerky steps, the famous machine-man called Tik-tok, who had been wound up by Dorothy for the occasion. Tik-tok moved by clockwork, and was made all of burnished copper. He really belonged to the Kansas girl, who had much respect for his thoughts after they had been properly wound and set going; but as the copper man would be useless in any place but a fairy country Dorothy had left him in charge of Ozma, who saw that he was suitably cared for. There followed another band after this, which was called the Royal Court Band, because the members all lived in the palace. They wore white uniforms with real diamond buttons and played "What is Oz without Ozma" very sweetly. Then came Professor Woggle-Bug, with a group of students from the Royal College of Scientific Athletics. The boys wore long hair and striped sweaters and yelled their college yell every other step they took, to the great satisfaction of the populace, which was glad to have this evidence that their lungs were in good condition. The brilliantly polished Tin Woodman marched next, at the head of the Royal Army of Oz which consisted of twenty-eight officers, from Generals down to Captains. There were no privates in the army because all were so courageous and skillful that they had been promoted one by one until there were no privates left. Jim and the buggy followed, the old cab-horse being driven by Zeb while the Wizard stood up on the seat and bowed his bald head right and left in answer to the cheers of the people, who crowded thick about him. Taken altogether the procession was a grand success, and when it had returned to the palace the citizens crowded into the great Throne Room to see the Wizard perform his tricks. The first thing the little humbug did was to produce a tiny white piglet from underneath his hat and pretend to pull it apart, making two. This act he repeated until all of the nine tiny piglets were visible, and they were so glad to get out of his pocket that they ran around in a very lively manner. The pretty little creatures would have been a novelty anywhere, so the people were as amazed and delighted at their appearance as even the Wizard could have desired. When he had made them all disappear again Ozma declared she was sorry they were gone, for she wanted one of them to pet and play with. So the Wizard pretended to take one of the piglets out of the hair of the Princess (while really he slyly took it from his inside pocket) and Ozma smiled joyously as the creature nestled in her arms, and she promised to have an emerald collar made for its fat neck and to keep the little squealer always at hand to amuse her. Afterward it was noticed that the Wizard always performed his famous trick with eight piglets, but it seemed to please the people just as well as if there had been nine of them. In his little room back of the Throne Room the Wizard had found a lot of things he had left behind him when he went away in the balloon, for no one had occupied the apartment in his absence. There was enough material there to enable him to prepare several new tricks which he had learned from some of the jugglers in the circus, and he had passed part of the night in getting them ready. So he followed the trick of the nine tiny piglets with several other wonderful feats that greatly delighted his audience and the people did not seem to care a bit whether the little man was a humbug Wizard or not, so long as he succeeded in amusing them. They applauded all his tricks and at the end of the performance begged him earnestly not to go away again and leave them. "In that case," said the little man, gravely, "I will cancel all of my engagements before the crowned heads of Europe and America and devote myself to the people of Oz, for I love you all so well that I can deny you nothing." After the people had been dismissed with this promise our friends joined Princess Ozma at an elaborate luncheon in the palace, where even the Tiger and the Lion were sumptuously fed and Jim the Cab-horse ate his oatmeal out of a golden bowl with seven rows of rubies, sapphires and diamonds set around the rim of it. In the afternoon they all went to a great field outside the city gates where the games were to be held. There was a beautiful canopy for Ozma and her guests to sit under and watch the people run races and jump and wrestle. You may be sure the folks of Oz did their best with such a distinguished company watching them, and finally Zeb offered to wrestle with a little Munchkin who seemed to be the champion. In appearance he was twice as old as Zeb, for he had long pointed whiskers and wore a peaked hat with little bells all around the brim of it, which tinkled gaily as he moved. But although the Munchkin was hardly tall enough to come to Zeb's shoulder he was so strong and clever that he laid the boy three times on his back with apparent ease. Zeb was greatly astonished at his defeat, and when the pretty Princess joined her people in laughing at him he proposed a boxing-match with the Munchkin, to which the little Ozite readily agreed. But the first time that Zeb managed to give him a sharp box on the ears the Munchkin sat down upon the ground and cried until the tears ran down his whiskers, because he had been hurt. This made Zeb laugh, in turn, and the boy felt comforted to find that Ozma laughed as merrily at her weeping subject as she had at him. Just then the Scarecrow proposed a race between the Sawhorse and the Cab-horse; and although all the others were delighted at the suggestion the Sawhorse drew back, saying: "Such a race would not be fair." "Of course not," added Jim, with a touch of scorn; "those little wooden legs of yours are not half as long as my own." "It isn't that," said the Sawhorse, modestly; "but I never tire, and you do." "Bah!" cried Jim, looking with great disdain at the other; "do you imagine for an instant that such a shabby imitation of a horse as you are can run as fast as I?" "I don't know, I'm sure," replied the Sawhorse. "That is what we are trying to find out," remarked the Scarecrow. "The object of a race is to see who can win it--or at least that is what my excellent brains think." "Once, when I was young," said Jim, "I was a race horse, and defeated all who dared run against me. I was born in Kentucky, you know, where all the best and most aristocratic horses come from." "But you're old, now, Jim," suggested Zeb. "Old! Why, I feel like a colt today," replied Jim. "I only wish there was a real horse here for me to race with. I'd show the people a fine sight, I can tell you." "Then why not race with the Sawhorse?" enquired the Scarecrow. "He's afraid," said Jim. "Oh, no," answered the Sawhorse. "I merely said it wasn't fair. But if my friend the Real Horse is willing to undertake the race I am quite ready." So they unharnessed Jim and took the saddle off the Sawhorse, and the two queerly matched animals were stood side by side for the start. "When I say 'Go!'" Zeb called to them, "you must dig out and race until you reach those three trees you see over yonder. Then circle 'round them and come back again. The first one that passes the place where the Princess sits shall be named the winner. Are you ready?" "I suppose I ought to give the wooden dummy a good start of me," growled Jim. "Never mind that," said the Sawhorse. "I'll do the best I can." "Go!" cried Zeb; and at the word the two horses leaped forward and the race was begun. Jim's big hoofs pounded away at a great rate, and although he did not look very graceful he ran in a way to do credit to his Kentucky breeding. But the Sawhorse was swifter than the wind. Its wooden legs moved so fast that their twinkling could scarcely be seen, and although so much smaller than the cab-horse it covered the ground much faster. Before they had reached the trees the Sawhorse was far ahead, and the wooden animal returned to the starting place as was being lustily cheered by the Ozites before Jim came panting up to the canopy where the Princess and her friends were seated. I am sorry to record the fact that Jim was not only ashamed of his defeat but for a moment lost control of his temper. As he looked at the comical face of the Sawhorse he imagined that the creature was laughing at him; so in a fit of unreasonable anger he turned around and made a vicious kick that sent his rival tumbling head over heels upon the ground, and broke off one of its legs and its left ear. An instant later the Tiger crouched and launched its huge body through the air swift and resistless as a ball from a cannon. The beast struck Jim full on his shoulder and sent the astonished cab-horse rolling over and over, amid shouts of delight from the spectators, who had been horrified by the ungracious act he had been guilty of. When Jim came to himself and sat upon his haunches he found the Cowardly Lion crouched on one side of him and the Hungry Tiger on the other, and their eyes were glowing like balls of fire. "I beg your pardon, I'm sure," said Jim, meekly. "I was wrong to kick the Sawhorse, and I am sorry I became angry at him. He has won the race, and won it fairly; but what can a horse of flesh do against a tireless beast of wood?" Hearing this apology the Tiger and the Lion stopped lashing their tails and retreated with dignified steps to the side of the Princess. "No one must injure one of our friends in our presence," growled the Lion; and Zeb ran to Jim and whispered that unless he controlled his temper in the future he would probably be torn to pieces. Then the Tin Woodman cut a straight and strong limb from a tree with his gleaming axe and made a new leg and a new ear for the Sawhorse; and when they had been securely fastened in place Princess Ozma took the coronet from her own head and placed it upon that of the winner of the race. Said she: "My friend, I reward you for your swiftness by proclaiming you Prince of Horses, whether of wood or of flesh; and hereafter all other horses--in the Land of Oz, at least--must be considered imitations, and you the real Champion of your race." There was more applause at this, and then Ozma had the jewelled saddle replaced upon the Sawhorse and herself rode the victor back to the city at the head of the grand procession. "I ought to be a fairy," grumbled Jim, as he slowly drew the buggy home; "for to be just an ordinary horse in a fairy country is to be of no account whatever. It's no place for us, Zeb." "It's lucky we got here, though," said the boy; and Jim thought of the dark cave, and agreed with him. 18. The Trial of Eureka the Kitten Several days of festivity and merry-making followed, for such old friends did not often meet and there was much to be told and talked over between them, and many amusements to be enjoyed in this delightful country. Ozma was happy to have Dorothy beside her, for girls of her own age with whom it was proper for the Princess to associate were very few, and often the youthful Ruler of Oz was lonely for lack of companionship. It was the third morning after Dorothy's arrival, and she was sitting with Ozma and their friends in a reception room, talking over old times, when the Princess said to her maid: "Please go to my boudoir, Jellia, and get the white piglet I left on the dressing-table. I want to play with it." Jellia at once departed on the errand, and she was gone so long that they had almost forgotten her mission when the green robed maiden returned with a troubled face. "The piglet is not there, your Highness," said she. "Not there!" exclaimed Ozma. "Are you sure?" "I have hunted in every part of the room," the maid replied. "Was not the door closed?" asked the Princess. "Yes, your Highness; I am sure it was; for when I opened it Dorothy's white kitten crept out and ran up the stairs." Hearing this, Dorothy and the Wizard exchanged startled glances, for they remembered how often Eureka had longed to eat a piglet. The little girl jumped up at once. "Come, Ozma," she said, anxiously; "let us go ourselves to search for the piglet." So the two went to the dressing-room of the Princess and searched carefully in every corner and among the vases and baskets and ornaments that stood about the pretty boudoir. But not a trace could they find of the tiny creature they sought. Dorothy was nearly weeping, by this time, while Ozma was angry and indignant. When they returned to the others the Princess said: "There is little doubt that my pretty piglet has been eaten by that horrid kitten, and if that is true the offender must be punished." "I don't b'lieve Eureka would do such a dreadful thing!" cried Dorothy, much distressed. "Go and get my kitten, please, Jellia, and we'll hear what she has to say about it." The green maiden hastened away, but presently returned and said: "The kitten will not come. She threatened to scratch my eyes out if I touched her." "Where is she?" asked Dorothy. "Under the bed in your own room," was the reply. So Dorothy ran to her room and found the kitten under the bed. "Come here, Eureka!" she said. "I won't," answered the kitten, in a surly voice. "Oh, Eureka! Why are you so bad?" The kitten did not reply. "If you don't come to me, right away," continued Dorothy, getting provoked, "I'll take my Magic Belt and wish you in the Country of the Gurgles." "Why do you want me?" asked Eureka, disturbed by this threat. "You must go to Princess Ozma. She wants to talk to you." "All right," returned the kitten, creeping out. "I'm not afraid of Ozma--or anyone else." Dorothy carried her in her arms back to where the others sat in grieved and thoughtful silence. "Tell me, Eureka," said the Princess, gently: "did you eat my pretty piglet?" "I won't answer such a foolish question," asserted Eureka, with a snarl. "Oh, yes you will, dear," Dorothy declared. "The piglet is gone, and you ran out of the room when Jellia opened the door. So, if you are innocent, Eureka, you must tell the Princess how you came to be in her room, and what has become of the piglet." "Who accuses me?" asked the kitten, defiantly. "No one," answered Ozma. "Your actions alone accuse you. The fact is that I left my little pet in my dressing-room lying asleep upon the table; and you must have stolen in without my knowing it. When next the door was opened you ran out and hid yourself--and the piglet was gone." "That's none of my business," growled the kitten. "Don't be impudent, Eureka," admonished Dorothy. "It is you who are impudent," said Eureka, "for accusing me of such a crime when you can't prove it except by guessing." Ozma was now greatly incensed by the kitten's conduct. She summoned her Captain-General, and when the long, lean officer appeared she said: "Carry this cat away to prison, and keep her in safe confinement until she is tried by law for the crime of murder." So the Captain-General took Eureka from the arms of the now weeping Dorothy and in spite of the kitten's snarls and scratches carried it away to prison. "What shall we do now?" asked the Scarecrow, with a sigh, for such a crime had cast a gloom over all the company. "I will summon the Court to meet in the Throne Room at three o'clock," replied Ozma. "I myself will be the judge, and the kitten shall have a fair trial." "What will happen if she is guilty?" asked Dorothy. "She must die," answered the Princess. "Nine times?" enquired the Scarecrow. "As many times as is necessary," was the reply. "I will ask the Tin Woodman to defend the prisoner, because he has such a kind heart I am sure he will do his best to save her. And the Woggle-Bug shall be the Public Accuser, because he is so learned that no one can deceive him." "Who will be the jury?" asked the Tin Woodman. "There ought to be several animals on the jury," said Ozma, "because animals understand each other better than we people understand them. So the jury shall consist of the Cowardly Lion, the Hungry Tiger, Jim the Cab-horse, the Yellow Hen, the Scarecrow, the Wizard, Tik-tok the Machine Man, the Sawhorse and Zeb of Hugson's Ranch. That makes the nine which the law requires, and all my people shall be admitted to hear the testimony." They now separated to prepare for the sad ceremony; for whenever an appeal is made to law sorrow is almost certain to follow--even in a fairyland like Oz. But is must be stated that the people of that Land were generally so well-behaved that there was not a single lawyer amongst them, and it had been years since any Ruler had sat in judgment upon an offender of the law. The crime of murder being the most dreadful crime of all, tremendous excitement prevailed in the Emerald City when the news of Eureka's arrest and trial became known. The Wizard, when he returned to his own room, was exceedingly thoughtful. He had no doubt Eureka had eaten his piglet, but he realized that a kitten cannot be depended upon at all times to act properly, since its nature is to destroy small animals and even birds for food, and the tame cat that we keep in our houses today is descended from the wild cat of the jungle--a very ferocious creature, indeed. The Wizard knew that if Dorothy's pet was found guilty and condemned to death the little girl would be made very unhappy; so, although he grieved over the piglet's sad fate as much as any of them, he resolved to save Eureka's life. Sending for the Tin Woodman the Wizard took him into a corner and whispered: "My friend, it is your duty to defend the white kitten and try to save her, but I fear you will fail because Eureka has long wished to eat a piglet, to my certain knowledge, and my opinion is that she has been unable to resist the temptation. Yet her disgrace and death would not bring back the piglet, but only serve to make Dorothy unhappy. So I intend to prove the kitten's innocence by a trick." He drew from his inside pocket one of the eight tiny piglets that were remaining and continued: "This creature you must hide in some safe place, and if the jury decides that Eureka is guilty you may then produce this piglet and claim it is the one that was lost. All the piglets are exactly alike, so no one can dispute your word. This deception will save Eureka's life, and then we may all be happy again." "I do not like to deceive my friends," replied the Tin Woodman; "still, my kind heart urges me to save Eureka's life, and I can usually trust my heart to do the right thing. So I will do as you say, friend Wizard." After some thought he placed the little pig inside his funnel-shaped hat, and then put the hat upon his head and went back to his room to think over his speech to the jury. 19. The Wizard Performs Another Trick At three o'clock the Throne Room was crowded with citizens, men, women and children being eager to witness the great trial. Princess Ozma, dressed in her most splendid robes of state, sat in the magnificent emerald throne, with her jewelled sceptre in her hand and her sparkling coronet upon her fair brow. Behind her throne stood the twenty-eight officers of her army and many officials of the royal household. At her right sat the queerly assorted Jury--animals, animated dummies and people--all gravely prepared to listen to what was said. The kitten had been placed in a large cage just before the throne, where she sat upon her haunches and gazed through the bars at the crowds around her, with seeming unconcern. And now, at a signal from Ozma, the Woggle-Bug arose and addressed the jury. His tone was pompous and he strutted up and down in an absurd attempt to appear dignified. "Your Royal Highness and Fellow Citizens," he began; "the small cat you see a prisoner before you is accused of the crime of first murdering and then eating our esteemed Ruler's fat piglet--or else first eating and then murdering it. In either case a grave crime has been committed which deserves a grave punishment." "Do you mean my kitten must be put in a grave?" asked Dorothy. "Don't interrupt, little girl," said the Woggle-Bug. "When I get my thoughts arranged in good order I do not like to have anything upset them or throw them into confusion." "If your thoughts were any good they wouldn't become confused," remarked the Scarecrow, earnestly. "My thoughts are always--" "Is this a trial of thoughts, or of kittens?" demanded the Woggle-Bug. "It's a trial of one kitten," replied the Scarecrow; "but your manner is a trial to us all." "Let the Public Accuser continue," called Ozma from her throne, "and I pray you do not interrupt him." "The criminal who now sits before the court licking her paws," resumed the Woggle-Bug, "has long desired to unlawfully eat the fat piglet, which was no bigger than a mouse. And finally she made a wicked plan to satisfy her depraved appetite for pork. I can see her, in my mind's eye--" "What's that?" asked the Scarecrow. "I say I can see her in my mind's eye--" "The mind has no eye," declared the Scarecrow. "It's blind." "Your Highness," cried the Woggle-Bug, appealing to Ozma, "have I a mind's eye, or haven't I?" "If you have, it is invisible," said the Princess. "Very true," returned the Woggle-Bug, bowing. "I say I see the criminal, in my mind's eye, creeping stealthily into the room of our Ozma and secreting herself, when no one was looking, until the Princess had gone away and the door was closed. Then the murderer was alone with her helpless victim, the fat piglet, and I see her pounce upon the innocent creature and eat it up--" "Are you still seeing with your mind's eye?" enquired the Scarecrow. "Of course; how else could I see it? And we know the thing is true, because since the time of that interview there is no piglet to be found anywhere." "I suppose, if the cat had been gone, instead of the piglet, your mind's eye would see the piglet eating the cat," suggested the Scarecrow. "Very likely," acknowledged the Woggle-Bug. "And now, Fellow Citizens and Creatures of the Jury, I assert that so awful a crime deserves death, and in the case of the ferocious criminal before you--who is now washing her face--the death penalty should be inflicted nine times." There was great applause when the speaker sat down. Then the Princess spoke in a stern voice: "Prisoner, what have you to say for yourself? Are you guilty, or not guilty?" "Why, that's for you to find out," replied Eureka. "If you can prove I'm guilty, I'll be willing to die nine times, but a mind's eye is no proof, because the Woggle-Bug has no mind to see with." "Never mind, dear," said Dorothy. Then the Tin Woodman arose and said: "Respected Jury and dearly beloved Ozma, I pray you not to judge this feline prisoner unfeelingly. I do not think the innocent kitten can be guilty, and surely it is unkind to accuse a luncheon of being a murder. Eureka is the sweet pet of a lovely little girl whom we all admire, and gentleness and innocence are her chief virtues. Look at the kitten's intelligent eyes;" (here Eureka closed her eyes sleepily) "gaze at her smiling countenance!" (here Eureka snarled and showed her teeth) "mark the tender pose of her soft, padded little hands!" (Here Eureka bared her sharp claws and scratched at the bars of the cage.) "Would such a gentle animal be guilty of eating a fellow creature? No; a thousand times, no!" "Oh, cut it short," said Eureka; "you've talked long enough." "I'm trying to defend you," remonstrated the Tin Woodman. "Then say something sensible," retorted the kitten. "Tell them it would be foolish for me to eat the piglet, because I had sense enough to know it would raise a row if I did. But don't try to make out I'm too innocent to eat a fat piglet if I could do it and not be found out. I imagine it would taste mighty good." "Perhaps it would, to those who eat," remarked the Tin Woodman. "I myself, not being built to eat, have no personal experience in such matters. But I remember that our great poet once said: 'To eat is sweet When hunger's seat Demands a treat Of savory meat.'" "Take this into consideration, friends of the Jury, and you will readily decide that the kitten is wrongfully accused and should be set at liberty." When the Tin Woodman sat down no one applauded him, for his arguments had not been very convincing and few believed that he had proved Eureka's innocence. As for the Jury, the members whispered to each other for a few minutes and then they appointed the Hungry Tiger their spokesman. The huge beast slowly arose and said: "Kittens have no consciences, so they eat whatever pleases them. The jury believes the white kitten known as Eureka is guilty of having eaten the piglet owned by Princess Ozma, and recommends that she be put to death in punishment of the crime." The judgment of the jury was received with great applause, although Dorothy was sobbing miserably at the fate of her pet. The Princess was just about to order Eureka's head chopped off with the Tin Woodman's axe when that brilliant personage once more arose and addressed her. "Your Highness," said he, "see how easy it is for a jury to be mistaken. The kitten could not have eaten your piglet--for here it is!" He took off his funnel hat and from beneath it produced a tiny white piglet, which he held aloft that all might see it clearly. Ozma was delighted and exclaimed, eagerly: "Give me my pet, Nick Chopper!" And all the people cheered and clapped their hands, rejoicing that the prisoner had escaped death and been proved to be innocent. As the Princess held the white piglet in her arms and stroked its soft hair she said: "Let Eureka out of the cage, for she is no longer a prisoner, but our good friend. Where did you find my missing pet, Nick Chopper?" "In a room of the palace," he answered. "Justice," remarked the Scarecrow, with a sigh, "is a dangerous thing to meddle with. If you hadn't happened to find the piglet, Eureka would surely have been executed." "But justice prevailed at the last," said Ozma, "for here is my pet, and Eureka is once more free." "I refuse to be free," cried the kitten, in a sharp voice, "unless the Wizard can do his trick with eight piglets. If he can produce but seven, then this is not the piglet that was lost, but another one." "Hush, Eureka!" warned the Wizard. "Don't be foolish," advised the Tin Woodman, "or you may be sorry for it." "The piglet that belonged to the Princess wore an emerald collar," said Eureka, loudly enough for all to hear. "So it did!" exclaimed Ozma. "This cannot be the one the Wizard gave me." "Of course not; he had nine of them, altogether," declared Eureka; "and I must say it was very stingy of him not to let me eat just a few. But now that this foolish trial is ended, I will tell you what really became of your pet piglet." At this everyone in the Throne Room suddenly became quiet, and the kitten continued, in a calm, mocking tone of voice: "I will confess that I intended to eat the little pig for my breakfast; so I crept into the room where it was kept while the Princess was dressing and hid myself under a chair. When Ozma went away she closed the door and left her pet on the table. At once I jumped up and told the piglet not to make a fuss, for he would be inside of me in half a second; but no one can teach one of these creatures to be reasonable. Instead of keeping still, so I could eat him comfortably, he trembled so with fear that he fell off the table into a big vase that was standing on the floor. The vase had a very small neck, and spread out at the top like a bowl. At first the piglet stuck in the neck of the vase and I thought I should get him, after all, but he wriggled himself through and fell down into the deep bottom part--and I suppose he's there yet." All were astonished at this confession, and Ozma at once sent an officer to her room to fetch the vase. When he returned the Princess looked down the narrow neck of the big ornament and discovered her lost piglet, just as Eureka had said she would. There was no way to get the creature out without breaking the vase, so the Tin Woodman smashed it with his axe and set the little prisoner free. Then the crowd cheered lustily and Dorothy hugged the kitten in her arms and told her how delighted she was to know that she was innocent. "But why didn't you tell us at first?" she asked. "It would have spoiled the fun," replied the kitten, yawning. Ozma gave the Wizard back the piglet he had so kindly allowed Nick Chopper to substitute for the lost one, and then she carried her own into the apartments of the palace where she lived. And now, the trial being over, the good citizens of the Emerald City scattered to their homes, well content with the day's amusement. 20. Zeb Returns to the Ranch Eureka was much surprised to find herself in disgrace; but she was, in spite of the fact that she had not eaten the piglet. For the folks of Oz knew the kitten had tried to commit the crime, and that only an accident had prevented her from doing so; therefore even the Hungry Tiger preferred not to associate with her. Eureka was forbidden to wander around the palace and was made to stay in confinement in Dorothy's room; so she began to beg her mistress to send her to some other place where she could enjoy herself better. Dorothy was herself anxious to get home, so she promised Eureka they would not stay in the Land of Oz much longer. The next evening after the trial the little girl begged Ozma to allow her to look in the enchanted picture, and the Princess readily consented. She took the child to her room and said: "Make your wish, dear, and the picture will show the scene you desire to behold." Then Dorothy found, with the aid of the enchanted picture, that Uncle Henry had returned to the farm in Kansas, and she also saw that both he and Aunt Em were dressed in mourning, because they thought their little niece had been killed by the earthquake. "Really," said the girl, anxiously, "I must get back as soon as poss'ble to my own folks." Zeb also wanted to see his home, and although he did not find anyone morning for him, the sight of Hugson's Ranch in the picture made him long to get back there. "This is a fine country, and I like all the people that live in it," he told Dorothy. "But the fact is, Jim and I don't seem to fit into a fairyland, and the old horse has been begging me to go home again ever since he lost the race. So, if you can find a way to fix it, we'll be much obliged to you." "Ozma can do it, easily," replied Dorothy. "Tomorrow morning I'll go to Kansas and you can go to Californy." That last evening was so delightful that the boy will never forget it as long as he lives. They were all together (except Eureka) in the pretty rooms of the Princess, and the Wizard did some new tricks, and the Scarecrow told stories, and the Tin Woodman sang a love song in a sonorous, metallic voice, and everybody laughed and had a good time. Then Dorothy wound up Tik-tok and he danced a jig to amuse the company, after which the Yellow Hen related some of her adventures with the Nome King in the Land of Ev. The Princess served delicious refreshments to those who were in the habit of eating, and when Dorothy's bed time arrived the company separated after exchanging many friendly sentiments. Next morning they all assembled for the final parting, and many of the officials and courtiers came to look upon the impressive ceremonies. Dorothy held Eureka in her arms and bade her friends a fond good-bye. "You must come again, some time," said the little Wizard; and she promised she would if she found it possible to do so. "But Uncle Henry and Aunt Em need me to help them," she added, "so I can't ever be very long away from the farm in Kansas." Ozma wore the Magic Belt; and, when she had kissed Dorothy farewell and had made her wish, the little girl and her kitten disappeared in a twinkling. "Where is she?" asked Zeb, rather bewildered by the suddenness of it. "Greeting her uncle and aunt in Kansas, by this time," returned Ozma, with a smile. Then Zeb brought out Jim, all harnessed to the buggy, and took his seat. "I'm much obliged for all your kindness," said the boy, "and very grateful to you for saving my life and sending me home again after all the good times I've had. I think this is the loveliest country in the world; but not being fairies Jim and I feel we ought to be where we belong--and that's at the ranch. Good-bye, everybody!" He gave a start and rubbed his eyes. Jim was trotting along the well-known road, shaking his ears and whisking his tail with a contented motion. Just ahead of them were the gates of Hugson's Ranch, and Uncle Hugson now came out and stood with uplifted arms and wide open mouth, staring in amazement. "Goodness gracious! It's Zeb--and Jim, too!" he exclaimed. "Where in the world have you been, my lad?" "Why, in the world, Uncle," answered Zeb, with a laugh. 
43826	----	Transcriber's note: Minor spelling inconsistencies, mainly hyphenated words, have been harmonized. Italic text has been marked with _underscores_. Obvious typos have been corrected. Please see the end of this book for further notes. THE STORY OF THE HILLS. [Illustration] [Illustration: NORHAM CASTLE. AFTER TURNER.] THE STORY OF THE HILLS. A BOOK ABOUT MOUNTAINS FOR GENERAL READERS. BY REV. H. N. HUTCHINSON, B.A., F.G.S. AUTHOR OF "THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE EARTH." With Sixteen Full-page Illustrations. They are as a great and noble architecture, first giving shelter, comfort, and rest; and covered also with mighty sculpture and painted legend.--RUSKIN. New York: MACMILLAN AND CO. AND LONDON. 1892. _Copyright, 1891_, BY MACMILLAN AND CO. University Press: JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. TO ALL WHO LOVE MOUNTAINS AND HILLS This little Book is Dedicated, IN THE HOPE THAT EVEN A SLIGHT KNOWLEDGE OF THEIR PLACE IN NATURE, AND PREVIOUS HISTORY, MAY ADD TO THE WONDER AND DELIGHT WITH WHICH WE LOOK UPON THESE NOBLE FEATURES OF THE SURFACE OF THE EARTH. PREFACE. Now that travelling is no longer a luxury for the rich, and thousands of people go every summer to spend their holidays among the mountains of Europe, and ladies climb Mont Blanc or ramble among the Carpathians, there must be many who would like to know something of the secret of the hills, their origin, their architecture, and the forces that made them what they are. For such this book is chiefly written. Those will best understand it who take it with them on their travels, and endeavour by its use to interpret what they see among the mountains; and they will find that a little observation goes a long way to help them to read mountain history. It is hoped, however, that all, both young and old, who take an intelligent interest in the world around, though they may never have seen a mountain, may find these pages worth reading. If readers do not find here answers to all their questions, they may be reminded that it is not possible within the present limits to give more than a brief sketch of the subject, leaving the gaps to be filled in by a study of the larger and more important works on geology. The author, assuming that the reader knows nothing of this fascinating science, has endeavoured to interpret into ordinary language the story of the hills as it is written in the rocks of which they are made. It can scarcely be denied that a little knowledge of natural objects greatly adds to our appreciation of them, besides affording a deep source of pleasure, in revealing the harmony, law, and order by which all things in this wonderful world are governed. Mountains, when once we begin to observe them, seem to become more than ever our companions,--to take us into their counsels, and to teach us many a lesson about the great part they play in the order of things. And surely our admiration of their beauty is not lessened, but rather increased, when we learn how much we and all living things owe to the life-giving streams that flow continually from them. The writer has, somewhat reluctantly, omitted certain parts of the subject which, though very interesting to the geologist, can hardly be made attractive to general readers. Thus, the cause of earth movements, by which mountains are pushed up far above the plains that lie at their feet, is at present a matter of speculation; and it is difficult to express in ordinary language the ideas that have been put forward on this subject. Again, the curious internal changes, which we find to have taken place in the rocks of which mountains are composed, are very interesting to those who know something of the minerals of which rocks are made up, and their chemical composition; but it was found impossible to render these matters sufficiently simple. So again with regard to the geological structure of mountain-chains. This had to be very briefly treated, in order to avoid introducing details which would be too complicated for a book of this kind. The author desires to acknowledge his obligations to the writings of Sir A. Geikie; Professor Bonney, Professor Green, and Professor Shaler, of Harvard University; the volumes of the "Alpine Journal;" "The Earth," by Reclus; the "Encyclopædia Britannica." Canon Isaac Taylor's "Words and Places," have also been made use of; and if in every case the reference is not given, the writer hopes the omission will be pardoned. A few passages from Mr. Ruskin's "Modern Painters" have been quoted, in the hope that others may be led to read that wonderful book, and to learn more about mountains and clouds, and many other things, at the feet of one of the greatest teachers of the century. Some of our engravings are taken from the justly celebrated photographs of the High Alps,[1] by the late Mr. W. Donkin, whose premature death among the Caucasus Mountains was deeply deplored by all. Those reproduced were kindly lent by his brother, Mr. A. E. Donkin, of Rugby. To Messrs. Valentine & Son of Dundee, Mr. Wilson of Aberdeen, and to Messrs. Frith we are indebted for permission to reproduce some of their admirable photographs; also to Messrs. James How & Sons of Farringdon Street, for three excellent photographs of rock-sections taken with the microscope. [1] Published by Messrs. Spooner, of the Strand. CONTENTS. Part I. THE MOUNTAINS AS THEY ARE. CHAPTER PAGE I. MOUNTAINS AND MEN 3 II. THE USES OF MOUNTAINS 33 III. SUNSHINE AND STORM ON THE MOUNTAINS 70 IV. MOUNTAIN PLANTS AND ANIMALS 103 Part II. CHAPTER PAGE HOW THE MOUNTAINS WERE MADE. V. HOW THE MATERIALS WERE BROUGHT TOGETHER 139 VI. HOW THE MOUNTAINS WERE UPHEAVED 174 VII. HOW THE MOUNTAINS WERE CARVED OUT 205 VIII. VOLCANIC MOUNTAINS 242 IX. MOUNTAIN ARCHITECTURE 282 X. THE AGES OF MOUNTAINS AND OTHER QUESTIONS 318 ILLUSTRATIONS. NORHAM CASTLE. After Turner _Frontispiece_ BEN LOMOND. From a Photograph by J. Valentine 16 CLOUDS ON BEN NEVIS 38 SNOW ON THE HIGH ALPS. From a Photograph by Mr. Donkin 64 A STORM ON THE LAKE OF THUN. After Turner 86 THE MATTERHORN. From a Photograph by Mr. Donkin 98 ON A GLACIER. 116 RED DEER. After Ansdell 133 CHALK ROCKS, FLAMBOROUGH HEAD. From a Photograph by G. W. Wilson 152 MICROPHOTOGRAPHS ILLUSTRATING ROCK FORMATION 172 THE SKAEGGEDALSFORS, NORWAY. From a Photograph by J. Valentine 192 THE MER DE GLACE AND MONT BUET. From a Photograph by Mr. Donkin 229 THE ERUPTION OF VESUVIUS IN 1872. From an Instantaneous Photograph 250 COLUMNAR BASALT AT CLAMSHELL CAVE, STAFFA. From a Photograph by J. Valentine 280 MONT BLANC, SNOWFIELDS, GLACIERS, AND STREAMS. 312 MOUNTAIN IN THE YOSEMITE VALLEY. 336 ILLUSTRATIONS II. Fig. 1. SECTION ACROSS THE WEALD OF KENT AND SURREY. 237 Fig. 2. THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND ON A TRUE SCALE (after Geikie.) 237 Fig. 1. THE RANGES OF THE GREAT BASIN, WESTERN STATES OF NORTH AMERICA, SHOWING A SERIES OF GREAT FRACTURES AND TILTED MASSES OF ROCK. 272 Fig. 2. SECTION THROUGH SNOWDON. 272 SECTIONS OF MOUNTAIN-RANGES, SHOWING THEIR STRUCTURE AND THE AMOUNT OF ROCK WORN AWAY 306 PART I. THE MOUNTAINS AS THEY ARE. THE STORY OF THE HILLS. Part I. THE MOUNTAINS AS THEY ARE. CHAPTER I. MOUNTAINS AND MEN. "Happy, I said, whose home is here; Fair fortunes to the Mountaineer." In old times people looked with awe upon the mountains, and regarded them with feelings akin to horror or dread. A very slight acquaintance with the classical writers of antiquity will suffice to convince any one that Greeks and Romans did so regard them. They were not so familiar with mountains as we are; for there were no roads through them, as now through the Alps, or the Highlands of Scotland,--to say nothing of the all-pervading railway. It would, however, be a great mistake to suppose that the ancients did not observe and enjoy the beauties of Nature. The fair and fertile plain, the vine-clad slopes of the lower hill-ranges, and the "many-twinkling smile of ocean" were seen and loved by all who had a mind to appreciate the beautiful. The poems of Homer and Virgil would alone be sufficient to prove this. But the higher ranges, untrodden by the foot of man, were gazed at, not with admiration, but with religious awe; for men looked upon mountains as the abode of the gods. They dwelt in the rich plain, which they cultivated, and beside the sweet waters of some river; for food and drink are the first necessities of life. But they left the high hills alone, and in fancy peopled them with the "Immortals" who ruled their destiny,--controlling also the winds and the lightning, the rain and the clouds, which seem to have their home among the mountains. A childlike fear of the unknown, coupled with religious awe, made them avoid the lofty and barren hills, from which little was to be got but wild honey and a scanty supply of game. There were also dangers to be encountered from the fury of the storm and the avalanche; but the safer ground of the plains below would reward their toil with an ample supply of corn and other necessaries of life. In classical times, and also in the Middle Ages, the mountains, as well as glens and rivers, were supposed to be peopled with fairies, nymphs, elves, and all sorts of strange beings; and even now travellers among the mountains of Switzerland, Norway, Wales, or Scotland find that it is not long since the simple folk of these regions believed in the existence of such beings, and attributed to their agency many things which they could not otherwise explain. Of all the nations of antiquity the Jews seem to have shown the greatest appreciation of mountain scenery; and in no ancient writings do we find so many or so eloquent allusions to the hills as in the Old Testament. But here again one cannot fail to trace the same feelings of religious awe. The Law was given to their forefathers in the desert amidst the thunders of Sinai. To them the earth was literally Jehovah's footstool, and the clouds were His tabernacle. "If He do but touch the hills, they shall smoke." But this awe was not unmixed with other and more comforting thoughts. They felt that those cloud-capped towers were symbols of strength and the abode of Him who would help them in their need. For so we find the psalmists regarding them; and with our very different conceptions of the earth's natural features, we can but dimly perceive and realise the full force and meaning of the words, "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help." To take another example from antiquity, we find that the Himalayas and the source of the Ganges have from very early times been considered as holy by the people of India. Thousands of pilgrims from all parts of that vast country still continue to seek salvation in the holy waters of the Ganges, and at its sacred sources in the snowy Himalayas. And to those who know India the wondrous snowclad peaks of the Himalayas still seem to be surrounded with somewhat of the same halo of glory as of old. Mountains are intimately associated with the history of nations, and have contributed much to the moulding of the human mind and the character of those who dwell among them; they have alike inspired the mind of the artist, the poet, the reformer, and the visionary seeking repose for his soul, that, dwelling far from the strife and turmoil of the world, he may contemplate alone the glory of the Eternal Being. They have been the refuge of the afflicted and the persecuted; they have braced the minds and bodies of heroes who have dwelt for a time among them before descending once more to the plain that they might play some noble part in the progress of the world. Moses, while leading the flock of his father-in-law to the back of the wilderness, came to Mount Horeb and received the divine summons to return to Egypt and lead Israel out of bondage. David, with his six hundred followers, fleeing from the face of Saul, found a refuge in the hill country; and the life of peril and adventure which he led during these years of persecution was a part of his training for the great future task of ruling Israel, which he performed so well. Elijah summoned the false prophets of Baal and Asherah to Mount Carmel and slew them at the brook Kishon; and a little later we find him at Mount Horeb listening, not to the wind or to the earthquake or to the fire, but to the "still small voice" telling him to return and anoint Jehu to be king. Or, to take another example from a later age, we find that Mahomet's favourite resort was a cave at the foot of Mount Hira, north of Mecca; here in dark and wild surroundings his mind was wrought up to rhapsodic enthusiasm. And many, like these leaders of men, have received in mountain retreats a firmness and tenacity of purpose giving them the right to be leaders, and the power to redress human wrongs; or, it may be, a temper of mind and spirit enabling them to soar into regions of thought and contemplation untrodden by the careless and more luxurious multitudes who dwell on the plains below. Perhaps Mr. Lewis Morris was unconsciously offering his testimony to the influence of mountains when he wrote those words which he puts into the mouth of poor Marsyas,-- "More it is than ease, Palace and pomp, honours and luxuries, To have seen white presences upon the hills, To have heard the voices of the eternal gods."[2] [2] Epic of Hades. The thunder and lightning, storm and cloud, as well as the soft beauty of colour, and the harmony of mountain outline, have been a part, and a very important part, of their training. The exhilarating air, the struggle with the elements in their fierceness, the rugged strength of granite, seem to have possessed the very souls of such men, and made them like "the strong ones,"--the immortal beings to whom in all previous ages the races of mankind have assigned their abode in the hills, as the Greek gods were supposed to dwell on Mount Olympus. On these heights such men seem to have gained something of the strength of Him who dwells in the heavens far above their highest peaks,--"the strength of the hills," which, as the Hebrew poet says, "is His also." We have spoken of the attitude of the human mind towards mountains in the past; let us now consider the light in which they are regarded at the present time by all thoughtful and cultivated people. And it does not require a moment's consideration to perceive that a very great change has taken place. Instead of regarding them with horror or aversion, we look upon them with wonder and delight; we watch them hour by hour whenever for a brief season of holiday we take up our abode near or among them. We come back to them year by year to breathe once more the pure air which so frequently restores the invalid to health and brings back the colour to faded cheeks. We love to watch the ever-varying lights and shades upon them, as the day goes by. But it is towards evening that the most enchanting scenes are to be witnessed, when the sinking sun sheds its golden rays upon their slopes, or tinges their summits with floods of crimson light; and then presently, after the sun has gone down, pale mists begin to rise, and the hills seem more majestic than ever. Later on, as the full moon appears from behind a bank of cloud, those wonderful moonlight effects may be seen which must be familiar to all who know the mountains as they are in summer or autumn,--scenes such as the writer has frequently witnessed in the Highlands of Scotland, but which only the poet can adequately describe. There are few sights in Nature which more powerfully impress the mind than a sunset among the mountains. General Sir Richard Strachey concludes his description of the Himalayas with the following striking passage: "Here may the eye, as it sweeps along the horizon, embrace a line of snowclad mountains such as exist in no other part of the world, stretching over one third of the entire circle, at a distance of forty or fifty miles, their peaks towering over a sea of intervening ranges piled one behind another, whose extent on either hand is lost in the remote distance, and of which the nearest rises from a gulf far down beneath the spectator's feet, where may be seen the silver line that marks a river's course, or crimson fields of amaranth and the dwellings of man. Sole representative of animal life, some great eagle floats high overhead in the pure dark-blue sky, or, unused to man, fearlessly sweeps down within a few yards to gaze at the stranger who intrudes among these solitudes of Nature. As the sun sinks, the cold grey shadow of the summit where we stand is thrown forward, slowly stealing over the distant hills, and veiling their glowing purples as it goes, carries the night up to the feet of the great snowy peaks, which still rise radiant in the rosy light above the now darkening world. From east to west in succession the splendour fades away from one point after another, and the vast shadow of the earth is rapidly drawn across the whole vault of heaven. One more departing day is added to the countless series which has silently witnessed the deathlike change that passes over the eternal snows, as they are left raising their cold pale fronts against the now leaden sky; till slowly with the deepening night the world of mountains rises again, as it were, to a new life, under the changed light of the thousand stars which stud the firmament and shine with a brilliancy unknown except in the clear rarefied air of these sublime heights." Year by year a larger number of busy workers from our great towns, availing themselves of the increased facilities for travel, come to the mountains to spend their summer holidays,--some to the Swiss Alps, others to Wales, Cumberland, Norway, or the Highlands of Scotland. There are few untrodden valleys in these regions, few of the more important mountains which have not been climbed. Our knowledge of mountains, thanks to the labours of a zealous army of workers, is now considerable. The professors of physical science have been busy making important observations on the condition of the atmosphere in the higher regions; geographers have noted their heights and mapped their leading contours. Geologists have done a vast amount of work in ascertaining the composition and arrangement of the rocks of which mountain chains are composed, in observing their peculiar structures, in recording the changes which are continually effecting their waste and decay, and thus interpreting the story of the hills as it is written in the very rocks of which they are built up. Naturalists have collected and noted the peculiar plants and animals which have their home among the hills, and so the forms of life, both animal and vegetable, which inhabit the mountains of Europe, and some other countries, are now fairly well known. The historian, the antiquary, and the student of languages have made interesting discoveries with regard to the mountain races of mankind. And only to mention this country, such writers as Scott, Wordsworth, and Ruskin have given us in verse and prose descriptions of mountain scenery which will take a permanent place in literature; while Turner, our great landscape-painter, has expressed the glories of mountain scenery in pictures which speak more eloquently than many words. Thus we see that whatever line of inquiry be chosen, our subject is full of varied interest. With regard to the characteristics of mountain races, it is not easy to say to what extent people in different parts of the world who live among mountains share the same virtues or the same failings; but the most obvious traits in the character of the mountaineer seem to be the result of his natural surroundings. Thus we find mountaineers generally endowed with hardihood, strength, and bravery. To spend one's days on the hillsides for a large part of the year, as shepherds and others do in Scotland or Wales, and to walk some miles every day in pure bracing air, must be healthy and tend to develop the muscles of the body; and so we find the highlanders of all countries are usually muscular, strong, and capable of endurance. And there can be little doubt that mountain races are kept up to a high standard of strength and endurance by a rigorous and constant weeding out of the weakly ones, especially among children. And if only the stronger live to grow up and become parents, the chances are that their children will be strong too. Thus Nature exercises a kind of "selection;" and we have consequently "the survival of the fittest." This "selection," together with the healthy lives they lead, is probably sufficient to account for their strength and hardiness. As might be expected, mountaineers are celebrated for their fighting qualities. The fierce Afghans who have often faced a British army, and sometimes victoriously; the brave Swiss peasantry, who have more than once fought nobly for freedom; the Highlanders, who have contributed so largely to the success of British arms in nearly all parts of the world, and whose forefathers defied even the all-conquering Roman in their mountain strongholds,--these and many others all show the same valour and power of endurance. Etymologists, whose learned researches into the meaning of words have thrown so much light on the ages before history was written, tell us that the Picts were so called from their fighting qualities, and that the word "Pict" is derived from the Gaelic "peicta," a fighting man. And Julius Cæsar says the chief god of the Britons was the god of war. In some countries--as, for instance, Greece, Italy, and Spain--the mountains are infested with banditti and robbers, who often become a terror to the neighbourhood. In more peaceful and orderly countries, however, we find among mountaineers many noble qualities,--such as patience, honesty, simplicity of life, thrift, a dignified self-reliance, together with true courtesy and hospitality. This is high praise; but who that knows mountain peasants would say it is undeserved? How many a tired traveller among the hills of Scotland or Wales has had reason to be grateful for welcome, food, and rest in some little cottage in a far-away glen! How many friendships have thus been formed! How many a pleasant talk has beguiled the time during a storm or shower! The old feuds are forgotten now that the Saxon stranger and invader is at peace with the Celtic people whom his forefathers drove into the hills. The castles, once centres of oppression or scenes of violence, lie in peaceful and picturesque ruins, and add not a little to the interest of one's travels in the North. What true courtesy and consideration one meets with at the hands of these honest folk, among whom the old kindly usages have not died out! Often too poor to be afflicted with the greed and thirst for wealth, which frequently marks the man of the plain as compared with the man of the hills,--the Lowlander as compared with the Highlander,--they exhibit many of those simple virtues which one hardly expects to meet with among busy townspeople, all bent on making money, or as the phrase is, "getting on in life." [Illustration: BEN LOMOND. FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY J. VALENTINE.] "The mountain cheer, the frosty skies, Breed purer wits, inventive eyes; And then the moral of the place Hints summits of heroic grace. Men in these crags a fastness find To fight corruption of the mind; The insanity of towns to stem With simpleness for stratagem." Mr. Skene, the Scotch historian, records a touching case of the devotion of Highlanders to their chief. He says,-- "There is perhaps no instance in which the attachment of the clan to their chief was so strongly manifested as in the case of the Macphersons of Cluny after the disaster of 'the Forty-five.' The chief having been deeply engaged in that insurrection, his life became of course forfeited to the laws; but neither the hope of reward nor the fear of danger could induce any one of his people to betray him. For nine years he lived concealed in a cave a short distance from his own house; it was situated in the front of a woody precipice of which the trees and shelving rocks concealed the entrance. The cave had been dug by his own people, who worked at night and conveyed the stones and rubbish into a neighbouring lake, in order that no vestige of their labour might appear and lead to the discovery of the retreat. In this asylum he continued to live secure, receiving by night the occasional visits of his friends, and sometimes by day, when the soldiers had begun to slacken the vigour of their pursuit. Upwards of one thousand persons were privy to his concealment, and a reward of £1,000 was offered to any one who should give information against him.... But although the soldiers were animated by the hope of reward, and their officers by promise of promotion for the apprehension of this proscribed individual, yet so true were his people, so inflexibly strict in their promise of secrecy, and so dextrous in conveying to him the necessaries he required in his long confinement, not a trace of him could be discovered, nor an individual base enough to give a hint to his detriment." The mountaineer is a true gentleman. However poor, however ignorant or superstitious, one perceives in him a refinement of manner which cannot fail to command admiration. His readiness to share his best with the stranger and to render any service in his power are pleasing traits in his character. But there is one sad feature about mountaineers of the present day which one frequently notices in districts where many tourists come,--especially English or American. They are, we regret to say, losing their independence, their simple, old-fashioned ways, and becoming servile and greedy,--at least in the towns and villages. Such changes seem, alas! inevitable when rich townspeople, bent on pleasure or sport, invade the recesses of the hills where poverty usually reigns. On the one hand, we have people, often with long purses, eager for enjoyment, waiting to be fed, housed, or otherwise entertained; on the other hand, poor people, anxious to "make hay while the sun shines" and to extract as much money as possible from "the visitors," who often allow themselves to be unmercifully fleeced. Then there are in the Highlands the sportsmen, who require a large following of "gillies" to attend them in their wanderings, pay them highly for their services, and dismiss them at the end of the season; and so the men are in many cases left without employment all the winter and spring. Is it, then, surprising that they give way to a natural tendency to idleness, and fall into other bad habits? Any visitor who spends a winter, or part of one, in the Highlands will be better able to realise the extent of this evil, which is by no means small; and one cannot help regretting that the sportsmen's pleasure and the tourist's holiday should involve results of such grave consequence. We are inclined to think that in these days sport is overdone, and wish it could be followed without taking the hillman away from the work he would otherwise find, and which would render him a more useful member of society. With the agitation going on in some parts against deer-forests we do not feel much sympathy, because they are based on the erroneous idea that "crofters" could make a living out of the land thus enclosed; whereas those who know the land and its value for agricultural purposes tell us that with the exception of a few small patches here and there, hardly worth mentioning, it could not possibly be made to produce enough to maintain crofters and their families. Nevertheless, another way of looking at the matter is this: that the man who merely ministers to the pleasure of others richer than himself loses some of the self-respect and independence which he would acquire by working in his own way for a living. The same changes for the worse are still more manifest in Switzerland; and even in some parts of Norway the people are being similarly spoiled. Mr. Ruskin, speaking of the former country, says: "I believe that every franc now spent by travellers among the Alps tends more or less to the undermining of whatever special greatness there is in the Swiss character; and the persons I met in Switzerland whose position and modes of life render them best able to give me true information respecting the present state of their country, among many causes of national deterioration, spoke with chief fear of the influx of English wealth, gradually connecting all industry with the wants of strangers, and inviting all idleness to depend upon their casual help, thus resolving the ancient consistency and pastoral simplicity of the mountain life into the two irregular trades of the innkeeper and mendicant."[3] [3] Modern Painters, vol. iv. Mountain people have still their superstitions; since the introduction of railways many of the old legends and popular myths have died out, but even what is left is interesting to the student of folk-lore,--indeed, we might say, to every one. Sir A. Geikie, speaking of Scotch mountain scenery says,-- "To the influence of scenery of this kind on the mind of a people at once observant and imaginative, such legends as that of the Titans should in all likelihood be ascribed. It would be interesting to trace back these legends to their cradle, and to mark how much they owe to the character of the scenery amongst which they took their rise. Perhaps it would be found that the rugged outlines of the Boeotian hills had no small share in the framing of Hesiod's graphic story of that primeval warfare wherein the combatants fought with huge rocks, which, darkening the air as they flew, at last buried the discomfited Titans deep beneath the surface of the land. Nor would it be difficult to trace a close connection between the present scenery of our own country and some of the time-honoured traditionary stories of giants and hero kings, warlocks and witches, or between the doings of the Scandinavian Hrimthursar, or Frost Giants, and the more characteristic features of the landscapes and climate of the North."[4] [4] Scenery of Scotland. The following passage from Ruskin brings out more strongly the effects of mountains on men,--a subject to which he has given much attention:-- "We shall find, on the one hand, the mountains of Greece and Italy, forming all the loveliest dreams, first of Pagan, then of Christian mythology, on the other, those of Scandinavia, to be the first sources of whatever mental (as well as military) power was brought by the Normans into Southern Europe. Normandy itself is, to all intents and purposes, a hill country.... We have thus one branch of the Northern religious imagination rising among the Scandinavian fiords, tempered in France by various encounters with elements of Arabian, Italian, Provençal, or other Southern poetry, and then reacting upon Southern England; while other forms of the same rude religious imagination, resting like clouds upon the mountains of Scotland and Wales, met and mingled with the Norman Christianity, retaining even to the latest times some dark colour of superstition, but giving all its poetical and military pathos to Scottish poetry, and a peculiar sternness and wildness of tone to the Reformed faith, in its manifestations among the Scottish hills."[5] [5] Modern Painters, vol. iv. The Alps, like most other mountainous countries, have their fair share of legends, some of which are very grotesque. We have selected the following, as related by Professor Bonney.[6] The wild huntsman's yell is still heard in many places by the shuddering peasants as his phantom train sweeps by the châlet. There is also the wild goat-herd, a wicked lad, who crucified an old he-goat and drove his flock to worship it; lightning consumed him; and now he wanders forever over the Alps, miserably wailing. [6] "The Alpine Regions of Switzerland" (Deighton, Bell, & Co.), a most interesting book, especially for travellers. When the glacier of Gétroz burst, the Archfiend himself was seen swimming down the Rhone, with a drawn sword in one hand and a golden ball in the other; when opposite to Martigny he halted, and at his bidding the waters rose and swept away part of the town. A vast multitude of imps was seen about the same time on a mountain in the Val de Bagnes by two mendicant friars from Sion, who, hearing of this unlawful assembly, had gone out as detectives to learn what mischief was hatching. Many places also have their spectral animals, the Valois, according to Tschudi, being the headquarters of these legends. There are also pygmies to be seen in the lonely mountains, like the Norwegian trolls, and brownies who make or mar the house, according as the goodwife is neat or a slattern. Many Alpine stories have reference to the sudden destruction of pastures by the fall of rocks or ice. Here is one from the Clariden Alps:-- Once upon a time these were fertile pastures, on which dwelt a "senn." He grew rich, so that none could match him in wealth; but at the same time he grew proud and haughty, and spurned both the laws of Nature and the commandments of God. He was so foolishly fond of his mistress that he paved the way from the châlet to the byre with cheeses, lest she should soil her feet, and cared so little for his mother that when she lay at his door fainting with hunger, he offered her only milk to drink in which he had thrown the foulest refuse. Righteously indignant, she turned away, calling upon Heaven to punish such an insult. Before she reached her home, the rocks and ice had descended, crushing beneath them her wicked son, his mistress, and possessions. In the neighbourhood of Monte Rosa there is a tradition that a valley exists in the heart of that mountain the entrance to which has been sealed up by impassable glaciers, though the floor of the "cirque" within is still a rich pasturage. In a certain valley they point out a spring which bursts from the ground, as the outlet of the torrent by which it is watered. Once, said they, a _chasseur_ found the bed of this stream dry, and creeping up its subterranean channel, arrived on the floor of the valley. It was a huntsman's paradise; chamois were there in plenty, bears also, and even bouquetins, wandering over the richest pastures. He retraced his steps to announce the good news; but when he returned again, the waters had resumed their course, and the place has ever since remained inaccessible. Mountains play a very important part in human history. In the first place, they are natural barriers separating the nations of the world from one another, and tending to keep them confined within certain definite bounds; we say, tending to keep them thus confined, because, as every one knows, these barriers have again and again been surmounted by conquering armies. The rugged Alps could not ward off Hannibal, who made his way through them to march upon the capital of the Roman empire. In like manner Napoleon defied this great natural rampart, made a road through it, and came to Italy. No mountains would seem to be quite impassable; but although liable in the course of ages to be occasionally overrun, they afford good protection and produce a feeling of security. The Himalayas separate our great Indian empire from that of China; and we do not at present apprehend an invasion from that quarter. The Suliman Mountains divide us from the Afghans, and the great Russian and Persian empires farther west. Still, we know that in the eleventh century a great Mahometan invasion of India took place; our own armies have more than once penetrated to Kabul. Perhaps the common garden wall separating adjacent suburban residences furnishes a suitable illustration of the great natural walls which divide, not households or families, but much larger families than these,--the nations of the world. Just as unruly boys sometimes climb over the neighbour's wall and play games in a garden which is not their own; or as burglars may surmount these obstacles to their progress, and finding a way into the house by a back door or kitchen window, commence their ravages,--so a neighbouring (but not neighbourly) nation, bent on conquest, may invade some natural garden of the world, such as India, by forcing their way through physical barriers which for ordinary purposes serve to protect those within. The Thian Shan Mountains divide Russia from China's sphere of influence. The Caucasus Mountains separate Russia from Asia Minor. Austro-Hungary is bounded by the Carpathians, Spain by the Pyrenees. The Alps of Switzerland separate four nations not very friendly to each other; and lastly, in our own country the Cheviot Hills, together with the Tweed, form the boundary between Scotland and England. Where there are no mountains or hills, rivers sometimes serve as boundaries, but of course they do not answer the purpose so well. Sometimes a nation actually builds a wall for a boundary. Of this the great wall of China and the Roman wall between the Cheviots and the Solway Firth are familiar examples. In the second place, mountains have always been a refuge and shelter for conquered races; and the primitive tribes who once lived in the plains have been forced by adverse circumstances to take to the hills. This has taken place over and over again. We know that the Celtic people now living in Brittany, Devonshire, Cornwall, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland, though now considerably mixed, are the descendants of the old Celtic inhabitants of France and Britain. But there is a great deal of unwritten history for which we may look in vain to the ordinary sources of information, such as books, and which is only to be read in quite different records,--in antiquities buried up in peat-beds, in bogs, in ruins and ancient forts, or camps; and last but not least, in the names of places, rivers, or mountains. The hills, the valleys, the rivers, are the only writing-tablets on which unlettered nations have been able to inscribe their annals. For this kind of history we must go to the antiquary, and, above all, to the philologist, who tells us the meaning of the names of places, and who the people were who gave the names that we see on our maps. The great advances which have of late years been made in our knowledge of the primeval races of men, or at least of nations but little known in the annals of history, are largely due to the interpretation of the obscure records preserved in local names. The Celtic, the Iberian, the Teutonic, the Scandinavian, and Sclavonic races have thus for the most part made known to us their migrations, conquests, and defeats. And so by studying the names of places, rivers, and hills, as well as by careful collection of works of art, implements, coins, such as may be seen in many a museum, it has been possible to read a great deal of early history which would otherwise have been lost. Those who have studied these matters say they can trace wave after wave of population which has thus left its mark,--Gaelic, Cymric (or Welsh), Saxon, Anglian, Norwegian, Danish, Norman, and Flemish. Thus it can be proved from the names on the map that almost the whole of England was once Celtic, whereas now the Celts are almost entirely confined to the hills. The Peak of Derbyshire and the mountains of Cumberland retain a greater number of Celtic names than the districts surrounding them; and the hills of Devonshire long served as a barrier to protect the Celts of Cornwall from Anglo-Saxon conquerors. But even mountain races are often a good deal mixed, and in the Pyrenees we find the descendants of the Iberians, who, a very long time ago, were driven from the lowlands of France and Spain. These Iberians are a very interesting race, of short stature, with long heads, and dark hair and eyes. This old type is to be met with in Wales and the Highlands even in the present day. And so we learn--if these conclusions are sound--that even the Celts in their early days were invaders, and drove before them an older population. This race, it seems, lived in Europe a very long time ago, before the discovery of metals, when people made axes, hammers, and spear-heads out of flints or other stones; and so they are said to belong to "the Stone Age." Their remains are found in many of the caves which of late years have been explored. Possibly the ancient people of Switzerland who lived in wooden houses, erected on piles near the shores of lakes (probably for safety), were also of the same stock. It is curious to find how people living in separate valleys among the mountains of Switzerland have, in the course of time, become so much unlike their neighbours that they can hardly understand each other's speech, so effectually have the mountains kept them apart. In some districts almost every valley has its separate dialect. Switzerland is only twice the size of Wales, yet the local names are derived from half a dozen different languages, three or four of which are still spoken by the people. In the Alps, too, the same mixture of Celtic with an older Iberian stock has been detected. A curious reversal of the usual order of things is noticed by the late Dean Stanley in his "Sinai and Palestine." He points out that the Jews took possession of many of the hills of Palestine soon after the invasion under Joshua, but could not drive out the peoples of the plains, because they were better armed, and had chariots of iron in great number. The conquerors in this case kept to the hills; while the Canaanites, Philistines, and other inhabitants of the country retained for a long time their hold of the lower ground. CHAPTER II. THE USES OF MOUNTAINS. The valleys only feed; the mountains feed and guard and strengthen us.--RUSKIN. It is not an exaggeration to say that there are no physical features of the surface of the earth which render such a variety of services as mountains. The operations which they perform involve such far-reaching consequences that it is difficult to say where their effects cease. Indeed, it might almost be maintained that they are the mainspring of the world,--as far as its surface is concerned,--for it would fare ill with mankind if they were removed or in some way destroyed. Things would then very soon come to a standstill. The soil would become exhausted; streams would cease to flow; and the world would become a kind of stagnant pool. The three main services of the hills are these:-- I. Mountains help to condense water-vapour from the atmosphere, thus bringing back to the earth moisture which it loses continually by evaporation. II. Mountains are elevated reservoirs of water in one form or another, and thus not only feed the streams and rivers, but give them force and direction as well. III. Mountains suffer themselves to be slowly worn away in order that the face of the earth may be renewed; in other words, they die that we, and all created things, may live. I. _Mountains help to condense water-vapour from the atmosphere, thus bringing back to the earth the moisture which it loses continually by evaporation._ Every one knows that there is abundance of water-vapour in the atmosphere, but the question arises, How does it get there? The answer to this lies in the simple fact that every surface of water exposed to the air undergoes loss by evaporation. If you wish to satisfy yourself on this point, place a saucer of water in your room, and in a few days it will all be gone. We hang clothes out to dry, and so avail ourselves of this curious power that air has of taking up water in the form of vapour. Steam, or water-vapour, is really invisible, though we frequently talk of seeing the steam issuing from a locomotive; but what we really see is a cloud of condensed steam, and such clouds,[7] like those that we see floating in the air, are really masses of little tiny particles of water which can reflect or throw back the light which falls upon them, and thus they become visible. Again, a kettle of water, if left too long on the fire will entirely boil away. It is all turned into steam, and the steam is somehow hidden away in the air, though a little of it will be condensed into slight clouds by the colder air outside the kettle. [7] It has lately been proved that clouds can only form in air which contains dust, and that each little suspended particle of water contains a speck of dust or a tiny germ of some sort for its nucleus. But how can water stow itself away in the air without being seen or felt? An illustration may help to explain this. Suppose you scatter a spoonful of small shot over a carpet or a dark-coloured table-cloth; you would probably not be able to see them at a little distance. Now, gather them together in a heap, and you see them at once. The heap of shot in some ways resembles a drop of water, for in a drop of water the tiny particles (or molecules) of which it is composed are close together; but by heating water you cause them to fly asunder and scatter themselves in various directions. They are lost to sight, and moreover have no power of attracting each other or of acting in concert; each one then takes its own course, whereas in the drop of water they were in some wonderful way bound together by mutual attraction. They dance in groups; but the rude force of heat will scatter these little dancing groups, and break them up into that state which we call a state of vapour. The forces of heat and cohesion are directly at variance; and it is just a question of degree whether the one or the other gets the mastery in this "tug of war." The more you heat the water, the faster the little groups of molecules break up and disappear in the air. They must in some way go moving between the particles of air, and collisions keep taking place with inconceivable rapidity. And now another question arises; namely, how much water-vapour can the air take? That depends chiefly on its temperature. Air when heated will take up a great deal of steam; and the more you heat air, the more it can take up. When air at a given temperature can take up no more, it is said to be saturated for that temperature; but if the temperature be raised, it will immediately begin to take up more. For each degree of temperature there is a certain amount of water-vapour which can be absorbed, and no more. But suppose we take some air which is already saturated and lower its temperature by giving it a sudden chill, what will happen? It will immediately give up part of its steam, or water-vapour; namely, the exact amount which it is unable to contain at the lower temperature.[8] [8] Pressure also has an important influence, but was omitted above for the sake of simplicity. There are various ways in which you can test this matter for yourself. For instance, take a hand-glass, and breathe on it. You know what will happen: a film of moisture forms upon it; and you know the reason why. It is simply that the cold glass gives a chill to one's breath (which being warm is highly charged with water-vapour from the lungs), and so some of the vapour is at once condensed. Now, this serves very well to explain how mountains catch water-vapour, and condense it. They are, as it were, a cold looking-glass; and the hot breath of the plains, as it strikes their sides, receiving a sudden chill, throws down part of the vapour it contains. On the higher parts of mountain-ranges the cold is so great that the water assumes the form of snow. Mountains, as every one knows, are colder than the plains below. No one cares to stay very long on a mountain-top, for fear of catching cold. It may be worth while to consider why they are cold. Perhaps you answer, "Because they are so high." That is true, but not a complete answer to our question. We must look at the matter a little more closely. The earth is a warm body surrounded by space in which the cold is inconceivably intense; but just as we protect our bodies against cold with garments, so the earth is wrapped up in an atmosphere which serves more or less to keep in the heat. All warm bodies give out heat as luminous bodies give out light; but the rays of heat, unlike those of light, are quite invisible to our eyes, so that we are unaware of them. These "dark heat-rays," as they are called, do not make any impression on the retina, because our eyes are not capable of responding to them as they do to the ordinary rays of light. But there is a delicate little instrument known as the thermopile, which responds to, and so detects these invisible rays; and if our eyes were sensitive to such vibrations as these, we should see heat-rays (which like light and sound are due to vibrations) streaming from every object, just as light does from a candle-flame. Those parts of the earth which are least covered or protected by the atmosphere lose heat most rapidly,--in the same way that on a frosty day one's fingers become cold unless covered up. Now, there is less air over mountains; and in those higher regions above the peaks what air there is, is more rarefied, and therefore less capable of stopping the heat-rays coming from the earth. Professor Tyndall has shown that water-vapour in the air has a great power of stopping dark heat-rays; and the lower regions, which contain more vapour, stop or absorb a good deal of heat which would otherwise escape into space. Look at a map of any continent, and you will see the rivers streaming away from the mountains. All those vast quantities of water come from the atmosphere; and mountains do a large share of the work of condensing it from the state of vapour to that of water. Take the map of India, and look at the great range of the Himalayas. At their feet is the hot valley of the Ganges, which meets that of the Brahmapootra River. An immense amount of evaporation takes place from these mighty rivers, so that the air above them becomes laden with water-vapour. Farther south is the tropical Indian Ocean, from which the direct rays of the sun draw up still vaster quantities of water. And so when south winds blow over India, they are full of water-vapour; and presently they strike the flanks of the Himalayas, and at once they are chilled, and consequently part with a large amount of the vapour which they contained. This is best illustrated by the case of the southwest monsoon wind of the summer season, which sets in during the month of April, and continues to blow steadily towards the northeast till October. After leaving the Bay of Bengal, this warm wind, laden with vapour, meets ere long with the range known as the Khasi Hills, and consequently throws down a large part of its vapour in the form of rain. The rainfall here in the summer season reaches the prodigious total of five hundred inches, or about twenty times as much as falls in London during a whole year. After passing over these hills, the monsoon wind presently reaches the Himalayas; and another downpour then takes place, until by the time it reaches the wide plains of Thibet, so much water has been given up that it becomes a very dry wind instead of a moist one. It must not be supposed, however, that the condensation effected by mountains is entirely due to this coldness. They have another simple and effective way of compelling the winds to give up rain: their sloping sides force the winds which strike them to ascend into higher regions,--wedging them up as waves run up a sloping stony bank on the seashore,--and when the winds reach higher regions of the atmosphere they must (as explained above) suffer loss of heat, or in other words, have their temperature lowered. They also expand considerably as they rise into regions where the atmospheric pressure is less; and as every gas or vapour loses heat in the act of expansion, they undergo a further cooling from this cause also. We have now learned that the cooling process is brought about in three different ways: (1) By contact with the cold body of the mountains; (2) By giving out heat into space; (3) By expansion of the air as it reaches into the higher regions of the atmosphere. The "cloud-caps" on certain mountains and promontories are to be explained by all these causes combined. The west coast of Great Britain illustrates the same thing on a smaller scale. There the warm waters of the Gulf Stream, travelling in a northeasterly direction straight away from the Gulf of Mexico, strike the west coast of Ireland, England, and Scotland; and as most people are aware, the mild climate of Great Britain is chiefly due to this fact. If you contrast for a moment the east and west coasts of Britain, you will see that the latter is much more rocky and mountainous than the east coast. Mountains run down nearly all our western coasts. Now, it is this elevated and rocky side of Britain which catches most of the rain. Very instructive it is to compare the annual rainfall in different parts of Britain. On Dartmoor about 86 inches of rain fall every year, while in London only about 24 inches fall annually; but then London has no range of mountains near, and is far away from the west coast. Again, while people in Ambleside have to put up with 78 inches of rain, in Norfolk they are content with the modest allowance of 24 inches or so. At a place called Quoich on the west coast of Scotland, about 117 inches fall every year. These differences are chiefly due to the different contour of the land down the west side of Britain, which is mountainous, while the east side is flat, and also to the fact that while easterly winds, which have come over the continent, are dry, our prevailing winds are from the west and southwest, and are consequently heavily laden with vapour from the Atlantic Ocean. These winds follow the direction of the Gulf Stream, driving it along before them; and in so doing they take up large quantities of vapour from its surface. When these warm winds touch our western coasts, they receive a chill, and consequently are no longer able to contain all the vapour which they bring with them, and so down comes the rain. II. _Mountains are elevated reservoirs of water in one form or another, and thus not only feed the streams and rivers, but give them force and direction as well._ It is very important that the mountains should not allow the waters they collect to run away too fast. Try to think for a moment what would happen if instead of being, as it were, locked up in the form of snowfields and glaciers, the water were all in the liquid form. It would soon run away, and for months together the great river-valleys would be dry and desolate. When the rain came, there would be tremendous floods; dire destruction would be wrought in the valleys; and very soon the great rivers would dwindle down to nothing. Vegetation too would suffer seriously for want of water during the summer months; and the valleys generally would cease to be the fertile sources of life which they are at present. The earth would become for the most part like a stagnant marsh. But in the higher mountain regions there is a beneficent process going on which averts such an evil. The precious supplies of water are stored up in the solid forms of snow and ice. Now, we all know that snow and ice take a long time to melt; and thus Nature regulates and like a prudent housewife economises her precious stores. The rivers which she feeds continually, from silent snowfields and glaciers among her mountain-peaks, are the very arteries and veins of the earth; and as the blood in our bodies is forced to circulate by pressure from the heart, so the rivers are compelled to flow by pressure from the great heart of the hills,--slow, steady, continuous pressure, not the quick pulses which the human heart sends through the body. And again, as the blood, after circulating through the body in an infinite number of life-giving streams, returns to the heart once more on its journey, so the thousand streams which wander over the plains find their way back to the heart of the mountains, for the water is brought there in the form of vapour and clouds by the winds. When we build water-towers, and make reservoirs on high ground to give pressure to the water in our pipes, and make it circulate everywhere,--even to the tops of our houses,--we are only taking a hint from Nature. The mountains are her water-towers, and from these strong reservoirs, which never burst, she commands her streams, forcing them along their courses in order that they may find their way to the utmost bounds of continents. But there is another way in which mountains regulate the supply of water, and prevent it from running away too fast,--one not so effective as the freezing process, but still very useful, because it applies to the lower hills below the line of perpetual snow. This may be well illustrated by the state of some of the Scotch hills in the middle of summer or autumn, when there is little if any snow resting upon them. Any one familiar with these hills will have noticed how full of water their sides are. Tiny threads of streams trickle slowly along everywhere; peat-beds are saturated with dark-brown water; even the grass and soil are generally more or less wet, especially under pine forests. One can generally get a cup of water somewhere, except after a long dry summer, which is exceptional. Then there is the dew forming every night. Forests with their undergrowth of soil--moss and fern--also help very considerably to check the flow of water. We have often asked ourselves when watching some swift-flowing river, "Where does all this water come from? Why does it not dry up in hot weather?" The answer came fully after we had climbed several mountains, and seen with our eyes the peat-beds among the hills, and heard the trickling of the tiny rivulets hurrying along to feed some neighbouring burn, or perhaps to run into some mountain tarn or loch, and noticed the damp, spongy state of the soil everywhere,--not to mention the little springs which here and there well up to the surface, and so contribute their share. The rivers and streams of Scotland assume various tints of amber and dark-brown, according to the amount of rain which has recently fallen. These colours are due to organic matter from the peat. Compare Scott's description of the Greta:-- "In yellow light her currents shone, Matching in hue the favourite gem Of Albion's mountain diadem." The waters of some Scotch rivers after heavy rain look as black as pitch. Nor must we omit the lakes which abound in most mountain regions, and serve as natural reservoirs for the rivers, besides giving a wonderful charm to mountain scenery. The largest lakes in mountainous regions are found on the courses of the rivers; and there is good reason to believe that they were formed, not by any process of subsidence, but by the same operations that carved out the valleys. In many cases they are due to the damming up of a stream. But in some countries the streams dry up during summer,--in Palestine or Sinai, where there is but little soil on the hills, and consequently hardly any vegetation. Such barren hills cannot hold the continual supplies which pour gently forth from the mountains of higher latitudes. The Alps feed four of the principal rivers of Europe. We cannot do better than quote Professor Bonney, whose writings on the Alps are familiar to all geologists. In his "Alpine Regions of Switzerland" the following passage occurs:-- "This mass of mountains, the great highlands of Europe, is therefore of the utmost physical and geographical importance. Rising in places to a height of more than fifteen thousand feet above the sea, and covered for an extent of many thousand square miles with perpetual snow, it is the chief feeder of four of the principal rivers in Europe,--the Po, the Rhone, the Rhine, and the Danube. But for those barren fields of ice, high up among the silent crags, the seeming home of winter and death, these great arteries of life would every summer dwindle down to paltry streams, feebly wandering over stone-strewn beds. Stand, for example, on some mountain-spur, and look down on the Lombardy plain, all one rich carpet of wheat and maize, of rice and vine; the life of those myriad threads of green and gold is fed from these icy peaks, which stand out against the northern sky in such strange and solemn contrast. As it is with the Po, so it is with the Rhine and the Rhone, both of which issue from the Alps as broad, swelling streams; so, too, with the Danube, which, although it does not rise in them, yet receives from the Inn and the Drave almost all the drainage of the eastern districts." A very little reflection will serve to convince any one how vastly important and beneficial is the slope of the mountains, and how it gives force and direction to streams and rivers. Without this force, due to universal gravitation, by which the waters seek continually lower levels, the supplies in the hills would be useless. Mere lakes on flat surfaces would not answer the purpose; and so the sources of water are elevated in order that it may pour over the world below. No writer has given such fascinating descriptions of mountains as Mr. Ruskin; and no one has more eloquently described the functions they perform. In the fourth volume of his "Modern Painters," which every one who cares for mountains should read, we find the following beautiful passage:-- "Every fountain and river, from the inch-deep streamlet that crosses the village lane in trembling clearness, to the massy and silent march of the everlasting multitude of waters in Amazon or Ganges, owe their play and purity and power to the ordained elevations of the earth. Gentle or steep, extended or abrupt, some determined slope of the earth's surface is of course necessary before any wave can so much as overtake one sedge in its pilgrimage; and how seldom do we enough consider, as we walk beside the margins of our pleasant brooks, how beautiful and wonderful is that ordinance, of which every blade of grass that waves in their clear waters is a perpetual sign,--that the dew and rain fallen on the face of the earth shall find no resting-place; shall find, on the contrary, fixed channels traced for them from the ravines of the central crests down which they roar in sudden ranks of foam to the dark hollows beneath the banks of lowland pasture, round which they must circle slowly among the stems and beneath the leaves of the lilies; paths prepared for them by which, at some appointed rate of journey, they must evermore descend, sometimes slow, and sometimes swift, but never pausing; the daily portion of the earth they have to glide over marked for them at each successive sunrise; the place which has known them knowing them no more; and the gateways of guarding mountains opened for them in cleft and chasm, none letting them in their pilgrimage, and from afar off the great heart of the sea calling them to itself: 'Deep calleth unto deep.'" Geologists, however, do not in these days teach that the present paths of rivers were made for them, but rather that the rivers have carved out their own valleys for themselves. The old teaching before the days of Lyell and Hutton, the founders of modern geology, was that valleys were rents in the rocks of the earth's crust formed by some wonderful convulsion of Nature, whereby they were cracked, torn asunder, and upheaved. But a careful study of rivers and their valleys for many years has shown that there is no evidence of such sudden convulsions. The world is very old indeed, and rivers have been flowing much as we see them for ages and ages. A few thousand years is to the geologist but a short space of time; and there can be no doubt that a stream can in the course of time carve out for itself a valley. The operations of Nature seem slow to us because our lives are so short, and we can see so little change even in a generation; but the effects of these changes mount up enormously when continued through a long space of time. Nature works slowly; but then she has unlimited time, and never seems in a hurry. It is like the old story of the hare and the tortoise; and the river, working on steadily and quietly for hundreds or thousands of years, accomplishes far more in the end than sudden floods or violent catastrophes of any sort. III. _Mountains suffer themselves to be slowly worn away in order that the face of the earth may be renewed; in other words, they die that we, and all created things, may live._ The reader will find a full account of the methods by which these results are accomplished in chapters v. and vii., and therefore we must not anticipate this part of the subject. Let it suffice for the present to say that this destruction of the hills is brought about by the action of heat and cold, of rain and frost, of snow and ice, and the thousand streams that flow down the mountain-sides. It is with soils that we are chiefly concerned at present. Try to think for a moment of the literally _vital_ consequences which follow from the presence of good rich soils over different parts of the earth, and ask whether it would be possible for civilised races of men to flourish and multiply as they do if it were not for the great fertile valleys and plains of the world. Mountain races are neither rich nor powerful. Man exists mainly by cultivation of the soil; and among mountains we only find here and there patches that are worthy of the labour and expenditure of capital involved in cultivation. But in the great plains, in the principal river-valleys of the world, and among the lesser hill-ranges it is different. The _lowlands_ are the fertile regions. All great and powerful nations of the world are children of the plains. It was so in the past; it will be so in the future, unless men learn to feed on something else than corn, milk, and flesh, which is not very likely. The Egyptians, the earliest civilised race of which we have satisfactory records, dwelt in the fertile valley and delta of the Nile. They clearly perceived the value of this great river to themselves, and worshipped it accordingly. They knew nothing of its source in the far-away lakes of Central Africa; but they knew truly, as Herodotus tells us, that Egypt was "the gift of the Nile," for the alluvial soil of its delta has been formed by the yearly floods of that great river, as its waters, laden with a fine rich mud, spread over its banks, and for a time filled the valley with one sheet of water. The Assyrians and Babylonians had their home in the valley of the Euphrates and Tigris. The Chinese, too, have their great rivers. Russia is well watered by powerful rivers. The most populous parts of the United States of America are watered by the great Mississippi, and the other rivers which flow into it. England, Germany, and France are furnished with well-watered plains. Soils are the chief form of national wealth. Minerals, such as coal and iron, are of course extremely valuable, and help to make an industrious race rich; but the land is the main thing, after all, and by land we mean soil. The two words are almost synonymous. But since the soil is formed chiefly of débris brought from the mountains, it would be more true to say that these are the real sources of wealth. Soils contain besides a large amount of valuable organic matter (that is, decayed matter which has once had animal or vegetable life) different kinds of minerals, which are necessary to the support of plant life: potash, soda, carbonate of lime, silica, magnesia, iron, phosphorus, and manganese in their various compounds are all present in the rocks of which mountains are composed. We must again fall back upon "Modern Painters" for an effective description of the forming of soil by destruction of the hills:-- "The higher mountains suffer their summits to be broken into fragments and to be cast down in sheets of massy rock, full, as we shall presently see, of every substance necessary for the nourishment of plants; these fallen fragments are again broken by frost, and ground by torrents into various conditions of sand and clay,--materials which are distributed perpetually by the streams farther and farther from the mountain's base. Every shower that swells the rivulets enables their waters to carry certain portions of earth into new positions, and exposes new banks of ground to be moved in their turn.... The process is continued more gently, but not less effectively, over all the surface of the lower undulating country; and each filtering thread of summer rain which trickles through the short turf of the uplands is bearing its own appointed burden of earth down on some new natural garden in the dingles beneath." It may be laid down as a simple economic truth, that no nation can be powerful, rich, or prosperous, unless it possess in the first place a good soil. Other conditions, such as large navigable rivers, a good seaboard for harbouring ships, are also important; but unless the land will yield plenty of food, the population cannot be very great, for people must be fed. Foreign supplies of corn at a low price, meat and provisions of various kinds, supplement what is grown in England; but without a good soil we could not have become a powerful nation. A high state of civilisation is in a large measure to be traced to climate and soil. The sequence is somewhat as follows:-- Mountains collect rain. Rain fills the rivers. Rivers make rich alluvial plains. Agriculture follows; and food is produced. Abundant food maintains a large population. The population works to supply its various wants; such as roads, railways, ships, houses, machinery, etc. Then follows exchange with other countries. They send us what they can best produce, and we send them what we can best and most easily produce, and so both parties gain. Thus towns spring up. Education, refinement, learning, and the higher arts follow from the active life of towns, where more brain-work is required, and the standard of life is higher. And thus we may, in imagination, follow step by step the various stages by which the highest phases of civilisation are brought to pass, beginning at the mountains and ending with human beings of the highest type,--the philosopher, artist, poet, or statesman, not omitting the gentler sex, who are often said to rule the world. The following lines of Milton possess, in the light of these facts, a deeper meaning than the poet probably intended to convey:-- "Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures Whilst the landscape round it measures: Russet lawns and fallows grey, Where the nibbling flocks do stray; Mountains on whose barren breast The labouring clouds do often rest; Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks and rivers wide; Flowers and battlements it sees Bosomed high in tufted trees,-- Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighbouring eyes." With a little rearrangement of the lines, the sequence we have indicated above would be well illustrated. The mountains must come first; then the clouds, ready to bring forth their rain; then the brooks and rivers, then "russet lawns and fallows grey,"--with their "nibbling flocks." Then come the human elements in the scene,--the "towers and battlements," containing armed warriors, well fed, no doubt, and ready to do their master's bidding; lastly, the lady who adorns the home of her lord, and, let us hope, makes it worth fighting for. For commercial purposes, large navigable rivers are of great use. And in spite of the modern railway, rivers still exert an influence in determining the routes followed by trade. London, Liverpool, Glasgow, and other busy centres of life owe their importance to the rivers which flow through them, especially since they are tidal rivers. Heavily laden barges may be seen from London Bridge going up and down with the tide every day. Since the direction as well as the existence of large rivers is regulated by mountains, it is clear that mountains have a very direct influence on the trade of the world. _Mountains supply many of our wants._ Besides water and soil, how many useful things come from the hills! Their slopes, watered by the clouds, frequently support an abundant growth of pine forest; and thus we get wood for the shipwright and joiner. Again, mountains are composed of harder rocks than we find in the plains, and that is one reason why they stand out high above the rest of the world. Their substance has been hardened to withstand for a longer time the destruction to which all rocks are subjected. They have been greatly compressed and generally more or less hardened by subterranean heat. We bake clay and make it into hard bricks; so Nature has baked and otherwise hardened the once soft strata of which mountains are chiefly composed, converting them into slates, schist, gneiss, and other kinds of rock called "metamorphic" by geologists, because they have been altered or metamorphosed from their original condition (see chapter viii., page 277). Again, granite, basalt, and other rocks known as "igneous," which once existed in a molten condition, have forced their way up from subterranean regions into the rocks forming mountain-chains; and a good deal of the hardening just alluded to is due to the presence of these fiery intruders, which have baked and hardened the rocks around them to a considerable extent, altering at the same time their mineral composition. The same causes which led to the injection of granite, basalt, and other igneous rocks in mountain-ranges brought other consequences in their train. Whatever the causes, they were closely connected with volcanic eruptions, so that highly heated water and steam found their way through cracks and other fissures in the rocks; and in the course of time the chemical actions thus set up led to the deposition of valuable metallic ores within these fissures. In this way mineral veins were formed; and volcanic action seems to be largely responsible for the production of minerals. Thus we find around Vesuvius, and in fact in all volcanic regions, large and varied supplies of minerals. Now, the geologist discovers that many mountain-chains--such, for example, as the Grampians, Alps, and Carpathians--have in past geological periods been the seats of volcanic action on a grand scale; and so we need not be surprised to learn that mountainous countries yield large supplies of valuable gems and metallic ores (see chapter viii., page 277). Even in the days of Solomon, the active and business-like Phoenicians were carrying on trade with Great Britain; and the tin came from Cornwall. Besides tin, gold, silver, lead, copper, zinc, and other metals come from our hills. Now, however, we get our copper mostly from the Andes, and our gold from Australia or South Africa, because it can be got more cheaply from these countries, to which many of our Cornish miners have emigrated. Precious stones also come chiefly from the hills, for the same reason; for they were formed at the same time and by the same causes. Cairngorms, agates, chalcedony, jasper, onyx, topaz, diamonds, and many other gems are silent but certain witnesses to the action of subterranean heat, acting long ago on the rocks which we now see standing up high above the general surface of the ground, though once they were buried deep down below the surface. Diamonds as well as gold are often got from the beds of streams, but this is easily accounted for; the streams have washed them out and brought them down from the hills. The following words from the Book of Job (xxviii. 