[illustration: front cover] the wind in the willows [illustration: _the piper at the gates of dawn_] the wind in the willows by kenneth grahame illustrated by paul bransom [illustration: front fly leaf showing the main characters enjoying a picnic] [illustration] new york charles scribner's sons mcmxiii _copyright, , , by_ charles scribner's sons _published october, _ contents chapter page i. the river bank ii. the open road iii. the wild wood iv. mr. badger v. dulce domum vi. mr. toad vii. the piper at the gates of dawn viii. toad's adventures ix. wayfarers all x. the further adventures of toad xi. "like summer tempests came his tears" xii. the return of ulysses illustrations the piper at the gates of dawn _frontispiece_ facing page it was the water rat "come on!" he said. "we shall just have to walk it" in panic, he began to run through the wild wood and the snow toad was a helpless prisoner in the remotest dungeon he lay prostrate in his misery on the floor "it's a hard life, by all accounts," murmured the rat dwelling chiefly on his own cleverness, and presence of mind in emergencies the badger said, "now then, follow me!" i the river bank the mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home. first with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms. spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and longing. it was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down his brush on the floor, said, "bother!" and "o blow!" and also "hang spring-cleaning!" and bolted out of the house without even waiting to put on his coat. something up above was calling him imperiously, and he made for the steep little tunnel which answered in his case to the gravelled carriage-drive owned by animals whose residences are nearer to the sun and air. so he scraped and scratched and scrabbled and scrooged, and then he scrooged again and scrabbled and scratched and scraped, working busily with his little paws and muttering to himself, "up we go! up we go!" till at last, pop! his snout came out into the sunlight and he found himself rolling in the warm grass of a great meadow. "this is fine!" he said to himself. "this is better than whitewashing!" the sunshine struck hot on his fur, soft breezes caressed his heated brow, and after the seclusion of the cellarage he had lived in so long the carol of happy birds fell on his dulled hearing almost like a shout. jumping off all his four legs at once, in the joy of living and the delight of spring without its cleaning, he pursued his way across the meadow till he reached the hedge on the further side. "hold up!" said an elderly rabbit at the gap. "sixpence for the privilege of passing by the private road!" he was bowled over in an instant by the impatient and contemptuous mole, who trotted along the side of the hedge chaffing the other rabbits as they peeped hurriedly from their holes to see what the row was about. "onion-sauce! onion-sauce!" he remarked jeeringly, and was gone before they could think of a thoroughly satisfactory reply. then they all started grumbling at each other. "how _stupid_ you are! why didn't you tell him--" "well, why didn't _you_ say--" "you might have reminded him--" and so on, in the usual way; but, of course, it was then much too late, as is always the case. it all seemed too good to be true. hither and thither through the meadows he rambled busily, along the hedgerows, across the copses, finding everywhere birds building, flowers budding, leaves thrusting--everything happy, and progressive, and occupied. and instead of having an uneasy conscience pricking him and whispering "whitewash!" he somehow could only feel how jolly it was to be the only idle dog among all these busy citizens. after all, the best part of a holiday is perhaps not so much to be resting yourself, as to see all the other fellows busy working. he thought his happiness was complete when, as he meandered aimlessly along, suddenly he stood by the edge of a full-fed river. never in his life had he seen a river before--this sleek, sinuous, full-bodied animal, chasing and chuckling, gripping things with a gurgle and leaving them with a laugh, to fling itself on fresh playmates that shook themselves free, and were caught and held again. all was a-shake and a-shiver--glints and gleams and sparkles, rustle and swirl, chatter and bubble. the mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. by the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spellbound by exciting stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea. as he sat on the grass and looked across the river, a dark hole in the bank opposite, just above the water's edge, caught his eye, and dreamily he fell to considering what a nice, snug dwelling-place it would make for an animal with few wants and fond of a bijou riverside residence, above flood level and remote from noise and dust. as he gazed, something bright and small seemed to twinkle down in the heart of it, vanished, then twinkled once more like a tiny star. but it could hardly be a star in such an unlikely situation; and it was too glittering and small for a glow-worm. then, as he looked, it winked at him, and so declared itself to be an eye; and a small face began gradually to grow up round it, like a frame round a picture. a brown little face, with whiskers. a grave round face, with the same twinkle in its eye that had first attracted his notice. small neat ears and thick silky hair. it was the water rat! then the two animals stood and regarded each other cautiously. "hullo, mole!" said the water rat. "hullo, rat!" said the mole. "would you like to come over?" enquired the rat presently. "oh, it's all very well to _talk_," said the mole rather pettishly, he being new to a river and riverside life and its ways. the rat said nothing, but stooped and unfastened a rope and hauled on it; then lightly stepped into a little boat which the mole had not observed. it was painted blue outside and white within, and was just the size for two animals; and the mole's whole heart went out to it at once, even though he did not yet fully understand its uses. the rat sculled smartly across and made fast. then he held up his fore-paw as the mole stepped gingerly down. "lean on that!" he said. "now then, step lively!" and the mole to his surprise and rapture found himself actually seated in the stern of a real boat. "this has been a wonderful day!" said he, as the rat shoved off and took to the sculls again. "do you know, i've never been in a boat before in all my life." [illustration: _it was the water rat_] "what?" cried the rat, open-mouthed: "never been in a--you never--well i--what have you been doing, then?" "is it so nice as all that?" asked the mole shyly, though he was quite prepared to believe it as he leant back in his seat and surveyed the cushions, the oars, the rowlocks, and all the fascinating fittings, and felt the boat sway lightly under him. "nice? it's the _only_ thing," said the water rat solemnly as he leant forward for his stroke. "believe me, my young friend, there is _nothing_--absolute nothing--half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats. simply messing," he went on dreamily: "messing--about--in--boats; messing--" "look ahead, rat!" cried the mole suddenly. it was too late. the boat struck the bank full tilt. the dreamer, the joyous oarsman, lay on his back at the bottom of the boat, his heels in the air. "--about in boats--or _with_ boats," the rat went on composedly, picking himself up with a pleasant laugh. "in or out of 'em, it doesn't matter. nothing seems really to matter, that's the charm of it. whether you get away, or whether you don't; whether you arrive at your destination or whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never get anywhere at all, you're always busy, and you never do anything in particular; and when you've done it there's always something else to do, and you can do it if you like, but you'd much better not. look here! if you've really nothing else on hand this morning, supposing we drop down the river together, and have a long day of it?" the mole waggled his toes from sheer happiness, spread his chest with a sigh of full contentment, and leant back blissfully into the soft cushions. "_what_ a day i'm having!" he said. "let us start at once!" "hold hard a minute, then!" said the rat. he looped the painter through a ring in his landing-stage, climbed up into his hole above, and after a short interval reappeared staggering under a fat wicker luncheon-basket. "shove that under your feet," he observed to the mole, as he passed it down into the boat. then he untied the painter and took the sculls again. "what's inside it?" asked the mole, wriggling with curiosity. "there's cold chicken inside it," replied the rat briefly: "coldtonguecoldhamcoldbeefpickledgherkinssaladfrenchrollscresssandwiches pottedmeatgingerbeerlemonadesodawater--" "o stop, stop!" cried the mole in ecstasies. "this is too much!" "do you really think so?" enquired the rat seriously. "it's only what i always take on these little excursions; and the other animals are always telling me that i'm a mean beast and cut it _very_ fine!" the mole never heard a word he was saying. absorbed in the new life he was entering upon, intoxicated with the sparkle, the ripple, the scents and the sounds and the sunlight, he trailed a paw in the water and dreamed long waking dreams. the water rat, like the good little fellow he was, sculled steadily on and forbore to disturb him. "i like your clothes awfully, old chap," he remarked after some half an hour or so had passed. "i'm going to get a black velvet smoking-suit myself some day, as soon as i can afford it." "i beg your pardon," said the mole, pulling himself together with an effort. "you must think me very rude; but all this is so new to me. so--this--is--a--river!" "_the_ river," corrected the rat. "and you really live by the river? what a jolly life!" "by it and with it and on it and in it," said the rat. "it's brother and sister to me, and aunts, and company, and food and drink, and (naturally) washing. it's my world, and i don't want any other. what it hasn't got is not worth having, and what it doesn't know is not worth knowing. lord! the times we've had together! whether in winter or summer, spring or autumn, it's always got its fun and its excitements. when the floods are on in february, and my cellars and basement are brimming with drink that's no good to me, and the brown water runs by my best bedroom window; or again when it all drops away and shows patches of mud that smells like plum-cake, and the rushes and weed clog the channels, and i can potter about dry shod over most of the bed of it and find fresh food to eat, and things careless people have dropped out of boats!" "but isn't it a bit dull at times?" the mole ventured to ask. "just you and the river, and no one else to pass a word with?" "no one else to--well, i mustn't be hard on you," said the rat with forbearance. "you're new to it, and of course you don't know. the bank is so crowded nowadays that many people are moving away altogether. o no, it isn't what it used to be, at all. otters, king-fishers, dabchicks, moorhens, all of them about all day long and always wanting you to _do_ something--as if a fellow had no business of his own to attend to!" "what lies over _there_?" asked the mole, waving a paw towards a background of woodland that darkly framed the water-meadows on one side of the river. "that? o, that's just the wild wood," said the rat shortly. "we don't go there very much, we river-bankers." "aren't they--aren't they very _nice_ people in there?" said the mole a trifle nervously. "w-e-ll," replied the rat, "let me see. the squirrels are all right. _and_ the rabbits--some of 'em, but rabbits are a mixed lot. and then there's badger, of course. he lives right in the heart of it; wouldn't live anywhere else, either, if you paid him to do it. dear old badger! nobody interferes with _him_. they'd better not," he added significantly. "why, who _should_ interfere with him?" asked the mole. "well, of course--there--are others," explained the rat in a hesitating sort of way. "weasels--and stoats--and foxes--and so on. they're all right in a way--i'm very good friends with them--pass the time of day when we meet, and all that--but they break out sometimes, there's no denying it, and then--well, you can't really trust them, and that's the fact." the mole knew well that it is quite against animal-etiquette to dwell on possible trouble ahead, or even to allude to it; so he dropped the subject. "and beyond the wild wood again?" he asked; "where it's all blue and dim, and one sees what may be hills or perhaps they mayn't, and something like the smoke of towns, or is it only cloud-drift?" "beyond the wild wood comes the wide world," said the rat. "and that's something that doesn't matter, either to you or me. i've never been there, and i'm never going, nor you either, if you've got any sense at all. don't ever refer to it again, please. now then! here's our backwater at last, where we're going to lunch." leaving the main stream, they now passed into what seemed at first sight like a little landlocked lake. green turf sloped down to either edge, brown snaky tree-roots gleamed below the surface of the quiet water, while ahead of them the silvery shoulder and foamy tumble of a weir, arm-in-arm with a restless dripping mill-wheel, that held up in its turn a grey-gabled mill-house, filled the air with a soothing murmur of sound, dull and smothery, yet with little clear voices speaking up cheerfully out of it at intervals. it was so very beautiful that the mole could only hold up both fore-paws and gasp: "o my! o my! o my!" the rat brought the boat alongside the bank, made her fast, helped the still awkward mole safely ashore, and swung out the luncheon-basket. the mole begged as a favour to be allowed to unpack it all by himself; and the rat was very pleased to indulge him, and to sprawl at full length on the grass and rest, while his excited friend shook out the table-cloth and spread it, took out all the mysterious packets one by one and arranged their contents in due order, still gasping: "o my! o my!" at each fresh revelation. when all was ready, the rat said, "now, pitch in, old fellow!" and the mole was indeed very glad to obey, for he had started his spring-cleaning at a very early hour that morning, as people _will_ do, and had not paused for bite or sup; and he had been through a very great deal since that distant time which now seemed so many days ago. "what are you looking at?" said the rat presently, when the edge of their hunger was somewhat dulled, and the mole's eyes were able to wander off the table-cloth a little. "i am looking," said the mole, "at a streak of bubbles that i see travelling along the surface of the water. that is a thing that strikes me as funny." "bubbles? oho!" said the rat, and chirruped cheerily in an inviting sort of way. a broad glistening muzzle showed itself above the edge of the bank, and the otter hauled himself out and shook the water from his coat. "greedy beggars!" he observed, making for the provender. "why didn't you invite me, ratty?" "this was an impromptu affair," explained the rat. "by the way--my friend mr. mole." "proud, i'm sure," said the otter, and the two animals were friends forthwith. "such a rumpus everywhere!" continued the otter. "all the world seems out on the river to-day. i came up this backwater to try and get a moment's peace, and then stumble upon you fellows!--at least--i beg pardon--i don't exactly mean that, you know." there was a rustle behind them, proceeding from a hedge wherein last year's leaves still clung thick, and a stripy head, with high shoulders behind it, peered forth on them. "come on, old badger!" shouted the rat. the badger trotted forward a pace or two, then grunted, "h'm! company," and turned his back and disappeared from view. "that's _just_ the sort of fellow he is!" observed the disappointed rat. "simply hates society! now we shan't see any more of him to-day. well, tell us, _who's_ out on the river?" "toad's out, for one," replied the otter. "in his brand-new wager-boat; new togs, new everything!" the two animals looked at each other and laughed. "once, it was nothing but sailing," said the rat. "then he tired of that and took to punting. nothing would please him but to punt all day and every day, and a nice mess he made of it. last year it was house-boating, and we all had to go and stay with him in his house-boat, and pretend we liked it. he was going to spend the rest of his life in a house-boat. it's all the same, whatever he takes up; he gets tired of it, and starts on something fresh." "such a good fellow, too," remarked the otter reflectively; "but no stability--especially in a boat!" from where they sat they could get a glimpse of the main stream across the island that separated them; and just then a wager-boat flashed into view, the rower--a short, stout figure--splashing badly and rolling a good deal, but working his hardest. the rat stood up and hailed him, but toad--for it was he--shook his head and settled sternly to his work. "he'll be out of the boat in a minute if he rolls like that," said the rat, sitting down again. "of course he will," chuckled the otter. "did i ever tell you that good story about toad and the lock-keeper? it happened this way. toad...." an errant may-fly swerved unsteadily athwart the current in the intoxicated fashion affected by young bloods of may-flies seeing life. a swirl of water and a "cloop!" and the may-fly was visible no more. neither was the otter. the mole looked down. the voice was still in his ears, but the turf whereon he had sprawled was clearly vacant. not an otter to be seen, as far as the distant horizon. but again there was a streak of bubbles on the surface of the river. the rat hummed a tune, and the mole recollected that animal-etiquette forbade any sort of comment on the sudden disappearance of one's friends at any moment, for any reason or no reason whatever. "well, well," said the rat, "i suppose we ought to be moving. i wonder which of us had better pack the luncheon-basket?" he did not speak as if he was frightfully eager for the treat. "o, please let me," said the mole. so, of course, the rat let him. packing the basket was not quite such pleasant work as unpacking the basket. it never is. but the mole was bent on enjoying everything, and although just when he had got the basket packed and strapped up tightly he saw a plate staring up at him from the grass, and when the job had been done again the rat pointed out a fork which anybody ought to have seen, and last of all, behold! the mustard pot, which he had been sitting on without knowing it--still, somehow, the thing got finished at last, without much loss of temper. the afternoon sun was getting low as the rat sculled gently homewards in a dreamy mood, murmuring poetry-things over to himself, and not paying much attention to mole. but the mole was very full of lunch, and self-satisfaction, and pride, and already quite at home in a boat (so he thought), and was getting a bit restless besides: and presently he said, "ratty! please, _i_ want to row, now!" the rat shook his head with a smile. "not yet, my young friend," he said; "wait till you've had a few lessons. it's not so easy as it looks." the mole was quiet for a minute or two. but he began to feel more and more jealous of rat, sculling so strongly and so easily along, and his pride began to whisper that he could do it every bit as well. he jumped up and seized the sculls so suddenly that the rat, who was gazing out over the water and saying more poetry-things to himself, was taken by surprise and fell backwards off his seat with his legs in the air for the second time, while the triumphant mole took his place and grabbed the sculls with entire confidence. "stop it, you _silly_ ass!" cried the rat, from the bottom of the boat. "you can't do it! you'll have us over!" the mole flung his sculls back with a flourish, and made a great dig at the water. he missed the surface altogether, his legs flew up above his head, and he found himself lying on the top of the prostrate rat. greatly alarmed, he made a grab at the side of the boat, and the next moment--sploosh! over went the boat, and he found himself struggling in the river. o my, how cold the water was, and o, how _very_ wet it felt! how it sang in his ears as he went down, down, down! how bright and welcome the sun looked as he rose to the surface coughing and spluttering! how black was his despair when he felt himself sinking again! then a firm paw gripped him by the back of his neck. it was the rat, and he was evidently laughing--the mole could _feel_ him laughing, right down his arm and through his paw, and so into his--the mole's--neck. the rat got hold of a scull and shoved it under the mole's arm; then he did the same by the other side of him and, swimming behind, propelled the helpless animal to shore, hauled him out, and set him down on the bank, a squashy, pulpy lump of misery. when the rat had rubbed him down a bit, and wrung some of the wet out of him, he said, "now then, old fellow! trot up and down the towing-path as hard as you can, till you're warm and dry again, while i dive for the luncheon-basket." so the dismal mole, wet without and ashamed within, trotted about till he was fairly dry, while the rat plunged into the water again, recovered the boat, righted her and made her fast, fetched his floating property to shore by degrees, and finally dived successfully for the luncheon-basket and struggled to land with it. when all was ready for a start once more, the mole, limp and dejected, took his seat in the stern of the boat; and as they set off, he said in a low voice, broken with emotion, "ratty, my generous friend! i am very sorry indeed for my foolish and ungrateful conduct. my heart quite fails me when i think how i might have lost that beautiful luncheon-basket. indeed, i have been a complete ass, and i know it. will you overlook it this once and forgive me, and let things go on as before?" "that's all right, bless you!" responded the rat cheerily. "what's a little wet to a water rat? i'm more in the water than out of it most days. don't you think any more about it; and look here! i really think you had better come and stop with me for a little time. it's very plain and rough, you know--not like toad's house at all--but you haven't seen that yet; still, i can make you comfortable. and i'll teach you to row and to swim, and you'll soon be as handy on the water as any of us." the mole was so touched by his kind manner of speaking that he could find no voice to answer him; and he had to brush away a tear or two with the back of his paw. but the rat kindly looked in another direction, and presently the mole's spirits revived again, and he was even able to give some straight back-talk to a couple of moorhens who were sniggering to each other about his bedraggled appearance. when they got home, the rat made a bright fire in the parlour, and planted the mole in an arm-chair in front of it, having fetched down a dressing-gown and slippers for him, and told him river stories till supper-time. very thrilling stories they were, too, to an earth-dwelling animal like mole. stories about weirs, and sudden floods, and leaping pike, and steamers that flung hard bottles--at least bottles were certainly flung, and _from_ steamers, so presumably _by_ them; and about herons, and how particular they were whom they spoke to; and about adventures