5) might well be applied to the hills. "As for the earth, out of it cometh bread: And underneath it is turned up as it were by fire. The stones thereof are the place of sapphires, And it hath dust of gold." We have thus explained the three principal services rendered by mountains, but some others remain to be mentioned. _Mountains have an important influence on climate._ The climate of highlands everywhere has certain peculiarities which distinguish it from that of adjacent lowlands. The air resting on mountains is less dense than that of the lowlands, and hence has fewer molecules to obstruct the entering sunbeams by day, or to stop the outward radiation at night. Therefore mountain air must be cooler; and so we find that on mountains the mean, or average, annual temperature is lower. This rarity of the air causes the ground to become hotter by day and colder by night than the ground of the plains; and so the extremes of temperature are greater. These extremes are injurious to vegetation in the higher regions, and the want of moisture still more so. But mountain-slopes _up to a certain height_ usually have a moist climate; that is, they have more clouds and rain than the surrounding lowlands. Below the region of snow there is generally a heavy growth of forest; and forests in their turn exercise an important influence, helping to collect moisture, and in various ways to prevent extremes either of heat or cold. The earth is divided into three well-marked zones or belts of climate: (1) The torrid zone within the tropics, where the sun is vertical twice a year, and days and nights are nearly equal; (2) The temperate zones, where the sun's rays come more obliquely, and so are less powerful, and where the length of day and night varies considerably; and (3) The frigid zones, round each of the poles, regions of intense cold, where for six months of the year the sun is never seen. Now, these broad divisions, so familiar to school children, are considerably interfered with by the height of various districts above the sea-level, or, as geographers say, by altitude. High ranges of mountains bring somewhat arctic conditions with them, even in low latitudes, where one would expect great heat. Thus the climate of the plains is very different from that of their neighbouring mountain-ranges, although their latitudes are practically the same. Travellers in Switzerland know how hot it can be in the Rhone Valley or in the plain of Lombardy, and how much cooler it is when you get up among the glaciers and the snowfields. Or to take an illustration from Great Britain: a hot summer would be somewhat trying in Edinburgh, Glasgow, or even Inverness, because they lie low, while among the Grampians, on Speyside, or Braemar, it would be very pleasant. Vegetation follows climate. The sultry plains of the Ganges show a luxuriant tropical vegetation, while on the middle slopes of the Himalayas the climate is temperate, like that of Europe, and consequently the vegetation resembles that of a temperate region; and the highest parts of this great range are like polar latitudes in their climate, and partly also in their vegetation. The arctic character of the climate of high mountain regions shows itself in the flora; for on the High Alps and the Highlands of Scotland and Norway, we find no small number of truly arctic plants whose home is much farther north. A very long time ago, when the climate of the whole of Northern Europe was extremely severe, and when great glaciers descended from the mountains into the plains, so that the aspect of the country was somewhat similar to that of Greenland at the present day, arctic plants and animals came down from their northern home, and flourished abundantly. This was during the _Great Ice Age_, which has left behind unmistakable evidences which the geologist can interpret as if they were written records. Then for some reason the climate became milder, the glaciers melted away, in Great Britain at least; but these arctic plants were left behind, and flourished still on the cool mountains, though they died out on the warm plains (see chap. iv., pp. 123-124). [Illustration: SNOW ON THE HIGH ALPS. FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY MR. DONKIN.] _Mountains help to cause movement and change in the atmosphere._ Let us see how this takes place. Mountains expose on one side their masses of rock to the full heat of the sun. Rocks are capable of becoming highly heated under a blazing sun: we have known stone walls, even in England, to be almost too hot to touch; and perhaps the reader may have often noticed the quivering of the hot air as it rises from the ground on a summer day, especially over a road or any piece of bare rocky ground. This quivering tells us that the air is highly heated by the ground beneath, and is consequently rising. You know how the pebbles look beneath a clear running stream; and the things which we see through air in this state all seem to be similarly moving or quivering. It is easy then to imagine how masses of heated air would rise up from the side of a mountain-range which faces the sun,--that is, the southern side,--while on the other, or northern side they cast a soft shadow for leagues over the plains at their feet. In this way mountains divide a district into two different climates, with a light warm air on their southern slopes, and colder air on the northern, and the rising of the warm air will cause a certain amount of circulation and movement. Hence mountains help to make currents in the atmosphere, and these currents produce important consequences. When mountain-ranges trend more or less directly across the direction of prevailing winds, they always have a moist side and a dry one. In the torrid zone, where easterly winds prevail, the eastern slope is usually the moist side; but in higher latitudes, as, for example, in Europe, the western side of mountain-ranges receives the greatest amount of rainfall, because westerly winds prevail there. _Mountains are barriers dividing not only one nation from another, but separating also various tribes of plants and animals._ It will be readily understood that with the exception of birds, whose powers of flight render them independent of physical barriers, most animals find mountains more impassable than men do. We can make roads and railways, but they cannot thus aid their powers of locomotion; hence mountains put limits to their migrations. Still, climate and food supplies have a greater influence in determining the boundaries of zoölogical provinces (see chapter iv.). _Mountains are the backbones of continents._ A glance at a map of the world will show that there is evidently a close connection between continents and great mountain-chains. This connection shows itself both in the shapes and general direction of continents. Thus, the long continuous line of mountain-chain which extends from the southern spur of the Andes to the northern end of the Rocky Mountains,--a distance of about nine thousand miles,--corresponds with the general trend of the North American continent, and forms the axis or backbone of that vast tract of land. It seems as if the sea on its western side were kept at bay by this great rocky wall, while on its eastern side the rivers have formed new land. A line of mountains is often the coast line, for the sea cannot overcome it unless subsidence takes place. The backbone of Asia and Europe runs east and west, and the continental area of the Old World follows the same general direction. These are the chief uses of mountains, and the facts which we have brought forward will serve to show how indispensable they are. The following eloquent passage from "Modern Painters" may form a fitting close to the present chapter:-- "And thus those desolate and threatening ranges which in nearly all ages of the world men have looked upon with aversion or with horror, and shrunk back from as if they were haunted by perpetual images of death, are in reality sources of life and happiness, far fuller and more beneficent than all the bright fruitfulness of the plain. The valleys only feed; the mountains feed and guard and strengthen us. We take our ideas of fearfulness and sublimity alternately from the mountains and the sea; but we associate them unjustly. The sea-wave, with all its beneficence, is yet devouring and terrible; but the silent wave of the blue mountain is lifted towards heaven in a stillness of perpetual mercy; and the one surge, unfathomable in its darkness, the other unshaken in its faithfulness, for ever bear the seal of their appointed symbolism:-- "'Thy _righteousness_ is like the great mountains, Thy _judgements_ are a great deep.'" CHAPTER III. SUNSHINE AND STORM ON THE MOUNTAINS. I would entreat your company To see the wonders of the world. _Two Gentlemen of Verona._ "The spirit of the hills is action, that of the lowlands repose."[9] The plains, with their peaceful meadows and meandering streams, might almost be said to be asleep; but the mountains are wide awake. They are emphatically scenes of violent or rapid action. The wind blows more fiercely among the mountain-peaks than over the plains below; heat and cold are more extreme; and every process of change or decay seems quickened. [9] Ruskin, "Modern Painters." Avalanches, falls of rock, earthquakes, storms, and floods exhibit the more terrible aspects of the hills. Yet they have their gentler moods: witness the brightness of the starry sky overhead, and its intense blue by day, the wonderful sunrises and sunsets, the lovely effects of light and shade, of cloud and mist, the stillness and silence of the eternal snows in summer, and the beauty of the Alpine flower. Let us see what those who know mountains best have to say about the wonderful things they have seen there. To begin with sunset and sunrise. Professor Bonney remarks,-- "Not the least interesting peculiarity of an Alpine sunset is the frequency with which its most beautiful effects are revealed quite unexpectedly. Often at the close of a rainy afternoon, the clouds, just before the sun goes down, break, roll up, sometimes disperse as if by magic, in the glory of those crimson rays that come darting upon them and piercing every rift. Many a time have I watched the vapours around a mountain-peak curling lightly upwards, and melting away into the sky, till at last the unclouded summit glowed with flushes of orange and rose, ere it grew pale and dead in its shroud of fresh-fallen snow."[10] [10] The Alpine Regions of Switzerland. Here is a description by Professor Tyndall of a sunset witnessed in the neighbourhood of the Weisshorn:-- "As the day approached its end, the scene assumed the most sublime aspect. All the lower portions of the mountains were deeply shaded, while the loftiest peaks, ranged upon a semicircle, were fully exposed to the sinking sun. They seemed pyramids of solid fire; while here and there long stretches of crimson light drawn over the higher snowfields linked the glorified summits together. An intensely illuminated geranium flower seems to swim in its own colour, which apparently surrounds the petals like a layer, and defeats by its lustre any attempt of the eye to seize upon the sharp outline of the leaves. A similar effect has been observed upon the mountains; the glory did not seem to come from them alone, but seemed also effluent from the air around them. This gave them a certain buoyancy which suggested entire detachment from the earth. They swam in splendour which intoxicated the soul; and I will not now repeat in my moments of soberness the extravagant analogies which ran through my brain. As the evening advanced, the eastern heavens low down assumed a deep purple hue, above which, and blended with it by infinitesimal gradations, was a belt of red, and over this again zones of orange and violet. I walked round the corner of the mountain at sunset, and found the western sky glowing with a more transparent crimson than that which overspread the east. The crown of the Weisshorn was embedded in this magnificent light. After sunset the purple of the east changed to a deep neutral tint; and against the faded red which spread above it, the sun-forsaken mountains laid their cold and ghostly heads. The ruddy colour vanished more and more; the stars strengthened in lustre, until finally the moon and they held undisputed possession of the blue-grey sky."[11] [11] Mountaineering in 1861 (Longman). Marvellous sunsets are to be witnessed from the mountains of the New World. The following is a short and graphic description of sunset glories on the Sierra Nevada Mountains by Mr. Clarence King, whose name is well known to geologists:-- "While I looked, the sun descended, shadows climbed the Sierras, casting a gloom over foothill and pine, until at last only the snow summits, reflecting the evening light, glowed like red lamps along the mountain-wall for hundreds of miles. The rest of the Sierra became invisible. The snow burned for a moment in the violet sky, and at last went out." These marvellous effects appeal powerfully to our sense of beauty and produce in most minds feelings of intense delight; but they also appeal to the reasoning faculty in man, and an intelligent observer naturally inquires, "Why are these things so? How are those glorious colours of crimson, orange, and yellow produced?" A full explanation cannot be attempted here; but this much may perhaps be said without tiring the patience of the reader. White light, such as sunlight or the light from an electric arc, is composed of all the colours of the rainbow,--violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, and red. A ray of sunlight on passing through a prism is split up into all these colours in the above order, and we get them arranged in a band which is known as the spectrum. Thus it is proved that white light is made up of all colours (black is not a colour, but the absence of colour). Now, when the sun is low down in the sky, as at sunset, only some of these colour-rays are able to pass through the atmosphere and so to reach our eyes, while others are stopped in passing through very many miles of atmosphere (as they must obviously do when the sun is low). Those which are stopped are the blue rays and others allied to blue, such as purple and green; but the red and yellow rays are able to pass on till they come to us. Hence red, yellow, and orange are the prevailing sunset tints. What, then, becomes of the missing blue rays? They are caught by the myriads of little floating particles in the air, and reflected away from us. That is why we do not see them; their course is turned back, just as waves breaking against a stone sea-wall are turned back or reflected. A person situated _behind_ such a wall will not see the waves which break against it; but suppose a _very_ big wave came: it would come right over, and then we should soon become aware of its presence. So it is with the little waves of light: some are stopped and turned back as they break against the myriads of little dust particles and the still more numerous particles of mist always floating in the air; while others, which are larger, break over them and travel on undisturbed until they reach our eyes. Now, the larger waves of light are the red waves, while the smaller ones are the blue waves; hence there is no difficulty in understanding why the red waves (or vibrations) are seen at sunset and sunrise, to the exclusion of the blue waves. But it must be borne in mind that light-waves are of infinitesimal smallness, thousands and thousands of them going to make up an inch. Sound also travels in waves, and the phenomena of sound serve to illustrate those of light; but sound-waves are very much larger. The reason why the sky overhead appears blue is that we see the blue rays reflected down to the earth from myriads of tiny dust and water particles, while the red rays pass on over our heads, which is just the reverse of what happens at sunset. On the southern slopes of the Alps the blues of the sky are generally very different from those on the northern side; and this is probably due to the greater quantity of water-vapour in the air, for the moist winds come from the south. Sunrises in the Alps are quite as glorious to behold as sunsets; but comparatively few people rise early enough to see them. Speaking generally, it may be said that in Alpine sunrises the prevailing colours are orange and gold, in sunsets crimson or violet-pink. After a cool night the atmospheric conditions will obviously be different from those which exist after a warm day, and more water-vapour will have been condensed into mist or cloud. Hence we should expect a somewhat different effect. The snowfields on high ranges of mountains are of a dazzling whiteness; and their bright glare is so great as to distress the eyes of those who walk over them without blue glasses, and even to cause inflammation. At these heights the traveller is not only exposed to the direct rays of the sun, untempered save for a thin veil of rarefied air, but also to an intense glare produced by the little snow-crystals which scatter around the beams of light falling upon them. Scientific men, who have studied these matters, say that the scorching of the skin and "sun-burning" experienced by Alpine travellers is not caused, as might be supposed, by the heat of the sun, but by the rays of light darting and flashing on all sides from myriads of tiny snow-crystals. Occasionally a soft lambent glow has been observed on snowfields at night. This is a very curious phenomenon, to which the name of "phosphorescence" has, rightly or wrongly, been given. A pale light may often be seen on the sea during a summer night, when the water is disturbed in any way; and if one is rowing in a boat, the oars seem glowing with a faint and beautiful light. It is well known that this is caused by myriads of little light-producing animalcules in the sea-water. But we can hardly suppose that the glow above referred to is produced by a similar cause. One observer says the glow is "something like that produced by the flame of naphtha;" and he goes on to say that at every step "an illuminated circle or nimbus about two inches in breadth surrounded our feet, and we seemed to be ploughing our way through fields of light, and raising clods of it, if I may be allowed the expression, in our progress." Another observer, also an Alpine traveller, says that at almost every footstep the snowy particles, which his companion in front lifted with his feet from the freshly fallen snow, fell in little luminous showers. The exact cause which produces this strange effect at night has not been ascertained. There is another curious phenomenon often seen just before sunset on a mountain in Hungary. It is known as "The Spectre of the Brocken." The Brocken is the highest summit of the Hartz Mountains. As you step out upon the plateau upon the top of the hill, your shadow, grim and gigantic, is apparently flung right out against the eastern sky, where it flits from place to place, following your every movement. The explanation is simply this: to the east of the Hartz Mountains there is always a very dense and hazy atmosphere, so dense that it presents a surface capable of receiving the impression of a shadow, and of retaining it, as a wall does. The shadows are really close at hand, not a long way off, as might at first sight be supposed. If very far away, they would be too faint to be visible. In all mountainous regions the permanent habitations of men cease at a limit far below the most elevated points reached by the mountain-climber. St. Veran and Gargl, the highest villages of France and Germany, are situated at the respective heights of 6,591 and 6,197 feet; but the Hospice of St. Bernard, in Switzerland, built centuries ago to shelter travellers when benumbed with the cold, is much more elevated, its height being 8,110 feet above sea-level. The most elevated cluster of houses in the world is the convent of Hanle, inhabited by twenty Thibetan priests; its height is 14,976 feet. None of the villages of the Andes, except perhaps that of Santa Anna, in Bolivia, have been built at so great a height. Travellers who venture to ascend lofty mountains not only have to suffer all the rigours of cold and run the risk of being frozen on their route, but they may also experience painful sensations owing to the rarefaction of the air. It would naturally be supposed that at an elevation at which the pressure of the atmosphere is reduced to one half, or even to one fourth that of the plains below, a certain uneasiness should be caused by the change, the more so since other conditions, such as warmth and moisture, are different. Undaunted climbers, like Professor Tyndall, who have never felt the effect of this "mountain-sickness" (_mal de montagne_), deny that the sensations proceed from anything else than mere fatigue. In the Himalayas, the traveller does not begin to suffer from the attacks of this ailment until he has reached a height of 16,500 feet; while on the Andes a large number of persons are affected by it at an altitude of 10,700 feet. In the South American mountains, the symptoms are much more serious: to the fatigue, head-ache, and want of breath are added giddiness, sometimes fainting-fits, and bleeding from lips, gums, and eyelids. The aeronaut, however, who is spared all the fatigue of climbing, rarely suffers any inconvenience except from cold, at such elevations. But on rising to greater heights, 30,000 or 40,000 feet, the malady shows itself; and if the balloon continued to rise, the aerial voyager would infallibly perish. Professor Bonney says:-- "I have occasionally seen persons singularly affected on high mountains; and as the barometer stands at about sixteen inches on Mont Blanc, and at thirty at sea-level, one would expect this great difference to be felt. Still, I do not think it easy to separate the inconveniences due to atmosphere from those caused by unwonted fatigue, and am inclined to attribute most of them to the latter." But the fact that the aeronaut suffers seems conclusive. The violent storms which break upon mountain districts often cause floods of considerable magnitude, such as may be compared with the memorable bursting of the Holmfirth reservoir. Hardly a year passes without considerable damage being done: bridges are swept away; roads are buried under torrents of mud, and fields overwhelmed with débris. In August of the year 1860 a severe storm was witnessed by visitors staying at Zermatt. It began with a thunder-storm; and rain fell for about thirty-six hours, after which, as may be supposed, the torrents were swollen far beyond their usual size. Lower down in the valleys much harm was done, but there one bridge only was swept away. It was, however, an awful sight to see the Visp roaring under one of the bridges that remained, and to hear the heavy thuds of the boulders that were being hurried on and dashed against one another by the torrent. In September, 1556, the town of Locarno, in the Canton Ticino, was visited by a destructive storm and flood. The day began by several shocks of earthquake, followed, about five o'clock, by a terrific gale from the south. Part of the old castle was blown down; the doors of St. Victor's Church were burst open by a blast while the priest was at the altar; and everything within was overturned. At midday the clouds were so thick that it was almost as dark as night. A violent thunder-storm and torrents of rain followed, lasting from two to six o'clock in the evening. The rivulets all became torrents; the stream flowing through the town was so choked by uprooted trees and rocks that its water flooded the streets and almost buried them under mud and gravel. Such a sight as this gives one a powerful impression of the geological work of streams when greatly swollen; for all this débris must have been brought down from the surrounding mountains. Many lives were lost by this calamity, and a great deal of property was destroyed. Late in the year, during unsettled weather, the traveller often encounters on Alpine passes a sudden storm of snow, accompanied by violent gusts of wind, which fill the air with drifted flakes; so that becoming bewildered, he loses his way, and at last sinks down benumbed with cold and dies. Many a frequented pass in Switzerland has been the scene of death from this cause. Exhausted with fatigue, and overcome with cold, the traveller sinks down by the wayside, and the guides, after having in vain endeavoured to urge him on, are compelled, in order to save their own lives, to leave him to his fate and press forward. The name "Tourmente" is given to these storms. On the tops of the highest mountains, even in very fine weather, the wind often blows with great force; and the north wind, supposed to be the mountaineer's best friend, is sometimes his enemy. It not unfrequently happens that a gale renders the passage of some exposed slope or ridge too dangerous, or the intense cold produces frost-bites, so that an expedition has to be abandoned when success is within reach, which naturally is very annoying. Professor Bonney, speaking of such a gale which he experienced in 1864, says,-- "The cold was something horrible; the wind seemed to blow not round, but through me, freezing my very marrow, and making my teeth chatter like castanets; and if I stopped for a moment, I shook as if in an ague-fit. It whisked up the small spiculæ of frozen snow, and dashed them against my face with such violence that it was hardly possible to look to windward. Thin sheets of ice as large as my hand were whirled along the surface of the glacier like paper.... When these gales are raging, the drifted snow is blown far to leeward of the peaks in long streamers like delicate cirrus-clouds; and on such occasions the mountain is said by the guides _fumer sa pipe_ (to smoke his pipe). This Mont Blanc was doing to some purpose the day that we were upon him." It is a curious fact that these gales are often confined to the crests of the mountains, so that the wind may be raging among the peaks while a few hundred feet lower down there is comparative calm. The chief of the prevailing winds in the Alps is the Föhn. This is a hot blast from the south which probably comes from the African deserts. On its approach the air becomes close and stifling, the sky, at first of unusual clearness, gradually thickens to a muddy and murky hue, animals become restless and disquieted by the unnatural dryness of the hot blast which now comes sweeping over the hills. In some villages, it is said, all the fires are extinguished when this wind begins to blow, for fear lest some chance spark should fall on the dry wooden roofs and set the whole place in a blaze. Still the Föhn is not altogether an "ill wind that blows nobody any good," for under its warm touch the winter snows melt away with marvellous rapidity. In the valley of Grindelwald it causes a snow-bed two feet thick to disappear in about a couple of hours, and produces in twenty-four hours a greater effect than the sun does in fifteen days. There is a Swiss proverb which rather profanely says: "If the Föhn does not blow, the golden sun and the good God can do nothing with the snow." In summer-time, however, the south wind is never welcome, for the vapour which it brings from the Italian plains is condensed by the snows of the Alps, and streams down in torrents of rain. A thunder-storm is always a grand spectacle. Among mountains such storms are more frequent than on the plains, and also, as might be expected, far more magnificent, especially at night. Flashes, or rather sheets, of unutterable brilliancy light up the sky; distant chains of mountains are revealed for a moment, only to be instantly eclipsed by the pall of night. Says Professor Bonney,-- "No words can adequately express the awful grandeur of these tempests when they burst among the mountains. I have often been out in them,--in fact, far more frequently than was pleasant; but perhaps the grandest of all was one that welcomed me for the first time to Chamouni. As we entered the valley, and caught sight of the white pinnacles of the _glacier des Bossons_, a dark cloud came rolling up rapidly from the west. Beneath it, just where two tall peaks towered up, the sky glowed like a sheet of red-hot copper, and a lurid mist spread over the neighbouring hills, wrapping them, as it seemed, in a robe of flame. Onward rolled the cloud; the lightning began to play; down the valley rushed a squall of wind, driving the dust high in air before it, and followed by a torrent of rain. Flash succeeded flash almost incessantly,--now darting from cloud to cloud; now dividing itself into a number of separate streaks of fire, and dancing all over the sky; now streaming down upon the crags, and at times even leaping up from some lofty peak into the air. The colours were often most beautiful, and bright beyond description." [Illustration: A STORM ON THE LAKE OF THUN. AFTER TURNER.] The mountain traveller, when caught in a thunder-storm, undergoes a strange experience, not unattended with danger. One observer[12] thus describes his sensations:-- [12] Mr. R. S. Watson, in "The Alpine Journal," vol. i., p. 143. "A loud peal of thunder was heard; and shortly after I observed that a strange singing sound, like that of a kettle, was issuing from my alpenstock. We halted, and finding that all the axes and stocks emitted the same sound, stuck them into the snow. The guide from the hotel now pulled off his cap, shouting that his head burned; and his hair was seen to have a similar appearance to that which it would have presented had he been on an insulated stool under a powerful electrical machine. We all of us experienced the sensation of pricking and burning in some part of the body, more especially in the head and face, my hair also standing on end in an uncomfortable but very amusing manner. The snow gave out a hissing sound, as though a heavy shower of hail were falling; the veil on the wide-awake of one of the party stood upright in the air; and on waving our hands, the singing sound issued loudly from the fingers. Whenever a peal of thunder was heard, the phenomenon ceased, to be resumed before its echoes died away. At these times we felt shocks, more or less violent, in those portions of the body which were most affected. By one of these shocks my right arm was paralysed so completely that I could neither use nor raise it for several minutes, nor indeed until it had been severely rubbed; and I suffered much pain in it at the shoulder-joint for some hours." The successive layers of snow which fall on the mountains do not remain there for ever. Unless got rid of in some way their thickness would mount up to an enormous extent. It is reckoned that on the Alps the average yearly fall of snow is thirty-three feet. In the course of a century, therefore, the height of these mountains would be increased by 3,300 feet, which we know is not the case. Various causes prevent its accumulating, among which we may mention the powerful influence of the sun's rays, the evaporation promoted by the atmosphere, the thawing influence of rain and mist, avalanches, and lastly, which is perhaps the most important, the fact that the snow composing the snowfields, as they are called, of the high regions slowly creeps down towards the valleys, where they move along as glaciers, the ends of which are gradually melted away by the warm air surrounding them, and thus the muddy glacier-streams are originated. Few perils are more dreaded by the inhabitant of the Alps than those of the avalanches. The particular way in which each avalanche descends is varied according to the shape of the mountain, the condition of the snow, and the time of the year. Hence there are three different kinds of avalanche. First, there is the ice-avalanche. The smaller glaciers, which, in the Alps, cling to the upper slopes of the higher mountains, frequently terminate abruptly on the edge of some precipice. Thus the ice, urged on by the pressure of the masses above it, moves forward until it plunges over and falls into the abyss below. Large portions break off; and these, as they bound down the cliffs, are dashed into countless pieces, which leap from crag to crag high into the air: now the falling mass, like some swollen torrent, dashes with sullen roar through a gully, now, emerging, crashes over a precipice, or spreads itself out like a fan, as it hisses down a snow-slope. These avalanches expend their force in the higher regions, and are harmless, unless any one happens to be crossing their track at the time; but accidents from this source can generally be avoided. In the distance the avalanches look like waterfalls of the purest foam, but when approached are found to be composed of fragments of ice of every size, from one, two, or more cubic yards down to tiny little balls. In spring and summer, when the white layers, softened by the heat, are falling away every hour from the lofty summits of the Alps, the pedestrian, taking up a position on some adjacent headland, may watch these sudden cataracts dashing down into the gorges from the heights of the shining peaks. Year after year travellers seated at their ease on the grassy banks of the Wengern Alp have watched with pleasure the avalanches rolling to the base of the silvery pyramid of the Jungfrau. First, the mass of ice is seen to plunge forth like a cataract, and lose itself in the lower parts of the mountain; whirlwinds of powdered snow, like clouds of bright smoke, rise far and wide into the air; and then, when the cloud has passed away, and the region has again assumed its solemn calm, the thunder of the avalanche is suddenly heard reverberating in deep echoes in the mountain gorges, as if it were the voice of the mountain itself. The other two kinds of avalanche are composed of snow. The dust-avalanche usually falls in winter-time, when the mountains are covered deep with fresh-fallen snow. Such masses of snow, not yet compacted into ice, rest insecurely upon the icy slopes, and hang in festoons and curtains over the peaks, or lie on smooth banks of pasture, until some accident, such as a gust of wind, breaks the spell, and the whole mass slides down into the valley below. These avalanches are accompanied by fearful blasts of wind which work dire destruction. Almost the whole village of Leukerbad was destroyed by one of these on the 14th of January, 1719, and fifty-five persons perished. In 1749, more than one hundred persons were killed in the village of Ruaras (Grisons), which during the night was overwhelmed by an avalanche. So silently were some of the houses buried that the inhabitants, on waking in the morning, could not conceive why the day did not dawn. It is said, though it seems almost incredible, that in the time of the Suabian War, in the year 1498, one of these avalanches swept four hundred soldiers over a cliff, and they all escaped without serious injury. The army of General Macdonald, in his celebrated passage of the Splügen in December, 1800, suffered severely from these dust-avalanches. A troupe of horse was completely cut through while on the march; and thirty dragoons were precipitated into a gulf below the road, where they all perished. And again, some days afterwards, in descending a gorge, the columns were repeatedly severed by avalanches; and more than one hundred soldiers, with a number of horses and mules, were lost. On one of these occasions the drummer of a regiment was carried away; and it is said that they heard him beating his drum in the gorge below, in the hope that his comrades would come to his rescue. Help, however, was out of the question. The sounds gradually became fainter, and the poor lad must have perished in the cold. The ground-avalanches are different from those just described, consisting of dense and almost solid masses of snow which have lain for a long time exposed to atmospheric influences. They are much heavier than the dust-avalanches, and therefore more destructive; so that the inhabitants take great pains to protect themselves from this source of danger. Thickly planted trees are the best protection against avalanches of every kind. Snow which has fallen in a wood cannot very well shift its place; and when masses of snow descend from the slopes above, they are unable to break through so strong a barrier. Small shrubs, such as rhododendrons, or even heaths and meadow-grass, are often sufficient to prevent the slipping of the snow; and therefore it is very imprudent not to allow them to grow freely on mountain-slopes. But it is still more dangerous to cut down protecting forests, or even to do so partly. This was illustrated by the case of a mountain in the Pyrenees, in the lofty valley of Neste; after it had been partially cleared of trees, a tremendous avalanche fell down in 1846, and in its fall swept away more than fifteen thousand fir-trees. The Swiss records tell us what a terrible scourge the avalanche can be in villages which in summer-time appear such calm and happy scenes of pastoral life. M. Joanne, in the introduction to his valuable "Itinéraire de la Suisse"[13] gives a list of twelve of the most destructive avalanches that have fallen in Switzerland. In old days they seem to have been as great a source of danger as in modern times. Thus we find that in the year 1500, a caravan of six hundred persons was swept away in crossing the Great St. Bernard; three hundred were buried under an avalanche which fell from Monte Cassedra (Ticino). Another one in the year 1720, at Obergestelen, in the Rhone Valley, destroyed one hundred and twenty cottages, four hundred head of cattle, and eighty-eight persons. The bodies were buried in a large pit in the village cemetery, on the wall of which was engraved the following pathetic inscription: "O God, what sorrow!--eighty-eight in a single grave!" ("Gott, welche Trauer!--acht und achtzig in einem Grab!") [13] Conservateur Suisse, xlvi. p. 478, vol. xii. It is a curious fact that animals have a wonderful power of anticipating coming catastrophes. When human beings are unaware of danger, they are often warned by the behaviour of animals. Country people sometimes say that they can tell from the birds when the weather is about to change; and there is little doubt but that sea-gulls come inland before rough, stormy weather. But in the case of earthquakes the behaviour of birds, beasts, and even fishes is very striking. It is said that before an earthquake rats, mice, moles, lizards, and serpents frequently come out of their holes, and hasten hither and thither as if smitten with terror. At Naples, it is said that the ants quitted their underground passages some hours before the earthquake of July 26, 1805; that grasshoppers crossed the town in order to reach the coast; and that the fish approached the shore in shoals. Avalanches, it is well known, produce tremors similar to those due to slight earthquake shocks; and there are many stories in Switzerland of the behaviour of animals just before the catastrophe takes place. Berlepsch relates that a pack-horse on the Scaletta Pass, which was always most steady, became restive when an avalanche was coming; so that he was valuable to his owners in bad weather. One day, when near the summit of the pass, he suddenly stopped. They foolishly took no notice of his warning this time; but he presently darted off at full speed. In a few seconds the avalanche came and buried the whole party. If these stories can be relied upon, it would seem that animals are either more sensitive to very slight tremors of the earth, or else that they are more on the lookout than human beings. Perhaps North American Indians have learned from animals in this respect, for they can tell of a coming enemy on the march by putting their ears to the ground and listening. But there are worse dangers in the mountains than falls of snow and ice, for sometimes masses of rock come hurtling down, or worse still, the whole side of a mountain gives way and spreads ruin far and wide. Perpendicular or overhanging rocks, which seem securely fastened, suddenly become detached and rush headlong down the mountain-side. In their rapid fall, they raise a cloud of dust like the ashes vomited forth by a volcano; a horrible darkness is spread over a once pleasant valley; and the unfortunate inhabitants, unable to see what is taking place, are only aware of the trembling of the ground, and the crashing din of the rocks as they strike together and shatter one another in pieces. When the cloud of dust is cleared away, nothing but heaps of stones and rubbish are to be seen where pastures once grew, or the peasant ploughed his acres in peace. The stream flowing down the valley is obstructed in its course, and changed into a muddy lake; the rampart of rocks from which some débris still comes crumbling down has lost its old form; the sharpened edges point out the denuded cliff from which a large part of the mountain has broken away. In the Pyrenees, Alps, and other important ranges there are but few valleys where one cannot see the confused heaps of fallen rocks. Many of these catastrophes, known as the "Bergfall," have been recorded; and the records tell of the fearful havoc and destruction to life and property due to this cause. In Italy the ancient Roman town of Velleja was buried, about the fourth century, by the downfall of the mountain of Rovinazzo; and the large quantity of bones and coins that have been found proves that the fall was so sudden that the inhabitants had no time to escape. Taurentum, another Roman town, situated, it is said, on the banks of Lake Geneva, at the base of one of the spurs of the Dent d'Oche, was completely crushed in A. D. 563 by a downfall of rocks. The sloping heap of débris thus formed may still be seen advancing like a headland into the waters of the lake. A terrible flood-wave, produced by the deluge of stones, reached the opposite shores of the lake and swept away all the inhabitants. Every town and village on the banks, from Morges to Vevay, was demolished, and they did not begin the work of rebuilding till the following century. Some say, however, that the disaster was caused by a landslip which fell from the Grammont or Derochiaz across the valley of the Rhone, just above the spot where it flows into the Lake of Geneva. Hundreds of such falls have taken place within the Alps and neighbouring mountains within historic times. Two out of the five peaks of the Diablerets fell down, one in 1714 and the other in 1749, covering the pastures with a thick layer of stones and earth more than three hundred feet thick, and by obstructing the course of the stream of Lizerne, formed the three lakes of Derborence. In like manner the Bernina, the Dent du Midi, the Dent de Mayen, and the Righi have overspread with ruin vast tracts of cultivated land. In Switzerland the most noted Bergfalls are those from the Diablerets and the Rossberg. The former mountain is a long flattish ridge with several small peaks, overhanging very steep walls of rock on either side. These walls are composed of alternating beds of limestone and shale. Hence it is easily perceived that we have here conditions favourable for landslips, because if anything weakens one of these beds of shale the overlying mass might be inclined to break away. The fall in the year 1714, already referred to, was a very destructive one. [Illustration: THE MATTERHORN. FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY MR. DONKIN.] "For two whole days previously loud groaning had been heard to issue from the mountain, as though some imprisoned spirit were struggling to release himself, like Typhoeus from under Etna; then a vast fragment of the upper part of the mountain broke suddenly away and thundered down the precipices into the valley beneath. In a few minutes fifty-five châlets, with sixteen men and many head of cattle, were buried for ever under the ruins. One remarkable escape has indeed been recorded, perhaps the most marvellous ever known. A solitary herdsman from the village of Avent occupied one of the châlets which were buried under the fallen mass. Not a trace of it remained; his friends in the valley below returned from their unsuccessful search, and mourned him as dead. He was, however, still among the living; a huge rock had fallen in such a manner as to protect the roof of his châlet, which, as is often the case, rested against a cliff. Above this, stones and earth had accumulated, and the man was buried alive. Death would soon have released him from his imprisonment, had not a little rill of water forced its way through the débris and trickled into the châlet. Supported by this and by his store of cheese, he lived three months, labouring all the while incessantly to escape. Shortly before Christmas he succeeded, after almost incredible toil, in once more looking on the light of day, which his dazzled eyes, so long accustomed to the murky darkness below, for a while could scarcely support. He hastened down to his home in Avent, and knocked at his own door; pale and haggard, he scarcely seemed a being of this world. His relations would not believe that one so long lost could yet be alive, and the door was shut in his face. He turned to a friend's house; no better welcome awaited him. Terror seized upon the village; the priest was summoned to exorcise the supposed demon; and it was not till he came that the unfortunate man could persuade them that he was no spectre, but flesh and blood."[14] [14] Bonney. The valley is still a wild scene of desolation, owing to the enormous masses of stones of every shape and size with which its bed is filled. In September of the year 1806, the second fall of the mountain Rossberg took place, after a wet summer. It is underlaid by beds of clay which, when water penetrates, are apt to give way. The part which fell was about three miles long and 350 yards wide and 33 yards thick. In five minutes one of the most fertile valleys in Switzerland was changed to a stony desert. Three whole villages, six churches, 120 houses, 200 stables or châlets, 225 head of cattle, and much land were buried under the ruins of the Rossberg; 484 persons lost their lives. Some remarkable escapes are recorded. In the year 1618 the downfall of Monte Conto buried 2,400 inhabitants of the village of Pleurs, near Chiavenna. Excavation among the ruins was subsequently attempted, but a few mangled corpses and a church-bell were all that could be reached. Geologically these phenomena, appalling as they are from the human point of view, possess a certain interest, and their effects deserve to be studied. There is yet another danger to which dwellers in mountains are occasionally exposed; namely, the earthquake. It seems to be an established fact that earthquake shocks are more frequent in mountainous than in flat countries. The origin of these dangerous disturbances of the earth's crust has not yet been fully explained. They are probably caused in various ways; and it is very likely that the upheaval of mountain-chains is one of the causes at work. Earthquakes have for many years been carefully studied by scientific men, and some valuable discoveries have been made. Thus we find that they are more frequent in winter than summer, and also happen more often by night than by day. Day and night are like summer and winter on a small scale, and so we need not be surprised at this discovery. Some have maintained that there is a connection between earthquakes and the position of the moon; while others consider that the state of the atmosphere also exerts an influence, and that earthquakes are connected with rainy seasons, storms, etc. Earthquakes are very often due to volcanic eruptions, but this is not always the case (see chapter vi., page 199). CHAPTER IV. MOUNTAIN PLANTS AND ANIMALS. The high hills are a refuge for the wild goats, and so are the stony rocks for the conies.--_Psalm civ. 18._ There must be few people who have neither seen nor heard of the beauty and exquisite colours of Alpine[15] flowers. They are first seen on the fringes of the stately woods above the cultivated land; then in multitudes on the sloping pastures with which many mountain-chains are robed, brightening the verdure with innumerable colours; and higher up, where neither grass nor loose herbage can exist, among the slopes of shattered fragments which roll down from the mountain-tops,--nay, even amidst the glaciers,--they gladden the eye of the traveller and seem to plead sweetly with the spirits of destruction. Alpine plants fringe the vast hills of snow and ice of the high hills, and sometimes have scarcely time to flower and ripen a few seeds before being again covered by their snowy bed. When the season is unfavourable, numbers of them remain under the snow for more than a year; and here they safely rest, unharmed by the alternations of frost and biting winds, with moist and springlike days. They possess the great charm of endless variety of form and colour, and represent widely separated divisions of the vegetable kingdom; but they are all small and low-growing compared to their relatives grown in the plains, where the soil is richer and the climate milder. Among them are tiny orchids quite as interesting in their way as those from the tropics; liliputian trees, and a tree-like moss (_Lycopodium dendroideum_) branching into an erect little pyramid as if in imitation of a mountain pine; ferns that peep cautiously from narrow rocky crevices as if clinging to the rock for shelter from the cold blasts; bulbous plants, from lilies to bluebells; evergreen shrubs, perfect in leaf and blossom and fruit, yet so small that one's hat will cover them; exquisite creeping plants spreading freely along the ground, and when they creep over the brows of rocks or stones, draping them with curtains of colour as lovely as those we see in the forests; numberless minute plants scarcely larger than mosses, mantling the earth with fresh green carpets in the midst of winter; succulent plants in endless variety; and lastly the ferns, mosses, and lichens which are such an endless source of pleasure and delight to the traveller. In short, Alpine vegetation presents us with nearly every type of plant life of northern and temperate climes, chastened in tone and diminished in size. [15] The word "Alpine" is used in a general sense to denote the vegetation that grows naturally on the most elevated regions of the earth; that is, on all high mountains, whether they rise up in hot tropical plains or in cooler northern pastures. It is not difficult to account for the small size of these plants; for in the first place we cannot expect a large or luxuriant growth where the air is cold, the soil scanty, and the light of the sun often obscured by clouds, and where the changes of temperature are rapid,--which is very unfavourable to most plants. Again, in the close struggle for existence which takes place on the plains and low tree-clad hills, the smaller forms of plant life are often overrun by trees, trailing plants, bushes, and vigorous herbs; but where these cannot find a home, owing to the severity of the winter and other causes, the little Alpine plants, covered up by snow in the winter, can thrive abundantly. And lastly, like the older and conquered races of men who have been driven to the hills (see chap. i., p. 28) and find shelter there, so there are both plants and animals living in the mountains which man will not suffer to live in the plain where he grows his crops, pastures his cattle, or builds his cities. We would also venture to suggest that possibly some plants have been ousted from plains by newer and more aggressive types, which came and took their place. If so, vegetable life would afford an illustration of a process which has so often taken place in human history. This is only a speculation, but still it might be worth following up. If Alpine plants, or any considerable number of them, could be shown to belong to more ancient types, such as flourished in the later geological periods, that would afford some evidence in favour of the idea. Whether this is so or not, plant life on the mountains is almost entirely protected from the destroying hands of men with their ploughs and scythes, as well as from many grazing animals. As Mr. Ruskin quaintly says: "The flowers which on the arable plain fell before the plough now find out for themselves unapproachable places, where year by year they gather into happier fellowship and fear no evil." It is clear that the climate of a mountainous region determines the character of the vegetation. Now, the climate will be different in different parts of a mountain-range, and will depend upon the height above the sea and other causes.[16] Some writers upon this subject have attached too much importance to absolute height above the sea, as though this were the only cause at work. It is a very important cause, no doubt, but there are others which also have a great influence, such as the position of each locality with respect to the great mountain masses, the local conditions of exposure to the sun and protection from cold winds, or the reverse. However, in spite of local irregularities there are in the Alps certain broad zones or belts of vegetation which may be briefly described as follows:-- [16] The following remarks are largely taken from the Introduction to Ball's well-known "Alpine Guide." 1. _The Olive region._--This region curiously illustrates what has just been said about other causes besides height influencing the climate and vegetation. For along the southern base of the Alps, the lower slopes and the mouths of the valleys have a decidedly warmer climate than the plains of Piedmont and Lombardy. Thus, while the winter climate of Milan is colder than that of Edinburgh, the olive can ripen its fruit along the skirts of the mountain region, and penetrates to a certain distance towards the interior of the chain along the lakes and the wider valleys of the Southern Alps. Even up the shores of the Lake of Garda, where the evergreen oak grows, the olive has become wild. The milder climate of the Borromean Islands, and some points on the shores of the Lago Maggiore, will permit many plants of the warmer temperate zone to grow; while at a distance of a few miles, and close to the shores of the same lake, but in positions exposed to the cold winds from the Alps, plants of the Alpine region grow freely, and no delicate perennials can survive the winter. The olive has been known to resist a temperature of about 16° F. (or 16° below the freezing point of water), but is generally destroyed by a less degree of cold. It can only be successfully cultivated where the winter frosts are neither long nor severe, where the mean temperature of winter does not fall below 42° F., and a heat of 75° F. during the day is continued through four or five months of the summer and autumn. 2. _The Vine region._--The vine, being more tolerant of cold than the olive, can grow at a higher level; and so the next zone of vegetation in the Alps may be called "the Vine region." But to give tolerable wine it requires at the season of ripening of the grape almost as much warmth as the olive needs. Vines can grow in the deeper valleys throughout a great part of the Alpine chain, and in favourable situations up to a considerable height on their northern slopes. On the south side, although the limit of perpetual snow is lower, the vine often reaches near to the foot of the greater peaks. But the fitness of a particular spot for the production of wine depends far more on the direction of the valley and of the prevailing winds than on the height. And so it happens that in the Canton Valais, the Valley of the Arc in Savoy, and some others on the north side of the dividing range, tolerable wine is made at a higher level than in the valleys of Lombardy, whose direction allows the free passage of the keen northern blasts. It is a curious fact that in the Alps the vine often resists a winter temperature which would kill it down to the roots in the low country; and we must explain it by the protection of the deep winter snow. Along with the vine many species of wild plants, especially annuals, characteristic of the flora of the south of Europe, show themselves in the valleys of the Alps. 3. _The Mountain region, or region of deciduous trees._--Many writers take the growth of corn as the characteristic of the colder temperate zone, corresponding to what has been called the mountain region of the Alps. But so many varieties, all with different requirements, are in cultivation, that it is impossible to take the growth of cereals in general as marking clearly any natural division of the surface. A more natural limit is marked by the presence of deciduous trees (trees which shed their leaves). Although the oak, beech, and ash do not exactly reach the same height, and are not often seen growing side by side in the Alps, yet their upper limit marks pretty accurately the transition from a temperate to a colder climate that is shown by a general change in the wild, herbaceous vegetation. The lower limit of this zone is too irregular to be exactly defined, but its upper boundary is about 4,000 feet on the cold north side of the Alps, and often rises to 5,500 feet on the southern slopes, which of course get more sunshine and warmth. The climate of this region is favourable to the growth of such trees as the oak, beech, and ash, but it does not follow that we should see them there in any great numbers at the present time; for it is probable that at a very early date they were extensively destroyed for building purposes, and to clear space for meadow and pasture land, so that with the exception of the beech forests of the Austrian Alps, there is scarcely a considerable wood of deciduous trees to be seen anywhere in the chain. In many districts where the population is not too dense, the pine and Scotch fir have taken the place of the oak and beech, mainly because the young plants are not so eagerly attacked by goats, the great destroyers of trees. 4. _The region of Coniferous trees._--Botanically this region is best distinguished by the prevalence of coniferous trees, forming vast forests, which if not kept down by man (and by goats) would cover the slopes of the Alps. The prevailing species are the common fir and the silver fir. In districts where granite abounds, the larch flourishes and reaches a greater size than any other tree. Less common are the Scotch fir and the arolla, or Siberian fir. In the Eastern Alps the dwarf pine becomes conspicuous, forming a distinct zone on the higher mountains above the level of other firs. The pine forests play a most important part in the natural economy of the Alps; and their preservation is a matter of very great importance to the future inhabitants. But in some places they have been considerably diminished by cutting. This has especially happened in the neighbourhood of mines; and in consequence the people of the unfrequented communes have become so alive to this that some jealousy is felt of strangers wandering among the mountains, lest they should discover metals and cause the destruction of the woods. Their fears are not unreasonable; for the forests, besides exerting a good deal of influence on rainfall and climate, form natural defences against the rush of the spring avalanches (see chapter iii., page 93). It is recorded that after the war of 1799, in which many of those near the St. Gothard Pass were destroyed, the neighbouring villages suffered terribly from this scourge. Hence the laws do not allow of timber being cut in certain forests called "Bannwalde;" and in most places the right of felling trees is strictly regulated, and the woods are under the inspection of officials. In spots high up among the mountains, to which access is difficult, the timber is converted into charcoal, which is then brought down in sacks by horses and mules. There are two ways in which timber is conveyed down from the forest: either it is cut up into logs some five feet long, and thrown into a neighbouring torrent, which brings it down over cliff and gorge to the valley below; or else trough-like slides are constructed along the mountain-sides, down which the trunks themselves are launched. It is this region of coniferous trees which mainly determines the manner of life of the population of the Alps. In the month of May the horned cattle, having been fed in houses during the winter (as they are in the Scotch Highlands, where the cowsheds are called "byres"), are led up to the lower pastures. The lower châlets, occupied in May and part of June, generally stand at about the upper limit of the mountain region. Towards the middle or end of June the cattle are moved up to the chief pastures, towards the upper part of the region of coniferous trees, where they usually remain for the next two or three months. But there are some available pastures still higher up, and hither some of the cattle are sent for a month or more. 5. _The Alpine region._--This is the zone of vegetation extending from the upper limit of trees to where permanent masses of snow first make their appearance; so that where the trees cease, the peculiar Alpine plants begin; but we still find shrubs, such as the common rhododendron, Alpine willow, and the common juniper, which extend up to, and the latter even beyond, the level of perpetual snow. The limits of this interesting and delightful botanical region may be fixed between 6,000 and 8,000 feet above the sea, and at least 1,000 feet higher on the south slopes of the Alps, which get more sunshine. It is used to some extent for pasture; and in Piedmont it is not uncommon to find châlets at the height of 8,500 feet, and vegetation often extends freely up to 9,500 feet. Here and there, at levels below this zone, many Alpine species may be found, either transported by accident from their natural home, or finding a permanent refuge in some cool spot sheltered from the sun, and moistened by streamlets descending from the snow region. But it is chiefly here that those delightful flowers grow which make the Alps like a great flower-garden,--great anemones, white and sulphur-coloured; gentians of the deepest blue, like the sky overhead; campanulas, geums, Alpine solanellas, and forget-me-nots; asters, ox-eyed daisies, pale pink primulas, purple heartsease, edelweiss, saxifrages, yellow poppies, Alpine toad-flax, monkshood, potentilla, and others too numerous to mention. Says Professor Bonney,-- "Who cannot recall many a happy hour spent in rambling from cluster to cluster on the side of some great Alp?--the scent of sweet herbage or of sweeter daphne perfuming the invigorating air, the melody of the cattle-bells borne up from some far-off pasture, while the great blue vault of heaven above seems reflected in the gentian clusters at his feet. The love of flowers seems natural to almost every human being, however forlorn his life may have been, however far it may have missed its appointed mark. It may well be so; they at least are fresh and untainted from their Maker's hand; the cry of 'Nature red in tooth and claw' scarce breaks their calm repose. Side by side they flourish without strife; none 'letteth or hindereth another,' yet so tender and delicate, doomed to fade all too soon, a touch of sadness is ever present to give a deeper pathos to our love." 6. _The Glacial region._--This comprehends all that portion of the Alps that rises above the limit of perpetual snow. But a word of explanation is necessary. The highest parts of the Alps are not covered by one continuous sheet of snow; otherwise we should never see any peaks or crags there. Some are too steep for the snow to rest upon them, and therefore remain bare at heights much greater than the so-called "limit of perpetual snow," and that limit varies considerably. Still this term has a definite meaning when rightly understood. Leaving out of account masses of snow that accumulate in hollows shaded from the sun, the "snow-line" is fairly even, so that on viewing an Alpine range from a distance, the larger patches and fields of snow on adjoining mountains, with the same aspect, are seen to maintain a pretty constant level. [Illustration: ON A GLACIER.] Vegetation becomes scarce in this region, not, as commonly supposed, because Alpine plants do not here find the necessary conditions for growth, but simply for want of soil. The intense heat of the direct rays of the sun (see chapter iii., pages 76-77) compensates for the cold of the night; and it is probable that the greater allowance of light also stimulates vegetable life. But all the more level parts are covered with ice or snow; and the higher we ascend, the less the surface remains bare, with the exception of the projecting rocks which usually undergo rapid destruction and breaking up from the freezing of whatever water finds its way into their fissures. Nevertheless, many species of flowering plants have been found even at the height of eleven thousand feet. It is in this region that plants are found whose true home is in the arctic regions (see chapter ii., pages 64-65). For the sake of those who love ferns, lycopods, and other cryptogamic or flowerless plants, a few words may be said here. Of the polypodies, the beech fern and oak fern are generally common, so is the limestone polypody in places where limestone occurs. Another species (_P. alpestre_) very like the lady fern grows plentifully in many places. The parsley fern, familiar to the botanist in Wales and other parts of Great Britain, is common, especially on the crystalline rocks, and ascends to above seven thousand feet. The holly fern is perhaps the most characteristic one of the higher Alps. It is abundant in almost every district from the Viso to the Tyrol, ranging from about five thousand feet to nearly eight thousand feet. The finest specimens are to be found in the limestone districts. Nestling down in little channels worn out of the rock, it shoots out great fronds, often more than eighteen inches long, which are giants compared to the stunted specimens seen on rockwork in English gardens. _Asplenium septentrionale_ is very common in most of the districts where crystalline rocks abound. The hart's tongue is hardly to be called a mountain fern. The common brake is confined to the lower slopes. _Cistopteris fragillis_ and _C. dentata_ are common, and the more delicate _C. Alpina_ is not rare. The noble _Osmunda regalis_ keeps to the warmer valleys. The moonwort abounds in the upper pastures. The club-mosses (_Lycopodium_), which are found in Great Britain, are common in most parts of the Alps, especially the _L. selago_, which grows almost up to the verge of the snows. Lower down is the delicate _L. velveticum_, which creeps among the damp mosses under the shade of the forest. Many of the smaller species stain with spots of crimson, orange, and purple the rocks among the snowfields and glaciers, and gain the summits of peaks more than eighteen thousand feet above the sea, reaching even to the highest rocks in the Alpine chain. For the sake of readers who are not familiar with that wonderful book, "Modern Painters," we will quote some exquisite passages on lichens and mosses, full of beautiful thoughts:-- "We have found beauty in the tree yielding fruit and in the herb yielding seed. How of the herb yielding no seed,--the fruitless, flowerless[17] lichen of the rock? [17] Flowerless in the ordinary, not the botanical sense. "Lichens and mosses (though these last in their luxuriance are deep and rich as herbage, yet both for the most part humblest of the green things that live),--how of these? Meek creatures!--the first mercy of the earth, veiling with trusted softness its dintless rocks, creatures full of pity, covering with strange and tender honour the scarred disgrace of ruin, laying quiet finger on the trembling stones to teach them rest. No words that I know of will say what these mosses are; none are delicate enough, none perfect enough, none rich enough. How is one to tell of the rounded bosses of furred and beaming green; the starred divisions of rubied bloom, fine-filmed, as if the Rock Spirits could spin porphyry as we do grass; the traceries of intricate silver, and fringes of amber, lustrous, arborescent, burnished through every fibre into fitful brightness and glossy traverses of silken change, yet all subdued and pensive, and framed for simplest, sweetest offices of grace? They will not be gathered, like the flowers, for chaplet or love token; but of these the wild bird will make its nest and the wearied child his pillow. "And as the earth's first mercy, so they are its last gift to us. When all other service is vain, from plant and tree the soft mosses and grey lichen take up their watch by the headstone. The woods, the blossoms, the gift-bearing grasses, have done their parts for a time, but these do service for ever. Tree for the builder's yard--flowers for the bride's chamber--corn for the granary--moss for the grave. "Yet as in one sense the humblest, in another they are the most honoured of the earth-children; unfading as motionless, the worm frets them not and the autumn wastes not. Strong in lowliness, they neither blanch in heat nor pine in frost. To them, slow-fingered, constant-hearted, is entrusted the weaving of the dark, eternal tapestries of the hills; to them, slow-pencilled, iris-dyed, the tender framing of their endless imagery. Sharing the stillness of the unimpassioned rock, they share also its endurance; and while the winds of departing spring scatter the white hawthorn blossom like drifted snow, and summer dims on the parched meadow the drooping of its cowslip,--gold far above, among the mountains, the silver lichen-spots rest, star-like, on the stone; and the gathering orange-stain upon the edge of yonder western peak reflects the sunsets of a thousand years." Alpine and arctic plants are met with in Great Britain, but Scotland has a much more extensive arctic-Alpine flora than England, Wales, or Ireland, the reason being the greater altitude of its mountains. The combined flora of the United Kingdom contains only ninety-one species of arctic-Alpine plants, and of these eighty-eight--that is, all but three--are natives of Scotland. Of these three the first is a gentian (_Gentiana verna_), which is to be found on the hills of West Yorkshire, Durham, Westmoreland, and other parts. It comes from the Alps. The second is _Lloydia serotina_,--a small bulbous plant with white flowers, which is found on the hills of Carnarvonshire, in Wales. The third, well known in English gardens, is London pride (_Saxifraga umbrosa_), which is only to be found on the southwest Irish hills. Of the ninety-one arctic-Alpine species, just about half are also natives of England and Wales, but only twenty-five belong to Ireland. If we examine the lists of the flora of Arctic Europe we find that all these, except about six, are found in arctic regions; and if we travel farther north till we come actually to polar regions, we find nearly fifty of these species growing there near the sea-level. The Grampian Mountains are the chief centre of the Scottish arctic-Alpine flora. The two principal localities for such flowers in that range are the Breadalbane Mountains in Perthshire, and the Cænlochan and Clova Mountains of Forfarshire. There are also a goodly number on the mountains of the Braemar district. The history of the arctic-Alpine flora of Europe is a very interesting one. These plants, whose true home is in the arctic regions, living high up on the mountains of Europe, give unmistakable evidence of a time, very far back, when Northern Europe was overrun by glaciers and snowfields so as to resemble in appearance and in climate the Greenland of the present day. This period is known to geologists as the "Great Ice Age." The moraines of glaciers, ice-worn rock surfaces, and other unmistakable signs may be well seen in many parts of Great Britain. How long ago this took place we cannot say; but judging from the considerable changes in geography which have undoubtedly taken place since then, we must conclude that many thousands of years, perhaps two hundred thousand, have intervened between this period and the present time. When arctic conditions prevailed over this wide area, the plants and animals which now live in arctic latitudes flourished in Great Britain; but as the climate gradually became more genial, and the snow and ice melted, the plants and animals mostly retreated to their northern home. A certain number doubtless became extinct; but others took to the highest parts of the mountains, where snow and ice abound; and there they remain to the present day, separated from their fellows, but still enjoying the kind of climate to which they have always been accustomed, and testifying to the wonderful changes which have taken place since the mammoth, whose bones are found embedded in our river-gravels, wandered over the plains of Northern Europe. _Animal Life._ The rocky fastnesses of the Alps still afford a home to some of the larger wild animals which in other parts of Europe have gradually disappeared with the advance of civilisation. During the latter part of the "Stone Age," long before history was written, when men used axes, hammers, arrow-heads, and other implements of stone, instead of bronze or iron, Switzerland was inhabited by animals which are not to be seen now. The gigantic urus (_Bos primigenius_), which flourished in the forests of the interior during this prehistoric human period, and gave its name to the canton of Uri, has become extinct. The marsh hog was living during the period of the Swiss lake-dwellers. These people made their houses on piles driven in near the shore, and were acquainted with the use of bronze, and therefore later than the men of the "Stone Age." The remains of these strange dwelling-places have been discovered in several places, as well as many articles of daily use. The marsh hog has disappeared; and its place is taken by the wild boar and domestic hog, which afford sport and food to the present population. But taking Switzerland as it now is, we will say a few words about the more interesting forms of animal life dwelling in the Alps, beginning with those which are highest in the animal kingdom. Chief among these is the brown bear, still occasionally found, but it is exceedingly rare, except in the Grisons and in the districts of the Tyrol and Italy bordering on the canton, where it still carries on its ravages.[18] Some also believe that it still lingers in the rocky fastnesses of the Jura Mountains, to the east of the Alps. There is properly only one species of bear in Switzerland, but the hunters generally speak of three,--the great black, the great grey, and the small brown. The second of these is merely an accidental variety of the first; but between the grey and the small brown bears there is a good deal of difference. They assert that the black bear is not only considerably larger than the brown, but is also different in its habits. It is less ferocious and prefers a vegetable diet,--feeding on herbs, corn, and vegetables, with the roots and branches of trees. It has a way of plundering bee-hives and also ants' nests; it delights in strawberries and all kinds of fruit, plundering the orchards, and even making raids on the vineyards, but always retreating before dawn. As a rule it does not attack human beings. The brown bear is much more formidable, prowling by night about the sheepfolds, and causing the sheep by their fright to fall down precipices. Goats, when alarmed, leap on the roofs of the châlets, and bleat, in order to arouse the shepherds; so that when Bruin rears himself up against the wall he often meets his death. There are many stories on record of fierce fights for life between man and bear. The bear passes the winter in a torpid state, and eats little or nothing then. [18] We are again indebted to Professor Bonney's "Alpine Regions of Switzerland" for the information here given. The wolf, though still lingering in several lonely parts of the Alps, is rapidly becoming rare. It is most frequent in the districts about the Engadine and in the Jura Mountains. Only in winter-time, when hard pressed by hunger, does it approach the haunts of man. It takes almost any kind of prey it can get,--foxes, hares, rats, mice, birds, lizards, frogs, and toads. Sheep and goats are its favourite prey. The wolf is an affectionate parent, and takes his turn in looking after the nurslings, which is a necessary precaution, as his friends and relations have a way of eating up the babies. The fox is common in many parts of the Alps, but not often seen by travellers. Instead of taking the trouble to burrow, he frequently manages by various cunning devices to take possession of a badger's hole. As Tschudi quaintly observes, "He has far too much imagination and poetic sentiment to like so monotonous and laborious an occupation as burrowing." Like the wolf, the mountain fox eats whatever he can catch, even beetles, flies, and bees. Those in the valleys live more luxuriously than their relations on the mountains,--plundering bee-hives and robbing orchards. As it was in Judæa in the days of Solomon, so it is now in Switzerland among the vineyards; and a peasant might well say, "Take us the foxes, the little foxes that spoil the vineyards." The lynx is only occasionally found in the Alps, which is fortunate for the shepherds, for they can play terrible havoc with the sheep. Wild-cats still linger in the most unfrequented parts. Their fur is valuable, and the flesh is sometimes eaten. The badger is far from common, though rarely seen by day. It is very cunning in avoiding traps, and so is generally either dug out of its hole drawn by dogs, or pulled out by a pole with nippers or a hook at the end. Passing on to less ferocious beasts, we find the otter common along the borders of rivers and lakes. The polecat, weasel, and stoat are often too abundant for keepers of poultry. The squirrel is common enough in the forests, but varies greatly in colour. It is doubtful whether the beaver still lingers by some lonely Alpine stream. It is last mentioned in a list of Swiss mammals, published in 1817, as found, though rarely, in some lonely spots. Rabbits are common, but hares rather scarce; of these there are, as in Scotland, two varieties,--the brown hare, which is seldom found at heights greater than four thousand to five thousand feet, and the blue hare, which ranges up to nine thousand feet. The latter changes colour: its fur in summer is of a dull bluish-grey, and in winter it becomes perfectly white, and so affords a striking illustration of "protective mimicry," for with snow lying on the ground it would be very hard to see the creature. The marmot is common in all the higher Alpine regions. These interesting little creatures are very watchful, and easily scent danger. When an intruder approaches, a sentinel marmot utters a long shrill whistle, which is often repeated two or three times, and then they all make for their burrows; but it is not easy to distinguish them from the grey rocks among which they live. The fur is a yellowish or brownish grey, with black on the head and face, and a little white on the muzzle; the tail is short and bushy with a tipping of black. They have different quarters for summer and winter. The summer burrows are in the belt of rough pasture between the upper limits of trees and the snows; towards the end of autumn they come down to the pastures which the herdsmen have just abandoned and there make their winter burrows, which are much larger than the summer ones. Like rabbits, they frequently make a bolt-hole, by which they may escape from an intruder. In winter the holes are plugged up, and the marmots, rolling themselves up in a ball, go to sleep for six months or more. Sometimes hunters dig them out; but so soundly do they sleep that, according to De Saussure, they may often be taken out, placed in the game-bag, and carried home without being aroused. They wake up about April. The chamois, a very favourite subject with the wood-carvers, is the only member of the antelope family in Western Europe; it is found in almost every part of the Alps, but is now much rarer than it was formerly. A full-grown chamois in good condition weighs about sixty pounds. The hair is thick, and changes colour with the season, being a red yellowish-brown in summer and almost black in winter. The horns, which curve backwards, rise from the head above and between the eyes to a height which rarely exceeds seven inches. When the kid is about three months old, the horns make their appearance, and at first are not nearly as hook-shaped as they afterwards become. When full-grown, it stands at the shoulder about two feet from the ground. The hind-legs being longer than the fore-legs, its gait is awkward on level ground, but they are admirably suited for mountain climbing. When at full speed, it can check itself almost instantly, and can spring with wonderful agility. Its hoofs are not well adapted for traversing the ice, and therefore it avoids glaciers as far as possible. Having a great fear of concealed crevasses, it is very shy of venturing on the upper part of a glacier; and the tracks which it leaves in these places often show by their windings and sudden turnings that the animal has exercised great caution. And so travellers often use this as a useful clue to getting safely over a glacier. Its agility is something extraordinary. It can spring across chasms six or seven yards wide, and "with a sudden bound leap up the face of a perpendicular rock, and merely touching it with its hoofs, rebound again in an opposite direction to some higher crag, and thus escape from a spot where, without wings, egress seemed impossible. When reaching upwards on its hind-legs, the fore-legs resting on some higher spot, it is able to stretch to a considerable distance, and with a quick spring bring up its hind-quarters to a level with the rest of the body, and with all four hoofs together, stand poised on a point of rock not broader than your hand."[19] The chamois feed on various mountain herbs, and on the buds and sprouts of the rhododendron and latschen (a pine). At night they couch among the broken rocks high upon the mountains, descending at daybreak to pasture, and retreating, as the heat increases, towards their fastnesses. When winter comes, they are forced down to the higher forests, where they pick up a scanty subsistence from moss, dead leaves, and the fibrous lichen which hangs in long yellowish-grey tufts from the fir-trees and bears the name of "chamois-beard." While browsing on this, they sometimes get their horns hooked in a bough, and so, being unable to disentangle themselves, perish with hunger. The senses of hearing, smell, and sight are exceedingly acute; so that the hunter must exercise all his craft to approach the animals. Pages might be filled with the hair-breadth escapes and fearful accidents which have befallen hunters; and yet they find the pursuit so fascinating that nothing will induce them to abandon it. A young peasant told the famous De Saussure (the pioneer of Alpine explorers) that though his father and grandfather before him had met their death while out on the hunt, not even the offer of a fortune would tempt him to change his vocation. The bag which he carried with him he called his winding-sheet, because he felt sure he would never have any other. Two years afterwards he was found dead at the foot of a precipice. [19] Bonar on Chamois-hunting in Bavaria. The bouquetin, or steinbock, once abundant throughout the greater part of the Alps, is now confined to certain parts where it is preserved by the King of Italy. De Saussure observes that in his time they had ceased to be found near Chamouni. Its whole build is remarkably strong, giving it quite a different appearance from the slender and graceful chamois. [Illustration: RED DEER. AFTER ANSDELL.] The roe, the fallow deer, and the red deer have, it is said, quite disappeared from the French and Swiss Alps, but all of them occur in the Bavarian and Austrian highlands. They frequent the forests which clothe the lower slopes, and do not often wander into the more rocky districts. The wild boar only now and then appears across the Rhine, although it is common in the Subalpine forests farther east; but we can hardly consider it a true Alpine quadruped. Passing on to the birds which frequent the Alps, we must first notice the bearded vulture, the lämmergeier of the Germans, which once was common, but now only holds its own here and there in some lonely mountain fastness. Although preferring living prey to carrion, still in many ways it is closely allied to the true vulture. The upper part of the body is a greyish-brown hue, the under side white, tinged with reddish brown. The nest, built on a high ledge of rock, consists of straw and fern, resting on sticks, on which are placed branches lined with moss and down. It is a rare thing for the traveller to obtain a view of this monarch of the Alpine birds. Like the true vulture, its digestive powers are marvellous. According to Tschudi ("Les Alpes"), the stomach of one of these birds was found to contain five fragments of a cow's rib, a mass of matted wool and hair, and the leg of a kid perfect from the knee downwards. Another had bolted a fox's rib fifteen inches long, as well as the brush, besides a number of bones and other indigestible parts of smaller animals, which were slowly being eaten away by the gastric juice. Sheep, goats, full-grown chamois, and smaller quadrupeds are eagerly devoured by this voracious bird. It is said to be bold enough to attack a man, when it finds him asleep or climbing in any dangerous place. Tschudi, in his book on the Alps, gives several instances of young children being carried off. One of these happened in the Bernese Oberland, as follows: Two peasants, making hay upon the pastures, had taken with them their daughter Anna, a child about three years old. She quickly fell asleep on the turf near the hay châlet; so the father put his broad-brimmed hat over her face, and went to work some little way off. On his return with a load of hay the child was gone; and a brief search showed that she was nowhere near. Just at this time a peasant walking along a rough path in the glen was startled by the cry of a child, and going towards the place whence it came, saw a lämmergeier rise from a neighbouring summit and hover for some time over a precipice. On climbing thither in all haste, he found the child lying on the very brink. She was but little injured; some scratches were found on her hands and on the left arm, by which she had been seized; and she had been carried more than three quarters of a mile through the air. She lived to a good old age, and was always called the Geier-Anna, or Vulture's Annie, in memory of her escape. The particulars are inscribed in the registers of the parish of Habkeren. The golden eagle is not uncommon in most parts of the Alps, although travellers rarely obtain a near view. It is said to be very fond of hares, chasing and capturing them very cleverly. As in Great Britain, it is accused of carrying off children; but this is at least doubtful. The kite, buzzard and falcon are occasionally seen. There are at least ten species of owls, among which is the magnificent eagle-owl. The raven is found in the lonelier glens, and is often tamed. Its thieving propensities are very amusing. Alpine birds of prey correspond very closely with British. The jackdaw is also common. It would be impossible within our short limits to give a complete list of Swiss birds, but we may mention among others the nutcracker, the jay, the white-breasted swift, the wheatear, the common black redstart, the beautiful wall-creeper, and the snow-finch, which mounts to the borders of the snow. Of game-birds we may mention the capercailze, the black grouse, and the hazel grouse, all of which are common in many of the forests. The ptarmigan haunts the stony tracts on the borders of perpetual snow. In winter it turns white, and in summer greyish-brown, though a good deal of white remains. Pheasants and partridges cannot be said to be Alpine birds; but the Greek partridge may be so considered. Numbers of the mountain streams and tarns contain excellent trout, and most of the larger lakes are well stocked with fish. Some of the trout of the Swiss and Italian lakes are of great size. The pike frequently weigh twelve to fifteen pounds. Reptiles are not numerous. The common frog, which is said to be found as high as ten thousand feet above the sea, swarms in some parts of the Rhone Valley. Of true lizards, five species have been recognized. The blind-worm (which is not a snake), so common on many of our English heaths, is often met with. Among the true snakes we find the English ringed snake--quite harmless--and two adders. The common adder is found at a height of seven thousand feet above the sea. Lower forms of life not possessing a backbone (invertebrates) abound in this region; but they are far too numerous to be considered here. Butterflies and moths are abundant; and many of those which are rare in England are common in the Alps, so that the entomologist finds a happy hunting-ground. The beautiful swallowtail and the handsome apollo, coppers, painted ladies, fritillaries, and many other Lepidoptera thrive in these regions, and are less easily frightened than at home in England. PART II. HOW THE MOUNTAINS WERE MADE. Part II. HOW THE MOUNTAINS WERE MADE. CHAPTER V. HOW THE MATERIALS WERE BROUGHT TOGETHER. These changes in the heavens, though slow, produce Like change on sea and land. MILTON Probably every mountain climber, resting for a brief space on a loose boulder, or seeking the shade of some overhanging piece of rock, has often asked himself, "How were all these rocks made?" The question must occur again and again to any intelligent person on visiting a mountain for the first time, or even on seeing a mountain-range in the distance. He may well ask his companions how these great ramparts of the earth were built up. But unless he possesses some knowledge of the science of geology, which tells of the manifold changes which in former ages have taken place on the earth, or unless, in the absence of such knowledge, he chance to meet with a geologist, his question probably remains unanswered. Such questions, however, can be very satisfactorily answered,--thanks to the labours of zealous seekers after truth, who have given the best part of their lives to studying the rocks which are found everywhere on the surface of the earth, and the changes they undergo. Geology is a truly English science; and Englishmen may well cherish gratefully the memories of its pioneers,--Hutton, Playfair, Lyell, and others, who have made the way so clear for future explorers. The story of the hills as written on their own rocky tablets and on the very boulders lying loose on their sloping sides, and interpreted by geologists, is a long one; for it takes us far back into the dim ages of the past, and like the fashionable novel, may be divided into three parts, or volumes. To those who follow the stony science it is quite as fascinating as a modern romance, and a great deal more wonderful, thus illustrating the force of the old saying, "Truth is stranger than fiction." The three parts of our story may be best expressed by the three following inquiries: I. How were the materials of which mountains are built up brought together and made into hard rock? II. How were they raised up into the elevated positions in which we now find them? III. How were they carved out into all their wonderful and beautiful features of crag and precipice, peaks and passes? A mountain group, with its central peak or spire, its long ridges, steep walls, towers, buttresses, dark hollows, and carved pinnacles standing out against the sky, has well been compared to a great and stately building such as a cathedral or a temple. Mountains are indeed "a great and noble architecture, giving first shelter, comfort, and rest, but covered also with mighty sculpture and painted legend;" and to many they are Nature's shrines, where men may offer their humble praises and prayers to the great Architect who reared them for His children. We have introduced this illustration because it will help us in our inquiry. Suppose we were standing in front of some great cathedral, such as Milan, with all its marble pinnacles, or Notre Dame, with its stately towers, or the minsters of York or Durham in our own country, and trying to picture to ourselves how it was built. No one has lived long enough to watch the completion of one of these great buildings; but for all that, we know pretty well how it was made, even by watching the builder's operations for a short time, or by following, as we often may, the various stages in the construction of a small house. So it is with Nature's work. We cannot, in our little lives, witness the rearing of a great mountain-chain, or even the carving of a single hill; but we can observe for ourselves the slow and continuous operations which in the course of thousands and thousands of years produce such stupendous results. We may learn how the building operations are conducted, though the final results will only be manifested in the far-distant future. But to return to our cathedral. If we try to picture to ourselves the long years during which it was covered with scaffolding and surrounded by a busy army of workers, we shall soon perceive that the operations may be broadly divided into three heads. _First_, we must inquire how the separate stones of which it is composed were brought together into one place, and we shall at once picture to ourselves groups of men working in stone-quarries,--perhaps a long way off,--busy with their crowbars and hammers, breaking off large blocks of stone, and following the natural divisions of the rock that their rough labour may be lessened; for all rocks will split more easily along certain lines than along others. Sometimes it is easier to follow the "bedding," or natural layers in which the rock was formed; at other times the "joints," or cracks subsequently formed as the rocky materials hardened and contracted in bulk, afford easier lines for the workmen to follow. Others are busily engaged in placing the stony blocks on trollies drawn by horses, that they may be borne along the roads leading from the quarry to the site of the future cathedral. And so, taking a bird's-eye view, we seem to see horses and carts slowly moving on from many a distant quarry, but all converging like the branches of a river to one main channel, and finally depositing their burdens in the stone-yard where the masons are at work. Perhaps bricks are partly employed, in which case we can easily picture to ourselves the brickyards, where some are digging out the soft clay, others moulding it into bricks with wooden moulds, while others again lay them down in rows on the ground to dry, before they are baked in the ovens. And when the bricks are ready for use, the same means of transportation are employed; and cart-loads of them are borne along the country roads until they so reach their destination. Now, all this may be summed up in the one word "transportation;" and we shall presently inquire how the rocky matter of which the mountains are built was transported. _Secondly._ We have to inquire how the bricks and stones were raised up. The analogy is not quite perfect in this case; for the mountains were raised up _en bloc_, not bit by bit and stone by stone, as in the case of the cathedral. Still they have been raised somehow. Analogies are seldom complete in every detail; but for all that, our illustration serves well enough, and will help us in following the various processes of mountain building. In these days, the raising of the stones is mostly effected by steam-power applied to big cranes and pulleys. In old days they used cranes and pulleys, but the ropes were pulled by hand-power. In either case the work proceeds slowly; and we can easily picture to ourselves the daily raising of the stones of which the cathedral is composed. "What were the forces at work which slowly raised the mountains?" This question we will endeavour to answer later on (see next chapter). This work may be included in the one word, "elevation." _And lastly._ We must inquire how the carving of the stately building was effected, how its pinnacles received their shape, and how all those lovely details received their final forms; how the intricate traceries of its windows were made, and the statues carved which adorn its solemn portals. This question is easily answered, for we are all more or less familiar with what goes on in a stone-mason's yard. Under those wooden sheds we see a number of skilled labourers at work, busy with their chisels and mallets, cutting out, according to the patterns made from the architect's detailed drawings, the portions of tracery for windows, or the finials, crockets, and other features of the future building. In another part of the yard may be seen the stone-cutters, working in pairs and slowly pulling backwards and forwards those long saws which, with the help of water and sand, in time cut through the biggest blocks. All this work then may be summed up under the one word, "ornamentation," for it includes the cutting and carving of the stone. Our three lines of inquiry may now be summed up in these three words, which are easily remembered:-- _Transportation_, _Elevation_, _Ornamentation_. Taking the first of these subjects for consideration in the present chapter, we have now to inquire into the nature of the materials of which mountains are composed and the means by which they have been brought together and compacted into hard rock. First, with regard to the nature of the materials which Mother Earth uses to build her rocky ramparts: they are the same as the ordinary rocks of which the earth's crust is composed; and the greater part of them have been formed by the action of water. These are the ordinary "stratified" rocks, which in one form or another meet us almost everywhere, and may be said to be aqueous deposits, or sediments formed in seas and inland lakes. They are always arranged in layers, known to geologists as "strata," because they have been gently laid down, or strewn (Latin, _stratum_), at the bottom of some large body of water. There were pauses in the deposition of the materials, during which each layer had time to harden a little before the next one was formed. This accounts for the stratification. In this way great deposits of sandstone, clay, and limestone, with their numerous varieties, have been in the course of ages gradually piled up, till they have attained to enormous thickness, which at first sight seem almost incredible; but the bed of the seas in which they formed was probably undergoing a slow sinking process that kept pace with the growth of these deposits, otherwise the sea might have been more or less filled up. And these processes are still going on. In fact, it is entirely by watching what goes on now that geologists are able to explain what took place a very long time ago when there were no human beings on the earth to record the events that took place. And so we argue from the present to the past, from the known to the unknown. In other words, geology is based upon physical geography, which tells us of the changes now in progress on the earth. Thus, sandstone, as frequently met with in different parts of Great Britain, and largely used for building purposes, such as the familiar old red sandstone[20] of South Wales, Hereford, and the north of England and different parts of Scotland, was once soft sand in no way at all different from the sand of the seashore at the present day, or of the sandy bed of the North Sea. In process of time it became hardened, and acquired its characteristic red colour, which is due to oxide of iron. In some places numerous fossil fishes have been discovered in this interesting formation, so intimately associated with the name of Hugh Miller, who first thoroughly explored it; these and other remains entombed therein tell us of the strange forms of life which flourished on the earth during that very old-fashioned period of the world's history; and by putting together all kinds of evidences derived from the rock itself, geologists are able to form a very good idea of the way in which this rock-deposit was accumulated, always, however, basing their conclusions on a thorough knowledge of what goes on at the present day in seas, rivers, and inland lakes. [20] The reader will find an account of the old red sandstone in the writer's "Autobiography of the Earth" (Edward Stanford, 1890). In the great series of stratified rocks forming what is commonly called the crust of the earth (an unfortunate term which has survived from the time when the interior of the earth was generally believed to be in a fiery molten condition, and covered by a thin coating of solid rock at the surface), there are besides the sandstones, of which we have just spoken, great deposits of dark-coloured clays, shales, and slates. All these can be accounted for by the geologist. They are simply different states of what was once soft mud. The slates tell us that they have been subjected to very severe pressure, which squeezed their particles till they were elongated and all arranged in one direction, and this is the reason why they split up into thin sheets. Others, again, represent vast deposits of carbonate of lime, thousands of feet thick and now occupying hundreds of square miles of the earth's surface. Limestone rocks are as abundant in our own country as the sandstones, shales, or slates. The chalk of which the North and South Downs are composed is a familiar example. It is seen again forming Salisbury Plain, in Hampshire and the Isle of Wight, and then it may be traced running up the country in a long band through the counties of Oxford, Cambridge, Lincoln, until it reaches the coast at Flamborough Head in Yorkshire. Then we have the Bath Oölites so much used in building, for they form an admirable "freestone" that can be easily carved and cut in any direction (hence the term "freestone"); and lastly, the great mountain limestone so well developed in South Wales, Yorkshire, and the Lake country. All these were slowly built up at the bottom of the seas which existed in past ages; great beds of gravel formed at the mouths of rivers, and long banks of pebbles and rounded stones collected on the shore of primeval seas, and were ground against each other as now by the action of the waves, until all their corners were rubbed off. Pebble-beds, called by geologists conglomerates, are met with among the stratified rocks; and their story is easily read by studying what takes place at the present day on our seashores. [Illustration: CHALK ROCKS, FLAMBOROUGH HEAD. FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY G. W. WILSON.] Now, the sandstones, clays, gravels, and pebble-beds all represent, as will presently be explained, so much material worn away from the surface of the land and swept into the ocean (or in some cases into inland seas and lakes) by streams and rivers, which are the great transporting agents of the world. Hence such deposits of débris, supplied by the constant wear and tear of all rocks exposed to the atmosphere, are truly sedimentary and have a purely mechanical origin. But it is not so with the limestones. The latter were never transported, but grew at the bottom of the sea in very wonderful ways. They have nothing to do with the wear and tear of the land to which the others owe their existence, but represent vast quantities of carbonate of lime extracted from sea water. Sea water contains a certain amount of this substance in a dissolved state, or "in solution," as a chemist would say; and the way in which this is extracted by the agency of various creatures, such as coral polypes and little microscopic creatures that build their shells of carbonate of lime, of great beauty, forms one of the most interesting subjects presented to the student of physical geography. Hence, since limestone can only be accounted for by the agency of living organisms,[21] it is rightly termed an _organic deposit_, and the others are said to be _mechanical deposits_. But both are called "aqueous rocks," because they are formed under water. It is important to distinguish clearly between these two very different methods of rock-formation. [21] The flints usually found in limestone are also of organic origin. But although water plays such a very important part in the making of the common rocks around us, yet there are others which have quite a different origin,--rocks which have come up from below the surface of the earth in a heated and molten condition, such as the lavas that flow from volcanoes in active eruptions and the showers of ashes and fine volcanic dust which often attend such eruptions (see chap. viii., pp. 271-272). Some highly heated rocks, though they never rise to the surface to form lava-flows, are forced up with overwhelming pressure from below, and wedge themselves into the sedimentary rocks that overlie them, thus forming what are known as volcanic dykes, and intrusive masses or sheets of once molten rock. In this category we include such rocks as basalt, felstone, pitchstone, and other rocks of fiery origin that have flowed from volcanoes as lava, as well as those like granite, which have cooled and become solid _below_ the surface, and are Plutonic, or deep-seated, igneous rocks. Granite may be exposed to the surface of the earth when the rocks which once overlaid it have been worn away or "denuded." It is frequently seen in the central regions of mountain-chains, where a vast amount of erosion has been effected. Thus we see that heat has played its part in the making of rocks; and for this reason such rocks as we have just mentioned are called _igneous_. Fire and water are therefore very important geological agents; but we should say heat rather than fire, because the latter word might convey a false impression. No rocks can be burned except coal, which may be considered rather as a mineral deposit than as a rock. Some rocks may be heated, and undergo many and various changes in their mineral composition; but they are not capable of combustion. So far, then, we have learned that the rocks exposed to view on the surface of the earth may be divided into two classes; that is, aqueous and igneous. There is yet a third class, which, though of aqueous origin, has in course of time suffered considerable from the internal heat of the earth and the enormous pressure due to the weight of overlying rocks. Such rocks have been greatly changed from their original condition, both in appearance and in mineral composition, and are said to be "metamorphic," a word which implies change. Thus chalk, or other limestone rock, has been metamorphosed into marble; shales and slates into various kinds of "schists,"[22] such as mica-schist, and even into gneiss, which closely resembles granite. And it is quite possible that even granite may in some cases be the result of the melting and consolidation under great pressure of certain familiar stratified rocks. It is quite conceivable that slate might be converted into granite, for their chemical composition is similar, only the minerals of which it is composed would require to be rearranged and grouped into new compounds. This would seem quite possible; but at present we have no direct proof of such a change having taken place. Even igneous rocks are found in some places to have suffered very considerable change. [22] Schists are so named from their property of splitting into thin layers. Their structure is crystalline; and the layers, or folia, consist usually of two or more minerals, but sometimes of only one. Thus mica-schist consists of quartz and mica, each arranged in many folia, but it splits along the layers of mica. In some inland seas, like the Caspian Sea, deposits of rock salt and gypsum may be formed by chemical precipitation, owing to evaporation from the surface. The various kinds of rock known to geologists may be conveniently arranged as follows: { { Clay, shale, slate, etc. { I. Sedimentary. { Sandstones. { { Conglomerates. { Rocks of { { Limestones. aqueous { II. Organic. { Flint. origin. { { Coal. { { III. Chemical. { Rock salt. { { Gypsum, etc. { I. Volcanic. { Lavas. Rocks of { { Volcanic ashes, etc. igneous origin. { { II. Plutonic. { Basalt. { { Granite. Metamorphic rocks { Marbles. of aqueous and { Various kinds of schists. igneous origin. { Gneiss, etc. So far we have only attempted to state very briefly the different kinds of rocks, and to point out that they were formed in various ways. We must now consider the question of rock-making more closely, and see what we can learn about the wonderful ways in which rocks are made; and it may be instructive to glance at the conflicting opinions on this subject which learned men held not very long ago. At the end of the last century a great controversy took place on the question of the origin of rocks, and the learned men of the day were divided into two parties. One of these parties, following the teaching of Werner, professor of mining at Freyburg, who inspired great enthusiasm among his disciples, declared that all rocks were formed by the agency of water. This was a very sweeping and of course rash conclusion. But whenever they examined rocks, they found so many clear evidences of the action of water that a powerful impression of the importance of this agency was naturally made on their minds. They found rocks uniformly arranged in great layers which extended for long distances, and containing the remains of animals which must undoubtedly have lived in the seas or estuaries. These layers were further divided into smaller layers, such as clearly were formed by the slow settling down of sand and mud. Others again contained gravels and rounded pebbles, testifying in no uncertain way to the action of water. Even the little grains of sand are obviously water-worn. This teaching was quite sound so long as they confined their attention to clays, sandstones, and limestones; but when they came to basalt and granite, a blind adherence to the views of their master caused them to shut their eyes to the clear evidences of the action of heat, presented by such rocks. The crystalline structure of such rocks; their irregular arrangement, often so different from the uniform disposition of the stratified rocks (although it must be admitted that ancient lava-flows often lie very evenly between aqueous rocks), and the way in which they burst through overlying rocks, thus proving their former molten condition; the signs of alteration exhibited in the aqueous rocks into which they intruded themselves (changes which are obviously due to the action of heat),--these and other evidences were entirely overlooked, and Werner declared that basalt had been found as a sediment under water. This school of geologists, believing so strongly in the all-powerful influence of Father Neptune, received the not inappropriate title of "Neptunists." On the other hand, the party who happened to be in districts where granite, basalt, and such igneous rocks abounded were equally impressed with the importance of the powerful agency of heat. To them nearly every rock they met with seemed to show some signs of its action. And since Pluto was the classical deity of the lower regions, and the earth shows evidences in places of greater heat below the surface, this party received the title of "Plutonists;" and so the battle raged hotly for some time between the Neptunists, with their claims for cold water, and the fiery Plutonists of the rival school of Edinburgh, with their subterranean heat. Fire and water are never likely to agree; and they did not do so in this case. But now that the battle is over, and both sides are found to have been partly right and partly wrong,--though the Neptunists have the advantage,--we can afford to smile at the fierceness of the contest, and wonder how it was that each side thought they were so entirely in the right. Let us now consider the aqueous rocks, and see if we can gain a clear idea of the ways in which they were formed; and first, we will take those of a purely sedimentary origin,--the sandstones, pebble-beds, gravels, and clays. These, as the reader has already probably guessed, have all been transported by means of streams and rivers, and settled down quietly in seas at the mouths of rivers or in inland lakes. There is no trace of the action of heat in the forming of these rocks, though they often show signs of having suffered more or less change from contact with highly heated igneous rocks of later date which forcibly intruded themselves from below; and if the change thus effected were considerable, we should call the rocks so altered metamorphic. But we are now dealing with their original state and how they were made; and of that there is no possible doubt whatever. So for the time being we may call ourselves Neptunists. Streams and rivers are the great transporting agents whereby the never-failing supply of débris from the waste of the land is unceasingly brought down from the mountains and hills, through the broad valleys and along the great plains, until finally it is flung into the sea. The sea is the workshop where all the sedimentary rocks are slowly manufactured from the raw material brought to it by the rivers. But for the present we must confine our attention to the question of transport. Referring back to our illustration of the cathedral, we may say that streams and rivers play the part of cart and horses. They bring the materials down from the quarry to the scene of action,--the workshop where they are wanted. The quarries, in this case, may be said to be almost everywhere. For wherever rocks and soil are exposed to the action of wind and weather, there is certain to be more or less decay and crumbling away. But it is among the hills and in the higher parts of the mountains that the forces of destruction are most active. How this is brought about will be discussed in the seventh chapter, on the carving of the hills. The frequent slopes covered with loose stones are sufficient evidence of the continual destruction that takes place in these regions. The transporting powers of rivers are truly prodigious. Looking at a stream or river after heavy rain, we see its waters heavily laden with mud and sand; but it is difficult to realise from a casual glance the vast amount of material that is thus brought down to lower levels. If we could trace the sediment to its source, we must seek it among the rocks of mountains far away. Step by step we may trace it up along the higher courses of the river, then along mountain streams rushing over their rocky beds, tumbling in cascades over broken rocks, or leaping in waterfalls over higher projections of rock, until we come to the deep furrows on the sides of mountains along which loose fragments of rock come tumbling down with the cascades of water that run along these steep channels after heavy rain, leaving at the base of the mountain great fan-shaped heaps of stones. "Oft both slope and hill are torn Where wintry torrents down have borne, And heaped upon the cumbered land Its wreck of gravel, rocks, and sand." These accumulations are gradually carried away by the larger mountain streams, which in hurrying them along cause a vast amount of wear and tear; so that their corners are worn off, and they get further and further reduced in size, becoming mere round pebbles lining the bed of the stream, and finally by the time they reach the large slow-moving rivers of the plains are mainly reduced to tiny specks of mud or grains of sand. So then the rivers and streams not only transport sediment, but they manufacture it as they go along. And thus they may be considered as great grinding-mills, where large pieces of stone go in at one end, and only fine sand and mud come out at the other. The amount of land débris thus transported depends partly on the carrying power of rivers, which varies with the seasons and the annual rainfall; partly on the size of the area drained by a river; and again, partly on the nature of the rocks of which that area is composed. A stream, moving along at the rate of about half a mile (880 yards) an hour, which is a slow, rate, can carry along ordinary sandy soil suspended in a cloud-like fashion in the water; when moving at the rate of two thirds of a mile (about 1,173 yards) an hour, it can roll fine gravel along its bed; but when the rate increases to a yard in a second, or a little more than two miles an hour, it can sweep along angular stones as large as an egg. But streams often flow much faster than this, and so do rivers when swollen by heavy rain. A rapid torrent often flows at the rate of eighteen or twenty miles an hour, and then we may hear the stones rattling against each other as they are irresistibly rolled onward; and during very heavy floods, huge masses of rock as large as a house have been known to be moved. These are the two principal ways in which streams and rivers act as transporting agents: they carry the finer materials in a suspended state (though partly drifting it along their beds); and they push the coarser materials, such as gravel, bodily along. But there is one other way in which they carry on the important work of transportation, which, being unseen, might easily escape our notice. Every spring is busily employed in bringing up to the surface mineral substances which the water has dissolved out of the underground rocks. This invisible material finds its way, as the springs do, to the rivers, and so finally is brought into that great reservoir, the sea. Rain and river water also dissolve a certain amount of mineral matter from rocks lying on the surface of the earth. Now, the material which is most easily dissolved is carbonate of lime. Hence if you take a small quantity of spring or river water and boil it until the whole is evaporated, you will find that it leaves behind a certain amount of deposit. This, when analysed by the chemist, proves to be chiefly carbonate of lime; but it also contains minute quantities of other minerals, such as common salt, potash, soda, oxide of iron, and silica, or flint. All these and other minerals are found to be present in sea water. The waters of some of the great rivers of the world have been carefully examined at different times, in order to form some idea of the amount of solid matter which they contain, both dissolved and suspended; and the results are extremely important and interesting, for they enable us to form definite conclusions with regard to their capacity for transport. This subject has been investigated with great skill by eminent men of science. The problem is a very complicated one; but it is easy to see that if we know roughly the number of gallons of water annually discharged into the sea by a big river, and the average amount of solid matter contained in such a gallon of water, we have the means of calculating, by a simple process of multiplication, the amount of solid matter annually brought down to the sea by that river. But we must also add the amount of sand, gravel, and stones pushed along its bed. This may be roughly estimated and allowed for. These are some of the results: The amount of solid matter discharged every year by that great river, the Mississippi, if piled up on a single square mile of the bed of the sea,--say, in the Gulf of Mexico, where that river discharges itself,--would make a great square-shaped pile 268 feet high. But the Gulf Stream, sweeping through this gulf, carries the materials for many and many a mile away; so that in course of time it gradually sinks and spreads itself as a fine film or layer over part of the great Atlantic Ocean. The mud brought down by the great river Amazon spreads so far into the Atlantic Ocean as to discolour the water even at a distance of three hundred miles. The Ganges and the Brahmapootra, flowing into the Bay of Bengal, discharge every year into that part of the Indian Ocean 6,368,000,000 cubic feet of solid matter. This material would in one year raise a space of fifteen square miles one foot in height. The weight of mud, etc., that these rivers bring down is sixty times that of the Great Pyramid of Egypt, or about six million tons. Or, to put the matter in another way, if a fleet of more than eighty "Indiamen," each with a cargo of fourteen hundred tons of solid matter, sailed down every hour, night and day, for four months, and discharged their burdens into the waters of the Indian Ocean, they would only do what the mighty Ganges does quietly and easily in the four months of the flood season. It is probable that even the Thames, a small river compared to those just mentioned, manages to bring down, in one way or another, fourteen million cubic feet of solid matter. These few figures may suffice to give the reader some idea of the enormous amount of rock-forming materials brought down to the seas at the present day. Of course they are spread out far and wide by the numerous ocean currents, some of which flow for hundreds of miles; and so the bed of the sea can only be very slowly raised by their accumulation. Still the geologist can allow plenty of time, for there is no doubt that the world is immensely old; and if we allow thousands of years, we may easily comprehend that deposits of very considerable thickness may in this way accumulate on the floors of the oceans. Also the coasts of continents and islands suffer continual wear and tear at the hands of sea waves; and thus the supply of sediment is increased. When the geologist comes to study the great rock-masses--hundreds, and even thousands, of feet in thickness--of which mountain-ranges are composed, he finds all those kinds of rock which we have just been considering,--sandstones, shales (or hardened clays), pebble-beds, and limestones,--and endeavours to picture to himself their gradual growth in the ways we have described. In so doing, he is driven to the conclusion that many thousands of years must have been occupied in their construction. We must now say a few words about those other aqueous rocks which have an organic origin, of which limestone is the chief. It is indeed a startling conclusion that deposits of great thickness, and ranging for very many miles over the earth's surface, have been slowly built up through the agency of marine animals extracting carbonate of lime from the sea. Yet such is undoubtedly the case. Of this important process of rock-building coral reefs are the most familiar example. The great barrier reef along the northeast coast of Australia is about 1,250 miles long, from ten to ninety miles in width, and rises at its seaward edge from depths which in some places certainly exceed eighteen hundred feet. It may be likened to a great submarine wall. Now, all this solid masonry is the work of humble coral polypes (not "insects"), building up their own internal framework or skeleton by extracting carbonate of lime from sea water. Then the breakers dashing against coral reefs produce, by their grinding action, a great deal of fine "coral-sand" and calcareous mud, which covers the surrounding bed of the sea for many miles. Now, geologists find that some limestone formations met with in the stratified rocks have certainly been formed in this way; for example, certain parts of the great "mountain limestone." This is proved by the fossil corals it contains, and by tracing the old coral reefs; but it is also largely formed by the remains of other graceful calcareous creatures known as encrinites, or "sea-lilies," with long branching arms that waved in the clear water. Such creatures still exist in some deeper parts of the sea, and look more like plants than animals. In former ages they existed in great abundance, and so played an important part as rock-formers,--for their stems, branches, and all are made of little plates of carbonate of lime, beautifully fitting together like the separate bones, or vertebræ, composing the backbone of a fish; and when the creatures died, these little plates no longer held together, but were scattered on the floor of the sea-bed. Shell-fish abounded too, and their shelly remains accumulated into regular shell-beds in some places. But at times mud and sand would come and cover over all these organic deposits. But of all rocks that have an organic origin, chalk is the most interesting. Geologists were for a long time puzzled to know how this rock could have been formed; but some soundings made in the Atlantic Ocean previous to the laying of the first Atlantic cable led to a very important discovery, which at once threw a flood of light on the question. Samples of the mud lying on the bed of this ocean at considerable distances from the European and American coasts, and at depths varying from one thousand to three thousand fathoms, were brought up by sounding apparatus. Little was it thought that the dull grey ooze covering a large part of the Atlantic bed would bring a message from the depths of the sea, and furnish the answer to a great geological problem. Yet such was the case; for under the microscope this mud was seen to be chiefly composed of very minute and very beautiful shells, now known as _foraminifera_, and much prized by microscopists. These tiny shells are found at or near the surface of the sea; and after the death of the creatures that inhabit them (which are only lumps of protoplasm with no organs of any kind), the shells slowly sink down to the bed of the ocean. Now, these creatures multiply at so inconceivable a rate that a continuous shower of dead shells seems to be taking place, and the result is the slow accumulation over vast areas of the Atlantic and Pacific oceans of a great deposit of calcareous ooze, which if raised above the sea-level would harden into a rock very similar to chalk. [Illustration: MICROPHOTOGRAPHS ILLUSTRATING ROCK FORMATION. I. Foraminifera. II. Section of Granite. III. Nummulitic Limestone.] But this process only takes place in the deeper parts of our seas, far removed from land, where the supply of land-derived materials fails,--for even the finest mud supplied by rivers probably all settles down before travelling two or three hundred miles from its native shores. Thus we learn that when one agency fails, Nature makes use of another to take up the important work of rock-building. How the other rocks which we mentioned in our list were formed,--such as granite, basalt, and the metamorphic rocks,--we must explain in a future chapter dealing with volcanoes and their work. CHAPTER VI. HOW THE MOUNTAINS WERE UPHEAVED. The notion that the ground is naturally steadfast is an error,--an error which arises from the incapacity of our senses to appreciate any but the most palpable, and at the same time most exceptional, of its movements. The idea of _terra firma_ belongs with the ancient belief that the earth was the centre of the universe. It is, indeed, by their mobility that the continents survive the increasing assaults of the ocean waves, and the continuous down-wearing which the rivers and glaciers bring about.--PROFESSOR SHALER. We have found out the quarries which supplied the rocky framework of mountains, and have learned how the work of transporting these vast quantities of stone was accomplished by the agency of ever-flowing glaciers, rivers, and streams. We must now consider the second stage of the work, and inquire how the mountains were raised up. Referring back to our illustration of the cathedral (see pages 143-147), it will be remembered that this work was included under the head of _Elevation_. But perhaps some one might ask: "How do you know that the mountains have been elevated or upheaved? Is it not enough to suppose that they owe their height entirely to the fact that they are composed of harder rock, and so have been more successful in resisting the universal decay and destruction?" Now, such an objection contains a good deal of truth, for mountains _are_ formed of hard rocks; but at the same time we know that the agents of denudation are more active among them than on the plains below, so that, in the higher mountain regions at least, the work of demolition may actually proceed faster than it does on low ground. Mountains are higher than the rest of the world, not merely because they are built of more lasting material, but also because they have been uplifted for thousands of feet above the level of the sea; and the evidence of their upheaval is so plain as to be entirely beyond doubt. Let us inquire into the nature of this evidence. We have seen that the rocks of which mountains are composed were for the most part formed at the bottom of the sea. When the geologist finds, as he frequently does, buried in mountain rocks the fossil remains of creatures that must have lived in the sea (and often very similar to those living there now), he is compelled to think of the gigantic upheavals that must have taken place before those remains could arrive at their present elevated position. Numerous examples might be given; but we will only mention three. In the Alps marine fossils have been detected at a height of 10,000 feet above sea-level, in the Himalayas at a height of 16,500 feet, and in the Rocky Mountains at a height of 11,000 feet. Again we must take it for granted that all the stratified or sedimentary rocks (see pages 148-149) with some trivial exceptions, such as beds of shingle and conglomerates, have been formed in horizontal layers. This is one of the simple axioms of geology to which every one must assent. Now, if we find in various parts of the continents, and especially among the mountains, such strata sloping or "dipping" in various directions, sometimes only slightly, but sometimes very steeply,--nay, even standing up on end,--the conclusion that they have been upheaved and pushed or squeezed into these various positions by some subsequent process is irresistible. But this is not all; for in every mountain region we find that the rocks have been crumpled, twisted, and folded in a most marvellous manner. Solid sheets of limestone may be seen, as it were, to writhe from the base to the summit of a mountain; yet they present everywhere their truncated ends to the air, and from their incompleteness it is easy to see what a vast amount of material has been worn away, leaving, as it were, mere fragments behind. The whole geological aspect of the Alps (for example) is suggestive of intense commotion; and they remain a marvellous monument of stupendous earth-throes, followed by prolonged and gigantic denudation (see diagrams, chap. ix., p. 307). There are certain features found in all mountain-chains which must be carefully borne in mind, especially when we are considering the explanations that have been suggested with regard to their upheaval. These may be briefly stated as follows:-- 1. Mountain-chains tend to run in straight or gently curving lines. 2. Their breadth is small compared to their length, and their height smaller still. 3. They rise sharply and are clearly marked off from the country on either side. 4. They form the backbones of continents. 5. The rocks of which they are composed have been greatly disturbed, folded, and contorted. 6. There is often a band of crystalline rocks (granite, gneiss, etc.) running along the centre of a high range. 7. They are connected with lines of volcanoes. 8. They are frequently affected by earthquakes. Having arrived at the conclusion that the mountains show evident signs of upheaval, let us proceed to inquire whether any movements, either upward or downward, are taking place now on the earth, or can be proved to have done so within comparatively recent times. On this question there is ample evidence at our disposal. More than one hundred and thirty years ago, Celsius, the Swedish astronomer, was aware, from the unanimous testimony of the inhabitants of the sea-coasts, that the Gulf of Bothnia was constantly diminishing both in depth and extent. He resorted to measurements in order to prove (as he thought) that the waters of the Baltic were changing their level. This was a mistaken idea; and we now understand that the level of the sea does not change, except under the influence of the daily rise and fall of the tide, which is easily allowed for. However, that was the idea then; and it survived for some time. But if the sea-level were continually sinking, the water, which, owing to the influence of gravitation, must always remain horizontal, would equally retreat all round the Scandinavian peninsula and on all our seashores. But this is not the case. Again, it would be impossible on this theory to explain the curious fact that in some parts of the world the sea is gaining on the land, while in other places it is as surely retreating; for we cannot believe that in one part the sea-level is rising, while in another (not far off in some cases) it is sinking. No body of water could behave in this irregular fashion; and the sea could not possibly be rising and falling at the same time. Hence we may take it for granted that any change that we may notice in the relative level of land and sea _must_ be due to upward or downward movements in the land. But to return to Celsius. Old men pointed out to him various points on the coast, over which during their childhood the sea was wont to flow, and besides, showed him the water-lines which the waves had once traced out farther inland. And besides this, the names of places which implied a position on the shore, former harbours or ports now abandoned and situated inland, the remains of boats found far from the sea, and lastly, the written records and popular songs, left no doubt that the sea had retreated; and it seemed both to themselves and to the astronomer that the waters were sinking. In the year 1730 Celsius, after comparing all the evidence he had collected, announced that the Baltic had sunk three feet, four inches, every hundred years. In the course of the following year, in company with Linnæus, the naturalist, he made a mark at the base of a rock in the island of Leoffgrund, not far from Jelfe, and thirteen years afterwards was able to prove, as he thought, that the waters were still subsiding at the same rate, or a little faster. In reality, he had proved, not that the sea was sinking, but that the land was rising. Similar observations show that nearly the whole of Scandinavia is slowly rising out of the sea. At the northern end of the Gulf of Bothnia the land is emerging at the rate of five feet, three inches, in a century; but by the side of the Aland Isles it only rises three and one quarter feet in the same time. South of this archipelago it rises still more slowly; and farther down, the line of shore does not alter as compared with the level of the sea. But it is a curious fact that the extreme southern end of this peninsula is subsiding, as proved by the forests that have been submerged. Several streets of some towns there have already disappeared, and the coast has lost on the average a belt of land thirty-two yards in breadth. The upward movement of the Scandinavian peninsula must have been going on for a long time, if we assume that it was always at the same rate as at present; for we find beds of seashells of living species at heights of six or seven hundred feet above the level of the sea. Great dead branches of a certain pink coral, found in the sea at a depth of over one hundred and fifty to three hundred fathoms, are now seen in water only ten or fifteen fathoms deep. It must have been killed as it was brought up into the upper and warmer layers of water. This is striking testimony. The pine woods too, which clothe the hills, are continually being upheaved towards the lower limit of snow, and are gradually withering away in the cooler atmosphere; and wide belts of forest are composed of nothing but dead trees, although some of them have stood for centuries. Geologists have proved that the Baltic Sea formerly communicated by a wide channel with the North Sea, the deepest depressions of which are now occupied by lakes in the southern part of Sweden; for considerable heaps of oyster-shells are now found in several places on the heights commanding these great lakes. Then we have in Denmark the celebrated "kitchen-middens," heaps of rubbish also largely composed of oyster-shells which the inhabitants, in the "Stone Age," collected from the bottoms of the neighbouring bays. At the present day the waters of the Baltic, into which rivers bring large quantities of fresh water, do not contain enough salt for oysters to grow there; but the oyster-shells prove that the Baltic Sea and these inland lakes were once as salt as the North Sea is now. This can only be explained by supposing that the Baltic was not so shut in then as it is in these days. The bed of the old wide channel has risen, and what once was sea is now land. Again, it is very probable that the great lakes and innumerable sheets of water which fill all the granite basins of Finland have taken the place of an arm of the sea which once united the waters of the Baltic to those of the great Polar Ocean. And so there must have been upheaval here as well. The old sea-beaches, now above the level of the highest tides, that are found in many parts of the Scandinavian, Scottish, and other coasts, furnish plain evidence of upheaval. At the present day, between the lines of high tide and low tide, the sea is constantly engaged in producing sand and shingle, spreading them out upon the beach, mingling them with the remains of shells and other marine animals, and sometimes piling them up, sometimes sweeping them away. In this way a beach often resembles a terrace. When the land is upheaved rapidly enough to carry up this line of beach-deposits before they are washed away by the waves, they form a flat terrace, or what is known as a "raised beach." The old high-water mark is then inland; its sea-worn caves become in time coated with ferns and mosses; the old beach forms an admirable platform on which meadows, fields, villages, and towns spring up; and the sea goes on forming a new beach below and beyond the margin of the old one. The Scottish coast-line, on both sides, is fringed with raised beaches, sometimes four or five occurring above each other, at heights of from twenty-five to seventy-five feet above the present high-water mark. Each of these lines of terrace marks a former lower level at which the land stood with regard to the sea; and the spaces between them represent the amount of each successive rise of the land. Each terrace was formed during a pause, or interval, in the upward movement, during which the waves had time to make a terrace, whereas, while the land kept on rising, they had no time to do so. Thus we learn that the upheaval of the country was interrupted by considerable pauses. Sometimes old ports and harbours furnish evidence of upheaval. Thus, the former Roman port of Alaterva (Cramond) in Scotland, the quays of which are still visible, is now situated at some distance from the sea, and the ground on which it stands has risen at least twenty-four feet. In other places the scattered débris shows that the coast has risen twenty-six feet. And by a remarkable coincidence, the ancient wall of Antoninus, which in the time of the Romans stretched from sea to sea, and served as a barrier against the Picts, comes to an end at a point twenty-six feet above the level of high tides. In the estuary of the Clyde there are deposits of mud, containing rude canoes and other relics of human workmanship, several feet above the present high-water mark. Raised beaches are found on many parts of the coast of Great Britain. Excellent examples occur on the coasts of Devon and Cornwall. On the sides of the mountainous fiords of Norway similar terraces are found up to more than six hundred feet above the sea; and as some of these rise to a greater height at a distance of fifty miles inland, it seems that there was a greater upward movement towards the interior of Norway than on the coasts. There is a celebrated raised beach on the side of a mountain in North Wales, known as Moel Tryfaen, where the writer gathered a number of marine shells at a height of 1,357 feet. But Scandinavia and Great Britain are not the only parts of Europe where an upward movement has taken place, for the islands of Nova Zembla and Spitzbergen show evidence of the same kind; and the coast of Siberia, for six hundred miles to the east of the river Lena, has also been upraised. On the banks of the Dwina and the Vega, 250 miles to the south of the White Sea, Murchison found beds of sand and mud with shells similar to those which inhabit the neighbouring seas, so well preserved that they had not lost their colours. Again, the ground of the Siberian _toundras_ is to a large extent covered with a thin coating of sand and fine clay, exactly similar to that which is now deposited on the shores of the Frozen Ocean. In this clay, the remains of the mammoth, or woolly elephant, now extinct, are preserved in great numbers. Parts of Northern Greenland have also risen; while at the southern end of this frozen land a downward movement is still taking place. The best-known example of these slow movements within historic times is the so-called Temple of Serapis in the Bay of Baie, near Naples. The ruins of this building, which was probably a Roman bath, consist of a square floor paved with marble, showing that it possessed a magnificent central court. This court, when perfect, was covered with a roof supported by forty-six fine columns, some of marble, others of granite. There is still a hot spring behind, from which water was conducted through a marble channel. All the columns but three were nearly buried in the soil which covered the whole court, when the ruins were first discovered. Now, each of the three marble columns that are still standing shows clear evidence of having been depressed below the sea-level, for they all exhibit a circular row of little holes bored by a certain marine shell-fish, known as _Lithodomus dactylus_, at a height of twelve feet from the floor; each row is about eight feet broad. The shells may still be seen inside the little pear-shaped holes which the shell-fish bored for themselves; and the same shell-fish still live in the waters of the Mediterranean and bore holes in the limestone rocks. It is therefore quite clear that these columns must have been under water to a depth of twenty feet or so, and also that they must have remained under water for some considerable time, during which the shell-fish made these borings. Then an upheaval took place whereby the whole building was elevated to its present level. But underneath the present floor, at a depth of five feet, were discovered the remains of an older floor. This probably belonged to an earlier building which had in like manner been depressed below sea-level. We thus learn that the land in this spot had been sinking for a long time, and that at some subsequent time it rose. The fallen columns suggest the idea that they were thrown down by earthquakes. At the present time the land here is again sinking at the rate of one inch in three or four years. But the first example of upheaval within comparatively recent times, and one which is instructive as throwing some light on the subject of the present chapter,--namely, the upheaval of mountain-chains,--is to be found along the western mountainous coast of South America. Here we have the magnificent ranges of the Andes running along the whole length of this continent. The illustrious Charles Darwin, during his famous trip in the "Beagle," discovered numerous raised beaches along this coast, and at once perceived their importance to the geologist. The terraces are not quite horizontal, but rise towards the south. On the frontier of Bolivia, they are seen at heights of from sixty-five to eighty feet above sea-level; but nearer the higher mass of the Chilian Andes they are found at one thousand feet, and near Valparaiso, in Chili, at thirteen hundred feet above the sea. Darwin also discovered that some of the upheavals thus indicated took place during the human period; for he found in one of the terraces opposite Callao, in Peru, at a height of eighty feet, shells with bones of birds, ears of wheat, plaited reeds, and cotton thread, showing that men had lived on the terrace. These relics of human industry are exactly similar to those that are found in the _huacas_, or burial-places, of the ancient Peruvians. There can be no doubt that the island of San Lorenzo, and probably the whole of the coast in its neighbourhood, have risen eighty feet or more since the Red Man inhabited the country. Callao probably forms the northern limit of the long strip of coast that has been upheaved, and the island of Chiloe the southern limit; but even thus the region of elevation has a length from north to south of about 2,480 miles. We noticed in the case of Scandinavia that the upward movement is greater in the interior of the mountain-range than at or near the coast; and it is interesting to find that the same difference has been observed in the case of the Andes. The upheaving force, whatever its nature, acts with more energy under the Chilian Andes than under the rocks of the adjacent coast. In New Zealand we have also evidences of upheaval; and if we trace out on the map a long line from the Friendly Isles and Fiji, through the Eastern Archipelago, and then on through the Philippine Islands, and finally to Japan and the Kurile Islands, we shall find scattered regions of elevation all along this great line, which is probably a mountain-chain, partly submerged, and along which numerous active volcanoes are situated. Putting together all the evidence that has been gathered on this subject, of which only a very small part is here given, we are warranted in concluding that taking the world generally, regions where active volcanoes exist are generally regions where upheaval is taking place. There is also a very interesting connection between mountain-chains and lines of volcanic action. From this it seems to follow, if lines of volcanic action are also lines of upheaval, that mountain-chains are undergoing upheaval at the present time. This is a conclusion in favour of which a good deal may be said. It is certainly true in the cases of the Scandinavian range, and also of a very large part of the Andes, to which we have already referred. The Highlands of Scotland and Scandinavia form the northern end of an old line of volcanic action running down the Atlantic Ocean through the Azores, Madeira, Cape Verde Islands, Ascension, St. Helena, right down to Tristan d'Acunha. In many other parts of the world we have evidences from submerged forests, the positions of certain landmarks with regard to the sea, and in some cases submerged towns, that movements of a downward nature are taking place. It is important to distinguish from these evidences the changes that take place where the waves of the sea are rapidly washing away the coast-line. Putting aside these cases, however, it has been clearly proved that in many regions a slow sinking of the land is going on. The eastern side of South America has not been so thoroughly observed as its western side; but there is still good reason to believe that a large part of this coast is sinking. So it appears that a see-saw movement is affecting South America, and that while one side is going up, the other is going down; and it is interesting to observe other examples of the same thing,--such as are afforded by Greenland and Norway. [Illustration: THE SKAEGGDALFORS, NORWAY. FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY J. VALENTINE.] Again, while part of Labrador is rising, parts of the eastern coast of North America, as far down as Florida, are slowly sinking. Thus along the New England coast between New York and Maine, and again along the Gulf of St. Lawrence, we find numerous submerged forests with quantities of trees standing upright with their roots in old forest-beds, but with the tops of their stumps some feet below the level of high tide. In the case of New Jersey the subsidence is probably taking place at the rate of two feet in a hundred years. Before passing on to consider upward movements of a more rapid nature, such as are frequently caused by earthquakes, we may pause for a few moments to consider certain very slight, but nevertheless very interesting little movements, such as _slight pulsations_ and tremors, which have been observed to take place in the earth's crust (as it is called), and which of late years have been carefully studied. Professor Milne, a great authority on earthquakes, has noticed slight swayings of the earth, which though occupying a short time--from a few seconds to a few hours--are still too slow to produce a shock of any kind. These he calls "earth pulsations." They have been observed by means of delicate spirit-levels, the bubbles of which move with very slight changes of level at either end of the instrument. At present only a few experiments of this kind have been made; but they tell us that the surface of the earth (which is apparently so firm and immovable) is subject to slight but frequent oscillations. Some think that they depend upon changes in the weight of the atmosphere. If this is so, the balance between the forces at work below the earth's surface and those that operate on its surface must be very easily disturbed. Still we cannot see that this is a serious objection; on the contrary, there is much reason to think that any slight extra weight on the surface, such as might be caused by an increase of the pressure of the atmosphere, and still more by the accumulation of vast sedimentary deposits on the floor of the ocean, may be quite sufficient to cause a movement to take place. Moreover, Mr. G. H. Darwin has shown that the earth's crust daily heaves up and down under the attraction of the moon in the same kind of way that the ocean does; so that we must give up all idea of the solid earth being fixed and immovable, and must look upon it as a flexible body, like a ball of india-rubber (see chap. ix., pp. 314-315). Slight movements of rather a different kind have been noticed, to which the name of "earth-tremors" has been given. These are very slight jarrings or quiverings of the earth, too slight to be observed by our unaided senses, but rendered visible by means of very delicate pendulums and other contrivances. Now wherever such observations have been made it has been discovered that the earth is constantly quivering as if it were a lump of jelly. In Italy, where this subject has been very carefully studied, the tremors that are continually going on are found to vary considerably in strength; for instance, when the weather is very disturbed and unsettled, the movements of the pendulum are often much greater. Again, before an earthquake the instrument shows that the tremors are more frequent and violent. Another way of observing these curious little movements is by burying microphones in the ground. The microphone is a little instrument invented of late years which is capable of enormously magnifying the very slightest sounds, such as our ears will not detect. By its means one can hear, as some one said, "the tramp of a fly's foot," if he will be so obliging as to walk over it. It has thus been proved in Italy that the earth sends forth a confused medley of sounds caused by little crackings and snappings in the rocks below our feet. In this way it will be possible to predict a serious earthquake, because it will give warning some days before, by the increase of the little tremors and sounds; and it is to be hoped that by this simple means human lives may be saved. Now, these disturbances are of precisely the same nature as earthquakes,--in fact, we may call them microscopic earthquakes. To the geologist they are of great interest, as they seem to afford some little insight into the difficult question of the upheaval of mountains, and to show us something of the constant _working_ of those wonderful forces below the surface of the earth by means of which continents are raised up out of the sea, and mountain-chains are elevated thousands of feet. It is probable that both are due to the working of the same forces, and are accomplished by the same machinery. We now pass on to consider those more violent movements of the solid land known as earthquakes. This kind of disturbance is such as might be produced by a sudden shock or blow given below the ground, from which waves travel in all directions. First comes a rumbling noise like the roar of distant artillery; then come the earthquake waves one after another, causing the ground to rise and fall as a ship does on the waves of the sea; the ground is frequently rent asunder, so that chasms are formed, into which in some cases men and animals have been hurled alive. In the case of a very violent earthquake the waves travel long distances. Thus the great earthquake by which Lisbon was destroyed in the year 1755 disturbed the waters of Loch Lomond in Scotland. In this fearful catastrophe sixty thousand human beings perished. If the disturbance takes place near the sea, great sea waves are formed, which cause fearful destruction to life and property. This happened in the case of the Lisbon earthquake; and in the year 1868, when Ecuador and Peru were visited by a fearful earthquake, a great sea wave swept over the port of Arica, and in a few minutes every vessel in the harbour was either driven ashore or wrecked, and a man-of-war was swept inland for a quarter of a mile. Earthquakes bring about many changes on the surface of the earth. For example, on mountain-slopes forests are shattered, and large masses of soil and débris are shaken loose from the rock on which they rested, and hurled into the valleys; streams are thus choked up, and sometimes lakes formed, either by the damming up of a river or by the subsidence of the ground. It is frequently found after an earthquake that the level of the ground has been permanently altered; and this effect of earthquakes is important in connection with the subject we are now considering,--namely, how mountains are upheaved. Sometimes, it is true, the movement is a downward one; but more generally it takes place in an upward direction. As an example of this, we may mention the Chilian earthquake of 1835, which was very violent, and destroyed several towns on that coast, from Copiapo to Chile. It was afterwards found that the land in the Bay of Conception had been raised four or five feet. At the island of Santa Maria, to the southwest of this bay, the land was raised eight feet, and in one part ten feet; for beds of dead mussels were seen at that height above high water, and a considerable rocky flat that formerly was covered by the sea now became dry land. It was also proved by means of soundings that the sea round the island was shallower by about nine feet. Now the question arises, "How are earthquakes caused?" Various suggestions have been made; but it is pretty clear that all earthquakes are not produced in the same way. For instance, volcanic eruptions are frequently attended by earthquakes. Violent shocks of this nature generally precede and accompany a great eruption, as is frequently the case before an eruption of Mount Vesuvius. Steam plays a very important part in all volcanic eruptions; and these earthquakes are probably caused by great quantities of pent-up steam at a high pressure struggling to escape. It is also possible that when molten rock is forcibly injected into the crevices and joints of overlying rocks earthquake shocks may be produced by the concussion. The old Roman poet and philosopher, Lucretius, endeavoured to solve this problem, and concluded that "the shakings of the surface of the globe are occasioned by the falling in of enormous caverns which time has succeeded in destroying." But though the explanation might possibly apply to a few cases of small earthquakes, it is not a satisfactory one, for it is not at all likely that many large cavities exist below the earth's surface, because the great weight of the overlying rock would inevitably crush them in. We have already pointed out that earthquakes frequently happen in mountainous regions; and this fact alone suggests that perhaps the same causes which upheave mountains may have something to do with earthquakes. But there are other reasons for believing that the same force which causes earthquakes also upheaves mountain-chains. The reader will remember the case of the Chilian earthquake that raised part of the Andes a few feet in height. Now, it is quite clear that the rocks of which mountains are composed have suffered a great deal of disturbance. We have only to look at the crumbled and contorted strata to see that they have been forced into all kinds of positions, sometimes standing bolt upright (see diagrams, chap. ix., p. 307). And as we cannot believe, for many reasons, that these movements were of a very sudden or violent kind, we must consider that they took place slowly on the whole; but besides being folded and twisted, the rocks of mountains frequently exhibit clear signs of having been split and cracked. The fractures are of all sizes, from an inch or more up to hundreds or even thousands of feet. They tell us plainly that the rocks were once slowly bent, and that after a certain amount of bending had taken place, the strain put upon them became greater than they could bear, and consequently they snapped and split along certain lines. This is just what might be expected. For instance, ice on a pond will bend a good deal, but only up to a certain amount; after that, it cracks in long lines with a remarkably sharp and smooth fracture. But suppose the pressure came from below instead of from above, as when a number of people are skating on a pond. Should we not see the ice forced up in some places, so that some sheets stood up above the others after sliding past their broken edges? This is just what the rocks in different places have frequently done. After a fracture has taken place the rock on one side has slid up over the other, and the two surfaces made by the fracture--like two long walls--are no longer seen at the same level. One has been pushed up, while the other has gone down (see diagram of the ranges of the Great Basin, chap. viii., p. 273). Now, it is almost impossible to conceive of these tremendous fractures taking place in the rocks below our feet without causing sudden jars or shocks. Here, then, we seem to have a clue to the problem. Even if the movements took place only a few inches or a few feet at a time, that does not spoil our theory, but rather favours it; for in that case the upheaval of a mountain-chain will have taken a very long time (which is almost certain), and may have been accomplished bit by bit. Hundreds and thousands of earthquake shocks, some slight, and others severe, may have attended the upheaval of a mountain-range. This explanation is accepted by many authorities. It does not exactly imply that mountains were upheaved by earthquakes; but it means that the same forces that elevate continents, heaving them up out of the sea into ridges and very low arches, have been at work to crumple and fold their rocks in some places into stupendous folds, such as we now find form part of the general structure of mountains; and that in so doing they caused fearful strains, too great for the rocks to bear, so that they split over and over again, and in so doing produced jars and shocks that must have been very similar to, if not identical with, earthquake shocks as we know them at the present day. Such an explanation is in striking harmony with what we have already learned about the operations of Nature. It was from the long-continued operation of rain and rivers that the materials now forming mountains were transported to the seas in which they were slowly formed. It was also by the ordinary operations of frost, heat and cold, snow and ice, streams, rain, and rivers that the mountains received their present shapes (see chapters v. and vii.). And now we learn that the gigantic work of upheaval took place in a tolerably quiet and uniform manner,--with perhaps only an occasional catastrophe of a more violent kind, but still according to the same law of uniformity which is the very basis of modern geology, and by means of which so much can be explained. We could give other proofs of the gradual elevation of mountains if they were wanted. But at least enough has been said to give the reader a glimpse into the methods employed by geologists in endeavouring to explain how mountains were upheaved; and to show that it is only by a careful study of all that is taking place now on the earth that we can ever hope to solve the difficult questions that present themselves to all who study those stony records on which the earth has written for our enlightenment the chapters of her ancient history. In conclusion, it may be asked what is the nature of the force that accomplishes all this titanic work of upheaval. Although the question has been much discussed, and some very ingenious suggestions brought forward, we cannot say that any of them are entirely satisfactory. But we know that the earth is a cooling body which loses so much heat every year; and it may be that the shrinking that takes place as it cools, by leaving the crust of the earth in some places unsupported, causes it to settle down, to adapt itself to a smaller surface below, and in so doing it would inevitably throw itself into a series of folds, or wrinkles, like those on the skin of a dried apple. Many think that mountain-ranges may be explained in this way. CHAPTER VII. HOW THE MOUNTAINS WERE CARVED OUT. And surely the mountain fadeth away, And the rock is removed out of its place, The waters wear away the stones: The overflowings thereof wash away the dust of the earth. _Job xiv. 18._ The mighty fortresses of the earth, which seem so imperishable, so majestic in their strength, and have from time immemorial received their title of "the everlasting hills," are nevertheless undergoing constant change and decay. They cannot abide for ever. Those waste leagues around their feet are loaded with the wrecks of what once belonged to them; they are witnesses to the victory of the hostile forces that are for ever contending with them, and pledges of a final triumph. To those who will read their story, mountains stand like old dismantled castles, mere wrecks of ruined masonry, that have nearly crumbled away, telling us of a time when all their separate peaks and crags were one solid mass, perhaps an elevated smooth plateau untouched by the rude hand of time. Let us now inquire how the work of destruction is accomplished. Referring back to our illustration of the cathedral, given in chap. v., pp. 143-147, the question we have now to consider is, how the mountains were carved out into all these wonderful features of crag and precipice, peak and pass, which are such a source of delight to all who care for scenery. This work we included in the one word "ornamentation." What, then, are the tools which Nature uses in this work of carving out the hills? What are her axes and hammers, her chisels and saws? This question, like many others, must be answered by observing what takes place at the present day. It is scarcely necessary to say that mountains and mountain-ranges are not simply the result of upheaval, though they have been upheaved. If that were so, they would probably appear as long smooth, monotonous ridges, with no separate mountain masses, no peaks, no glens or valleys; in some cases they might appear as simply elevated and smooth plateaux. Such mountains, if we may so call them, would be almost as uninteresting as the roof of a gabled house down which the rain finds its way in one smooth continuous sheet. Mountains, reaching as they do into the higher regions of the atmosphere, where the winds blow more fiercely than on the plains below, storms rage more violently, and the extremes of heat and cold are more severe,--in fact, where every process of change and decay seems quickened,--suffer continually at the hands of the elements. "Death must be upon the hills, and the cruelty of the tempests smite them, and the thorn and the briar spring up upon them; but they so smite as to bring their rocks into the fairest forms, and so spring as to make the very desert blossom as the rose."