down drains, and night-fishings with otter, or excursions far a-field with badger. supper was a most cheerful meal; but very shortly afterwards a terribly sleepy mole had to be escorted upstairs by his considerate host, to the best bedroom, where he soon laid his head on his pillow in great peace and contentment, knowing that his new-found friend, the river, was lapping the sill of his window. this day was only the first of many similar ones for the emancipated mole, each of them longer and full of interest as the ripening summer moved onward. he learnt to swim and to row, and entered into the joy of running water; and with his ear to the reed-stems he caught, at intervals, something of what the wind went whispering so constantly among them. ii the open road "ratty," said the mole suddenly, one bright summer morning, "if you please, i want to ask you a favour." the rat was sitting on the river bank, singing a little song. he had just composed it himself, so he was very taken up with it, and would not pay proper attention to mole or anything else. since early morning he had been swimming in the river, in company with his friends, the ducks. and when the ducks stood on their heads suddenly, as ducks will, he would dive down and tickle their necks, just under where their chins would be if ducks had chins, till they were forced to come to the surface again in a hurry, spluttering and angry and shaking their feathers at him, for it is impossible to say quite _all_ you feel when your head is under water. at last they implored him to go away and attend to his own affairs and leave them to mind theirs. so the rat went away, and sat on the river bank in the sun, and made up a song about them, which he called: "ducks' ditty." all along the backwater, through the rushes tall, ducks are a-dabbling, up tails all! ducks' tails, drakes' tails, yellow feet a-quiver, yellow bills all out of sight busy in the river! slushy green undergrowth where the roach swim-- here we keep our larder, cool and full and dim. everyone for what he likes! _we_ like to be heads down, tails up, dabbling free! high in the blue above swifts whirl and call-- _we_ are down a-dabbling up tails all! "i don't know that i think so _very_ much of that little song, rat," observed the mole cautiously. he was no poet himself and didn't care who knew it; and he had a candid nature. "nor don't the ducks neither," replied the rat cheerfully. "they say, '_why_ can't fellows be allowed to do what they like _when_ they like and _as_ they like, instead of other fellows sitting on banks and watching them all the time and making remarks and poetry and things about them? what _nonsense_ it all is!' that's what the ducks say." "so it is, so it is," said the mole, with great heartiness. "no, it isn't!" cried the rat indignantly. "well then, it isn't, it isn't," replied the mole soothingly. "but what i wanted to ask you was, won't you take me to call on mr. toad? i've heard so much about him, and i do so want to make his acquaintance." "why, certainly," said the good-natured rat, jumping to his feet and dismissing poetry from his mind for the day. "get the boat out, and we'll paddle up there at once. it's never the wrong time to call on toad. early or late, he's always the same fellow. always good-tempered, always glad to see you, always sorry when you go!" "he must be a very nice animal," observed the mole, as he got into the boat and took the sculls, while the rat settled himself comfortably in the stern. "he is indeed the best of animals," replied rat. "so simple, so good-natured, and so affectionate. perhaps he's not very clever--we can't all be geniuses; and it may be that he is both boastful and conceited. but he has got some great qualities, has toady." rounding a bend in the river, they came in sight of a handsome, dignified old house of mellowed red brick, with well-kept lawns reaching down to the water's edge. "there's toad hall," said the rat; "and that creek on the left, where the notice-board says, 'private. no landing allowed,' leads to his boat-house, where we'll leave the boat. the stables are over there to the right. that's the banqueting-hall you're looking at now--very old, that is. toad is rather rich, you know, and this is really one of the nicest houses in these parts, though we never admit as much to toad." they glided up the creek, and the mole shipped his sculls as they passed into the shadow of a large boat-house. here they saw many handsome boats, slung from the cross-beams or hauled up on a slip, but none in the water; and the place had an unused and a deserted air. the rat looked around him. "i understand," said he. "boating is played out. he's tired of it, and done with it. i wonder what new fad he has taken up now? come along and let's look him up. we shall hear all about it quite soon enough." they disembarked, and strolled across the gay flower-decked lawns in search of toad, whom they presently happened upon resting in a wicker garden-chair, with a pre-occupied expression of face, and a large map spread out on his knees. "hooray!" he cried, jumping up on seeing them, "this is splendid!" he shook the paws of both of them warmly, never waiting for an introduction to the mole. "how _kind_ of you!" he went on, dancing round them. "i was just going to send a boat down the river for you, ratty, with strict orders that you were to be fetched up here at once, whatever you were doing. i want you badly--both of you. now what will you take? come inside and have something! you don't know how lucky it is, your turning up just now!" "let's sit quiet a bit, toady!" said the rat, throwing himself into an easy chair, while the mole took another by the side of him and made some civil remark about toad's "delightful residence." "finest house on the whole river," cried toad boisterously. "or anywhere else, for that matter," he could not help adding. here the rat nudged the mole. unfortunately the toad saw him do it, and turned very red. there was a moment's painful silence. then toad burst out laughing. "all right, ratty," he said. "it's only my way, you know. and it's not such a very bad house, is it? you know, you rather like it yourself. now, look here. let's be sensible. you are the very animals i wanted. you've got to help me. it's most important!" "it's about your rowing, i suppose," said the rat, with an innocent air. "you're getting on fairly well, though you splash a good bit still. with a great deal of patience and any quantity of coaching, you may--" "o, pooh! boating!" interrupted the toad, in great disgust. "silly boyish amusement. i've given that up _long_ ago. sheer waste of time, that's what it is. it makes me downright sorry to see you fellows, who ought to know better, spending all your energies in that aimless manner. no, i've discovered the real thing, the only genuine occupation for a lifetime. i propose to devote the remainder of mine to it, and can only regret the wasted years that lie behind me, squandered in trivialities. come with me, dear ratty, and your amiable friend also, if he will be so very good, just as far as the stable-yard, and you shall see what you shall see!" he led the way to the stable-yard accordingly, the rat following with a most mistrustful expression; and there, drawn out of the coach-house into the open, they saw a gipsy caravan, shining with newness, painted a canary-yellow picked out with green, and red wheels. "there you are!" cried the toad, straddling and expanding himself. "there's real life for you, embodied in that little cart. the open road, the dusty highway, the heath, the common, the hedgerows, the rolling downs! camps, villages, towns, cities! here to-day, up and off to somewhere else to-morrow! travel, change, interest, excitement! the whole world before you, and a horizon that's always changing! and mind! this is the very finest cart of its sort that was ever built, without any exception. come inside and look at the arrangements. planned 'em all myself, i did!" the mole was tremendously interested and excited, and followed him eagerly up the steps and into the interior of the caravan. the rat only snorted and thrust his hands deep into his pockets, remaining where he was. it was indeed very compact and comfortable. little sleeping bunks--a little table that folded up against the wall--a cooking-stove, lockers, book-shelves, a bird-cage with a bird in it; and pots, pans, jugs, and kettles of every size and variety. "all complete!" said the toad triumphantly, pulling open a locker. "you see--biscuits, potted lobster, sardines--everything you can possibly want. soda-water here--baccy there--letter-paper, bacon, jam, cards, and dominoes--you'll find," he continued, as they descended the steps again, "you'll find that nothing whatever has been forgotten, when we make our start this afternoon." "i beg your pardon," said the rat slowly, as he chewed a straw, "but did i overhear you say something about '_we_,' and '_start_,' and '_this afternoon_'?" "now, you dear good old ratty," said toad imploringly, "don't begin talking in that stiff and sniffy sort of way, because you know you've _got_ to come. i can't possibly manage without you, so please consider it settled, and don't argue--it's the one thing i can't stand. you surely don't mean to stick to your dull fusty old river all your life, and just live in a hole in a bank, and _boat_? i want to show you the world! i'm going to make an _animal_ of you, my boy!" "i don't care," said the rat doggedly. "i'm not coming, and that's flat. and i _am_ going to stick to my old river, _and_ live in a hole, _and_ boat, as i've always done. and what's more, mole's going to stick to me and do as i do, aren't you, mole?" "of course i am," said the mole, loyally. "i'll always stick to you, rat, and what you say is to be--has got to be. all the same, it sounds as if it might have been--well, rather fun, you know!" he added wistfully. poor mole! the life adventurous was so new a thing to him, and so thrilling; and this fresh aspect of it was so tempting; and he had fallen in love at first sight with the canary-coloured cart and all its little fitments. the rat saw what was passing in his mind, and wavered. he hated disappointing people, and he was fond of the mole, and would do almost anything to oblige him. toad was watching both of them closely. "come along in, and have some lunch," he said, diplomatically, "and we'll talk it over. we needn't decide anything in a hurry. of course, _i_ don't really care. i only want to give pleasure to you fellows. 'live for others!' that's my motto in life." during luncheon--which was excellent, of course, as everything at toad hall always was--the toad simply let himself go. disregarding the rat, he proceeded to play upon the inexperienced mole as on a harp. naturally a voluble animal, and always mastered by his imagination, he painted the prospects of the trip and the joys of the open life and the roadside in such glowing colours that the mole could hardly sit in his chair for excitement. somehow, it soon seemed taken for granted by all three of them that the trip was a settled thing; and the rat, though still unconvinced in his mind, allowed his good-nature to over-ride his personal objections. he could not bear to disappoint his two friends, who were already deep in schemes and anticipations, planning out each day's separate occupation for several weeks ahead. when they were quite ready, the now triumphant toad led his companions to the paddock and set them to capture the old grey horse, who, without having been consulted, and to his own extreme annoyance, had been told off by toad for the dustiest job in this dusty expedition. he frankly preferred the paddock, and took a deal of catching. meantime toad packed the lockers still tighter with necessaries, and hung nose-bags, nets of onions, bundles of hay, and baskets from the bottom of the cart. at last the horse was caught and harnessed, and they set off, all talking at once, each animal either trudging by the side of the cart or sitting on the shaft, as the humour took him. it was a golden afternoon. the smell of the dust they kicked up was rich and satisfying; out of thick orchards on either side the road, birds called and whistled to them cheerily; good-natured wayfarers, passing them, gave them "good day," or stopped to say nice things about their beautiful cart; and rabbits, sitting at their front doors in the hedgerows, held up their fore-paws, and said, "o my! o my! o my!" late in the evening, tired and happy and miles from home, they drew up on a remote common far from habitations, turned the horse loose to graze, and ate their simple supper sitting on the grass by the side of the cart. toad talked big about all he was going to do in the days to come, while stars grew fuller and larger all around them, and a yellow moon, appearing suddenly and silently from nowhere in particular, came to keep them company and listen to their talk. at last they turned in to their little bunks in the cart; and toad, kicking out his legs, sleepily said, "well, good night, you fellows! this is the real life for a gentleman! talk about your old river!" "i _don't_ talk about my river," replied the patient rat. "you _know_ i don't, toad. but i _think_ about it," he added pathetically, in a lower tone: "i think about it--all the time!" the mole reached out from under his blanket, felt for the rat's paw in the darkness, and gave it a squeeze. "i'll do whatever you like, ratty," he whispered. "shall we run away to-morrow morning, quite early--_very_ early--and go back to our dear old hole on the river?" "no, no, we'll see it out," whispered back the rat. "thanks awfully, but i ought to stick by toad till this trip is ended. it wouldn't be safe for him to be left to himself. it won't take very long. his fads never do. good night!" the end was indeed nearer than even the rat suspected. after so much open air and excitement the toad slept very soundly, and no amount of shaking could rouse him out of bed next morning. so the mole and rat turned to, quietly and manfully, and while the rat saw to the horse, and lit a fire, and cleaned last night's cups and platters, and got things ready for breakfast, the mole trudged off to the nearest village, a long way off, for milk and eggs and various necessaries the toad had, of course, forgotten to provide. the hard work had all been done, and the two animals were resting, thoroughly exhausted, by the time toad appeared on the scene, fresh and gay, remarking what a pleasant, easy life it was they were all leading now, after the cares and worries and fatigues of housekeeping at home. they had a pleasant ramble that day over grassy downs and along narrow by-lanes, and camped, as before, on a common, only this time the two guests took care that toad should do his fair share of work. in consequence, when the time came for starting next morning, toad was by no means so rapturous about the simplicity of the primitive life, and indeed attempted to resume his place in his bunk, whence he was hauled by force. their way lay, as before, across country by narrow lanes, and it was not till the afternoon that they came out on the high-road, their first high-road; and there disaster, fleet and unforeseen, sprang out on them--disaster momentous indeed to their expedition, but simply overwhelming in its effect on the after career of toad. they were strolling along the high-road easily, the mole by the horse's head, talking to him, since the horse had complained that he was being frightfully left out of it, and nobody considered him in the least; the toad and the water rat walking behind the cart talking together--at least toad was talking, and rat was saying at intervals, "yes, precisely; and what did _you_ say to _him_?"--and thinking all the time of something very different, when far behind them they heard a faint warning hum, like the drone of a distant bee. glancing back, they saw a small cloud of dust, with a dark centre of energy, advancing on them at incredible speed, while from out the dust a faint "poop-poop!" wailed like an uneasy animal in pain. hardly regarding it, they turned to resume their conversation, when in an instant (as it seemed) the peaceful scene was changed, and with a blast of wind and a whirl of sound that made them jump for the nearest ditch. it was on them! the "poop-poop" rang with a brazen shout in their ears, they had a moment's glimpse of an interior of glittering plate-glass and rich morocco, and the magnificent motor-car, immense, breath-snatching, passionate, with its pilot tense and hugging his wheel, possessed all earth and air for the fraction of a second, flung an enveloping cloud of dust that blinded and enwrapped them utterly, and then dwindled to a speck in the far distance, changed back into a droning bee once more. the old grey horse, dreaming, as he plodded along, of his quiet paddock, in a new raw situation such as this, simply abandoned himself to his natural emotions. rearing, plunging, backing steadily, in spite of all the mole's efforts at his head, and all the mole's lively language directed at his better feelings, he drove the cart backward towards the deep ditch at the side of the road. it wavered an instant--then there was a heart-rending crash--and the canary-coloured cart, their pride and their joy, lay on its side in the ditch, an irredeemable wreck. the rat danced up and down in the road, simply transported with passion. "you villains!" he shouted, shaking both fists. "you scoundrels, you highwaymen, you--you--road-hogs!--i'll have the law of you! i'll report you! i'll take you through all the courts!" his home-sickness had quite slipped away from him, and for the moment he was the skipper of the canary-coloured vessel driven on a shoal by the reckless jockeying of rival mariners, and he was trying to recollect all the fine and biting things he used to say to masters of steam-launches when their wash, as they drove too near the bank, used to flood his parlour-carpet at home. toad sat straight down in the middle of the dusty road, his legs stretched out before him, and stared fixedly in the direction of the disappearing motor-car. he breathed short, his face wore a placid, satisfied expression, and at intervals he faintly murmured "poop-poop!" the mole was busy trying to quiet the horse, which he succeeded in doing after a time. then he went to look at the cart, on its side in the ditch. it was indeed a sorry sight. panels and windows smashed, axles hopelessly bent, one wheel off, sardine-tins scattered over the wide world, and the bird in the bird-cage sobbing pitifully and calling to be let out. the rat came to help him, but their united efforts were not sufficient to right the cart. "hi! toad!" they cried. "come and bear a hand, can't you!" the toad never answered a word, or budged from his seat in the road; so they went to see what was the matter with him. they found him in a sort of a trance, a happy smile on his face, his eyes still fixed on the dusty wake of their destroyer. at intervals he was still heard to murmur "poop-poop!" the rat shook him by the shoulder. "are you coming to help us, toad?" he demanded sternly. "glorious, stirring sight!" murmured toad, never offering to move. "the poetry of motion! the _real_ way to travel! the _only_ way to travel! here to-day--in next week to-morrow! villages skipped, towns and cities jumped--always somebody else's horizon! o bliss! o poop-poop! o my! o my!" "o _stop_ being an ass, toad!" cried the mole despairingly. "and to think i never _knew_!" went on the toad in a dreamy monotone. "all those wasted years that lie behind me, i never knew, never even _dreamt_! but _now_--but now that i know, now that i fully realise! o what a flowery track lies spread before me, henceforth! what dust-clouds shall spring up behind me as i speed on my reckless way! what carts i shall fling carelessly into the ditch in the wake of my magnificent onset! horrid little carts--common carts--canary-coloured carts!" "what are we to do with him?" asked the mole of the water rat. "nothing at all," replied the rat firmly. "because there is really nothing to be done. you see, i know him from of old. he is now possessed. he has got a new craze, and it always takes him that way, in its first stage. he'll continue like that for days now, like an animal walking in a happy dream, quite useless for all practical purposes. never mind him. let's go and see what there is to be done about the cart." a careful inspection showed them that, even if they succeeded in righting it by themselves, the cart would travel no longer. the axles were in a hopeless state, and the missing wheel was shattered into pieces. the rat knotted the horse's reins over his back and took him by the head, carrying the bird-cage and its hysterical occupant in the other hand. "come on!" he said grimly to the mole. "it's five or six miles to the nearest town, and we shall just have to walk it. the sooner we make a start the better." "but what about toad?" asked the mole anxiously, as they set off together. "we can't leave him here, sitting in the middle of the road by himself, in the distracted state he's in! it's not safe. supposing another thing were to come along?" "o, _bother_ toad," said the rat savagely; "i've done with him." they had not proceeded very far on their way, however, when there was a pattering of feet behind them, and toad caught them up and thrust a paw inside the elbow of each of them; still breathing short and staring into vacancy. "now, look here, toad!" said the rat sharply: "as soon as we get to the town, you'll have to go straight to the police-station and see if they know anything about that motor-car and who it belongs to, and lodge a complaint against it. and then you'll have to go to a blacksmith's or a wheelwright's and arrange for the cart to be fetched and mended and put to rights. it'll take time, but it's not quite a hopeless smash. meanwhile, the mole and i will go to an inn and find comfortable rooms where we can stay till the cart's ready, and till your nerves have recovered their shock." "police-station! complaint!" murmured toad dreamily. "me _complain_ of that beautiful, that heavenly vision that has been vouchsafed me! _mend_ the _cart_! i've done with carts for ever. i never want to see the cart, or to hear of it, again. o ratty! you can't think how obliged i am to you for consenting to come on this trip! i wouldn't have gone without you, and then i might never have seen that--that swan, that sunbeam, that thunderbolt! i might never have heard that entrancing sound, or smelt that bewitching smell! i owe it all to you, my best of friends!" [illustration: _"come on!" he said. "we shall just have to walk it"_] the rat turned from him in despair. "you see what it is?" he said to the mole, addressing him across toad's head: "he's quite hopeless. i give it up--when we get to the town we'll go to the railway station, and with luck we may pick up a train there that'll get us back to river bank to-night. and if ever you catch me going a-pleasuring with this provoking animal again!"