[23] [23] Modern Painters. Nature never leaves them alone, never gives them a brief armistice in the long war that she wages against them. She is a relentless enemy, ever on the move, and ever varying her methods of attack. Now she assails them openly with her storm-clouds, and pelts them furiously with driving rain; now we hear the thunder of her artillery, as she pierces their crests with strange electric darts of fire; now she secretly undermines their sides with her hidden sources of water, till whole villages are destroyed by some fearful fall of overhanging rocks (see chapter iii., pages 96-101). Her winds and gentle breezes are for ever at work on their surfaces, causing them to crumble into dust much in the same way as iron turns to rust. Again, she heats them by day and then chills them suddenly at night, under the cold starry sky, so that they crack under the strain of expanding and contracting. Now she splits them with her ice-wedges; now she furrows their sides with the dashing torrents and running streams; and yet again she wears them gently down with her glaciers, and carries away their débris--the token of her triumph--on those icy streams, as conquering armies carry the spoils in procession. This is, briefly, her mode of warfare; these are some of her tools, _wind_, _rain_, _frost_, _snow_, _heat_ and _cold_, _streams_, _rivers_, and _glaciers_. Lightning does occasionally break off portions of a cliff or a mountain-peak; but compared to the others, this agent is not very important. Let us first inquire into the effects produced by the atmosphere. The air around us is composed mainly of two well-known gases; namely, oxygen and nitrogen. There is also a small proportion (about one in ten thousand) of carbonic acid gas; a variable quantity of water-vapour, and in the neighbourhood of towns, traces of other noxious gases, such as sulphurous acid and chlorine. Now, the nitrogen plays a very unimportant part, as it merely serves to dilute the powerful gas, oxygen, which has such important life-sustaining properties. We live by breathing oxygen; so do all animals; and the more pure air we can contrive to get into our lungs, the better. But undiluted oxygen would be too strong for us, and so its strength is diminished by being mixed with four parts of nitrogen; that is to say, the air only contains about one fifth by volume, or bulk, of oxygen and four fifths of nitrogen. Now, oxygen, being always ready to combine chemically with some other element, is a great agent of change and decay. It attacks all the metals except gold and platinum. Iron, we all know, oxidises, or rusts, only too quickly; but copper, lead, silver, and other metals are more or less attacked by it. So it is with all the rocks exposed at or near the surface of the earth. Oxygen will, if it can, pick out something to combine with and so bring about chemical changes which lead to decay. But a much more powerful agent is the carbonic acid gas in the atmosphere; although there is so little of it, there is enough to play a very important part in causing rocks to crumble away, and in some cases to dissolve them entirely. The supply of this gas is continually being renewed, for all living animals breathe out carbonic acid, and plants give it out by night. Under the influence of sunlight plants give out oxygen, so that gas is supplied to the air by day. Both oxygen and carbonic acid gas are dissolved by rain as it falls through the air; and so we cannot separate the effects of the dry air by itself from those of rain and mist, which are more important agents. The action of rain is partly mechanical, partly chemical, for it not only beats against them, but it dissolves out certain mineral substances that they contain. All rocks are mixtures of two or more kinds of minerals, the particles of each being often invisible to the naked eye. Thus granites are essentially mixtures of felspar, quartz, and mica; ordinary volcanic rocks ("trap-rocks") of felspar and augite; sandstones consist mainly of particles of silica; limestones of carbonate of lime; shales and slates of silicate of alumina, the principal substance in clay. These grains are usually joined together by a cement of some mineral differing more or less from the other particles. Lime is found in many of the rocks as the cement that binds their particles together; while oxide of iron and silica serve this purpose in many other instances. Now, if the lime or iron or silica is dissolved by water, the rock must tend to crumble away. Any old building shows more or less manifold signs of such decay, and this process is called "weathering." All this applies merely to the surfaces of rocks; and if there were no other forces at work, their rate of decay would be very slow. But there are other forces at work. In the first place, sudden changes of temperature have a destructive influence. If the sun shines brightly by day, the rocks--especially in higher mountain regions--are considerably expanded by the heat they receive; and if a hot day is followed by a clear sky at night, the free radiation of heat into space (see chap. ii., p. 39) causes them to become very cold, and in cooling down they contract. In this way an internal strain is set up which is often greater than they can bear, and so they split and crack. Thus small pieces of rock are detached from a mountain-side. An Alpine traveller told the writer that one night when sleeping on a mountain-side, he heard stones rattling down at frequent intervals. Livingstone records in his journal that when in the desert he frequently heard stones splitting at night with a report like that of a pistol. But sometimes the expansion by day is sufficient to cause fragments of rock to be broken off. Frost, however, is responsible for a vast amount of destruction among rocks. When water freezes, it expands with tremendous force; and this is the reason why water-pipes so frequently burst during a frost, though we don't find it out until the thaw comes,--followed by long plumbers' bills. Rocks, being traversed in several directions by cracks, allow the water to get into them, and this in freezing acts like a very powerful wedge; and so the rocks on the higher parts of the mountains are continually being split up by Nature's ice-wedge. The amount of rock broken up in this way every year is enormous. Stone walls and buildings often suffer greatly from this cause during a long frost, especially if the stone be of a more than usually porous kind, that can take up a good deal of rain water. Where trees, shrubs, etc., grow on rocks, the roots find their way into its natural divisions, widened by the action of rain soaking down into them; and as they grow, they slowly widen them, and in time portions are actually detached in this manner. Moreover, the roots and rootlets guide the rain water down into the cracks, or joints, as they are called. Even the ivy that creeps over old ruined walls has a decidedly destructive effect. At the base of every steep mountain may be seen heaps of loose angular stones; sometimes these are covered with soil, and form long slopes on which trees and shrubs grow. Every one of the numerous little gullies that furrow the mountain-sides has at its lower end a similar little heap of stones. Sometimes a valley among the mountains seems half choked with rocky fragments; and if these were all removed, the valley would be deeper than it is. In some hot countries, where the streams only flow in winter, this is especially the case; for example, every valley, or "wady," in the region of Mount Sinai and Mount Horeb is more or less choked up with boulders and stones of every size, because the stones come down faster than they can be carried away. But the main work of carving out the hills and mountains of the world is done by streams, rivers, and glaciers; and so we now pass on to consider how they perform their tasks. Water by itself, even when flowing fast, would be powerless to carve gorges and valleys in the solid rock; but the stones which torrents and streams carry along give them a marvellous grinding power, for with such material a stream continually wears away its rocky bed. Moreover, the stones themselves are all the while being rubbed down by each other, until finally they are ground down to fine sand and mud, which help in the work of erosion. Every mountain stream or torrent runs in a ravine or valley of some sort; and any traveller who will take the trouble to watch what goes on there may easily convince himself that the ravine, gorge, or valley has been carved out by the stream, aided by the atmospheric influences to which we have already alluded. But perhaps some may be inclined to look upon the ravine as a chasm produced by some violent disturbance from below, whereby the rocks were rent asunder, and that the stream somehow found its way into the rent. A little inquiry will dispel this idea. In the first place, such catastrophes are quite unknown at the present day; and as we have more than once pointed out, the geologist's method is to apply a knowledge of processes now in operation to the phenomena of the rocks, in order to read their history. Secondly, no conclusion can be accepted which is not supported strongly by evidence. If such a rending of the rocks had taken place, there would assuredly be some evidence of the fact. We should expect to find a great crack running all along the bed of the stream; but of this there is no sign. Go down in any weather when the stream is low, and look at the rocks over which it flows, and you will search in vain for such evidence. Instead of being broken, the rocks extend continually across. You would also expect to find the strata "dipping," or sloping away from the stream on each side, if they had been rent by such an upheaval; but here again we are met by a total want of evidence. Thirdly, a crack might be expected to run along more or less evenly in one direction. But look at the ravine, follow it up for some miles, and you will see that it winds along in a very devious course, not in a straight line. For these reasons, then, we must conclude that the ravine or valley has been carved out by the stream; but perhaps the most convincing arguments are afforded by the furrows and miniature ravines so frequently met with on the sides of all mountains; and it is impossible to examine these without concluding that they have in every case been cut out of the solid rock by the little rapid torrents that run along them after heavy rain. If we are fortunate enough to see them on a thoroughly rainy day, we may derive much instruction from watching the little torrents at work as they run down the mountain-side, here and there dashing over the rocks in little cascades, and bringing down to the base of the hill much of the débris that forms higher up. In this way Nature gives us an "object lesson," and seems to say: "Watch me at work here, and learn from such little operations how I work on a larger scale, and carve out my ravines and big valleys. Only give me plenty of time, and I can accomplish much greater feats than this." The question of time is no longer disputed; and all geologists are willing to grant almost unlimited time, at least periods of time that seem to us unlimited. Most streams have been flowing for thousands of years; and when once we grant that, we find no difficulty in believing that all valleys are the work of rain and rivers. Surely no one would argue that the furrows on a mountain-side are all rents which have been widened by the action of water; for if they were rents, each must have been caused by some disturbance of the rocks composing the mountain, and we should of course be able to see the cracks for ourselves, and to find that the rocks had in some way been disturbed and rent open. Even the rain which falls on the road in a heavy shower teaches the same simple but important lesson, as it runs off into the gutters on each side; and we may often find the road furrowed by little miniature rivers, that carve out for themselves tiny valleys as they run off into the gutter, bringing with them much débris in the form of mud and sand. Sometimes a stream encounters in its course a layer of rock that is harder than the rock underlying it. In this case the softer rock is worn away faster, and the hard layer forms a kind of ridge at a higher level; the result is a waterfall. Waterfalls are frequently found in mountain streams. In this case, it is easy to trace the ridge of harder rock running unbroken across the path of the stream, showing clearly that it has not been rent in any way. First it showed merely as a kind of step, but gradually the force of the falling water told with greater effect on the softer rock below, wearing it away more rapidly than that above, and so the depth of the waterfall went on increasing year by year; and at the same time the hard layer was slowly worn away until the stream sawed its way through. Some river valleys are steep and narrow; others are broad, with gently sloping sides. A careful study of the different valleys in any large country such as Great Britain, shows that their forms vary according to the nature of the rocks through which rivers flow. Where hard rocks abound, the valleys are steep and narrow; where soft rocks occur, the valleys are broad and low. This is only what might be expected, for hard rocks are not easily worn away; a river must cut its way through them, leaving cliffs on either side that cannot be wasted away by rain. But in a district where clay or soft sandstone occurs, the rain, as it finds its way to the valley, will wash them away and give a smooth gentle slope to the sides of the valley. It is very instructive to notice how the scenery of any district depends on the nature of its prevailing rocks. Hard rocks give bold scenery with steep hills and rocky defiles; while soft rocks make the landscape comparatively flat and tame, though often very beautiful in its way, especially where a rich soil abounds, so that we see pleasant woods, rich pasture-land, and heavy crops in the fields. Compare, for instance, the scenery of Kent or Surrey with that of the Lake District or the west of Yorkshire. The difference is due chiefly to the fact that in Kent and Surrey we have rocks that succumb more easily to the action of rain and rivers, and consequently are worn away more rapidly than the harder rocks in the north country. Geologists have a word to express the effects of this wear and tear; namely, "denudation," which means a stripping off, or laying bare. In Kent and Surrey the agents of denudation (rain and rivers, aided by the effects of the air, of heat and cold, and so on) wear away the whole surface of the county in a tolerably even and uniform manner, because there are no hard rocks for them to contend with. In this case rain washes away the sides of the valleys faster than the river can carve its bed, consequently the valleys are shallow compared to their width. And so the streams have broad valleys, while the hills are smooth and gently rounded. Chalk, clay, and soft sandstone abound there. The two latter rocks are washed away with comparative ease, and the chalk is dissolved; whereas in the Lake District we have very much harder and older rocks, that require to be split up and broken by the action of frost, while every stream carves out for itself a steep valley, and great masses of hard rock stand out as bold hills or mountains, that seem to defy all the agents of denudation. Here the opposite is the case, and the valleys are deepened faster than they are widened. But for all that, a vast amount of solid rock has been removed from the surface there, of which the mountains are, as it were, but fragments that have escaped the general destruction. Moreover, the rocks in this region have been greatly disturbed and crumpled since they were first formed, and thereby thrown into various shapes that give certain peculiar structures more or less capable of resisting denudation. Very effective illustrations of the power of rain by itself are afforded by the "earth pillars" of the Tyrol, and "cañons" of Colorado. The material of which they consist is called conglomerate, because it is composed of stones and large blocks of rock with stiff earth or clay between. All the taller ones have a big stone on the top which protects the softer material below from being washed away by heavy rains; and it is easily perceived that each pillar owes its existence to the stone on the top, which prevents the soft materials below it from being washed away. When, after a time, the weathering of the soft strata diminishes the support of the capping boulders, these at last topple over, and the pillar, thus left unprotected, becomes an easy prey to the rain, and is rapidly washed away. Some of the pillars are over a hundred feet in height. But it is only in places where heavy rains fall that these interesting monuments of denudation are to be seen. By way of contrast we may turn now to a district in which very little rain falls, but where the streams have a considerable slope, and so can wear away, or erode, their valleys much faster than rain and frost, etc., can bring down the rocks of which the sides are composed. The river Colorado of the West, which runs from the Rocky Mountains to the Gulf of California, flows for nearly three hundred miles at the bottom of a profound chasm, or cañon, being hemmed in by vertical walls which in some places are more than a mile in depth. The tributary streams flowing into the river run through smaller ravines forming side cañons; and there is no doubt that these wonderful chasms have been, in the course of ages, slowly carved out by the river Colorado and its numerous tributary streams. Sometimes the walls of the cañon are not more than fifty yards apart, and in height they vary from three thousand to six thousand feet. Far above the level of the highest floods patches of gravel are found here and there on the sides, which must have been left there by the river when it had not cut its way so far down. These cañons afford striking testimony to the erosive power of running water, of which they are the most wonderful illustration in the world. But water, even when in the form of ice, has more or less power to wear away solid rock; and the glaciers that we see in Switzerland, Norway, and other countries must slightly deepen the rocky valleys down which they flow. Let us see how this can be accomplished. The snow that falls in the High Alps, impelled by the weight of fresh layers of snow overlying it, and by the slope of the mountain-sides, gradually creeps down into the valleys. Owing to the pressure thus put upon it, and partly to the melting power of the sun's rays, it assumes the form of ice; and glaciers are composed of solid ice. The downward motion is so slow that a glacier appears quite stationary; and it is only by putting in stakes and watching them change their positions that it can be shown to be moving. In all respects except speed, glaciers flow like rivers, for ice is a viscous body, behaving partly like a fluid and yet partly like a solid substance; but it will not endure a sharp bend without snapping. Hence, a glacier in traversing a valley frequently gets split. The cracks thus formed widen by degrees until they expand into chasms, or "crevasses." Like rivers, glaciers transport a large amount of rocky matter to lower levels, and at the same time wear away and deepen their rocky channels. Let us see how they do this twofold work of transportation and erosion. In the first place, a large amount of débris falls onto the sides of a glacier from the peaks, precipices, and mountain-side along which it flows. Some stones, however, fall down crevasses, and so reach the bottom, where they become cemented in the ice. In this way they are slowly carried down over the rocky floor of the valley, until at last they reach the end of the glacier, where in the warmer air the ice melts just as fast as it creeps down; and there they will be left to form a heap of stones, sand, and mud. Large blocks of stone, quite different from the rocks on which they lie, are very numerous, and are called "erratics," since they are evidently wanderers from a distance. Sometimes such blocks can be proved to have been brought many miles from their home among the higher peaks. The long lines of stones and mud seen on the sides of a glacier are called "moraines," and at the end of every glacier we find a big heap known as a "terminal moraine." But the stones of which they are composed are probably not to be entirely accounted for in this way. Can we not conceive that the weight and pressure of a descending glacier may be sufficient to break off many protruding portions of the rocky bed over which it flows, and then to drag them along with it? This seems reasonable. Let us therefore consider the materials of which moraines are composed to be derived partly from the rocks beneath and partly from those above the glacier. But whatever their origin, such materials must inevitably find their way to the end of the glacier and be added to the big heap there. The work of transportation is then taken up by the stream which always flows from the end of a glacier. Such streams are in summer-time laden with fine sediment, which gives them a milky and turbid appearance. Thus a glacier wears away the rocks over which it flows; rock fragments become embedded in the ice, and these are the tools with which a glacier does its work. It must be granted that the downward movement of a great mass of ice is irresistible, and consequently that as the moving glacier slowly creeps along, it must inevitably cause the stones which it thus holds to grind over the surface of the rock. It is easy to imagine the effects of this grinding action. If sand-paper, rubbed for a minute or two over wood, wears down and smooths its surface, what must be the result of all these stones, together with sand and mud, grinding over the rocky bed? The answer to this question is found in examining the rocks over which glaciers once flowed. Now, the Swiss glaciers once extended far beyond their present limits; and the rocks in the lower parts of their present valleys, now free from ice, show unmistakable signs of having been considerably worn down. The corners and angles of projecting pieces of rock have been worn away until the once rugged outline has become wavy and round, so much so as to produce more or less resemblance to the backs of sheep lying down. Hence the name _roches moutonnées_, by which rocks of this shape are known. They frequently retain on their surface peculiar markings, such as long scratches and grooves which must have been made as the old glacier, with its embedded angular fragments of rock, slowly ground over their surfaces. Such markings are called "striæ." But besides these glacial records graven on the rocks, we have other evidence, in the form of great moraines in some of the valleys of Switzerland, and especially at those places where side valleys open out into a main valley. Any one may learn by a little observation to recognise these peculiar heaps of stones, mud, and sand, deposited long ago by the old glaciers of Switzerland. It will be perceived that the evidence for the erosive power of glaciers is of two kinds,--first, there is the testimony of the smoothed and striated rocks, which is very convincing; secondly, the equally strong proofs from the moraines, both great and small. These old rubbish heaps give us a very fair idea of the amount of wear and tear that goes on under a glacier, for there we see the rock fragments that tumbled down the mountain-side onto the surface of the glacier (together with those which the glacier tore off its rocky bed), all considerably smoothed, worn down, and striated. But a still better idea of the work done is afforded by the gravel, mud, and sand in which these stones are embedded. All this finer material must have been the result of wear and tear. This kind of action may well be compared to what takes place on a grindstone as one sharpens an axe on it. The water poured on the stone soon becomes muddy, owing to the presence of countless little grains of sand worn off the grindstone. But a good deal of the mud thus formed is carried away by the little stream that runs out from the end of every glacier; so that there is more formed than we see in the moraine. [Illustration: THE MER DE GLACE AND MONT BUET. FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY MR. DONKIN.] We have already alluded in former chapters to the "Ice Age" in Britain, when great glaciers covered all our high mountains, and descended far and wide over the plains. Now, the evidence for the former existence of these glaciers is of the same kind as that which we have just described. In Wales and Scotland we may soon learn to recognise the _roches moutonnées_, the old moraine heaps, and the erratic boulders brought down by these old glaciers. Besides these proofs, there is also the evidence of the arctic plants now flourishing in the highlands (see chapter iv., pages 123-124). There can be no doubt, then, that glaciers have an erosive action, and therefore must be regarded as agents of denudation. But it is important to bear in mind that their powers in this direction are limited; for it is manifest that a mountain stream is a much more powerful agent, and will deepen its little valley much more rapidly, than a cumbrous, slow-moving glacier, advancing at the rate of a few inches a day. It has been found by careful measurements that the Mer de Glace of Chamouni moves during summer and autumn at the average daily rate of twenty to twenty-seven inches in the centre, and thirteen to nineteen and one half inches near the side, where friction somewhat impedes its course. This seems very slow compared to the rapid movement of a mountain stream; but then, a glacier partly makes up for this by its great weight. In considering a glacier as an agent of erosion, we must not forget that probably a good deal of water circulates beneath glaciers. If this is so, the water must have a considerable share in producing the effects to which we have already alluded. It would be extremely rash to conclude, as some students of glaciers have done, that valleys can be carved out _entirely_ by glaciers; and we must be content with believing that they have been somewhat deepened by ice-action, and their features more or less altered, but no more. The valleys of Switzerland, of Wales, and Scotland, were probably all in existence before the period of the "Ice Age," having been carved out by streams in the usual way; but the glaciers, as it were, put the final touches and smoothed their surfaces. Having learned how the three agents of denudation--namely, rain, rivers, and glaciers--accomplish their work, let us now take a wider view of the subject and consider the results of their united efforts both in the present and in the past. We have already alluded to the enormous amount of solid matter brought down to the sea every year by rivers (see chap. v., pp. 166-168), and we pointed out that all this represents so much débris swept off the land through which the rivers flow; also that it comes down in three ways, one part being suspended in the water as fine mud, another part being pushed along the river-bed as gravel, etc., while a third part is the carbonate of lime and other mineral matter in a dissolved state, and therefore invisible. Now, it is quite plain that rain and rivers, in sweeping away so much solid matter from the surface of the land, must tend in the course of time to lower its general level; and it therefore seems to follow that after the lapse of ages any given continent or large island might be entirely washed away, or in other words, reduced to the level of the sea. This would certainly happen were it not that the lands of the world seem to be slowly rising, so that the denudation going on at the surface appears to be counterbalanced by continued upheaval. But, supposing no upheaval took place, how long would it take for rain and rivers to wear away a whole continent? Let us see if there is any way of answering this difficult question, for if it can be even partially solved, it will help us to realise the enormous length of time that must have been required to bring about the results of denudation that we see all around us. Although the calculations that have been made on this subject are very complicated, yet the principle on which they are based is quite simple. For an answer to our question we must go to the rivers again, and measure the work they do in transporting solid matter down to the sea. Let us take the Mississippi as a typical big river, for it has been more carefully studied than any other, and it drains a very extensive area, embracing many varieties of climate, rock, and soil. As the result of many observations carried on continuously at different parts of the river for months together, the engineers who conducted the investigation found that the annual discharge of water by this river is about nineteen thousand millions of cubic feet, and that on the average the amount of sediment it contains is about a 1/1500th part by weight. But besides the matter in suspension, they observed that a large amount of sand, gravel, and stones is being constantly pushed along the bottom of the river. This they estimated at over seven hundred and fifty millions of cubic feet. They also calculated that the Mississippi brings down every year more than eight hundred thousand million pounds of mud. Putting the two together, they found (as before stated) that the amount of solid matter thus transported down to the Gulf of Mexico may be represented by a layer 268 feet high, covering a space of one square mile; that is, without allowing for what is brought down dissolved in the water, which may be neglected in order to prevent any exaggeration. Now, it is quite clear that all this débris must have come from the immense area that is drained by the Mississippi. It could not have been supplied by any rivers except those that are its tributaries. And so if we can find out what is the extent of this area, it is not difficult to calculate how much its general surface must have been lowered, or in other words, how much must have been worn away from it in order to supply all the material. This area is reckoned at 1,147,000 square miles; and a very simple calculation tells us that the general surface would thus be lowered to the extent of 1/6000th part of a foot. That of course means that one foot would be worn away in six thousand years. On high ground and among mountains the rate of denudation would of course be much greater; but we are now dealing with an average for the whole surface. The next thing we require to finish this calculation is the average or mean height of the American continent. This was reckoned by the celebrated Humboldt at 748 feet. Now if we may assume that all this continent is being worn down at the same rate of one foot in six thousand years (which is a reasonable assumption), we find, by a simple process of multiplication, that it would require about four and a half millions of years for rain and rivers to wash it all away until its surface was all at the sea-level (with perhaps a few little islands projecting here and there as relics of its vast denudation). This is a very interesting result; and if the above measurements are reliable, they afford us some idea of the rate at which denudation takes place at the present time. By a similar process it has been calculated the British Isles might be levelled in about five and a half millions of years. Geologists do not pretend to have solved this problem accurately; that is impossible with our present knowledge. But even as rough estimates these results are very valuable, especially when we come to study the structure of the land in different countries, and to find out therefrom, by actual measurement, how much solid rock has been removed. We will now give some examples of this; but perhaps a simple illustration will make our meaning clearer. Suppose we picked up an old pair of boots, and found the soles worn away in the centre. It would be easy to find out how much had been worn away over the holes by simply measuring the thickness of leather at the sides, where we will suppose that they were protected by strong nails. Geologists apply a very similar kind of method in order to find out how much rock has been removed from a certain region of the earth. One of the simplest cases of this kind is that of the area known as the Weald of Kent, Surrey, and Sussex (see illustration, Fig. 1). A great deal of denudation has taken place here, because there is ample evidence to prove that the great "formation" known as the Chalk (now seen in the North and South Downs) once stretched right across; and below this came the lower greensand and Weald clay. They spread over this area in a low arch of which we now only see the ruins. [Illustration: Fig. 1. SECTION ACROSS THE WEALD OF KENT AND SURREY.] [Illustration: Fig. 2. THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND ON A TRUE SCALE (after GEIKIE).] The dotted lines in the figure show us their former extent; but the vertical height is exaggerated, for otherwise the hills would scarcely be seen. These lines simply follow out the curves taken by the strata at each end of the denuded arch, and therefore rightly indicate its former height. By making such a drawing on a true scale, geologists can easily measure the former height of the surface of this old arch, or "anticline," of chalk, greensand, and other strata, just as an architect might restore the outlines of an old traceried window from a few portions left at the sides. This very useful and instructive method is much employed in drawing sections through mountain-chains, in order to gain some idea of the amount of denudation which they have suffered. Let us see how much has been removed from the present surface of the Weald. First there is the chalk, which we may put down at six hundred feet at least; then there is the lower greensand, say, eight hundred feet; and below that, and forming the lowest ground in the Weald, is the Weald clay, which is one thousand feet thick, and being softer, was more rapidly borne away. Along the centre runs a ridge of Hastings sand, forming higher ground on account of its greater hardness, but this formation is not much denuded. However, adding together the thicknesses of the others, we arrive at the conclusion that about twenty-four hundred feet of chalk and other strata has been removed from the present surface of the Weald. And all this denudation has probably been effected by rain and rivers, for it is very doubtful whether the sea had any share in this work. But in other parts of our own country we find proofs of denudation on a much grander scale than this; for example, in North Wales there are rocks now lying exposed at the surface which are of a very much greater antiquity than any that may be seen in the Wealden area, belonging to the very ancient periods known as the Cambrian and Silurian. These have evidently been exposed for a much longer time to the action of denuding forces; and the Welsh hills, as we now see them, are but fragments of what they once were. After carefully mapping out the rocks in the neighbourhood of Snowdon, noting their thickness, the directions in which they slope, or "dip," so that the structure of this region might be ascertained, as in the case of the Weald, it was found, on drawing sections of the rocks there, and putting in dotted lines to continue the curves and slopes of the strata as known at or near the surface, that from fifteen thousand to twenty thousand feet of solid rock must have been removed (see diagrams, chapter ix., p. 307). Applying the same method to the Lake District, it has been calculated that the amount of denudation which that beautiful country has suffered may be represented by twenty-six thousand feet. Turning to the other side of the Atlantic, we find the American geologists estimate that a thickness of five miles has been removed from a large part of the Appalachian chain of mountains (near their east coast), and that at least one mile has been eroded from the entire region between the Rocky and Wahsatch Mountains (see chapter ix.). In conclusion, we must bear in mind that mountains, in spite of the enormous erosion they have suffered, are more capable of resisting the ever active agents of denudation than the softer rocks that form the plains and lowlands, and consequently stand out in bold relief from other features of the earth's surface. This truth has been beautifully expressed in the following passage:-- " ... In order to bring the world into the form which it now bears, it was not mere sculpture that was needed; the mountains could not stand for a day unless they were formed of materials altogether different from those which constitute the lower hills and the surfaces of the valleys. A harder substance had to be prepared for every mountain-chain, yet not so hard but that it might be capable of crumbling down into earth, fit to nourish the Alpine forest and the Alpine flowers; not so hard but that in the midst of the utmost majesty of its enthroned strength there should be seen on it the seal of death, and the writing of the same sentence that had gone forth against the human frame, 'Dust thou art and unto dust thou shalt return.' And with this perishable substance the most majestic forms were to be framed that were consistent with the safety of man, and the peak was to be lifted and the cliff rent as high and as steeply as was possible, in order yet to permit the shepherd to feed his flocks upon the slope, and the cottage to nestle beneath their shadow."[24] [24] Modern Painters. CHAPTER VIII. VOLCANIC MOUNTAINS. 'Tis said Enceladus' huge frame, Heart-stricken by the avenging flame, Is prisoned here, and underneath Gasps through each vent his sulphurous breath; And still as his tired side shifts round, Trinacia echoes to the sound Through all its length, while clouds of smoke The living soul of ether choke. VIRGIL: _Æneid iii._ In some parts of the world we meet with mountains of a very different kind from any we have yet considered,--mountains that are known at times to send forth fiery streams of glowing lava, and to emit with terrific force great clouds of steam. Such mountains have long been known, in popular but unscientific language, as "burning mountains,"[25]--a term which is unfortunate, because they do not burn in the proper sense of the word, like candles or gas-jets. They are better known as volcanoes. There are about three hundred and fifty known active volcanoes; and if we include all mountains that once were in that state, the number is about one thousand. [25] See papers by the writer on Volcanoes and Volcanic Action in "Knowledge" for May and June, 1891, on which this chapter is partly based. Such mountains are connected in a curious way with those upheaved ridges of the world known as mountain-chains (see chap. vi., p. 191). And not only are many mountains more or less penetrated and intersected by rocks of an igneous origin (see chap. v., p. 155), but some have been largely formed by the action of old volcanoes. In fact, there are hills in Great Britain and parts of Europe, in America, and other countries, that once were actual volcanoes (see page 277). We must briefly consider these strange mountains so different from others, and see what we can find out about them. Let us first inquire how a volcano is made, then consider what a volcano does; that is, we must view it as a geological agent that has a certain definite part to play in the economy of the world. And lastly, we may glance at some of the old volcanoes, and see what they were doing in those long ages of the world during which the great series of the stratified rocks were formed,--which rocks are, as it were, the book in which the earth has written her autobiography. In old days volcanoes were regarded with superstitious awe; and any investigation of their actions would have been considered rash and impious in the highest degree. Mount Etna, as Virgil tells us, was supposed to mark the spot where the angry gods had buried Enceladus, one of the rebellious giants. Volcano, a certain "burning mountain" in the Lipa Islands, was likewise called the forge, or workshop, of Vulcan (or Volcan), the god of fire. And so it comes about that all "burning mountains" take their name from this one Mediterranean island, and at the same time tell us of the mythological origin of the word. It has been said that words are "fossil thoughts;" and we have here an old and very much fossilised thought,--a kind of thought long since extinct among civilised peoples, and one which is never likely to come to life again. A volcanic mountain consists of alternating sheets of lava and volcanic ashes, mantling over each other in an irregular way, and all sloping away from the centre. In the centre is a pit or chimney, widening out towards the top so as to resemble a funnel or cup; hence the name "crater," which means a cup. In the centre of this crater a very small cone ("minor cone") is frequently found; and it is interesting to find that many of the moon's volcanic craters possess these "minor cones." A number of cracks or fissures intersect the volcano. These frequently spread out from the centre of the mountain in all directions, like the spokes of a wheel. They generally get filled with lava that wells up from below, thus forming "dykes," which may be regarded as so many sheets of igneous rock, such as basalt, that have forced their way while still liquid in among the layers of lava and ashes. The word "ash" is used by geologists in a special sense; and volcanic ash is not, as might be supposed, a deposit of cinders, but mostly of dust of various degrees of fineness, and sometimes it is very fine indeed. Pieces of pumice-stone may be embedded in a layer of volcanic ash, and sometimes great blocks of stone that have been shot out of the volcano as from a big gun, but these only form a small part of the layer. Dykes strengthen the mountain, and tend to hold it together when violently shaken during an eruption. The shape and steepness of a volcano depend on the nature of the materials ejected. The finer the volcanic ash, the steeper and more conical is the mountain. The building up of a volcano may be fairly illustrated by the little cone of sand formed in an hourglass as the sand-grains fall. These settle down at a certain slope, or angle, at which they can remain, instead of falling down to the bottom, as they do directly this slope is exceeded. Some volcanoes are built up almost entirely of volcanic ash and its embedded blocks. Vesuvius, Teneriffe, Jorullo, in Mexico, and Cotopaxi, in the Andes, are examples of steep volcanic cones built up in this way. Others, less steep and more irregular in shape, are chiefly formed of successive lava-flows. Little minor cones are frequently formed on the side of a volcano; and these during an eruption give rise to small outbursts of their own. They are easily accounted for by the dykes which are mentioned just now; for when molten rock forces its way through fissures, it sometimes finds an outlet at the surface, and being full of steam, as soda-water is full of gas, it gives rise to an eruption. The great opening in the centre of a volcano, with its molten lava, is like a very big dyke that has reached the surface and so succeeded in producing an eruption. The opening of a soda-water bottle not infrequently illustrates a volcanic eruption; for when the pent-up carbonic acid cannot escape fast enough, it forces out some of the water, even when the bottle is held upright. Every volcano has been built up on a platform of ordinary stratified rocks; and at some period _after_ these had been laid down in water and raised up into dry land, molten rock found its way through them, and so the volcano was built up by successive eruptions during many years. It is probable that earthquake shocks, preceding the first eruption, cracked up these strata, and so made a way for the lava to come up. The main point we wish to emphasize is that _volcanoes are never formed by upheaval_. In this way they differ from all other mountains. They have not been made by the heaving up of strata, but have been gradually piled up, something like rubbish heaps that accumulate in the Thames barges as the dustmen empty their carts into them, only in the case of volcanoes the "rubbish" comes from below. It is not necessary to suppose that the reservoir down below, from which the molten rock is supplied, exists at any very great depth below the original land surface on which the volcano grows up. The old "upheaval theory" of volcanoes, once advocated by certain authorities, instead of being based on actual evidence or on reasoning from facts, was a mere guess. Moreover, if the explanation we have given should not be sufficiently convincing, there is good proof furnished by the case of a small volcano near Vesuvius, the building of which was actually witnessed. It is called Monte Nuovo, or the New Mountain. It is a little cone 430 feet high, on the bank of Lake Averno, with a crater more than a mile and a half wide at the base. It was almost entirely formed during a single night in the year 1538, A. D. We have two accounts of the eruption to which it owes its existence; and each writer says distinctly that the mountain was formed by the falling of stones and ashes. One witness says,-- "Stones and ashes were thrown up with a noise like the discharge of great artillery, in quantities which seemed as if they would cover the whole earth; and in four days their fall had formed a mountain in the valley between Monte Barbaro and Lake Averno, of not less than three miles in circumference, and almost as high as Monte Barbaro itself,--a thing incredible to those who have not seen it, that in so short a time so considerable a mountain should have been formed." Another says,-- "Some of the stones were larger than an ox. The mud (ashes mixed with water) was at first very liquid, then less so, and in such quantities that with the help of the afore-mentioned stones a mountain was raised one thousand paces in height." (The writer's astonishment led him greatly to exaggerate the height.) These accounts are important as showing how in a much longer time a big volcano may be built up. From such small operations we learn how Nature works on a large scale. The great volcano in Mexico known as Jorullo was probably built up in a very similar way. There is a tradition among the natives that it was made in two or three days; but we can hardly believe that. Volcanoes, as they get older, tend to grow taller and bigger; but every now and then a large portion may be blown away by some great eruption, and they have, as it were, to begin again. [Illustration: THE ERUPTION OF VESUVIUS IN 1872. FROM AN INSTANTANEOUS PHOTOGRAPH.] Let us now consider volcanoes as geological agents, and see what they do. A volcanic eruption may be described in a general way as follows: Its advent is heralded by earthquakes affecting the mountain and the whole country round; loud underground explosions are heard, resembling the fire of distant artillery. The vibrations are chiefly transmitted through the ground; the mountain seems convulsed by internal throes, due, no doubt, to the efforts of the imprisoned steam and liquid rock to find an opening. These signs are accompanied by the drying up of wells and disappearance of springs, since the water finds its way down new cracks in the rocks, caused by the frequent shocks and quiverings. When at last an opening has been made, the eruption begins,--generally with one tremendous burst that shakes the whole mountain down to its foundations. After this, frequent explosions follow with great rapidity and increasing violence, generally from the crater. These are indicated by the globular masses of steam which are to be seen rising up in a tall column like that which issues from the funnel of a locomotive. But sometimes the whole mountain seems to be more or less engaged in giving out steam, and thus to be partly enveloped in it. This is illustrated by our engraving from an instantaneous photograph of Vesuvius in eruption in the year 1872. The steam and other gases, in their violent ascent, hurl up into the air a great deal of solid rock from the sides of the central opening, after first blowing out the stones which previously stopped up the orifice. Blocks of stone falling down meet with others coming up; and so a tremendous pounding action takes place, the result of which is that great quantities of volcanic dust and ashes are produced, generally of extreme fineness. Winds and ocean currents transport these light materials for long distances. The observations made during the famous and fruitful voyage of H. M. S. "Challenger" showed that fine volcanic dust is carried by wind and marine currents to almost all parts of the oceans. The darkness so frequently mentioned in accounts of eruptions--sometimes at a very great distance from the volcano--is entirely caused by clouds of volcanic dust hiding the light of the sun. Perhaps the best example of this is the case of the eruption of Krakatoa (in the Strait of Sunda, between Sumatra and Java) in 1883. Its explosions were heard in all directions for two thousand miles, and a perceptible layer of volcanic dust fell at all places within one thousand miles; while the finest dust and vapour, shot up fifteen or twenty miles high, were spread all over the globe, causing, while still suspended in the atmosphere, the peculiar red sunsets noticed in all parts of the world for some months after the eruption. Again, those very curious deposits of "red clay" found in the very deepest parts of the Pacific and Atlantic oceans (at depths of about four thousand fathoms, or twenty-four thousand feet) have been shown to be chiefly composed of volcanic dust, their red colour being due to oxidised iron. But there is another way in which a good deal of fine volcanic dust is made; and it is this: the lava is so full of steam intimately mixed up with it that the steam, in its violent effort to escape, often blows the lava into mere dust. Another interesting phenomenon may be thus described: Portions of liquid, or half liquid, lava are caught up by the steam and hurled into the air. These assume a more or less round form, and are known as "bombs." At a distance they give rise to the appearance of flames. And here we may remark that the flaring, coloured pictures of Etna or Vesuvius in eruption, which frequently may be seen, are by no means correct. The huge flames shooting up into the air are quite imaginary, but are probably suggested by the glare and bright reflection from glowing molten lava down in the crater. So great is the force of the pent-up steam trying to escape that it frequently blows a large part of the volcano bodily away; and in some cases a whole mountain has been blown to pieces. Finally, torrents of rain follow and accompany an eruption,--a result which clearly follows from the condensation of large volumes of steam expanding and rising up into the higher and cooler layers of the atmosphere. Vast quantities of volcanic ash are caught up by the rain, and in this way very large quantities of mud are washed down the sides of the mountain. Sometimes the mud-flows are on a large scale, and descending with great force, bury a whole town. It was mostly in this way that the ancient cities of Herculaneum and Pompeii were buried by the great eruption of Vesuvius in the year 79 A. D., in which the elder Pliny lost his life. The discoveries made during excavations at Pompeii are of very great interest as illustrating old Roman life. The Italians give the name _lava d'acqua_, or water-lava, to flows of this kind, and they are greatly dreaded on account of their great rapidity. An ordinary lava-stream creeps slowly along, so that people have time to get out of the way; but in the case of mud-flows there is often no time to escape. No lava-stream has ever reached Pompeii since it was first built, although the foundations of the town stand upon an old lava-flood. Herculaneum is nearer to Vesuvius, and has at times been visited by lava-streams. Mud-lavas, ashes, and lava-streams have accumulated over this city to a depth of over seventy feet. Lava-streams vary greatly in size; in some cases the lava, escaping from craters, comes to rest before reaching the base of the slopes of the volcano; in other cases a lava-flow not only reaches the plains below, but extends for many miles over the surrounding country. Hence lava-streams are important geological agents. Let us look at some famous instances. The most stupendous flow on record was that which took place from Skaptar Jökull in Iceland, in the year 1783. In this case a number of streams issued from the volcano, flooding the country far and wide, filling up river gorges which were in some cases six hundred feet deep and two hundred and fifty feet broad, and advancing into the alluvial plains in lakes of molten rock twelve to fifteen miles wide and one hundred feet deep. Two currents of lava which flowed in nearly opposite directions spread out with varying thickness according to the nature of the ground for forty and fifty miles respectively. Had this great eruption taken place in the south of England, all the country from the neighbourhood of London to that of Gloucester might have been covered by a flood of basalt of considerable thickness. Sometimes, when the lava can only escape at a point low down on the mountain, a fountain of molten rock will spout high into the air. This has happened on Vesuvius and Etna. But in an eruption of Mauna Loa, in the Sandwich Islands, an unbroken fountain of lava, from two hundred to seven hundred feet high and one thousand feet broad, burst out at the base of the mountain; and again in April, 1888, the same thing happened on a still grander scale. In this case four fiery fountains continued to play for several weeks, sometimes throwing the glowing lava to a height of one thousand feet in the air. Surely there can be no more wonderful or awful sight than this in the world. The volcanoes of Hawaii, the principal island in the Sandwich Islands, often send forth lava-streams covering an area of over one hundred square miles to a depth of one hundred feet or more; but they are discharged quite quietly, like water welling out of a spring. Repeated flows of this kind, however, have in the course of ages built up a great flat cone six miles high from the floor of the ocean, to form this lofty island, which is larger than Surrey; and it is calculated that the great volcanic mountain must contain enough material to cover the whole of the United States with a layer of rock fifty feet deep. But it is not only on the surface of the land that volcanic eruptions take place; for in some cases the outbreak of a submarine eruption has been witnessed, and it is highly probable that in past geological ages many large eruptions of this nature have taken place. In the year 1783, an eruption took place about thirty miles off the west coast of Iceland. An island was built up from which glowing vapour and smoke came forth; but in a year or less the waves had washed everything away, leaving only a submerged reef. The island of Santorin, in the Greek Archipelago, is a partly submerged volcano. But in some cases enormous outpourings of lava have taken place, not from volcanoes, but from openings of the ground here and there, and more usually from long fissures or cracks in the rocks lying at the surface. In many cases so much lava has quietly welled out in this way that the old features of the landscape have been completely buried up, and wide plains and plateaux formed over them. Sir A. Geikie says,-- "Some of the most remarkable examples of this type of volcanic structure occur in western North America. Among these that of the Snake River plain in Idaho may be briefly described. "Surrounded on the north and east by lofty mountains, it stretches westward as an apparently boundless desert of sand and bare sheets of black basalt. A few streams descending into the plain from the hills are soon swallowed up and lost. The Snake River, however, flows across it, and has cut out of its lava bed a series of picturesque gorges and rapids. "The extent of country which has been flooded with basalt in this and adjoining regions of Oregon and Washington has not yet been accurately surveyed, but has been estimated to cover a larger area than France and Great Britain combined. Looked at from any point on its surface, one of these lava plains appears as a vast level surface, like that of a lake bottom. This uniformity has been produced either by the lava rolling over a plain or lake bottom, or by the complete effacement of an original, undulating contour of the ground under hundreds of feet of lava in successive sheets. The lava, rolling up to the base of the mountains, has followed the sinuosities of their margin, as the waters of a lake follow its promontories and bays." A few further examples of mud-lavas may be mentioned here. Cotopaxi, a great volcano in Ecuador, South America, with a height of 17,900 feet, reaches so high into the atmosphere that the higher parts are capped with snow. In June, 1877, a great eruption took place, during which the melting of snow and ice gave rise to torrents of mud and water, which rushed down the steep sides of the mountain, so that large blocks of ice were hurried along. The villages around to a distance of about seventy miles were buried under a deposit of mud, mixed with blocks of lava, ashes, pieces of wood, etc. Sometimes a volcano discharges large quantities of mud directly from the crater. In this case the mud is not manufactured by the volcano itself, but finds its way through fissures and cracks from the bed of the neighbouring sea or rivers to the crater. Thus, in the year 1691, Imbaburu, one of the Andes of Quito, sent out floods of mud containing dead fish, the decay of which caused fever in the neighbourhood. In the same way the volcanoes of Java have often buried large tracts of fertile country under a covering of volcanic mud, thus causing great devastation. Vast quantities of dust are produced, as already explained, by the pounding action that takes place during an eruption, as portions of rock in falling down meet others that are being hurled into the air. Striking instances of this have occurred not far from Great Britain. Thus in the year 1783, during an eruption of Skaptar Jökull, so great was the amount of dust thus created that the atmosphere in Iceland was loaded with it for several months. Carried by winds, it even reached the northern parts of Scotland, and in Caithness so much of it fell that the crops were destroyed. This is remarkable, considering that the distance was six hundred miles. Even in Holland and Norway there are traces of this great shower of dust from the Icelandic volcano. During the fearful eruption of Tomboro, a volcano in the island of Sumbawa, in the Eastern Archipelago, in 1815, the abundance of ashes and dust ejected caused darkness at midday at Java, three hundred miles away, and even there the ground was covered to a depth of several inches. In Sumbawa itself the part of the island joining the mountain was entirely desolated, and all the houses destroyed, together with twelve thousand inhabitants. Trees and herbage were overwhelmed with pumice and volcanic dust. The floating pumice on the sea around formed a layer two feet, six inches thick, through which vessels forced their way with difficulty. From such facts as these it is clear that if in past ages volcanoes have been so powerfully active as they are now, we should expect to find lava-flows, dykes, and great deposits of volcanic ash deposited in water among the stratified rocks; and such is the case. Many large masses of rock familiar to the geologist, and often forming parts of existing mountains, are to be accounted for either as great lava-flows, or dykes that have forced their way in among the strata, or as extensive deposits of volcanic ash. But perhaps the reader would like to know what the inside of a volcanic crater is like during an eruption. Let us, then, take a peep into that fearful crater of Kilauea, in the Sandwich Islands. For this purpose we cannot do better than follow Miss Bird's admirable description of her adventurous expedition to this crater:-- "The abyss, which really is at a height of four thousand feet, on the flank of Mauna Loa, has the appearance of a pit on a rolling plain. But such a pit! It is quite nine miles in circumference, and at its lowest area--which not long ago fell about three hundred feet, just as ice on a pond falls when the water below is withdrawn--covers six square miles. The depth of the crater varies from eight hundred to one thousand feet, according as the molten sea below is at flood or ebb. Signs of volcanic activity are present more or less throughout its whole depth, and for some distance round its margin, in the form of steam-cracks, jets of sulphurous vapour, blowing cones, accumulating deposits of acicular crystals of sulphur, etc., and the pit itself is constantly rent and shaken by earthquakes. Grand eruptions occurred with circumstances of indescribable terror and dignity; but Kilauea does not limit its activity to these outbursts, but has exhibited its marvellous phenomena through all known time in a lake or lakes on the southern part of the crater three miles from this side. "This lake--the _Hale-mau-mau_, or 'House of Everlasting Fire,' of the Hawaiian mythology, the abode of the dreaded goddess Pele--is approachable with safety, except during an eruption. The spectacle, however, varies almost daily; and at times the level of the lava in the pit within a pit is so low, and the suffocating gases are evolved in such enormous quantities, that travellers are unable to see anything. There had been no news from it for a week; and as nothing was to be seen but a very faint bluish vapour hanging round its margin, the prospect was not encouraging.... After more than an hour of very difficult climbing, we reached the lowest level of the crater, pretty nearly a mile across, presenting from above the appearance of a sea at rest; but on crossing it, we found it to be an expanse of waves and convolutions of ashy-coloured lava, with huge cracks filled up with black iridescent rolls of lava only a few weeks old. Parts of it are very rough and ridgy, jammed together like field-ice, or compacted by rolls of lava, which may have swelled up from beneath; but the largest part of the area presents the appearance of huge coiled hawsers, the ropy formation of the lava rendering the illusion almost perfect. These are riven by deep cracks, which emit hot sulphurous vapours.... "As we ascended, the flow became hotter under our feet, as well as more porous and glistening. It was so hot that a shower of rain hissed as it fell upon it. The crust became increasingly insecure, and necessitated our walking in single file with the guide in front, to test the security of the footing. I fell through several times, and always into holes full of sulphurous steam so malignantly acid that my strong dogskin gloves were burned through as I raised myself on my hands. "We had followed the lava-flow for thirty miles up to the crater's brink, and now we had toiled over recent lava for three hours, and by all calculation were close to the pit; yet there was no smoke or sign of fire, and I felt sure that the volcano had died out for once for our special disappointment.... "Suddenly, just above, and in front of us, gory drops were tossed in the air, and springing forwards we stood on the brink of _Hale-mau-mau_, which was about thirty-five feet below us. I think we all screamed. I know we all wept; but we were speechless, for a new glory and terror had been added to the earth. It is the most unutterable of wonderful things. The words of common speech are quite useless. It is unimaginable, indescribable; a sight to remember for ever; a sight which at once took possession of every faculty of sense and soul, removing one altogether out of the range of ordinary life. Here was the real 'bottomless pit,' 'the fire which is not quenched,' 'the place of Hell,' 'the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone,' 'the everlasting burnings,' 'the fiery sea whose waves are never weary.'[26] There were groanings, rumblings, and detonations, rushings, hissings, splashings, and the crashing sound of breakers on the coast; but it was the surging of fiery waves upon a fiery shore. But what can I write? Such words as jets, fountains, waves, spray, convey some idea of order and regularity, but here there was none. The inner lake, while we stood there, formed a sort of crater within itself; the whole lava sea rose about three feet; a blowing cone about eight feet high was formed; it was never the same two minutes together. And what we saw had no existence a month ago, and probably will be changed in every essential feature a month hence.... The prominent object was fire in motion; but the surface of the double lake was continually skimming over for a second or two with a cooled crust of a lustrous grey-white, like frosted silver, broken by jagged cracks of a bright rose-colour. The movement was nearly always from the sides to the centre; but the movement of the centre itself appeared independent, and always took a southerly direction. Before each outburst of agitation there was much hissing and throbbing, internal roaring, as of imprisoned gases. Now it seemed furious, demoniacal, as if no power on earth could bind it, then playful and sportive, then for a second languid, but only because it was accumulating fresh force.... Sometimes the whole lake ... took the form of mighty waves, and surging heavily against the partial barrier with a sound like the Pacific surf, lashed, tore, covered it, and threw itself over it in clots of living fire. It was all confusion, commotion, forces, terror, glory, majesty, mystery, and even beauty. And the colour, 'eye hath not seen' it! Molten metal hath not that crimson gleam, nor blood that living light."[27] [26] Perhaps these Scripture phrases were suggested long before the Bible was written, by the sight of some crater in active eruption. [27] The Hawaiian Archipelago. Continued observation of volcanoes, together with evidence derived from history, teaches that there are different stages of volcanic action. There are three pretty well-marked phases. First, the state of permanent eruption; this is not a dangerous state, because the steam keeps escaping all the time: the safety-valve is at work, and all goes smoothly. The second state is one of moderate activity, with more or less violent eruptions at brief intervals; this is rather dangerous, because at times the safety-valve does not work. And thirdly, we have paroxysms of intense energy, alternating with long periods of repose sometimes lasting for centuries. These eruptions are extremely violent, and cause widespread destruction; the safety-valve has got jammed, and so the boiler bursts. No volcano has been so carefully watched for a long time as Vesuvius. Its history illustrates the phases we have just mentioned. The first recorded eruption is that of A. D. 79, a very severe one of the violent type, by which Herculaneum, Pompeii, and Stabiæ were buried. We have an interesting account by the younger Pliny. Before this great eruption took place, Vesuvius had been in a state of repose for eight hundred years, and if we may judge from the Greek and Roman writings, was not even suspected of being a volcano. Then followed an interval of rest until the reign of Severus, the second eruption taking place in the year 203. In the year 472, says Procopius, all Europe was covered more or less with volcanic ashes. Other eruptions followed at intervals, but there was complete repose for two centuries; that is, until the year 1306. In 1500 it was again active, then quiet again for one hundred and thirty years. In 1631 there took place another terrific outburst. After this many eruptions followed, and they have been frequent ever since. Vesuvius is therefore now in the second stage of moderate activity. But geologists can take a wider view than this. They can sum up the history of a volcanic region of the earth; and the result is somewhat as follows: Volcanoes, like living creatures, go through different periods or phases, corresponding roughly to youth, middle age, old age, and finally decay. The invasion of any particular area of the earth's surface by the volcanic forces is heralded by underground shocks, or earthquakes. A little later on cracks are formed, as indicated by the rise of saline and hot springs, and the issuing of carbonic acid and other gases at the surface of the earth. As the underground activity becomes greater, the temperature of the springs and emitted gases increases; and at last a visible rent is formed, exposing highly heated and glowing rock below. From the fissure thus formed, the gas and vapours imprisoned in the molten rocks escape with such violence as to disperse the latter in the form of pumice and volcanic ash, or to cause them to pour out as lava-streams. The action generally becomes confined to one or more points along the line of action (which is a line of fissures and cracks). In this way a chain of volcanoes is formed, which may become the seat of volcanic action for a long time. When the volcanic energies have become somewhat exhausted, so that they cannot raise up the lava and expel it from the volcanic crater, nor rend the sides of the volcano and cause minor cones to grow up on their flanks, small cones may be formed at a lower level in the plains around the great central chain. These likewise are fed from fissures. Later on, as the heated rock below cools down, the fissures are sealed up by lava that has become solid; and then the volcanoes fall, as it were, into the "sere and yellow leaf," and remain in a peaceful, quiet state befitting their old age. After this they begin to suffer from long exposure to the atmospheric influences of decay, and rain and rivers wash them away more or less completely. But still the presence of heated rocky matter at no great depth below is proved by the outbursts of gases and vapours, the forming of geysers and ordinary hot springs. Gradually, however, even these signs of heat below disappear; and the cycle of volcanic phases is at an end. Such a series of changes may require millions of years; but by the study of volcanoes in every stage of their growth and decline it is possible thus to sketch out an outline of their history. It must be confessed that in the present state of scientific knowledge no full and complete explanation of volcanic action is possible. Geologists and others are as yet but feeling their way cautiously towards the light which, perhaps before long, will illumine the dark recesses of this mysterious subject. Many theories and ideas have been put forward, but in the opinion of the writer the most promising explanation is one that may be briefly expressed as follows: There are below the crust of the earth large masses of highly heated rock that are _kept solid_ by the enormous pressure of the overlying rocks, or otherwise they would melt,--for it is a known fact that pressure tends to prevent the melting of a solid body. But when earth-movements taking place within the earth's crust--such as the upheaving of mountain-chains--take off some of the weight, the balance between internal heat and the pressure from above is no longer maintained; and so these highly heated rocks run off into the liquid state, and finding their way to the surface through the fissures mentioned above, give rise to volcanic action. There is much to be said in favour of this view. It rightly connects volcanic action with movements of upheaval, with mountain-chains and lines of weakness in the earth's crust. There is very good reason to believe that the earth was once in a highly heated state, and has been slowly cooling down for ages. The increase of temperature observed in penetrating mines tells us that it still retains below the surface some of its old heat. We need not therefore be surprised at the existence of heated masses of rock down below, or seek, as some have done, an entirely different source for the origin of volcanic heat than that which remains from the earth's once molten condition. It would take too long to state the reasons on which this idea of the former state of our planet is based, and moreover, it would bring us into the region of astronomy, with which we are not concerned at present. In various parts of Great Britain and Ireland we meet with old volcanic rocks,--lavas, intrusive dykes, and sheets of basalt, etc., together with vast deposits of volcanic ash, which, sinking into the old neighbouring seas, became stratified, or arranged in layers like the ordinary sedimentary rocks. In some cases we see embedded in these layers the very "bombs" that were thrown out by the old volcanoes (see page 253). And besides these purely volcanic rocks, we often meet in these areas with great bosses of granite, which must have been in some way connected with the old volcanoes, and probably were in many cases the source from which much of the volcanic rock was derived. But more than this, in a few instances we have the site of the old volcano itself marked out by a kind of pipe, or "neck," now filled with some of its volcanic débris in the shape of coarse, rounded fragments (see page 277). During a very ancient period, known to geologists as the Silurian Period, great lava-flows took place from volcanoes situated where North and South Wales and the Lake District now are; and by their eruptions a vast amount of volcanic ash was made, which fell into the sea and slowly sank to the bottom, so that the shell-fish living there were buried in the strata thus formed, and may now be seen in a fossilised condition. [Illustration: Fig. 1. THE RANGES OF THE GREAT BASIN, WESTERN STATES OF NORTH AMERICA, SHOWING A SERIES OF GREAT FRACTURES AND TILTED MASSES OF ROCK.] [Illustration: Fig. 2. SECTION THROUGH SNOWDON.] Thus Snowdon, Cader Idris, the Arans, Arenig Mountain, and others, are very largely made up of these ancient volcanic materials. The writer has picked up specimens of fossil shell-fish near the summit of Snowdon from a bed of fine volcanic ash that forms the summit. Fig. 2 represents a section through Snowdon, from which it will be seen that we have first a few sedimentary strata, _S_, then a great lava-flow, _L_; and that volcanic ashes accumulated on the top of this, of which _A A_ are patches still left. _B_ is an intrusive dyke of a basaltic rock that forced its way through afterwards. Again, in the Lake District there is a well-known volcanic series of stratified rocks of the same age, consisting mostly of lavas and ashes, the total thickness of which is about twelve thousand feet (known as the "Green Slates and Porphyries"), so that a large part of some of the mountains there have also been built up by volcanic action; but no traces of the old volcanoes remain. Going farther north we find abundant proof that volcanic action on a prodigious scale took place in Scotland during the very ancient period of the Old Red Sandstone, with which the name of Hugh Miller will always be associated. In Central Scotland we see lava-flows and strata formed of volcanic ash, with a thickness of more than six thousand feet, fragments of which, having escaped the destructive agents of denudation, now form important chains of hills, such as the Pentland, Ochil, and Sidlaw ranges. Nor was the volcanic action confined to this region. In the district of the Cheviot Hills similar volcanic rocks are to be seen. But here again the old volcanoes have long since been swept away, leaving us only portions of their outpourings buried in the hills. There can be no doubt that the present area of the Grampian Hills was once the site of a considerable number of volcanoes, only at a much higher level than their present surface, elevated though that is to the region of the clouds; but in this case subsequent denudation has been so enormous that the old mountain surface has been planed away until all we can now see is a series of separate patches of granite, that were once in a fused and highly heated state far below the surface, and formed part of the subterranean reservoirs from which the volcanoes derived their great supplies of lava and steam. It is indeed difficult to imagine the enormous amount of denudation which has taken place in the Highlands of Scotland, and to realise that the magnificent range of the Cairngorms, for instance, has been for ages worn down until now they are but a remnant of what they once were. In this region we see the once boiling and seething masses of rock which fed the old volcanoes, now no longer endowed with life-like power by the force of steam, but lying in deathlike cold and stiffness, with their beautiful crystals of mica and felspar sparkling in the sun. The volcanic fires have died out; but the traces of their work are unmistakable, among which we must not forget to reckon the beautiful minerals made by the action of heated water upon the surrounding rocks. The beautiful cairngorm stones are still sometimes found on the mountain from which they take their name, and in all volcanic regions minerals are plentiful. The well-known hill called Arthur's Seat, close to Edinburgh, marks the site of an old volcano. The "neck," or central opening, may be seen at the top of the hill, but choked up with volcanic rocks and débris. The crater has long since disappeared, but Salisbury Craigs and St. Leonard's Craigs are formed of a great sheet of basalt that intruded itself among the stratified rocks that had been formed there, and so belong really to a great intrusive dyke. In the Castle Rock we see the same basalt again. During a much later age, known as the Miocene Period (see chap. x., p. 324), enormous outpourings of lava took place in Western Europe, covering hundreds of square miles. Of these the most important is that which occupies a large part of the northeast of Ireland, and extends in patches through the Inner Hebrides and the Faröe Islands into Iceland. These eruptive rocks, unlike those above referred to, must have poured out at the surface, and have taken the form of successive sheets, such as we now see in the terraced plateaux of Skye, Eigg, Canna, Muck, Mull, and Morven. These, then, are patches of what once formed a great plain of basalt. During later times this volcanic platform has been so greatly cut up by the agents of denudation that it has been reduced to mere scattered fragments; thousands of feet of basalt have been worn away from it; deep and wide valleys have been carved out of it; and in many cases it has been almost entirely stripped off from the wide areas it once covered. Where, as in the Isle of Eigg, the lava has been piled up in successive sheets, with some layers of volcanic ash between, the latter has been worn away rather faster than the hard layers of basalt, and each lava-flow is clearly marked by a terrace. These volcanic eruptions have thus had a great influence in moulding the scenery of this region. In Ireland the old basalts are well seen at the Giant's Causeway, and on the Scottish coast we see them again at the well-known Fingal's cave at Staffa. This island, like the others, is just a patch of the old lava-streams. Its curious six-sided columns illustrate a fact with regard to the subsequent cooling of lava-flows. Some internal forces, analogous to that which regulates the shapes of crystals, have caused it to crack along three sets of lines, so placed with regard to each other as to produce six-sided columns. In Ireland the basalts attain a thickness of nine hundred feet; in Mull they are about three thousand feet thick. It has been clearly proved that Mull is the site of one of the old volcanoes of this period, but very few others have as yet been detected. Perhaps the eruptions took place mainly from large fissures, instead of from volcanic cones, for it is known that the ground below the lava-sheets has been rent by earthquakes into innumerable fissures, into which the basalt was injected from below. In this way a vast number of "dykes" were formed. These have been traced by hundreds eastwards from this region across Scotland, and even the north of England. In this case the molten rock was struggling to get through the overlying rocks and escape at the surface; but apparently it did not succeed in so doing, for we do not find lava-flows to the east and south. These basalt dykes are found as far south as Yorkshire, and can be traced over an area of one hundred thousand square miles. It is thus evident that in the Miocene Period a great and extensive mass of molten basalt was underlying a large part of the British Isles, and probably the weight of the thick rocks overlying it was sufficient to prevent its escape to the surface. If it had succeeded in so escaping and overflowing, how different the scenery of much of Scotland and Northern England might have been! [Illustration: COLUMNAR BASALT AT CLAMSHELL CAVE, STAFFA. FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY J. VALENTINE.] CHAPTER IX. MOUNTAIN ARCHITECTURE. The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story; The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying; Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. TENNYSON. The dying splendours of the sun slowly sinking and entering the "gates of the West" may well serve as a fitting emblem of the mountains in their beautiful old age, awaiting in silent and calm dignity the time when they also must be brought low, and sink in the waters of the ocean, as the sun appears daily to do. Yes, they too have their day. They too had their rising, when mighty forces brought them up out of their watery bed. Many of them have passed their hey-day of youth, and their midday; while others, far advanced in old age, are nearing the end of their course. But as the sun rises once more over eastern seas to begin another day, so will the substance of the mountains be again heaved up after a long, long rest under the sea, and here and there will rise up from the plains to form the lofty mountain-ranges of a distant future. Everywhere we read the same story, the same circle of changes. The Alpine peak that proudly rears its head to the clouds must surely be brought low, and finally come back to the same ocean from which those clouds arose. It is in this way that the balance between land and water is preserved. In passing through such a great circle of changes, the mountains assume various forms and shapes which are determined by:-- 1. Their different ages and states of decay. 2. The different kinds of rocks of which they are composed, and especially by their "joints," or natural divisions. 3. The different positions into which these rocky layers have been squeezed, pushed, and crumpled by those stupendous forces of upheaval of which we spoke in chapter vi. Let us therefore glance at some of these external forms, and then look at the internal structure of mountains. In so doing we shall find that we have yet a good deal more to learn about mountains and how they were made; and also we shall then be in a better position to realise not only how very much denudation they have suffered, but also how greatly they have been disturbed since their rocks were first made. Every one who knows mountains must have observed how some are smooth and rounded, others sharp and jagged, with peaks and pinnacles standing out clearly against the sky; some square and massive, with steep walls forming precipices; others again spread out widely at their base, but the sloping sides end in a sharp point at the top, giving to the mountain the appearance of a cone. Their diversities of shape are so endless that we cannot attempt to describe them all. First, with regard to the general features of mountains. Looked at broadly, a mountain-range is not a mere line of hills or mountains rising straight up from a plain on each side, such as school-boys often draw in their maps; very far from it. Take the Rocky Mountains, for instance. "It has been truly said of the Rocky Mountains that the word 'range' does not express it at all. It is a whole country populous with mountains. It is as if an ocean of molten granite had been caught by instant petrifaction when its billows were rolling heaven high."[28] [28] "The Crest of the Continent," by Ernest Ingersoll, Chicago, 1885. It has often been observed by mountain climbers that when they get to the top of a high mountain, and take a bird's-eye view of the country, all the mountain-tops seem to reach to about the same height, so that a line joining them would be almost level. For this reason, perhaps, writers so often compare them to the waves of an ocean. This feature is very conspicuous in the case of the Scotch Highlands. Sir A. Geikie has well described what he saw from the top of Ben Nevis:-- "Much has been said and written about the wild, tumbled sea of the Highland Hills. But as he sits on his high perch, does it not strike the observer that there is after all a wonderful orderliness, and even monotony, in the waves of that wide sea? And when he has followed their undulations from north to south, all round the horizon, does it not seem to him that these mountain-tops and ridges tend somehow to rise to a general level; that, in short, there is not only on the great scale a marked similarity of contour about them, but a still more definite uniformity of average height? To many who have contented themselves with the bottom of the glen, and have looked with awe at the array of peaks and crags overhead, this statement will doubtless appear incredible. But let any one get fairly up to the summits and look along them, and he will not fail to see that the statement is nevertheless true. From the top of Ben Nevis this feature is impressively seen. Along the sky-line, the wide sweep of summits undulates up to a common level, varied here by a cone and there by the line of some strath or glen, but yet wonderfully persistent round the whole panorama. If, as sometimes happens in these airy regions, a bank of cloud with a level under-surface should descend upon the mountains, it will be seen to touch summit after summit, the long line of the cloud defining, like a great parallel ruler, the long level line of the ridges below. I have seen this feature brought out with picturesque vividness over the mountains of Knoydart and Glen Garry. Wreaths of filmy mist had been hovering in the upper air during the forenoon. Towards evening, under the influence of a cool breeze from the north, they gathered together into one long band that stretched for several miles straight as the sky-line of the distant sea, touching merely the higher summits and giving a horizon by which the general uniformity of level among the hills could be signally tested. Once or twice in a season one may be fortunate enough to get on the mountains above such a stratum of mist, which then seems to fill up the irregularities of the general platform of hill-tops, and to stretch out as a white phantom sea, from which the highest eminences rise up as little islets into the clear air of the morning.... Still more striking is the example furnished by the great central mass of the Grampians, comprising the Cairngorm Mountains and the great corries and precipices round the head of the Dee. This tract of rugged ground, when looked at from a distance, is found to present the character of a high, undulating plateau."[29] [29] Scenery of Scotland page 130, new edition. This long level line of the Highland mountain-tops may be seen very well from the lower country outside; for example, from the isles of Skye and Eigg, where one may see the panorama between the heights of Applecross and the Point of Ardnamurchan showing very clearly the traces of the old table-land. How are we to explain this curious fact, so opposed to our first impressions of a mountain region? It is quite clear that the old plateau thus marked out cannot be caused by the arrangement or position of the rocks of which the Highlands are composed. If these rocks were found to be lying pretty evenly in flat layers, or strata, undisturbed by great earth-movements, we could readily understand that they would form a plateau. But the reverse is the case: the rocks are everywhere thrown into folds, and frequently greatly displaced by "faults;" yet these important geological features have little or no connection with the external aspect of the country. It is therefore useless to look to internal structure for an explanation. We must look outside, and consider what has been for ages and ages taking place here. As already pointed out, an enormous amount of solid rock has been removed from this region--thousands and thousands of feet. It was long ago planed down by the action of water, so that a table-land once existed of which the tops of the present mountains are isolated fragments. No other conclusion is possible. To the geologist every hill and valley throughout the whole length and breadth of the Highlands bears striking testimony to this enormous erosion. The explanation we are seeking may therefore be summed up in one word, "denudation." The valleys that now intersect the table-land have been carved out of it. If we could in imagination put back again onto the present surface what has been removed, we should have a mental picture of the Highlands as a wide, undulating table-land; and this rolling plain would suggest the bottom of the sea. The long flat surfaces of the Highland ridges, cut across the edges of inclined or even upright strata, are the fragments of a former base-line of erosion; that is, they represent the general submarine level to which the Highlands were reduced after exposure to the action of "rain and rivers," and finally of the sea. As the sea gradually spread over it, it planed down everything that had not been previously worn away, and so reduced the whole surface to one general level like the sea-bed of the present day. But it is not necessary to suppose that the whole region was under water at the same time, and it is probable that there were separate inland seas or lakes. In these the rocks of the Old Red Sandstone were formed; and they in their turn have suffered so much denudation that only patches and long strips of them are left on the borders of the Highlands. Before we speak of individual mountains and their shapes, it is important to bear in mind another fact about mountain-chains; namely, that they are very low in proportion to their breadth and length. The great heights reached by some mountains produce such a powerful impression on our senses that we hardly realise how very insignificant they really are. It is only by drawing them on a true scale that we can realise this. The surface of the earth is so vast that even the highest mountains are in proportion but as the little roughnesses on the skin of an orange. Fig. 2 (see chap, vii., p. 236) represents a section through the Highlands, drawn on the same scale for height as for length. What has been said about the Highland plateau applies equally well to many other mountain-ranges. Mr. Ruskin observed something rather similar in the Alps. He says,-- "The longer I stayed in the Alps, and the more closely I examined them, the more I was struck by the one broad fact of there being a vast Alpine plateau, or mass of elevated land, upon which nearly all the highest peaks stood like children set upon a table, removed, in most cases, far back from the edge of the plateau, as if for fear of their falling; ... and for the most part the great peaks are not allowed to come to the edge of it, but remain like the keeps of castles, withdrawn, surrounded league beyond league by comparatively level fields of mountains, over which the lapping sheets of glaciers writhe and flow, foaming about the feet of the dark central crests like the surf of an enormous sea-breaker hurled over a rounded rock and islanding some fragment of it in the midst. And the result of this arrangement is a kind of division of the whole of Switzerland into an upper and a lower mountain world,--the lower world consisting of rich valleys, bordered by steep but easily accessible, wooded banks of mountain, more or less divided by ravines, through which glimpses are caught of the higher Alps; the upper world, reached after the first steep banks of three thousand or four thousand feet in height have been surmounted, consisting of comparatively level but most desolate tracts of moor and rock, half covered by glacier, and stretching to the feet of the true pinnacles of the chain." He then points out the wisdom of this arrangement, and shows how it protects the inhabitants from falling blocks and avalanches; and moreover, the masses of snow, if cast down at once into the warmer air, would melt too fast and cause furious inundations. All the various kinds of rocks are differently affected by the atmospheric influences of decay, and so present different external appearances and shapes, so that after a little experience the geologist can recognize the presence of certain rocks by the kind of scenery they produce; and this knowledge is often of great use in helping him to unravel the geological structure of a difficult region. Thus granite, crystalline schists, slates, sandstones, and limestones, all "weather" in their own ways, and moreover split up differently, because their joints and other natural lines of division run in different ways. Thus granite is jointed very regularly, some of the joints running straight down and others running horizontally, so that the rain and atmosphere seize on these lines and widen them very considerably; and thus the granite is weathered out either in tall upright columns, like those seen at Land's End, or else into great square-shaped blocks with their corners rounded off, presenting the appearance of a number of knapsacks lying one over the other. In this way we can account for the well-known "Tors" of Devonshire, and the "Rocking Stones." Granite weathers rapidly along its joints, and its surfaces crumble away more rapidly than might be expected, considering how hard a rock it is; but the felspar which is its chief mineral constituent is readily decomposed by rain water, which acts chemically upon it. The deposits of China clay in Devonshire are the result of the decomposition and washing away of the granite of Dartmoor. Granite mountains are generally rounded and "bossy," breaking now and then into cliffs, the faces of which are riven by huge joints, and present a very different appearance from those composed of crystalline schists with their sharp crests and peaks. Ben Nevis and the Cairngorms are partly composed of granite. Gneiss is a rock composed of the same minerals as granite; namely, mica, quartz, and felspar. And yet mountains composed of this rock have quite a different aspect, and sometimes, as in the Alps, produce very sharp and jagged pinnacles. The reason of this is that gneiss splits in a different way from granite, because its minerals are arranged in layers, and so it is more like a crystalline schist. Mica-schist is another rock very abundant in mountain regions. This rock is composed of quartz and mica arranged in wavy layers. The mica, which is very conspicuous, lies in thin plates, sometimes so dovetailed into each other as to form long continuous layers separating it from those of the quartz; and it readily splits along the layers of mica. This mineral is easily recognised by its bright, shiny surface. There are, however, two varieties,--one of a light colour and the other black. Mica-schist and gneiss are often found in the same region, and are the materials of which most of the highest peaks in Europe are composed. We find them abounding in the district of Mont Blanc; and all the monarch's attendant _aiguilles_, with the splintered ridges enclosing the great snowfields in the heart of the chain, consist mostly of these two rocks. The Matterhorn, Weisshorn, Monte Viso, the Grand Paradis, the Aiguille Verte and Aiguille du Dru are examples of the wonderful forms produced by the breaking up and decay of these two rocks. The different varieties of slate split in a very marked way. Slates are often associated with the schists, and exert their influence in modifying the scenery. Limestone ranges, though less striking in the outlines of their crests than those composed of slates and crystalline schists, and not reaching to such heights, are nevertheless not at all inferior in the grandeur of their cliffs, which frequently extend for miles along the side of a valley in vast terraces, whose precipitous walls are often absolutely inaccessible. The beauty of limestone mountains is often enhanced by the rich pastures and forests which clothe their lower slopes. The dolomitic limestone of the Italian Tyrol, being gashed by enormous vertical joints and at the same time having been formed in rather thin layers which break up into small blocks, produces some very striking scenery. But wild as these mountainous ridges may be, their forms can never be confounded with those of the crystalline schists; for however sharp their pinnacles may appear at first sight, careful examination will always show that their outline is that of ruined masonry, suggesting crumbling battlements and tottering turrets, and not the curving, flame-like crests and splintered peaks of the crystalline schists.[30] [30] Bonney. It has already been explained that all sedimentary rocks have been formed under water in layers or strata, and it must be obvious that the stratification of such rocks has an important influence on scenery; and very much depends on whether the strata have been left undisturbed, with perhaps just a slight slope, or whether they have been folded and crumpled; for the position of the strata, or "bedding," as it is called,--whether flat, inclined, vertical, or contorted,--largely determines the nature of the surface. Undoubtedly the most characteristic scenery formed by stratified rocks is to be seen in those places where the "bedding" is horizontal, or nearly so, and the strata are massive. A mountain constructed of such materials appears as a colossal pyramid, the level lines of stratification looking like great courses of masonry. The joints that cut across the strata allow it to be cleft into great blocks and deep chasms; so that, as in the case of the dolomitic limestone above mentioned, we find a resemblance to ruined buildings. We cannot find a better example of this in our own country than the mountains of sandstone and conglomerate (of the Cambrian age) that here and there lie on the great platform of old gneiss in the west of Sutherland and Ross. Sir A. Geikie says,-- "The bleak, bare gneiss, with its monotonous undulations, tarns, and bogs, is surmounted by groups of cones, which for individuality of form and independence of position better deserve to be called mountains than most of the eminences to which that name is given in Scotland. These huge pyramids, rising to heights of between two thousand and four thousand feet, consist of dark red strata, so little inclined that their edges can be traced by the eye in long, level bars on the steeper hillsides and precipices, like lines of masonry. Here and there the hand of time has rent them into deep rifts, from which long 'screes' (slopes of loose stones) descend into the plains below, as stones are detached from the shivered walls of an ancient battlement. Down their sides, which have in places the steepness of a bastion, vegetation finds but scanty room along the projecting ledges of the sandstone beds, where the heath and grass and wildflowers cluster over the rock in straggling lines and tufts of green; and yet, though nearly as bare as the gneiss below them, these lofty mountains are far from presenting the same aspect of barrenness. The prevailing colour of their component strata gives them a warm red hue, which even at noon contrasts strongly with the grey of the platform of older rock.... These huge isolated cones are among the most striking memorials of denudation anywhere to be seen in the British Isles. Quinag, Canisp, Suilven, Coulmore, and the hills of Coygoch, Dundonald, Loch Maree, and Torridon are merely detached patches of a formation not less than seven thousand or eight thousand feet thick, which once spread over the northwest of Scotland. The spaces between them were once occupied by the same dull red sandstone; the horizontal stratification of one hill, indeed, is plainly continuous with that of the others, though deep and wide valleys, or miles of low moorland, may now lie between. While the valleys have been worn down through the sandstone, these strange pyramidal mountains that form so singular a feature in the landscapes of the northwest highlands have been left standing, like lonely sea-stacks, as monuments of long ages of waste."[31] [31] Scenery of Scotland, page 201, new edition. Again, the vast table-lands of the Colorado region illustrate on a truly magnificent scale, to which there is no parallel in the Old World, the effects of atmospheric erosion on undisturbed and nearly level strata. Here we find valleys and river gorges deeper and longer than any others in the world; great winding lines of escarpment, like ranges of sea cliffs; terraced slopes rising at various levels; huge buttresses and solitary monuments, standing like islands out of the plains; and lastly, great mountain masses carved out into the most striking and picturesque shapes, yet with their lines of "bedding" clearly marked out. On the other hand, where, as is almost always the case in mountain-ranges, the stratified rocks have been folded, crumpled, twisted, and fractured by great "faults," we find a very different result. In these cases the rocks have generally been very much altered by the action of heat. For here we find crystalline schists, gneiss, granite, and other rocks in the formation of which heat has played an important part; and very often the igneous rocks have forced their way through those of sedimentary origin and altered them into what are called metamorphic rocks (see chapter v., page 156). Thus they have lost much of their original character and structure. The repeated uplifts and subsidences of the earth's crust, by which the continents of the world have been raised up out of the sea to form dry land, have, broadly speaking, thrown the rocky strata into a series of wave-like undulations. In some extensive regions these undulations are so broad and low that the curvature is quite imperceptible, and the strata appear to lie in horizontal layers, or to slope very slightly in a certain direction. This is, in a general way, the position of the strata of which plains and plateaux are composed. But in the longer and comparatively narrow mountain regions that traverse each of the great continents, forming, as it were, backbones to them, the undulations are very much more frequent, narrower, and higher. Sometimes the rocks have been thrown into huge open waves, or the folds are closely crowded together, so that the strata stand on their ends, or are even completely overturned, and thus their proper order of succession is reversed, and the older ones actually lie on the top of the newer ones. As we approach a great mountain-chain we observe many minor ridges and smaller chains running roughly parallel with it, and, as it were, foreshadowing the great folds met with in the centre of the chain and among its highest peaks. These small folds become sharper and closer the nearer we get to the main chain, and evidently were formed by the same movements that uplifted the higher ranges beyond; but the force was not so great. Thus we find the great Alpine chain flanked to the north by the smaller ranges of the Jura Mountains; and on the south, side of the Himalayas we find similar smaller ranges of hills. Ruskin thus describes his impression of the Jura ranges, which he very aptly compares with a swell on the sea far away from a storm, the storm being represented by the wild sea of Alpine mountains:-- "Among the hours of his life to which the writer looks back with peculiar gratitude, as having been marked with more than ordinary fulness of joy or clearness of teaching, is one passed, now some years ago, near time of sunset, among the masses of pine forest which skirt the course of the Ain, above the village of Champagnole, in the Jura. It is a spot which has all the solemnity, with none of the savageness, of the Alps; where there is a sense of a great power beginning to be manifested in the earth, and of a deep and majestic concord in the rise of the long low lines of piny hills,--the first utterance of those mighty mountain symphonies, soon to be more loudly lifted and wildly broken along the battlements of the Alps. But their strength is as yet restrained; and the far-reaching ridges of pastoral mountain succeed each other, like the long and sighing swell which moves over quiet waters from some far-off stormy sea. "And there is a deep tenderness pervading that vast monotony. The destructive forces and the stern expression of the central ranges are alike withdrawn. No frost-ploughed, dust-encumbered paths of ancient glacier fret the soft Jura pastures; no splintered heaps of ruin break the fair ranks of her forests; no pale, defiled, or furious rivers rend their rude and changeful ways among her rocks. Patiently, eddy by eddy, the clear green streams wind along their well-known beds; and under the dark quietness of the undisturbed pines there spring up, year by year, such company of joyful flowers as I know not the like among all the blessings of the earth." Long faults, or fractures, where the strata have been first bent and then broken, and afterwards have been forced up or have slid down hundreds or even thousands of feet, are very numerous in mountain-ranges; and by suddenly bringing quite a different set of rocks to the surface, these faults cause considerable difficulty to the geologist, as he goes over the ground and endeavours to trace the positions of the different rocks. In these vast folds it sometimes happens that portions of older (and lower) strata are caught up and so embedded among those of newer rocks. It will therefore be readily perceived that to unravel the geological structure of a great mountain-chain is no easy task. We need not then be surprised if in some cases the arrangement of the rocks of mountains is not thoroughly understood. The wonder is, when we think of the numerous difficulties which the geologist encounters,--the arduous ascents, the precipices, glaciers, snowfields obscuring the rocks from his view, the overlying soil of the lower parts, and the steep crests and dangerous ridges that separate the snowfields,--that so much has already been discovered in this difficult branch of geology. However, the general arrangement of the rocks of which many mountain-chains are composed has been satisfactorily made out in not a few cases. Let us look into some of these and see what has been discovered. You will remember the structure of the Weald, described in chap. vii., pp. 235-238, and how we showed that a great low arch of chalk strata has been entirely removed over that area, so that at the present time only its ends are seen forming the escarpments of the North and South Downs. This area, then, is now a great open valley, or rather a gently undulating plain enclosed by low chalk hills. Now, an arch of this kind is called an "anticline," and it might have been expected that it would have remained more or less unbroken to the present day. Why, then, has it suffered destruction? In the first place, chalk is a soft rock, and one that rain water can dissolve; but more than that, its arch-like structure was against it, and its chance of preservation was decidedly small. In architecture the arch is the most firm and stable structure that can be made; but not so with strata, and this is the reason. Such an arch was not made of separate blocks, closely fitting and firmly cemented together; on the contrary, the arch was stretched and heaved up from below. It therefore must have been more or less cracked up; for rocks are apt to split when bent, although when deeply buried under a great thickness of overlying rocks, they will bend very considerably without snapping. But this was not the case here. And so the forces of denudation set to work upon an already somewhat broken mass of rock. Try to picture to yourself this old low arch of chalk as it was when it first appeared as dry land. Probably some of it had already been planed away by the waves of the sea, and what was left was by no means well calculated to withstand the action of the agents of denudation. If you look back to the figure, you will see the dotted lines showing the former outline of this anticline, or arch, and you perceive at once that the strata must have been sloping outwards away from the middle. Now, this one fact greatly influenced its fate, for an anticline cannot be regarded as a strong or stable arrangement of strata. It is easy to see why; suppose a little portion were cut away on one side at its base by some stream. It is clear that a kind of overhanging cliff would be left, and blocks of chalk would sooner or later come rolling down into the valley of the little stream. When these had fallen, they would leave an inclined plane down which others would follow; and this would continue to take place until the top of the arch was reached. The same reasoning applies to the other side. It is very seldom that arches, or anticlines, can last for a long time. The outward slope of the strata and their broken condition are against them. But when the rocks dip _inwards_, to form a kind of trough or basin, it is just the opposite. Such basins are known as "synclines;" and a structure of this kind can be shown to be much more stable and permanent than an anticline. The strata, instead of being stretched out and cracked open, have been squeezed together. It is very important to bear this in mind, and to remember how differently anticlines and synclines are affected; for this simple rule is illustrated over and over again in mountain-ranges:-- Anticlines, being unstable, are worn away until they become valleys. Synclines, being stable, are left and frequently form mountains. Now look at the section through the Appalachian chain (see Fig. 1), and you will see that each hill is a syncline, and the valleys between them are anticlines. This happens so frequently that almost every range of mountains furnishes examples; but as every rule has its exceptions, so this one has, and we may find an example in the case of the Jura Mountains outside the Alps. It will be seen from the section that the ridges are formed by anticlines, and the valleys by synclines. But on looking a little more closely, we see that the tops of the former have suffered a considerable amount of erosion (as indicated by the dotted lines). Now, the reason why they have not been completely worn down into valleys is that these rocks were once covered by others overlying them, so that this outer covering of rocks had first to be removed before they could be attacked by rain and rivers. These wave-like ridges of the Jura are being slowly worn down; and the time must come when they will be carved out into valleys, while the synclines between them will stand out as hills. It is simply a question of time. But many mountain-chains have a far more complicated structure than that of the Appalachians, and consist of violently crumpled and folded strata (see section of Mont Blanc, Fig. 3). [Illustration: SECTIONS OF MOUNTAIN-RANGES, SHOWING THEIR STRUCTURE AND THE AMOUNT OF ROCK WORN AWAY.] It might naturally be asked how such sections are made, considering that we cannot cut through mountains in order to find out their structure; but Nature cuts them up for us, gashing their sides with ravines and valleys carved out by streams and rivers, and in steep cliffs and precipices we find great natural sections that serve our purpose almost equally well. Sometimes, however, we get considerable help from quarries and railway-cuttings. Take, for example, one of the synclinal folds in the Appalachian chain. Its structure is ascertained somewhat as follows. Suppose you began to ascend the hill, armed with a good map, a pocket-compass, a clinometer,--a little instrument for measuring the angles at which strata dip or slope,--and with a bag on your back for specimens of rocks and fossils. At the base of the hill you might notice at starting a certain layer of rock--say a limestone--exposed by the side of the stream. It will be so many feet thick, and will contain such-and-such fossils, by means of which you can identify it; and it will dip into the interior of the hill at a certain angle, as measured by the clinometer. As you rise higher, this rock may be succeeded by sandstone of a certain thickness, and likewise dipping into the hill; and so with the other rocks that follow, until you reach the summit. By the time you have reached the top of the hill, you know the nature of all the rocks up that side, and the way they dip; and all your observations are carefully recorded in a notebook. Then you begin to descend on the other side, and in so doing you find the same set of rocks coming out at the surface all in the same order; only this order is now reversed, because you are following them downwards instead of upwards. Of course they are hidden in many places by soil and loose stones; but that does not matter, because at other places they are exposed to view, especially along ravines, carved out of the mountain-side. Also rocks "weather" so differently that they can often be distinguished even at a distance. In this kind of way you can find out the structure of a mountain, and draw a section of it when you get home, by following out and completing the curves of the strata as indicated at or near the surface; and you find they fit in nicely together. Fig. 3 (see page 307) represents what is believed to be the general arrangement of the rocks of Mont Blanc. The section is greatly simplified, because many minor folds and all the faults, or dislocations, are omitted. Now, in this case we have an example of what is known as the "fan-structure." It will be seen at once that the folds have been considerably squeezed together; and the big fold in the centre indicated by dotted lines has been so much compressed in the lower part--that is, in what is now Mont Blanc--that its sides were brought near to each other until they actually sloped inwards instead of outwards. You may easily imitate this structure by taking a sheet of paper, laying it on the table, and then, putting one hand on each side of it, cause it to rise up in a central fold by pressing your hands towards each other. Notice carefully what happens. First, you get a low arch, or anticline, like that of the Weald. Then as you press it more, the upward fold becomes sharper and narrower; then continue pressing it, and you will find the fold bulging out at the top, but narrowing in below until you get this fan-structure. This is just what has happened in the case of the Alps. A tremendous lateral pressure applied to the rocks heaved them up and down into great and small folds, and in some places, as in Mont Blanc, fan-structure was produced. Imagine the top of the fan removed, and you get what looks like a syncline, but is really the lower part of a very much compressed anticline. Now, it is believed that all mountain-ranges have been enormously squeezed by lateral pressure; and the little experiment with the sheet of paper furnishes a good illustration of what has happened. A table-cloth lying on a smooth table will serve equally well. You can easily push it into a series of folds; notice how they come nearer as you continue pushing. You see also that in this way you get long narrow ridges with valleys between. These represent the original anticlines and synclines of mountain-ranges, which in course of time are carved out, as explained above, until the synclines become hills and the anticlines valleys. Every mountain-chain must originally have had long ridges like these, which in some cases determined the original directions of the streams and valleys; and it is easy to see now why mountain-chains are long and narrow, why their strata have been so greatly folded, and why we get in every mountain-chain long ranges of hills roughly parallel with each other (see chapter vi., pages 177-178). The reason why granite, gneiss, and crystalline schists are frequently found in the central and highest peaks of mountain-ranges is that we have the oldest and lowest rocks exposed to the surface, on account of the enormous amount of denudation that has taken place. There may be great masses of granite underlying all mountain-chains; but it is only exposed to view when a very great deal of overlying rock has been removed. It was thought at one time that granite was the oldest of all rocks, and that mountain-chains had been upheaved by masses of granite pushing them up from below; but we know now that both these ideas are mistaken. Some granites are certainly old geologically, but others are of later date; and it is certain that granite was not the upheaving agent, but more likely it followed the overlying rocks as they were heaved up by lateral pressure, because the upward bending of the rocks would tend to relieve the enormous pressure down below, and so the granite would rise up. [Illustration: MONT BLANC. SNOWFIELDS, GLACIERS. AND STREAMS.] We now pass on to a very different example, where mountains are the result of huge fractures and displacements; namely, the numerous and nearly parallel ranges of the Great Basin, of Western Arizona, and Northern Mexico. The region between the Sierra Nevada and the Wahsatch Mountains, extending from Idaho to Mexico, is composed of very gently folded rocks deeply buried in places by extensive outflows of lava. Now, in this case the earth-movements caused great cracks, or splits, doubtless attended by fearful earthquakes. We find here a series of nearly parallel fractures, hundreds of miles long, and fifteen to thirty miles apart. These traverse the entire region, dividing the rocks into long narrow blocks. There is evidence to show that the whole region was once much more elevated than it is now, and has subsided thousands of feet. During the subsidence along these lines of fracture, or faults, the blocks were tilted sideways; and the uptilted blocks, carved by denudation, form the isolated ranges of this very interesting region (see illustration, chap. viii., p. 273, Fig. 1). The faults are indicated by arrows pointing downwards; and the dotted lines indicate the erosion of the uptilted blocks. But this must be regarded as a very exceptional case, for we do not know of any other mountain-range formed quite in the same way. Why the strata, although only slightly bent, should have snapped so violently in this case, while in other mountain-ranges they have suffered much more bending without so much fracture and displacement, we cannot tell, but can only suggest that possibly it was because they were not buried up under an enormous thickness of overlying rocks, which would exert an enormous downward pressure, and so tend to prevent fracturing. There are many other deeply interesting questions with regard to the upheaval of mountains which at present cannot be answered. We have already learned to alter our preconceived ideas about the stability and immovable nature of the earth's crust, and have seen that it is in reality most unstable, and is undergoing continual movements, both great and small. But here we have an equally startling discovery, which quite upsets all our former ideas of the hard and unyielding nature of the rocks composing the earth's crust; for we find that not only can they be bent into innumerable folds and little puckerings, but that in some cases they have been drawn out and squeezed as if they were so much soft putty. The imagination almost fails to grasp such facts as these. Of late years geologists in Switzerland and in Great Britain have discovered that in some parts of mountains rocks have been enormously distorted and crushed, so that they have assumed very different states from those in which they were made, and curious mineral changes have taken place under the influence of this crushing. In the very complicated region of the Northwest Highlands of Sutherland and Ross, the structure of which has only lately been explained, some wonderful discoveries of this nature have been made. Certain of the crystalline schists found there have been formed by the crushing down and rearrangement of older rocks that once presented a very different appearance. In this district, where the rocks have been squeezed by enormous lateral pressure, the dislocations sometimes have assumed the form of inclined or undulating planes, the rocks above which have been actually pushed over those below, and in some cases the horizontal displacement amounts to many miles. Not only have the rocks been ruptured, and older, deep-seated masses been torn up and driven bodily over younger strata (that once were _above_ them), but there has been at the same time such an amount of internal shearing as to crush the rocks into a finely divided material, and to give rise to a streaky arrangement of the broken particles, closely resembling the flow-structure of a lava. In the crushed material new minerals have been sometimes so developed as to produce a true schist.[32] [32] Geikie. CHAPTER X. THE AGES OF MOUNTAINS, AND OTHER QUESTIONS. O Earth, what changes hast thou seen! TENNYSON. It might naturally be asked at what period in the world's primeval or geological history some particular mountain-range was upheaved; whether it is younger or older than another one perhaps not very far away; and again, whether the mountain-chains of the world have been uplifted all at once, or whether the process of elevation was prolonged and gradual? Questions such as these are deeply interesting, and present to the geologist some of the most fascinating problems to be met with in the whole range of this science. And though at first sight they might seem hopelessly beyond our reach, yet even here the prospect is by no means unpromising; and it is quite possible to show that they can be answered to some extent. Here we shall find our illustration of the cathedral (see chapter v., pages 143-147) holds good once more. It is perhaps hardly necessary to explain that by looking at a Gothic cathedral one can say at what period or periods it was built. Perhaps it has a Norman nave, with great pillars and rounded arches. Then the chancel might be Early English, with pointed windows and deep mouldings, and other features that serve to mark the style of the building, and therefore its date,--because different styles prevailed at different periods. Other parts might contain work easily recognised as belonging to the "Perpendicular" period. Now, as there have been periods in the history of architecture and art, so there have been periods in the history of our earth. What these periods were, and how we have learned to recognise them, we must first very briefly describe.[33] [33] For a fuller account see the writer's "Autobiography of the Earth." There are two simple rules by which the age of an ordinary sedimentary rock may be ascertained. This is fixed (1) By its position with regard to others; (2) By the nature of its embedded animal or vegetable remains, known as fossils. These rules may easily be illustrated by a reference to the methods of the antiquary. For instance, suppose you were going to build a house, and the foundations had just been dug out; you might on examining them find several old layers of soil, showing that the site or neighbourhood had been formerly occupied. You might find in one layer stone implements, in another Roman or early British pottery, and yet again portions of brick or stonework, together with tools or articles of domestic use, belonging, say, to the time of Queen Elizabeth. Now, which of these layers would be the oldest? It is quite clear that the lowest layers must have been there the longest, because the others accumulated on the top of them. The explorations made of late years under Jerusalem have led to the interesting discovery that the modern city is built up on the remains of thirteen former cities of Jerusalem, all of which have been destroyed in one way or another. Here, again, it is quite clear that the oldest layer of débris must be that which lies at the bottom, and the newest will be the one on the top. Again, you know that the "Stone Age" in Britain came before the Roman occupation. Those old stone implements were made by a barbarous race, who knew very little of agriculture or the arts of civilisation. Then in succeeding centuries various arts were introduced, many relics of which are found buried in the soil; and hence, since different styles of art and architecture prevailed at different periods, the works of art or industry embedded in any old layers of soil serve to fix the date of those layers. These layers of soil and débris correspond to the layers or strata of the sedimentary rocks, in which the different chapters of the world's history are recorded. Geology is only another kind of history; and the same principles which guide the archæologist searching buried cities also guide the geologist in reading the stony record. As the illustrious Hutton said, "The ruins of an older world are visible in the present state of our planet." The successive layers of ruin in this case are to be seen in the great series of the stratified rocks; and we may lay it down as an axiom that the lowest strata are the oldest, unless by some subsequent disturbance the order should have been reversed, which, fortunately, is a rare occurrence, though examples are to be found in some mountain-chains with violent foldings. But it often happens that neither the strata which should come above nor those that lie below can be seen. Then our second rule comes in: We can determine the age of the rock in question by its fossils. The reason of this has perhaps already been guessed by the reader. It is that as different kinds of plants and animals have prevailed at different periods of the world's history, so there have been "styles," or fashions, in creation, as well as in art. At one geological period certain curious types of fishes flourished which are now almost extinct, only a few old-fashioned survivals being found in one or two out-of-the-way places. At another period certain types of reptiles flourished vigorously, and were the leaders in their day; but they have altogether vanished and become extinct. So one type after another has appeared on the scene, played its humble part in the great drama of life; and then--"exit!" another takes its place. In the oldest and lowest of the series of rocks we find no certain trace of life at all. In the next series we find only lowly creatures, such as shell-fish, corals, and crab-like animals that have no backbone. In a higher group of rocks fishes appear for the first time. Later on, we come across the remains of amphibious creatures for the first time. Then follows (after a long unrecorded interval) an era when reptiles and birds existed in great numbers. After another long interval we come to strata containing many and diverse remains of mammals or quadrupeds. So we have an "Age of Fishes," an "Age of Reptiles," and an "Age of Mammals." Some tribes of these creatures died out, but others lived on to the present day. Thus we see that there has been a continuous progress in life as the world grew older, for higher types kept coming in. To the geologist fossils are of the greatest possible use, since they help him to determine the age of a particular set of strata, for certain kinds of fossils belong to certain rocks, and to them only. But the classification of the stratified rocks has been carried farther than this. Practical geologists, working in the field, use fossils as their chief guide in working out the subdivisions of a group of rocks, for certain genera and species of old plants and animals are found to belong to certain small groups of strata. In this way a definite order of succession has been established once for all; and, except in the case of inverted strata already alluded to, this order is invariably found to hold good. This great discovery of the order of succession of the British stratified rocks, established by their fossil contents, is due to William Smith, the father of English geology. After exploring the whole of England, he published in 1815 a geological map, the result of his extraordinary labours. Before then people had no idea of a definite and regular succession of rocks extending over the country, capable of being recognised to some extent by the nature of the rocks themselves,--whether sandstones, clays, or limestones, etc., but chiefly by their own fossils. They thought the different kinds of rocks were scattered promiscuously up and down the face of the country; but _now_ we know that they do not show themselves in this haphazard way, but have definite relations to each other, like the many volumes of one large book. By combining the two principles referred to above, geologists have arranged the great series of British stratified rocks into certain groups, each indicating a long period of time. First, they are roughly divided into three large groups, marking the three great eras into which geological time is divided. Secondly, these eras are further divided into certain periods. These periods are again divided into epochs, indicated by local divisions of their rocks. In this way we have something like a historical table. Omitting the small epochs of time, this table is as follows, in descending order:-- _Table of the British Stratified Rocks._ ERA. PERIOD. PREVAILING TYPE. { Recent. Cainozoic, { Pleistocene, or { or Tertiary. { Quaternary. Mammals. { Pliocene. { Miocene. { Eocene. { Cretaceous. Mesozoic, { Neocomian. or { Jurassic. Reptiles. Secondary. { Triassic. { Permian. { Carboniferous. Fishes. { Devonian, and Palæozoic, { Old Red Sandstone. or { Silurian. Creatures without Primary. { Cambrian. a backbone { Archæan,[34] (invertebrates). { or { Pre-Cambrian. [34] The Archæan rocks are frequently placed in a separate group below the Palæozoic. The total thickness of all these rocks has been estimated at about one hundred thousand feet, or not far from twenty miles. These names have been given partly from the region in which the rocks occur, partly from the nature of the rocks themselves, and partly for other reasons. Thus the Old Red Sandstone is so called, because it generally, though not always, appears as a dark red sandstone. But the Silurian rocks, which we find in North Wales, receive their name from the Silures, an ancient Welsh tribe; the Cambrian rocks take theirs from Cambria, the old name for North Wales. The Cretaceous rocks are partly composed of chalk, for which the Latin word is _creta_; and so on. The terms "Palæozoic," "Mesozoic," and "Cainozoic" mean "ancient life," "middle life," and "recent or new life," thus indicating that as time went on the various types of life that flourished on the earth became less old-fashioned, and more like those prevailing at the present time. These used to be called "Primary," "Secondary," and "Tertiary;" but the terms were unfortunate, because the primary rocks, as then known, were not the first, or oldest. We have therefore included the Archæan rocks, since discovered, in this primary group. Only one fossil has been found in these rocks, and that is a doubtful one; hence they are sometimes called "Azoic," that is, "without life." The Mesozoic rocks are, as it were, the records of the "middle ages" in the world's history; while the Palæozoic take us back to a truly primeval time. We have now learned how the geological age of any group of rocks may be determined. Thus, if a series of rocks of unknown age can be shown to rest on undoubtedly Silurian rocks in one place, and in another place to be overlaid or covered by undoubtedly Carboniferous rocks, they will probably belong to the Old Red Sandstone Period. If afterwards we find that they contain some of the well-known fossils of that period, the question of their age is settled at once. But we want more evidence than this. Suppose, now, we find somewhere on the flanks of a mountain-range a series of Permian and Triassic rocks, resting almost horizontally on disturbed and folded Carboniferous strata. Does not that at once prove that the upheaval took place before the Permian Period? Clearly it does, because the Permian rocks have evidently _not_ been disturbed thereby. So now we can fix the date of our range of hills; namely, after the Carboniferous Period and before the Permian Period. It is by such reasoning that the age of our Pennine range of hills, extending from the north of England into Derbyshire, has been fixed; for the Permian and Triassic strata lie undisturbed on the upheaved arch of Carboniferous rocks of which this chain is composed. Its structure is that of a broken and much denuded anticline, which stands up to form a line of hills only because the Carboniferous limestone is so much harder than the "coal measures," or coal-bearing rocks, on each side of it, that it has not been worn away so fast. In time, this great anticline will be entirely worn away like that of the Weald. It is called the Great Mountain Limestone, because it so often rises up to form high ground. The Mendip Hills in Somersetshire are of about the same date, and they too are largely composed of this great limestone formation. Of course, a certain amount of up and down movement took place after the hills were upheaved, otherwise the Permian and Triassic rocks could not have been deposited on their sides; but these movements were slight and of a more general kind than those by which strata are thrown into folds. The main upheaval, by which the rocks now forming the Highlands of Scotland were lifted up and contorted, took place after the Lower Silurian Period, and before that of the Old Red Sandstone; and there is clear evidence that even before the latter period they had not only been greatly altered, or "metamorphosed," by subterranean heat, but that they had suffered enormous denudation. And the work of carving out these mountains has gone on ever since; for even in Old Red Sandstone times they were probably not entirely covered by water. The Highland Mountains are therefore older than the Pennine range. Geologically Scotland belongs in great part to Scandinavia; and the long line of Scandinavian Mountains is a continuation of the Highlands, and so is of the same age. Mountain-chains and hill-ranges have been upheaved at various geological periods; and some are very old, while others are much younger. Turning to the southeast of England, we find the ranges of chalk hills forming the North and South Downs (see page 237). As explained previously, these owe their existence to the upheaval and subsequent denudation of the low arch, or anticline, of the Weald. They are called "escarpments," because they are like lines of cliffs that are being gradually cut back. Now, it is clear that these hills are much newer than either of those we have just considered. Look at the table on page 324, and you will see that the Cretaceous rocks (chalk, etc.) belong to the Mesozoic era. The chalk was the last rock formed during the Cretaceous Period. So the Wealden arch must have been heaved up after the chalk was formed; that is, ages and ages later than the date of the Pennine range or the Scotch Highlands. From other evidences it has been shown that this anticline was heaved up in the early part of the Cainozoic Era, perhaps during the Miocene Period. Let us now take the case of the Alps. And here we have an instructive example of a great mountain system formed by repeated movements during a long succession of geological periods. We cannot say that they were entirely raised up at any one time in the world's past history. In the centre of this great range we find a series of igneous and metamorphic rocks, such as granite, gneiss, and crystalline schists. Some of these may belong to the very oldest period,--namely, the Archæan; others are probably Palæozoic and Cainozoic deposits greatly altered by heat and pressure. The ground from Savoy to Austria began to be an area of disturbance and upheaval towards the close of the Palæozoic Era, if not before; so that crystalline schists and Carboniferous strata were raised up to form elevated land around which Permian conglomerates and shingle-beds were formed,--as on the seashore at the present day. During the early part of the Mesozoic Era local fractures and certain up and down movements occurred. After this there was a long period of subsidence, during which a series of strata known as Oölites and Cretaceous were deposited on the floor of an old sea. Towards the close of this long era, a fresh upheaval took place along the present line of the Alps,--an upheaval that was prolonged into the Eocene Period. It was during this latter period that a very extensive formation known as the "Nummulitic limestone" was formed in a sea that covered a large part of Europe and Asia. We have already referred (see chap. v., pp. 169-171) to the way in which limestones have been formed. Nummulites are little shells that were formed by tiny shell-fish. But after this, the greatest upheaval and disturbance took place,--an upheaval to which the Alps as we now see them are chiefly due. By this means the older Cainozoic strata, once lying horizontally on the floor of the sea, were raised up, together with older rocks, to form dry land, and not only raised up, but crumpled, dislocated, and in some cases turned upside down. So intense was the compression to which the Eocene rocks were subjected that they were converted into a hard and even crystalline state. It seems almost incredible that these highly altered rocks which look so ancient are of the same date as our London clay and the soft Eocene deposits of the south of England; but in our country the movement that raised up those strata was of the most feeble and gentle kind compared to the violent disturbances that took place in Switzerland. And here we may point out that the Alps are only a portion of a vast chain of mountains stretching right across Europe and Asia in a general east and west direction, beginning with the Pyrenees and passing through the Alps, the Carpathians, the Caucasus, and the range of Elbruz to the Hindoo-Koosh and the high plateau of Pamir, called "the roof of the world," which stands like a huge fortress, fifteen thousand feet high. Thence it passes to the still higher tracts of Thibet, great plains exceeding in height the highest summits of the Alps, being enclosed between the lofty ramparts of the Himalayas on the south and the Kuen-Lun Mountains on the north; and thence the mountain wall is prolonged in the Yuen-Ling, In-Shan, Khin-Gan, and other ranges till it finally passes to the Pacific Ocean at Behring's Strait. All these ranges are, as it were, the backbone of the great continental plateau of the Old World, and doubtless are chiefly due to those earth-movements by means of which the Alps were upheaved. The last grand movement, which raised the Mont Blanc range, was probably rather later, and seems to have taken place as late as the Pliocene Period. At the present day no great movements are taking place in the Alps; but now and then earthquakes visit this region, and serve to remind us that the process of mountain-making is still slowly going on. Probably there have been times in the history of all these mountain-ranges when movements took place of a more violent and convulsive kind than anything with which we are familiar at the present day; and the age we live in may be one of comparative repose. This is of course somewhat a matter of speculation; and we only allude to it because there has been a tendency on the part of some to carry the theory of uniformity in all geological operations much farther than Hutton or Lyell ever intended. But at the same time there is no need to go back to the old teaching of sudden catastrophes and violent revolutions. We only wish to avoid either of these two extremes and to take a safe middle course. How rapidly some of these great earth-movements took place it is impossible at present to say; but in several cases it can be shown that they were quite slow, as indicated by the testimony of the rivers. Thus, the rise of the great Uintah Mountains of the Western States was so slow and gradual that the Green River, which flowed across the site of the range, so far from being turned aside as they rose up, has actually been able to deepen its cañon as fast as the mountains were upheaved. So that the two processes, as it were, kept pace with each other, and the river went on cutting out its gorges at the same time that the ground over which it flowed was gently upheaved; and as the land rose the river flowed faster, and therefore acquired more power to cut and deepen its channel. This is a valuable piece of evidence; but in this case we have only a few big broad folds, instead of the violent folding seen in the Alps. However, certain Pliocene strata lying on the southern flanks of the Himalayas show that the rivers still run in the same lines as they occupied before the last great upheaval took place. We have seen how the substance of the mountains was slowly manufactured by means of such quiet and gentle operations as may be witnessed at the present day; how the rivers of old brought down their burdens as they do now, and flung them into the sea; how the sea spread them out very slowly and compacted them into level layers, to form, in process of time, the hard rocky framework of the plateaux, hills, and mountains of the world; how vast marine accumulations were also slowly manufactured through the agency of countless generations of humble organisms, subtracting carbonate of lime from sea water to form the limestones of future ages; how by slow earth-movements these marine deposits were reared up into dry land; how they have frequently been penetrated by molten rocky matter from below, which occasionally forced its way up to the surface and gave rise to various volcanic eruptions, by means of which the sedimentary rocks were often considerably baked and hardened, and new fissures filled up with valuable metallic ores and precious stones; how lava-flows and great deposits of volcanic ash were mingled with these sedimentary rocks. Then we endeavoured to follow the history of these rocky layers after their upheaval, and learn how they are affected by the ceaseless operations of rain and rivers and other agents of destruction, so that finally the upheaved ridges of the lands are carved out into all those wonderful features of crag and pinnacle and precipice that give the mountains their present shapes and outlines. All this we were able to account for, without the aid of any imaginary or unnatural causes. And, lastly, we have seen that even where such causes might seem at first almost indispensable,--when mountains tell us of mighty internal forces crumpling, folding, and fracturing their rocky framework,--yet even there we can account for what we see without supposing them to have been torn and tossed about by any very violent convulsions. [Illustration: MOUNTAIN IN THE YOSEMITE VALLEY.] Although the question of the cause, or causes, of earth-movements, whereby continents are upheaved, and the contorting, folding, and crumpling of the rocks of mountains produced, is not at present thoroughly explained, it may perhaps be worth our while to consider briefly some of the views that have been put forward on this difficult subject. The words "upheaval" and "elevation," in reference to movements of the earth's surface, are somewhat misleading, but are used for want of better terms. They would seem to imply that the force which produced mountains was a kind of upward push; whereas, in most cases, and perhaps in all, the force, whatever it was, did not act in an upward direction. So it should be understood that we employ these terms only to indicate that the rocks have somehow been carried up to a higher level, and not as suggesting _how_ the force acted by which they were raised. It seems pretty clear that in the case of mountain-chains, at least, the force acted in a horizontal direction, as a kind of side-thrust. This we endeavoured to illustrate in chapter ix. by means of a simple experiment with a sheet of paper; and it was shown how folds similar to those of which Mont Blanc is composed could be imitated by simply pressing the sides of a sheet of paper inwards with one's two hands as it lies on a table. Such lateral pressure, it is thought by many, must be caused by the shrinking of the lower and hotter parts of the earth's crust as they cool, leaving the outer crust unsupported, so that it gradually settles down onto a smaller surface below, and in so doing must inevitably be wrinkled and throw itself into a series of folds (see chapter vi., page 204). The interior of the earth is hotter than the outside; and since there is good reason to think that the whole earth was once upon a time in a highly heated and perhaps half molten condition, we are compelled to believe that it always has been, and still is, a cooling globe. Now, almost all known substances are found to contract more or less on cooling; and so if the materials of which the earth is mainly composed are at all similar in their nature and properties to those which we find on its surface, it follows that the earth must be contracting at the same time that it is cooling, just as a red-hot poker will contract on being taken out of the fire. Moreover, we find that hot bodies contract faster than those that are merely warm, so that a red-hot poker contracts more during the first few minutes after it is taken out of the fire than it does after it has passed the red-hot stage. Hence it is easy to see that the interior portions of the earth, which are hotter, must be contracting at a greater rate than its external parts, for they evidently have very little heat to lose. This may seem rather puzzling to the reader at first; for it might be argued that the heat from below _must_ pass through the external layers, or crust, as it is often called. But it should be remembered that this is not the only way in which the earth loses heat. Think of the vast amount of heat given out from the earth every year by volcanic eruptions, and you will see at once that much of the cooling takes place in this way, and not as a direct flow of heat from the interior, as in the case of the poker. A single big lava-stream flowing out from a volcano, and cooling on the surface of the earth, represents so much heat lost forever; and so do the clouds of steam emitted during every eruption; so, again, do even the hot springs that are continually bringing up warm water. If, then, the lower portions of the earth are slowly contracting, they must tend to leave the outer portions of the crust unsupported, so that they would be compelled by their own enormous weight to settle down. Now, we know that something like this happens in coal mines; and as long passages are hollowed out below, the ground begins to "creep," or slowly sink. Think what would be the effect of a slow sinking of any portion of the earth down towards the centre; it would inevitably be curved up and down into numerous folds, as it endeavoured to get itself onto a smaller space, much in the same way that a table-cloth, when thrown onto a table in a kind of arch, settles down in a series of waves, or folds. And this, it is thought, is the way in which it happens that the pressure comes, as we said just now, sideways, instead of from below upwards. It is on this theory that many geologists account for the enormous side-pressure to which rocks have in many cases been subjected. The evidences of such pressure are many. In some cases fossils have been thereby pulled out of shape and appear considerably distorted; in others, even hard quartz pebbles have been considerably elongated (see chap. ix., pp. 315-316). Then again, we have the little crumplings of all sizes so frequently seen in mica-schists. And lastly, the peculiar property that slates possess of splitting up into thin sheets is found to be due to the same cause; namely, lateral pressure. Slates were originally formed of soft dark mud, and on being subsequently squeezed, by earth-movements, have assumed a structure known as "cleavage," whereby their tiny mud-particles were elongated, and all assumed the same direction, thus giving to the rock this peculiar property of splitting. It can be proved that the pressure came in a direction opposite to that of the planes of cleavage; and it is found that the direction of the cleavage corresponds in a general way with the direction, or trend, of a mountain-chain which is composed partly of slates, as in North Wales. And this discovery helps and harmonises with what we have already said about the cause of the folds in mountain-chains, for the same force, acting sideways, produced the cleavage and the folding, etc. It has been already stated that in a large number of cases a mountain-range has a central axis, or band, of granite or other crystalline rock. This led some people to suppose that the granite had been driven up from below, and in so doing had thrust up the overlying rocks seen on either flank of the chain; in other words, they believed granite to have been the upheaving agent. And even now we often find unscientific writers speaking of the volcanic forces of upheaval. Having very little idea of the true structure of mountains, they believed them to consist of a kind of core, or axis, of this igneous rock, with sedimentary rocks sloping away from it on each side. This was a very simple theory of mountain-chains, but unfortunately it will not bear examination. It takes no notice of the folding which is so characteristic of mountain strata, and is quite out of agreement with the facts of the case; so it must be buried among the archives of the past. Mountain-chains are now known to have a much more complicated structure than this,--thanks to the labours of many subsequent observers. That illustrious astronomer, the late Sir John Herschel, threw out a bold suggestion on this subject, which in the light of recent discoveries with regard to the delicate adjustment between the internal and external forces affecting the earth's surface, is worthy of careful consideration. His idea was that the mere weight of a thick mass of sediment resting on any portion of the earth's crust might cause a certain amount of sinking; and that this would cause portions on either side to swell up. It is certain that as great deposits of sedimentary materials accumulate on the floor of an ocean, that floor slowly sinks, otherwise the sea would become choked up, and dry land would take its place. Now, it is found that every great mountain-chain consists of many thousands of feet of strata thus formed; and more than this: it turns out that a greater thickness of such materials has been formed in regions where we now see mountain-chains than in those continental regions that lie farther away from them. This is an important fact, which was not known in Sir John Herschel's time. One striking example may be mentioned here. In the complicated region of the Appalachian chain the strata are estimated to have a total thickness of eight miles; while in Indiana, where the same strata are nearly horizontal, they are less than one mile thick. Hence it is not impossible that in the mere accumulation, through long periods of time, of vast masses of strata many thousands of feet thick, we may find a potent cause of earth-movements. The marginal regions of oceans, where most deposition takes place, seem to undergo slow subsidence, while the continents seem in most places to be as slowly rising. Modern geologists are inclined to think that as denudation wears down a continental surface, removing from it a great quantity of solid rocky matter (see chap. v., pp. 161-163), the pressure below is somewhat lessened, or in other words, so much weight is taken off; but that, on the other hand, as this extra amount of material accumulates on the bed of a neighbouring ocean the pressure is increased by a corresponding amount, and so the balance between internal and external forces is upset, and movements consequently take place. We have already seen that the external parts of the earth are much more subject to movements than might have been expected; and for our part, we are willing to believe that in this simple way upheaving forces might be called into play sufficient to account for even the elevation of mountain-chains. For suppose a great mass of strata to continue sinking as they were formed, for long periods of time; what seems to follow? The downward movement would go on until a time would come when the strata, in endeavouring to settle down at a lower level, would (as by the contraction theory above explained) be forced to fold themselves into ridges, and in this way long strips of them might even be elevated into mountain-ranges. Another ingenious idea was suggested by the late Mr. Scrope, whose work on volcanoes is well known. His idea was that when a large amount of sedimentary material has accumulated on any large area of the bed of the ocean, it somewhat checks the flow of heat from within, and therefore the temperature of the rocks forming part of the earth's crust below will be increased, much in the same manner as a glove checks the escape of heat from the hand and keeps it warm. The consequence of this would be expansion; and as such expansion would be chiefly in a horizontal direction, the area would bulge upwards and cause elevation of the strata resting on it. But there are several difficulties which this theory fails to explain. And lastly, Professor Le Conte, holding that the contraction theory is unsatisfactory, accounts for earth-movements of all kinds by supposing that some internal parts of the earth cool and contract faster than others. Those parts that cool fastest, according to this theory, are those that underlie the oceanic basins or troughs; while the continental areas, not cooling so rapidly, are left standing up in relief. This theory, which does not seem very satisfactory, is based upon the idea that some parts of the earth's interior may be capable of conducting heat faster than others. We know that some substances, like iron, are good conductors of heat, while others are bad conductors; and it is therefore conceivable that heat may be flowing faster along some parts of the earth than along others; and if so, there would be differences in the rate of contraction. There are various theories with regard to the nature of the earth's interior. One of these already referred to, but now antiquated, supposes our planet to consist of a thin, solid crust lying on a molten interior, so that the world would be something like an egg with its thin shell and liquid, or semi-liquid, interior. Now, there are grave reasons for refusing to accept this idea. In the first place, a certain slow movement of the earth known as "precession," because it causes the precession of the equinoctial points on the earth's orbit, could not possibly take place as it does if the earth's interior were in this loose and molten condition. That is a matter decided by mathematical calculation, on which we will not dwell further. Secondly, we obtain some very valuable evidence on this abstruse subject from the well-known daily phenomenon of the tides, caused, as the reader is probably aware, by the attractions of the sun and moon; but much more by the moon, because she is nearer, and so exerts a greater pull on the ocean as each part of the world is brought directly under her by the earth's daily rotation on its axis. The waters of our oceans rise up twice each day as they get in a line with the moon, and then begin to fall again. Thus we get that daily ebb and flow seen on our shores. Now, it has been clearly proved by Sir William Thomson, and others, that if any considerable portion of the interior of the earth were in a fluid condition, it too would rise and fall every day as the ocean does. So we should in that case have a tide _below_ the earth as well as on its surface, and the one would tend to neutralise the other, and the ocean tide ought to appear less than it actually is. Even if the earth's crust were made of solid steel, and several hundreds of miles thick, it would yield so much to the enormous pulls exerted by both the sun and moon that it would simply carry the waters of the ocean up and down with it, and we should therefore see no appreciable rise and fall of the water relatively to the land. As a matter of fact, there _is_ a very slight tide in the solid earth below our feet, but so slight that it does not practically affect the tide which we see every day in the ocean. But we wish to show that were the interior of the earth in anything approaching, to a fluid or molten condition, the phenomena of the tides would be very different from what they actually are. All geologists are therefore agreed that we must consider our earth as a more or less solid body, and not as being something like an india-rubber ball filled with water. The only question is whether it is entirely solid throughout. Some authorities consider this to be the case. But others venture to think that while the great mass of the globe is solid, there may be a thin liquid layer lying somewhere below the surface. Sir William Thomson calculates that there must be a solid crust at least two thousand or twenty-five hundred miles thick (the diameter of the earth is about eight thousand miles) and that the mass of the earth "is on the whole more rigid certainly than a continuous solid globe of glass of the same diameter." One other question with regard to the earth's interior may be mentioned in conclusion. Astronomers have calculated the weight of our planet, and the result is curious; for it turns out to be _at least twice as heavy as the heaviest rocks that are found on or near the surface_. It is about five and a half times as heavy as a globe of water of the same size would be, whereas most rocks with which we are acquainted are about two and a half, or at most three times heavier than water. This fact seems to open out curious consequences; for instance, it is quite possible that metals (which are of course much heavier than water) may exist in the earth's interior in considerable quantities. The imagination at once conjures up vast quantities of gold and silver. What is the source of the gold and silver, and other metals found in mineral veins? This question cannot as yet be fully answered. Very small quantities of various metals have been detected in sea-water; and so some geologists look upon the sea as the source from which metals came. But it is possible that they were introduced from below,--perhaps by the action of steam and highly heated water during periods of volcanic activity,--and that their source is far down below in the depths of the earth. But perhaps we have already wandered too far into the regions of speculation. Such are some of the interesting problems suggested by the study of mountains, and they add no small charm to the science of geology. And as we leave the mountains behind us, refreshed by their bracing air, and strengthened for another season of toil and labour by a brief sojourn among their peaks and passes, we come away with a renewed sense of the almost unlimited power of the unhasting operations of Nature, and the wisdom and beneficence of the Great Architect of the Universe, who made and planned those snowcapped temples as symbols of His strength, who was working millions of years ago as He is working to-day, and to whom a thousand years are as one day. INDEX. Agents of transportation, 161. Ages of strata, how determined, 317-333. Air, composition of, 209. Alpine animals, 124. plants, 103, 114. Alps, the history of, 330. (See also Ruskin.) Ancients, the, their dread of the mountains, 3. Andes, the, elevation of, 189. Animals, behaviour of, before an avalanche or earthquake, 95. "Anticline," 237, 303, 327. Appalachian Mountains, denudation of the, 239, 305-309. Aqueous rocks, 154. Archæan Era, 324. Arctic flora, 121. "Arthur's Seat," 277. Ashes, volcanic, 245, 251, 260. Atlantic ooze, 172. Atmosphere, effects produced by the, 209. rarefaction of, 79. Avalanches, 89. Badger, the, in Alps, 128. Baltic Sea, changes in, 182. Barrier reef, of Australia, 170. Basalt, of Hebrides, 278. of Snowdon, 272. Basin, the Great, of United States, 313. Bear, brown, 125. black, 126. Beaver, the, in Alps, 128. Bergfalls, 97. Bernina, the, fall of rocks from, 98. Bird, Miss (Mrs. Bishop), on eruption of Kilauea, 262. Birds, of Alps, 134. Blueness of the sky, 75. Bombs, volcanic, 253. Bonney, Prof., on mountain legends, 23. on effects of the Alps in Europe, 48. on wind on mountain-tops, 84. on Alpine plants, 115. on forms of mountains, 294. Boulders, erratic, 225. Bouquetin, the, in Alps, 133. Britain, Great, rainfall of, 42. Building up of mountains, 174. Butterflies, in Alps, 138. Buzzard, the, in Alps, 136. Cader Idris, volcano rocks of, 272. Cainozoic Era, 324. Callao, 189. Cambrian rocks, 296, 324. Canisp Mountain, 297. Cañons of Colorado, 221. Carbonic acid in atmosphere, 210. Carboniferous Period, 324. Catastrophes, 215. Caves, human remains, etc., in, 31. Celsius, on elevation of Gulf of Bothnia, 178. Chalk, Cretaceous rocks composed of, 325. origin of. See Limestones. Challenger, H. M. S., expedition of, 251. Chamois, the, in Alps, 130. Characteristics of mountain races, 14. China clay, 292. Classification of rocks, 157. Cleavage of slates, 151, 340. Coniferous trees, region of, 111. Contortions in strata, 298, 311. Contraction and expansion of rocks, 208. Contraction theory of earth-movements, 338. Coral reefs, 170. Cotopaxi, 259. Crystalline schists, 312. Darwin, Charles, on elevation of the Andes, 189. Deciduous trees, mountain region of, 110. Dent de Mayen, 99. Dent du Midi, fall of rock from, 98. Denudation, 220, 229, 288, 312. Devonian rocks, 324. Diablerets, fall of rock from, 98. Dislocations of mountain rocks, 313, 315. Dust, volcanic, 245, 260. Dykes, 245. Eagle, the golden, 136. Earth-pillars in Tyrol, 221. Earthquakes, 95, 102, 196. effects of, 198, 336. causes of, 198, 200. Lucretius on, 199. Earth-tremors, 194. Elevation of mountains, 146, 200, 202, 299, 336. continents, 298-299. Encrinites, 171. Eocene Period, 324. Equador and Peru, earthquake of, 197. Eras, geological, 324. Eruptions, volcanic, 247. Fairies, 5. Falcon, the, in Alps, 136. "Fan-structure," 310. "Faults" and fractures, 200, 313. Features characteristic of mountains, 177. Ferns, 118. Fishes, Age of, 322. Fissures, 268. Föhn, the, 84. Foraminifera, 172. Fox, the, in Alps, 127. Frog, the, in Alps, 137. Frost, effects of, on mountain rocks, 212. Game-birds, in Alps, 137. Ganges and Brahmapootra, 167. Geikie, Sir A., on influence of Scottish scenery, 21. on the Highland plateau, 284. on the mountains of West Sutherland, 296. Giant's Causeway, basalt of, 279. Glace, Mer de, 229. Glacial drifts, 227. Glacial region of vegetation in Alps, 116. Glaciers, erosive power of, 228. Glare from snow in Alps, 76. Gneiss, 156, 292. Gold and silver in mountains, 61. in the earth, 350. Grampians, 276. Granite, 210. weathering of, 291. in mountain-chains, 312. Greenland, elevation of, 186. Green slates and porphyries, 275. Gulf Stream, 42. Hare, the, in Alps, 128. Hawaii, 256. Heat, effects of, on rocks, 154, 156, 160. underground, of the earth, 338, 345. Hebrides, former volcanic action in, 278. Height, influence of, on vegetation, 107. Herculaneum, 254. Highest cluster of houses in the world, 79. Highlands of Scotland, 284. Himalayas, description of, 6. Hutton, 142, 320. Iberian, or pre-Celtic race, 30. Ice Age, the, 65, 123. Ice, as a geological agent, 223. Igneous rocks, 155. Imbaburu, eruption of mud from, 259. Implements of stone, 31. Jackdaw, the, in Alps, 136. Jura Mountains, 300, 306. Jurassic rocks, 324. Kilauea, eruption of. (See Bird, Miss.) Kite, the, in Alps, 136. Krakatoa, 252. Labrador, elevation of, 192. Lake District, denudation of, 220. volcanic rocks of, 275. Lakes, origin of, 47. Lateral pressure, applied to mountains, 310, 315, 337. Lichens and mosses. (See Ruskin.) Limestones, origin of, 151, 153, 169. Lisbon, earthquake at, 197. Livingstone, on splitting of rocks, 212. Lizard, the, in Alps, 137. Lyell, Sir Charles, 333. Lynx, the, in Alps, 128. Mal de montagne, 80. Mammals, age of, 322. Marmot, the, in Alps, 129. Mauna Loa, eruption of, 256. Mendip Hills, 327. Mer de Glace. (See Glace.) Metals, precious, 60. in the earth, 349. Metamorphic rocks, 156, 157, 298, 330. Mica-schist, 156, 293. Miller, Hugh, 150. Milne, Prof., on earth-pulsations, 193. Minor cones of volcanoes, 246. Miocene Period, 278, 324. Mississippi, denudation by the, 232. Moel Tryfaen, raised beach in, 186. Mont Blanc, 310. Monte Conto, downfall of, in 1618, 101. Monte Nuovo, 248. Moraines, 225. Mountain limestone, 152. Mountains, as barriers between nations, 26. as reservoirs of water, 43. human wants supplied by, 58. influence of, on climate, 62. causing movements in the atmosphere, 65. as backbones of continents, 67. floras of, 103-124. forms of, how determined, 282. general features of, 177, 283. structure of, how determined, 308. elevation of, 174, 313. formed by huge dislocations, 313. Ruskin on uses of, 68. " on a scene on the Jura, 300. " on flowers of, 107. Mud-flows from volcanoes, 259. "Needles," the, of Colorado, 221. Neptunists and Plutonists, 160. New England, elevation of, 192. New Zealand, elevation of, 190. Nummulites, 331. Old Red Sandstone, 150, 324. Olive region, the, 107. Organically formed rocks, 157. Ornamentation of mountains, 147. Oxygen, in air, 209. Palæozoic Era, 324. Permian rocks, 324. Pleistocene rocks, 324. Pliocene, 324. Plutonists, 160. Pompeii, buried up, 254. Precious stones in mountains, 277. Primary Era, 324. Pulsations of the earth. (See Milne.) Quinag, 297. Rabbit, the, in Alps, 128. Raised beaches, 185. Raven, the, in Alps, 136. Red clay, of Atlantic Ocean, 252. Reptiles, Age of, 323. Righi Mountain, fall of rock from, 99. Rivers, transporting power of, 161-168. Roches Moutonnées, 227. "Rocking Stones," 292. Ross and Sutherland, mountains of, 315. Rossberg, the, fall of rock from, 99-101. Ruskin, on effect of tourists in Switzerland, 21. on effects of scenery on mythology, 22. on uses of mountains, 50. on formation of soil, 55. on lichens and mosses, 119. on the Alps, 289. on a scene in the Jura Mountains, 300. Santorin, island of, 257. Scandinavia, elevation of, 180. Scenery, influence of rocks on, 219. Schists. (See Mica-schist.) Scotland, former volcanic action in, 275. Sea-beaches, 183. Sea-level, constancy of, 179. Secondary Era, 324. Serapis, Temple of, 187. Silurian Period, 324. volcanic rocks of, 272. Shearing of rocks in mountains, 316. Skaptar Jökull, lava-flow from, 255, 260. Smith, William, 323. Snake River Plain, 258. Snow, lambent glow of, 77. Snowdon, volcanic rocks of, 272. denudation of, 239. Spectre of the Brocken, the, 78. Stability of the earth, 174, 314. Stanley, Dean, on capture of Canaan, 32. Stone Age, 31. Storms on mountains, 81. Stratified rocks, table of, 324. how formed, 148, 176. Striæ, glacial, 227. Submerged forests, 192. Suilven Mountain, 297. Sunsets, 71. Sutherland, West, mountains of, 296. Taurentum, destroyed by downfall of rocks, 97. Thames, solid matter transported by, 168. Thunder-storms, in Alps, 86. Tomboro, eruption at, 260. "Tors," 292. Tourmente, the, 83. Transportation by rivers, 161, 166-169. by glaciers, 224. Triassic Period, 324. Types of plants and animals at different periods, 106. Upheaval theory of mountains, 247. Uses of mountains, 33. "Valleys, how carved out, 214-230. Vesuvius, history of, 250. Vines, the region of, in Alps, 109. Volcanoes, number of active, 242. old ideas about, 244. structure of, described, 244. volcanic rocks of Great Britain, 271. Vulture, the bearded, 134. Wall of Antoninus, 185. Waterfalls, origin of, 218. Water-vapour, in air, 34. condensation of, by mountains, 34. Waves of population, 30. Weald, the denudation of, 235-239. structure of, 303. Werner, 158. Wild-cat, in Alps, 128. Wolf, the, in Alps, 126. Zones of climate on the earth, 63. Transcriber's note: A "List of Illustrations II" has been added to the text, for the convenience of the reader, to display Illustrations that were not included in the original "Illustrations" section. The original spelling of words, especially for place names, has been retained. 
44445	----	BESSIE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS THE BESSIE BOOKS. I. BESSIE AT THE SEASIDE. 16mo $1.25 II. BESSIE IN THE CITY. 16mo 1.25 III. BESSIE AND HER FRIENDS. 16mo 1.25 IV. BESSIE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 16mo 1.25 "Bessie is a very charming specimen of little girlhood. It is a lovely story of home and nursery life among a family of bright, merry, little children."--_Presbyterian._ "A lively entertaining series, which picture child-life to perfection."--_Standard._ "We owe to the authoress perhaps the most delightful conception of child-character, under Gospel influences, in all modern juvenile literature."--_American Presbyter._ "The author evidently understands how to write of and for children. There is a simplicity and naturalness of style and incident and religion, of the most attractive and healthful kind."--_Christian Instructor._ [Illustration: Bessie among the Mountains. FRONTISPIECE.] BESSIE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. BY JOANNA H. MATHEWS, AUTHOR OF "BESSIE AT THE SEASIDE," "BESSIE IN THE CITY," AND "BESSIE AND HER FRIENDS." "Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good." NEW YORK: ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS, 530, BROADWAY. 1872. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. CAMBRIDGE: PRESS OF JOHN WILSON AND SON. TO RICHARD HOWLAND HUNT, The Dear Little Boy, WHO "NEARLY KNOWS HOW TO READ, AND THINKS COUSIN JOSIE'S STORIES HAVE NOT A BIT OF STUPIDNESS IN THEM." CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE. I. UP THE MOUNTAIN 9 II. THE SQUIRRELS AND THE ICE GLEN 33 III. A VISIT TO AUNT PATTY 55 IV. LEM AND DOLLY 74 V. THE GARDENS 98 VI. THE SUNDAY SCHOOL 113 VII. THE SILVER CUP 128 VIII. A KIND WORD FOR LEM 147 IX. DOL'S REVENGE 163 X. THE BANANAS 183 XI. "GOOD FOR EVIL" 203 XII. UNCLE RUTHVEN'S WORK 220 XIII. A RIDE ON THE SHEAVES 236 XIV. BLACKBERRYING 255 XV. A FRIEND IN NEED 276 XVI. LEM'S SORROW 299 XVII. DOLLY GOES HOME 317 XVIII. GOOD-BY TO CHALECOO 336 [Illustration: (decorative)] BESSIE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. I. _UP THE MOUNTAIN._ UP, up! What a height it was, and how the horses toiled as they drew the heavy wagons up the mountain side. Whenever they came to a very steep place, the boys and all the gentlemen, except Colonel Rush, would jump out and walk, so as to lighten the load. Aunt Annie and Aunt Bessie, who was really Aunt Bessie now, for she was Uncle Ruthven's wife, also tried this; but they soon tired, and were glad to take their seats in the wagon again. Maggie thought she must take her turn too, and asked papa to lift her out. Papa consented, warning her, however, that she would find it harder work than she imagined to clamber up these steep ascents on her own two small feet. But Maggie thought she would like to be "a relief to the horses," so papa took her out. Then Bessie's sweet little voice piped up from the snug corner, where she sat nestled between Colonel Rush and his wife. "Mamma, bettn't I walk a little too, on 'count of the poor horses?" At which Mr. Porter who walked beside the wagon, holding the reins, and now and then chirruping to the willing creatures who needed no whip or harsh command, turned his head towards the tiny figure with a merry twinkle in his eye. "I think not, darling," said mamma; "by the time we are at the Lake House you will be more than tired enough with this long day's journey." "I do not wish to walk, mamma," said Bessie, "only for the horses." "The horses don't make much account of your weight, I reckon," said Mr. Porter, good-naturedly, "and though this seems mighty hard work to you, they are used to it, and don't mind it so much. Besides, they know that every pitch takes them nearer to their stable, where they'll have a good rest and a feed of oats. They'd rather go up than down any day." "How do they know it?" asked Bessie, who had already made friends with Mr. Porter. "Well," said Mr. Porter, taking off his hat and fanning himself with it, "I can't just say how; certain it is they do know it." "Maybe it's their instinct," said Bessie. "That's about it," he answered, with a smile. "These are fine teams of yours, Mr. Porter," said Colonel Rush. "You may say that, sir," answered the old man, looking with pride at the noble beasts, "and this is the best of the lot. These are Vermont horses, sure-footed as goats, as they need to be on these mountain roads; strong as elephants, and wiser than many a creature that goes on two feet. Why, I could tell you stories of this fellow," and he nodded towards the horse nearest him, "that maybe you'll find it hard to believe. I named him 'Solomon,' thinking it suitable; but the boys they shortened it to 'Sol,' and that's what he goes by. I tell you, he knows a thing or two, that horse." Mr. Porter paused for breath, and Bessie, after waiting a moment or two in hopes of the stories of old Sol, said,-- "We'll believe you, Mr. Porter, if you tell us those stories." "So I will," he answered, "but not now. It takes the breath out of a man trudging up these hills, and I can't tell you long stories now. But you come into the kitchen some evening, and I'll tell you a bushel full." Maggie had found that "trudging up the hills" took the breath out of a little girl, and papa's words soon proved themselves true; but she plodded along perseveringly, flushed and panting, holding to papa's hand, and happy in her belief that she was sparing the horses by her own exertions. And now they came to a level spot where all might rest. A beautiful resting place it was, a perfect bower of the wild clematis, rock ivy and briar rose, the latter now in full flower. The long, slender sprays flung themselves from tree to tree, or ran climbing over the rocks, while the delicate pink blossoms hung, many of them, within the children's reach. Uncle Ruthven's warning checked Maggie's too eager fingers until he could cut them carefully with his knife, and place them in her hands stripped of their sharp little thorns. Maggie thanked him for his thoughtful kindness when she saw the misfortune which had happened to Hafed; for the little Persian, always anxious to please his "Missys," had grasped too heedlessly the tempting branches, and was now wringing his fingers as he danced about, half laughing, half crying, and saying,-- "Prettys no good, no good." Maggie and Bessie were quite distressed for him, until his master, having taken out the thorns, bade him wash his bleeding fingers in the brook which ran by the roadside. Bessie had been taken from the wagon that she might rest herself by running about a little after her long ride, and now she and Maggie, as well as Hafed, forgot pricks and scratches in the pleasure of watching the brook, and feeling its cool, clear waters trickle through their fingers. What a noisy, merry, frolicksome stream this was, gurgling and splashing, rushing and tumbling in its rocky bed; now leaping gracefully in a miniature waterfall over some narrow ledge, now rippling and singing about the roots of the trees and over the pebbles that lay in its course, now flashing in the sunlight, and now hiding in a crevice of the rocks as if it were playing at Bopeep. "What a fuss it makes about nothing," said Harry, as he dipped his fingers into the water, and carried some of the clear, sparkling drops to his lips, "One would think it was doing a wonderful lot of work." "So it does," said Maggie, following her brother's example. "What work does it do?" asked Harry, always ready to listen to any of Maggie's new ideas. "Sometimes it gives a thirsty boy a drink, and he is very ungrateful, and says it makes a fuss about nothing," said Maggie, mischievously. Harry playfully sprinkled her with the drops which hung from his fingers. "And what else?" "It waters the flowers and mosses and trees," said Maggie; "and the birds and squirrels can come and take a drink too, if they like." "And it makes a pretty waterfall for us to see, and a nice, pleasant noise for us to listen to," said Bessie. "All that is no better than play," said Harry. "And it helps to make the sea," said Bessie. "Mamma said so." "Ho!" said Fred; "much this little brook does towards filling the sea, Queen Bess." "But _it helps_, and does all it can, Fred." "Yes," said Maggie; "one little brook runs on until it finds another little brook, and then they join, and run on together, and then they meet another and another till they all make a small river, and that joins other little rivers and brooks, till there is a very large one like that we sailed on this morning, and that runs into the great, great sea that we used to see at Quam Beach last summer." "Hallo, Midge!" said Fred; "where did you find out so much?" "It's not my own finding out," said Maggie; "the other day my geography lesson was about rivers, and mamma told me all that, and Bessie heard too; so when we first saw this brook farther down the mountain, we remembered what mamma said, and Aunt May said a very nice thing." "What was it?" asked Harry. "She said little children might be like the brooks and springs. Not one could do a great deal by himself, but every little helped in the work God gave his creatures to do for him, just as every brook helped to fill the great sea to which it ran; and if we were good and sweet, it made everything bright and pleasant about us, just like a clear and running stream. But cross and naughty children were like the muddy brooks and dull pools, which no one could drink, or make of any use. I hope I won't be like an ugly, muddy pool that does no good to any one, but just stands still, and looks disagreeable all the day long, and has toads and things in it." The boys laughed at the ending of Maggie's speech, so like herself, and Uncle Ruthven as he dipped a drinking cup into the flashing stream, said,-- "I do not think we need fear that, little Maggie." "No," said Harry; "there is rather too much sunshine and sparkle about Maggie to think that she would become a stagnant pool, full of ugly tempers and hateful faults, like 'toads and things.'" "Yes," laughed Fred, "and she could not stand still with nothing to do; could you, Midget Fidget?" Maggie was in too sunny a humor to be teased by anything Fred could say, though she did not like the name he called her, and she answered with good temper,-- "No, indeed, I could not, Fred; but if I am naughty I suppose I do not run just the way I ought to, and perhaps I grow a little muddy sometimes." "It don't last long then, I'll say that for you," answered Fred, touched by his little sister's sweet-tempered honesty. "No, it does not," said Bessie, who had been listening to the last few sentences with a sober face, "and my own little brook Maggie is the best and brightest brook of all the family. No, thank you, Uncle Ruthven," as her uncle offered her a drink from his cup; "the water tastes better this way;" and she dipped her tiny hand again in the stream. "But it would take you till sundown to satisfy your thirst out of that make-believe hand, Princess," said Mr. Stanton, "and Mr. Porter is ready for a fresh start." So Bessie took a drink from her uncle's cup, and the other children were glad to do the same, since they were now forced to leave this pleasant spot. Mamma said she thought Maggie had walked far enough, so she once more took her seat in the wagon, and as Mr. Porter said they had passed the steepest part of the ascent, the gentlemen and boys all did the same. The scene did not grow less beautiful as they went on upward. They could see to a great distance, and the view was very lovely. Behind and below them lay hills and forests, with here and there a break or clearing where some cozy home farm nestled, with the smoke from its chimney curling lazily up into the quiet summer air. Still farther down, the valleys with their glistening ponds and streams, and the villages clustering here and there, their houses and churches looking from this height almost as small as toys; while far in the distance, flashing in the sunlight, rolled the noble river up whose waters they had come that morning. Around them and above them lay great swells of land, over which they had yet to pass, rising one above another till they were crowned with the lofty summit of the mountain. Here stood out sharply against the sky a gray, bare mass of rock, with a tuft of pine-trees growing on the very top. By some people this was called "The Point," by others, "The Chief's Head," because they fancied it looked like an Indian's head wearing a plume of feathers. It could be seen for many miles, and long before our party began to ascend the mountain, Mr. Bradford had pointed it out to the children. The boys at once imagined they saw the Indian's head plainly. Maggie sometimes thought she did, sometimes thought she did not, and was very eager about it; but now as the road took a sudden bend, bringing the great rock into nearer view, she declared the likeness was to be seen distinctly, nose, mouth, chin and all. Bessie could not see any resemblance, and since Maggie could, was rather distressed; but mamma and the Colonel consoled her by saying that they, like herself, could see nothing but a huge, gray stone, crowned by a few lonely-looking trees. "There's more fancy than anything else about it, I believe myself," said Mr. Porter; "if it was not for the old story probably no one would see any resemblance." "What story?" asked Harry, eagerly. "Why," answered Mr. Porter, "it is said that a tribe of Indians once lived among these valleys and mountains, whose chief died. He left twin sons, both famous warriors, and it was doubtful which would be chosen by the tribe to be their chief or king in the father's place. One of the brothers was very anxious for this honor. He was a proud and selfish man, who seemed to care for no one in the world but his beautiful young wife, whom he dearly loved. His brother was more of a favorite with the people, and he feared that their choice would fall upon him, so he determined to kill him that he might be out of his way. "The brother was fond of climbing to the mountain top, and sitting there to look out over the broad lands which had belonged to his fathers for so many years. One night when the wicked chief was returning from the hunt, he saw, as he thought, in the dim moonlight, his brother sitting in his usual place. This was very near the edge of the rock, where a slight push might throw him over, and it came into the bad man's heart to climb up softly behind him, and, with a sudden shove, to send him down upon the rocks below. He gave himself no time to think, and in a few moments he had reached the quiet figure which was half concealed by a clump of trees, and, with a push of his powerful hand, sent it whirling over into the valley below." "Oh, the bad, bad man!" said Bessie. "He was just like a Cain, and his poor brother who never did him any harm! I think that is a bad story." "Probably it's not true, but just a fable," said Mr. Porter. "Then they oughtn't to say it about the poor Indian," said Bessie, indignantly. "If he didn't do it, they ought not to make it up about him." "And likely enough the man himself never lived," said Mr. Porter. "Then they oughtn't to say he did," persisted Bessie; "And to make him so wicked too. There's enough of bad people without making up any more." "Well, what was the end of it?" asked Fred. "Just as the poor lost one went over the edge, a scream rang out on the night air, and the Indian knew it was the voice of his beloved wife whom he had thus sent to her death. The story goes on to say that he was so stricken with horror and grief when he found what he had done, that he wished the earth might open and swallow him, which it did, all but his head, which was turned into stone, and so has remained to speak of the punishment of his wicked deed." "That tribe of Indians must have been giants then," said Harry, laughing as he looked up at the enormous mass of stone. "Now I know that story never was," said Bessie. "People don't be turned into stone because they are bad, and nobody ever had such a big head, and people ought not to say it." Bessie had heard many a fairy tale, many a fable, and had never objected to them, though she always preferred to listen to stories which were, or might be, true; but somehow, no one could tell why, this fancy about the rock seemed to shock her sense of truth, and from this time she could never be persuaded to call it the "Chief's Head." Her mother also noticed that when she was out of doors, she always sat or stood with her back towards it if she could possibly do so. But they were by no means to mount so far as this before they came to their resting-place. Chalecoo Lake lay a good way below the "Point," nestled in a beautiful basin among the hills, and here the road ended. Those who wished to go higher must do so by a rough mountain path which led to the very summit. The children were delighted to see what a quantity of birds and squirrels there appeared to be in the woods. The former were hopping about all over the trees, singing among the branches, and seeming scarcely disturbed by the approach of the wagons. As for the squirrels, they were as saucy as possible, waiting and watching with their sharp, bright eyes till the travellers were close upon them, then gliding ahead to a short distance and looking back, or perhaps leaping from one to another of the old fallen trunks which lay by the roadside almost within arm's length. Once as the party, who were all growing somewhat tired, were rather quiet, they suddenly heard a long, loud chirrup; and looking round to the side whence the noise came, there, upon a heap of stones, sat a large gray squirrel, with his tail curled gracefully over his back like a plume, and seeming to call attention to himself by his song. Not in the least alarmed by the eager delight of the children, or the whistling and shouts of the boys, he sat still till all the wagons had passed, when he darted ahead of the foremost one, and seating himself this time on an old rail fence, began his pretty call again, and took a second close look at our friends. This he did five or six times in succession, to the great amusement and satisfaction of the little ones, who were beginning to hope he would go with them all the way to the house, when with a pert, defiant whisk of his bushy tail, he leaped down the bank, and was lost to sight in the thick trees of the ravine. At another time a rabbit ran across the road, but he was by no means so sociable as Bunny, and scampered away as if his life depended on hiding himself among the bushes as fast as possible. "You wait till to-morrow morning," said Mr. Porter, as Bessie said how sorry she was that the squirrel had not kept on with them; "You wait till to-morrow morning and you'll see squirrels enough for the asking. Tame as your little dog there, they are too." "Oh, Mr. Porter!" said Bessie, "do you shut the poor little squirrels up in a cage?" "Not I," answered Mr. Porter. "I would not allow it on any account, and never did. You'll see how my boy Bob manages them." And now they came to the lake itself. What a wild, curious place it was, such as none of the children had ever seen, not even Harry, who was considered by his brothers and sisters quite a travelled young gentleman, because he had at one time gone with his father to Washington, and at another to Niagara. Great masses and blocks of granite lay piled one above another round three sides of the lake, here and there poised in such a manner that many of them looked as if the slightest touch must send them headlong into the waters below. And yet thus they had remained for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years, held firmly by the Almighty Hand which had given to each its place. Mosses and lichens, of all shades of gray, green and brown, covered their weather-beaten sides, while their tops were crowned with oaks, maples, pines and firs. Around the southern side, and close to the mountain, which here rose still farther up, up, steep and rugged, to the Point, or Indian's Head, wound the road; and a dangerous road it looked, with the deep waters of the lake on one side, the rough mountain on the other where the huge boulders overhung the travellers as they passed on. But with sure-footed, steady horses, and a careful driver, Mr. Bradford said there was no danger, for the road was good and strong, "built upon a rock," and kept in capital order by Mr. Porter and his industrious sons. Still, more than one of the ladies drew a breath of relief when it was safely passed. Away at the eastern end, where there was a break in the rock, and a little back from the lake, stood Mr. Porter's house, a long, low, pleasant-looking building, painted white, with green blinds, wide piazzas, and magnificent shade trees. Garden, orchard and fields lay behind on the slope of the hill where it fell gently away to the valley below, and the whole place told of order and industry, showing in beautiful contrast to the wild grandeur of the other sides of the lake. So here Maggie and Bessie were at last, at the long-talked-of Chalecoo Lake; and glad enough they, as well as the rest of the party, were to be at their journey's end, pleasant though it had been. Ten hours of steady travelling was tiresome work for little people. In the wide-open doorway stood Mrs. Porter, waiting to welcome them. "What a jolly-looking old lady!" exclaimed Fred. "I shall like her, I know. She looks as if she belonged to this dear old place." "That's so," said Mr. Porter, putting his head on one side, and gazing admiringly at his wife; "She's as jolly as she looks, and as good as she's jolly. My! but she'll spoil your children, Mrs. Bradford." Mrs. Bradford smiled, and did not look as if she thought the "spoiling" would hurt her children very much; and now, with a loud "whoa," Mr. Porter drew in his horses, and his wife with her two daughters came down to help unload. "You see I have brought you a large family, Mrs. Porter," said Mrs. Bradford, "but you have room for all, I believe?" "Yes, and heart room too," was the answer, as the old lady took baby from her nurse, and covered her with kisses. Miss Baby looked for a moment as if she had half a mind to resent this liberty, but thought better of it, and presently was crowing and smiling in the kind old face, which looked so pleasantly at her. Indeed, not one of the children could resist the cheery, coaxing voice and tender manner; and in five minutes they were all crowding about her, as she told of all the treats she had in store for them; and even shy Maggie had summoned up courage to ask a question which had long been troubling her. "Mrs. Porter," she whispered, pulling the old lady's head down towards her, "may I ask you a secret?" "To be sure, my lamb, a dozen if you like," answered Mrs. Porter. "Do you have trundle beds?" whispered Maggie again. "Trundle beds? Well, I believe there is an old one up garret," said Mrs. Porter, "but I'll have it down for you, and put to rights if you like." "Oh, no!" said Maggie, "please don't. I _do hate_ them so, and I had to sleep in one all last summer at Quam." "Oh! that's it," said Mrs. Porter, "well, you shall sleep in no trundle bed here, since you don't like it. Come along up-stairs, and you shall see what nice little cottage beds we have for you young ones." So this trouble was at an end, and Maggie felt quite free to enjoy all the new pleasures about her, without fear of the dreaded trundle bed. [Illustration] [Illustration] II. _THE SQUIRRELS AND THE ICE GLEN._ MAGGIE would have liked very well to run about a little on that first evening of their arrival at Chalecoo; but Bessie was so tired that her mother wished her to keep quiet; and as Maggie would not go out without her sister, they both contented themselves with making acquaintance with the house and the people who belonged there. And a delightful house it was to make acquaintance with,--full of all kinds of odd nooks and corners, with two or three steps here leading up to one room, two or three there going down to another; queer little pantries and cupboards and crooked passages, and altogether unlike any other house the children had ever seen. Through the centre was a wide, cool hall with a green blind door at either end, a capital place for a play-room on a rainy day; and around three sides ran a broad piazza, well shaded with vines and the noble old trees among which the house stood. From the front, one looked out upon the lake and rocks; from the back, far away over hill and valley, mountain and river. Green fields and meadows lay below, with here and there an orchard or a lovely piece of woods. Then the rooms were so large and pleasant, with so many doors and windows that not a breath of air could stir but a breeze must sweep through them, while nothing could be more neat, clean and fresh. Not a speck or spot was to be seen anywhere, not a thing was out of place, and Bessie looking gravely about her as she noticed these signs of care, said anxiously to Mrs. Porter, "Are you very particular about your nice house, ma'am?" "Well, yes," answered Mrs. Porter, looking around with an air of some pride and satisfaction, "don't it suit you?" "Oh! yes, ma'am," said Bessie, "it suits me very much, but you know sometimes children make a little disorder when they play, and I only meant would you mind if we mussed up your nice house just a very little bit?" "Not I," said Mrs. Porter, "there's plenty of hands to set to rights any disorder you may make. Just you play away and don't trouble your head about that." The measure of Maggie's content was full when she followed the old lady up stairs and saw the two neat, small, white beds intended for Bessie and herself. "Bessie," she said, a little later, "don't you think this place is nicer than Quam Beach?" They were standing together in the lower hall, looking out upon the lake, while the rays of the setting sun came flickering through the vine leaves, and dancing over the two little figures standing in the doorway, as if it were bidding them a friendly good night, and giving them a promise of a fair day for tomorrow's rambles. "I think it is very nice," answered Bessie. "But don't you think it _nicer_ than Quam, Bessie?" "No, Maggie, for the sea is not here." "But the lake is," said Maggie. "But the lake is not the sea," said Bessie. Maggie could not contradict this, but she did not feel satisfied that Bessie should not be as well pleased as she was herself, and she said wistfully,-- "But don't you think you could be a little contented here, Bessie?" "I can be much contented here, Maggie," answered the little girl. "Why, dear, do you think I would be so ungrateful of this very nice place, and the kind people that are here as not to be contented? Oh! I like the mountains very much, but not quite so very much as the sea." "Oh, ho!" said Mr. Porter, who had just come up behind them and heard what Bessie had said last, "so you do not like the mountains as well as the sea? Well, I shall make you change that tune. Why, you don't know all the things there are to see here. Before you've been here a week you'll tell me you like the mountains a heap better than the ocean." But Mr. Porter was mistaken. He never heard Bessie say that. She spent a very happy summer, and was well satisfied with all the new pleasures she found among the mountains, but they never could make her forget her beloved sea, nor could the old gentleman persuade her to acknowledge that she liked the one as well as the other. Bessie might well say they were nice people in this house. Besides Mr. and Mrs. Porter, who have already been introduced, were their five sons, "the boys," Mr. Porter called them. Queer "boys," Maggie and Bessie thought them; all, save the youngest, great, sturdy men with sunburned faces and toil-hardened hands. But though their hands were hard, their hearts were not, and seemed to have a particularly soft spot for all these little ones. Mr. Porter's family were all fond of children, and never seemed to think anything too much trouble which could possibly give them pleasure. Next to these grown up "boys," came Fanny and Dolly, two lively, good natured young women; and last of all, Bob, a boy about fourteen, quite ready to make friends with the children, and to show them all the wonders of the place. The first thing to be thought of after breakfast the next morning was the squirrels. Bob was as anxious to show them to the little strangers as they were to see them; and followed by the whole troop, he led the way to their haunt. This was a great black-walnut tree, which stood at a short distance from the house, and threw its green branches far and wide, casting a delightful shade below, and furnishing a cosy home and leafy play-ground for the squirrels. About half way up the trunk was a hole which was the entrance to their nest. At this hour of the day, Mr. and Mrs. Bunny and their family were generally to be seen frisking about all over and among the boughs, waiting for the nice breakfast which was sure to be provided for them by the kind young master who had chosen them for his pets. If the squirrels could have reasoned about it, they would probably have said that Bob Porter was a capital master to belong to. He fed them and played with them, never shutting them up or asking any work in return; their love was all he wanted, and that he had gained in a way curious to see. They were usually ready enough to welcome his approach; but now, startled by the unaccustomed sight of so many strangers, every mother's son and daughter of them scampered away to hide themselves in the nest. In half a moment not the end of a tail or the tip of a nose was to be seen, and the children feared that they were to be disappointed. But telling them to stand at a little distance from him, yet not so far but that they could see all that passed, Bob sat down upon the end of a log and began calling gently, "Bunny, Bunny." Presently a black nose, two cute little ears, and a pair of sharp, bright eyes appeared at the opening in the tree. The nose sniffed about in a very suspicious manner, and the eyes wandered from Bob to the group beyond, and then back again to Bob, as if they would ask, "Who are all these strange people? Are they friends or foes? and why have you brought them here?" But at last, as if satisfied that the new faces were friendly ones, Papa Squirrel, for it was he, put forth his whole head, next his gray body appeared, and then his beautiful, feathery tail. Running along a branch he curved his tail over his head, and sitting down, gave a cheerful, chirruping call, which perhaps meant that there was no danger; for in a moment the whole tree seemed to be alive with the rest of the family. Eleven squirrels in all, large and small, were counted by the delighted children. But although they watched their young visitors from among the branches, they still seemed too timid to come nearer and take the tempting breakfast which Bob had provided for them; till Mrs. Bunny, either more hungry or less cautious than her mate and children, came whisking down the trunk of the walnut-tree, and in another moment was seated upon Bob's shoulder, holding in her fore-paws the almond he had given her, and opening it with her sharp, pointed teeth. This was too much for the others, and one after another they descended