--he snorted, and during the rest of that weary trudge addressed his remarks exclusively to mole. on reaching the town they went straight to the station and deposited toad in the second-class waiting-room, giving a porter twopence to keep a strict eye on him. they then left the horse at an inn stable, and gave what directions they could about the cart and its contents. eventually, a slow train having landed them at a station not very far from toad hall, they escorted the spellbound, sleep-walking toad to his door, put him inside it, and instructed his housekeeper to feed him, undress him, and put him to bed. then they got out their boat from the boat-house, sculled down the river home, and at a very late hour sat down to supper in their own cosy riverside parlour, to the rat's great joy and contentment. the following evening the mole, who had risen late and taken things very easy all day, was sitting on the bank fishing, when the rat, who had been looking up his friends and gossiping, came strolling along to find him. "heard the news?" he said. "there's nothing else being talked about, all along the river bank. toad went up to town by an early train this morning. and he has ordered a large and very expensive motor-car." iii the wild wood the mole had long wanted to make the acquaintance of the badger. he seemed, by all accounts, to be such an important personage and, though rarely visible, to make his unseen influence felt by everybody about the place. but whenever the mole mentioned his wish to the water rat, he always found himself put off. "it's all right," the rat would say. "badger'll turn up some day or other--he's always turning up--and then i'll introduce you. the best of fellows! but you must not only take him _as_ you find him, but _when_ you find him." "couldn't you ask him here--dinner or something?" said the mole. "he wouldn't come," replied the rat simply. "badger hates society, and invitations, and dinner, and all that sort of thing." "well, then, supposing we go and call on _him_?" suggested the mole. "o, i'm sure he wouldn't like that at _all_," said the rat, quite alarmed. "he's so very shy, he'd be sure to be offended. i've never even ventured to call on him at his own home myself, though i know him so well. besides, we can't. it's quite out of the question, because he lives in the very middle of the wild wood." "well, supposing he does," said the mole. "you told me the wild wood was all right, you know." "o, i know, i know, so it is," replied the rat evasively. "but i think we won't go there just now. not _just_ yet. it's a long way, and he wouldn't be at home at this time of year anyhow, and he'll be coming along some day, if you'll wait quietly." the mole had to be content with this. but the badger never came along, and every day brought its amusements, and it was not till summer was long over, and cold and frost and miry ways kept them much indoors, and the swollen river raced past outside their windows with a speed that mocked at boating of any sort or kind, that he found his thoughts dwelling again with much persistence on the solitary grey badger, who lived his own life by himself, in his hole in the middle of the wild wood. in the winter time the rat slept a great deal, retiring early and rising late. during his short day he sometimes scribbled poetry or did other small domestic jobs about the house; and, of course, there were always animals dropping in for a chat, and consequently there was a good deal of story-telling and comparing notes on the past summer and all its doings. such a rich chapter it had been, when one came to look back on it all! with illustrations so numerous and so very highly-coloured! the pageant of the river bank had marched steadily along, unfolding itself in scene-pictures that succeeded each other in stately procession. purple loosestrife arrived early, shaking luxuriant tangled locks along the edge of the mirror whence its own face laughed back at it. willow-herb, tender and wistful, like a pink sunset cloud, was not slow to follow. comfrey, the purple hand-in-hand with the white, crept forth to take its place in the line; and at last one morning the diffident and delaying dog-rose stepped delicately on the stage, and one knew, as if string-music had announced it in stately chords that strayed into a gavotte, that june at last was here. one member of the company was still awaited; the shepherd-boy for the nymphs to woo, the knight for whom the ladies waited at the window, the prince that was to kiss the sleeping summer back to life and love. but when meadow-sweet, debonair and odorous in amber jerkin, moved graciously to his place in the group, then the play was ready to begin. and what a play it had been! drowsy animals, snug in their holes while wind and rain were battering at their doors, recalled still keen mornings, an hour before sunrise, when the white mist, as yet undispersed, clung closely along the surface of the water; then the shock of the early plunge, the scamper along the bank, and the radiant transformation of earth, air, and water, when suddenly the sun was with them again, and grey was gold and colour was born and sprang out of the earth once more. they recalled the languorous siesta of hot mid-day, deep in green undergrowth, the sun striking through in tiny golden shafts and spots; the boating and bathing of the afternoon, the rambles along dusty lanes and through yellow corn-fields; and the long, cool evening at last, when so many threads were gathered up, so many friendships rounded, and so many adventures planned for the morrow. there was plenty to talk about on those short winter days when the animals found themselves round the fire; still, the mole had a good deal of spare time on his hands, and so one afternoon, when the rat in his arm-chair before the blaze was alternately dozing and trying over rhymes that wouldn't fit, he formed the resolution to go out by himself and explore the wild wood, and perhaps strike up an acquaintance with mr. badger. it was a cold, still afternoon with a hard, steely sky overhead, when he slipped out of the warm parlour into the open air. the country lay bare and entirely leafless around him, and he thought that he had never seen so far and so intimately into the insides of things as on that winter day when nature was deep in her annual slumber and seemed to have kicked the clothes off. copses, dells, quarries, and all hidden places, which had been mysterious mines for exploration in leafy summer, now exposed themselves and their secrets pathetically, and seemed to ask him to overlook their shabby poverty for a while, till they could riot in rich masquerade as before, and trick and entice him with the old deceptions. it was pitiful in a way, and yet cheering--even exhilarating. he was glad that he liked the country undecorated, hard, and stripped of its finery. he had got down to the bare bones of it, and they were fine and strong and simple. he did not want the warm clover and the play of seeding grasses; the screens of quickset, the billowy drapery of beech and elm seemed best away; and with great cheerfulness of spirit he pushed on towards the wild wood, which lay before him low and threatening, like a black reef in some still southern sea. there was nothing to alarm him at first entry. twigs crackled under his feet, logs tripped him, funguses on stumps resembled caricatures, and startled him for the moment by their likeness to something familiar and far away; but that was all fun, and exciting. it led him on, and he penetrated to where the light was less, and trees crouched nearer and nearer, and holes made ugly mouths at him on either side. everything was very still now. the dusk advanced on him steadily, rapidly, gathering in behind and before; and the light seemed to be draining away like flood-water. then the faces began. it was over his shoulder, and indistinctly, that he first thought he saw a face, a little, evil, wedge-shaped face, looking out at him from a hole. when he turned and confronted it, the thing had vanished. he quickened his pace, telling himself cheerfully not to begin imagining things or there would be simply no end to it. he passed another hole, and another, and another; and then--yes!--no!--yes! certainly a little, narrow face, with hard eyes, had flashed up for an instant from a hole, and was gone. he hesitated--braced himself up for an effort and strode on. then suddenly, and as if it had been so all the time, every hole, far and near, and there were hundreds of them, seemed to possess its face, coming and going rapidly, all fixing on him glances of malice and hatred: all hard-eyed and evil and sharp. if he could only get away from the holes in the banks, he thought, there would be no more faces. he swung off the path and plunged into the untrodden places of the wood. then the whistling began. very faint and shrill it was, and far behind him, when first he heard it; but somehow it made him hurry forward. then, still very faint and shrill, it sounded far ahead of him, and made him hesitate and want to go back. as he halted in indecision it broke out on either side, and seemed to be caught up and passed on throughout the whole length of the wood to its farthest limit. they were up and alert and ready, evidently, whoever they were! and he--he was alone, and unarmed, and far from any help; and the night was closing in. then the pattering began. he thought it was only falling leaves at first, so slight and delicate was the sound of it. then as it grew it took a regular rhythm, and he knew it for nothing else but the pat-pat-pat of little feet still a very long way off. was it in front or behind? it seemed to be first one, and then the other, then both. it grew and it multiplied, till from every quarter as he listened anxiously, leaning this way and that, it seemed to be closing in on him. as he stood still to hearken, a rabbit came running hard towards him through the trees. he waited, expecting it to slacken pace or to swerve from him into a different course. instead, the animal almost brushed him as it dashed past, his face set and hard, his eyes staring. "get out of this, you fool, get out!" the mole heard him mutter as he swung round a stump and disappeared down a friendly burrow. the pattering increased till it sounded like sudden hail on the dry leaf-carpet spread around him. the whole wood seemed running now, running hard, hunting, chasing, closing in round something or--somebody? in panic, he began to run too, aimlessly, he knew not whither. he ran up against things, he fell over things and into things, he darted under things and dodged round things. at last he took refuge in the deep, dark hollow of an old beech tree, which offered shelter, concealment--perhaps even safety, but who could tell? anyhow, he was too tired to run any further, and could only snuggle down into the dry leaves which had drifted into the hollow and hope he was safe for a time. and as he lay there panting and trembling, and listened to the whistlings and the patterings outside, he knew it at last, in all its fulness, that dread thing which other little dwellers in field and hedgerow had encountered here, and known as their darkest moment--that thing which the rat had vainly tried to shield him from--the terror of the wild wood! [illustration: _in panic, he began to run_] meantime the rat, warm and comfortable, dozed by his fireside. his paper of half-finished verses slipped from his knee, his head fell back, his mouth opened, and he wandered by the verdant banks of dream-rivers. then a coal slipped, the fire crackled and sent up a spurt of flame, and he woke with a start. remembering what he had been engaged upon, he reached down to the floor for his verses, pored over them for a minute, and then looked round for the mole to ask him if he knew a good rhyme for something or other. but the mole was not there. he listened for a time. the house seemed very quiet. then he called "moly!" several times, and, receiving no answer, got up and went out into the hall. the mole's cap was missing from its accustomed peg. his goloshes, which always lay by the umbrella-stand, were also gone. the rat left the house, and carefully examined the muddy surface of the ground outside, hoping to find the mole's tracks. there they were, sure enough. the goloshes were new, just bought for the winter, and the pimples on their soles were fresh and sharp. he could see the imprints of them in the mud, running along straight and purposeful, leading direct to the wild wood. the rat looked very grave, and stood in deep thought for a minute or two. then he re-entered the house, strapped a belt round his waist, shoved a brace of pistols into it, took up a stout cudgel that stood in a corner of the hall, and set off for the wild wood at a smart pace. it was already getting towards dusk when he reached the first fringe of trees and plunged without hesitation into the wood, looking anxiously on either side for any sign of his friend. here and there wicked little faces popped out of holes, but vanished immediately at sight of the valorous animal, his pistols, and the great ugly cudgel in his grasp; and the whistling and pattering, which he had heard quite plainly on his first entry, died away and ceased, and all was very still. he made his way manfully through the length of the wood, to its furthest edge; then, forsaking all paths, he set himself to traverse it, laboriously working over the whole ground, and all the time calling out cheerfully, "moly, moly, moly! where are you? it's me--it's old rat!" he had patiently hunted through the wood for an hour or more, when at last to his joy he heard a little answering cry. guiding himself by the sound, he made his way through the gathering darkness to the foot of an old beech tree, with a hole in it, and from out of the hole came a feeble voice, saying "ratty! is that really you?" the rat crept into the hollow, and there he found the mole, exhausted and still trembling. "o rat!" he cried, "i've been so frightened, you can't think!" "o, i quite understand," said the rat soothingly. "you shouldn't really have gone and done it, mole. i did my best to keep you from it. we river-bankers, we hardly ever come here by ourselves. if we have to come, we come in couples at least; then we're generally all right. besides, there are a hundred things one has to know, which we understand all about and you don't, as yet. i mean passwords, and signs, and sayings which have power and effect, and plants you carry in your pocket, and verses you repeat, and dodges and tricks you practise; all simple enough when you know them, but they've got to be known if you're small, or you'll find yourself in trouble. of course if you were badger or otter, it would be quite another matter." "surely the brave mr. toad wouldn't mind coming here by himself, would he?" inquired the mole. "old toad?" said the rat, laughing heartily. "he wouldn't show his face here alone, not for a whole hatful of golden guineas, toad wouldn't." the mole was greatly cheered by the sound of the rat's careless laughter, as well as by the sight of his stick and his gleaming pistols, and he stopped shivering and began to feel bolder and more himself again. "now then," said the rat presently, "we really must pull ourselves together and make a start for home while there's still a little light left. it will never do to spend the night here, you understand. too cold, for one thing." "dear ratty," said the poor mole, "i'm dreadfully sorry, but i'm simply dead beat and that's a solid fact. you _must_ let me rest here a while longer, and get my strength back, if i'm to get home at all." "o, all right," said the good-natured rat, "rest away. it's pretty nearly pitch dark now, anyhow; and there ought to be a bit of a moon later." so the mole got well into the dry leaves and stretched himself out, and presently dropped off into sleep, though of a broken and troubled sort; while the rat covered himself up, too, as best he might, for warmth, and lay patiently waiting, with a pistol in his paw. when at last the mole woke up, much refreshed and in his usual spirits, the rat said, "now then! i'll just take a look outside and see if everything's quiet, and then we really must be off." he went to the entrance of their retreat and put his head out. then the mole heard him saying quietly to himself, "hullo! hullo! here--_is_--a--go!" "what's up, ratty?" asked the mole. "_snow_ is up," replied the rat briefly; "or rather, _down_. it's snowing hard." the mole came and crouched beside him, and, looking out, saw the wood that had been so dreadful to him in quite a changed aspect. holes, hollows, pools, pitfalls, and other black menaces to the wayfarer were vanishing fast, and a gleaming carpet of faery was springing up everywhere, that looked too delicate to be trodden upon by rough feet. a fine powder filled the air and caressed the cheek with a tingle in its touch, and the black boles of the trees showed up in a light that seemed to come from below. "well, well, it can't be helped," said the rat, after pondering. "we must make a start, and take our chance, i suppose. the worst of it is, i don't exactly know where we are. and now this snow makes everything look so very different." it did indeed. the mole would not have known that it was the same wood. however, they set out bravely, and took the line that seemed most promising, holding on to each other and pretending with invincible cheerfulness that they recognised an old friend in every fresh tree that grimly and silently greeted them, or saw openings, gaps, or paths with a familiar turn in them, in the monotony of white space and black tree-trunks that refused to vary. an hour or two later--they had lost all count of time--they pulled up, dispirited, weary, and hopelessly at sea, and sat down on a fallen tree-trunk to recover their breath and consider what was to be done. they were aching with fatigue and bruised with tumbles; they had fallen into several holes and got wet through; the snow was getting so deep that they could hardly drag their little legs through it, and the trees were thicker and more like each other than ever. there seemed to be no end to this wood, and no beginning, and no difference in it, and, worst of all, no way out. "we can't sit here very long," said the rat. "we shall have to make another push for it, and do something or other. the cold is too awful for anything, and the snow will soon be too deep for us to wade through." he peered about him and considered. "look here," he went on, "this is what occurs to me. there's a sort of dell down here in front of us, where the ground seems all hilly and humpy and hummocky. we'll make our way down into that, and try and find some sort of shelter, a cave or hole with a dry floor to it, out of the snow and the wind, and there we'll have a good rest before we try again, for we're both of us pretty dead beat. besides, the snow may leave off, or something may turn up." so once more they got on their feet, and struggled down into the dell, where they hunted about for a cave or some corner that was dry and a protection from the keen wind and the whirling snow. they were investigating one of the hummocky bits the rat had spoken of, when suddenly the mole tripped up and fell forward on his face with a squeal. "o my leg!" he cried. "o my poor shin!" and he sat up on the snow and nursed his leg in both his front paws. "poor old mole!" said the rat kindly. "you don't seem to be having much luck to-day, do you? let's have a look at the leg. yes," he went on, going down on his knees to look, "you've cut your shin, sure enough. wait till i get at my handkerchief, and i'll tie it up for you." "i must have tripped over a hidden branch or a stump," said the mole miserably. "o, my! o, my!" "it's a very clean cut," said the rat, examining it again attentively. "that was never done by a branch or a stump. looks as if it was made by a sharp edge of something in metal. funny!" he pondered awhile, and examined the humps and slopes that surrounded them. "well, never mind what done it," said the mole, forgetting his grammar in his pain. "it hurts just the same, whatever done it." but the rat, after carefully tying up the leg with his handkerchief, had left him and was busy scraping in the snow. he scratched and shovelled and explored, all four legs working busily, while the mole waited impatiently, remarking at intervals, "o, _come_ on, rat!" suddenly the rat cried "hooray!" and then "hooray-oo-ray-oo-ray-oo-ray!" and fell to executing a feeble jig in the snow. "what _have_ you found, ratty?" asked the mole, still nursing his leg. "come and see!" said the delighted rat, as he jigged on. the mole hobbled up to the spot and had a good look. "well," he said at last, slowly, "i _see_ it right enough. seen the same sort of thing before, lots of times. familiar object, i call it. a door-scraper! well, what of it? why dance jigs around a door-scraper?" "but don't you see what it _means_, you--you dull-witted animal?" cried the rat impatiently. "of course i see what it means," replied the mole. "it simply means that some _very_ careless and forgetful person has left his door-scraper lying about in the middle of the wild wood, _just_ where it's _sure_ to trip _everybody_ up. very thoughtless of him, i call it. when i get home i shall go and complain about it to--to somebody or other, see if i don't!" "o, dear! o, dear!" cried the rat, in despair at his obtuseness. "here, stop arguing and come and scrape!" and he set to work again and made the snow fly in all directions around him. after some further toil his efforts were rewarded, and a very shabby door-mat lay exposed to view. "there, what did i tell you?" exclaimed the rat in great triumph. "absolutely nothing whatever," replied the mole, with perfect truthfulness. "well, now," he went on, "you seem to have found another piece of domestic litter, done for and thrown away, and i suppose you're perfectly happy. better go ahead and dance your jig round that if you've got to, and get it over, and then perhaps we can go on and not waste any more time over rubbish-heaps. can we _eat_ a door-mat? or sleep under a door-mat? or sit on a door-mat and sledge home over the snow on it, you exasperating rodent?" "do--you--mean--to--say," cried the excited rat, "that this door-mat doesn't _tell_ you anything?" "really, rat," said the mole, quite pettishly, "i think we've had enough of this folly. who ever heard of a door-mat _telling_ any one anything? they simply don't do it. they are not that sort at all. door-mats know their place." "now look here, you--you thick-headed beast," replied the rat, really angry, "this must stop. not another word, but scrape--scrape and scratch and dig and hunt round, especially on the sides of the hummocks, if you want to sleep dry and warm to-night, for it's our last chance!" the rat attacked a snow-bank beside them with ardour, probing with his cudgel everywhere and then digging with fury; and the mole scraped busily too, more to oblige the rat than for any other reason, for his opinion was that his friend was getting light-headed. some ten minutes' hard work, and the point of the rat's cudgel struck something that sounded hollow. he worked till he could get a paw through and feel; then called the mole to come and help him. hard at it went the two animals, till at last the result of their labours stood full in view of the astonished and hitherto incredulous mole. in the side of what had seemed to be a snow-bank stood a solid-looking little door, painted a dark green. an iron bell-pull hung by the side, and below it, on a small brass plate, neatly engraved in square capital letters, they could read by the aid of moonlight mr. badger. the mole fell backwards on the snow from sheer surprise and delight. "rat!" he cried in penitence, "you're a wonder! a real wonder, that's what you are. i see it all now! you argued it out, step by step, in that wise head of yours, from the very moment that i fell and cut my shin, and you looked at the cut, and at once your majestic mind said to itself, 'door-scraper!' and then you turned to and found the very door-scraper that done it! did you stop there? no. some people would have been quite satisfied; but not you. your intellect went on working. 