the tree and received their breakfast. There sat Bob, a squirrel upon each shoulder, one on his head, others on his knees and hands, while one little fellow perched upon the toe of his boot, and, with a very contented air cracked and ate his almond. It was a pretty sight, and a proud boy was Bob, as he sat thus surrounded by his pets, and listened to the exclamations of delight and wonder uttered by the other children in a low tone, lest they should again startle the little creatures. They were particularly amused by the antics of one saucy rogue, who, not satisfied with the share which had fallen to him, crept under Bob's arm, and actually began thrusting his nose into his pocket in search of more almonds. Not finding any, he became indignant, and raced off to the tree, where he seated himself on the end of a bough, and chattered away as though he were scolding at Bob for not having provided more. "He is the greedy one of the lot," said Bob, "and I have to watch him, or he eats his own share and then robs those that are weaker than himself, if he gets the chance." "But how did you do it, Bob?" asked Harry. "How did you tame them so when they were not in a cage?" "Oh! it's not so hard," said Bob, a little boastfully. "You see father will never let me shut up any animal or any bird that is used to being free; and I was set upon having a tame squirrel. This old fellow here," and Bob pointed to the largest of the squirrels which sat upon his shoulder; "this old fellow and his mate lived in the walnut, and I was wild to catch them. But, as father said no, I thought I would hit upon a plan by which they would learn to know me, and come at my call. So one day I left two nuts here on the log, and went away. When I came back some time after, the nuts were gone. This I did the next day and the next, always keeping about for a while first. Then I put down the nuts and went off yonder to that maple, where I waited. It's not so far but that the squirrels could see me, but after watching me for a few moments as if they thought I might be laying a trap for them, they whisked down after the nuts, and then whisked back again in a terrible hurry. Every day I came a little nearer than the day before, and they soon learned to know me; I could even see that they watched for me. At last one day I laid a couple of almonds on one end of the log, and sat down on the other. It was a good while before they would come down that day, but at last they did, and after that I had no more trouble. When they found I did not try to touch them, they came nearer and nearer, till at last they took the nuts from my hand, and now as you see, they are as tame as squirrels could be, and have taught their young ones to have no fear of me. It is two years this summer since I tamed the old pair, and now the rest all know me as well as they do." "It's jolly fun to see them," said Fred. "And it's a great deal jolly funnier than if you caught them and shut them up in a cage, is it not?" said Bessie. The boys laughed. "Yes, indeed," answered Bob. "Hi, hi! what ails the fellows?" as all the squirrels sprang from him and whisked up the walnut tree. What "ailed the fellows," was soon seen, for even as he spoke, Flossy, who had been left shut up in the house lest he should frighten the bunnies, came tearing round a great rock, and rushed to the foot of the tree, where he commenced a great barking. But the squirrels were all safe in their green house, and as if they knew this, peeped down from among the leaves at Flossy with the greatest unconcern. Flossy was followed by papa, Uncle Ruthven and the Colonel; and Uncle Ruthven confessed himself the guilty person who had let Flossy escape out of his prison. "The poor fellow thought it hard he should not have his share of fun, and was making a pitiful whining and whimpering," said Mr. Stanton, "so I let him out on the promise that he should be good." "But how could he promise when he can't speak?" said Bessie. "I asked him if he would be quiet and good like a well brought up puppy if I let him out, and he said 'wow,' which in dog language means yes, does it not?" asked Uncle Ruthven. "And it means no, and thank you, and if you please, and I love you, and everything else he wants to say," said Maggie, catching up her frisky pet in her arms and giving him a hug, which he returned by putting his cold nose in her face, after which he struggled to be put down again, for so glad was he to be free this pleasant morning that he wished to show it by frolicking about on his own four feet. And now papa proposed they should visit the Ice Glen, to which the children, who had had enough of the squirrels for the present, readily agreed. This Ice Glen was a very wonderful place, interesting even to grown people, and the whole party were anxious to visit it; so they stopped at the house that mamma and the other ladies might join them. The last part of the walk was rather rough, and it was as much as the Colonel, with the help of his cane and Mr. Bradford's arm, could do to make his way over the rocks and fallen trees. Uncle Ruthven helped the ladies, and lifted the little girls over such places as were too hard for them. But Maggie would not have much help, and scrambled and climbed almost as if she had been a squirrel herself. As for Flossy, if he had made that promise of which Uncle Ruthven spoke, he certainly did not keep it. Bessie said she thought that "wow" had meant no, not yes. First, the mischievous puppy started a little black and white rabbit, and sent it scampering away as fast as its feet could carry it, rushing after it among all the underbrush and briars, and never heeding the coaxing calls of his little mistresses or the louder and sterner voices of their brothers; then coming back he rushed into a brook which ran by the way, and after rolling himself in it till the water was dripping from his silky coat, he shook himself and sent a shower of drops over the clean white dresses of the little girls; and then finding the hole of a wood-chuck, he began scratching and burying himself in the earth in a frenzy to find the poor creature; so that, his hair being wet, he was a sight to behold when Harry pulled him out, covered with mud from head to foot, and had to be sent behind in disgrace. The Ice Glen was truly a curious spot. A narrow pathway led through it, on one side of which was a wall of rock, so steep that not even nimble Fred could have climbed it; on the other was a shelving bank covered with tall pines and firs. It was a gloomy place where the sun never shone, and our party felt the chill from it before they entered, so that mamma said she was half afraid to have Bessie go in, so great was the change from the warm summer air without. But Mr. Bradford said there was no danger if they did not stay too long, or sit down in the glen. At the foot of the wall of rock lay great stones piled one over another; and looking through the spaces between these, the little girls saw masses of ice hard as the rock above, which lay there all the year round. How far below the surface they reached, no one knew; but there must have been a great quantity of ice there, since summer or winter, it never disappeared. Little rills and springs, cold as the ice itself, and delicious to drink, slowly trickled from each end of the glen, but though they ran all summer long, they never seemed to make any difference in the great mass which lay within. The children thought it wonderful, as indeed it was, and were very unwilling to come away when mamma said they had stayed there as long as she thought safe. They were forbidden to go there without some grown person, but this command was scarcely needed by the little girls, since Bessie could not have made her way alone without the help of some stronger hand; and though Maggie thought the glen a great curiosity, she did not like the chill and gloom of the place, and was glad to come out once more into the bright sunshine which met them at the entrance. And here there was another thing which interested her and Bessie very much. Directly over the little stream which ran from the glen, was a small, neat, wooden building, carefully closed. The children had asked what it was when they passed it the first time, but papa said he did not know; it had been put up since he had been there last. But now they saw Fanny Porter unlocking the door, and Maggie and Bessie ran eagerly forward to ask the use of the little house. "I'll show you," said Fanny, good-naturedly, and she threw open the door and window shutters, letting in the light and air. "This is our new dairy, Mrs. Bradford," she continued, as the older people came nearer. "Will you not walk in with the other ladies and gentlemen?" The whole party were well pleased to enter the neat, pleasant-looking dairy. The floor was paved with large flat stones, sloping from the front and back of the building towards the middle, and through the channel thus formed was led the clear, cold stream which ran from the glen. In the icy water stood several great earthen pots, carefully covered. Around the room ran a broad shelf, also of stone, and on this were placed the bright tin pans, most of them now full of milk, and in one corner were two or three churns. The whole dairy was as neat as hands could make it, so it was quite a pleasure to think of milk and butter which should come from such a place. "Father thought he would make the Ice Glen useful as well as curious," said Fanny Porter. "See, Mrs. Bradford, what this cold water does for our butter;" and taking the cover from one of the stone pots, she handed a wooden spaddle to the lady. Mrs. Bradford pressed it upon the butter, which she found almost as firm and hard as the rock. "Do you make butter here?" asked Bessie. "Indeed we do," said Fanny. "I am going to churn now, and if your mother will let you stay, you may see how I do it." Permission was given, and the grown people went away, leaving Maggie and Bessie with the good-natured Fanny. "Could you let us help you a little?" asked Bessie. "Help me?" repeated Fanny, looking with a smile at the tiny figure she was just lifting upon a high stool, the only seat the dairy contained. "I guess you do not know what hard work churning is, do you?" "Oh, we are accustomed to it," said Bessie. "We have a little churn at home, and we churn water, only it never makes butter." "No, I suppose not," said Fanny. "And now would you like a drink after your walk?" The children said they would, and taking down a dipper from the wall, Fanny gave them a drink of the rich, cold milk. After this she poured into the churn a quantity of thick, yellow cream, and putting on the cover, she told Bessie to stand upon the stool and go to work. But Bessie found churning water in her own little churn at home, was a very different thing from trying to make the butter come with that heavy dasher; she could scarcely stir it, and in a moment she was quite satisfied. Maggie being stronger, pulled the dasher up and down a few times, and did not give up until she was red in the face, and her little hands were smarting with the hard work they were not used to. The butter did not come by any means as quickly as the children expected, even when Fanny took hold; and, tired of waiting for it, they presently began to amuse themselves with sailing the acorn cups which they had picked up in their walk, in the stream which ran through the dairy. It was great fun to launch them at the upper end, and watch them as they floated down, now driven against a butter pot, now passing round it, and at last carried out at the farther end of the dairy. By the time they had had enough of this amusement, the kind Fanny said the butter had come, and taking off the cover of the churn, she dashed in a quantity of cold water from that convenient little stream, having first lifted Maggie and Bessie upon the shelf, so that they might be high enough to look down into the churn. The butter which was floating about in tiny lumps, instantly collected together, and bringing a dish, Fanny scooped it out with a wooden ladle, and laid it in a rich, creamy mass. Then she threw in a little salt, and having worked and pressed it till it was free from every drop of water, she packed it away in a stone pot, and set that with the others in the running water. The children watched her with great interest until all was done, and were still standing by while she skimmed the cream from some of the many pans of milk, when Jane came to tell them their mamma wished them to come back to the house. [Illustration] [Illustration] III. _A VISIT TO AUNT PATTY._ MR. BRADFORD had brought from the city a famous rockaway, or carryall, large enough to hold all his own family and one or two persons beside; light but strong, and just the thing for these mountain roads. The first use to which it was to be put was to take them all for two visits that afternoon, one to Aunt Patty, the other to the homestead where Cousin Alexander lived. It was a bright, sunny afternoon, yet not too warm to be pleasant, the air was gay with the hum of bees and butterflies, the blue sky, dappled with fleecy clouds, was reflected in the clear water, mingled with the shadow of the rocks and trees; swallows skimmed over the surface of the lake, chasing the myriads of insects which hummed in the summer air; and as the carriage drove along the road which lay between the water and the great overhanging rocks, more than one fish was seen to dart swiftly away from the shady pool where he had been snugly lying till disturbed by the rumble of the wheels. They did not go down the mountain by the road up which they had come the night before, but struck into another which led in an opposite direction. It ran through the forest for a long distance, and was not so steep, and more shady, which was no objection on this warm day. "Stop at Todd's cottage, if you please, Mr. Porter," said Mr. Bradford, as they came out of the forest and saw before them a small farm-house, with half a dozen out-buildings about it. "Who is Todd, papa?" asked Maggie. But before Mr. Bradford could answer, all curiosity about Todd, or why they were to stop at his house, was set at rest. As they turned the corner they saw, standing in the porch of the farm-house, a woman with a baby in her arms; while hanging over the gate and whistling as he looked up the road, was a boy about the size of Fred. They were Mrs. Richards and Willie, no longer "blind Willie," the sightless little child whose sad face and patient, waiting manner, had so touched the hearts of all who looked upon him. A delicate looking boy Willie was still, though two weeks' stay in this fresh, pure, mountain air had done wonders for him. It was a pretty sight to see his delight in all about him, in the sunshine and clouds, in the blue sky and the bright water, in the grass and flowers, in birds and animals, and above all in the dear faces which had been shut out from his poor eyes for so many weary months. A light flush mounted to his pale cheeks as he caught sight of his friends in the carriage, the good, kind friends to whom he owed so much; and calling to his mother, he sprang from the gate, as Mr. Porter drew in his horses, and hastened to open it. "Never mind, Willie," said Mr. Bradford; "we cannot come in this afternoon. Some other day, perhaps; but now we only stopped to ask how you are coming on? How do you do, Mrs. Richards?" "Bravely, sir," answered the smiling Mrs. Richards; "and as for Willie and the baby, they are improving wonderfully, thanks to your kindness." "It is my little girls you must thank, Mrs. Richards," said Mr. Bradford. "But we don't want to be thanked," said Bessie, quickly. "We quite liked to have you come up here, Mrs. Richards, and we felt very much thankful ourselves when Uncle Ruthven gave us the money to send you." "Willie," said Maggie, "do you enjoy being _disblinded_ just as much as you did at first?" "Oh, yes," answered Willie, laughing at Maggie's new word; "and everything looks so much nicer than it did before I was blind. Somehow, I think the world _did_ grow prettier while I could not see it, though mother says it only seems so to me." "Ah, that is often the way, Willie," said Mr. Bradford. "God sometimes has to teach us the worth of the blessings He has given us by taking them from us." After a little more talk with Willie and his mother, they bade good-by; kind Mr. Porter first saying he would send down for Willie some day and let him come up to his place. They drove on till they came to the more open country, and saw before them Aunt Patty's house, and beyond that, the grand old homestead of which they had heard so much, and of which papa was so fond. Aunt Patty's home was a pretty, snug cottage on the side of a hill; its front covered with a beautiful trumpet creeper, which went climbing up to the very top of the many-cornered old chimney, and wreathing itself over the little porch and the bow window of the sitting-room, until the house looked like a quiet green nest. A great white cat peeped out from behind the geraniums which filled the window; a greyhound lay upon the doormat, and beneath and about the porch hung several bird-cages, containing half a dozen canaries and two mocking-birds, while a donkey and a tame goat looked, the one over, the other between the bars of the fence which divided their little pasture ground from the neat garden. For Aunt Patty was very fond of dumb pets, and had collected about her a number, each one of which knew her voice, and would come at her call; and she was never sharp and short with them as she sometimes was with her own fellow creatures, for they never, even by accident, gave her offence. The old lady herself came to the door to meet her guests, more pleased than she would have been willing to say, that they had come to visit her on the first day of their stay at Chalecoo. She seized Frankie in her arms and covered him with kisses; but that roguish young gentleman after exclaiming, "Hallo, Patty!" would have nothing more to say to her, and struggled to be set free that he might run and see "dat nanny-doat and dat pony wis long ears." Maggie and Bessie were more polite than their little brother, and though they would have liked to follow him at once, waited quietly till Aunt Patty asked them if they did not wish to run about and make acquaintance with all her pets. Glad of the permission, the little girls ran out, and turned to the paddock, where they found Frankie seated upon the donkey's back. The boys had not gone into the house, but after shaking hands with Aunt Patty at the door, had remained without in search of what amusement they could find. The donkey was the first thing that had taken their attention as well as that of Frankie; and when the little fellow came out clamoring for a ride, they were quite ready to indulge him. Harry had been half doubtful if they had not better first ask Aunt Patty's permission, but Fred had said,-- "Pooh! what's the use? She would let Frankie dance on her own head, if he wanted to." So Harry had allowed himself to be persuaded, and in another moment the donkey, much to his own astonishment, found Frankie seated upon his back. Now this donkey was not at all accustomed to children; for those of Mr. Alexander Bradford, who lived at the homestead, seldom came to see Aunt Patty, and when they did so, they would as soon have thought of asking to ride upon her back as upon that of the donkey. To be harnessed in the little pony-carriage, and trot about with the old lady for her daily drive, was all the work to which Nonesuch was used; and when he found Frankie perched upon him, he was very much displeased, and began a series of antics and prancings which were more becoming some frisky pony than a sober, well-behaved donkey. But try as he would, he could not shake Frankie off. The bold little rogue was not at all frightened, and clung like a burr to his indignant steed. It was hard to tell which would come off victor. But at the side of the paddock ran one of the many streams in which this mountain country rejoiced, shadowed with a growth of elder, sumach, and other high bushes. Nonesuch had raced with Frankie to the very edge of this little rivulet, and then stood still for a moment as if considering what he would do next, when a hand, holding a long, thorny switch, was suddenly put forth from the clump of bushes, and Nonesuch received a stinging blow across his haunches. Down went the donkey's nose and up went his heels, as he sent Frankie flying directly over his head into the stream, and then tore away to the further side of the field. Maggie and Bessie were very much startled, and screamed aloud, and even Harry and Fred were a good deal alarmed; but the child himself did not seem to be at all frightened, and when his brothers pulled him out of the water, did not cry, but looked after the donkey in great surprise, exclaiming,-- "Why, dat pony spilled me a little!" Harry and Fred laughed at this, but Maggie and Bessie thought it no laughing matter; nor did mamma, when alarmed by their screams the grown people came running from the house. Frankie was drenched from head to foot, and had to be carried at once to the house, undressed and rubbed dry. Then he was wrapped in a blanket, while a messenger was sent to the homestead to borrow some clothes for him. The little fellow thought this rather hard, and a very poor ending to his afternoon's amusement, especially when no clothes could be found to fit him but those of little Katy Bradford. Meanwhile Fred was off, no one knew where. At the moment Frankie had gone over the donkey's head a loud mocking laugh had resounded from behind the clump of bushes, as though the person who had given the blow were rejoicing in the mischief he had done. Fred only waited to see Frankie safely out of the water, and then, leaving him to the care of his brother and sisters, darted across the stream and forced his way through the bushes in search of the guilty person. At a little distance from him stood two miserable looking objects, a boy about his own size, a girl rather younger; both dirty, ragged, and half-starved, hatless and shoeless. A wicked looking boy and girl they were too, and as Fred appeared they greeted him with grimaces and vulgar noises; then as he darted at the boy, turned and ran. Fred gave chase, and in a moment had overtaken the girl. But hot-tempered and hasty though he was, Fred was not the boy to fight with one who was weaker than himself; and he passed her without notice, keeping on after her companion. But active as he was, he soon found he was no match for the young rascal in front of him, whose feet scarcely seemed to touch the ground, and who threw himself headlong over fences and hedges, as though he had forgotten he had a neck and limbs which might be broken. So turning about, Fred went after the girl, and soon had his hand upon her arm, calling upon her to stop. She did so, at the same time cowering and raising the other arm to shield her head and face as if expecting a blow. "You don't think I am going to strike you?" said Fred, "a nice kind of a chap I'd be to strike a girl. I say, what did you hit that donkey for?" "I didn't," she replied sullenly, "it was him." "What did he do it for? Nobody was doing anything to him. And I'll be bound you had the will to do it." "He did it cos he had a mind to," she said, shaking herself free from Fred's hold, "and he'll do it agin if he has a mind to." "He'd better not," said Fred, "if he does, I'll fix him." "S'posin' you can catch him," she answered, growing bold and impudent, as she saw she need fear no violence from Fred. "'Taint none of your donkeys." "It was my little brother he meant to plague though," said Fred. "He'd better look out how he troubles us again. Just you tell him that." "He aint afraid of you," said the girl, "I jist hope the young un's fine clothes was spoiled. Good enough for him," and making up a hideous face at Fred she ran off a few steps, and then as if the spirit of mischief within her were too strong even for her fear of him, stooped, and picking up a large stone threw it with all her strength. It hit Fred upon the knee with such force that, brave as he was, he could scarcely help crying aloud, and was obliged to sit down upon the ground until the pain had somewhat passed. By the time he was on his feet again the girl was out of sight, and poor Fred limped back to Aunt Patty's cottage. Here the bruised and swollen knee was bathed and bound up, but Fred was forced to keep still, not only this afternoon, but for several succeeding days. It would be hard to tell with what horror the children looked upon the boy and girl whom Fred described, and who had done all this unprovoked mischief. After the donkey and goat, the birds, kittens and other pets had been visited, there was not much to interest the children in Aunt Patty's house; and they were not very sorry when the visit came to an end, and they were all on their way to the homestead. There was certainly enough to please them here. It was a grand old house, standing in the midst of a grove of maples, and behind it stretched an immense orchard, with its mossy old apple trees giving promise of the rich harvest they would furnish a few months later. There was the flower garden, delicious with all kinds of roses now in full bloom; the very swing where papa used to swing when he was a boy, the stream and pond where he used to sail his boats and set up his water-mills; and beyond all, the large farm-yard with its many outbuildings, looking almost like a village by itself; while from one of the great barns whose wide doors stood open came the cackling of poultry and cooing of pigeons, the lowing of cows and oxen, and bleating of calves, all the pleasant noises of a large and thrifty farm. The children were all anxious to see the spot where the old burnt barn had stood, the place where Aunt Patty had saved Uncle Aleck from the fire; but all trace both of fire and barn had long since passed away, and a bright green pasture field, where a flock of sheep were feeding, took up the very ground where, as Maggie said, "the story had happened." The children of the homestead, eight in number, of all ages and sizes, from cousin Ernest, a tall youth of eighteen, down to little Katy, the household darling and pet of four, were only too glad to welcome their city cousins and show them all the wonders of the place. They had the most delightful summer play-room; one side of the verandah enclosed with a lattice work, covered with flowering vines, where they kept their bats and balls, graces, hoops, rocking horse and other toys. They had a little garden house too, where they kept their spades, rakes and other tools, for each child had a plot of ground for its own, and every fall they had a flower and fruit show, when their father and mother gave prizes, not only for the best flowers and fruit, but also to those whose gardens had been neatly kept during the summer. Poor Fred with his lame knee could not run about with the others, and as he sat on the verandah with his cousin Ernest, who stayed with him lest he should be lonely, and heard all about the flower show, he began to wish that he and his brother could have something of the same kind. "I dare say Mr. Porter would give us each a little piece of ground," he said, "but then it is too late to plant things, is it not?" "Oh, no," replied his cousin, "it is only the middle of June, and there are several things which you might yet plant. Then you could join us and try for the prizes at our show, and I would ask father to have it a little earlier in the fall, before you go home. There are lots of seeds and plants that we will give you if you have a mind to try." Fred was eager enough, as he always was for every thing new, and promised to ask his brother if he would like to have a garden, and also to speak to his father and Mr. Porter about it. "And your sisters, too," said Ernest, "would they not like to try what they could do?" "Oh! they are too little," said Fred. "What could such a mite as Bessie do with a garden of her own? She might dig and plant in it to be sure, but then she would not know how to take care of her flowers and things, and she would only be disappointed if she failed." "You and Harry might help her," said Ernest, "and even if she did not have any fine flowers she might gain a prize if she had been industrious, and tried as well as she knew how. It is not so much for the worth and beauty of the flowers themselves, as for the pains we have taken with them and what we deserve, that father rewards us. Why, last year dear little Katy took a prize and for what do you think? Why, for a poor forlorn zinnia which she had nursed through the whole summer, and which bore but one scanty flower." "I'll tell Maggie and Bessie then," said Fred, "and Harry and I will do all we can to help them with the work that is too hard for them. I am sure papa will be willing for us to try, if your father will allow us to join you." "He is willing enough," said Ernest, "indeed he was saying the other day he should like it. You had better ask Mr. Porter for the ground and begin directly." Fred was so anxious to talk over this new plan with his brother and sisters, and to ask his father and Mr. Porter what they thought of it, that he could scarcely wait to do so till it was time to go home. [Illustration] [Illustration] IV. _LEM AND DOLLY._ As soon as they were all once more in the carriage, and the horses' heads turned homeward, Fred told what Ernest had proposed. Mr. Bradford willingly gave permission for his children to join their cousins in preparing for the flower show, and promised to furnish whatever seeds and plants it would be best for them to have, in case Mr. Porter could give them the ground. "That I will," said the old man readily. "And, by the way, there's a plot in the lower part of the garden that will be just about the right thing for you. There's nothing planted there yet, for I only took it in this spring, but it has been all dug and raked over, and is ready for whatever is to go in it. I'll give you boys each ten feet square, and the girls six. I guess that's about as much as they can manage." "More, I fear," said Mrs. Bradford, "at least such little hands as those of my Bessie, are scarcely strong enough for work that could raise any flowers fit to take a prize." "But we will help her, mamma," said Fred "and if she tries, and cousin Alexander thinks she has done her best, that is all that is necessary." And he told the story of little Katy and her zinnia. "I may try, mamma, may I not?" said Bessie earnestly, "Katy is a very little girl, only four years old; and I am quite old, you know, for I was six last month." "Certainly you may try, my very old girl," said mamma, kissing the little, eager, upturned face; "and I will do all I can to help you; but then if you and Maggie do not take the prizes you must not be too much disappointed." "Oh! no, and I can have satis--fac--tion in my garden any way, mamma," said Bessie, "in 'tending to it and watering it; and then I can give my flowers to you and Aunt May and every one else I love, and that will be enough of pleasure for me." Mamma smiled and thanked her, and thought if her dear little girl were to give flowers to every one who loved _her_ she would need a very large garden with a great many blossoms in it. Mr. Porter knew that Frankie had been in the water, but he had not heard how the accident came about, nor of its after consequences; and now as he saw Fred moving restlessly to ease his aching knee, he asked him how he had been hurt. Fred told the story of Frankie's ducking, of his own chase after the mischief-makers, and of what had happened to himself. "Whew--ew--ew!" said Mr. Porter, as he finished, "I am sorry to hear this; sorry enough, sorry enough. Can you tell me what kind of looking boy and girl they were?" Fred described the boy and girl, as nearly as he could, and Mr. Porter gave another long dismayed whistle. "Yes, I thought so," he said, "there's no one here about but those two who would have been up to such an ugly trick as that. So, they're back again. I hoped we were rid of them for good and all." "Who are they?" asked Mr. Bradford. "Lem and Dolly Owen, sir; as bad a pair, and the children of as bad a father as one could find on a long summer day. Poor neglected creatures, they are to be pitied too; but it is useless to try to do anything for them, for all help is worse than thrown away. They live in a little tumble-down shanty back of the rocks at the lower end of the lake, and a terrible nuisance they are to me and every one in the neighborhood. The father is a drunkard of the worst sort, the mother long since dead, and these two children, liars, vagabonds and thieves, up to every sort of wicked mischief, and a terror to all the children in Chalecoo. They live as they can, by robbing orchards, hen-roosts, dairies and cornfields during the summer; picking up odd bits, and stealing whatever they can lay their fingers on in the winter, half starved and half frozen the most of the time." "Can nothing be done for them?" asked Mr. Bradford. "No, sir; as I say, it is not worth while to try to help them. All that the father can lay his hands on he spends in drink. My wife was distressed about the children, especially the girl, to think she should be growing up in such wickedness and misery; and last winter she fixed up a suit of warm clothes for her, and coaxing her into the house with a deal of trouble, for she is as wild as a hawk, she dressed her in them, and promised to give her and her brother a good meal every day if they would come quietly to the house and get it. My dear old woman hoped she might do them both some good if she could but keep a hold on them in this way. But the girl just took what she could get that day as sullenly as you please, never speaking a word of thanks, and making no promises, though she did look mighty proud of her new clothes, and hugged herself up in them as if she were glad to feel herself in something warm and comfortable. My wife, knowing what a thief she was, watched her all the time, and thought she could not possibly carry off anything; but somehow the sly creature got the better of her, and she had scarcely gone when a china plate was missed. Now my wife set a deal by that plate, for it had been hers when she was a little child, and the boys set out at once in search of Dolly. Well, will you believe it? no sooner did she catch sight of them, and guess what they were after, than she just dashed the plate down on the rocks, smashing it to atoms, and ran like a deer. They'd promised their mother not to hurt her, so they let her go; but the next day she was seen in all her old rags, and we found the new clothes had been sold by Owen at the next village. Of course they went for liquor, and that's the way everything goes. Kindness is all wasted on the children; they'll take what you give them with one hand, and steal from you with the other, and then abuse you for what you've done for them." "Did Dolly and her brother come to get the nice meal kind Mrs. Porter promised them?" asked Bessie. "No, indeed; they've kept clear enough of the family ever since; not that they are ashamed, but afraid." "I should think they ought to be ashamed," said Maggie, indignantly. "I never heard of such ungratefulness, and Mrs. Porter ought to serve Dolly right, and never do another thing for her; she don't deserve it." "Ah! my little girl, if we were all served right, and had nothing but what we deserve, where would we be?" said the old man. "But that did just discourage my wife, and she has left the wretched creatures to themselves since. She saw it was of no use. Owen won't leave his children a decent thing to their backs, a bed to sleep on, or a cup or plate to eat from. My old woman is not the first that has taken pity on them, and tried to make them a little comfortable; but whatever is given them just goes for drink, drink; and we have all given it up as a hopeless job. Besides, the children themselves are so lawless and thankless, that every kindness that is done for them they only turn into a means of mischief." "Does the father ill-treat them?" asked Mrs. Bradford. "Yes, he not only encourages them to steal and lie, but beats them when they bring nothing home which he can exchange for liquor. We often hear their cries away up at my house, but there's no way of stopping it, as I see." "And must these poor children just be left to go to ruin?" asked Mrs. Bradford, sadly. "There's no one can reach them to teach them better, I am afraid," said Mr. Porter. "You'll just get hard words and worse for your pains if you try it. Why, there was the clergyman from down in the village, came up to see them, and he brought along a bundle of good things and gave them to Dolly; and while he was talking kindly to her, he got a blow on the back with a big stone, and others came about him thick and fast. He knew it was Lem, but what could he do? He could not see the boy or fix it on him. And that's the way; they are both so sly and artful, they are seldom or never caught in the act; so though when a melon patch or hen-roost is robbed, or some fine young trees are hacked to pieces, every one feels sure it was Lem or Dolly who did the mischief, yet it is difficult to prove it on them. Lem has had more thrashings than any boy of his size that ever lived, I believe, but what's the use? It only makes him worse than ever. Farmer Grafton caught him once stealing clothes from the bleaching-ground, and handed him over to the constable for a few days; but that night his hay-ricks were burnt down. Folks first thought it was Owen that did it, but he was proved to have lain dead drunk all night in the liquor shop down in the village; and then everybody believed it was Doll, and with reason too, for she's just bad enough to do it, young as she is. Last March they all went off, father and children, and I did hope we should see no more of them; but here the young ones are back, it seems. I trust Owen is not with them. If you little ones come to me to-night, I'll tell you what old Sol here did for that fellow, and how the dumb beast showed himself the wisest of the two." "I am very sorry for Lem and Dolly," said Bessie. "If their mother had not died maybe they would not have been so naughty. It's very sorrowful for children not to have any mamma to teach them better. Don't they have any one to love them, Mr. Porter?" "Well, they seem to love one another after their own rude fashion," answered Mr. Porter. "It's about the only mark of good that's left in them." "I wish we could do something to make them a little better," said Bessie. "The Lord love you for the wish," said Mr. Porter, looking kindly around at her, "but you could never do anything, you little lamb. Why, they'd tease you out of your senses if you went to speak to them, and they're not fit for the like of you to notice either. Just you keep out of their way as much as you can, dearie, or they'll do you a mischief if they find the chance." Mr. Bradford here began to talk of something else, and they all forgot Lem and Dolly for the time. But as they were about half way home, Fred, who was sitting in front with Mr. Porter, suddenly exclaimed,-- "There are those children!" and looking before them, they all saw the ragged, miserable boy and girl standing on a stone at a little distance from the road side. As the carriage approached, they darted away into the woods, but soon after a shower of gravel and sand flying into the carriage, as it slowly toiled up a hill between two walls of rock, made it known in a very disagreeable manner that they had returned to annoy our party by further mischief. They kept out of sight behind the trees and rocks, however; and when Fred, who was furiously angry, begged Mr. Porter to go after them with his long whip, the loud, taunting laugh which rang from above told that their tormentors felt themselves secure from punishment. The carriage was soon beyond this narrow pass, and they saw and heard no more of Lem and Dolly, and reached home without further mischief. "Why, how long you stayed," said good Mrs. Porter, coming out as they drove up to the door. "I waited to feed the chickens, as I promised the dear little girls here; but I am afraid they want their supper badly. Come along, my darlings," and with a pan in each hand, and followed by Maggie, Bessie and Frankie, the kind old lady went out to feed the fowls. "Margaret and Bessie, come here," said Mr. Stanton, calling his wife and sister to the door as they passed through the hall. "Is not that a picture?" A picture it was indeed, and one which mamma thought so pretty that she had to call the rest of the family to enjoy it. Beneath a great spreading pear-tree sat the motherly old lady, the last golden rays of the setting sun falling over her ample figure, in her neat black gown, white apron, and snowy kerchief folded over her bosom, spectacles in hand, and in her lap the pan which held the corn and barley; while around her were the three little ones dipping their chubby hands into the measure, and scattering the contents among the noisy, scrambling crowd of fowls, themselves full of glee and happiness at this, to them, new pleasure. [Illustration: Bessie among the Mountains. p. 86.] There was one jealous old fellow, a pet rooster and a great beauty, who would take his supper from no hand but that of his mistress; and flying on the bench beside her, he courted her notice and a supper by himself. Mrs. Porter was about to indulge him, but Flossy, who was seated by her, watching with great satisfaction the feeding of the chickens, seemed to think it quite unfair that he should not take his chance with the others, and soon chased him from the bench. Upon which the rooster refused to eat at all, and after pecking one or two of the smaller chickens pretty severely, he strutted away with his neck stretched very straight, and expressing his displeasure in a loud and by no means pleasant voice. In vain did Mrs. Porter call him by his name, "Coxcomb," which he knew quite well; he only flapped his wings and walked farther away, screaming louder than ever. "He is a very naughty bird, and now he must just go without any supper," said Maggie. "Ah! my poor Coxcomb," said Mrs. Porter, "don't you think he is pretty?" "Yes," said Maggie, "he is very pretty but he is not a bit good. He is not at all 'handsome is that handsome does--' pecking that dear little yellow chicken! I'd rather be that brown guinea hen who is so nice and good, even if she is not so very pretty." "Yes, yes," said Mrs. Porter, "that is the way, all the beauty in the world will not make us loved if we are not kind and sweet." The feeding of the fowls was scarcely done when they were called in to their own supper; and when this was over, our little girls with their elder brothers ran off to find Mr. Porter, and beg for the story about old Sol. The old man was seated outside the kitchen door, enjoying the lovely summer twilight, and waiting, he said, to see if the children would not come to claim his promise. He took Bessie upon his knee, and bade Fanny bring a stool for Maggie, while Harry and poor limping Fred, who came slowly after the others, sat upon the curb stone which ran around the old well. "It was just about this time last year," began Mr. Porter, when they were all settled, "that I hired a new farm hand. His name was Ted, and he was a simple, half witted fellow, easily led by those about him. I don't think he had much judgment or conscience of his own, poor lad, but was ready to do either right or wrong according as he was persuaded at the moment. Tell him to do a certain thing in a certain way and he would obey, unless some one else came along and told him differently; when he would do as the last speaker said, and forget all his former orders. He meant to be faithful, but of course he was not to be trusted without a good deal of watching to make sure he was not interfered with, and there were folks enough, bad boys and girls, who were always ready to meddle with him and set him up to some mischief, just for the bit of fun it would make for themselves. He was the son of a poor widow in the village, who had hard work to keep herself and her seven children fed and warmed through the winter; and Ted, who was ready enough to help his mother so far as he knew how, could get no steady work. No one had patience with the simple lad who was so easily led astray without intending to do wrong; and who would come and confess his mistakes with the most triumphant air, believing that he must have done right since he had obeyed the last orders he had received. "But I thought with me and the boys to look after him, he could get along here, so I hired him. He was a capital hand with horses, and his work was mostly about the stable, feeding the horses, rubbing them down and the like. He used to pet the dumb creatures and talk to them as if they were human beings, and it was wonderful to see how fond they all became of him, old Sol in particular. He would run to meet Ted, and follow him about the fields just as your little Flossy there follows you; or if he was in the stable would whinny with delight the moment he heard his step. "Ted had a way of curling himself up in Sol's manger and going to sleep when his work was done, and the horse would never suffer any one to come near or disturb him till he had had his nap out. "Well, so Ted was doing very well, being obedient and industrious, when one day about Christmas time my son Bill went down to the steamboat landing to bring up a load of stores which had been brought from the city. There was a deep snow on the ground, with a prospect of more to come that day, and I did not feel just so willing to have him caught in the storm. A snow storm on these mountain roads is not a nice thing to be out in, I can tell you; but some of the stores were pretty badly wanted, and we were afraid they would spoil, lying on the dock. "So Bill started off, taking Ted with him to help him load up, and driving Sol and Nero before the sledge. "When he reached the village he went to the post-office, where he found a letter to himself, telling him his favorite brother Walter, who was at college in the city, was very ill and wanted to see him. There was but an hour or two before the train would be along, not time enough for him to come up home and go back again; so he went to the dock, loaded up the sledge, and giving the reins to Ted, bade him go straight home and stop for nothing. "Ted would have done this had he been let alone; but as he came back through the village, a lot of mischievous fellows got hold of him and told him he was to stop at the public house and rest his horses before they set out for their pull up the mountain. When they had persuaded him they led him on to drink, till he became noisy and more foolish than ever; and when they had had their fun with him they let him go. "As he was leaving, Seth Owen came out with his jug of whiskey and begged to be taken up the mountain. Now I had many times warned Ted against Owen, for I knew he was just the one to lead the poor fellow wrong if it was only to spite me; but he told Ted I had sent orders he was to take him home, and the lad was persuaded to do it. "I suppose after they were on their way, Owen drank afresh himself, and led Ted to do the same. However that was, the hours went by, and when Bill did not come I began to be uneasy, all the more as by this time it was snowing heavily. I was standing on the piazza, looking down the road, and thinking if it was not best to yoke up a team of oxen and go in search of my boy, when I saw the sledge coming up the side of the lake. But no Bill and no Ted were with it, the horses were alone, plodding along through the snow, and if ever it was said without words, 'there's something wrong, come as quick as you can,' old Sol said it that day. We pitched off the load, quick as lightning, and I, with my other boys, started in search of Ted. My fears for Bill were set at rest by finding, pinned to one of the bags, a note saying where he had gone; for the dear thoughtful fellow had been afraid Ted would forget to give it to me, and so put it where he knew I must see it. "Sol and Nero went straight ahead without orders or guidance, for I just let them have the rein, thinking the faithful creatures knew better than I did where they should go. Half way down the mountain they went, and night was just beginning to fall, when they stopped short in one of the most break-neck places on the whole road. We looked about us, and there, sticking up out of the snow, was a man's leg. We pulled him out in less than no time, but it was not poor Ted, but Seth Owen. We searched all about for the poor lad in vain; when, seeing old Sol was mighty uneasy, and stretching his neck out as if he wanted to get free, I took him out of the harness, thinking the creature might help us. "Sure enough, he turned about, and going to a spot where the mountain fell sheer down a hundred feet or so, he pawed away the snow, and there, half on, half over the edge of the precipice, hung Ted, his clothes caught by a bush, and holding him back from sure destruction. He, as well as Owen, was dead drunk. "We were putting him on the sledge when I saw Sol, who had trotted back to the place where we found Owen, pawing away once more at the snow, snorting and sniffing as if he were displeased. I went to see what he was about, thinking here was some other fellow buried in the snow; but as I came up to him, he uncovered the whiskey jug, the cause of all this mischief. He smelled about it for a moment, and then, with a snort of disgust, turned about, and dashing his heels upon it, sent it flying over the cliff, then walked quietly to the sledge, and placed himself ready to be harnessed, with an air which said, 'That can do no more harm.' We lost no time in getting home, where Ted, and Owen too, were brought round with difficulty. An hour more and they would both have been frozen to death. So you may believe we have cause to think much of old Sol." "But how did the two men happen to fall from the sledge so nearly in the same place?" said Harry. "We supposed they were both stupefied, partly by drink, partly with the cold, and that the sledge had run upon the bank, causing it to tip sideways, and they had slipped off, while the load being securely fastened with ropes had remained in its place." "And did Ted ever get drunk again?" Bessie. "Not while he was with me," said Mr. Porter, "and I hope he never will again. When he was told of his narrow escape and of what old Sol had done, he said, 'Nice old horse, nice old horse, he knew better than Ted. He teach Ted never touch whiskey stuff again.' His mother moved out west this spring, and he went with her; but I think his poor dull brain has received a lesson it will never forget." "And what did Owen say about his jug?" asked Fred. "He was very angry, and swore he would make me pay for it, seeming to think little of the saving of his life since he had lost that. He managed to pick up another one in a day or two, and the lesson did him no good." [Illustration] [Illustration] V. _THE GARDENS._ BESSIE thought a great deal of those two poor, wicked, neglected children, who had no one to care for them; and when she went up to bed and had knelt at her mother's side, and said her evening prayers, she paused a moment before she rose and said,-- "Please, dear Jesus, send some one to teach Lem and Dolly about you, and how you loved little children, and let me help them a little if there is any way I could do it, 'cause I am so sorry for them. Amen." Mamma laid her hand very tenderly on her darling's head, though she said nothing, for she did not see how it was possible for her gentle little girl to help the two forlorn outcasts upon whom all kindness seemed worse than thrown away. "Yet who knows what even she might do?" thought the mother, as having seen each little birdling safe in its nest, she went slowly and musingly down stairs to join the rest of the family, thinking as she went of Bessie's simple prayer, "who knows what even she might do? for-- 'Often such _childish_ heart is brought To act with power beyond its thought, For God by ways they have not known Will lead his own.'" It would not be the first time, as the mother knew, that the seed innocently dropped by that baby hand had taken root, and brought forth fruit rich and flourishing in the garden of the Lord. "Maggie," said Bessie, the next morning as they sat together upon the piazza step, waiting for Mr. Porter to take them to the garden and give them their plots of ground, "Maggie, would you not like to do something for Lem and Dolly?" "Yes, that I would," said Maggie; "I would just like to give Lem a good soaking in the lake, and to make Dolly's knee hurt just as much as Fred's." "But that would be naughty," said Bessie; "it's not the way Jesus would like us to do, and it's not the Golden Rule that you like so much, Maggie. I think it is to give evil for evil." "Well, I s'pose it is," said Maggie; "and it is rather naughty, I do believe, Bessie; but I do not mean I would do it, only I would like to do it. I think I'll be about as naughty as that." "Don't you think you can forgive them, Maggie?" "No, not quite," said Maggie. "I'll forgive them a little, but I can't give them the whole of my forgiveness. Why, they were so very bad, and did so many mean things to us, when we did not do a single thing to them. Don't you feel a bit angry with them, Bessie?" "Yes," said Bessie, "I'm 'fraid I do. When I think about it I feel pretty angry. But I want to try and forgive them enough to do a kind thing to them if I have a chance." "Oh," said Maggie, "we could never do a kind thing to them even if we wanted to. You see they just come and do something bad, and then run away, 'cause their guilty conscience knows they ought to be punished. And besides, Bessie, they're not fit 'ciety for us. The copy book says, 'Shun evil company,' and mamma said that meant we must not go with wicked people. And they are so ragged and dirty. You would not like to touch them or sit down by them, would you?" "No," said Bessie, quickly, for she was very dainty and delicate in all her ways, and the thought of coming near the miserable, dirty children was not at all pleasant to her; "but maybe sometimes we might say a kind word to them without going very close to them; and if we showed them we did not feel very mad with them, perhaps they would not be so naughty to us. I am so very sorry for them, 'cause they have no one to teach them better, and no mother, and such a bad father, who tries to make them more wicked. If you ever had the chance to do a little bit of kindness for them, Maggie, would you not do it?" "I don't know," said Maggie, "that's a great thing to make up my resolution about, and I'll have to think about it a little. Oh, here are Mr. Porter and the boys. Now let us go." "Maggie and Bessie, mamma wants to speak to you in her room before you go," said Harry, looking very full of glee. The little girls ran in, and there, oh, delight! there stood mamma with a tiny spade, rake and hoe in each hand. It was quite impossible to mistake who they were meant for. They were just of the right size for our two small gardeners; and mamma's look and smile as she held them out told that they were for their use. Maggie gave a shriek of delight and went capering all about the room; and Bessie's bright smile and the color which flushed her cheeks told that though less noisy, she was not less pleased than her sister. "Oh, you darling, precious mamma," said Maggie, pausing in her capers to examine the pretty toys, "they are just what we wanted. How did you get them so quickly?" "I brought them with me," said mamma, "thinking that some day when you wanted, something to do, they might furnish you with a new pleasure; but I did not think they would prove useful so soon. You must be careful of them, and not leave them lying out in the damp, or they will be spoiled." The children readily promised, and ran off to show their treasures to their brothers and Mr. Porter. Mr. Porter soon measured off such a square of ground as he had promised for each of them, adding one for Hafed, who was much pleased to do as the others, and fell to with a good will at digging and planting. Mr. Porter also kindly gave them such seeds as would do to plant at this late season; and papa, who had driven down to the village with the Colonel and Uncle Ruthven, came back with a number of verbenas, heliotropes, geranium slips and other pretty things, which were set out in the new gardens. Nor was this all, for Uncle Ruthven had bought a small watering-pot for each child, and they had gone to the carpenter's, where the Colonel had ordered two wheel-barrows, one of a fit size for Maggie and Bessie, the other a little larger for the boys, and these were to be done in a day or two. In short, nothing seemed wanting to success but patience and industry on the part of the young gardeners. The girls chose to have only flowers in their gardens, but the boys had some vegetables as well. Mr. Porter told them the beds must be kept nicely weeded, and watered when the weather was dry. There was only one fault which Maggie and Bessie could find with their gardens, and that was that they lay at such a distance from the house that mamma could not allow them to go there without their brothers or nurse to have an eye upon them. Not that they were not to be trusted out of sight, but mamma did not think it safe for two such little girls. For some days after this, the four boys, Harry, Fred, Hafed and Bob, seemed to have an immense amount of whittling to do. At all odd times they were found with their knives and small strips of wood in their hands, and these bits of wood were all fashioned into one size and shape. But to what use they were to be put was kept a grand secret, until one day when Maggie and Bessie went with Jane to work in their gardens, they found a neat little fence about five inches high all around their plots. The kind brothers had made this agreeable little surprise for them. "Our peoples are always doing nice things for us," said Bessie, when they had thanked the boys. "Yes," said Maggie, "I am quite expecting to be surprised all the time." At which the Colonel and Mrs. Rush, who were standing by, laughed, though Maggie could not see why. Meanwhile nothing more had been seen or heard of Lem and Dolly. Mr. Porter had found out that Owen had not returned with them, and that the two children were alone in their miserable shanty. One day when Maggie and Bessie were out walking with some of their older friends, they came upon this wretched home, if home it could be called. The rock against which it leaned formed one side of the house, the other three were of single boards nailed together. A square hole was cut for a window, but had neither glass nor casement; and the door hung by one rusty hinge, which looked as if it might give way at any moment. There was no one about; Lem and Dolly were away, probably busied in some new mischief or theft, and our party peeped within the open door. No furniture of any kind was there. A heap of dried leaves and dirty rags upon the hard, uneven ground which formed the floor, was the only bed; and the little girls drew back in disgust. Without, upon the rocks, were the charred embers of a fire, and over them two crooked sticks, and they, with a battered tin pan, and numberless bones and feathers which lay scattered about, told that there the ill-gotten food was cooked and eaten. It must have been a hard heart which was not saddened by the thought that this was all the home of two young children; and Bessie felt more pity than ever for Lem and Dolly. Maggie felt it, too, and as they turned away, she whispered to her sister,-- "Bessie, I never saw such a dreadful place to live in. I _would_ do a kind thing for Lem and Dolly, if I could." It was a lovely spot, too, but for the signs of poverty and filth around. Before them the mountain fell suddenly away, leaving on two sides a beautiful view of the open country, dotted with its fields and farm-houses. Away to the north stretched range after range of blue hills, till those in the distance were lost in the veil of mist which hung over their tops. The woods around were full of wild flowers, briar roses, delicate primroses, and the bright red columbine, and even here and there, a late anemone; the little star-like flower, looking almost as if it had dropped from heaven, and wondered to find itself alone and solitary, so far away from its sister stars. A perfect silence lay upon all around; not a sound was heard; not a leaf seemed to stir in the summer air; not a bird was heard to utter a note; and a hush fell upon the party as they turned into the lovely little wood-path which led them homeward. Bessie lingered a little, with her eyes fixed far away, and her head on one side as if she were hearkening to something. "What is it, darling?" asked her father. "Are you not ready to go?" "Yes, papa," she answered, putting her hand into his; "I was only listening to the _still_." Her father smiled, and led her on till they had joined the rest. They were quite near home when the Colonel, who had fallen a little behind with his wife, called to Maggie and Bessie. "To-morrow is Sunday," he said. "Have you found a place where you can have your Sunday-school class?" No, Maggie and Bessie said, they had not thought of it. "But perhaps Mr. Porter will let us have it in one of his barns, as Mr. Jones used to do last summer," said Bessie. "I have found a better place than that for you," said Colonel Rush; "that is, on a pleasant Sunday. When it rains, we must find cover within doors. See, here, what do you think of this for a Sunday-school room?" And he guided them a little to one side, where a sloping path and four or five natural steps led down into a broad crevice or cleft among the rocks which surrounded the lake. A lovely room it was indeed, carpeted with moss, curtained and shaded by the green trees which waved overhead, and furnished with seats made by one or two fallen stones on one side, on the other by a ledge of rock which jutted out at just such a height as to make a convenient bench for little people. The steps by which they had descended, closed them in behind; in front lay the lake; beyond that again the gray old rocks, the mountain rising bold and stern above the peaceful waters. No glimpse of the Lake House or its cheerful surroundings could be seen, unless one peered around the edge of the inclosing mass of rock, and this the Colonel would not permit the children to do, lest they should fall into the water which washed at the very foot of the pretty retreat. The little ones were enchanted, as was their dear teacher, Mrs Rush, or "Aunt May," as they always called her now. "I thought you would like it," said the Colonel. "I was strolling about this morning when I came upon this nook, and thought what a pleasant Sunday-school room it would make. So convenient, too. See, this great stone will do for a seat for May, and here is one for her table; while this ledge makes a capital resting-place for you. Try it, little ones." The bench certainly did very well for Maggie, but Bessie's feet would not touch the ground. However, the Colonel made that all right by rolling over a flat stone which answered for a footstool, and Maggie and Bessie thought there was nothing more to be desired. "Harry and Fred want to come," said Bessie, "do you think you could let them, Aunt May? Sunday evening we always tell them the stories the Colonel tells us in the morning, but they say they would like to hear them for themselves." "And Uncle Ruthven would like Hafed to come too," said Maggie. "He said he was going to ask you. Hafed likes to learn, Aunt May, and he knows English pretty well now, and tries to understand all that is said to him." "Certainly," said Mrs. Rush, "they may all come if they wish, and then we shall not miss Gracie and Lily so much." [Illustration] [Illustration] VI. _THE SUNDAY SCHOOL._ WHEN Sunday afternoon came they all met as had been arranged, in the lovely nook the Colonel had chosen for them. The little girls were there with Harry, Fred and Hafed. Bob Porter had asked that he might come too. Mrs. Rush was quite willing, but she feared that such great boys would not care for the simple lessons she taught to Maggie and Bessie. She knew they were all too gentlemanly to interrupt or trouble her; but she thought they might grow tired or think it was like babies' play; so she told them they might go if they did not like it. But she was quite mistaken, for they all, even Bob, who was the oldest, listened not only with respect and attention, but also with great interest, and joined in the lessons with the best of good will. Frankie was there too, for he had begged to come, and had been allowed to do so on the promise that he would behave very well and sit still. Sitting still was even harder work for Frankie than it was for Maggie; but he meant to be good and quiet, and would probably have kept his word if he had not been troubled. For by and by they all found that even in this quiet nook they were not to remain undisturbed. Frankie sat as far as possible from Bob, with whom he was much displeased, though he had no good reason to be so. A short time before this, the little ones had all been playing on the grass in front of the house, while the grown people sat upon the piazza. It would have been thought that it was not easy for any one of them to get into mischief or danger with so many to watch them; but Frankie had a way of doing this which was quite surprising. Never was such a fellow for climbing as that Frankie, and his neck was in danger half a dozen times a day, in spite of all the care that could be taken. His mother's eye had been off of him for scarcely two minutes, when she was startled by hearing Maggie say in a terrified voice, "Oh, mamma, do come to Frankie!" At the side of the house, and just beyond the end of the piazza stood the old well, which supplied them with fresh, cool water. There was a high stone curb around it through which ran a wooden spout, which carried off any waste water which might be poured from the bucket. This spout was partly outside, partly inside the well, and sloped towards the ground. The children, who wanted a drink, had run around to the well, and were waiting for some one to come and draw water for them, when Frankie climbed upon the spout, and before his sisters could stop him, perched himself astride the well curb. Mrs. Bradford turned her head at the sound of her little daughter's voice, and saw them both holding Frankie, the one by his skirts, the other by his leg, while the child was struggling in a frantic manner to free himself from their hold. Had he done so, he must surely have fallen into the well. Before any of the startled group upon the piazza could reach him, Bob Porter darted from the kitchen door, and snatching the child from the well curb, carried him, still struggling, to his mother. Mrs. Bradford thought it best to punish Frankie, and tying the mischievous little feet together with papa's pocket-handkerchief, she made him sit quiet upon the piazza steps for half an hour. When she let him go, he promised to do so no more but he was not reasonable; and instead of being sorry for his own naughtiness, was angry with Bob, who had carried him to his mother, and who, he thought, had caused him to be punished; and now he would not come near him or speak to him, which amused Bob very much. When the children had all taken their places, and had done expressing their delight at the pleasant place in which they found themselves, Mrs. Rush opened the school; while the Colonel with his book stretched himself upon the rocks above, until he should be called upon for his accustomed story. Every child then repeated a hymn, except Hafed, who could not yet master enough English for this, after which Mrs. Rush asked each one for a Bible verse. "Can you say a pretty verse for me, Frankie?" she asked of the little boy who had just seen a fish throw himself out of the lake, and was eagerly watching for a second glimpse of him. "Yes'm. Dat's a pollywod, I dess," said Frankie, with his eyes on the water. "That's a great Bible verse," said Fred, beginning a giggle, in which the other boys could not help joining. "Hush, Fred," said Mrs. Rush. "What was that nice verse I heard mamma teaching you this morning, Frankie?" "Suffer 'ittle chillens--dat _is_ a pollywod, Fred--suffer 'ittle chillers to tome unto me;" said Frankie. "And who said that, Frankie?" "Jesus," answered Frankie, bringing his eyes back from the lake to the face of his teacher, and becoming interested. "Jesus said it, and it means me." "Yes, it means you, Frankie." "And Maddie and Bessie," said Frankie. "And all other little children," said Mrs. Rush. "Not Bob," said Frankie, with a defiant shake of his head at the big boy, who had to put his hand over his face to hide the smile which would have way. "Yes, and Bob, too. Jesus meant all children whoever they may be, or wherever they are." "But Bob is naughty," said Frankie. "He telled mamma to tie my foots." "Bob is very good, and Frankie must not be angry with him," said Mrs. Rush. "Frankie was naughty himself, and so mamma had to tie his little feet so that he might remember he was not to run into mischief." "Jesus don't love naughty boys," said Frankie, with another reproving look at Bob. "Jesus loves all children, the good ones and the naughty ones," said Mrs. Rush. "It makes him sorry when they are naughty and forget what he tells them, but he still loves them, and wants them to come to him and learn to love him, and be sorry for their sins." "Did Jesus say I was naughty when I wode on the well?" asked Frankie. "Did you not know mamma did not want you to climb on the well?" said Mrs. Rush. "Yes'm; mamma said 'don't do by de well,' and I did do dere." "And Jesus says little boys must mind their mothers; so he was sorry when he saw Frankie disobey his kind mamma." "Is he sorry wis me now? I not do so any more," said Frankie. "He is sorry if you are cross, and do not feel pleasant to Bob," answered Mrs. Rush. Frankie jumped down from his seat, and running over to Bob, put up his rosy lips for a kiss, which the other was quite ready to give. "Aunt May," said Maggie, "do you think Jesus _could_ love children like Lem and Dolly?" "He loved them so much that he came to die for them, Maggie. If he did not love them, he would not grieve to see them going so far from him; and to them, too, he says, 'Come unto me,' and stands ready to forgive them, and make them his own little lambs." "Perhaps they never heard about Jesus, and do not know that he loves them," said Bessie. "I don't believe they have any one to teach them." "I am afraid not," said Mrs. Rush. "Perhaps some time one of us may find a way to tell them." "They would not let us speak to them," said Maggie. "If we could persuade them that we felt kindly to them, they might listen to us," said Mrs. Rush; "at least, we could try." "But I don't think I do feel kindly to them," said Maggie, "and even if I did, I do not see how we could find the chance to show it." "I do not say that you will, only that you _may_ find it," said Mrs. Rush; "but if you have a chance and do not take it, it will be a jewel by the way which you will not stoop to pick up that you may carry it to your Father in Heaven." "And Benito would not have passed it by," said Maggie softly. "We will try to be like him, will we not, Bessie?" When the proper time came, the Colonel was called upon and came down among the children. His story proved even more interesting than usual; and all, from Mrs. Rush down to Bessie, were so taken up with it, that they were not thinking of Frankie, who for some time sat quiet between his little sisters, busy with the Colonel's pencil-case and a piece of paper, on which he was making scrawls which he called "pollywods." He had seen some pollywogs, or young frogs, in the brook the day before, and his mind had been quite full of them ever since; and he was very anxious to catch one, and have it for his own. Suddenly all were astonished by a loud sob and a half angry, half frightened "stop dat" from the little boy; and looking at him, they saw him with flushed cheeks, quivering lips, and eyes swimming in tears, gazing up at the bushes which overhung the rocks. "What is it, dear?" asked Mrs. Rush; and as she spoke Maggie and Bessie both caught sight of a hideous face which thrust itself with a threatening look from among the leaves. "Somebody bad and ugly, he mates faces at me," said Frankie, with another sob. "It's Lem; I know it is," said Maggie; "and he is making such horrid faces." All looked up. No face was to be seen, for it had been drawn back; but at that instant down came a shower of sticks, stones and dried leaves, and the loud, taunting laugh they had heard before, rang out from above. This was too much for the patience of the boys; even cool-headed, steady-going Harry started to his feet in a rage; and he, Bob and Hafed rushed out of the cleft, while Fred, who still had to move slowly, was only kept from following by the Colonel's express commands. Colonel Rush was out of patience himself, but he knew it would only make bad worse for the boys to get into a fight; and he would not suffer Fred to go, and called loudly on the others to return. In the heat of the chase they did not hear him, but he need not have feared. Lem and Dolly had no mind to be caught, and were off before the boys reached the top of the steps. Lem ran like a hare, and was out of sight among the trees in an instant; while Dolly, finding the boys were gaining upon her, threw herself upon the ground when she came to the brow of a steep hill, and rolled over and over until she reached the foot, not heeding the stones which must have hurt and bruised her as she went. This had its droll side, and the three boys stood above and laughed as they watched her, though Harry almost feared she would break her neck. But she reached the bottom in safety, and jumping to her feet with a loud whoop of defiance, darted away among the thick woods of the ravine, and was gone. When the boys came back, the Colonel and Mrs. Rush tried to have the children all settle down quietly again; but the little ones were uneasy and disturbed, starting at every sound,--the twitter of a bird, the splash of a fish, or the dropping of a leaf,--and the Colonel, seeing this, hastened to bring his story to a close, and take them back to the house. When Mr. Porter heard of the new trouble at the hands of Lem and Dolly, he said they had no right to be there, for it was his ground, and he should see it did not happen again, for he would not have his boarders disturbed. He told Colonel Rush they had better take the house-dog, old Buffer, with them the next Sunday, and let him watch on the rocks above, so that no one could come near. Buffer was a wise dog, and if put on guard, he would not leave his post till he was told he might; so now the children felt they would be safe in their "Sunday bower," as they called the cleft in the rock. When Mrs. Bradford went up stairs with her children at their bed time, she always read a chapter from the Bible to Maggie and Bessie, and this night she chose the fifth chapter of Matthew. She had no especial thought of Lem and Dolly Owen when she did so; but as she finished, Maggie said,-- "Mamma, don't you think Lem and Dolly 'despitefully use us, and persecute us?'" "Yes, dear, I think they do," answered mamma, taking pains not to smile. "I am sure they do," said Maggie. "I do not know if any one could do it worse; for we never did a thing to them." "Then you know what you are to do for them," said mamma. "It was our Saviour himself who said these words, 'pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you.' If we could do nothing else, there is still this left to us." "And could that be a jewel by the way which we might carry to our Father in heaven, mamma?" asked Maggie. "Yes, love, indeed it would be," said her mother, thinking as she spoke of Bessie's heartfelt prayer for the miserable children a few nights since, and sure that it would indeed prove a jewel bright and lovely in the eyes of Him to whom it was offered. Maggie's face looked as if her little head was full of grave thoughts, and she went to bed more soberly than usual, whispering to Bessie as she lay down,-- "We'll take up the jewel of prayer, any way, won't we Bessie?" Dear little pilgrims! there were jewels in their way such as they did not dream of; but it was only earnest seeking such as theirs which could find them; for they lay hidden beneath many a thorn and bramble and unsightly weed; and they were to be found only by the help of this very jewel of prayer which shone so brightly that its light guided the little feet to the dark places where the hidden gems lay. [Illustration] [Illustration] VII. _THE SILVER CUP._ DAY after day passed by at Chalecoo and each one seemed to bring some new happiness. A book could be filled in telling all the children did in this charming place, of the drives they took in the great rockaway, of their rows upon the lake, of their walks in the lovely woods and glens, and even of one or two wild clambers over the higher rocks where the little girls had to be helped up and down, and Bessie often to be carried in the arms of papa or Uncle Ruthven. Sometimes, however, the grown people and boys went on expeditions which Mrs. Bradford thought too fatiguing, or hard, for her little girls, and they staid at home with grandmamma and Colonel and Mrs. Rush; for the Colonel having, as he said, only one leg he could fairly call his own, did not choose to risk that or his neck, by climbing up and down steep places on the make believe one. But there were always pleasures enough to be found around the Lake House, and Maggie and Bessie were never at a loss what to do with themselves when they were left behind, and could see these parties go off without a word of murmuring. Then there were visits now and then to the homestead and Aunt Patty, and on the way there they would stop and ask after Willie Richards and his mother. It was quite surprising to see how both Mrs. Richards and her boy improved in this bracing mountain air. The poor little baby, too, began to grow well and fat, and to look like other babies of its age. It was a great pleasure to Maggie and Bessie to think they had done so much towards bringing all this about. Now and then Lem and Dolly gave them some trouble, though they were never annoyed by them again in the "Sunday Bower." Mr. Porter and Buffer took good care of _that_. But the boys had built for their sisters what they called a "Fairy Bower," made by drawing together the top branches of some young alder trees to form a roof, and weaving in branches at the back. This pretty, leafy house was furnished with a table formed of an old mossy stump, and with a couple of small logs for seats, and here the children used to play, as Bessie said with "the greatest cunningness." Here they kept house with their dollies, having acorns for cups and saucers, and bits of flat stone for dishes and plates; and here one afternoon, Miss Margaret Colonel Horace Rush Bradford behaved very badly because her young mamma would not leave her there to spend the night. It would be quite impossible to tell all the trouble the mamma and aunt had in carrying this very naughty child to the house, where she was immediately undressed and put to bed as a punishment for her naughtiness. But she only remained there about ten minutes, for the doctor said she was not very well and prescribed a ride with the rest of the family. Perhaps this same doctor, Uncle Ruthven, knew that her mamma felt lonely without her and wished an excuse for taking her up. But Margaret Colonel Horace and her mamma both had reason to be glad that she was not left to her own will; for the next morning the "Fairy Bower" was found destroyed, the cups and dishes scattered, the table and seats rolled over the rocks, and the arbor itself rudely pulled to pieces. It was easy to guess who had done this; and if the doll had been left she would have shared the same fate or been carried away. Another time the boys left quite a fleet of little boats moored near the lower end of the lake, and the next day they also were destroyed. But these, after all, were not very great troubles, and were soon remedied; for another bower was built beneath two tall althea bushes near the house, where no evil disposed person would dare to come; and the boys took care not to leave their boats where they could be meddled with again. And when the first anger and disappointment had passed over, Maggie and Bessie were more sorry than ever for the poor unhappy children who could take delight in such wanton mischief. The gardens were coming on finely, and though they were planted so late, by the first of August they looked very green and pretty. The slips of geranium, heliotrope, and verbena had taken root, and were growing nicely, while lady-slippers, petunias, mignonette, and other seed plants had sprung up, and began to spread as if they meant to make up for lost time. Two of the former were the especial pride and delight of the little girls; the one a rose geranium belonging to Maggie. This, though a mere slip when it was set out, had shot up and spread itself around, and thrust out new leaves and buds in such a profuse, hearty, make-the-most-of-it manner, that it was quite a wonder to all who saw it. The other was a heliotrope which had been given to Bessie by her papa, and which also had been little more than a sprig when she first had it; but it was now a flourishing little plant, not running riotous in the way Maggie's geranium did, but fresh and fair, with a cluster or two of delicate, perfumed blossoms, and the promise of more. Upon these two the children bestowed particular care, hoping, and not without reason, that Cousin Alexander would think them each worthy of a prize. That gentleman used to come up quite often to look at the gardens, for he gave prizes, not only for the fine plants and vegetables, but also for the neatness and order in which the gardens were kept; and he always gave great praise to all five. Perhaps Maggie and Fred might not have kept their plots in such good order, or worked so perseveringly at weeding, raking, and watering, had it not been for Harry and Bessie, who never forgot to go each day and look at their plants, and never suffered a weed to do more than show the tip of its head above the soil. When anything needed to be done which was too hard for Maggie and Bessie, the boys would help them with it, especially Hafed, who seemed to take more interest in their gardens than in his own, and who would have done all the work for them if they had allowed it. Frankie had at last gratified his desire of catching a pollywog, and this he did in a manner not quite so pleasant to some of his friends as to himself. [Illustration: Bessie among the Mountains. p. 134] There was a little brook which ran by the side of the house, and joined that which came from the glen, after which they went on together until they emptied into the lake. In this the children were sometimes allowed to play, since it was shallow, and they had great fun there, building little dams, sailing the tiny boats which the boys made for them, or dipping the water out in some small pails mamma had bought for them, and carrying it from place to place. Any little child who has played in such a stream, knows in how many ways it can amuse itself with the bright running water. But the greatest delight of all was a paddle in this same brook; and when mamma thought it best they should not go on some wished-for excursion, this was sometimes granted in its place, and was considered a great treat. It was at one of these times, when Maggie, Bessie, and Frankie were all enjoying themselves as much as three happy children could do; with shoes and stockings off, pattering about with bare feet in the cool, sparkling water, while mamma, grandmamma and Aunt Patty sat with their work upon the piazza, that the little fellow secured his prize. He was stooping to pick up a smooth, round pebble from the bottom of the stream, when he saw a pollywog making its way from beneath a stone which lay half in, half out of the water. In an instant he had pounced upon it, and firmly grasping the wriggling creature, he rushed out of the brook, and running over the grass as fast as his little wet, bare feet could carry him, went up to Aunt Patty, and laying the slimy, muddy reptile on her lap, exclaimed, with an air of great triumph and generosity,-- "Dere, Patty! dere's a pollywod, and I will dive him to oo. Oo may have him for oo own." To have the pollywog for her own, or to have him any where near her, was the last thing Aunt Patty desired, for she had a great fear of snakes, toads, frogs and such creatures; and now she started back in dismay as the sprawling thing was laid upon her handsome black silk dress. The poor pollywog was as much frightened as she was, and was, moreover, considerably hurt by the tight clasp of the fat, little hand, and lay kicking and sprawling upon Mrs. Lawrence's lap, till the old lady, rising, threw it upon the ground, where Flossy began to bark at it, and turn it over and over with his nose. Mrs. Bradford and Jane were taken up with rubbing the mud and water from Aunt Patty's dress, and did not notice what he was doing; and the pollywog was in a bad way, between Frankie who was trying to catch it again, and Flossy, when the Colonel and Mrs. Rush came in from a walk; and the Colonel, seeing the poor reptile would never be well again, speedily put him out of his pain. Frankie was much disturbed at the fate of his pollywog; but the children buried it with great ceremony, which consoled him a little. He wanted to keep it even after it was dead but mamma told him it would become disagreeable; and for some days after this, the family were much amused to see him constantly running to the spot where it was buried, and putting his nose down to the ground to see if his "pollywod smelt bad yet." Fred laughed as if he would never stop when he heard of this, and humored the joke all he could. He also, for some reason best known to himself, nicknamed his Aunt Annie, "Pollywog;" and once when he went to the city with his father for a day or two, the rogue actually wrote a letter to her and addressed it to "Miss P. Wog, Care Thomas Porter, Chalecoo Lake House." Mr. Porter, going to the post-office, was given this letter by the postmaster, and did not wish to take it, as he said no "Miss Wog" was living in his house; but the direction was so plainly to the Lake House that he carried it to Mr. Stanton, who was in the carriage, and asked if he had ever heard of any one of that name. Mr. Stanton understood the joke at once, and directed Mr. Porter to give it to his sister, who was highly amused. Fred was delighted when he heard of the success of his joke, and that Mr. Porter had been completely puzzled. There was one place of which Maggie and Bessie never tired, and this was of the Ice Glen dairy. To go there each day with Fanny, and see her churn, or skim the rich cream from the milk, or roll the beautiful yellow butter into dainty little pats for the table; or, to have the butter spaddles put into their own hands, and help Fanny in this last piece of work; or sometimes even to pack the butter down into the great stone pots,--all these were pleasures which never lost their charm. Bessie had a very handsome silver cup which had been given to her when she was a baby by her Aunt Bessie, for whom she was named. Of this cup she was very fond, and before she could speak plain would take her drink from nothing else; and she had never lost her fancy for it. Mrs. Bradford wished Bessie to drink plenty of milk, for she thought it would make her well and strong, and the little girl herself thought it a medicine that was not bad to take. So she not only had it every day for her breakfast and supper, but when she went with Fanny to the dairy, she used to take her silver cup with her, and Fanny would fill it with the rich milk which did her so much good. One morning the little girls had gone as usual to the dairy with Fanny; and first Maggie and Bessie had taken a drink of milk, after which Bessie had washed her cup in the stream which ran through the centre of the little building. There could be no doubt that it was quite clean, since the water was poured in and out of it about a hundred times before she was satisfied. When she had washed it to her mind, she asked Fanny if she and Maggie might make some butter pats. Fanny consented; and when she had furnished them with a bowl of butter and a pair of spaddles apiece, Bessie handed her the cup, and Fanny set it upon the shelf that ran around the room. Now, this shelf was just on a level with a small window at the back of the dairy. The window stood open and looked out upon three or four great boulders, or masses of rock which lay piled one on top of another just behind the dairy, and were overhung with fir and pine trees. Flossy had been lying with his nose on his paws, sleepily watching his little mistresses at their play; but soon he suddenly started up with an angry bark, and was about to rush out of the dairy as if he were going to give chase to something, when Maggie caught him up. "No, no, Flossy," she said, "you are not going after those poor little rabbits again. No, no, sir; be quiet; I shall not let you go, so you need not struggle so, or be so angry. There, that's a good Flossy." But Flossy was not good, or at least, would not be quiet, and for a moment continued to struggle to free himself from Maggie's hold, and to give short, sharp barks as if he were displeased. "It's not the rabbits he's after when he barks that way," said Fannie. "He thinks he has seen or heard somebody about;" and, going to the door, she looked around, up the glen and down the path leading to the house. "There's no one here," she said. "What ails you, little doggie? Did you think you heard some one who had no right to be here?" At last Flossy was persuaded to be quiet, with the exception of a low grumbling "woof" now and then, as if he still thought his wrongs too great to be borne; and the children returned to their butter. "Oh, Fannie," said Bessie, "you forgot to give us anything to put our butter rolls in when they are made." "So I did," said Fanny; "and here are my hands in this cream cheese, and I cannot reach a bowl for you. See, take this milk pan that stands on the floor, Maggie. It is rather large, to be sure, but it will do for this time; and there is a dipper to pour the water in it." "Bring the dipper for yourself, and give me my cup for myself," said Bessie, "and then we can both dip the water." Maggie brought the pan and the dipper, and then went for the silver cup, but it was not where she expected to find it. "Why Fanny," she said, "where's Bessie's cup? I thought you put it right here." "So I did," said Fanny. "I stood it just there by the window." "It's not there now," said Maggie, standing on tip-toe that she might see over the shelf. "It must be, child; no one has been here to touch it," said Fanny, leaving her cream cheese and coming to see for herself. "Why, where can it be? I certainly put it just here, opposite the window, but not so near that it need have fallen out. But we'll go round and look." And out all three went, going round to the back of the dairy, and hunting among the stones and bushes there. "No, it is not here," said Fannie; "and I didn't see how it could have fallen out without hands to help it. Oh!" as her quick eye, trained to notice the smallest sign, or change which took place in this mountain country, saw where the moss upon the grey rocks had been torn off as though some one had slid over it. "Oh, some one _has_ been here. Oh, Flossy did not bark for nothing. Some one has been here behind the rocks, and when my back was turned, has climbed over, and snatched the cup. What shall I do?" And Fanny turned first red, then white, fearing that she might be blamed for the loss of the cup; then scrambled upon the rocks to see if she could find any trace of the thief. Two figures were in sight; the one that of a man with a pack on his back, who was trudging along the road between the mountain and the lake, going as if he were in a hurry too; the other that of a boy who was climbing up the steep and rugged path which led to the "Chief's Head." Fanny took little notice of the former, though he was the nearer of the two; but shading her eyes with her hand, gazed up the mountain side after the boy. "It's Lem Owen," she exclaimed in an excited tone. "I might have known it. He has taken it. There's nobody else hereabouts who would do such a thing." Distressed at the loss of her beloved cup, startled at the thought that Lem had been so near them, and still more frightened by Fanny's excitement, Bessie burst into a loud passionate cry. "Oh! make him give it back," she said. "It's mine; it's my very own cup that Aunt Bessie gave me. I _will_ have it; the bad, bad boy. Oh! make him give it back, Fanny." Maggie threw her arms about her, and she, too, burst into tears. "Come, we'll send some one after him," said Fanny, springing down from the rocks and forgetting her open dairy; leaving butter, cream cheese, all, just as it stood, she seized a hand of each frightened child, and they ran towards the house as fast as Bessie's small feet could go. Mrs. Bradford was not a little startled when they rushed in upon her, all three excited and out of breath; and Bessie sprang into her arms with another outbreak of cries and exclamations. As soon as they discovered the cause of the trouble, Mr. Bradford, Mr. Stanton, and Mr. Porter's oldest son started for the "Chief's Head" to see if they could find the supposed thief and recover the lost cup. [Illustration] VIII. _A KIND WORD FOR LEM._ The path up the mountain could be plainly seen from below for nearly half its length; then it was often hidden by many a sharp turn and corner, or the trees and bushes which bordered it on either side. As John Porter and the two gentlemen stood at its foot and gazed upward, they could see nothing of Lem; and they went on cautiously, looking from side to side lest he should be hiding among some one of the many nooks and crannies of the rocks. But they did not find him till they reached the very crown of the "Chief's Head," where they came upon him lying full length upon his back beneath the shade of a pine-tree, eating an apple. They had mounted so quietly that not even his quick ear had heard them till they were close upon him, and he caught sight of John Porter turning a corner of the rock. Then he sprang to his feet, and, with a guilty but fierce look, darted around so as to bring the pine-trees between him and his pursuers. But there was no chance of escape on this bare, high point of the mountain. To throw himself down, or go rushing and scrambling over the rocks and every thing else that lay in his way, as he would have done in another place, would not do here, where a false step or a slip would carry him to certain death; and, in a moment, John Porter had his hand upon his collar, and giving him a rough shake, ordered him to give up the cup. "What cup? I aint got no cup," answered Lem. "None of that; give it up now," said John, and plunging his hand several times into Lem's pockets, he brought out, no silver cup, but half a dozen large bough apples. "My own Osborn apples!" exclaimed John, quite forgetting the cup at this sight. "I'd know them anywhere. The rascal must have stripped the tree, and it is the first year it has borne. I set so much store by them! I'll fix you for this," and John gave his prisoner two or three hard cuffs. "Stop, John," said Mr. Bradford, "that is not the way to deal with him;" and speaking gently but firmly to Lem, he told him that if he would tell where the cup was to be found he should not be punished so severely as if he still continued to keep it concealed. But the boy still declared he knew nothing of any cup; and, after hunting in vain for it among all the clefts of the "Chief's Head," they had to give up the search. There were a thousand places on the way up where he might have hidden it, and it was useless to look without some clew. So, having picked up his beloved apples, John Porter led his prisoner down the mountain, followed by Mr. Bradford and Mr. Stanton. They had nearly reached the end of the path, when Dolly suddenly appeared upon it. She was about to start aside, and either run or hide herself, after her usual fashion, when her eye fell upon Lem in John Porter's grasp. Now Dolly had heard nothing of the cup, but she knew that Lem had meant to rob John Porter's tree of its tempting fruit, and she was on her way to meet him at the "Chief's Head," according to his bidding, and have a share of the ill-gotten prize. When she saw him, she supposed that John had taken him prisoner for stealing his apples; and Lem had too often before been in such trouble for her to think it a very serious matter. She did not look for any thing worse, as the consequence of this wickedness, than a whipping, or perhaps that he should be shut up for a few hours; and, although she scowled angrily at her brother's captors, she said nothing to them or to him, but turned and followed at a little distance. When they reached the house, Mrs. Bradford came out, and begged her husband and brother not to be too hasty in making up their minds that Lem had stolen the cup. For, when they had started to go after the boy, it was supposed that Fanny had seen him take it, but it appeared she had not. Fanny, though kind and good-natured, was not a very wise young woman; and when she had rushed into the house in such an excited manner, she said that she had put the cup on the shelf of the little window, that Lem had come over the rocks at the back of the dairy, put his hand in at the window, snatched out the cup, and run up the mountain with it. Now Fanny fully believed that Lem had done all this; but she did not _know_ that he had, for she had not seen him. Wicked boy though she knew him to be, she would not have willingly accused him of that of which he was not guilty; but she had spoken as if she knew it to be so, and the two gentlemen, thinking there was no time to lose if the cup was to be recovered, had at once set out after the supposed thief. But when Maggie and Bessie had been quieted and questioned, their answers showed that no one of the three had seen the cup go; but when they missed it, they had gone out to look for it behind the dairy. Then Fanny, noticing the traces on the rocks, and next seeing Lem climbing the mountain-path, had at once concluded that the bad boy must be the thief. Next it came out there was another person who might have made his way to the back of the dairy and stolen the cup, and this was the man with the pack on his back, whom they had all three seen going down the lake road. This proved to have been a pedler, who had been up to the house, and whom Mrs. Porter, who never suffered such people about, and who did not like the man's looks, had warned off the place. Still, every one believed that Lem had been the thief. The boy stoutly and fiercely denied it; and Dolly, when she heard of what he was accused, went into a violent rage, crying and screaming, and threatening, if he was not allowed to go, all manner of revenge, especially against the children, whom she seemed to think were chiefly to blame for this. Mrs. Bradford and the other ladies tried to comfort the poor, desolate child; but she would suffer no one to come near her, cursing and striking about her in a way which made every one fear to approach her. Mrs. Porter carried her some dinner, but she threw it in the kind old lady's face, and then ran off as fast as she could. Mr. Porter sent Bob and one of his older brothers to search once more for the lost cup, and John Porter went down to the village to see if he could find any trace of the pedler. Meanwhile Mr. Porter said he should shut Lem up until the next morning: a punishment which he deserved for the theft of the apples, which he could not deny, since they had been found upon him, and the tree was entirely stripped. "Maybe it was that which frightened him, and made him look so guilty when you came upon him," said Mr. Porter; "I am sure, bad and troublesome as he is, I hope it may be so." "I wasn't scared, neither," said Lem, sullenly; "takin' a few apples aint no great; but I knowed for sure they was after me for some harm. Nobody ever comes after Dol and me for no good." Though this was said in a sulky, defiant way, there was something in the speech which went straight to Bessie's tender little heart. Perhaps it also touched more than one grown person there, and made them wish, more earnestly than before, that they might do something for these two poor, neglected children. But Mr. Porter was no hard jailer. Lem was taken to a little disused tool-house, where he was locked up, and one of the hired men put on guard outside, so that he might do no mischief; Mr. Porter having first provided him with a good meal, if he chose to eat it. "Maggie," said Bessie to her sister that afternoon, "did you hear what Lem said when Mr. Porter spoke about his being frightened when papa and Uncle Ruthven found him?" "Yes," said Maggie, "and it made me very sorry for him, and that thing came into my throat that comes when you want to cry, and you're afraid some one will ask what you are crying about." "I wonder if we could not do something to show him we would like to be kind to him," said Bessie. "But he is shut up," said Maggie. "Yes; but you know that there is a pile of logs by the window of that little house, and we could get up on it and speak to him, and let him know we would like to come near him to do him good. We'll go and tell him we will ask Mr. Porter to let him out if he will promise not to steal any more." "Yes," said Maggie, "Mr. Porter said he would do any thing for me for my birthday that I asked him, if it was reasonable; and I s'pose he wouldn't mind doing it a little before, and I think this is pretty reasonable, don't you, Bessie?" "Yes, and that's a very nice idea of you, Maggie," said Bessie; and this being agreed upon, they went off together. The pile of logs which lay at the side of the tool-house was not hard to climb, and they had more than once played upon it with their brothers, and now they mounted upon it, and put their two little faces close to the wooden bars which crossed the small window. It was growing late, and the tool-house was rather dark, but they could just see the boy's figure as he sat all in a heap upon the floor. As the little light which came through the bars was partly darkened by the two small faces, he started up, saying roughly, "Clear out now!" At this, Maggie ducked, fearing she scarcely knew what; but Bessie, though she also was rather frightened, held her ground, and said, gently,-- "We want to speak to you, Lem." "None of your speaking. Be off with you, will you?" said the boy, looking around for something he might throw at the window. But there was nothing on which he could lay his hands. Mr. Porter had taken care to carry off every thing which could possibly be turned to mischief. "But we are going to do you a favor," said Bessie. "I want none of your favors; let me alone now," answered Lem. "But we are going to do it to you whether you think you want it or not," said Bessie; "'cause you _will_ be glad of it. We are going to ask Mr. Porter to let you out. Will you promise not to steal any more, Lem?" "I didn't touch your cup," said Lem. "Well, maybe you did not," said Bessie; "I'd rather think you did not. I'd rather think it was the pedler-man." "Much you'd care who took it, if you once got it back," said the boy, sulkily. "But I would care, and so would Maggie," said Bessie. "I'd rather--yes--I think I would--I'd rather be sure you hadn't taken it and never find it, than to find it and know you did steal it. Yes, I would, Lem, and I do love my cup very much." "Oh! come now," said Lem, "you aint goin' to make me say I took it by any of that cant. Are you goin' or not?" and he came closer to the window, with a threatening look. "We'll go in a minute," said Bessie. "This is my Maggie," and she put her arm about the neck of her sister, who had summoned up courage to peep in at the window again. "Pretty soon she is going to have a birthday, and Mr. Porter said he would do any thing she asked him for, and so she is going to ask him to do it for her now, and to let you out. Will you be glad of that, Lem?" "You aint a goin' to make me say I took your old cup," persisted Lem, with some very bad words; and, too much shocked to talk to him any more, the little girls slipped down from the logs and ran away. But shocked and frightened though they were, they did not forget their kind purpose; and a couple of hours later, Mr. Porter unlocked the door of the tool-house. His son John stood by, a lantern in his hand. "I am going to let you out," said Mr. Porter to Lem; "not that you deserve it, if it was only on account of the apples, and I did mean to keep you here till to-morrow night at least; but those dear little girls that you've plagued so, have begged you off, and I couldn't refuse them. So just you bear that in mind, my lad, and let them alone for the time to come, or you won't find me so easy when next you fall into my hands. Here," and Mr. Porter put a package of food into the boy's hands, "take this, and be off with you. My son will see you safe home; for it's an awful dark night, and you might break your neck on the rocks without a light." Had Lem done as he wished, he would have rushed off without waiting for company or light; but it was a terribly dark night, not a star was to be seen, for the whole sky was covered with the black clouds which told that a storm was coming, and he knew well enough that he could never find his way home over those dangerous rocks, without the light of the lantern. John Porter, though a good-natured man, was not at all pleased that his father had let Lem off so easily. The loss of the first of his much-prized Osborn apples, while they were yet half-ripe, had vexed him sorely, and he would have liked that Lem should have been severely punished for that theft, even had he not, in common with the rest of the household, believed that he had stolen the silver cup. So, although he had agreed to his father's wish that he should see the boy safely over the most dangerous part of his way home, he did it with no good-will, and trudged along in silence, turning over in his mind whether or no he could resolve to let Lem go without giving him a good thrashing. But he had been in the kitchen that evening, when Maggie and Bessie had gone to the porch to speak to his father for Lem, and he had heard all that had passed; and now, as he remembered how sweetly and generously the two dear little girls had pleaded for the boy who had treated them so badly, he could not resolve to give him even a part of the punishment he so richly deserved. "The little dears mightn't like it if they knew it," he said to himself, "and I wouldn't like to be outdone in forgiveness by two babies such as they are, so I'll keep my hands off him, though it does go against the grain to do it." Perhaps Lem guessed something of what was passing in John Porter's mind, for he took good care to keep beyond the reach of his powerful arm until they reached the miserable hovel which served him for a home. "Well," said John, raising his lantern so as to throw its light within the crazy door, "this is a pleasant kind of a place to pass such a night as this is like to be. I'm thinking you'd have done better in our old tool-house, my lad. Where's t'other one?" meaning Dol. "Dunno, and don't care," answered Lem. "Off on some new mischief, I'll be bound," said John. "Well, good-night to you, if you can pass a good night here," and he walked away, in haste to be home before the storm should break. Dol was, alas! in some new mischief,--mischief such as John did not dream of; or, although the gust swept through the forest and over the lake, and the rain poured heavily down just as he set his foot upon the threshold, he had not gone so quietly to his mother's sitting-room, and read the paper aloud to her, as she knitted away on his next winter's stockings. [Illustration] [Illustration] IX. _DOL'S REVENGE._ LEM had told John Porter he did not know and did not care where Dol was on that dark night; but he had not told the truth when he said he did not care. He _did_ care, for she was the only thing he loved in all the wide world, and had he known where to look, he would certainly have gone in search of her. But, reckless as he was, he knew that a blind hunt over the mountain on such a stormy night would be worse than useless; and he could do nothing but wait patiently as he might till the morning came. The storm raged all night: the rain poured down in a driving flood; the lightning flashed; the thunder pealed without rest, echoing from one to another of the mountain-peaks in a long, heavy roll; and the wind blew in furious gusts, shaking even Mr. Porter's comfortable, well-built house, and seeming as if it would lay flat the miserable walls of Lem's poor house, so that the boy was afraid to stay within, and sheltered himself as well as he could beside the rock. He was troubled about his sister. In all their freaks, in all their wicked doings, they generally kept together, and stood by one another, and he had expected to find her in the hovel when he returned to it that evening. He knew well enough that no one would care to take her in for the night; for, if they did so, they were sure to suffer for it before she left the place which had given her shelter. He waited till an hour or so after daybreak, when the storm was dying away, and was just setting out to look for her, when he saw her coming wearily up the little wood-path. Accustomed as he was to her miserable appearance, even Lem was struck by the wretched plight she was in. The water was dripping from her uncombed, tangled hair and poor rags; her face was pale, and her bare arms and knees were cut and bleeding; and, although the morning was clearing up close and warm, she shivered and drew herself together as if she were suffering from cold. But the wan, haggard face lighted up for a moment when she saw her brother, and she exclaimed,-- "Oh! Lem, did you cheat 'em, and break out?" "No," said Lem, "he le'me out; and Dol, I say, it was all along of those two little gals. They said they'd beg me off, and the old man said they did, and I aint goin' to trick 'em no more. Where was you last night?" "In the Ice Glen," answered Dolly. Lem gave a long, astonished whistle. "You aint goin' to say you slept in the Ice Glen?" "I didn't do no sleepin', but I was there all night, after I come away from Porter's. But I fixed 'em down there fust," she added with a malicious grin. "But how came you into the Ice Glen; didn't you know better?" asked Lem. In answer, she told him how she had been hanging about Mr. Porter's grounds till long after dark, when the storm broke, and she had lost her way; and, after one or two bad falls, had found herself in the Ice Glen; that, knowing the danger in the darkness of a fall over the rocks or into the lake, she had remained there all night, fearing to move till there was sufficient daylight to show her the way home. "And what was you doin' to keep you down to Porter's so long?" asked Lem. The reply to this question, instead of being received with praise and exclamations of triumph as she had expected, was met by a curse; and poor Dol shrank down in fear of a blow; for, though Lem was not often angry with her, when he was, she was used to feeling the weight of his hand. But he did not strike her now, but turned sullenly from her, and began trampling down the wet grass with his bare feet. "What's come over you, now?" she asked at last. "Nothin'. 'Taint no odds," he answered. "Aint you glad I fixed 'em off so?" "No: 'twant fair after they begged me off." "They got you shut up first, sayin' you took the cup when you didn't." "How do you know I didn't?" "'Cause I know who did." "Did you?" "No, but I know who did; and what's more, I know where it is now," she answered. "Tell me then." But Dolly turned sulky in her turn, and refused to say a word more; and Lem, knowing it was useless to try to make her speak when she did not choose, strolled into the woods to see if he could find any berries for his breakfast; while she, still shivering from her night's exposure in the Ice Glen, tried to kindle a fire from the wet sticks which lay around; and finding this in vain, crept to her wretched bed, and tried to warm herself there. But it is time to tell what was the new piece of mischief by which Dolly had thus brought punishment upon herself. Two little pairs of feet danced through the hall, and out upon the piazza of the Lake House that morning. "Oh, what a nice, pleasant day after the rain!" said Bessie. "The birdies are singing so to tell us how they like it." "And it is so nice and cool after all the heat," said Maggie. "See! see! papa, how the rain-drops are hanging on the leaves, and how the sun shines in them and makes them sparkle. But what a lot of leaves are lying about over the grass! and there is a branch broken and hanging down." "There is another lying by the well," said Bessie, "and those large bushes are all leaning over. Did the rain do that, papa?" "The wind did it," said papa. "The storm was very severe last night, and I fear it may have done some harm to the farm and garden." "Not to our gardens, I hope," said Maggie. "They looked so nicely yesterday, and Cousin Alexander is coming up to-day to see them; and if the storm did hurt them, we won't have time to fix them up again before he comes." "If my garden was mussed up a little bit, I shouldn't mind it so very much, if only my dear heliotrope is not hurt," said Bessie. "And my geranium," said Maggie. "We would be too disappointed if any thing happened to those two. Papa, do you know when Cousin Ernest was here the other day, he said not one of the children had such a fine heliotrope or geranium, and he thought they were sure to take prizes? and besides, he said our gardens were so neatly kept it was a pleasure to look at them." "Yes," said papa: "you have been very industrious and persevering, and deserve much praise. Here comes Mr. Porter." "What a terrible night it has been," said Mrs. Bradford, coming out at that moment. "I could not sleep for the noise of the thunder and the wind. I wonder what those two forlorn children have done: that wretched hut could be but poor protection on such a night." "Better than they deserve," growled Mr. Porter, in a tone very unusual with him, coming up the piazza steps as Mrs. Bradford spoke. "Good-morning, madam. A bad night's work this. I've just been round with the boys to see what damage has been done." "Not much I hope," said Mrs. Bradford. "Well, not so much from the storm," said Mr. Porter. "The corn is beaten down a little, but it will rise again in a day or two, and some branches here and there stripped off; but there's been worse than the wind and rain abroad last night. Mr. Bradford, I'll speak with you a minute, sir." Mr. Bradford walked aside with the old man, who said to him in a low voice,-- "There's a sore trouble in store for those little dears, and I hadn't the heart to tell them myself. You'll know best how to do it. Their gardens are all destroyed, root and branch; not a thing left. Their pet plants, the heliotrope and geranium that they set so much store by, are rooted up and torn to bits, not a piece left as big as my hand. And it was not the storm either that did it, but just those wicked children, Lem and Dolly, or one of them. I don't think it could have been the boy, for I don't see how he could have found his way down here again last night after John saw him home; but, alone or together, the girl has had a hand in it for sure. John picked up a dirty old sunbonnet she used to wear, lying right in Bessie's garden, and he says she was not at home when he went up with Lem last night. She's done it out of revenge for his being shut up, and I wish Buffer had caught her at it, so I do. My patience is quite at an end, and I'll have them routed out of that place, and sent off somewhere, as sure as my name is Thomas Porter." Mr. Bradford was very much troubled, for he knew how greatly the children would be distressed; and, as the breakfast-bell rang just then, he said he should not tell them till the meal was over, or no breakfast would be eaten by Maggie or Bessie. He could scarcely eat his own as he watched the bright faces of his two little daughters, and thought what a different look they would wear when they heard the bad news. It was as he had feared: their grief was distressing to see, all the more so when they found who had done this injury to them. Their father had wished to keep this secret, but they begged so to go and see the gardens, that he thought it best to take them and let them know the worst at once; and they were so astonished when they saw the utter desolation of their own beds, and the difference between them and those which lay around, and asked so many questions, that he was obliged to tell them. The two brothers, with Hafed and Bob, were already on the spot, spades and rakes in hand, to see what could be done; but, alas! there was little or nothing. It was indeed sad to see the ruin of what had, but yesterday, looked so neat and pretty. The tiny fences were pulled up, and scattered far and wide; lady-slippers, mignonette, verbenas, and all the other simple flowers which had flourished so well, and given such pride and delight to the little gardeners, were rooted up and trampled into the earth; and, worse than all, the beloved heliotrope and geranium were torn leaf from leaf and sprig from sprig, while their main stems had been twisted and bent, till no hope remained that even these could be revived. The boys' gardens had suffered some, but not so much as those of the little girls; whether it was that Dolly fancied Maggie and Bessie had been the most to blame for Lem's imprisonment, and so chose first to revenge herself on them; whether it was that their gardens lay nearer to her hand and she had been interrupted in her wicked work before she had quite destroyed the boys',--could not be known. The grief of the children was pitiful to see. Bessie's could not find words, but she clung about her father's neck, and sobbed so violently that he feared she would be ill, and carried her back to the house to see if mamma could not comfort her. Maggie's was not less violent, but it was more outspoken, and she said and thought many angry things of Lem and Dolly, as she gathered up the bruised leaves and stalks of her own geranium and Bessie's heliotrope. The boys were quite ready to join her in all, and more than all, that she said. "What are you going to do with that, pet?" asked Uncle Ruthven, coming down to see the ruin, and finding Maggie sitting on an upturned flower-pot, her hot tears still falling on the remains of the two favorite plants. "Oh! Uncle Ruthven!" sobbed poor Maggie, "I could not bear to see them lying there in the mud and dirt. It seems to me 'most as if they were something live, and we were so fond of them. I don't think I can bear it. And, oh! I am so sorry we asked Mr. Porter to let Lem out, just so he could do this,--the bad, wicked boy!" "I do not think it was Lem's doing, dear," said Mr. Stanton; and then he told Maggie how John Porter had taken Lem home last night just before the storm began, and that it was scarcely possible that the boy could have made his way back in the darkness and worked all this mischief. "Well, it was Dolly, then," said Maggie; "and I can never, never forgive her: no, never, Uncle Ruthven." Uncle Ruthven would not argue with her, or try to persuade her to feel less hardly towards Dolly now: he knew it was not the time; the wound was too fresh, the little heart still too sore. Nor did he think it worth while to try and make her forget the trouble yet, but talked to her about it in an interested but soothing manner, till at last he led her back to her mother in a more quiet, gentle mood than he had found her. Meanwhile the boys had all four set to work with a good will to try what they could do to make the poor gardens look somewhat less forlorn. It was too late in the season to think of planting new seeds or roots; and the flowers which had been torn up were too entirely destroyed ever to revive again. Hafed would have taken up every flower from his own garden and transplanted it to those of his "Missy's," if the other boys had not made him understand that this would be useless, and most of them would only droop and die. The disordered beds were raked smoothly over; the little fence carefully cleaned from the mud which covered it, and set up again; and all the withered, bruised flowers and leaves carried away. Then came John Porter and his brothers, bringing a dozen or so of flowering shrubs in pots, which were neatly set out, taking from the gardens the desolate look they had worn. Next, some bright lady-slippers, sweet pinks and other late summer flowers were taken up with plenty of earth about their roots so that they might not droop, and they too, were put down in their new home. When all was done, the little girls were called down to see the improvement that had been made. They thanked the boys very heartily; but, in spite of all the pains that had been taken, the gardens were not the same they had been before, not the work of their own hands, the gardens they had watched and tended for the last six or seven weeks. "Besides," said Maggie, with a mournful shake of her head, "our own dear heliotrope and geranium are quite gone, so we need not hope for any prize. It is too late now to try with any thing else, and we couldn't expect Cousin Alexander to give us one when we have nothing to show that we have taken care of ourselves." "I don't know about that," said Fred, "Cousin Alexander came down here this morning; and, although he did not mention the word prize, he said he thought he ought to take into account all you had done, as well as what you might have done, and asked us if we did not agree with him. Of course we said yes; so we shall see what he will do." But not all the petting and coaxing they received, or all the new amusements provided for them, could make Maggie and Bessie forget their ruined gardens, or recover their usual spirits that day. Indeed it was rather a mournful day for the whole family. The melancholy faces of the two little girls grieved their older friends; and, besides, it was sad to know that children like Lem and Dolly should take delight in such wicked, wanton mischief, and to know that there seemed to be no way to do them good; since they only came near those who were weaker and younger than themselves to do them harm, and ran from those who were older and wiser, in fear of the punishment and reproof their wickedness deserved. Neither by kindness nor severity did it seem possible to reach these poor creatures. Mr. Porter said that one of the dogs should be fastened in the garden for a few nights, till he should see what might be done about having Lem and Dolly removed to some place where they could give no more annoyance to himself and his boarders. "My darlings," said Mrs. Bradford that night, when she had gone upstairs with the children, "what are you going to do now?" "To say our prayers, mamma," answered Bessie, rather surprised at the question. "What prayers, Maggie?" "Why, 'Now I lay me,' and 'Pray God bless,' and 'Our Father which art in Heaven,'" said Maggie. "And when we say 'Our Father,' what do we say about forgiveness?" "'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,'" said Bessie. "I know what you mean, mamma." "And so do I," said Maggie; "but I _cannot_ do it, mamma, I cannot forgive Lem and Dolly as I want to be forgiven myself, so I think I had better leave out that part of 'Our Father,' to-night. I wouldn't like to pray a story." "Nor would I wish you to say what you did not feel, dearie, but I should like you to pray that from your heart." "But I could not, mamma," said Maggie. "Why, we have forgiven Lem and Dolly so often, and it is not a bit of use." "Do you remember what I was reading to you the other night?" said mamma, "how Peter came to our Lord, and asked Him how often he should forgive his enemy. What answer did Jesus make?" "He said 'forgive him till seventy times seven,'" said Bessie. "O mamma!" said Maggie. "I never could do that. I think I could be like Peter, and forgive Lem and Dolly seven times; but every time I do it, it grows harder and harder, and I never could do it by the time it was seventy times seven. That is such a lot! Every bit of forgiveness in me would be used up by that time." "Our Lord only said 'seventy times seven,' to show that we must forgive a great number of times, Maggie. He did not mean to measure our forgiveness any more than He measures His own. He is ready to pardon all who go to Him, as often and as freely as they need. But we must ask Him from our hearts; and can we do so if those hearts are full of unkindness and hard feeling towards those who have injured us? I know how hard it is for you both, my darlings; I know by my own feelings how hard it is to forgive Lem and Dolly; but I cannot hope to be forgiven myself for what I have done wrong this day, unless I forgive them the harm they have done to me." "They did not harm you, mamma, did they?" asked Maggie. "Yes: they hurt my two little blossoms, Maggie and Bessie, and so grieved me very much. But I can hope my flowers will soon get the better of the harm they have received; not only of their sorrow, but also of their anger and hard feeling towards those poor, unhappy children. Suppose you had at this moment a chance to do a kind thing, or speak a kind word to Lem and Dolly,--would either of you do it?" "Mamma," said Bessie, "I think I would. It would be very hard, and I'm afraid I wouldn't quite like to do it; but I would try to think how often Jesus forgave me, and I would say, 'forgive me my trespasses' as I forgive Lem and Dolly, and maybe that would make it easier." "It will indeed, my darling; and what does my Maggie say?" "I'll try too, mamma--but--but--I can't help thinking I'd be pretty glad if the chance never came." [Illustration] [Illustration] X. _THE BANANAS._ "MADDIE," said Frankie, running up to his sister the next morning with a pair of worsted reins in his hands, "will oo fis my weins?" "Pretty soon, Frankie: I'm busy now," answered Maggie. "Oo're not: oo're doin' nossin' but sittin'," said the little boy. "Do it now." "Yes; I am in a meditation, and you must not interrupt me," said Maggie, with a solemn, important face. Frankie walked round and round her on every side, looking curiously at her, and peering down at her; then said,-- "I don't see it, Maddie." "Don't see what?" asked Maggie. "Dat sing oo are in," replied Frankie. "He means that meditation you said you were in," said Bessie. At this Maggie laughed merrily, and all her meditations were put to flight. "O foolish child!" she said. "I s'pose he thought a meditation meant a kind of a thing you could see." "Maggie," said Bessie gravely, "if you laugh at Frankie, you'll have to laugh at me too, 'cause I don't know what a meditation means either." "It means," said Maggie, arranging Frankie's reins for him, "to be thinking about whether a thing is right or wrong, and to be trying to make up your resolution to do something that you know you ought to do, but that you don't want to do." "Oh!" said Bessie in a very satisfied tone; "then I know what you was having a meditation about. And how did you make up your resolution, Maggie?" "Oh! just to forgive Lem and Dolly without any more fuss about it," said Maggie. "But for all that, Bessie, I would like never to hear or see or think or know or dream any thing more about those two children." "Who would like to go and play in the woods?" asked Harry, coming out to them. "Mamma says we may all go if we choose." "I will." "And I." "I too," came from his two sisters and Frankie. "Who is going to take care of us?" asked Bessie. "Jane and Starr," said Harry. "Fred and I could do it well enough; but mamma is afraid of those two ragamuffins, and the Colonel said they would not dare to trouble us if Starr was with us, and he could very well spare him." "Hurrah!" cried Fred, rushing out of the house. "Papa, Uncle Ruthven, Aunt Bessie, and Aunt Annie are going with us, and we are going to have a grand corn-roasting up in the woods; hurrah! hurrah!" and Fred tossed his cap in the air, and turned two or three somersets on the grass, which Frankie immediately tried to imitate, but only succeeded in tumbling over on his side. He was quite contented with his own performance, however, and said, with a self-satisfied shake of his head, "I somersat mysef fee times." The party were soon ready, and started off, grandmamma and mamma, Colonel and Mrs. Rush promising to follow by and by when the fire should be made, and the roasted corn nearly ready for eating. Butter and salt were packed in a tin pail by Mrs. Porter and carried by Hafed, while Starr brought a basket with plates and knives. The corn was to be plucked from a cornfield which they would pass on their way. The spot chosen was at some distance from the house, up in the woods, where a pure, bright spring bubbled up from the rocks, and then went rippling and singing away in one of those hundred mountain streams. Here was a little cleared space among the trees, and a broad flat stone on which the fire was to be built; while two or three great trunks and stumps formed excellent seats,--excellent, that is to say, for those people who had both their limbs left to them,--but the Colonel did not find them quite so comfortable; so Starr slung a camp chair over his arm to have it ready for his master's use when he should come. When they came to the cornfield, to reach which they had to take rather a roundabout path, each child loaded itself with as many ears of corn as it could carry. Papa and Uncle Ruthven each took an armful too; so, when they were all laid together, there was quite a pile. "We will want a pretty large fire to roast all that corn," said Bessie; "we'll have to pick up a great many sticks." Picking up sticks for the fire was not thought hard work, however, but famous fun; and the little ones began to gather them up with a good will. This was by no means the first fire they had built on this very convenient stone: it had seen many a potato-roast and candy-boiling, though this was the first corn-roasting they had had. But here quite a misfortune happened to Bessie. As she was coming towards the fireplace, with her hands full of dry branches, she tripped and fell her full length directly in the ashes of the old fires. Her father and other friends could not be thankful enough that the match had not yet been put to the sticks which lay ready for lighting; for if the fire had been burning, she must have fallen into the flames and been badly burned. But her arms and knees were somewhat bruised on the hard rock, and her white dress and apron sadly soiled and black from the ashes. Now Bessie was a very neat child,--particular about her dress,--and could not bear to have any thing near her that was not quite clean. The little knees and arms could be washed in the stream, and dried on the towel which had been brought; but there was no way of cleansing the blackened clothes, and Bessie was distressed at the thought of passing the whole morning in such a condition. "Come then, Miss Bessie," said Starr, "I'll just take you over home, where you may have clean clothes put on, and bring you back before the others know you have gone." Bessie thanked him, and said she would be very glad; and taking her up in his arms, so that they might get over the ground in short time, the good-natured soldier strode away with her. Mamma was a good deal surprised, and a little startled, to see her Bessie coming back so soon in Starr's arms; but it was presently explained, and the little girl made quite neat and clean again. She was about leaving the house once more with Starr, when she heard Colonel Rush calling her, and ran back to his room. "Bessie," said the Colonel, "here are half a dozen bananas,--one a-piece for each of you children,--yourself and Maggie, your three brothers and Hafed. Would you not enjoy them up in the woods?" "Yes," said Bessie; "but we will save them till you all come, so all our big people can have some too." "Oh, no! keep them for yourselves," said the Colonel; "your big people all had enough last night, and I kept these out for you, knowing how fond you and Maggie were of them." Bessie thanked and kissed him, and ran off, giving her prize to Starr to carry for her. "There's a way by which I can take you back quicker, if you didn't mind being lifted up a steep place in the rocks. It's quite safe: would you like it, Miss Bessie?" said Starr. Bessie said she would rather go by the shortest way; and Starr struck into a path, if path it could be called, which was quite new to her. But he carried her safely over the rugged way, while she chatted merrily to him. "Starr," she said, "I'm going to give you a piece of my banana, 'cause you're so very kind and good to me." "Thank you kindly, miss," said the man; "but I never eat them, not if a shipful was before me." "Don't you like them?" asked the little girl. "No, miss." "Oh! I like them better than any thing,--I mean better than any thing else to eat," said Bessie; "and I was very much pleased when the Colonel gave me these, 'cause I didn't have one since I came to Chalecoo." "Then I am glad, too, miss," said Starr, who in the city had often been sent by his master to buy bananas to indulge this favorite fancy of Bessie's. "Now, Miss Bessie, I am just going to put you on top of this great stone, and climb up myself afterwards, and then we'll be but a few rods from where the ladies and gentlemen are." Just before them was a mass of rock, four or five feet high, which seemed to bar the way; but lifting Bessie as high as he could, Starr set her safely upon the top, then handing her the bananas began to clamber up himself. At that moment a slight rustle made Bessie turn her head, and she found herself face to face with Dolly Owen. Before she had time to utter her astonishment and alarm, Starr stood beside her, and he was the first to speak. "So, you're there, are you?" he said, sternly. "What wickedness are you up to now, I'd like to know?" Dolly made no answer, but sat with her eyes fixed upon Bessie, or rather upon the tempting bunch of bananas she held in her small hands. The girl was half lying, half sitting upon the ground, her head and shoulders resting against the trunk of a large tree, her face drawn as if she were in great pain. It seemed as if she must have crept into this nook as a hiding-place, for on all sides, save the one by which Starr and Bessie had come, was a thick growth of underbrush, with only a narrow outlet where the bushes had been partly broken down. From beyond this came the sound of gay voices and merry laughter, showing, as Starr had said, that the rest of the party were not far distant. Very lonely and dreary the wretched child looked, lying there with those happy sounds ringing in her ears, telling that others were so much better off, so much happier than she was. "What's them?" she asked, looking greedily at the bananas. "Now are you not ashamed to be speaking to the little lady after what you've done?" said Starr. "Those are not for such as you, and you needn't be asking what they are. And look you here, young one, you let me catch you a step nearer the gentlefolks, and I'll let you hear something you won't like. _My_ patience is about come to an end." Still Dolly took no notice of him. Instead of running away, or cowering in fear of punishment, as she generally did when any grown person came near her, she remained crouched, without moving, upon the ground. "Gi' me one," she said to Bessie. "Did I ever hear such impudence!" exclaimed Starr, roused out of his usual stiffness; "well, you are the most graceless creature I ever did see. Come on, Miss Bessie, if you please." But Bessie gently put aside Starr's hand, as he would have led her away. "Please wait a minute, Starr." "I say, gi' me one," said Dolly again; "I aint eat nothin' to-day nor yesterday, and Lem's gone away." It was, indeed, a bold thing for Dolly to ask any thing of one whom she had injured so much; but she was ravenous with hunger, and having no shame, she had no thought save how she might satisfy it. Bessie stood looking from her to the bananas. Should she give Dolly her own or not? She wanted it very much herself; but she had asked her Father in heaven to let her find some way to be kind to Lem and Dolly, and now was He not answering her prayer? It had been very pleasant to think of sharing the delicious fruit with her own dear friends whom she loved so much, or even of giving a piece to Starr, who was always so kind and good to her; but to give it all to this bad girl who had done so much cruel mischief to her and hers, was another thing. Perhaps strong, healthy children, who can enjoy whatever is set before them, can have little idea what a piece of self-denial this was to Bessie. She was a delicate child, with a slight appetite which needed some coaxing, and, as she had said to Starr, if there was any one thing which she liked particularly, it was a fine banana. Yes, she wanted it very much; but there was poor Dolly who wanted it very much too,--who said she had had nothing to eat all day yesterday, who probably had never tasted such a fruit; for she had asked what they were when she saw them,--who, even Bessie's innocent eyes could see, looked very ill. Was not here a chance to "render good for evil;" to do the kind thing she had said she would do if she could but find the way? She had a moment's struggle with herself; then, breaking one of the bananas from the stem, she went a little nearer to Dolly and held it out at arm's length, for she feared the mischievous girl too much to go very close to her. Dolly raised herself slowly and clutched at the banana, but sank back again with a cry of pain. "Have you hurt yourself, Dolly?" asked Bessie, gently. Dolly made no answer, but stretched out her hand again for the fruit. Bessie went a little nearer, and timidly placed it in her hand. "That's not the way," she said, as the girl greedily bit into the close, tough skin. "You must peel it. I will show you." Dolly held fast to the banana for a moment, as if she feared Bessie was about to take it back; then, with a wondering look into the sweet, pitiful little face, gave it up. [Illustration: Bessie among the Mountains. p. 196.] "Now, don't you be waiting on her, Miss Bessie," said Starr; "you've done more than enough already, to give her your banana. Will you come, miss, and just leave that girl to herself?" "I think I'd better fix it for her, Starr. She don't know how, and I think there's something the matter with her," said Bessie: and, stripping the peel from the fruit, she placed it once more in Dolly's hand. "Does something hurt you?" she asked, as the girl moaned again when she moved. "Yes, I hurts all over," answered Dolly. "Did you fall down?" "No, I didn't," mumbled Dolly, with her mouth full. "Then how did you hurt yourself so much?" "Dunno," said Dolly, sullenly. But she did know; she knew right well that those terrible racking pains came from that night spent in the Ice Glen. She had a feeling as if Bessie must know it too. "Now just you and that man clear out. I came here first," she muttered. "Don't fret yourself: your company's not so pleasant, nor your talk so sweet, that the little lady need want more of it," said Starr. "Miss Bessie, my dear, won't you come?" "Yes," said Bessie, "in a moment," and then, turning again to the girl,--"Dolly, I am very sorry for you." "Humph," said Dolly, in a tone as if she could not believe this. "Don't you think I am?" said Bessie. "I knows better," was the answer she received. "But I am, Dolly, really. I am very sorry for you, 'cause you have that pain, and 'cause you don't have any one to love you, and take care of you, and teach you. Wouldn't you let me be a little kind to you?" "If you're so sorry, give me another of them," said Dolly again, looking at the bananas with a greedy eye. She had never tasted any thing so delicious in her life, and the one which Bessie had given only made her more anxious for a second. Bessie gave a little sigh. "I would if they were mine," she said; "but they are not, and so I cannot give them to you." "Be off then. You're glad I ache so; I know you are 'cause I plagued you so." Starr's patience was at an end; and, lifting his little charge in his arms, he plunged through the opening in the bushes. "Miss Bessie," he said, "you ought to let that girl alone; she's not fit for you to care for, and it's all kindness thrown away." Bessie looked very grave and thoughtful. "Starr," she said, presently, "if she is fit for Jesus to care for, she must be fit for us to care for." Starr was silenced: he had not another word to say. When Bessie reached her playfellows, the fire was burning famously; but they had waited to husk the corn till she should come to have her share in that pleasure. "But where is your banana?" asked Maggie, when her sister divided the Colonel's gift. "It is gone," answered Bessie. "Oh!" said Maggie, "why, didn't you wait to eat it with the rest of us? But never mind, you shall have half of mine." "Let's husk the corn now," said Harry; "we'll have the bananas by and by." The ears were soon stripped of their green dress and silken tassels, and laid round the fire to roast. Then Bessie told Maggie she wanted to tell her a secret, and drew her a little aside from the others. "Maggie," she said, "I did not eat my banana; I gave it away." "Did you?" said Maggie. "That was very good of you, 'cause you're so fond of them. Who did you give it to?" "To Dolly," answered Bessie. "To Dolly! that bad thing!" exclaimed Maggie; "where _did_ you see her?" Bessie told how she and Starr had found Dolly, and of what had passed, ending with,-- "I would have given her another banana if any of them had been mine, Maggie; and I thought you would have given her yours too, to show her you wanted to be kind to her, if you only knew about it." "So I would," said Maggie, "and I wouldn't have cared if you had given it to her. I will let you do just what you choose with any thing of mine, Bessie, and not be a bit provoked." "But it was not mine, you see," said Bessie, "and I didn't think it would be right when you did not tell me to." "I'd give it to her now, if I was to see her," said Maggie; "but then we couldn't go and find her, you know. She might do something to us." "I don't think she could very well," said Bessie. "It hurts her so to move; and her speaking sounds like mine when I have the croup. Starr said he thought she looked very sick. She's just over behind those bushes, and some one could go and take care of us. I think she would be sure we are sorry for her if we took it to her. Shall we ask papa about it?" Maggie agreed, and papa was called and told the whole story, and of their wish to take the second banana to Dolly. He thought it over for a moment or two, and then said he would let them take it, and would go with them to see that no harm befell them at Dolly's hands. [Illustration] [Illustration] XI. "_GOOD FOR EVIL._" DOLLY was found lying in the same spot, and almost in the same position, in which Bessie and Starr had left her; but now she was half asleep. Thinking she might receive the children's kindness in a better spirit, if there was no older person to look on, Mr. Bradford helped his little daughters through the screening bushes, and then drew back a few steps where he might still watch them, and hear all that passed, but where Dolly could not see him. At the rustling of the children's footsteps upon the dry leaves and branches, Dolly started and opened her heavy eyes, to see Maggie and Bessie standing hand in hand before her. The old, fierce, defiant look flashed into them for one moment, then died out again before timid Maggie had time to start back and draw her sister with her. "My Maggie came to bring you her banana," said Bessie, gently. "_I_ couldn't give it to you, 'cause it was not mine; but when I told her you didn't have any thing to eat for 'most two days, she was sorry for you, and said you should have it." "It's good. I like it," said Dolly, as Maggie, summoning all her courage, stepped slowly towards her and gave her the banana. "Dolly," said Bessie, "will you believe now that we are sorry for you, and want to be kind to you?" "I s'pose so," answered Dolly, gruffly, as if she were still half unwilling or unable to believe that they meant what they said. They stood in silence, watching the half-famished creature as she eat her fruit, then Bessie said,-- "Dolly, why don't you go home?" "No, I shan't neither, I aint goin' to stir," she answered snappishly, with one quick, suspicious glance at the children, and another towards the trunk of the old tree against which she leaned. "I've got a right here, if I've a mind to stay. 'Taint your ground nor Porter's neither." "Oh, no!" said Bessie, "I did not mean that, only you have such a bad cold, and it hurts you so to move, and these rocks are so hard, I should think you'd be more comfortable in your bed at home." "Guess my home's a sight more comfortable than these rocks, aint it?" said Dolly, with a grin. "One's about as good as t'other." "Poor Dolly!" said Bessie, "I wish you had a better home, and some one to care for you and Lem." "What for? I s'pose you think I wouldn't bother you then." "I hope you wouldn't," said Bessie; "but I was not thinking about that. It was only 'cause I am so sorry that you don't have a nice home and plenty to eat, and people to love you. But, Dolly, you know Jesus loves you." "No, he don't neither," was the answer. "But he does, indeed he does," said Bessie, earnestly; "he loves you all the time, and it makes him sorry when you are naughty; but if you won't do so any more, but will try to love him, he will be glad, and then you will be his own little child, 'cause he says, 'Suffer little children to come unto me,' and he means all children. Mrs. Rush taught us that one Sunday." "I say," said Dolly, "I could ha' plagued you last Sunday if I'd had a mind to. The old dog wasn't there." "No: Buffer was sick last Sunday afternoon," answered Bessie. "Did you come by our Sunday bower?" "I came by the place where you go of Sundays," said Dolly; "but I didn't do nothin', 'cause I had a mind to hear you singin'. It sounded nice: I liked it." "Will you come next Sunday?" said Bessie, eager for the slightest chance of doing Dolly good. "Mrs. Rush and the Colonel would let you, I am sure; and they'll tell you about Jesus a great deal better than I can, and how he loves you, and will take you to heaven, if you will only be a good girl and love him. Wouldn't you like to hear about it?" "Dunno," said Dolly; "I like to hear you sing. Jesus is God, aint he?" "Yes," said Bessie, coming closer to the poor girl, and drawing Maggie with her. "He is God's Son, and he came away from his heaven to die for us, so we could go there, and live with him, if we would only love him and do what he tells us. And heaven is such a beautiful place! Dolly, the angels are there; and every one will be so happy; and no one will be hungry or sick or tired there; and Jesus will take care of us always, always. Wouldn't you like to go there, Dolly?" "I'd like to go somewhere," said Dolly wearily; "I'm about tired of this. I'd like not to be hungry, nor to have this pain no more. But 'taint likely your Jesus wants me in his beautiful place. I s'pose he wants clean folks with nice clothes, not old dirty rags like mine." Maggie was beginning to feel braver as she saw that Dolly was quiet and not in a mood for mischief, and now she spoke. "Jesus won't mind about rags if you only have a heart that loves him," she said. "He loves you just as much in your rags, as he loves some other little girl who is dressed nicely." "How do you know he loves me?" asked Dolly. "'Cause the Bible says so," said Maggie; "so it must be true, 'cause the Bible is God's word. And besides, Dolly, if Jesus came to die for you, so you could go to heaven, don't you think he must love you? When a person does a very kind thing for you, don't that make you think they love you?" "Did you give me them goodies 'cause you loved me?" said Dolly. Maggie was rather disturbed at this question, and did not know how to answer it; but Bessie, seeing her trouble, spoke for her. "Why, no, Dolly," she said, "I'm 'fraid we don't love you very much; you know you couldn't 'spect us to: but we wanted to be kind to you, and to make you know we wanted to forgive you for troubling us so." "You _was_ real good to give me them things," said Dolly; "they was first rate. And you was good to get Lem let out too; he told me. But I say,"--and Dolly really looked half ashamed,--"'twant him did that." Bessie thought she was speaking of the cup. "I don't believe very much that he did," she said. "Mr. Porter thinks maybe the pedler-man took it, 'cause he went to Farmer Todd's house, and after he was gone some spoons were lost; and they think he stole them, so maybe he has my cup too." "I didn't mean that," answered Dolly, slowly. "I meant 'twant Lem spiled your gardens, but--I _am_ sorry I done it--there now. And Lem aint got your cup; you can just know it." "We try to believe he didn't," said Bessie. Then she added, with a quiver of her lip and a tear or two gathering in her eyes, "I don't think _any one_ could have taken it if they had known how very fond I was of it. You see, Dolly, I had that cup a great, great many years, ever since I was a little baby; and I always had my drink out of it, so you see we grew up together, and I don't know how I can bear never to see it again. I was pretty much troubled to lose my cup and my garden too." Dolly looked uneasily at her, moved restlessly on her hard bed, and sank back again with another moan. "I guess we'll have to go now," said Maggie. "Will you come next Sunday and hear Mrs. Rush tell about Jesus and how he loved you?" said Bessie. "Or papa and mamma would tell you about it if you liked. They can do it a great deal better than we can." "No," said Dolly, "I don't want to hear big folks. I don't mind your speaking to me if you choose. But, I say, don't you never sing but on Sundays?" "Oh, yes!" said Bessie, "we sing every day and sometimes a good many times in the day." "I like music," said Dolly. "Lem whistles fustrate." "Yes, we know it," said Maggie. "Once we heard him when we couldn't see him, and we asked Mr. Porter who it was, and he told us it was Lem; and we listened as long as we could hear him: it sounded so sweet and clear. I never heard any one whistle like that." "Yes," said Dolly, looking pleased; "nobody can beat _him_ at that. S'pose you couldn't sing me a tune 'fore you go, could you? It's so lonesome, lying here." "Why, yes: we will if you want us to," Bessie answered readily, though she as well as Maggie was much surprised at the request. "We'll sing, 'I want to be an angel.'" So they stood, these two "ministering children," and sang; their young voices rising sweet and clear amid the solemn stillness of the grand old woods; for very still it was. As the first notes arose, the friends whom they had left, hushed laughter and merry talk that they might not lose one of the sweet sounds. They only knew that Maggie and Bessie had wandered off with papa, and thought this was meant as a pleasant surprise for them. But it was a higher, greater Friend,--a "Friend above all others,"--whom our little jewel-seekers were just then trying to please; and, although they might not know it, they had that day taken up the first link of the golden chain, by which poor Dolly's soul was to be drawn out of the clouds and darkness in which it had lain, up into the light and sunshine of his glorious presence. A very slight and fragile link it might seem, but it was doubtless very precious in the eyes of the heavenly Father, whose hands could make it strong and lasting, and fit to shine before him in the "day when he shall make up his jewels." Very precious it was, too, in the eyes of the earthly father, who watched the scene, and looking from his own tenderly cared for, daintily dressed darlings, to the forlorn, ragged outcast, thanked God that for all three alike had the blessed words been spoken, "Suffer little children to come unto me." "Is that place the song talks about that heaven you was telling about?" asked Dolly when the children had finished "I want to be an angel." "Yes," said Bessie. "You do want to go there; don't you, Dolly?" "'Taint no use wantin," said Dolly. "I'll never get there, nor Lem neither. Sing some more." "We'll sing 'Rest for the weary,' 'cause she said she was so tired," said Maggie. When they were through, Mr. Bradford stepped from behind the bushes which had hidden him until now. Dolly started when she saw him, and the old look, half guilty, half defiant, came back to her eyes. But she soon found she need not be afraid; for, bending over her, he said, kindly,-- "My poor girl, you are in great pain, I fear. How did you hurt yourself?" "Didn't hurt myself," grumbled Dolly, still suspicious, and shrinking from that grave, steady look. "Then you are ill," said Mr. Bradford, noticing the burning cheeks and heavy eyes, "you must not lie here, or you will be worse. Can you go home?" "I shan't go home," said Dolly, passionately, and with another quick glance over her shoulder. Mr. Bradford did not insist, though he meant she should obey him, but said, kindly,-- "Are you still hungry? Would you like some roasted corn?" Dolly muttered something which might be either no or yes, falling back into her old sullenness; but Mr. Bradford answered as kindly as if she had spoken pleasantly, and told her she should have some. "Shall we bring it to her, papa?" asked Bessie. Mr. Bradford said no; for he had been rather startled when he found Dolly was ill, not hurt, as he had first supposed; and he was not willing his little daughters should come near her again, till he was sure what ailed her. He told the children to bid Dolly good-by, which they did; the girl replying in a more gentle tone than she had yet used, and then calling Bessie back, saying, "Here, littlest one." But when Bessie looked back to see what she wanted, she refused to speak, and, shutting her eyes, turned her face away. Mamma and grandmamma, Colonel and Mrs. Rush, had all arrived when our little girls came back to the fire; and the corn was nicely roasted, waiting to be eaten. So the merry, happy party gathered round to enjoy it. Dolly was not forgotten; for Maggie and Bessie picked out a couple of nice, brown ears, and Starr was sent to carry them to her,--an errand which he did not do very willingly. He came back, saying that he had found her angry, and that she refused to touch or look at the corn. When all had had enough, Mr. Bradford asked Mr. Stanton if he would go with him and see the poor girl, and tell, if he could, what might be done for her. Uncle Ruthven was not a doctor, but he knew a good deal about medicine, and had often practised it in his travels when no physician was at hand. He willingly agreed to see Dolly, and the two gentlemen went off immediately. As Mr. Bradford had expected, his brother-in-law pronounced Dolly to be very sick. She would answer no questions, but it was easy to see that she had a bad cold and a high fever, and that the pain, which became so bad when she moved, was rheumatism. Mr. Stanton at once said that she must no longer lie upon the hard, cold rock; she must go home: but it seemed to be doubtful if she could walk. When the gentlemen tried to raise her, they found this no longer doubtful, but quite impossible: the girl's cramped limbs could not hold her up; she could not stir one step. Perhaps she would not have gone had she been able to do so, for she broke forth into angry cries and refusals to be moved, which were only stopped by a violent fit of coughing. These cries brought the Colonel, with Mrs. Stanton and Starr, to see if they could be of any assistance; and Colonel Rush, finding there was difficulty in moving Dolly, proposed that his camp chair should be brought, and the sick girl carried home in that. No sooner said than done. Starr was sent for the chair, and when it was brought, Dolly was gently raised and placed in it. She would still have resisted, but she saw that the gentlemen were determined, and it was such agony to move that she thought it as well to submit. When she was in the chair, Mr. Stanton and Starr raised it, and began to move off. "Wait a bit! wait a bit!" exclaimed Dolly. "Well, what is it?" asked Mr. Stanton, kindly. "S'pose I might as well tell," muttered Dolly, as if speaking to herself; "he'll just come back and get it, and I'd liever she'd have it. I say," she added, in a louder tone, "I want to speak to the little gals' pa." "Well?" said Mr. Bradford, coming nearer. "You won't say Lem took it, will you?" asked Dolly. "I would not say Lem took any thing unless I was quite sure of it," said the gentleman. "Well, then, you just may be sure he didn't take it, and I didn't neither; 'twas the pedler, and I seen where he put it. He didn't know I was behind the bushes, but I seen him. That's why I stayed about, so as to scare him off if he came; but Lem didn't know nothin' about it. I guess I'll tell where he put it, 'cause the little gal was good to me after I plagued her. Jes' you put your hand in that hole, and see what you find;" and, with trembling fingers, she pointed to a hole in the trunk of the old tree against which she had been leaning. Mr. Bradford put his hand into the opening, and, after feeling about a little, drew forth a bundle. Opening it, he found not only what he had expected to see, Bessie's lost cup, but also Farmer Todd's silver spoons, and one or two other small articles which he thought must have been stolen. The finding of the spoons with the cup, made it almost certain that Lem had not taken the latter; and Mr. Bradford was very glad that he had not suffered appearances to make him judge the boy too harshly. And now Mr. Stanton and Starr moved on with the chair. They carried it as steadily as possible, but the way was rough, and with all their care every step gave great pain to Dolly. Mr. Bradford and Mrs. Stanton followed to see what could be done to make the poor creature comfortable. Comfortable! that seemed a hopeless task, indeed, when they reached the wretched hovel and looked about them. Dolly was laid upon the pile of leaves and rags which served for a bed; and Mr. and Mrs. Stanton stayed with her while Mr. Bradford, taking Starr with him, went back to beg from Mrs. Porter what was needful for her. [Illustration] XII. _UNCLE RUTHVEN'S WORK._ DOLLY, quite tired out with pain, had sunk into a restless sleep; and Mr. and Mrs. Stanton were sitting on the rocks outside the door, waiting till Mr. Bradford should return, when a sweet, clear whistle, like a bird-call, rang through the wood. It was repeated again, and yet again, and was plainly some signal. Each time it came nearer, and at the third sounded close at hand; and the next instant Lem sprang round a point of the rock. As he caught sight of the lady and gentleman before the hovel door, he started, and, after staring at them for one instant, turned to run away. But Mr. Stanton's voice stopped him. "Do not run off again," he said, kindly; "your sister is very sick, and lying here in the house. Come and see her." Lem stood a moment, half doubtful; then rushed past the gentleman into the house. He came out again presently, his eyes wide open with astonishment and alarm. "What you been a doin' to her?" he said, fiercely. "We found her lying upon the rocks, unable to move," said Mr. Stanton, not heeding the angry tone, "and so brought her here in this chair. We have sent to Mrs. Porter for some things to make a bed for her, but no bed can be kept fit for her unless it is quite dry; and I fear this roof of yours is not water-tight. I wonder if you and I could not make it so. Do you know where you can buy some straw?" "Know where there's plenty of straw for them as can pay for it," answered Lem. "Oh, well," said Mr. Stanton, cheerfully, "you find the straw, and I'll do the paying. There; bring as many bunches as they will give you for that," and he put fifty cents into Lem's hand. The boy gazed at the money open-mouthed,--probably he had never in his life had so much, honestly come by, in his hands at once,--turned it over, stared at Mr. Stanton, and then again at the money. That any one should trust him with money, or with any thing that had the least value, was something so new that he could scarcely believe his own senses. "They'll say I didn't come by it fair, and won't give me no straw," he said at last, thrusting the money back upon Mr. Stanton. The gentleman knew this was only too likely, and too well deserved; and, taking a pencil and slip of paper from his pocket-book, he wrote a few words, and handed the paper to Lem. Lem could neither read nor write, but he was no fool; and he knew that those few black marks would do more for him than any amount of talking on his own part; but he was even yet a little suspicious. He stood hesitating for a moment, looking back into the house, where his sister lay moaning in her uneasy sleep, then darted away into the path which led down the mountain. "Do you think he is to be trusted, Ruthven?" said Mrs. Stanton. "Will he come back?" "I think so," replied her husband; "any way, I thought I would try it. It may give me some hold upon him." In less time than could have been thought possible by one who knew the distance he had to go, Lem was back; but a good deal had been done in the mean time. Mr. Bradford had returned with Starr and John Porter, bringing a straw bed and pillow, a coarse but clean pair of sheets, and a blanket. Good old Mrs. Porter came too, full of pity for the forlorn, sick child, and carrying a kettle of tea, ready milked and sugared. The bed had been made,--upon the floor, to be sure: there was no other place to put it,--Dolly had been given some medicine, her fevered face and hands washed, and she laid in the bed. A fire had been kindled without, and the tea warmed afresh; and when Lem came back with the straw, Mrs. Porter was just offering Dolly a drink. She took it eagerly; but, although she knew Lem, she would not speak to him, and soon sank again into an uneasy sleep or stupor. Lem had brought six bundles of straw; and, throwing them down, he handed Mr. Stanton some change, saying the man from whom he had bought them could let him have no more, and had given him back that money. Mr. Stanton privately asked John Porter how much the straw should have cost, and found that Lem had brought him the right change. So here was something gained: the boy had been true to his trust for once. "Now we will go to work," said Mr. Stanton to Lem; and he told him to follow him deeper into the woods, where he soon cut down a dozen or so of tall, slender saplings, and bade Lem strip them of their leaves and branches. When these were finished, some long strips of birch bark were cut by Mr. Stanton, while Lem stood looking on, and wondering if it were possible the gentleman could be taking so much trouble for him and Dolly, and what in the world he could be going to do with those things. That was soon seen. When all had been made ready and carried to the hut, Mr. Stanton made Lem climb upon the low roof, and, directing him how to lay the straw so as to cover the worst part, bound it in its place with the saplings, and tied them down with the strips of birch. Lem wondered and admired as the strong, firm fingers twisted and knotted, making all close and tight, and at last broke out with,-- "I say, mister, was you brought up to roof-mending?" "Not exactly," replied Mr. Stanton, with a smile; "but I have had to contrive many a strange roof for myself and others. What should you say to a roof made of a single leaf, large enough to shelter twelve men from a scorching sun? Or to one of snow; ay, to roof, walls, floor, all of snow,--making a warm, comfortable home too?" "Are you the fellow they tell about that's hunted lions and tigers and wild beasts?" asked Lem, gazing with new interest at the gentleman. "I am the man," said Mr. Stanton. "And never got ate up?" questioned Lem, eagerly. "I am here to answer for that, though I have been pretty near it once or twice. Should you like to hear some of my adventures some time?" "Wouldn't I, though! I s'pose you couldn't tell a feller now?" "Not now," said Mr. Stanton, "we have done the best we can for the roof, and I must go home; but I shall come over again this afternoon to see Dolly, and I will tell you the story of a tiger hunt then. But"--looking about him,--"this is not a very nice place to sit down and tell a story in, with all these bones, ashes, and bits of old iron lying about." "I'll fix it up, fustrate," exclaimed Lem; "but now, I say, mister," and Lem hitched up his ragged pantaloons, scratched his head, and dug his bare toes into a patch of moss in an unwonted fit of shame. "Well," said Mr. Stanton, kindly. "I didn't take little Shiny-hair's cup, now, I didn't; and I wish you wouldn't think it." "I do not think it, Lem. The cup is found, and I do not believe you took it." "Don't you, now?" said Lem, looking up; "well, I thought may be you didn't when you gi' me the money for the straw." "I am glad to know that I may trust you, Lem," said Mr. Stanton. Mr. Bradford, Mrs. Stanton, and the Porters had long since gone away, leaving Mr. Stanton to finish the roof. He walked slowly homeward, wondering if he had that morning really gained any hold on these wretched children; or if, as so many others had proved, his pains had all been labor thrown away. When he reached the fireplace, he found that the rest of the party had gone home; for the mending of the roof had been a good two hours' work, and it was now nearly Mrs. Porter's early dinner hour. When Mr. Bradford left Lem's hovel, and joined his wife and children, he found his little girls very eager for news of Dolly. He told them of all that had been done, and then said,-- "Bessie, I have a pleasant surprise for you. Can you guess what it may be?" "I know what I would _like_ it to be, papa, but I suppose it couldn't; and mamma said it was not best to wish for things that cannot be." "Well," said Mr. Bradford, "suppose you let me hear what you would like it to be." "Papa, I would like it to be my cup; but if it was, I would be _too_ surprised and _too_ glad for any thing, and I try not to think too much about it." Mr. Bradford put his hand into his pocket, and, pulling out the beloved cup, held it before the delighted eyes of his little daughter. She gave a glad cry, and the next moment both small hands were holding fast the recovered treasure, and clasping it to her breast. She even kissed it in her joy and thankfulness. Then papa was asked when and how he had found it, and told the whole story. Maggie and Bessie were very glad to hear that it was probably the pedler who had taken the cup; for since they had been trying to act and feel kindly towards Lem and Dolly, they were anxious to believe as much good and as little ill of them as possible. "For you see, papa," said Maggie, "you see the pedler is quite a stranger to us, and we know Lem and Dolly a little. It's a pretty poor kind of a way to be acquainted, to be sure; but then we are pretty interested about them, and we like to think they did not do this one bad thing. And I think it would be rather astonishing if Dolly was not mad when Lem was shut up, and she knew he had not taken Bessie's cup. I would have been, if some one had shut up Fred or Harry, and I'm afraid I would have wanted to return them a little evil; so now it is a little easier to forgive her about our gardens." "And she said she was sorry about the gardens," said Bessie; "maybe it was her sorriness that made her tell where my cup was. Oh, my dear, dear cup! I am so glad it has come back." And now the cup must have a good washing in the spring; after which, Bessie took a long drink from it. Not that she was in the least thirsty, but it was such a pleasure to drink once more from the beloved cup, and she thought no water had ever tasted so delicious. Then each one of her friends was obliged to take a drink, and to say how very nice it was; and for the rest of the day, she was every five minutes asking some one if they were not thirsty, and if she could persuade them to say yes, she would run and fill the cup. So much water did she and Maggie find it necessary to drink, and so much did they persuade, and even bribe, Frankie to take, that mamma was obliged to put a stop to the fun lest they should make themselves sick. When Mr. Stanton and Mr. Bradford went up to the hut that afternoon, they found that Lem had been as good as his word. All the old bones and feathers, bits of rusty iron, half-burnt sticks, and ashes, had been picked up, and put out of sight. Lem had even made a poor broom out of some dry birch twigs and a stick, and with this he had tried to sweep off the broad slab of rock on which the house stood. It was not half done, to be sure; Lem was not used to sweeping, or to making things tidy; but he thought he had made the place very fine for his new friends, and they did not fail to praise and admire. Moreover, Lem had washed his face, for the first time perhaps in many weeks or months; and, although he had left his cheeks all streaked and channelled, it was at least an attempt at something better, and, so far, even this was promising. Dolly was awake, but quite wild, and talked in a rambling way of silver cups and angels, of gardens and music, of the Ice Glen and the dark, dark night. Her fever was very high, and her poor head rolled from side to side; but, in spite of her restlessness, she could not move hand or foot, for the terrible pains which racked her and made her cry out on the slightest motion. "She's awful sick, aint she?" said Lem, as he stood beside the two gentlemen, and saw with what grave faces they watched his sister. "She is very sick, Lem," said Mr. Bradford; "too sick to be left here alone with you. I must go and see if I can find some one to come and take care of her to-night;" and, after saying a few words in French to his brother-in-law, Mr. Bradford walked away. Mr. Stanton stayed behind. He had brought with him the upper half of an old window-sash which he had begged from Mr. Porter, a hammer, and some large nails; and he now told Lem they must go to work again, and he would tell the promised story as they worked. The sash was too large for the square hole in the side of the house which served for a window; but Mr. Stanton made it answer for the time, hanging it by strips of leather, nailed at one end to the sash, at the other to the boards above the window. This now served the purpose, since it could be raised or let down as might be needed. Then the crazy door was taken down, and hung anew on its two hinges; and, as the old latch was quite worn out and useless, Mr. Stanton fashioned a wooden button by which it might be fastened. Meanwhile he told in low tones, that Dolly might not be disturbed, the story of a famous tiger hunt. Lem listened eagerly,--listened with ears, eyes, and mouth, if such a thing could be; for the two latter were so wide open that he seemed to be drinking in the tale by these as well as by the proper channel. But Mr. Stanton soon found he was not to be depended upon for work. Accustomed to an idle, lazy life, Lem could not fix his attention and employ his hands at the same time. If Mr. Stanton reminded him of his work, he would hammer or cut away for one moment; the next his hands would be clasping his knees in an ecstasy of delight and wonder at the strange but true tale he was listening to. The gentleman let it pass, however. Lem's help was not of much account at the best; and his object just now was to gain a hold on the boy, and interest him. Teaching, advice, or reproof might come by and by, when he had made Lem feel he meant to be a friend to him. Nevertheless, Lem had not the least idea that he had not done his own share of the work; and when the door and make-shift window were both in their places he exclaimed,-- "We did fix it up fustrate; didn't we mister?" "I am glad you like it," said Mr. Stanton, looking about him. "What have you there, Lem?" and he pointed to four small rustic boxes standing at the side of the hut. They were made of twigs and bits of wood curiously woven together, and were filled with earth. Two of these held nothing else, in each of the others grew two scraggy little plants. "Oh, them!" said Lem, "them's nothing but Doll's pots. She made 'em at odd times, always had a knack that way; and them things growin' in 'em is marygools, I guess. She picked up a paper with some seeds in it, on the road one day, and nothin' would serve her but to plant 'em. So she made the pots for 'em and stuck 'em in, but none of 'em come to nothin', only them two. I tell her there's lots of better lookin' things in the woods, to be had for the pickin'; but somehow she sets a heap by them old things, and waters 'em every day. "Then you must take care of them for her, while she is sick; won't you?" said Mr. Stanton. "S'pose so," said Lem; "but they'll never be no good." [Illustration] XIII. _A RIDE ON THE SHEAVES._ MR. BRADFORD had gone in search of Mr. Porter; but when he reached the Lake House, he did not find him there; for this was harvest time, and the old man, still strong and hearty, was out in the fields, helping his sons and hired men to mow and carry in the grain. The whole flock of little ones, boys and girls, were out in the harvest fields too, and there went papa. What a pretty, joyous sight it was! At the farther side of the fields, were the reapers, cutting with long, regular sweeps the yellow grain; while, nearer at hand, were others binding it in sheaves. Among these were Harry, Fred, and Hafed. Upon an overturned sheaf, sat mammy, her baby on her knee, the little one crowing and laughing, and shaking her dimpled hands, each of which grasped half a dozen ears of wheat, a new and wonderful plaything to baby's eyes, as they bobbed their heads up and down with the motion. Near by, where the wheat still lay as it had been cut, in long even rows, was Frankie, in busy mischief as usual, snatching up whole handfuls of it, and tossing it above his head with shouts of glee. Mr. Porter would not have him stopped; no one minded a little more trouble, provided the children had their fun, he said. The old man himself stood by the side of the great ox cart, which was filled with golden sheaves; and on the top of these Maggie and Bessie sat in state, their hands and round straw hats filled with bright, red poppies. John Porter was about to give them a ride up to the great barn where the wheat was to be stored. Mr. Bradford stood for a moment looking at it all, then walked up to Mr. Porter. "Mr. Porter," he said, "can you tell me where I can find some one who will go and nurse that poor girl? She is too ill to be left with no one but her brother to take care of her." Mr. Porter shook his head. "I don't know of a soul that would be willing to go. 'Taint a place where one would care to pass the night, with the chance, too, of Owen coming home." "If good pay could induce any one to do it, that shall not be wanting," said Mr. Bradford. "Is there no one in the village who would do it for that?" "Well, I do know of a poor woman who might be glad to earn a little that way," said Mr. Porter; "but we could not get at her to-night. It is too late now to go down the mountain, with the roads washed as they were by the rain of night before last. There's no moon, and it would not be safe coming back; but I'll send for her in the morning, if you say so." "I do say so," replied Mr. Bradford; "but what are we to do for to-night?" Maggie and Bessie heard no more; for just then John Porter gave the word to his oxen, and they started off, leaving papa and Mr. Porter still talking. What a pleasant ride that was: out of the field where the bars had been let down; past other fields ready, or nearly ready, for the harvesting; pale green oats, and golden wheat, the white, sweet-scented buckwheat, and the tall Indian corn; then through the orchard where a flock of sheep were feeding, past the locust grove, and then into the farmyard; stopping at last between the open doors of the great barn! But, in spite of it all, our little girls were rather thoughtful as they jogged slowly on. "Maggie," said Bessie, presently, "won't it be dreadful if papa can't get any one to take care of poor sick Dolly to-night?" "Yes," said Maggie: "I wonder what she will do." "If I was big, and mamma would let me, I'd go myself," said Bessie. "Would you?" said Maggie; "well, I am afraid I wouldn't: so it's better that I am not big, 'cause then I needn't have a troubled conscience for not doing it." They were both silent for a moment or two. John Porter was walking at his oxen's heads, out of hearing, if the children lowered their voices. "Bessie," said Maggie, in a whisper, "John Porter might do it, mightn't he? He is big and strong enough." "Yes," answered Bessie, "and he heard what papa said too; but he didn't say he'd go. Perhaps it didn't come into his head. Shall we try to put it there, Maggie?" "Yes: maybe you can coax him to do it." "I'll try, and see if I can make him compassioned of poor Dolly. John," she said, in a louder tone, "you are very glad you are well and strong; are you not?" "Surely," said John. "And you wouldn't like to be sick at all, would you, John?" "Not one bit," said John. "I'd scarce know myself, for I never was sick in my life, that I remember." "Then I s'pose you feel very thankful for it, and as if you'd like to help make sick people as well as you are; don't you?" said Bessie. "Guess I wouldn't make much hand at that," answered John. "But you are big and strong, John." "Yes, I'm big and strong enough; but it takes more than that to make a good nurse. If it came in my way to do a good turn for a sick body, and there was no one else to do it, why I'd lend a hand; but I don't know as they'd thank me for it." "Oh yes they would, John," said Maggie, eagerly; "if I was sick and had no one to take care of me, and you came to do it, I'd thank you ever so much." "Well, I'll do it when you come to that pass," said John, without the least idea what the little girls were driving at. "He don't seem to understand yet," whispered Maggie to her sister; "try him with the 'Golden Rule.'" "John," said Bessie, "are you not very fond of doing as you would be done by?" "As fond as most folks, I guess," said John. "'Gee, there! gee, Whitefoot!" Bessie waited till they had passed through the gate of the orchard, then began again. "John, if there was a chance to do as you would be done by, and you did not think of it, would you like some one to tell you of it?" John looked round at her and laughed. "If there's any thing you want me to do for you, out with it. It's no good beating about the bush. You know I always like to do for you what I can." "Yes: you are very good to us," said Bessie; "but it was not us: it was Dolly. Don't you think it would be doing as you would be done by to go and take care of her to-night?" "Whew! that's it, is it?" said John. "Maybe it would be; but that _would_ be a good thing to see me taking care of Dolly Owen;" and John laughed loud and long. Bessie was displeased, and drew herself up with a little dignified air. "I don't think he is coaxed a bit," she whispered; "he is very hard-hearted." "No," said Maggie: "I don't believe he is the kind to be coaxed." "Then I'll have to be a little strict with him, and show him it's his duty," said Bessie, in the same tone. "Yes, to let him see he ought to do it, whether he likes it or not," said Maggie; "maybe he's never been taught that." "John," said Bessie, folding her little hands gravely in her lap, and trying to look sternly at the young man, "perhaps you don't know that if we know we ought to do a thing and don't do it, our Father is not very pleased with us." "May be so," said John; "but I don't feel it's _my_ duty to go and take care of Dolly." "Whose duty is it, then?" asked Bessie. "Not any one's that's likely to do it, I guess." Bessie was in despair, but she thought she would try a little more severity. "John," she said, "when you are poor and ragged, and sick and bad, I hope some one will have pity of you, and go take care of you." "I hope so too; but I don't feel there's any call on me to go and look after that thieving beggar, nor for you to trouble yourselves about her, after all she's done to you," answered John. "John," said Bessie, solemnly, "I'm afraid we don't think you quite so very nice as we did this morning; and I'm afraid you are one of those to whom our Lord will say, 'I was sick, and ye visited me not.'" But John was only amused at her displeasure, and laughed aloud again. Neither of the children spoke till they reached the barn, when John came to the side of the cart and lifted them down. "Well, you are just two of the funniest, forgivingest little things," he said, as he put Bessie on her feet. Bessie deigned no answer; but with an air of great displeasure turned away, and stood at a little distance with Maggie, watching the men pitch the sheaves up into the loft. "Are you going back with me?" asked John, when he was ready to start for the harvest-field again. "No," Bessie answered, rather shortly. "Why, you're not offended with me, are you?" said John, "and all along of that ragamuffin up there." "We're displeased with you," said Bessie. "It's right to be displeased with people when you tell them what is right, and they don't do it; but if you're going to repent, we'll forgive you." John answered with another "ha-ha." "Well, no," he said; "I don't think I'm ready for repentance in that line yet. I hope I'll never do any thing worse than refusing to take care of a sick beggar." "I hope so too," said Bessie, reprovingly. "That's quite worse enough," and she and Maggie walked out of the farmyard, and turned into the lane which led up to the house. "Hallo!" John called out, mischievously; "if you feel so bad about Dolly, why don't you ask your father or uncle to go up and see after her?" Neither of the little girls turned their heads, but walked straight on in the most dignified silence, followed by the sound of John's merriment. "That's a little too much," said Maggie, when they were beyond hearing; "idea of papa or Uncle Ruthven staying all night in that dirty place!" Bessie did not like the idea either, but her little head was puzzled. If she thought it right for John Porter to go, ought she not to think it right for her papa or uncle? She did not at all thank John for putting the thought into her head: it was fresh cause of offence against him; but now that it was there, she could not shut it out. "Maggie," she said, "I wonder if we ought not to put it into papa's or Uncle Ruthven's mind?" "Pooh! no," said Maggie; "they've sense enough to think it out for themselves if they ought to go: but I don't think John Porter is very sensible; do you?" "I guess I won't say he's unsensible just now," said Bessie. "I'm 'fraid I feel 'most too mad." "What difference does that make?" asked Maggie. "'Cause mamma said, when I was angry it was better not to say unkind things about a person; and then when I was pleased with them again I would see that the unkind things were only in my own heart, and not quite true. She didn't say just those very words, but that was what she meant." "I'm never, never going to be pleased with John Porter again," said Maggie, shaking her head very decidedly. "Oh! there's Mrs. Porter going to feed the chickens; let's go help her." The chickens had been fed and had gone to roost, and the little girls had been with Dolly and Fanny to the pasture to see the cows milked, before they went back to the house, and met Uncle Ruthven just coming home. They ran up to him, and each taking a hand, asked for news of Dolly. It was not good,--worse, if any thing, than the last; and they looked rather sober as they walked with their uncle up the steps of the piazza, where all the rest of the family were gathered. "Well," said Uncle Ruthven to papa, "have you had any success?" "Not the least," said Mr. Bradford; and then he told what Mr. Porter had said. "She must be looked after to-night," said Mr. Stanton. "Lem does not know what to do for her, and is frightened half out of his senses at the thought of being alone with her. It would be cruel to leave them." "Yes," said Maggie, indignantly; "we were trying to make John Porter see it was his duty to go and take care of her, but he would not. He has not a bit of compassion." "We said every thing we could, till we were quite despaired of him," put in Bessie; "but it was all of no use." "What makes you think John Porter ought to go and take care of her?" asked Uncle Ruthven. "Oh! 'cause he's such a big, strong fellow," said Maggie, "so we thought it was his duty; but he would not be put in mind of it." "Well," said Uncle Ruthven, "there is another big, strong fellow whom you have put in mind of _his_ duty. He had an inkling of it before, but I must say he was not very willing to see it." "Ruthven!" exclaimed his wife, "you do not mean you are going to that dreadful place to pass the night!" "I do not see that Maggie and Bessie have left me any choice," he answered, smiling, and sitting down on the steps beside her, "at least not if being a big, strong fellow makes it one's duty to go." "Oh, Uncle Ruthven!" said Maggie, "we never meant you." "Perhaps not, Maggie; but the shoe fits, so I think I must put it on." "Is there no one we could find to do it if they were well paid?" said his wife, pleadingly. "I expect to be well paid, love," he said in a low tone and with another smile. "I shall have all the reward I can ask." Little Bessie was standing at Mrs. Stanton's knee, twisting one over another her aunt's soft, white fingers, and as her uncle spoke she looked up brightly. "We know what he means, don't we, dear Aunt Bessie? He means the cup of cold water given in Jesus' name shall have its reward. I think Uncle Ruthven is taking up a jewel." "Thank you, darling," said Aunt Bessie, with a quiver in her voice. "For what, Aunt Bessie?" But Aunt Bessie only smiled and kissed her, and Uncle Ruthven said,-- "I shall borrow the Colonel's camp chair with his permission, and take some candles and a book, so I shall do very well on this fine, still night." "And I shall keep awake all night and think about you, Uncle Ruthven," said Maggie; "so if you feel lonely you can know my soul is over there with you." So when tea was over, Uncle Ruthven with a lantern, the Colonel's camp-chair, and some other needful things for Dolly, went over to pass the night at the wretched hut. The little girls stood beside Aunt Bessie and watched him as he walked away, and Bessie, taking Mrs. Stanton's hand in hers, laid her cheek upon it in her own caressing way, and said,-- "Aunt Bessie, I think we'll _all_ have to try to bear Dolly's burden to-night." "It's too bad!" exclaimed Maggie; "it's an awful burden to bear, it makes me feel homesick, and I want to cry about it, and I just will--there now!" and Maggie burst into tears. Mamma came, and after a little petting carried them off to bed, for they were both tired. But on the way she had to stop in the kitchen to speak to Mrs. Porter, and there her little girls followed her and found John. Now we know Maggie had said she "_never, never_ meant to be pleased with John again;" but when he called to them, and said he had a treat for them the next day, she somehow found herself, she did not quite know how, talking away to him, and begging to know what it was, as if she had never been displeased with him in her life. But after she was in bed and mamma had gone, she suddenly popped up her head and said,-- "Bessie, what do you think? I went and forgot I was mad with John Porter. Now, what shall I do about it?" "I guess you'll have to stay unmad," said Bessie, sleepily. "Yes, I s'pose I will," said Maggie; "and I believe I'm rather glad of it. I don't feel very nice when I keep displeased with people, and John is real good to us, if he wouldn't go stay with Dolly. Are you going to stay awake all night, and think about Uncle Ruthven?" "I'd like to," said Bessie; "but I'm 'fraid I can't. I'm so tired and sleepy, my eyes won't stay open." "Mine will," said Maggie. "I'm going to make them. I don't mean to sleep a single wink, but just think about Uncle Ruthven all the time. Isn't he kind and good, Bessie? John Porter is pretty good too: I wonder where he's going to take us to-morrow, and if mamma will let us go,--and s'pose--maybe--Uncle Ruthven in the--rocks--and I'm--not--going"-- "Maggie," said Uncle Ruthven, the next morning, "I rather think I missed the company of those constant thoughts you promised me last night, at least for part of the time." Maggie climbed on her uncle's knee, put her arms about his neck and her lips very close to his ear, and whispered,-- "_Please_ don't tell any one, Uncle Ruthven; but I am afraid I did go to sleep for a few minutes last night. I didn't mean to, but I did." [Illustration] [Illustration] XIV. _BLACKBERRYING._ "MAMMA, mamma, mamma!" cried Maggie and Bessie, dancing into the room with sparkling eyes and glowing cheeks. "What is it, Sunbeams?" asked mamma. "Oh! a blackberry party, mamma,--such a splendid blackberry party!