'let me only just find a door-mat,' says you to yourself, 'and my theory is proved!' and of course you found your door-mat. you're so clever, i believe you could find anything you liked. 'now,' says you, 'that door exists, as plain as if i saw it. there's nothing else remains to be done but to find it!' well, i've read about that sort of thing in books, but i've never come across it before in real life. you ought to go where you'll be properly appreciated. you're simply wasted here, among us fellows. if i only had your head, ratty--" "but as you haven't," interrupted the rat, rather unkindly, "i suppose you're going to sit on the snow all night and _talk_? get up at once and hang on to that bell-pull you see there, and ring hard, as hard as you can, while i hammer!" while the rat attacked the door with his stick, the mole sprang up at the bell-pull, clutched it and swung there, both feet well off the ground, and from quite a long way off they could faintly hear a deep-toned bell respond. iv mr. badger they waited patiently for what seemed a very long time, stamping in the snow to keep their feet warm. at last they heard the sound of slow shuffling footsteps approaching the door from the inside. it seemed, as the mole remarked to the rat, like some one walking in carpet slippers that were too large for him and down at heel; which was intelligent of mole, because that was exactly what it was. there was the noise of a bolt shot back, and the door opened a few inches, enough to show a long snout and a pair of sleepy blinking eyes. "now, the _very_ next time this happens," said a gruff and suspicious voice, "i shall be exceedingly angry. who is it _this_ time, disturbing people on such a night? speak up!" "oh, badger," cried the rat, "let us in, please. it's me, rat, and my friend mole, and we've lost our way in the snow." "what, ratty, my dear little man!" exclaimed the badger, in quite a different voice. "come along in, both of you, at once. why, you must be perished. well, i never! lost in the snow! and in the wild wood, too, and at this time of night! but come in with you." the two animals tumbled over each other in their eagerness to get inside, and heard the door shut behind them with great joy and relief. the badger, who wore a long dressing-gown, and whose slippers were indeed very down at heel, carried a flat candlestick in his paw and had probably been on his way to bed when their summons sounded. he looked kindly down on them and patted both their heads. "this is not the sort of night for small animals to be out," he said paternally. "i'm afraid you've been up to some of your pranks again, ratty. but come along; come into the kitchen. there's a first-rate fire there, and supper and everything." he shuffled on in front of them, carrying the light, and they followed him, nudging each other in an anticipating sort of way, down a long, gloomy, and, to tell the truth, decidedly shabby passage, into a sort of a central hall, out of which they could dimly see other long tunnel-like passages branching, passages mysterious and without apparent end. but there were doors in the hall as well--stout oaken, comfortable-looking doors. one of these the badger flung open, and at once they found themselves in all the glow and warmth of a large fire-lit kitchen. the floor was well-worn red brick, and on the wide hearth burnt a fire of logs, between two attractive chimney-corners tucked away in the wall, well out of any suspicion of draught. a couple of high-backed settles, facing each other on either side of the fire, gave further sitting accommodations for the sociably disposed. in the middle of the room stood a long table of plain boards placed on trestles, with benches down each side. at one end of it, where an arm-chair stood pushed back, were spread the remains of the badger's plain but ample supper. rows of spotless plates winked from the shelves of the dresser at the far end of the room, and from the rafters overhead hung hams, bundles of dried herbs, nets of onions, and baskets of eggs. it seemed a place where heroes could fitly feast after victory, where weary harvesters could line up in scores along the table and keep their harvest home with mirth and song, or where two or three friends of simple tastes could sit about as they pleased and eat and smoke and talk in comfort and contentment. the ruddy brick floor smiled up at the smoky ceiling; the oaken settles, shiny with long wear, exchanged cheerful glances with each other; plates on the dresser grinned at pots on the shelf, and the merry firelight flickered and played over everything without distinction. the kindly badger thrust them down on a settle to toast themselves at the fire, and bade them remove their wet coats and boots. then he fetched them dressing-gowns and slippers, and himself bathed the mole's shin with warm water and mended the cut with sticking-plaster, till the whole thing was just as good as new, if not better. in the embracing light and warmth, warm and dry at last, with weary legs propped up in front of them, and a suggestive clink of plates being arranged on the table behind, it seemed to the storm-driven animals, now in safe anchorage, that the cold and trackless wild wood just left outside was miles and miles away, and all that they had suffered in it a half-forgotten dream. when at last they were thoroughly toasted, the badger summoned them to the table, where he had been busy laying a repast. they had felt pretty hungry before, but when they actually saw at last the supper that was spread for them, really it seemed only a question of what they should attack first where all was so attractive, and whether the other things would obligingly wait for them till they had time to give them attention. conversation was impossible for a long time; and when it was slowly resumed, it was that regrettable sort of conversation that results from talking with your mouth full. the badger did not mind that sort of thing at all, nor did he take any notice of elbows on the table, or everybody speaking at once. as he did not go into society himself, he had got an idea that these things belonged to the things that didn't really matter. (we know of course that he was wrong, and took too narrow a view; because they do matter very much, though it would take too long to explain why.) he sat in his arm-chair at the head of the table, and nodded gravely at intervals as the animals told their story; and he did not seem surprised or shocked at anything, and he never said, "i told you so," or, "just what i always said," or remarked that they ought to have done so-and-so, or ought not to have done something else. the mole began to feel very friendly towards him. when supper was really finished at last, and each animal felt that his skin was now as tight as was decently safe, and that by this time he didn't care a hang for anybody or anything, they gathered round the glowing embers of the great wood fire, and thought how jolly it was to be sitting up _so_ late, and _so_ independent, and _so_ full; and after they had chatted for a time about things in general, the badger said heartily, "now then! tell us the news from your part of the world. how's old toad going on?" "oh, from bad to worse," said the rat gravely, while the mole, cocked up on a settle and basking in the firelight, his heels higher than his head, tried to look properly mournful. "another smash-up only last week, and a bad one. you see, he will insist on driving himself, and he's hopelessly incapable. if he'd only employ a decent, steady, well-trained animal, pay him good wages, and leave everything to him, he'd get on all right. but no; he's convinced he's a heaven-born driver, and nobody can teach him anything; and all the rest follows." "how many has he had?" inquired the badger gloomily. "smashes, or machines?" asked the rat. "oh, well, after all, it's the same thing--with toad. this is the seventh. as for the others--you know that coach-house of his? well, it's piled up--literally piled up to the roof--with fragments of motor-cars, none of them bigger than your hat! that accounts for the other six--so far as they can be accounted for." "he's been in hospital three times," put in the mole; "and as for the fines he's had to pay, it's simply awful to think of." "yes, and that's part of the trouble," continued the rat. "toad's rich, we all know; but he's not a millionaire. and he's a hopelessly bad driver, and quite regardless of law and order. killed or ruined--it's got to be one of the two things, sooner or later. badger! we're his friends--oughtn't we to do something?" the badger went through a bit of hard thinking. "now look here!" he said at last, rather severely; "of course you know i can't do anything _now_?" his two friends assented, quite understanding his point. no animal, according to the rules of animal etiquette, is ever expected to do anything strenuous, or heroic, or even moderately active during the off-season of winter. all are sleepy--some actually asleep. all are weather-bound, more or less; and all are resting from arduous days and nights, during which every muscle in them has been severely tested, and every energy kept at full stretch. "very well then!" continued the badger. "_but_, when once the year has really turned, and the nights are shorter, and half-way through them one rouses and feels fidgety and wanting to be up and doing by sunrise, if not before--_you_ know!--" both animals nodded gravely. _they_ knew! "well, _then_," went on the badger, "we--that is, you and me and our friend the mole here--we'll take toad seriously in hand. we'll stand no nonsense whatever. we'll bring him back to reason, by force if need be. we'll _make_ him be a sensible toad. we'll--you're asleep, rat!" "not me!" said the rat, waking up with a jerk. "he's been asleep two or three times since supper," said the mole, laughing. he himself was feeling quite wakeful and even lively, though he didn't know why. the reason was, of course, that he being naturally an underground animal by birth and breeding, the situation of badger's house exactly suited him and made him feel at home; while the rat, who slept every night in a bedroom the windows of which opened on a breezy river, naturally felt the atmosphere still and oppressive. "well, it's time we were all in bed," said the badger, getting up and fetching flat candlesticks. "come along, you two, and i'll show you your quarters. and take your time to-morrow morning--breakfast at any hour you please!" he conducted the two animals to a long room that seemed half bedchamber and half loft. the badger's winter stores, which indeed were visible everywhere, took up half the room--piles of apples, turnips, and potatoes, baskets full of nuts, and jars of honey; but the two little white beds on the remainder of the floor looked soft and inviting, and the linen on them, though coarse, was clean and smelt beautifully of lavender; and the mole and the water rat, shaking off their garments in some thirty seconds, tumbled in between the sheets in great joy and contentment. in accordance with the kindly badger's injunctions, the two tired animals came down to breakfast very late next morning, and found a bright fire burning in the kitchen, and two young hedgehogs sitting on a bench at the table, eating oatmeal porridge out of wooden bowls. the hedgehogs dropped their spoons, rose to their feet, and ducked their heads respectfully as the two entered. "there, sit down, sit down," said the rat pleasantly, "and go on with your porridge. where have you youngsters come from? lost your way in the snow, i suppose?" "yes, please, sir," said the elder of the two hedgehogs respectfully. "me and little billy here, we was trying to find our way to school--mother _would_ have us go, was the weather ever so--and of course we lost ourselves, sir, and billy he got frightened and took and cried, being young and faint-hearted. and at last we happened up against mr. badger's back door, and made so bold as to knock, sir, for mr. badger he's a kind-hearted gentleman, as every one knows--" "i understand," said the rat, cutting himself some rashers from a side of bacon, while the mole dropped some eggs into a saucepan. "and what's the weather like outside? you needn't 'sir' me quite so much," he added. "o, terrible bad, sir, terrible deep the snow is," said the hedgehog. "no getting out for the likes of you gentlemen to-day." "where's mr. badger?" inquired the mole as he warmed the coffee-pot before the fire. "the master's gone into his study, sir," replied the hedgehog, "and he said as how he was going to be particular busy this morning, and on no account was he to be disturbed." this explanation, of course, was thoroughly understood by every one present. the fact is, as already set forth, when you live a life of intense activity for six months in the year, and of comparative or actual somnolence for the other six, during the latter period you cannot be continually pleading sleepiness when there are people about or things to be done. the excuse gets monotonous. the animals well knew that badger, having eaten a hearty breakfast, had retired to his study and settled himself in an arm-chair with his legs up on another and a red cotton handkerchief over his face, and was being "busy" in the usual way at this time of the year. the front-door bell clanged loudly, and the rat, who was very greasy with buttered toast, sent billy, the smaller hedgehog, to see who it might be. there was a sound of much stamping in the hall, and presently billy returned in front of the otter, who threw himself on the rat with an embrace and a shout of affectionate greeting. "get off!" spluttered the rat, with his mouth full. "thought i should find you here all right," said the otter cheerfully. "they were all in a great state of alarm along river bank when i arrived this morning. rat never been home all night--nor mole either--something dreadful must have happened, they said; and the snow had covered up all your tracks, of course. but i knew that when people were in any fix they mostly went to badger, or else badger got to know of it somehow, so i came straight off here, through the wild wood and the snow! my! it was fine, coming through the snow as the red sun was rising and showing against the black tree-trunks! as you went along in the stillness, every now and then masses of snow slid off the branches suddenly with a flop! making you jump and run for cover. snow-castles and snow-caverns had sprung up out of nowhere in the night--and snow bridges, terraces, ramparts--i could have stayed and played with them for hours. here and there great branches had been torn away by the sheer weight of the snow, and robins perched and hopped on them in their perky conceited way, just as if they had done it themselves. a ragged string of wild geese passed overhead, high on the grey sky, and a few rooks whirled over the trees, inspected, and flapped off homewards with a disgusted expression; but i met no sensible being to ask the news of. about half-way across i came on a rabbit sitting on a stump, cleaning his silly face with his paws. he was a pretty scared animal when i crept up behind him and placed a heavy fore-paw on his shoulder. i had to cuff his head once or twice to get any sense out of it at all. at last i managed to extract from him that mole had been seen in the wild wood last night by one of them. it was the talk of the burrows, he said, how mole, mr. rat's particular friend, was in a bad fix; how he had lost his way, and 'they' were up and out hunting, and were chivvying him round and round. 'then why didn't any of you _do_ something?' i asked. 'you mayn't be blessed with brains, but there are hundreds and hundreds of you, big, stout fellows, as fat as butter, and your burrows running in all directions, and you could have taken him in and made him safe and comfortable, or tried to, at all events.' 'what, _us_?' he merely said: '_do_ something? us rabbits?' so i cuffed him again and left him. there was nothing else to be done. at any rate, i had learnt something; and if i had had the luck to meet any of 'them' i'd have learnt something more--or _they_ would." [illustration: _through the wild wood and the snow_] "weren't you at all--er--nervous?" asked the mole, some of yesterday's terror coming back to him at the mention of the wild wood. "nervous?" the otter showed a gleaming set of strong white teeth as he laughed. "i'd give 'em nerves if any of them tried anything on with me. here, mole, fry me some slices of ham, like the good little chap you are. i'm frightfully hungry, and i've got any amount to say to ratty here. haven't seen him for an age." so the good-natured mole, having cut some slices of ham, set the hedgehogs to fry it, and returned to his own breakfast, while the otter and the rat, their heads together, eagerly talked river-shop, which is long shop and talk that is endless, running on like the babbling river itself. a plate of fried ham had just been cleared and sent back for more, when the badger entered, yawning and rubbing his eyes, and greeted them all in his quiet, simple way, with kind inquiries for every one. "it must be getting on for luncheon time," he remarked to the otter. "better stop and have it with us. you must be hungry, this cold morning." "rather!" replied the otter, winking at the mole. "the sight of these greedy young hedgehogs stuffing themselves with fried ham makes me feel positively famished." the hedgehogs, who were just beginning to feel hungry again after their porridge, and after working so hard at their frying, looked timidly up at mr. badger, but were too shy to say anything. "here, you two youngsters, be off home to your mother," said the badger kindly. "i'll send some one with you to show you the way. you won't want any dinner to-day, i'll be bound." he gave them sixpence a-piece and a pat on the head, and they went off with much respectful swinging of caps and touching of forelocks. presently they all sat down to luncheon together. the mole found himself placed next to mr. badger, and, as the other two were still deep in river-gossip from which nothing could divert them, he took the opportunity to tell badger how comfortable and home-like it all felt to him. "once well underground," he said, "you know exactly where you are. nothing can happen to you, and nothing can get at you. you're entirely your own master, and you don't have to consult anybody or mind what they say. things go on all the same overhead, and you let 'em, and don't bother about 'em. when you want to, up you go, and there the things are, waiting for you." the badger simply beamed on him. "that's exactly what i say," he replied. "there's no security, or peace and tranquillity, except underground. and then, if your ideas get larger and you want to expand--why, a dig and a scrape, and there you are! if you feel your house is a bit too big, you stop up a hole or two, and there you are again! no builders, no tradesmen, no remarks passed on you by fellows looking over your wall, and, above all, no _weather_. look at rat, now. a couple of feet of flood water, and he's got to move into hired lodgings; uncomfortable, inconveniently situated, and horribly expensive. take toad. i say nothing against toad hall; quite the best house in these parts, _as_ a house. but supposing a fire breaks out--where's toad? supposing tiles are blown off, or walls sink or crack, or windows get broken--where's toad? supposing the rooms are draughty--i _hate_ a draught myself--where's toad? no, up and out of doors is good enough to roam about and get one's living in; but underground to come back to at last--that's my idea of _home_!" the mole assented heartily; and the badger in consequence got very friendly with him. "when lunch is over," he said, "i'll take you all round this little place of mine. i can see you'll appreciate it. you understand what domestic architecture ought to be, you do." after luncheon, accordingly, when the other two had settled themselves into the chimney-corner and had started a heated argument on the subject of _eels_, the badger lighted a lantern and bade the mole follow him. crossing the hall, they passed down one of the principal tunnels, and the wavering light of the lantern gave glimpses on either side of rooms both large and small, some mere cupboards, others nearly as broad and imposing as toad's dining-hall. a narrow passage at right angles led them into another corridor, and here the same thing was repeated. the mole was staggered at the size, the extent, the ramifications of it all; at the length of the dim passages, the solid vaultings of the crammed store-chambers, the masonry everywhere, the pillars, the arches, the pavements. "how on earth, badger," he said at last, "did you ever find time and strength to do all this? it's astonishing!" "it _would_ be astonishing indeed," said the badger simply, "if i _had_ done it. but as a matter of fact i did none of it--only cleaned out the passages and chambers, as far as i had need of them. there's lots more of it, all round about. i see you don't understand, and i must explain it to you. well, very long ago, on the spot where the wild wood waves now, before ever it had planted itself and grown up to what it now is, there was a city--a city of people, you know. here, where we are standing, they lived, and walked, and talked, and slept, and carried on their business. here they stabled their horses and feasted, from here they rode out to fight or drove out to trade. they were a powerful people, and rich, and great builders. they built to last, for they thought their city would last for ever." "but what has become of them all?" asked the mole. "who can tell?" said the badger. "people come--they stay for a while, they flourish, they build--and they go. it is their way. but we remain. there were badgers here, i've been told, long before that same city ever came to be. and now there are badgers here again. we are an enduring lot, and we may move out for a time, but we wait, and are patient, and back we come. and so it will ever be." "well, and when they went at last, those people?" said the mole. "when they went," continued the badger, "the strong winds and persistent rains took the matter in hand, patiently, ceaselessly, year after year. perhaps we badgers too, in our small way, helped a little--who knows? it was all down, down, down, gradually--ruin and levelling and disappearance. then it was all up, up, up, gradually, as seeds grew to saplings, and saplings to forest trees, and bramble and fern came creeping in to help. leaf-mould rose and obliterated, streams in their winter freshets brought sand and soil to clog and to cover, and in course of time our home was ready for us again, and we moved in. up above us, on the surface, the same thing happened. animals arrived, liked the look of the place, took up their quarters, settled down, spread, and flourished. they didn't bother themselves about the past--they never do; they're too busy. the place was a bit humpy and hillocky, naturally, and full of holes; but that was rather an advantage. and they don't bother about the future, either--the future when perhaps the people will move in again--for a time--as may very well be. the wild wood is pretty well populated by now; with all the usual lot, good, bad, and indifferent--i name no names. it takes all sorts to make a world. but i fancy you know something about them yourself by this time." "i do indeed," said the mole, with a slight shiver. "well, well," said the badger, patting him on the shoulder, "it was your first experience of them, you see. they're not so bad really; and we must all live and let live. but i'll pass the word around to-morrow, and i think you'll have no further trouble. any friend of _mine_ walks where he likes in this country, or i'll know the reason why!" when they got back to the kitchen again, they found the rat walking up and down, very restless. the underground atmosphere was oppressing him and getting on his nerves, and he seemed really to be afraid that the river would run away if he wasn't there to look after it. so he had his overcoat on, and his pistols thrust into his belt again. "come along, mole," he said anxiously, as soon as he caught sight of them. "we must get off while it's daylight. don't want to spend another night in the wild wood again." "it'll be all right, my fine fellow," said the otter. "i'm coming along with you, and i know every path blindfold; and if there's a head that needs to be punched, you can confidently rely upon me to punch it." "you really needn't fret, ratty," added the badger placidly. "my passages run further than you think, and i've bolt-holes to the edge of the wood in several directions, though i don't care for everybody to know about them. when you really have to go, you shall leave by one of my short cuts. meantime, make yourself easy, and sit down again." the rat was nevertheless still anxious to be off and attend to his river, so the badger, taking up his lantern again, led the way along a damp and airless tunnel that wound and dipped, part vaulted, part hewn through solid rock, for a weary distance that seemed to be miles. at last daylight began to show itself confusedly through tangled growth overhanging the mouth of the passage; and the badger, bidding them a hasty good-bye, pushed them hurriedly through the opening, made everything look as natural as possible again, with creepers, brushwood, and dead leaves, and retreated. they found themselves standing on the very edge of the wild wood. rocks and brambles and tree-roots behind them, confusedly heaped and tangled; in front, a great space of quiet fields, hemmed by lines of hedges black on the snow, and, far ahead, a glint of the familiar old river, while the wintry sun hung red and low on the horizon. the otter, as knowing all the paths, took charge of the party, and they trailed out on a bee-line for a distant stile. pausing there a moment and looking back, they saw the whole mass of the wild wood, dense, menacing, compact, grimly set in vast white surroundings; simultaneously they turned and made swiftly for home, for firelight and the familiar things it played on, for the voice, sounding cheerily outside their window, of the river that they knew and trusted in all its moods, that never made them afraid with any amazement. as he hurried along, eagerly anticipating the moment when he would be at home again among the things he knew and liked, the mole saw clearly that he was an animal of tilled field and hedgerow, linked to the ploughed furrow, the frequented pasture, the lane of evening lingerings, the cultivated garden-plot. for others the asperities, the stubborn endurance, or the clash of actual conflict, that went with nature in the rough; he must be wise, must keep to the pleasant places in which his lines were laid and which held adventure enough, in their way, to last for a lifetime. v dulce domum the sheep ran huddling together against the hurdles, blowing out thin nostrils and stamping with delicate fore-feet, their heads thrown back and a light steam rising from the crowded sheep-pen into the frosty air, as the two animals hastened by in high spirits, with much chatter and laughter. they were returning across country after a long day's outing with otter, hunting and exploring on the wide uplands, where certain streams tributary to their own river had their first small beginnings; and the shades of the short winter day were closing in on them, and they had still some distance to go. plodding at random across the plough, they had heard the sheep and had made for them; and now, leading from the sheep-pen, they found a beaten track that made walking a lighter business, and responded, moreover, to that small inquiring something which all animals carry inside them, saying unmistakably, "yes, quite right; _this_ leads home!" "it looks as if we were coming to a village," said the mole somewhat dubiously, slackening his pace, as the track, that had in time become a path and then had developed into a lane, now handed them over to the charge of a well-metalled road. the animals did not hold with villages, and their own highways, thickly frequented as they were, took an independent course, regardless of church, post-office, or public-house. "oh, never mind!" said the rat. "at this season of the year they're all safe indoors by this time, sitting round the fire; men, women, and children, dogs and cats and all. we shall slip through all right, without any bother or unpleasantness, and we can have a look at them through their windows if you like, and see what they're doing." the rapid nightfall of mid-december had quite beset the little village as they approached it on soft feet over a first thin fall of powdery snow. little was visible but squares of a dusky orange-red on either side of the street, where the firelight or lamplight of each cottage overflowed through the casements into the dark world without. most of the low latticed windows were innocent of blinds, and to the lookers-in from outside, the inmates, gathered round the tea-table, absorbed in handiwork, or talking with laughter and gesture, had each that happy grace which is the last thing the skilled actor shall capture--the natural grace which goes with perfect unconsciousness of observation. moving at will from one theatre to another, the two spectators, so far from home themselves, had something of wistfulness in their eyes as they watched a cat being stroked, a sleepy child picked up and huddled off to bed, or a tired man stretch and knock out his pipe on the end of a smouldering log. but it was from one little window, with its blind drawn down, a mere blank transparency on the night, that the sense of home and the little curtained world within walls--the larger stressful world of outside nature shut out and forgotten--most pulsated. close against the white blind hung a bird-cage, clearly silhouetted, every wire, perch, and appurtenance distinct and recognisable, even to yesterday's dull-edged lump of sugar. on the middle perch the fluffy occupant, head tucked well into feathers, seemed so near to them as to be easily stroked, had they tried; even the delicate tips of his plumped-out plumage pencilled plainly on the illuminated screen. as they looked, the sleepy little fellow stirred uneasily, woke, shook himself, and raised his head. they could see the gape of his tiny beak as he yawned in a bored sort of way, looked round, and then settled his head into his back again, while the ruffled feathers gradually subsided into perfect stillness. then a gust of bitter wind took them in the back of the neck, a small sting of frozen sleet on the skin woke them as from a dream, and they knew their toes to be cold and their legs tired, and their own home distant a weary way. once beyond the village, where the cottages ceased abruptly, on either side of the road they could smell through the darkness the friendly fields again; and they braced themselves for the last long stretch, the home stretch, the stretch that we know is bound to end, some time, in the rattle of the door-latch, the sudden firelight, and the sight of familiar things greeting us as long-absent travellers from far over-sea. they plodded along steadily and silently, each of them thinking his own thoughts. the mole's ran a good deal on supper, as it was pitch-dark, and it was all a strange country for him as far as he knew, and he was following obediently in the wake of the rat, leaving the guidance entirely to him. as for the rat, he was walking a little way ahead, as his habit was, his shoulders humped, his eyes fixed on the straight grey road in front of him; so he did not notice poor mole when suddenly the summons reached him, and took him like an electric shock. we others, who have long lost the more subtle of the physical senses, have not even proper terms to express an animal's inter-communications with his surroundings, living or otherwise, and have only the word "smell," for instance, to include the whole range of delicate thrills which murmur in the nose of the animal night and day, summoning, warning, inciting, repelling. it was one of these mysterious fairy calls from out the void that suddenly reached mole in the darkness, making him tingle through and through with its very familiar appeal, even while yet he could not clearly remember what it was. he stopped dead in his tracks, his nose searching hither and thither in its efforts to recapture the fine filament, the telegraphic current, that had so strongly moved him. a moment, and he had caught it again; and with it this time came recollection in fullest flood. home! that was what they meant, those caressing appeals, those soft touches wafted through the air, those invisible little hands pulling and tugging, all one way! why, it must be quite close by him at that moment, his old home that he had hurriedly forsaken and never sought again, that day when he first found the river! and now it was sending out its scouts and its messengers to capture him and bring him in. since his escape on that bright morning he had hardly given it a thought, so absorbed had he been in his new life, in all its pleasures, its surprises, its fresh and captivating experiences. now, with a rush of old memories, how clearly it stood up before him, in the darkness! shabby indeed, and small and poorly furnished, and yet his, the home he had made for himself, the home he had been so happy to get back to after his day's work. and the home had been happy with him, too, evidently, and was missing him, and wanted him back, and was telling him so, through his nose, sorrowfully, reproachfully, but with no bitterness or anger; only with plaintive reminder that it was there, and wanted him. the call was clear, the summons was plain. he must obey it instantly, and go. "ratty!" he called, full of joyful excitement, "hold on! come back! i want you, quick!" "oh, _come_ along, mole, do!" replied the rat cheerfully, still plodding along. "_please_ stop, ratty!" pleaded the poor mole, in anguish of heart. "you don't understand! it's my home, my old home! i've just come across the smell of it, and it's close by here, really quite close. and i _must_ go to it, i must, i must! oh, come back, ratty! please, please come back!" the rat was by this time very far ahead, too far to hear clearly what the mole was calling, too far to catch the sharp note of painful appeal in his voice. and he was much taken up with the weather, for he too, could smell something--something suspiciously like approaching snow. "mole, we mustn't stop now, really!" he called back. "we'll come for it to-morrow, whatever it is you've found. but i daren't stop now--it's late, and the snow's coming on again, and i'm not sure of the way! and i want your nose, mole, so come on quick, there's a good fellow!" and the rat pressed forward on his way without waiting for an answer. poor mole stood alone in the road, his heart torn asunder, and a big sob gathering, gathering, somewhere low down inside him, to leap up to the surface presently, he knew, in passionate escape. but even under such a test as this his loyalty to his friend stood firm. never for a moment did he dream of abandoning him. meanwhile, the wafts from his old home pleaded, whispered, conjured, and finally claimed him imperiously. he dared not tarry longer within their magic circle. with a wrench that tore his very heart-strings he set his face down the road and followed submissively in the track of the rat, while faint, thin little smells, still dogging his retreating nose, reproached him for his new friendship and his callous forgetfulness. with an effort he caught up to the unsuspecting rat, who began chattering cheerfully about what they would do when they got back, and how jolly a fire of logs in the parlour would be, and what a supper he meant to eat; never noticing his companion's silence and distressful state of mind. at last, however, when they had gone some considerable way further, and were passing some tree stumps at the edge of a copse that bordered the road, he stopped and said kindly, "look here, mole, old chap, you seem dead tired. no talk left in you, and your feet dragging like lead. we'll sit down here for a minute and rest. the snow has held off so far, and the best part of our journey is over." the mole subsided forlornly on a tree stump and tried to control himself, for he felt it surely coming. the sob he had fought with so long refused to be beaten. up and up, it forced its way to the air, and then another, and another, and others thick and fast; till poor mole at last gave up the struggle, and cried freely and helplessly and openly, now that he knew it was all over and he had lost what he could hardly be said to have found. the rat, astonished and dismayed at the violence of mole's paroxysm of grief, did not dare to speak for a while. at last he said, very quietly and sympathetically, "what is it, old fellow? whatever can be the matter? tell us your trouble, and let me see what i can do." poor mole found it difficult to get any words out between the upheavals of his chest that followed one upon another so quickly and held back speech and choked it as it came. "i know it's a--shabby, dingy little place," he sobbed forth at last brokenly: "not like--your cosy quarters--or toad's beautiful hall--or badger's great house--but it was my own little home--and i was fond of it--and i went away and forgot all about it--and then i smelt it suddenly--on the road, when i called and you wouldn't listen, rat--and everything came back to me with a rush--and i _wanted_ it!--o dear, o dear!--and when you _wouldn't_ turn back, ratty--and i had to leave it, though i was smelling it all the time--i thought my heart would break.--we might have just gone and had one look at it, ratty--only one look--it was close by--but you wouldn't turn back, ratty, you wouldn't turn back! o dear, o dear!" recollection brought fresh waves of sorrow, and sobs again took full charge of him, preventing further speech. the rat stared straight in front of him, saying nothing, only patting mole gently on the shoulder. after a time he muttered gloomily, "i see it all now! what a _pig_ i have been! a pig--that's me! just a pig--a plain pig!" he waited till mole's sobs became gradually less stormy and more rhythmical; he waited till at last sniffs were frequent and sobs only intermittent. then he rose from his seat, and, remarking carelessly, "well, now we'd really better be getting on, old chap!" set off up the road again over the toilsome way they had come. "wherever are you (hic) going to (hic), ratty?" cried the tearful mole, looking up in alarm. "we're going to find that home of yours, old fellow," replied the rat pleasantly; "so you had better come along, for it will take some finding, and we shall want your nose." "oh, come back, ratty, do!" cried the mole, getting up and hurrying after him. "it's no good, i tell you! it's too late, and too dark, and the place is too far off, and the snow's coming! and--and i never meant to let you know i was feeling that way about it--it was all an accident and a mistake! and think of river bank, and your supper!" "hang river bank, and supper, too!" said the rat heartily. "i tell you, i'm going to find this place now, if i stay out all night. so cheer up, old chap, and take my arm, and we'll very soon be back there again." still snuffling, pleading, and reluctant, mole suffered himself to be dragged back along the road by his imperious companion, who by a flow of cheerful talk and anecdote endeavoured to beguile his spirits back and make the weary way seem shorter. when at last it seemed to the rat that they must be nearing that part of the road where the mole had been "held up," he said, "now, no more talking. business! use your nose, and give your mind to it." they moved on in silence for some little way, when suddenly the rat was conscious, through his arm that was linked in mole's, of a faint sort of electric thrill that was passing down that animal's body. instantly he disengaged himself, fell back a pace, and waited, all attention. the signals were coming through! mole stood a moment rigid, while his uplifted nose, quivering slightly, felt the air. then a short, quick run forward--a fault--a check--a try back; and then a slow, steady, confident advance. the rat, much excited, kept close to his heels as the mole, with something of the air of a sleep-walker, crossed a dry ditch, scrambled through a hedge, and nosed his way over a field open and trackless and bare in the faint starlight. suddenly, without giving warning, he dived; but the rat was on the alert, and promptly followed him down the tunnel to which his unerring nose had faithfully led him. it was close and airless, and the earthy smell was strong, and it seemed a long time to rat ere the passage ended and he could stand erect and stretch and shake himself. the mole struck a match, and by its light the rat saw that they were standing in an open space, neatly swept and sanded underfoot, and directly facing them was mole's little front door, with "mole end" painted, in gothic lettering, over the bell-pull at the side. mole reached down a lantern from a nail on the wall and lit it, and the rat, looking round him, saw that they were in a sort of fore-court. a garden-seat stood on one side of the door, and on the other a roller; for the mole, who was a tidy animal when at home, could not stand having his ground kicked up by other animals into little runs that ended in earth-heaps. on the walls hung wire baskets with ferns in them, alternating with brackets carrying plaster statuary--garibaldi, and the infant samuel, and queen victoria, and other heroes of modern italy. down on one side of the fore-court ran a skittle-alley, with benches along it and little wooden tables marked with rings that hinted at beer-mugs. in the middle was a small round pond containing gold-fish and surrounded by a cockle-shell border. out of the centre of the pond rose a fanciful erection clothed in more cockle-shells and topped by a large silvered glass ball that reflected everything all wrong and had a very pleasing effect. mole's face beamed at the sight of all these objects so dear to him, and he hurried rat through the door, lit a lamp in the hall, and took one glance round his old home. he saw the dust lying thick on everything, saw the cheerless, deserted look of the long-neglected house, and its narrow, meagre dimensions, its worn and shabby contents--and collapsed again on a hall-chair, his nose to his paws. "o ratty!" he cried dismally, "why ever did i do it? why did i bring you to this poor, cold little place, on a night like this, when you might have been at river bank by this time, toasting your toes before a blazing fire, with all your own nice things about you!" the rat paid no heed to his doleful self-reproaches. he was running here and there, opening doors, inspecting rooms and cupboards, and lighting lamps and candles and sticking them up everywhere. "what a capital little house this is!" he called out cheerily. "so compact! so well planned! everything here and everything in its place! we'll make a jolly night of it. the first thing we want is a good fire; i'll see to that--i always know where to find things. so this is the parlour? splendid! your own idea, those little sleeping-bunks in the wall? capital! now, i'll fetch the wood and the coals, and you get a duster, mole--you'll find one in the drawer of the kitchen table--and try and smarten things up a bit. bustle about, old chap!" encouraged by his inspiriting companion, the mole roused himself and dusted and polished with energy and heartiness, while the rat, running to and fro with armfuls of fuel, soon had a cheerful blaze roaring up the chimney. he hailed the mole to come and warm himself; but mole promptly had another fit of the blues, dropping down on a couch in dark despair and burying his face in his duster. "rat," he moaned, "how about your supper, you poor, cold, hungry, weary animal? i've nothing to give you--nothing--not a crumb!" "what a fellow you are for giving in!" said the rat reproachfully. "why, only just now i saw a sardine-opener on the kitchen dresser, quite distinctly; and everybody knows that means there are sardines about somewhere in the neighbourhood. rouse yourself! pull yourself together, and come with me and forage." they went and foraged accordingly, hunting through every cupboard and turning out every drawer. the result was not so very depressing after all, though of course it might have been better; a tin of sardines--a box of captain's biscuits, nearly full--and a german sausage encased in silver paper. "there's a banquet for you!" observed the rat, as he arranged the table. "i know some animals who would give their ears to be sitting down to supper with us to-night!" "no bread!" groaned the mole dolorously; "no butter, no--" "no _pâté de foie gras_, no champagne!" continued the rat, grinning. "and that reminds me--what's that little door at the end of the passage? your cellar, of course! every luxury in this house! just you wait a minute." he made for the cellar-door, and presently reappeared, somewhat dusty, with a bottle of beer in each paw and another under each arm, "self-indulgent beggar you seem to be, mole," he observed. "deny yourself nothing. this is really the jolliest little place i ever was in. now, wherever did you pick up those prints? make the place look so home-like, they do. no wonder you're so fond of it, mole. tell us all about it, and how you came to make it what it is." then, while the rat busied himself fetching plates, and knives and forks, and mustard which he mixed in an egg-cup, the mole, his bosom still heaving with the stress of his recent emotion, related--somewhat shyly at first, but with more freedom as he warmed to his subject--how this was planned, and how that was thought out, and how this was got through a windfall from an aunt, and that was a wonderful find and a bargain, and this other thing was bought out of laborious savings and a certain amount of "going without." his spirits finally quite restored, he must needs go and caress his possessions, and take a lamp and show off their points to his visitor and expatiate on them, quite forgetful of the supper they both so much needed; rat, who was desperately hungry but strove to conceal it, nodding seriously, examining with a puckered brow, and saying, "wonderful," and "most remarkable," at intervals, when the chance for an observation was given him. at last the rat succeeded in decoying him to the table, and had just got seriously to work with the sardine-opener when sounds were heard from the fore-court without--sounds like the scuffling of small feet in the gravel and a confused murmur of tiny voices, while broken sentences reached them--"now, all in a line--hold the lantern up a bit, tommy--clear your throats first--no coughing after i say one, two, three.