--and we are all to go if you will let us. John is going to take us; and Dolly and Fanny are going, and Jane, too, if you would like to have her. Can we go, can we? Oh, say yes, mamma!" "And please don't say I am too little, mamma," said Bessie. "John will take very good care of me, and carry me over all the hard places. And if we pick more berries than we want to eat for tea, Mrs. Porter is going to make them into blackberry jam for us to take home with us. So you see it will be very useful, as well as very pleasant, for us to go." "Very well," said mamma, "that being the case, I think I must let you go." Half an hour later the party started, armed with baskets and tin pails. Away they went, laughing and singing, by the lake road, and then down the side of the mountain to a spot where John said the blackberry bushes grew very thick. The way was pretty rough, and not only Bessie, but Maggie also, was glad of John's help now and then. Indeed, Bessie rode upon his shoulder for a great part of the way. The blackberries were "thick as hops" when they came upon them,--some still green, some red or half ripe, others as black as ink; and these the children knew were what they must pick. The fingers of large and small were soon at work, but Maggie and Bessie did not find it quite as great fun as they expected. "Ou, ou!" exclaimed Maggie, as she plunged her hand into the first bush. "Why, there are horrid prickers on it!" "And on mine too," cried Bessie. "They stick me like every thing. Oh, my finger is bleeding!" "To be sure," said Fanny; "you must be careful: blackberry bushes are full of thorns." Maggie and Bessie had not bargained for the thorns, and felt somehow as if they had been rather imposed upon; but they picked away more carefully. Now and then a berry found its way into a small mouth instead of into the pails, and very ripe and juicy it tasted. By and by Bessie gave a little sigh and said,-- "Maggie, do you think it is so very nice?" "I'm trying to think it is," said Maggie; "but they do scratch awfully, don't they? and the sun is pretty hot too. How many have you, Bessie?" "I guess about five hundred,--maybe it's a thousand," said Bessie. "Can you count them?" "Let's sit down there in the shade and do it," said Maggie. "One, two, three, four,--there's seventeen, Bessie. That's a pretty good many." "Is it 'most a thousand, Maggie?" "No," said Maggie, "I'm afraid it will take about fifty more to make a thousand. Here's Bob; we'll ask him," as Bob and Hafed came by with their baskets. "Bob, Bessie has seventeen berries; how many more will it take to make a thousand?" "Seventeen from a thousand," said Bob, "why it will take--nine hundred--and--and--eighty-three. You haven't the beginning of a thousand there yet." "Have I enough to make a pot of jam?" asked Bessie, wistfully, looking into her pail. "Your mother said she would make me a pot of my own if I brought enough berries." "A small pot it would be," said Bob, laughing. "Take two to show the pattern, I guess," and he ran off. Hafed lingered behind. He understood enough to know that Bessie was disturbed because she had so few berries; and suddenly emptying his basket, which was about a third full, into her pail, he said,-- "Me blackberry pick Missy Bess, all give." "Oh! no, Hafed," said Bessie. "I thank you very much, but it wouldn't be fair to take your berries." "Please, missy, make Hafed feel good," he answered, holding his basket behind him when Bessie would have poured the berries back. "Me much find; bring, too, some Missy Mag--" by which he meant he would bring some more to Maggie,--and he went after Bob. "Oh! you're tired, are you?" said Jane, turning around to look what her young charges were doing, and seeing them on the rock. "Maybe you'd like a little lunch too; and here's some biscuits, and a couple of cookies your mother told me to bring lest you should be hungry. Then you can eat some of your berries; or, stay, I'll give you some of mine so you may keep all your own." So the kind nurse opened the paper containing the biscuits, and spread it on the flat stone on which the children sat; next she pulled two broad mullein leaves, and put a handful of berries on each, and then having produced the drinking cup she always carried when the children went on an expedition, she asked John where she should find a stream, and one being near at hand as usual, the cup was soon filled and placed beside the other things. "There," said Jane, "I don't believe Queen Victoria herself had a better set-out when she went blackberrying." The children thought not; and the rest and unexpected little lunch made them both feel refreshed and bright again. "Bessie," said Maggie, as they sat contentedly eating it, "do you not think foreigner boys are a great deal nicer than home-made boys?" "What does foreigner mean?" asked Bessie. "It means to come out of another country. Hafed is a foreigner, and that little French boy who was so polite to us on board the steamboat was a foreigner, and so is Carl." Carl was Uncle Ruthven's Swedish servant. "Are not Harry and Fred home-made boys, Maggie?" "Yes; but, of course, I don't mean them: they're our brothers; but, of example, don't you think Hafed is a great deal nicer and politer than Bob?" "Oh, yes! Bob laughed at me 'cause I had only a few berries; and Hafed did not laugh a bit, but gave me his." "Midget and Bess," came in Fred's clear tones from a little distance, "come over here; here are lots of berries, lying on top of one another almost, ripe and sweet; and calling out, 'Come pick me!' They hang low, so we'll leave them for you, and it's nice and shady too." "Fred is a nice home-made boy; is he not?" said Bessie, as they obeyed his call. "Yes, and Harry too," said Maggie. "I did not mean to pass any remarks of them." There were indeed lots of blackberries in the spot to which Fred had called them; and, screened from the rays of the sun, they picked them with comfort; besides which, many a large berry which they did not pick themselves found its way into their pails; so that, by the time Hafed came with his offering to Maggie, her own berries made quite a show, and she steadily refused to take his. Then John said they must be moving homeward. They went by a different road from that by which they had come, stopping every now and then, where the berries were fine and thick, to add a few more to their store. Seeing some which they thought particularly fine, the rest of the party climbed a steep rocky path to get them; while Maggie and Bessie, being tired, sat down to rest upon a fallen trunk. Suddenly a rustling beside them startled them; and, looking round, they saw a large pair of bright, soft eyes, gazing at them. A pair of ears were there also, a black nose too; in short, the whole of some animal's pretty head; and, before the little girls had time to call out or run away, a beautiful little fawn sprang out from the bushes and ran to them as if he was glad to see them. It had a red collar about its neck with some letters on it; but the children had no need to look at them: they knew the pretty creature quite well. It belonged to the little cousins down at the homestead, and was a great pet, and now it came rubbing its head against them, and putting its hoof into their laps, as if it were very glad to see some familiar faces. It must have wandered from home, the children knew; and so John said, when he came a moment later. "I shall have to take the poor creature back," he said. "It would never do to take it up home, for Buffer would tear it to pieces; and, besides, they'll be worrying about it down there; so I'd better go at once. You can find your way home from here, Fan; take that right-hand path, and it will bring you out just below Owen's shanty." The fawn seemed quite unwilling to leave the children; indeed it would not go at all, till John tied a string to its collar, and drew it after him. As it was found out afterwards, it had been lost since the day before; and the homestead children were in great distress, and had hunted for it in vain. The path pointed out by John brought them, as he said it would, very near Owen's hut, and, looking towards it, they saw Mr. Stanton and his wife and Mrs. Bradford standing in front of it. While Mr. Bradford had gone to the village to send the doctor, and try to find a nurse for Dolly, the two ladies had come with Mr. Stanton to see the sick child. She was quieter than she had been through the night, but was, if any thing, more ill. She moaned incessantly, and Lem said, was all the time begging for something, he could not make out what. Mrs. Stanton laid her soft, cool hand on the girl's burning forehead. Dolly seemed to like the touch, and looking up into the lady's face, said something in a beseeching tone. "Do you want any thing, Dolly?" asked Mrs. Stanton, bending lower. "I want," muttered Dolly; "I want to--to be angel." "Poor Dolly," said the lady in a gentle, pitying tone. "What is it she wants?" asked Lem. "She says she wants to be an angel." "Want to be an angel," moaned Dolly again. "Somebody loves the angels--up in His place--not tired there--rest for the weary; that's tired folks--that's me. I'm so tired--want to be an angel." "Dolly," said Mrs. Stanton, not knowing if the girl could understand her, yet hoping that she might even now speak a word in season, "Dolly, you may be an angel some day if you will come to Jesus. He wants you to come and love Him. He wants you to be a good girl so that He may take you to His heaven, where there will be no more pain or sorrow, where you will never be tired, where you will be an angel. Will you love Him, Dolly; will you be a good girl, and try to please Him?" "Don't love _me_," said Dolly, who, with her eyes fixed on the lady's face, had grown quiet, and really seemed to understand what she was saying; "loves little gals, maybe, what sings: they has nice frocks, and I aint fit for His beautiful place." "Jesus will make you clean and white, and fit for His heaven, if you ask Him, Dolly. He does love you. He is waiting for you to come to Him." "Little gals said He loved me; but can't ask Him, He don't come here." "Yes, He does, Dolly. He is here now. You cannot see Him; but He sees you, and is sorry for you. Shall we ask Him to make you fit for heaven?" "Yes," said Dolly. "Dear Jesus," said the lady, "we ask Thee to give this little girl a new, clean heart, and to make her fit to live with Thee"-- "To be an angel," put in Dolly, eagerly. "Make her fit to be an angel, make her love to please Thee, and, when it is time, take her to the home where there shall be no more pain or trouble. Amen." "No more pain--no more trouble," murmured Dolly, her mind wandering again; "want to be an angel--I'll give her the cup," she cried; "they say it kills folks to be too long in the Ice Glen, but I can't get out; they'll send Lem to jail, will they? I'll fix 'em with their fine gardens--want to--rest for the weary." Then her eyes closed, but presently opened again; and, looking from one to another of the kind faces above her, she said,-- "I say, did He see me give up the cup?" "Yes," said Mrs. Stanton. "He sees all we do." "And did He like me a little 'cause I did it?" "Jesus was glad when He saw you give up the cup, Dolly, because it was not yours, and it was right for you to tell where it was. He is always glad when we do right, or when we are sorry for doing wrong." "Can I speak to Him?" "Yes: He is always ready and willing to listen to you, my poor child." "Guess I'll tell Him," muttered Dolly; and, trying to put her hands together as she had seen Mrs. Stanton do, she said, "Jesus, I'm true sorry I sp'iled them gardens, and I want to be a angel, if you _could_ please to let me." It was the first prayer that ever passed Dolly's lips; she did not even know it was a prayer; she only knew she was speaking to Jesus, the great friend of whom little Bessie and this kind lady had told her. Then the poor child turned her face around and fell into one of her short, troubled slumbers; while Mr. and Mrs. Stanton and Mrs. Bradford went outside, followed by Lem. The two ladies and the gentleman sat down upon the rocks, while Lem took his place in front of them, hugging up his knees, and staring from one to another with half-frightened, half-sorrowful, looks. They were all silent for a little time, then Lem suddenly said,-- "Mister, when folks goes to be angels they mostly dies, don't they?" "Always, Lem," said Mr. Stanton, gently. "Angels are happy spirits whom God has taken from all the pain and trouble of this world to live with Him in that happy home where sorrow and death never come." "Is Doll going to die?" asked the boy. "I cannot tell: that will be as God sees best. Dolly is very sick; but we will do for her all we can, and we will ask Him to make her His own little child, so that if she dies she may be fit to live with Him, and if she lives, she may be ready to serve Him and love Him on earth." "I'll tell you, mister," broke forth Lem, after another moment or two of silence, "I was awful sorry when I heard what Doll did to them gardens after the little gals begged me out; but you see she didn't know it, and she thought I was took to jail. I guess she's sorry too. Wasn't you awful mad about it?" "I did feel pretty angry, Lem; but we won't talk any more about that. I do not think either you or Dolly will trouble our little girls again; will you?" "I shan't," said Lem, "and if Doll gets well and does, I'll fix her: that's all." Lem scarcely spoke without using some very bad word, such as is not best for me to write or you to read; and Mr. Stanton was waiting his time to speak to him about this. It came now. "But maybe she'll die," continued Lem. "Anyhow, you and your folks has been real good to me and Doll: what for I don't know, for we did plague you awful. I don't s'pose I'll ever get the chance to do you a good turn; but, if I do, you see if I don't." "Lem," said Mr. Stanton, "you might do me a good turn now if you choose." "Can I, though?" said Lem; "well, I will fast enough; for you're a fustrate fellow, and you tell fustrate tiger and bear stories. S'pose you don't know another, do you?" "Plenty more," said Mr. Stanton; "what I want you to do for me, is not to use bad words." "Never had no schoolin'," said Lem, a little sulkily. "Schooling will not help you in the way I mean," said Mr. Stanton; and then he explained to Lem what kind of words he did mean, telling him how wicked and useless they were, and how it distressed those who loved God to hear His holy name taken in vain. Lem said he would do so no more; but the habit was so strong upon him, that, even as he promised, he used more than one profane word to make the promise strong. But now a cry from Dolly told that she was awake and suffering, and the two ladies went in, and found her quite wild again. "I want to be a angel," she said; "there's no pain, no tired, there--where's the singin'--I like it," and so she wandered on, calling upon the little girls and begging them to sing. In vain did Mrs. Bradford and Mrs. Stanton sing for her the two hymns which had taken her fancy, she only looked about more wildly for Maggie and Bessie, crying that she wanted "little one and t'other one," to sing for her. She grew worse and worse, till at last even the presence of the two ladies seemed to make her more wild; and they went out, leaving Lem to do the best he could with her. Mrs. Bradford was just saying she did not know what to do, since the children were from home, when the blackberry party appeared at the turn in the wood-path. "Here are the children, heaven-sent, I believe," said their mother, and she beckoned to her little girls. They came running towards her, eager to show their berries, and to ask for news of Dolly. Mamma told them how ill she was, calling for them; and asked if they would go and sing for her. Bessie said yes, at once; but timid Maggie looked half doubtfully at the dark, ugly, little house, and had a short struggle with herself before she could make up her mind to venture in. And after they were inside, she held Bessie tightly by the hand, and for a moment or two could scarcely find voice to sing. Dolly's wild eyes turned towards them, and softened a little with pleasure at the sight; and her loud, hoarse cries ceased. It was evident she knew them. "Sing, 'I want to be an angel,' my darlings," said mamma. It was strange to see how the sweet sounds now soothed the sick child, though they had failed when tried by Mrs. Bradford and Mrs. Stanton. A love for music was, beside her affection for Lem, the one soft spot in poor Dolly's sinful, hardened heart; but the practised voices of the two ladies had not half the charm for her of the simple, childish tones which had first sung to her the hymn which had taken such hold upon her fancy, or rather on her heart. They sang it again and again, varying from that only to "Rest for the weary," for no other hymns seemed to satisfy the sick girl. She grew calm and quiet, and at last even appeared to forget her pain as she lay listening. Once, when they paused, she beckoned to Bessie, and said, "Do you sometimes speak to Him?" "To whom?" asked Bessie. "To Him what has the angels, and is glad if we're good,--Jesus." "Oh, yes!" said Bessie; "we speak to Him very often: when we say our prayers, that is speaking to Jesus; and He always listens too." "Then you speak to Him for me, will you? You knows Him better than I do: I don't know Him much, only what you and the lady telled me, and what the song says." "What shall we tell Him?" asked Bessie. "Tell Him I'm so tired this long while, and the pain aches so, and if He _could_ just let me be a angel, I'd never do so no more; and I'm sorry I plagued you, and I'll do just what He bids me. I'm sorry I broke Miss Porter's plate too." "Yes, we'll tell Him," said Bessie gently; "but, Dolly, Jesus would like you to tell Him yourself too." "I done it, and I'll do it some more," said Dolly, feebly; "make some more singin'." Maggie and Bessie sang again, and before long poor Dolly's eyes closed, and she lay quietly sleeping; while our little girls, having left some of their berries for Lem to give her when she woke, went home with their mother and other friends. [Illustration] [Illustration] XV. _A FRIEND IN NEED._ THREE weeks had passed away, and still Dolly lay very ill. The terrible rheumatic pains were better, it is true, and she could now be moved without causing her so much agony; but she had a racking cough and much fever, and showed, in many other ways, how very sick she was. Lem said she had had a cough for a good while before that night spent in the Ice Glen, and that she had always been complaining of feeling tired. The doctor from the village shook his head when he was questioned about her, and so did Mr. Stanton and old Mrs. Porter. She had not wanted for such care as could be given her in her wretched home. Mr. Bradford had found a woman who, in consideration of being well paid, was willing to come and take care of her, and kind Mrs. Porter provided her with such food as she could take. Maggie and Bessie, and some of the ladies from the Lake House, came up to see her every day when the weather permitted, and would sing to her, and tell her of Jesus and His love. It was strange to see how readily she listened, how eagerly she drank it all in, especially when Bessie talked to her. Perhaps the simple, earnest words of this little teacher were easier to be understood by her poor, untaught mind, than those of others who were older and wiser. Or it might be that she felt Bessie had been her first friend,--the first one to extend to her the hand of forgiveness and kindness,--or perhaps it was both of these things. However it was, she was always glad to see the little girls and have them tell her of that Friend above who was so full of pity, love, and forgiveness. Dolly had heard of God before, but not as the kind, loving Father,--the merciful, gracious Saviour,--who stands ready to receive all who will turn to Him, who comes after us when we go from Him, and who had now put out His pitying hand to draw to Himself this poor little stricken lamb who had wandered so far from his fold. She had heard His holy name taken in vain every day of her miserable little life; she had never until now heard it spoken in love and reverence; and the only idea she had had of Him, had been as some great but terrible being who some day might find her out, and punish her for the naughty things she had done. But the dread of this uncertain punishment had not checked her in her wicked ways; and so she had gone on, till the God she did not love and scarcely feared, had laid his hand upon her, and then sent these little messengers to bring to her the glad tidings of peace and pardon. Day by day she grew more gentle, more humble, more quiet, more unlike the Dolly of old, on whom kindness and harshness had both been thrown away. Poor child, perhaps it was that she had had so much of the latter, that she had not known how to believe in the former when it came to her. It was touching to see her penitence for past offences, and how anxious she now became to be forgiven by those whom she had wronged. But her ideas of right and wrong were still very strange, and rather difficult to deal with. One day Mrs. Porter came to see her and brought some nice broth, with which she fed her. As she was leaving, Dolly called her back, and told her to look in the corner beneath a heap of dried sticks and see what she would find. Willing to please the child, Mrs. Porter did so, and drew out a soiled but fine pocket-handkerchief. "There," said Dolly, "I'm going to give you that for your plate that I broke. I'm right sorry I broke it. Jesus didn't like me much then, I guess." Mrs. Porter was quite sure that Dolly had not come honestly by the handkerchief, and would not take it, which greatly distressed the child. Just at that moment, Mrs. Bradford came in, and Mrs. Porter told her the trouble. "Dolly," said Mrs. Bradford, gently, "where did you get this handkerchief?" "Off old Miss Mapes' currant-bush," said Dolly, promptly; adding, in an aggrieved tone, "I want her to have it 'stead of her plate, and she won't." "Because it is not yours to give away." "Then 'taint mine to keep," said Dolly; "and I guess Jesus don't want me to have it." "He wants you to give it back to Mrs. Mapes, because that is the only right thing to do, Dolly." "Old Miss Mapes is hateful," answered Dolly. "She chased me off the road when I didn't do nothin', and threw a hoe at me and cut my foot, and that's why I took it; I'd liever Miss Porter would have it. She's good." "But if you want to be a good girl, and please Jesus, you must do what He wants you to, not what you had rather do yourself." "Would He rather I'd give the handkercher back to Miss Mapes?" "Yes," said Mrs. Bradford. "He was grieved when He saw you take it; and He will know you are truly sorry if you send it back to her." "I'll do it, then," said Dolly; "you can take it to her: but don't you tell her I did it for her, 'cause I don't,--it's only for Him." Poor child! it was perhaps as much as was to be expected from one so ignorant; and Mrs. Bradford, fearing to do her harm, said no more, trusting that even this blind striving after right was pleasing in the eyes of Him who has said, that little should be required of him to whom little has been given. "Say 'Gentle Jesus,'" said Dolly, turning to Bessie, who had stood by while her mother was talking. Next to the two hymns which had first taken her fancy, this seemed to be the one Dolly liked best; and now she often asked for it. Bessie repeated it. When she came to the two last lines of the second verse,-- "In the kingdom of thy grace, Give a little child a place," Dolly said, "I'm going to say, 'Give a better child a place,' 'cause I'll be a better child now: true I will." "With Jesus' help, Dolly," said Mrs. Bradford. "He did help me," said Dolly. "He let her"--motioning towards Bessie--"come and tell me about Him." The small, dirty hut, with the hard ground for its floor, its miserable roof, and chinks and crannies which let in the wind and damp, was no place for a sick child on these cool August nights; and now that Dolly could be moved without putting her to so much pain, it was thought best it should be done. The poor-house was many miles away, and now that Maggie and Bessie had come to take such an interest in her, and she in them, Mr. Porter said it would be cruel to send her so far, and offered to have her put in the old tool-house. So, for two or three days, the four boys and Starr busied themselves in repairing it for her, papa and Uncle Ruthven furnishing what they needed to make it comfortable. A few planks and nails, a little whitewash and paint, a sash-window, and some willing hands, soon made it secure against wind and rain. Then Mrs. Porter had it cleaned, and a cot-bed, a pine-table, and two chairs were put in it. Plain and bare enough it was, to be sure, but a wonderful contrast to Dolly's former home; and the children thought with great pleasure of seeing her brought there. This was to be done in a few days, but Dolly was not to be told of it until the time came. As Maggie and Bessie were on their way home with their mother, they met Uncle Ruthven and Aunt Bessie, the Colonel and Mrs. Rush, all going for a walk, and were invited to join them. Mamma agreed, if Bessie were not too tired, but the little girl declared she was not; and Uncle Ruthven promised to take her on his shoulder if she gave out before they reached home. Many a ride had the little "princess" taken on this kind, strong shoulder during their mountain rambles, and she now often wondered that she could ever have had "objections" to this dear, loving uncle who was always so ready to help and please her. So they all turned back together, and, passing by the end of the lake, struck into the road which led down the mountain. They strolled slowly down this for some little distance, and then Mrs. Bradford, and Colonel and Mrs. Rush, sat down to rest before they began their homeward walk; while Mr. and Mrs. Stanton and the two little girls wandered about, gathering wild flowers and mosses. Blue gentians, golden-rod, Michaelmas daisies, and the pretty, red partridge-berry grew all about, and the children soon had their hands full. Suddenly, Maggie spied a cluster of bright scarlet maple leaves, the first of the season. The gravelly side of the mountain sloped away here for a few feet, then fell sheer down in a tremendous precipice to the valley beneath; and a foot or so below the edge grew this beautiful, tantalizing bunch of leaves. It was quite beyond Maggie's reach, for she had been forbidden to go near that side of the road, where a slip, or false step, might have sent her down, down a thousand feet. "O Aunt Bessie!" she cried, "look what a lovely bunch of red leaves. It is just what you said you wanted for that c'llection you are making. I wonder if Uncle Ruthven could not reach it for you." Aunt Bessie turned and looked. "I can reach it for myself," she said. "Uncle Ruthven is upon the rocks, after those climbing-ferns. I will stand here and hook it up with this crooked stick." "Take care, Bessie, take care!" called her brother, the Colonel; "that is loose gravel there; if it slips with you, you are lost;" and, "Come back, Bessie, come back!" called her husband from above, seeing the danger more plainly than any of the others. It was too late. She looked up, kissed her hand gayly to her husband, and turned to obey. But her foot was already upon the treacherous gravel, and she slipped a little, recovered herself; then, startled, tried too suddenly to spring upon firmer ground, and slipped again. The gravel gave way more and more beneath her weight. She went sliding, sliding down, and, in an instant, had disappeared from the sight of the terrified group above. "Ruthven! O Ruthven!" was the wild cry that rang out on the still summer air, followed by a shriek of terror from the two little girls, and a groan from the Colonel's lips. Then a stillness like death itself, and the next moment Uncle Ruthven stood among them. But--how very strange Maggie and Bessie thought it--he did not seem frightened at all. His face was very white, to be sure; but his voice was steady and quiet, only it did not sound like Uncle Ruthven's voice, but like that of some stranger, and as if it came from far, far away. "She is holding by the bushes below," he said; and, as he spoke, he threw himself flat upon the ground, half on, half over, the edge of the precipice, and, reaching one arm, he succeeded in grasping, and but just grasping, the wrist of his wife. For it was as he had said. As she slid downwards, Mrs. Stanton had clutched wildly at the bushes growing below, and had succeeded in laying hold of them. But the bushes were slender, and not deeply rooted in the loose gravelly soil, and though Mrs. Stanton was a small, slight woman, even her light weight was too much for them, and they were just giving way, when her husband's strong, firm grasp was upon her wrist. Yes, he had her fast, holding back the precious life; but for how long? and what was to be done next? Mr. Stanton dared not rise upon his feet or even upon his knees, and so try to draw her up; he was a large, heavy man; the treacherous edge, which would not bear his wife's far lighter weight, would give way beneath his, and send them both to a fearful death below. Even now loose pebbles and gravel were falling down, and striking upon the sweet, upturned face which looked to him for help. Had her feet even been upon the slope, or the ledge beneath it, he might have drawn her up; but they were below it, hanging over that terrible precipice. In vain did the Colonel, kneeling beside his brother-in-law, clasp his arms about his waist, and so try to draw both him and his sister to a place of safety; the ground only broke away more as the added strain came upon Mr. Stanton's arm, and a fresh shower of gravel and stone went rolling down upon the poor sufferer below. Then came her voice in feeble tones. "Ruthven, it is of no use, love; my clothes are caught and I cannot free them. Let me go, my husband: it is only throwing away your life." "Not while God gives life and power to this hand. Courage, my darling, courage. Go, some of you, for help, ropes and men," he said, turning his haggard face towards the others, and still speaking in that strange tone, so unlike his own. In an instant, Mrs. Bradford was far up the road on her way to the house. To her little girls she seemed scarcely to touch the ground; to herself, it seemed as though leaden weights were upon her feet, and that she made no way at all. Just as she reached the lower end of the lake, she met her husband coming down to join them. Scarcely pausing, she spoke half a dozen words which sent him in haste on his way; then herself sped on towards the house. Meanwhile, how long the moments seemed to the agonized group below. There was nothing more to be done till help came. Could Mr. Stanton hold on, could that cruel gravel bear them both, till that should be? God, in whom alone they trusted, only knew. Mrs. Rush sat white and sick upon the bank, the little girls clinging to her and crying bitterly, but quietly. No sound broke that terrible stillness, except Uncle Ruthven's voice as he now and then spoke a few words of hope and encouragement to his wife, till a bird lighted a little way off, and broke into a joyous song. Maggie could not bear it: it seemed a mockery of their grief and agony; and, although at another time she would have been shocked at herself for doing such a thing, she now chased it away. "Oh! why don't help come to us?" she sobbed out. "Why don't God send us help?" Bessie raised her head from Mrs. Rush's lap, where she had hidden her face. "Maybe we did not ask Him quite right," she said. "Aunt May, say a prayer for Aunt Bessie and for us all." Mrs. Rush tried to speak, but could not. One ceaseless, agonized prayer had been going up from her heart; but she could not put it into words, and only shook her head. Bessie looked at her for a moment, and then, as if she understood, said,-- "Shall I say it, Aunt May?" Mrs. Rush nodded assent; and, kneeling at her side, Bessie clasped her little hands, and looking up to heaven, said,-- "Dear Father in heaven, we are so very troubled, we don't any of us know quite what to say; but you know what we want, even if we can't find the words, and our heart-prayers do just as well for you. Please send dear Aunt Bessie some help very quick. Have pity on her, and make her know our Father don't forget her. Amen." It was said with many a gasp and sob of terror and distress; and, when it was finished, the little one hid her face in Mrs. Rush's lap again. But she was right. The all-merciful Father had heard their earnest "heart-prayers," which could not be put into words; and help, such as they did not look for, was at hand. None saw the figure bounding down the mountain side with such headlong speed--now swinging itself down some steep ascent by the branches of a tree, now springing from rock to rock like a wild goat--till it stood among them, breathless and eager. The Colonel had risen to his feet, and, going a few steps up the bank where the ground was firmer, grasped the trunk of a tree for support, and looked over the edge at his poor sister. God had been merciful to her, and now sense and feeling had left her, and she hung unconscious in her husband's hand. Colonel Rush saw now what he had not known before,--a narrow ledge of rock, scarce six inches wide, jutted beyond the slope of gravel, and, on this, his sister's form partly rested. Well that it was so, or not even her husband's tremendous strength could have supported the strain so long. The Colonel eyed this ledge eagerly. It must have been on this that his brother-in-law relied, when he called for men and ropes. Could some one but reach it, and be held from above, they might fasten a rope about his sister's waist, and so she be drawn safely up. Could Ruthven hold on till then? The Colonel looked around him, for a moment, with a wild thought of trying to reach it himself; the next he put it away as worse than folly. There was no rope, nothing to hold him or his sister; and if there had been, who was there to support and guide it? No one but a weak woman and two little children. He himself was a tall man, of no light weight, and with a lame foot: the attempt was sure to bring destruction upon himself, his sister, and her husband. As he turned away, with another silent appeal for help, Lem stood before him. "I seen it up there," he said, hurriedly, "and thought I'd never git here. I say, mister,"--to Mr. Stanton,--"if I only had a rope, or a bit of something to fasten about me, I know I could get down there, and put it about her, so you could histe her up." The quick eye of the boy, used to all manner of make-shifts and hair-breadth escapes, had taken it all in, and saw a way of safety, if the means were but at hand. He looked around, and spied a light shawl lying unheeded upon the ground. He snatched it up, tried its strength, and shook his head. "'Twon't do," he said, "'taint long enough so; and, if we split it, 'twon't be strong enough." The children and Mrs. Rush had risen, and were listening; and now a quick thought darted into Maggie's mind. "Uncle Horace," she said, springing eagerly forward, and pointing to the broad plaid ribbon about her sister's waist, "there's my sash and Bessie's. Wouldn't they be of any use?" "Thank God! the very thing!" exclaimed the Colonel; and, in an instant, the broad, stout ribbons were untied from the children's waists, and strongly knotted together. "Can you hold the boy, Horace?" asked Mrs. Rush. "With God's help, and what you can give me, I trust so," he answered. "You must keep far enough from the edge not to slide over yourselves, you see," said Lem, coolly, as he and the Colonel drew strongly upon the knot. The Colonel measured the ribbon with his eye. Tied around Lena's waist, it would scarcely give the length they needed, and it was not safe to fasten it to any of the boy's ragged, worn-out clothes. He snatched up the shawl, twisted and wound it about Lem's waist, fastening it securely, then drew the ribbon through it. As he did so, Bessie cried out,-- "Papa! here's dear papa! That is help." No one could bring such help as papa, Bessie thought; and there he came, running down the hill, and stood among them. A few words made him understand what they were about; and, as Lem was now ready, he, with the Colonel, took fast hold of the long ribbon. Slowly and carefully, with the Colonel's cane in his hand, the boy stepped over the edge,--not just above Mrs. Stanton, but at the spot where the Colonel had looked over at her,--down, step by step, till he had disappeared from the sight of all but Mr. Stanton, who, lying over the edge, watched him, God only knows, with what sickening hope; the loose soil crumbled and slid beneath him; but, light and sinewy as he was, his bare feet, trained to all kinds of mountain climbing, took hold where those of a heavier person, with shoes upon them, must have faltered and slipped past all recovery. He had reached the ledge, and now, step by step, slowly neared the lady. Sure-footed as a goat, steady of head and nerve, reckless of danger, yet with sense enough to remember the Colonel's charge not to look below him, he reached her side, freed her clothes from the clinging bushes; then, with a care and steadiness which Mr. Stanton, spite of his agonizing anxiety, wondered to see, unrolled the shawl from his own body, and fastened it about that of the senseless figure beside him; then gave the word to raise her. Up, up, steadily, inch by inch, was the precious form drawn, till her husband's arm could grasp her waist, and she was lifted safe,--but oh! so white and still,--and laid upon the grassy bank; while Uncle Ruthven, almost as white, fell exhausted beside her. But he was on his knees and bending over her, by the time that Mr. Bradford and Colonel Rush had lowered the ribbon again; and Lem, flushed and triumphant, was drawn up unhurt. The boy was very proud, and perhaps justly so, of the feat he had performed, and would have broken out into some loud, exultant expressions, if Mr. Bradford had not checked him; and then, before a word was spoken, the gentlemen uncovered their heads, and Mr. Bradford spoke a few words of earnest, solemn thanksgiving for the wonderful mercy just shown them. Lem stared, open-mouthed; and the instant he was allowed to speak, sprang forward to Mr. Stanton,-- "I told you I'd do you a good turn, if I got the way, mister; and I did, didn't I?" "By God's mercy, yes," said Mr. Stanton. "May he bless you for this, my brave boy. I will be a friend to you as long as I live." Lem immediately turned half a dozen somersets, which, in spite of their admiration and gratitude, greatly disgusted Maggie and Bessie; for they did not see how he could have the heart to do such a thing while dear Aunt Bessie lay there, so white and still. They could scarcely believe Aunt May's assurance that she was not dead, but had only fainted, and were still filled with terror and distress. And now, Uncle Ruthven lifted her in his arms, and they all set out on the way home; Lem keeping close to Mr. Stanton with his precious burden, as if he felt that he had some sort of a claim on her. But when they were about half way home, they met all the men and boys from the Lake House coming down the road with ropes, and Lem was taken with a sudden fit of shyness, and, turning about, rushed away without a word. [Illustration] XVI. _LEM'S SORROW._ IT would be impossible to tell what joy and gratitude filled the hearts of all at the Lake House that night. It was true, indeed, that the dear one who had been snatched from such a fearful death was very ill from the fright and shock, weak and exhausted, and dreadfully nervous. Her arm, too, was badly hurt with the long-continued strain upon it, and her sweet face scratched and bruised with the falling stones and gravel; but the precious life had been spared, by God's great mercy, and they might hope, that, in a few days, she would be herself again. The whole family had been sadly shaken by the terrible accident. Not only on that night, but for several succeeding ones, Maggie and Bessie were constantly starting awake with cries of fear, and then they would sob and tremble so, that it was difficult to quiet them. Maggie would burst into tears for the merest trifle,--sometimes, even if she were spoken to suddenly, and then would cry and laugh by turns; and Bessie was often found in some corner, with her face hidden, sobbing as if her heart would break. "Just because I could not help it, mamma," she would say, when asked the reason; and she would shudder and quiver all over, at the least mention of that dreadful day. The shock had been too much for the tender young hearts, and it took them some time to recover from it. It was necessary to keep the house very still, on account of Aunt Bessie, who was so very nervous that the least sound disturbed her; and roguish, noisy Frankie was, by Aunt Patty's earnest request, allowed to go to her house, where, for a few days, he lorded it over that humble servant of his to his heart's content. But there was no need to send the little girls away; they were only too quiet, and moped about the house in a way that was quite melancholy to see. The weather was damp and rainy, so they could not be much out of doors; and, although their friends did all they could to divert them with stories, reading aloud, and games, they did not seem able to shake off their sadness. The truth was, they could not forget Aunt Bessie's face, as they had seen it lying on Uncle Ruthven's shoulder, white and still; and it scarcely seemed possible to them that she could ever be well again. But one day, grandmamma, coming out of Aunt Bessie's room, found the two little maidens sitting disconsolately on the stairs, looking wistfully at the door of the sick-room. She stepped back, spoke a few words to those within, and then, coming to the children, asked them if they would like to go and see the dear invalid. Bessie sprang eagerly forward, but Maggie, with the fear of seeing Aunt Bessie look as she had done on that dreadful day, hung back a little, till Bessie urged her forward. They went in with hushed steps, for grandmamma said they must be very quiet, stay but a moment, and on no account must they speak of the accident. There lay Aunt Bessie on the pillows. Very white still was her face; but life and love looked out at them from the dear eyes: it was Aunt Bessie's own sweet smile which welcomed them, her own gentle voice which told them how glad she was to see them, her own warm kiss which met theirs. "Aunt Bessie!" said her little namesake, and then she nestled her face on the pillows beside her, and said no more. But there was no need: there was a whole world of tenderness and joy in those two words, and Aunt Bessie felt it. Maggie said nothing, but stood with swimming eyes, and rising color, gazing at her aunt, till Mrs. Stanton said,-- "Have you not a word for me, dear Maggie?" Then Maggie gave a wistful kind of a smile, and tried to speak, but broke down in a half-choked sob. "Do not be worried about me, dearie," said Aunt Bessie; "I shall be quite well again in a few days." Maggie did not answer, except by gently kissing the poor hurt hand, which lay upon the coverlet; but it was plainly to be seen that she was a good deal excited; and Uncle Ruthven, fearing one of her sudden bursts of crying, said the children had stayed long enough, and led them from the room. Then Maggie's tears came forth, but they were happy tears, for she and Bessie were both satisfied about Aunt Bessie now; and she soon wiped them away, and from this time was her own bright, merry self. And that afternoon there was a new subject of interest for them, for the weather cleared up warm and beautiful, and it was thought safe to bring Dolly to the better quarters provided for her. Mrs. Bradford and Mrs. Porter went to tell her what was to be done, and then came John Porter and one of his brothers to carry her over. They lifted her bed between them, and moved as carefully as possible, but it was a rough way, with many ups and downs, and spite of all their care Dolly suffered very much. As they left the shanty, the sick child raised her head a little, and, looking towards the side where her flower-pots stood, cried out,-- "Oh! my posy boxes, bring 'em along, Lem." Lem obeyed, and, taking up the two flower-pots which contained the scragly, sickly looking plants, trotted along beside Mrs. Bradford with one on each arm. "She sets such a heap on the old things," he said to the lady as if in excuse. "I'm sure I don't know what for; but since she's been better, she's like crazed about 'em, and would have 'em brought in every day for her to see. I've watered 'em all along 'cause _he_ told me to." The _he_ of whom Lem spoke was Mr. Stanton; and whatever he said and did had become right in the boy's eyes. Lem had improved a good deal during these three weeks, though the change was by no means so surprising in him as it was in Dolly. Dolly was trying in her own simple, ignorant way, to please that Heavenly Friend of whom she had so lately learned; while Lem, as yet, looked no higher than man's praise. Still it was much that such a hold had been gained upon the boy. He looked up to Mr. Stanton with a blind admiration and desire for his approval, which kept him from much mischief and wrong-doing. It was very strange, he thought, that this magnificent gentleman--whose appearance, tremendous strength, and wonderful adventures, made him a great hero in Lem's eyes--should trouble and interest himself so much about a poor, ragged boy, for whom every one had a hard word; and who, Lem knew very well, richly deserved all that could be said of him. To please Mr. Stanton had now become the aim of Lem's life, and with this purpose he was learning to give up many of his old bad ways. Mr. Stanton had even partly succeeded in curing him of his habit of using bad words every time he spoke. One day when he was telling the boy a story in which he was much interested, Lem suddenly broke out with some expression of delight, mingling with it a dreadful oath. Mr. Stanton immediately ceased his tale; and, when asked by Lem why he did so, told him that he could not talk to a boy who dared to take the name of his Maker in vain. Lem was disappointed, and angry too, but it did him good; and when, the next day, the gentleman offered to finish the interrupted story, he was very careful not to offend again. This happened more than once, and each time Lem became more unwilling to risk not only the loss of his story, but also the look of grave displeasure on his new friend's face. He also tried to keep the old place a little tidier, and, when he knew that any of the family from the Lake House were coming there, would wash his face and hands; and a comb having been brought by some of the ladies for Dolly's use, he would draw it a few times through his tangled locks. On the day before this, Mrs. Bradford had given him an old suit of Harry's, and he was now dressed in this, which, though too large for him, was at least clean and whole; and a proud boy was Lem as he walked by the lady's side. Lem thought himself rather a hero, and not without reason, for the share he had had in saving young Mrs. Stanton's life; and was much inclined to talk of it to any one who would listen to him. He was still rather shy of the boys; but since the little girls had been so often to see Dolly, he had been quite friendly with them; and they were ready enough to allow him all the credit he deserved for the service he had rendered to their dear Aunt Bessie. Poor boy! praise and encouragement were so new to him, that it was perhaps no wonder he craved all that could fall to him. On that memorable afternoon, he had been sitting on the rock in front of the hut, watching our friends as they sauntered down the road below him. He saw them stop, some sitting down to rest, while Mr. and Mrs. Stanton and the little girls wandered about in search of flowers. He saw the lady fall, and was off in an instant, dashing over every thing which lay in his way, with a reckless, headlong speed, that soon brought him to the spot. Thanks to his wild, rambling life, Lem knew every foot of the mountain, and, even as he went, thought of what he might do, quite sure that he could keep his footing on that narrow ledge, if he could but once reach it. How well he had done, we know; and Lem knew right well himself, and meant that others should know it too. Too much puffed up in his own conceit, he certainly was; but we must remember how ignorant he was, and even this was better than that he should feel himself the miserable, degraded outcast of a few weeks since, whose "hand was against every man, and every man's hand against him." He had not seen Mr. Stanton since the day of the accident; for, now that his wife was ill, the gentleman had not the time and attention to give to him and Dolly that he had before; but he knew that he was not forgotten, for more than one kind message had been sent to him. "Think I could get a sight of my gentleman, to-day?" he asked of Mrs. Bradford. "Of my brother?" said the lady. "Yes, I think so; he said he would see you when you came to the Lake House." "That was a fustrate job I did for him--getting the lady up; now, warn't it? He said he'd never forget it." "We shall none of us forget it," said Mrs. Bradford; "but, Lem, when one has done a great kindness to another person, it is better not to talk of it too much." "No, I aint goin' to," said Lem, with a self-satisfied air. "I'll tell you if it hadn't been for me, the lady would have been gone afore those fellers got there with the ropes. He couldn't ha' held on much longer, and like enough they'd both gone down together." Mrs. Bradford shuddered at the thought. "Now, what do you s'pose he's goin' to do for me?" continued Lem. "Somethin' fustrate?" "I think he is going to try to teach you to do right, and to put you in the way of earning an honest living, Lem. What would you like him to do for you?" "Well," said Lem, "you give me these clothes, and now I'd just as lieve he'd give me one of his old hats and a red shirt; so I'd be decent-like; and then I'd like him to get me to be an engine driver on one of them railroads. If it wasn't for Dolly I'd like to be sent off on a ship to the place where the tigers and elephants is, so I could hunt 'em. But then she'd be lonesome after me; and if I was engine driver, I could come home every spell and see her. And I'm goin' to fix her a fustrate home, when I get a livin'. But I was thinkin' what will I do with her meantime. Do you think if _he_ spoke a word for her, Porters would let her stay round their place? I guess she wouldn't plague 'em none now; and, when she gets well, she could do errands and such like for them." Mrs. Bradford thought this a fitting time to tell Lem what he must know sooner or later. "Dolly is going to a better home than any that you or we can give her, Lem," she said, gently. "She is going to that home which Jesus has made ready for her,--His own bright, glorious heaven, where she will never be tired or sick or hungry any more." Lem stopped short in the path, and turned to the lady. "She aint, I tell you," he said, fiercely. "You mean she's a goin' to be an angel,--what she's always talking about nowadays,--and she'll have to die for that,--_he_ said so,--and she aint agoin' to. She's better now, I know; for she don't screech out with the pain like she used to." "No," said Mrs. Bradford, standing still beside him, as he looked down the path after Dolly and her bearers, "she does not suffer as she did; but she is more ill and grows weaker every day. She cannot live many days, Lem; and she knows that she is going to Jesus, and wanted that you should be told." Lem set down the flower-pots, and dug his knuckles into his eyes. "She shan't neither," he exclaimed. "I'm goin' to ask _him_ to make her well. He can do it, I know; and, if he will, I won't ask him for nothin' else along of the good turn I done him, gettin' up the lady." "My poor boy," said Mrs. Bradford, pityingly, "neither my brother, nor any other person can do more for Dolly than to make her comfortable for the few days she will be here. Her life is not in his hands, or in the doctor's, but in those of God, who sees best to take her to Himself." Lem threw himself passionately upon the ground. "'Taint fair," he sobbed. "She's all I've got, and I always was good to her, now; ask her if I wasn't. I always gave her half what I got, and I saved her many a beatin'." "Yes," said Mrs. Bradford, sitting down beside him, and laying her hand with a soothing touch upon his arm, "Dolly says you have been a good brother to her, and the only thing that makes her sorry to go is the fear that you may miss her." "Like enough I'll miss her," said Lem, in a sullen kind of sorrow. "But," said Mrs. Bradford, "you may see her again if you will live so that Jesus may some day take you to dwell with Him in His glorious home. Will you not try to do this, Lem?" "Couldn't no way," replied Lem, sitting upright; "they say only good folks get to heaven, and don't you know they say I'm the worst boy here about? They used to say Doll was the worst girl too, and--don't you tell nobody I said it--she did do a heap of bad things, that's so! How's she goin' to get to heaven?" "God says in His Word, 'believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved.' Dolly does believe on her Saviour, and He will wash her soul from all its sin and fit it to live with Him. He has given her but little time to serve Him on earth since she has learned to love and trust Him; but she is doing all that she can: she is sorry for past sin, and whatever she thinks Jesus would like her to do, she tries to do." "She's gettin' awful good, that's true," said Lem. "She made you take back old Miss Mapes' handkercher, and made me go and tell Miss Jones she was sorry for unhookin' her clothes-line and lettin' down the clothes in the dirt; and, oh! do you think, there's the biggest kind of a squash down in Todd's cornfield, and I was a goin' to get it for _him_, and Dol coaxed me not. She said 'twant right; and, when I said I guessed God had liever he'd have it than Farmer Todd, she said, No: God gave it to Todd, and so he ought to have it. She was so set about it, I had to tell her I wouldn't take it." "Such things show Dolly's true repentance and love to her Saviour," said Mrs. Bradford. "If we wish to please Jesus and come to Him, and are truly sorry for the wrong things we have done, we will try to undo them so far as we can." She talked to Lem a little more of Dolly's new hope, and the Saviour's great love and forgiveness, and then told him they had better go on. "Wonder what she wants these for, if she's goin' away to leave 'em," said Lem, sorrowfully, as he took up his flower-pots. "Sick people often take such fancies," said Mrs. Bradford; "and when Dolly has gone you will be glad to think that you have pleased her by even such a small thing as caring for her plants." "And I do think they've picked up a bit," said Lem. "See, this one has two buds on it. I wouldn't wonder if they made flowers." When Mrs. Bradford and Lem reached the tool-house, or "Dolly's home," as the children now called it, they found the sick girl laid comfortably in the neat bed which had been provided for her; while Mrs. Rush and Mrs. Porter were beside her, feeding her with some nice beef-tea. "Good Lem," she cried, when she saw the flower-pots; and then, turning to Mrs Porter, she asked, "Could you let them stay here?" "To be sure, child," said Mrs. Porter; and Mrs. Bradford, taking the flower-pots from Lem, placed them in the little casement window opposite to Dolly's bed. Dolly looked pleased, but she was too much worn out to say more; and, when she had taken her tea, turned her face on her pillow, and fell into the most quiet sleep she had had since her illness. [Illustration] [Illustration] XVII. _DOLLY GOES HOME._ DAY after day of the lovely September weather passed by, bringing change to God's world without and within. The days were warm and sunny, but the nights were cool; and now and then came the quiet frost, painting the grand old forest-trees and their clinging vines. The Virginia creepers--always the first to change--turned a bright crimson; here and there a maple flung out a scarlet branch, like a gorgeous banner in the air; while chestnuts and birch showed a few golden leaves, in beautiful contrast to the vivid green of the foliage which was yet untouched. Each day Aunt Bessie improved. She came out among the family once more, and sat with them in hall, parlor, and piazza, and even took short drives and walks, though she was still pale, and the poor hurt arm could not yet be taken from the sling. But, as she said, she had now a dozen pairs of hands instead of one, for all were anxious to serve her, and could not do enough for the dear treasure they had so nearly lost. But, though strength and health came to her with tender nursing and the lovely air and sunny days, they did not bring them to the poor little waif who had been cast upon the care and pity of these kind friends. She did not suffer much now, except when the cough racked her poor little wasted frame; but she grew weaker and weaker, and all knew that the end must soon come. Dolly had long been ailing, far more so than she imagined. Lem knew no more than herself, and there had been no one else to care for her. There had been no mother's quickened ear to mark the warning cough, no mother's loving eye to see the sunken cheek, no mother's tender hand to guard her child from damp and cold; and so the trouble had gone on unheeded and unchecked, till the night spent in the Ice Glen had finished the mischief already at work. Maggie and Bessie came in to see her very often, bringing her fruit and flowers, and now and then some other little offering; some dainty which had been given to themselves and saved for her, a picture or a toy. For the toys she did not care much; indeed, they were so new to her that she scarcely understood them, and was too weak to play with them; but the pictures always interested her, especially one of Christ blessing little children, which Bessie had brought her. She would lie for hours with this in her hand, looking at it now and then with a pleased, happy smile, which said that it told its own story to her. But as the poor little body grew weaker, her love and trust in her Saviour grew stronger and brighter. A very simple faith was that of poor Dolly; but she knew in whom she had trusted,--the Jesus who had died on the cross to save her soul and fit it for His heaven; and who had said, "Suffer little children to come unto me." And the "little one," as she called Bessie, had told her that Jesus meant _all_ little children; that whoever would, might come to this blessed Saviour, and he would take them in His arms, and love and care for them. And Dolly "loved Him because he had first loved" her, and longed to go and live with Him for ever in that bright world where she had been told He waited for her. It was wonderful to see how, without any direct teaching, she caught the words of the hymns the children sang to her, and how she would fit them to herself and her own needs. As for Lem, he watched her with a sort of dumb sorrow which was touching to see. When he first saw Mr. Stanton, he made a piteous appeal to him, "to get her well, not to let her die;" and when the gentleman told him, as Mrs. Bradford had done, that he could do nothing, and that life and death were in the hands of God, who saw fit to take Dolly to Himself, he refused to speak or think of any thing for his own good. "Lem," said Dolly to him one day, "why don't you be glad I'm going to Jesus? I'm glad. I asked Him a many times to take me." "'Cause I can't," said Lem, sullenly. "I thought we was goin' to get along fustrate if _he_ looked after us; but 'taint no good gettin' to be engine driver now, if you're goin' away." "Oh, yes, it is!" said Dolly; "and you'll be good, won't you, Lem, and not steal no more, and try to come to Jesus too; and I'll ask Him to help you like He helped me?" "I don't see as it's much help to make you sick and let you die," said Lem. "I don't know," said Dolly. "I guess, maybe it's just the bein' sick and dyin' is a good help. You know, Lem, if I hadn't a been sick and the little one found me there, I'd never a heard about Jesus, and I guess the best help He can give me is to take me right up there. I asked little one t'other day how she come in that out-of-the-way place, where I thought nobody never come 'cept for hidin', and she said the man brought her; but she thought Jesus sent him, so she could tell me 'bout Him. I guess He did too; I guess He knew I was lonesome and tired, and would like to be an angel. Don't you think that was help, Lem; and wasn't He good to let it come to me?" This had been said with many a pause and very feebly, for Dolly was too weak to talk much now; and a sudden fit of coughing took away her breath before Lem could answer. The dying child had never lost her interest in the poor, sickly marigolds in her pots. They had for some reason, too, thrived rather better in their new home, and the two buds Lem had pointed out to Mrs. Bradford had grown larger, and one of them was now opening into a ragged, stunted flower. But it was very beautiful in poor Dolly's eyes, for she had raised and cared for it herself; and no other blossom could be so lovely for her. But the more she loved and cherished her own plant, the more bitterly did she grieve over the destruction of the gardens of the two little girls who had been so kind and forgiving to her. She knew for what purpose they had taken so much pains with them, especially with the heliotrope and geranium which had been so ruthlessly torn to pieces; for Mrs. Porter had told her, and her sorrow and repentance were very bitter and very sincere. One Sunday morning, towards the end of September, Maggie and Bessie went over with their mother to see her. She was lying with her sunken eyes fixed on the marigolds, which stood on a small table beside the bed; and, oh, how wan, white, and wasted she looked! Yet there was a look of perfect peace on the poor face; and, when the children came in, she turned to them with a bright smile. "They're coming on nice, aint they?" she said; "don't they look pretty?" Maggie and Bessie were rather uncomfortable, for they did not think the forlorn marigolds pretty, and they did not wish to hurt Dolly's feelings by saying so; but mamma came to their relief, by saying, as she could with truth,-- "It has agreed with your pets to be up here, Dolly; they have done better since you came." "Yes," said Dolly; and then asked, "Could you give me a nice bit of white paper and a scissor?" "Certainly," said Mrs. Bradford, and sent Maggie over to the house for these things. When Maggie came back, Dolly wanted to raise herself and take the things from her, but could not do it. Mrs. Bradford put her arm under the pillow and lifted her. Then the child tried to fold and cut the paper; but the trembling fingers had no power, and paper and scissors fell from them; while Dolly looked about her with a piteous, disappointed air. "What is it you want, Dolly?" asked Mrs. Bradford; "cannot we do it for you?" "I know," said Lem; "she wants to fix up her posy, like the gardener fixes 'em up to the big farm." Lem meant the homestead. "She seen him through the hedge, one day, doin' of it, and she said this mornin' she wanted hers fixed up that way." Mrs. Bradford understood at once. Poor, simple Dolly had seen the gardener shielding his choice blossoms by a circlet of fringed paper; and she would fain do as much for the stunted little favorite which was so lovely in her eyes. "Maggie will cut it for you," said the lady; and, under her mother's direction, Maggie's deft little fingers soon prepared the paper to suit Dolly. But she could not be satisfied without putting it about the flower with her own hands, while Lem held the pot for her; and it was touching to see how the poor, wasted fingers fluttered feebly about the blossom that was to outlive her,--touching it so tenderly, and folding the fringed paper about it with such care. It was done at last, and, as Mrs. Bradford laid her back, she looked at her work with a contented smile; and then, exhausted with the effort, closed her eyes, and whispered faintly, "Sing." The little ones sang her favorite hymns, until she slept,--slept the last sleep which was to know an awakening upon earth,--and then stole softly out with their mother. But mamma was back and forth all day,--far more so than usual; and in the afternoon, when the hour came for Sunday school, the children, knowing she was there, ran over to give her a kiss before they went to their class. "We'll ask Dolly what she wants us to sing," said Maggie; "for you know she can hear us quite well from our Sunday bower." The door stood open, for the day was so soft and warm, that, save for the changing leaves which showed that autumn was at hand, they might have thought themselves in midsummer. It was a lovely afternoon,--scarce a breath of air was stirring, and the lake lay calm and placid, the trees and rocks reflected on its surface with surprising clearness. A Sabbath hush was in the air; a kind of glory from the golden sunshine seemed to fall on all around,--on lake and mountain, woods and rocks, on the lawn and the cosy old house. It streamed through the lattice of Dolly's little window too, and fell upon the small head which lay on the pillow. Mrs. Porter would have shut it out; but Dolly murmured, "No, no," and seemed to like it. There was even a deeper stillness within the room than without, for there was an angel waiting there, and those who watched little Dolly felt his presence. The children felt the solemn hush; and their little feet paused upon the threshold of the open door. Mamma and papa were there, Uncle Ruthven and Mrs. Porter; and poor Lem, crouched at Mr. Stanton's feet, his hands clasped about his knees, his head bent upon them. Mamma put out her hand, and beckoned to the children; and, with careful steps, they came to the bedside. "Would you like to speak to my little girls, Dolly?" asked Mrs. Bradford, gently. Dolly opened her eyes, and fixed them on the children, with a wistful smile. "You was good to Doll," she said, in a faint whisper. "Jesus sent you. He loves you, 'cause you was good--and--I'll be an angel--and tell Him--you teached me about Him, and--He'll love you more. Good-by." "Good-by, Dolly," said Bessie, not knowing this was to be the last good-by, and yet with the tears gathering in her eyes. "Good-by, Dolly," whispered Maggie; "we are going to our Sunday school, and you will hear us sing." "We'll think a good deal about you, and sing all your hymns, shall we?" asked Bessie. "Rest for the weary," sighed Dolly. "My darlings," said mamma, "ask Aunt May to leave the lessons for this afternoon, and let you sing as long as you can;" and drawing them to her, she kissed first one, and then the other, with a long, tender kiss. Dolly's eyes followed them, as they went out, and then came back to Mrs. Bradford's face with a longing, wistful look. "What is it, my child?" asked the lady. "I guess, if I'd had a mother, she'd kiss me, like that,--don't you?" "Shall I kiss you, Dolly?" asked Mrs. Bradford, with tearful eyes. "Could you?" said Dolly, with a brightening look. Warm from the loving mother's heart came the motherly kiss, which Dolly had never known before; and with a long, satisfied sigh, she again closed her eyes. Then came the sweet voices of the children and their teacher, hymn after hymn of infant praise floating in, as it seemed, on that soft, shimmering sunshine, and filling the little room with music. Dolly lay still, and they could not tell whether she were listening or not. Presently, she opened her eyes again, started, and murmured,-- "Oh! I don't want to go in the Ice Glen; it's dark and cold,"--then, more gently, "well, never mind; Jesus will take care of me, I guess,--yes, Jesus will. He'll let me--be an angel--to praise Him--day--and--night. He does--care--for me." Slowly, slowly the words dropped from her lips; then came one or two fluttering sighs; and a little ransomed soul, thirsting for the water of life, had flown away, and was safe within the bosom of Him who has said, "Suffer little children to come unto me." The little, weary, homesick child had gone home to the love that never fails, to the care that never tires. Lem came over to the Lake House, the next day, carrying one of Dolly's flower-pots on each arm; and, setting them down before Maggie and Bessie, who were on the piazza with Uncle Ruthven and Aunt Bessie, drew his sleeve across his eyes, and said,-- "She telled me I was to bring 'em to you, and say, maybe they'd go a little bit to make up for the sp'ilin' of your gardens, and maybe, when the flowers was out, they'd do to go to the show. That was what she was settin' so much by 'em for, when she lay a dyin'." The tears which had not fallen over the happy little child who had gone to be an angel, fell fast over the simple tokens of gratitude and repentance she had left behind her; and faithful was the care bestowed upon them by our Maggie and Bessie. Not with any thought of taking them to the flower show, however; it was only for Dolly's sake: it would never do to display these wretched little plants beside some of the really beautiful and flourishing things which their more fortunate brothers and cousins had raised. Besides, these were not of their own growing, and Maggie and Bessie had, long since, given up all thought of trying for a prize. A few days after Dolly's death, Mrs. Bradford took up Maggie's second volume of "The Complete Family," which she had not looked over for some time, and there she found written something which touched her very much. Mingled with many other things, giving an account of their summer among the mountains, and written in Maggie's own droll, peculiar way, ran the story of Lem and Dolly, of their persecutions, and of the difficulty she and Bessie had had in forgiving their many injuries; but all that was not new to the mother, who now read for the first time what Maggie had written during the last week. It ran thus, leaving out Maggie's mistakes:-- "M. and B. Happy were very thankful to our Father in heaven, because he let them be of a mind to forgive Dolly. If they had not forgiven her, and made up their resolutions to do a kind thing for her, then B. would have run away when she saw Dolly, and not waited to speak to her and give the banana, and so nobody might have known that Dolly was sick, and she might have died without knowing about Jesus, who died for her; but she never knew it till Bessie told her. And, oh, how dreadful that would have been for M. and B. Happy! but God was so good as to spare them of it, and Dolly learned about Jesus, and loved Him, and wanted to please Him, only she did not have much time; but Jesus does not care about that, so long as she believed on Him, and loved Him, and He took Dolly away to His own heaven to live with Him. And M. and B. Happy were happy about it, even if Dolly was dead, because papa and mamma, and all our grown-up, wise people, think she is happy with Jesus; and we hope our Father will let it be a little jewel to carry to Him, when the angel takes us over the river, and the Elder Brother will say we did it unto Him, because we did it to His poor little lamb that did not know about Him. And now M. and B. Happy do not mind so much about the gardens, even though they can't try for a prize, and B. says she had rather have Dolly's little marigold than the prettiest prize that ever was, but I am afraid M. would not; but then, you see, she is not so very perfect as B., and besides I don't like the smell of the marigolds: I think it's awful. And God let M. have a very happy dream. M. knows it is foolish to think much about dreams, because they are not a bit of consequence, and she hopes any one who reads this will not think she was so foolish as to believe any thing about it; but it did make her feel a little glad about it, and B. liked it too. The dream was this: I was out by the lake with Bessie, but it was the night, and oh! there were so very many stars, and Dolly's little bed was out by the lake too, and she was in it, quite alive. And we heard voices all around, but we could not see where they came from; but we knew it was the angels, and they were calling to Dolly, and she came out of her bed, and tried to go, but she could not, because she had no wings. Then such a beautiful thing happened,--the stars came down out of the sky, and fixed themselves down to the ground where Dolly stood, and she went up, up, up on them, just as if they were steps, to heaven. And when she stepped over each one, it went right back to its place in the sky; but it left a long light behind it, like the shooting star we saw the other night; and at the top of the stair of stars was a soft, white cloud; and when Dolly came to it, a hand came out of the cloud, and took her in, and we knew she was quite safe, and would never come back again. But for all I was glad M. cried, and dear mamma came and woke her up, and asked me why I cried, and kissed me, and I told her I was glad Dolly went to heaven, because she had no precious mamma to kiss and love her, or to tell her troubles and happinesses to. So it was a very happy, grateful thing, all about Dolly." A very happy, grateful thing, the dear mamma thought it too; and very happy, grateful tears were those which dimmed her eyes as she read her little daughter's simple story, and then thanked God that the lessons of love and forgiveness which were given to her little ones fell not upon stony ground, but took root and bore precious fruit in those tender young hearts. [Illustration] XVIII. _GOOD-BY TO CHALECOO._ AND now there was much talk of going home, and the time for the flower show was at hand, and our Maggie and Bessie could not help a little feeling of sorrow, that they had nothing to show that they had tried to do as well as the others. They had thought they should not mind it so very much; but as the time drew near, they found they did; and many a sigh and sad thought went to the memory of the lost heliotrope and geranium. The day came, and the whole party from the Lake House, from grandmamma down to baby, were to go and spend the day at the homestead, and to have a grand family dinner after the flower show. Soon after breakfast, the wagons came to the door, and the happy, merry party were ready to be packed in. The boys had already taken their seats in the last one, where the prize flowers and vegetables had been stored; and the little girls were waiting their time to be put snugly in between some of the older people, when Bessie suddenly bethought herself of the marigolds, which had not been attended to that morning. "O Maggie!" she said: "we forgot to water Dolly's marigolds. Let's run and do it before we go." Away they scampered to the side of the house where they had stood Dolly's treasures, but came back in a moment, with wondering faces, crying out,-- "Somebody has moved our marigolds." "Where are our marigolds?" "Never mind the marigolds now," said papa, catching up Bessie, and putting her into the wagon, where, the next moment, she was seated on Colonel Rush's knee,--"never mind the marigolds; they are safe, and will keep until you come back again;" and then he whisked Maggie into the wagon, and she was nestled into a seat beside Uncle Ruthven, with his arm about her to keep her from falling out. Away they went, the whole party as merry as crickets,--laughing, singing, and joking, as they drove down the mountain. They might make as much noise as they pleased, on this lonely mountain road; there was no one but the squirrels and the wood-pigeons to be consulted, and they did not seem to object to the fun. The woods were lovely to-day. Crimson and gold, scarlet and purple, were gaining fast upon the green of the past summer; each moment, some one was calling to the others to look here, and look there, at the brilliant leaves, so wonderful in the richness and variety of their gay coloring. When they had come down into the valley, where farms and cottages lay, and where people were coming and going, papa said they had better make less noise, or these good, quiet folks would think them a band of wild Indians coming down from the mountains. But the boys were beside themselves with fun and frolic, and it seemed impossible for them to be quiet. They had a flag with them, which they waved and cheered whenever they passed a house or saw laborers at work in the fields; and the people seemed to like it, and came running to see the fun, and waved and cheered in return, as good-naturedly as if they thought it was all done for their pleasure. As they passed Aunt Patty's cottage, she drove out of the gate in her low pony carriage, with Nonesuch before it, on their way to the homestead. The old lady nodded and smiled, as if she were glad to see them so happy, but Nonesuch seemed not only surprised, but displeased, at finding himself in such jolly company; and, after some shaking of his head and putting back of his ears, stood stock still in the middle of the road; nor could all Aunt Patty's coaxing or scolding, or even some gentle touches of the whip, persuade him to go on, till the whole party were out of sight. Aunt Patty and Nonesuch often had such differences of opinion, and I am sorry to say the donkey generally had the better of the old lady. What a delightful bustle there was when our friends arrived at the homestead, and the whole family came pouring out to receive them! For the time, Maggie and Bessie forgot the little sore spot in their hearts which was caused by the thought that they had no share in that which brought them all together, until lisping little Katy Bradford, who was very fond of her young cousins, said,-- "Maggie and Bethie, I'm tho thorry you have no flowerth for the thow." "Yes," said Bessie, "it's a very mournful thing for us; but we try not to think too much about it." "Papa ith going to give very nith prithes," said Katy, taking a very poor way to console her cousins; but she meant well. "We think he ith going to give thome one a canary-bird. Thith morning there hath been a bird thinging--oh, tho thweetly!--in the libr'y where papa hath the pritheth, and will not let uth go in, and Aleck thaid it wath a canary." Maggie gave a little sigh. "Bessie and I want a canary very much," she said. "There is one in the nursery at home; but we want one for our own room, and we are going to ask mamma to let us have it next Christmas." "I'd jutht like you to have thith one, 'cauthe you're tho good and I love you," said Katy, and she put up her lips, for a kiss, to first one little cousin and then the other. And now Mr. Alexander Bradford said he should like to have papa, and Uncle Ruthven and the Colonel come with him, and act as judges on the fruit and flowers. While the gentlemen were gone, making these last arrangements, the children had a good play; and in about an hour's time they were all called in to take part in the great event of the day. The spot chosen for this was the latticed piazza which served as the children's summer play-room; and here a long table was set out with the fruit, vegetables, and flowers, each of which it was hoped by the young owners might gain a prize. The place looked very pretty. It was festooned with dahlias, chrysanthemums, and other bright-colored autumn flowers and leaves; and, although the display upon the table might not have seemed very grand to less interested eyes, the children desired nothing better; and it certainly did them great credit. "Bessie," whispered Maggie, as they went in, "does it make you feel a little as if you was homesick for our geranium and heliotrope?" "Yes," answered Bessie, in the same tone; "it makes the cry come in my throat, Maggie; but I am not going to let it come out, and I shall try to find enough of 'joyment in the others' 'joyment." They kept very close together, these two generous little girls, and hand in hand walked round the table to look at the pretty sight. Each article was labelled with its owner's name, and behind such as took a prize was the reward it was thought to have merited. Not a child but had some one pretty or useful gift; even the little Persian, who had not been very successful, but to whom Mr. Alexander Bradford had given a humming-top and ball, as the reward of his industry and perseverance. Fred displayed an enormous melon which had been ripe for some days, and was now rather too mellow and soft, and, having been jolted somewhat severely on its ride down the mountain, had fallen to pieces, presenting, as joking Fred said, "a very _melon_choly sight." But Cousin Alexander had seen the melon in its glory, before it was taken from the vine; and, in spite of its present distressed appearance, Fred found a handsome six-bladed knife placed beside the fragments,--"A blade for each piece, and the handle thrown in," said pleased Fred; adding, that he thought Cousin Alexander wanted an excuse for giving presents. The little girls were standing lost in admiration of a miniature set of croquet, just the thing for small hands, and which had rewarded the care bestowed by Katy upon a lovely tea-rose, when Harry called suddenly from the other side of the room,-- "Hallo! Midget and Queen Bess, how came these old things here?" Then in a tone of still greater astonishment, "Why, I declare! Oh, what jolly good fun! Come here, pets, and see this!" Maggie and Bessie ran round to the other side; and there, to their great surprise, stood Dolly's two marigolds. Forlorn enough they certainly looked among the flourishing plants and bright blossoms which had been the fruit of their cousins' labors; even more forlorn than they had done when Dolly left them as her dying legacy to the dear little ones who had been her friends. The flower which had been in blossom when she died, now hung black and withered on its feeble stem, kept there only by the fringed paper which she had put about it with such touching care. The second bud had half opened into another scragly, stunted flower, about which not even the most loving eyes could see the slightest beauty, and, in spite of the care which Maggie and Bessie had given them, the leaves of both plants were wilted and drooping. But there was more than one heart at that table for which those feeble, sickly plants had a value far beyond that of the richest and rarest exotic. Beside the marigolds stood a bird-cage, and in it, hopping about, and with his little head perking from side to side, as he watched the scene so curious and new to him, was a beautiful canary-bird. He was not singing now, for he did not know what to make of it all, and was not quite sure whether he were pleased or no; but, as the children stood looking from him to the marigolds in blank amazement, he gave a little inquiring "cheep, cheep!" as a first move to a better acquaintance. "Oh, the darling birdie!" cried Bessie; "who is he for?" But Maggie exclaimed with a trembling lip,-- "Fred, Fred! it wasn't fair. You ought not to make fun of poor Dolly's marigolds, and to hurt our feelings that way." "I did not do a thing," said Fred, "and knew no more about it than yourself." "Nor I," said Harry: "most likely it was papa or some grown-up person; and certainly no one has meant to make fun of you. Don't you see the card on the cage, and what is written on it?" Maggie looked at the card, as her brother moved the cage nearer to her. "'For our Maggie and Bessie--the dear'--oh! what is it Harry? read it to me quick." Harry read it,-- "For our Maggie and Bessie, the dear little workers in the garden of the Lord, who tended the Christian plants of patience, kindness, and forbearance, till their lovely blossoms overran the evil weeds of malice and ill-will, and sowed the seeds of that which brought forth fruit for the glory of God." "I don't understand it," said Maggie. "Does it mean the canary is for Bessie and me?" "Of course," said Harry. "But I am sure we ought not to have any credit about the marigolds," said Maggie, still wondering. "If there is any, it is Dolly's or Lem's." "And Harry," said Bessie, "the marigolds are pretty ugly. I don't much think we ought to have a prize, even if we had grown them up." "Dolly left you the marigolds," said Harry; "so, if they win a prize you ought surely to have it, and I am glad of it,--that I am. But I don't quite think it was these poor little scrubs that had that honor." "But, O Maggie! just to think of that lovely, darling, little birdie being for us," said Bessie, pleasure beginning to have its way over surprise; "and we never 'spected a thing 'cause we had no flowers." "Yes," said Maggie, now in great delight as she began to understand how it was, "and we would rather have had it than any thing else." Never was a birdie coaxed with more pretty names than was this one during the next ten minutes; and he seemed to like them well, for, after answering with one or two more half-timid "cheeps," he broke into a soft trill, which soon swelled into a clear, sweet song of joy. Maggie and Bessie were in ecstasies, and Cousin Alexander certainly had reason to think his kindness had given all the pleasure he intended it should. This was the last day they were to spend at the homestead, and the children made the most of it. Every nook and corner was visited, and all kinds of odd traps were dragged to light, and presented by the young cousins to be kept in memory of the old place, "family relics," Maggie called them; and very curious "family relics" some of them were. Among other things were two or three peacock feathers, a turkey wing, some pebbles from the brook where papa used to sail his boats when he was a boy, a piece of rusty tin pipe, which, because it looked black and smoky, and came from the field where the burnt barn had stood, they persuaded themselves must be a part of the very leader down which papa slid when he ran for the ladder to save his little brother,--all these, and other treasures of like value, were carefully collected and stowed in the wagons, to be carried to the Lake House, and thence to the city. But at last the busy, happy day came to an end, and farewell had to be said to the dear old homestead and the kind family there. Birdie did not like his ride up the mountain at all, but chirped in a very miserable, beseeching manner all the way; and, when he was safely at the Lake House and hung up out of the reach of Mrs. Porter's old pussy cat, tucked his head under his wing, and went to sleep at once, as if he were glad to forget all his troubles. But he was bright enough the next morning; for he woke the little girls with his song some time before the hour at which they were accustomed to rise. Bessie, always a light sleeper, was the first to be roused by his sweet notes, that soft, half-doubtful little trill with which he began; but, as it rose into a gush of joyous music, Maggie, too, stirred, and opened her eyes. She listened a moment, then turned towards Bessie, who lay with her eyes fixed on the bird with a dreamy, thoughtful look. "What are you thinking of, Bessie?" she asked, softly. "I was thinking," said Bessie, "that it seemed as if our Father was letting the jewel of forgiveness sparkle a little for us here before we carried it over the river to Him." "Yes," said Maggie, "I was thinking something like that last night, but I did not put it in such nice words; and I am just going to put in the Complete Family, that B. Happy said it. And perhaps, Bessie, if we had not taken up the jewel of prayer, and asked our Father for help, we might never have found the other jewels." "Or, if He had not helped us very much, we might not have taken them up, when we did find them," said Bessie. "It was pretty hard work to take up that first one of giving the banana to Dolly; and, Maggie, do you know I did such a very naughty thing as 'most to wish He did not give me the chance I had asked for: but, after that, all the rest were very easy to take up, and I did not find it at all hard to forgive Dolly every thing she had done." "Yes," said Maggie: "I guess that's always the way, and after all, I did not have to forgive Lem and Dolly near so many times as 'seventy times seven.' Oh, yes, you darling birdie! do you want to say you know all about it? Bessie, let's think the canary is a kind of keepsake from Dolly, 'cause you know it seems as if it came by her, and mamma says it is of no use to take the marigolds to town, for they will be quite dead in a few weeks." "Yes, so we will, Maggie, and that's a very nice idea of you; and then we might call our birdie 'Marigold,' for memory of the poor little plants as well as Dolly." "Oh, yes!" said Maggie; "that's lovely, so we just will." So from this day the canary was called Marigold, nor was it long before he knew his name, and would answer with a chirp when it was called. In two or three days more, they said good-by to Chalecoo and all its pleasures. The parting was a hard one on all sides, especially for Mr. Porter's family, who knew how much they would miss the sweet childish voices, the merry laughter, and patter of little feet, which had made the old house so gay and bright through all the long summer. As for poor Lem, he was in despair. He had begged hard to go with Mr. Stanton, promising the best of behavior if he were only allowed to do so; but the gentleman did not think the city was the best place for a boy like Lem, and thought it wiser to leave him in the care of Mr. Porter, who promised to keep him for the winter, and give him work if he would try to do well, and be honest and industrious. In the spring, if Mr. Porter could give a good account of him, Mr. Stanton meant to send him out to sea, with some good, careful captain who would try to do well for the boy. Lem had such a fancy for a roving life, that this was thought the best thing for him; but just now even this promised pleasure was lost sight of in his grief at the loss of his kind friend. His father had never come back; and, from all that could be learned, it was believed that he had gone to a far-away country, leaving his poor children to shift for themselves. All agreed that it was better so. A heavenly Father had cared for these poor desolate ones, and sent them help in the time of their greatest need. One had no longer need of earthly care, but was safe with Jesus in that home which He had bought for her with His precious blood; and for the other, there was much to be hoped. A strong desire to please Mr. Stanton, and a fear of doing what would have grieved Dolly, kept him from much that was wrong; and he could scarcely be known for the same boy, who a few months since had been a terror to every small child and harmless animal, and a torment to every farmer and housekeeper in Chalecoo. "Good-by! good-by! good-by!" The words, so hard to say, were spoken; and dear old Mrs. Porter stood upon the piazza steps, wiping her eyes with her apron, as she watched the wagons going slowly past the lake, and carrying our friends down the mountain for the last time. "Well, I hope we may see them all back another summer," she said to Dolly and Fanny, who stood beside her, feeling almost as mournful; "if I'd known I'd feel so bad to part with them, I don't know as I could have made up my mind to take them: but those dear little ones have just taken the heart right out of me. Well, God bless them, wherever they may go." "As He does," said Fanny, "for surely they have brought a blessing here this summer. Who would have thought such little things could do a bit of good to those two?" and she looked at Lem, who lay with his face buried in the grass, trying to hide his tears; "and yet see what they've been the means of bringing to them." "Ay, Fanny," said her mother, "little hands may do God's work, if they but take it up in His strength and with His help." "Well," said Mr. Porter, when he had taken the homeward-bound party safely to the place where they were to take the boat down the river, "I reckon one of the best jobs I ever did was to take you up Chalecoo mountain for the first time, and one of the worst to bring you down for the last." "But you can find _consolement_ to think we are coming back some other time," said Maggie; "and we thank you very much for letting us have a nice time this summer, Mr. Porter." "Yes," said Bessie, "we had a lovely, happy time among the mountains, even if the sea was not there." And now as we leave our Maggie and Bessie, are there not some little friends who will say that they have spent a useful as well as a happy summer among the mountains? [Illustration: THE END] Cambridge: Press of John Wilson and Son. Transcriber's Notes Minor punctuation typos have been silently corrected. Retained both spellings of "Fanny" and "Fannie." Page 41: Changed "eat" to "ate." (Orig: cracked and eat his almond.) Page 354: Retained original sentence, but Dolly was dead. (Orig: "Well, I hope we may see them all back another summer," she said to Dolly and Fanny, who stood beside her,)