--where's young bill?--here, come on, do, we're all a-waiting--" "what's up?" inquired the rat, pausing in his labours. "i think it must be the field-mice," replied the mole, with a touch of pride in his manner. "they go round carol-singing regularly at this time of the year. they're quite an institution in these parts. and they never pass me over--they come to mole end last of all; and i used to give them hot drinks, and supper too sometimes, when i could afford it. it will be like old times to hear them again." "let's have a look at them!" cried the rat, jumping up and running to the door. it was a pretty sight, and a seasonable one, that met their eyes when they flung the door open. in the fore-court, lit by the dim rays of a horn lantern, some eight or ten little field-mice stood in a semicircle, red worsted comforters round their throats, their fore-paws thrust deep into their pockets, their feet jigging for warmth. with bright beady eyes they glanced shyly at each other, sniggering a little, sniffing and applying coat-sleeves a good deal. as the door opened, one of the elder ones that carried the lantern was just saying, "now then, one, two, three!" and forthwith their shrill little voices uprose on the air, singing one of the old-time carols that their forefathers composed in fields that were fallow and held by frost, or when snow-bound in chimney corners, and handed down to be sung in the miry street to lamp-lit windows at yule-time. _carol_ _villagers all, this frosty tide, let your doors swing open wide, though wind may follow, and snow beside, yet draw us in by your fire to bide; joy shall be yours in the morning!_ _here we stand in the cold and the sleet, blowing fingers and stamping feet, come from far away you to greet-- you by the fire and we in the street-- bidding you joy in the morning!_ _for ere one half of the night was gone, sudden a star has led us on, raining bliss and benison-- bliss to-morrow and more anon, joy for every morning!_ _goodman joseph toiled through the snow-- saw the star o'er a stable low; mary she might not further go-- welcome thatch, and litter below! joy was hers in the morning!_ _and then they heard the angels tell "who were the first to cry _nowell_? animals all, as it befell, in the stable where they did dwell! joy shall be theirs in the morning!"_ the voices ceased, the singers, bashful but smiling, exchanged sidelong glances, and silence succeeded--but for a moment only. then, from up above and far away, down the tunnel they had so lately travelled was borne to their ears in a faint musical hum the sound of distant bells ringing a joyful and clangorous peal. "very well sung, boys!" cried the rat heartily. "and now come along in, all of you, and warm yourselves by the fire, and have something hot!" "yes, come along, field-mice," cried the mole eagerly. "this is quite like old times! shut the door after you. pull up that settle to the fire. now, you just wait a minute, while we--o, ratty!" he cried in despair, plumping down on a seat, with tears impending. "whatever are we doing? we've nothing to give them!" "you leave all that to me," said the masterful rat. "here, you with the lantern! come over this way. i want to talk to you. now, tell me, are there any shops open at this hour of the night?" "why, certainly, sir," replied the field-mouse respectfully. "at this time of the year our shops keep open to all sorts of hours." "then look here!" said the rat. "you go off at once, you and your lantern, and you get me--" here much muttered conversation ensued, and the mole only heard bits of it, such as--"fresh, mind!--no, a pound of that will do--see you get buggins's, for i won't have any other--no, only the best--if you can't get it there, try somewhere else--yes, of course, home-made, no tinned stuff--well then, do the best you can!" finally, there was a chink of coin passing from paw to paw, the field-mouse was provided with an ample basket for his purchases, and off he hurried, he and his lantern. the rest of the field-mice, perched in a row on the settle, their small legs swinging, gave themselves up to enjoyment of the fire, and toasted their chilblains till they tingled; while the mole, failing to draw them into easy conversation, plunged into family history and made each of them recite the names of his numerous brothers, who were too young, it appeared, to be allowed to go out a-carolling this year, but looked forward very shortly to winning the parental consent. the rat, meanwhile, was busy examining the label on one of the beer-bottles. "i perceive this to be old burton," he remarked approvingly. "_sensible_ mole! the very thing! now we shall be able to mull some ale! get the things ready, mole, while i draw the corks." it did not take long to prepare the brew and thrust the tin heater well into the red heart of the fire; and soon every field-mouse was sipping and coughing and choking (for a little mulled ale goes a long way) and wiping his eyes and laughing and forgetting he had ever been cold in all his life. "they act plays, too, these fellows," the mole explained to the rat. "make them up all by themselves, and act them afterwards. and very well they do it, too! they gave us a capital one last year, about a field-mouse who was captured at sea by a barbary corsair, and made to row in a galley; and when he escaped and got home again, his lady-love had gone into a convent. here, _you_! you were in it, i remember. get up and recite a bit." the field-mouse addressed got up on his legs, giggled shyly, looked round the room, and remained absolutely tongue-tied. his comrades cheered him on, mole coaxed and encouraged him, and the rat went so far as to take him by the shoulders and shake him; but nothing could overcome his stage-fright. they were all busily engaged on him like watermen applying the royal humane society's regulations to a case of long submersion, when the latch clicked, the door opened, and the field-mouse with the lantern reappeared, staggering under the weight of his basket. there was no more talk of play-acting once the very real and solid contents of the basket had been tumbled out on the table. under the generalship of rat, everybody was set to do something or to fetch something. in a very few minutes supper was ready, and mole, as he took the head of the table in a sort of a dream, saw a lately barren board set thick with savoury comforts; saw his little friends' faces brighten and beam as they fell to without delay; and then let himself loose--for he was famished indeed--on the provender so magically provided, thinking what a happy home-coming this had turned out, after all. as they ate, they talked of old times, and the field-mice gave him the local gossip up to date, and answered as well as they could the hundred questions he had to ask them. the rat said little or nothing, only taking care that each guest had what he wanted, and plenty of it, and that mole had no trouble or anxiety about anything. they clattered off at last, very grateful and showering wishes of the season, with their jacket pockets stuffed with remembrances for the small brothers and sisters at home. when the door had closed on the last of them and the chink of the lanterns had died away, mole and rat kicked the fire up, drew their chairs in, brewed themselves a last nightcap of mulled ale, and discussed the events of the long day. at last the rat, with a tremendous yawn, said, "mole, old chap, i'm ready to drop. sleepy is simply not the word. that your own bunk over on that side? very well, then, i'll take this. what a ripping little house this is! everything so handy!" he clambered into his bunk and rolled himself well up in the blankets, and slumber gathered him forthwith, as a swathe of barley is folded into the arms of the reaping machine. the weary mole also was glad to turn in without delay, and soon had his head on his pillow, in great joy and contentment. but ere he closed his eyes he let them wander round his old room, mellow in the glow of the firelight that played or rested on familiar and friendly things which had long been unconsciously a part of him, and now smilingly received him back, without rancour. he was now in just the frame of mind that the tactful rat had quietly worked to bring about in him. he saw clearly how plain and simple--how narrow, even--it all was; but clearly, too, how much it all meant to him, and the special value of some such anchorage in one's existence. he did not at all want to abandon the new life and its splendid spaces, to turn his back on sun and air and all they offered him and creep home and stay there; the upper world was all too strong, it called to him still, even down there, and he knew he must return to the larger stage. but it was good to think he had this to come back to, this place which was all his own, these things which were so glad to see him again and could always be counted upon for the same simple welcome. vi mr. toad it was a bright morning in the early part of summer; the river had resumed its wonted banks and its accustomed pace, and a hot sun seemed to be pulling everything green and bushy and spiky up out of the earth towards him, as if by strings. the mole and the water rat had been up since dawn, very busy on matters connected with boats and the opening of the boating season; painting and varnishing, mending paddles, repairing cushions, hunting for missing boat-hooks, and so on; and were finishing breakfast in their little parlour and eagerly discussing their plans for the day, when a heavy knock sounded at the door. "bother!" said the rat, all over egg. "see who it is, mole, like a good chap, since you've finished." the mole went to attend the summons, and the rat heard him utter a cry of surprise. then he flung the parlour door open, and announced with much importance, "mr. badger!" this was a wonderful thing, indeed, that the badger should pay a formal call on them, or indeed on anybody. he generally had to be caught, if you wanted him badly, as he slipped quietly along a hedgerow of an early morning or a late evening, or else hunted up in his own house in the middle of the wood, which was a serious undertaking. the badger strode heavily into the room, and stood looking at the two animals with an expression full of seriousness. the rat let his egg-spoon fall on the table-cloth, and sat open-mouthed. "the hour has come!" said the badger at last with great solemnity. "what hour?" asked the rat uneasily, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece. "_whose_ hour, you should rather say," replied the badger. "why, toad's hour! the hour of toad! i said i would take him in hand as soon as the winter was well over, and i'm going to take him in hand to-day!" "toad's hour, of course!" cried the mole delightedly. "hooray! i remember now! _we'll_ teach him to be a sensible toad!" "this very morning," continued the badger, taking an arm-chair, "as i learnt last night from a trustworthy source, another new and exceptionally powerful motor-car will arrive at toad hall on approval or return. at this very moment, perhaps, toad is busy arraying himself in those singularly hideous habiliments so dear to him, which transform him from a (comparatively) good-looking toad into an object which throws any decent-minded animal that comes across it into a violent fit. we must be up and doing, ere it is too late. you two animals will accompany me instantly to toad hall, and the work of rescue shall be accomplished." "right you are!" cried the rat, starting up. "we'll rescue the poor unhappy animal! we'll convert him! he'll be the most converted toad that ever was before we've done with him!" they set off up the road on their mission of mercy, badger leading the way. animals when in company walk in a proper and sensible manner, in single file, instead of sprawling all across the road and being of no use or support to each other in case of sudden trouble or danger. they reached the carriage-drive of toad hall to find, as badger had anticipated, a shiny new motor-car, of great size, painted a bright red (toad's favourite colour), standing in front of the house. as they neared the door it was flung open, and mr. toad, arrayed in goggles, cap, gaiters, and enormous overcoat, came swaggering down the steps, drawing on his gauntleted gloves. "hullo! come on, you fellows!" he cried cheerfully on catching sight of them. "you're just in time to come with me for a jolly--to come for a jolly--for a--er--jolly--" his hearty accents faltered and fell away as he noticed the stern unbending look on the countenances of his silent friends, and his invitation remained unfinished. the badger strode up the steps. "take him inside," he said sternly to his companions. then, as toad was hustled through the door, struggling and protesting, he turned to the _chauffeur_ in charge of the new motor-car. "i'm afraid you won't be wanted to-day," he said. "mr. toad has changed his mind. he will not require the car. please understand that this is final. you needn't wait." then he followed the others inside and shut the door. "now then!" he said to the toad, when the four of them stood together in the hall, "first of all, take those ridiculous things off!" "shan't!" replied toad, with great spirit. "what is the meaning of this gross outrage? i demand an instant explanation." "take them off him, then, you two," ordered the badger briefly. they had to lay toad out on the floor, kicking and calling all sorts of names, before they could get to work properly. then the rat sat on him, and the mole got his motor-clothes off him bit by bit, and they stood him up on his legs again. a good deal of his blustering spirit seemed to have evaporated with the removal of his fine panoply. now that he was merely toad, and no longer the terror of the highway, he giggled feebly and looked from one to the other appealingly, seeming quite to understand the situation. "you knew it must come to this, sooner or later, toad," the badger explained severely. "you've disregarded all the warnings we've given you, you've gone on squandering the money your father left you, and you're getting us animals a bad name in the district by your furious driving and your smashes and your rows with the police. independence is all very well, but we animals never allow our friends to make fools of themselves beyond a certain limit; and that limit you've reached. now, you're a good fellow in many respects, and i don't want to be too hard on you. i'll make one more effort to bring you to reason. you will come with me into the smoking-room, and there you will hear some facts about yourself; and we'll see whether you come out of that room the same toad that you went in." he took toad firmly by the arm, led him into the smoking-room, and closed the door behind them. "_that's_ no good!" said the rat contemptuously. "_talking_ to toad'll never cure him. he'll _say_ anything." they made themselves comfortable in arm-chairs and waited patiently. through the closed door they could just hear the long continuous drone of the badger's voice, rising and falling in waves of oratory; and presently they noticed that the sermon began to be punctuated at intervals by long-drawn sobs, evidently proceeding from the bosom of toad, who was a soft-hearted and affectionate fellow, very easily converted--for the time being--to any point of view. after some three-quarters of an hour the door opened, and the badger reappeared, solemnly leading by the paw a very limp and dejected toad. his skin hung baggily about him, his legs wobbled, and his cheeks were furrowed by the tears so plentifully called forth by the badger's moving discourse. "sit down there, toad," said the badger kindly, pointing to a chair. "my friends," he went on, "i am pleased to inform you that toad has at last seen the error of his ways. he is truly sorry for his misguided conduct in the past, and he has undertaken to give up motor-cars entirely and for ever. i have his solemn promise to that effect." "that is very good news," said the mole gravely. "very good news indeed," observed the rat dubiously, "if only--_if_ only--" he was looking very hard at toad as he said this, and could not help thinking he perceived something vaguely resembling a twinkle in that animal's still sorrowful eye. "there's only one thing more to be done," continued the gratified badger. "toad, i want you solemnly to repeat, before your friends here, what you fully admitted to me in the smoking-room just now. first, you are sorry for what you've done, and you see the folly of it all?" there was a long, long pause. toad looked desperately this way and that, while the other animals waited in grave silence. at last he spoke. "no!" he said, a little sullenly, but stoutly; "i'm _not_ sorry. and it wasn't folly at all! it was simply glorious!" "what?" cried the badger, greatly scandalised. "you backsliding animal, didn't you tell me just now, in there--" "oh, yes, yes, in _there_," said toad impatiently. "i'd have said anything in _there_. you're so eloquent, dear badger, and so moving, and so convincing, and put all your points so frightfully well--you can do what you like with me in _there_, and you know it. but i've been searching my mind since, and going over things in it, and i find that i'm not a bit sorry or repentant really, so it's no earthly good saying i am; now, is it?" "then you don't promise," said the badger, "never to touch a motor-car again?" "certainly not!" replied toad emphatically. "on the contrary, i faithfully promise that the very first motor-car i see, poop-poop! off i go in it!" "told you so, didn't i?" observed the rat to the mole. "very well, then," said the badger firmly, rising to his feet. "since you won't yield to persuasion, we'll try what force can do. i feared it would come to this all along. you've often asked us three to come and stay with you, toad, in this handsome house of yours; well, now we're going to. when we've converted you to a proper point of view we may quit, but not before. take him upstairs, you two, and lock him up in his bedroom, while we arrange matters between ourselves." "it's for your own good, toady, you know," said the rat kindly, as toad, kicking and struggling, was hauled up the stairs by his two faithful friends. "think what fun we shall all have together, just as we used to, when you've quite got over this--this painful attack of yours!" "we'll take great care of everything for you till you're well, toad," said the mole; "and we'll see your money isn't wasted, as it has been." "no more of those regrettable incidents with the police, toad," said the rat, as they thrust him into his bedroom. "and no more weeks in hospital, being ordered about by female nurses, toad," added the mole, turning the key on him. they descended the stair, toad shouting abuse at them through the keyhole; and the three friends then met in conference on the situation. "it's going to be a tedious business," said the badger, sighing. "i've never seen toad so determined. however, we will see it out. he must never be left an instant unguarded. we shall have to take it in turns to be with him, till the poison has worked itself out of his system." they arranged watches accordingly. each animal took it in turns to sleep in toad's room at night, and they divided the day up between them. at first toad was undoubtedly very trying to his careful guardians. when his violent paroxysms possessed him he would arrange bedroom chairs in rude resemblance of a motor-car and would crouch on the foremost of them, bent forward and staring fixedly ahead, making uncouth and ghastly noises, till the climax was reached, when, turning a complete somersault, he would lie prostrate amidst the ruins of the chairs, apparently completely satisfied for the moment. as time passed, however, these painful seizures grew gradually less frequent, and his friends strove to divert his mind into fresh channels. but his interest in other matters did not seem to revive, and he grew apparently languid and depressed. one fine morning the rat, whose turn it was to go on duty, went upstairs to relieve badger, whom he found fidgeting to be off and stretch his legs in a long ramble round his wood and down his earths and burrows. "toad's still in bed," he told the rat, outside the door. "can't get much out of him, except, 'o leave him alone, he wants nothing, perhaps he'll be better presently, it may pass off in time, don't be unduly anxious,' and so on. now, you look out, rat! when toad's quiet and submissive, and playing at being the hero of a sunday-school prize, then he's at his artfullest. there's sure to be something up. i know him. well, now, i must be off." "how are you to-day, old chap?" inquired the rat cheerfully, as he approached toad's bedside. he had to wait some minutes for an answer. at last a feeble voice replied, "thank you so much, dear ratty! so good of you to inquire! but first tell me how you are yourself, and the excellent mole?" "o, _we're_ all right," replied the rat. "mole," he added incautiously, "is going out for a run round with badger. they'll be out till luncheon time, so you and i will spend a pleasant morning together, and i'll do my best to amuse you. now jump up, there's a good fellow, and don't lie moping there on a fine morning like this!" "dear, kind rat," murmured toad, "how little you realise my condition, and how very far i am from 'jumping up' now--if ever! but do not trouble about me. i hate being a burden to my friends, and i do not expect to be one much longer. indeed, i almost hope not." "well, i hope not, too," said the rat heartily. "you've been a fine bother to us all this time, and i'm glad to hear it's going to stop. and in weather like this, and the boating season just beginning! it's too bad of you, toad! it isn't the trouble we mind, but you're making us miss such an awful lot." "i'm afraid it _is_ the trouble you mind, though," replied the toad languidly. "i can quite understand it. it's natural enough. you're tired of bothering about me. i mustn't ask you to do anything further. i'm a nuisance, i know." "you are, indeed," said the rat. "but i tell you, i'd take any trouble on earth for you, if only you'd be a sensible animal." "if i thought that, ratty," murmured toad, more feebly than ever, "then i would beg you--for the last time, probably--to step round to the village as quickly as possible--even now it may be too late--and fetch the doctor. but don't you bother. it's only a trouble, and perhaps we may as well let things take their course." "why, what do you want a doctor for?" inquired the rat, coming closer and examining him. he certainly lay very still and flat, and his voice was weaker and his manner much changed. "surely you have noticed of late--" murmured toad. "but, no--why should you? noticing things is only a trouble. to-morrow, indeed, you may be saying to yourself, 'o, if only i had noticed sooner! if only i had done something!' but no; it's a trouble. never mind--forget that i asked." "look here, old man," said the rat, beginning to get rather alarmed, "of course i'll fetch a doctor to you, if you really think you want him. but you can hardly be bad enough for that yet. let's talk about something else." "i fear, dear friend," said toad, with a sad smile, "that 'talk' can do little in a case like this--or doctors either, for that matter; still, one must grasp at the slightest straw. and, by the way--while you are about it--i _hate_ to give you additional trouble, but i happen to remember that you will pass the door--would you mind at the same time asking the lawyer to step up? it would be a convenience to me, and there are moments--perhaps i should say there is _a_ moment--when one must face disagreeable tasks, at whatever cost to exhausted nature!" "a lawyer! o, he must be really bad!" the affrighted rat said to himself, as he hurried from the room, not forgetting, however, to lock the door carefully behind him. outside, he stopped to consider. the other two were far away, and he had no one to consult. "it's best to be on the safe side," he said, on reflection. "i've known toad fancy himself frightfully bad before, without the slightest reason; but i've never heard him ask for a lawyer! if there's nothing really the matter, the doctor will tell him he's an old ass, and cheer him up; and that will be something gained. i'd better humour him and go; it won't take very long." so he ran off to the village on his errand of mercy. the toad, who had hopped lightly out of bed as soon as he heard the key turned in the lock, watched him eagerly from the window till he disappeared down the carriage-drive. then, laughing heartily, he dressed as quickly as possible in the smartest suit he could lay hands on at the moment, filled his pockets with cash which he took from a small drawer in the dressing-table, and next, knotting the sheets from his bed together and tying one end of the improvised rope round the central mullion of the handsome tudor window which formed such a feature of his bedroom, he scrambled out, slid lightly to the ground, and, taking the opposite direction to the rat, marched off light-heartedly, whistling a merry tune. it was a gloomy luncheon for rat when the badger and the mole at length returned, and he had to face them at table with his pitiful and unconvincing story. the badger's caustic, not to say brutal, remarks may be imagined, and therefore passed over; but it was painful to the rat that even the mole, though he took his friend's side as far as possible, could not help saying, "you've been a bit of a duffer this time, ratty! toad, too, of all animals!" "he did it awfully well," said the crestfallen rat. "he did _you_ awfully well!" rejoined the badger hotly. "however, talking won't mend matters. he's got clear away for the time, that's certain; and the worst of it is, he'll be so conceited with what he'll think is his cleverness that he may commit any folly. one comfort is, we're free now, and needn't waste any more of our precious time doing sentry-go. but we'd better continue to sleep at toad hall for a while longer. toad may be brought back at any moment--on a stretcher, or between two policemen." so spoke the badger, not knowing what the future held in store, or how much water, and of how turbid a character, was to run under bridges before toad should sit at ease again in his ancestral hall. * * * * * meanwhile, toad, gay and irresponsible, was walking briskly along the high road, some miles from home. at first he had taken by-paths, and crossed many fields, and changed his course several times, in case of pursuit; but now, feeling by this time safe from recapture, and the sun smiling brightly on him, and all nature joining in a chorus of approval to the song of self-praise that his own heart was singing to him, he almost danced along the road in his satisfaction and conceit. "smart piece of work that!" he remarked to himself chuckling. "brain against brute force--and brain came out on the top--as it's bound to do. poor old ratty! my! won't he catch it when the badger gets back! a worthy fellow, ratty, with many good qualities, but very little intelligence and absolutely no education. i must take him in hand some day, and see if i can make something of him." filled full of conceited thoughts such as these he strode along, his head in the air, till he reached a little town, where the sign of "the red lion," swinging across the road half-way down the main street, reminded him that he had not breakfasted that day, and that he was exceedingly hungry after his long walk. he marched into the inn, ordered the best luncheon that could be provided at so short a notice, and sat down to eat it in the coffee-room. he was about half-way through his meal when an only too familiar sound, approaching down the street, made him start and fall a-trembling all over. the poop-poop! drew nearer and nearer, the car could be heard to turn into the inn-yard and come to a stop, and toad had to hold on to the leg of the table to conceal his over-mastering emotion. presently the party entered the coffee-room, hungry, talkative, and gay, voluble on their experiences of the morning and the merits of the chariot that had brought them along so well. toad listened eagerly, all ears, for a time; at last he could stand it no longer. he slipped out of the room quietly, paid his bill at the bar, and as soon as he got outside sauntered round quietly to the inn-yard. "there cannot be any harm," he said to himself, "in my only just _looking_ at it!" the car stood in the middle of the yard, quite unattended, the stable-helps and other hangers-on being all at their dinner. toad walked slowly round it, inspecting, criticising, musing deeply. "i wonder," he said to himself presently, "i wonder if this sort of car _starts_ easily?" next moment, hardly knowing how it came about, he found he had hold of the handle and was turning it. as the familiar sound broke forth, the old passion seized on toad and completely mastered him, body and soul. as if in a dream he found himself, somehow, seated in the driver's seat; as if in a dream, he pulled the lever and swung the car round the yard and out through the archway; and, as if in a dream, all sense of right and wrong, all fear of obvious consequences, seemed temporarily suspended. he increased his pace, and as the car devoured the street and leapt forth on the high road through the open country, he was only conscious that he was toad once more, toad at his best and highest, toad the terror, the traffic-queller, the lord of the lone trail, before whom all must give way or be smitten into nothingness and everlasting night. he chanted as he flew, and the car responded with sonorous drone; the miles were eaten up under him as he sped he knew not whither, fulfilling his instincts, living his hour, reckless of what might come to him. * * * * * "to my mind," observed the chairman of the bench of magistrates cheerfully, "the _only_ difficulty that presents itself in this otherwise very clear case is, how we can possibly make it sufficiently hot for the incorrigible rogue and hardened ruffian whom we see cowering in the dock before us. let me see: he has been found guilty, on the clearest evidence, first, of stealing a valuable motor-car; secondly, of driving to the public danger; and, thirdly, of gross impertinence to the rural police. mr. clerk, will you tell us, please, what is the very stiffest penalty we can impose for each of these offences? without, of course, giving the prisoner the benefit of any doubt, because there isn't any." the clerk scratched his nose with his pen. "some people would consider," he observed, "that stealing the motor-car was the worst offence; and so it is. but cheeking the police undoubtedly carries the severest penalty; and so it ought. supposing you were to say twelve months for the theft, which is mild; and three years for the furious driving, which is lenient; and fifteen years for the cheek, which was pretty bad sort of cheek, judging by what we've heard from the witness-box, even if you only believe one-tenth part of what you heard, and i never believe more myself--those figures, if added together correctly, tot up to nineteen years--" "first-rate!" said the chairman. "--so you had better make it a round twenty years and be on the safe side," concluded the clerk. "an excellent suggestion!" said the chairman approvingly. "prisoner! pull yourself together and try and stand up straight. it's going to be twenty years for you this time. and mind, if you appear before us again, upon any charge whatever, we shall have to deal with you very seriously!" then the brutal minions of the law fell upon the hapless toad; loaded him with chains, and dragged him from the court house, shrieking, praying, protesting; across the market-place, where the playful populace, always as severe upon detected crime as they are sympathetic and helpful when one is merely "wanted," assailed him with jeers, carrots, and popular catch-words; past hooting school children, their innocent faces lit up with the pleasure they ever derive from the sight of a gentleman in difficulties; across the hollow-sounding drawbridge, below the spiky portcullis, under the frowning archway of the grim old castle, whose ancient towers soared high overhead; past guardrooms full of grinning soldiery off duty, past sentries who coughed in a horrid, sarcastic way, because that is as much as a sentry on his post dare do to show his contempt and abhorrence of crime; up time-worn winding stairs, past men-at-arms in casquet and corselet of steel, darting threatening looks through their vizards; across courtyards, where mastiffs strained at their leash and pawed the air to get at him; past ancient warders, their halberds leant against the wall, dozing over a pasty and a flagon of brown ale; on and on, past the rack-chamber and the thumbscrew-room, past the turning that led to the private scaffold, till they reached the door of the grimmest dungeon that lay in the heart of the innermost keep. there at last they paused, where an ancient gaoler sat fingering a bunch of mighty keys. [illustration: _toad was a helpless prisoner in the remotest dungeon_] "oddsbodikins!" said the sergeant of police, taking off his helmet and wiping his forehead. "rouse thee, old loon, and take over from us this vile toad, a criminal of deepest guilt and matchless artfulness and resource. watch and ward him with all thy skill; and mark thee well, greybeard, should aught untoward befall, thy old head shall answer for his--and a murrain on both of them!" the gaoler nodded grimly, laying his withered hand on the shoulder of the miserable toad. the rusty key creaked in the lock, the great door clanged behind them; and toad was a helpless prisoner in the remotest dungeon of the best-guarded keep of the stoutest castle in all the length and breadth of merry england. vii the piper at the gates of dawn the willow-wren was twittering his thin little song, hidden himself in the dark selvedge of the river bank. though it was past ten o'clock at night, the sky still clung to and retained some lingering skirts of light from the departed day; and the sullen heats of the torrid afternoon broke up and rolled away at the dispersing touch of the cool fingers of the short midsummer night. mole lay stretched on the bank, still panting from the stress of the fierce day that had been cloudless from dawn to late sunset, and waited for his friend to return. he had been on the river with some companions, leaving the water rat free to keep an engagement of long standing with otter; and he had come back to find the house dark and deserted, and no sign of rat, who was doubtless keeping it up late with his old comrade. it was still too hot to think of staying indoors, so he lay on some cool dock-leaves, and thought over the past day and its doings, and how very good they all had been. the rat's light footfall was presently heard approaching over the parched grass. "o, the blessed coolness!" he said, and sat down, gazing thoughtfully into the river, silent and pre-occupied. "you stayed to supper, of course?" said the mole presently. "simply had to," said the rat. "they wouldn't hear of my going before. you know how kind they always are. and they made things as jolly for me as ever they could, right up to the moment i left. but i felt a brute all the time, as it was clear to me they were very unhappy, though they tried to hide it. mole, i'm afraid they're in trouble. little portly is missing again; and you know what a lot his father thinks of him, though he never says much about it." "what, that child?" said the mole lightly. "well, suppose he is; why worry about it? he's always straying off and getting lost, and turning up again; he's so adventurous. but no harm ever happens to him. everybody hereabouts knows him and likes him, just as they do old otter, and you may be sure some animal or other will come across him and bring him back again all right. why, we've found him ourselves, miles from home, and quite self-possessed and cheerful!" "yes; but this time it's more serious," said the rat gravely. "he's been missing for some days now, and the otters have hunted everywhere, high and low, without finding the slightest trace. and they've asked every animal, too, for miles around, and no one knows anything about him. otter's evidently more anxious than he'll admit. i got out of him that young portly hasn't learnt to swim very well yet, and i can see he's thinking of the weir. there's a lot of water coming down still, considering the time of the year, and the place always had a fascination for the child. and then there are--well, traps and things--_you_ know. otter's not the fellow to be nervous about any son of his before it's time. and now he _is_ nervous. when i left, he came out with me--said he wanted some air, and talked about stretching his legs. but i could see it wasn't that, so i drew him out and pumped him, and got it all from him at last. he was going to spend the night watching by the ford. you know the place where the old ford used to be, in by-gone days before they built the bridge?" "i know it well," said the mole. "but why should otter choose to watch there?" "well, it seems that it was there he gave portly his first swimming-lesson," continued the rat. "from that shallow, gravelly spit near the bank. and it was there he used to teach him fishing, and there young portly caught his first fish, of which he was so very proud. the child loved the spot, and otter thinks that if he came wandering back from wherever he is--if he _is_ anywhere by this time, poor little chap--he might make for the ford he was so fond of; or if he came across it he'd remember it well, and stop there and play, perhaps. so otter goes there every night and watches--on the chance, you know, just on the chance!" they were silent for a time, both thinking of the same thing--the lonely, heart-sore animal, crouched by the ford, watching and waiting, the long night through--on the chance. "well, well," said the rat presently, "i suppose we ought to be thinking about turning in." but he never offered to move. "rat," said the mole, "i simply can't go and turn in, and go to sleep, and _do_ nothing, even though there doesn't seem to be anything to be done. we'll get the boat out, and paddle upstream. the moon will be up in an hour or so, and then we will search as well as we can--anyhow, it will be better than going to bed and doing _nothing_." "just what i was thinking myself," said the rat. "it's not the sort of night for bed anyhow; and daybreak is not so very far off, and then we may pick up some news of him from early risers as we go along." they got the boat out, and the rat took the sculls, paddling with caution. out in mid-stream, there was a clear, narrow track that faintly reflected the sky; but wherever shadows fell on the water from bank, bush, or tree, they were as solid to all appearance as the banks themselves, and the mole had to steer with judgment accordingly. dark and deserted as it was, the night was full of small noises, song and chatter and rustling, telling of the busy little population who were up and about, plying their trades and vocations through the night till sunshine should fall on them at last and send them off to their well-earned repose. the water's own noises, too, were more apparent than by day, its gurglings and "cloops" more unexpected and near at hand; and constantly they started at what seemed a sudden clear call from an actual articulate voice. the line of the horizon was clear and hard against the sky, and in one particular quarter it showed black against a silvery climbing phosphorescence that grew and grew. at last, over the rim of the waiting earth the moon lifted with slow majesty till it swung clear of the horizon and rode off, free of moorings; and once more they began to see surfaces--meadows wide-spread, and quiet gardens, and the river itself from bank to bank, all softly disclosed, all washed clean of mystery and terror, all radiant again as by day, but with a difference that was tremendous. their old haunts greeted them again in other raiment, as if they had slipped away and put on this pure new apparel and come quietly back, smiling as they shyly waited to see if they would be recognised again under it. fastening their boat to a willow, the friends landed in this silent, silver kingdom, and patiently explored the hedges, the hollow trees, the runnels and their little culverts, the ditches and dry water-ways. embarking again and crossing over, they worked their way up the stream in this manner, while the moon, serene and detached in a cloudless sky, did what she could, though so far off, to help them in their quest; till her hour came and she sank earthwards reluctantly, and left them, and mystery once more held field and river. then a change began slowly to declare itself. the horizon became clearer, field and tree came more into sight, and somehow with a different look; the mystery began to drop away from them. a bird piped suddenly, and was still; and a light breeze sprang up and set the reeds and bulrushes rustling. rat, who was in the stern of the boat, while mole sculled, sat up suddenly and listened with a passionate intentness. mole, who with gentle strokes was just keeping the boat moving while he scanned the banks with care, looked at him with curiosity. "it's gone!" sighed the rat, sinking back in his seat again. "so beautiful and strange and new! since it was to end so soon, i almost wish i had never heard it. for it has roused a longing in me that is pain, and nothing seems worth while but just to hear that sound once more and go on listening to it for ever. no! there it is again!" he cried, alert once more. entranced, he was silent for a long space, spellbound. "now it passes on and i begin to lose it," he said presently. "o mole! the beauty of it! the merry bubble and joy, the thin, clear, happy call of the distant piping! such music i never dreamed of, and the call in it is stronger even than the music is sweet! row on, mole, row! for the music and the call must be for us." the mole, greatly wondering, obeyed. "i hear nothing myself," he said, "but the wind playing in the reeds and rushes and osiers." the rat never answered, if indeed he heard. rapt, transported, trembling, he was possessed in all his senses by this new divine thing that caught up his helpless soul and swung and dandled it, a powerless but happy infant in a strong sustaining grasp. in silence mole rowed steadily, and soon they came to a point where the river divided, a long backwater branching off to one side. with a slight movement of his head rat, who had long dropped the rudder-lines, directed the rower to take the backwater. the creeping tide of light gained and gained, and now they could see the colour of the flowers that gemmed the water's edge. "clearer and nearer still," cried the rat joyously. "now you must surely hear it! ah--at last--i see you do!" breathless and transfixed, the mole stopped rowing as the liquid run of that glad piping broke on him like a wave, caught him up, and possessed him utterly. he saw the tears on his comrade's cheeks, and bowed his head and understood. for a space they hung there, brushed by the purple loosestrife that fringed the bank; then the clear imperious summons that marched hand-in-hand with the intoxicating melody imposed its will on mole, and mechanically he bent to his oars again. and the light grew steadily stronger, but no birds sang as they were wont to do at the approach of dawn; and but for the heavenly music all was marvellously still. on either side of them, as they glided onwards, the rich meadow-grass seemed that morning of a freshness and a greenness unsurpassable. never had they noticed the roses so vivid, the willow-herb so riotous, the meadow-sweet so odorous and pervading. then the murmur of the approaching weir began to hold the air, and they felt a consciousness that they were nearing the end, whatever it might be, that surely awaited their expedition. a wide half-circle of foam and glinting lights and shining shoulders of green water, the great weir closed the backwater from bank to bank, troubled all the quiet surface with twirling eddies and floating foam-streaks, and deadened all other sounds with its solemn and soothing rumble. in midmost of the stream, embraced in the weir's shimmering arm-spread, a small island lay anchored, fringed close with willow and silver birch and alder. reserved, shy, but full of significance, it hid whatever it might hold behind a veil, keeping it till the hour should come, and, with the hour, those who were called and chosen. slowly, but with no doubt or hesitation whatever, and in something of a solemn expectancy, the two animals passed through the broken, tumultuous water and moored their boat at the flowery margin of the island. in silence they landed, and pushed through the blossom and scented herbage and undergrowth that led up to the level ground, till they stood on a little lawn of a marvellous green, set round with nature's own orchard-trees--crab-apple, wild cherry, and sloe. "this is the place of my song-dream, the place the music played to me," whispered the rat, as if in a trance. "here, in this holy place, here if anywhere, surely we shall find him!" then suddenly the mole felt a great awe fall upon him, an awe that turned his muscles to water, bowed his head, and rooted his feet to the ground. it was no panic terror--indeed he felt wonderfully at peace and happy--but it was an awe that smote and held him and, without seeing, he knew it could only mean that some august presence was very, very near. with difficulty he turned to look for his friend, and saw him at his side, cowed, stricken, and trembling violently. and still there was utter silence in the populous bird-haunted branches around them; and still the light grew and grew. perhaps he would never have dared to raise his eyes, but that, though the piping was now hushed, the call and the summons seemed still dominant and imperious. he might not refuse, were death himself waiting to strike him instantly, once he had looked with mortal eye on things rightly kept hidden. trembling he obeyed, and raised his humble head; and then, in that utter clearness of the imminent dawn, while nature, flushed with fulness of incredible colour, seemed to hold her breath for the event, he looked in the very eyes of the friend and helper; saw the backward sweep of the curved horns, gleaming in the growing daylight; saw the stern, hooked nose between the kindly eyes that were looking down on them humorously, while the bearded mouth broke into a half-smile at the corners; saw the rippling muscles on the arm that lay across the broad chest, the long supple hand still holding the pan-pipes only just fallen away from the parted lips; saw the splendid curves of the shaggy limbs disposed in majestic ease on the sward; saw, last of all, nestling between his very hooves, sleeping soundly in entire peace and contentment, the little, round, podgy, childish form of the baby otter. all this he saw, for one moment breathless and intense, vivid on the morning sky; and still, as he looked, he lived; and still, as he lived, he wondered. "rat!" he found breath to whisper, shaking. "are you afraid?" "afraid?" murmured the rat, his eyes shining with unutterable love. "afraid! of _him_? o, never, never! and yet--and yet--o, mole, i am afraid!" then the two animals, crouching to the earth, bowed their heads and did worship. sudden and magnificent, the sun's broad golden disc showed itself over the horizon facing them; and the first rays, shooting across the level water-meadows, took the animals full in the eyes and dazzled them. when they were able to look once more, the vision had vanished, and the air was full of the carol of birds that hailed the dawn. as they stared blankly, in dumb misery deepening as they slowly realised all they had seen and all they had lost, a capricious little breeze, dancing up from the surface of the water, tossed the aspens, shook the dewy roses, and blew lightly and caressingly in their faces; and with its soft touch came instant oblivion. for this is the last best gift that the kindly demi-god is careful to bestow on those to whom he has revealed himself in their helping: the gift of forgetfulness. lest the awful remembrance should remain and grow, and overshadow mirth and pleasure, and the great haunting memory should spoil all the after-lives of little animals helped out of difficulties, in order that they should be happy and light-hearted as before. mole rubbed his eyes and stared at rat, who was looking about him in a puzzled sort of way. "i beg your pardon; what did you say, rat?" he asked. "i think i was only remarking," said rat slowly, "that this was the right sort of place, and that here, if anywhere, we should find him. and look! why, there he is, the little fellow!" and with a cry of delight he ran towards the slumbering portly. but mole stood still a moment, held in thought. as one wakened suddenly from a beautiful dream, who struggles to recall it, and can recapture nothing but a dim sense of the beauty of it, the beauty! till that, too, fades away in its turn, and the dreamer bitterly accepts the hard, cold waking and all its penalties; so mole, after struggling with his memory for a brief space, shook his head sadly and followed the rat. portly woke up with a joyous squeak, and wriggled with pleasure at the sight of his father's friends, who had played with him so often in past days. in a moment, however, his face grew blank, and he fell to hunting round in a circle with pleading whine. as a child that has fallen happily asleep in its nurse's arms, and wakes to find itself alone and laid in a strange place, and searches corners and cupboards, and runs from room to room, despair growing silently in its heart, even so portly searched the island and searched, dogged and unwearying, till at last the black moment came for giving it up, and sitting down and crying bitterly. the mole ran quickly to comfort the little animal; but rat, lingering, looked long and doubtfully at certain hoof-marks deep in the sward. "some--great--animal--has been here," he murmured slowly and thoughtfully; and stood musing, musing; his mind strangely stirred. "come along, rat!" called the mole. "think of poor otter, waiting up there by the ford!" portly had soon been comforted by the promise of a treat--a jaunt on the river in mr. rat's real boat; and the two animals conducted him to the water's side, placed him securely between them in the bottom of the boat, and paddled off down the backwater. the sun was fully up by now, and hot on them, birds sang lustily and without restraint, and flowers smiled and nodded from either bank, but somehow--so thought the animals--with less of richness and blaze of colour than they seemed to remember seeing quite recently somewhere--they wondered where. the main river reached again, they turned the boat's head upstream, towards the point where they knew their friend was keeping his lonely vigil. as they drew near the familiar ford, the mole took the boat in to the bank, and they lifted portly out and set him on his legs on the tow-path, gave him his marching orders and a friendly farewell pat on the back, and shoved out into mid-stream. they watched the little animal as he waddled along the path contentedly and with importance; watched him till they saw his muzzle suddenly lift and his waddle break into a clumsy amble as he quickened his pace with shrill whines and wriggles of recognition. looking up the river, they could see otter start up, tense and rigid, from out of the shallows where he crouched in dumb patience, and could hear his amazed and joyous bark as he bounded up through the osiers on to the path. then the mole, with a strong pull on one oar, swung the boat round and let the full stream bear them down again whither it would, their quest now happily ended. "i feel strangely tired, rat," said the mole, leaning wearily over his oars, as the boat drifted. "it's being up all night, you'll say, perhaps; but that's nothing. we do as much half the nights of the week, at this time of the year. no; i feel as if i had been through something very exciting and rather terrible, and it was just over; and yet nothing particular has happened." "or something very surprising and splendid and beautiful," murmured the rat, leaning back and closing his eyes. "i feel just as you do, mole; simply dead tired, though not body-tired. it's lucky we've got the stream with us, to take us home. isn't it jolly to feel the sun again, soaking into one's bones! and hark to the wind playing in the reeds!" "it's like music--far-away music," said the mole, nodding drowsily. "so i was thinking," murmured the rat, dreamful and languid. "dance-music--the lilting sort that runs on without a stop--but with words in it, too--it passes into words and out of them again--i catch them at intervals--then it is dance-music once more, and then nothing but the reeds' soft thin whispering." "you hear better than i," said the mole sadly. "i cannot catch the words." "let me try and give you them," said the rat softly, his eyes still closed. "now it is turning into words again--faint but clear--_lest the awe should dwell--and turn your frolic to fret--you shall look on my power at the helping hour--but then you shall forget!_ now the reeds take it up--_forget, forget_, they sigh, and it dies away in a rustle and a whisper. then the voice returns-- "_lest limbs be reddened and rent--i spring the trap that is set--as i loose the snare you may glimpse me there--for surely you shall forget!_ row nearer, mole, nearer to the reeds! it is hard to catch, and grows each minute fainter. "_helper and healer, i cheer--small waifs in the woodland wet--strays i find in it, wounds i bind in it--bidding them all forget!_ nearer, mole, nearer! no, it is no good; the song has died away into reed-talk." "but what do the words mean?" asked the wondering mole. "that i do not know," said the rat simply. "i passed them on to you as they reached me. ah! now they return again, and this time full and clear! this time, at last, it is the real, the unmistakable thing, simple--passionate--perfect--" "well, let's have it, then," said the mole, after he had waited patiently for a few minutes, half-dozing in the hot sun. but no answer came. he looked, and understood the silence. with a smile of much happiness on his face, and something of a listening look still lingering there, the weary rat was fast asleep. viii toad's adventures when toad found himself immured in a dank and noisome dungeon, and knew that all the grim darkness of a medieval fortress lay between him and the outer world of sunshine and well-metalled high roads where he had lately been so happy, disporting himself as if he had bought up every road in england, he flung himself at full length on the floor, and shed bitter tears, and abandoned himself to dark despair. "this is the end of everything" (he said), "at least it is the end of the career of toad, which is the same thing; the popular and handsome toad, the rich and hospitable toad, the toad so free and careless and debonair! how can i hope to be ever set at large again" (he said), "who have been imprisoned so justly for stealing so handsome a motor-car in such an audacious manner, and for such lurid and imaginative cheek, bestowed upon such a number of fat, red-faced policemen!" (here his sobs choked him.) "stupid animal that i was" (he said), "now i must languish in this dungeon, till people who were proud to say they knew me, have forgotten the very name of toad! o wise old badger!" (he said), "o clever, intelligent rat and sensible mole! what sound judgments, what a knowledge of men and matters you possess! o unhappy and forsaken toad!" with lamentations such as these he passed his days and nights for several weeks, refusing his meals or intermediate light refreshments, though the grim and ancient gaoler, knowing that toad's pockets were well lined, frequently pointed out that many comforts, and indeed luxuries, could by arrangement be sent in--at a price--from outside. now the gaoler had a daughter, a pleasant wench and good-hearted, who assisted her father in the lighter duties of his post. she was particularly fond of animals, and, besides her canary, whose cage hung on a nail in the massive wall of the keep by day, to the great annoyance of prisoners who relished an after-dinner nap, and was shrouded in an antimacassar on the parlour table at night, she kept several piebald mice and a restless revolving squirrel. this kind-hearted girl, pitying the misery of toad, said to her father one day, "father! i can't bear to see that poor beast so unhappy, and getting so thin! you let me have the managing of him. you know how fond of animals i am. i'll make him eat from my hand, and sit up, and do all sorts of things." her father replied that she could do what she liked with him. he was tired of toad, and his sulks and his airs and his meanness. so that day she went on her errand of mercy, and knocked at the door of toad's cell. "now, cheer up, toad," she said, coaxingly, on entering, "and sit up and dry your eyes and be a sensible animal. and do try and eat a bit of dinner. see, i've brought you some of mine, hot from the oven!" it was bubble-and-squeak, between two plates, and its fragrance filled the narrow cell. the penetrating smell of cabbage reached the nose of toad as he lay prostrate in his misery on the floor, and gave him the idea for a moment that perhaps life was not such a blank and desperate thing as he had imagined. but still he wailed, and kicked with his legs, and refused to be comforted. so the wise girl retired for the time, but, of course, a good deal of the smell of hot cabbage remained behind, as it will do, and toad, between his sobs, sniffed and reflected, and gradually began to think new and inspiring thoughts: of chivalry, and poetry, and deeds still to be done; of broad meadows, and cattle browsing in them, raked by sun and wind; of kitchen-gardens, and straight herb-borders, and warm snap-dragon beset by bees; and of the comforting clink of dishes set down on the table at toad hall, and the scrape of chair-legs on the floor as every one pulled himself close up to his work. the air of the narrow cell took a rosy tinge; he began to think of his friends, and how they would surely be able to do something; of lawyers, and how they would have enjoyed his case, and what an ass he had been not to get in a few; and lastly, he thought of his own great cleverness and resource, and all that he was capable of if he only gave his great mind to it; and the cure was almost complete. [illustration: _he lay prostrate in his misery on the floor_] when the girl returned, some hours later, she carried a tray, with a cup of fragrant tea steaming on it; and a plate piled up with very hot buttered toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter running through the holes in it in great golden drops, like honey from the honeycomb. the smell of that buttered toast simply talked to toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one's ramble was over, and slippered feet were propped on the fender; of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries. toad sat up on end once more, dried his eyes, sipped his tea and munched his toast, and soon began talking freely about himself, and the house he lived in, and his doings there, and how important he was, and what a lot his friends thought of him. the gaoler's daughter saw that the topic was doing him as much good as the tea, as indeed it was, and encouraged him to go on. "tell me about toad hall," said she. "it sounds beautiful." "toad hall," said the toad proudly, "is an eligible, self-contained gentleman's residence, very unique; dating in part from the fourteenth century, but replete with every modern convenience. up-to-date sanitation. five minutes from church, post-office, and golf-links. suitable for--" "bless the animal," said the girl, laughing, "i don't want to _take_ it. tell me something _real_ about it. but first wait till i fetch you some more tea and toast." she tripped away, and presently returned with a fresh trayful; and toad, pitching into the toast with avidity, his spirits quite restored to their usual level, told her about the boat-house, and the fish-pond, and the old walled kitchen-garden; and about the pig-styes and the stables, and the pigeon-house and the hen-house; and about the dairy, and the wash-house, and the china-cupboards, and the linen-presses (she liked that bit especially); and about the banqueting-hall, and the fun they had there when the other animals were gathered round the table and toad was at his best, singing songs, telling stories, carrying on generally. then she wanted to know about his animal-friends, and was very interested in all he had to tell her about them and how they lived, and what they did to pass their time. of course, she did not say she was fond of animals as _pets_, because she had the sense to see that toad would be extremely offended. when she said good-night, having filled his water-jug and shaken up his straw for him, toad was very much the same sanguine, self-satisfied animal that he had been of old. he sang a little song or two, of the sort he used to sing at his dinner-parties, curled himself up in the straw, and had an excellent night's rest and the pleasantest of dreams. they had many interesting talks together, after that, as the dreary days went on; and the gaoler's daughter grew very sorry for toad, and thought it a great shame that a poor little animal should be locked up in prison for what seemed to her a very trivial offence. toad, of course, in his vanity, thought that her interest in him proceeded from a growing tenderness; and he could not help half-regretting that the social gulf between them was so very wide, for she was a comely lass, and evidently admired him very much. one morning the girl was very thoughtful, and answered at random, and did not seem to toad to be paying proper attention to his witty sayings and sparkling comments. "toad," she said presently, "just listen, please. i have an aunt who is a washerwoman." "there, there," said toad, graciously and affably, "never mind; think no more about it. _i_ have several aunts who _ought_ to be washerwomen." "do be quiet a minute, toad," said the girl. "you talk too much, that's your chief fault, and i'm trying to think, and you hurt my head. as i said, i have an aunt who is a washerwoman; she does the washing for all the prisoners in this castle--we try to keep any paying business of that sort in the family, you understand. she takes out the washing on monday morning, and brings it in on friday evening. this is a thursday. now, this is what occurs to me: you're very rich--at least you're always telling me so--and she's very poor. a few pounds wouldn't make any difference to you, and it would mean a lot to her. now, i think if she were properly approached--squared, i believe is the word you animals use--you could come to some arrangement by which she would let you have her dress and bonnet and so on, and you could escape from the castle as the official washerwoman. you're very alike in many respects--particularly about the figure." "we're _not_," said the toad in a huff. "i have a very elegant figure--for what i am." "so has my aunt," replied the girl, "for what _she_ is. but have it your own way. you horrid, proud, ungrateful animal, when i'm sorry for you, and trying to help you!" "yes, yes, that's all right; thank you very much indeed," said the toad hurriedly. "but look here! you wouldn't surely have mr. toad, of toad hall, going about the country disguised as a washerwoman!" "then you can stop here as a toad," replied the girl with much spirit. "i suppose you want to go off in a coach-and-four!" honest toad was always ready to admit himself in the wrong. "you are a good, kind, clever girl," he said, "and i am indeed a proud and a stupid toad. introduce me to your worthy aunt, if you will be so kind, and i have no doubt that the excellent lady and i will be able to arrange terms satisfactory to both parties." next evening the girl ushered her aunt into toad's cell, bearing his week's washing pinned up in a towel. the old lady had been prepared beforehand for the interview, and the sight of certain gold sovereigns that toad had thoughtfully placed on the table in full view practically completed the matter and left little further to discuss. in return for his cash, toad received a cotton print gown, an apron, a shawl, and a rusty black bonnet; the only stipulation the old lady made being that she should be gagged and bound and dumped down in a corner. by this not very convincing artifice, she explained, aided by picturesque fiction which she could supply herself, she hoped to retain her situation, in spite of the suspicious appearance of things. toad was delighted with the suggestion. it would enable him to leave the prison in some style, and with his reputation for being a desperate and dangerous fellow untarnished; and he readily helped the gaoler's daughter to make her aunt appear as much as possible the victim of circumstances over which she had no control. "now it's your turn, toad," said the girl. "take off that coat and waistcoat of yours; you're fat enough as it is." shaking with laughter, she proceeded to "hook-and-eye" him into the cotton print gown, arranged the shawl with a professional fold, and tied the strings of the rusty bonnet under his chin. "you're the very image of her," she giggled, "only i'm sure you never looked half so respectable in all your life before. now, good-bye, toad, and good luck. go straight down the way you came up; and if any one says anything to you, as they probably will, being but men, you can chaff back a bit, of course, but remember you're a widow woman, quite alone in the world, with a character to lose." with a quaking heart, but as firm a footstep as he could command, toad set forth cautiously on what seemed to be a most hare-brained and hazardous undertaking; but he was soon agreeably surprised to find how easy everything was made for him, and a little humbled at the thought that both his popularity, and the sex that seemed to inspire it, were really another's. the washerwoman's squat figure in its familiar cotton print seemed a passport for every barred door and grim gateway; even when he hesitated, uncertain as to the right turning to take, he found himself helped out of his difficulty by the warder at the next gate, anxious to be off to his tea, summoning him to come along sharp and not keep him waiting there all night. the chaff and the humourous sallies to which he was subjected, and to which, of course, he had to provide prompt and effective reply, formed, indeed, his chief danger; for toad was an animal with a strong sense of his own dignity, and the chaff was mostly (he thought) poor and clumsy, and the humour of the sallies entirely lacking. however, he kept his temper, though with great difficulty, suited his retorts to his company and his supposed character, and did his best not to overstep the limits of good taste. it seemed hours before he crossed the last courtyard, rejected the pressing invitations from the last guardroom, and dodged the outspread arms of the last warder, pleading with simulated passion for just one farewell embrace. but at last he heard the wicket-gate in the great outer door click behind him, felt the fresh air of the outer world upon his anxious brow, and knew that he was free! dizzy with the easy success of his daring exploit, he walked quickly towards the lights of the town, not knowing in the least what he should do next, only quite certain of one thing, that he must remove himself as quickly as possible from the neighbourhood where the lady he was forced to represent was so well-known and so popular a character. as he walked along, considering, his attention was caught by some red and green lights a little way off, to one side of the town, and the sound of the puffing and snorting of engines and the banging of shunted trucks fell on his ear. "aha!" he thought, "this is a piece of luck! a railway station is the thing i want most in the whole world at this moment; and what's more, i needn't go through the town to get it, and shan't have to support this humiliating character by repartees which, though thoroughly effective, do not assist one's sense of self-respect." he made his way to the station accordingly, consulted a time-table, and found that a train, bound more or less in the direction of his home, was due to start in half-an-hour. "more luck!" said toad, his spirits rising rapidly, and went off to the booking-office to buy his ticket. he gave the name of the station that he knew to be nearest to the village of which toad hall was the principal feature, and mechanically put his fingers, in search of the necessary money, where his waistcoat pocket should have been. but here the cotton gown, which had nobly stood by him so far, and which he had basely forgotten, intervened, and frustrated his efforts. in a sort of nightmare he struggled with the strange uncanny thing that seemed to hold his hands, turn all muscular strivings to water, and laugh at him all the time; while other travellers, forming up in a line behind, waited with impatience, making suggestions of more or less value and comments of more or less stringency and point. at last--somehow--he never rightly understood how--he burst the barriers, attained the goal, arrived at where all waistcoat pockets are eternally situated, and found--not only no money, but no pocket to hold it, and no waistcoat to hold the pocket! to his horror he recollected that he had left both coat and waistcoat behind him in his cell, and with them his pocket-book, money, keys, watch, matches, pencil-case--all that makes life worth living, all that distinguishes the many-pocketed animal, the lord of creation, from the inferior one-pocketed or no-pocketed productions that hop or trip about permissively, unequipped for the real contest. in his misery he made one desperate effort to carry the thing off, and, with a return to his fine old manner--a blend of the squire and the college don--he said, "look here! i find i've left my purse behind. just give me that ticket, will you, and i'll send the money on to-morrow? i'm well-known in these parts." the clerk stared at him and the rusty black bonnet a moment, and then laughed. "i should think you were pretty well known in these parts," he said, "if you've tried this game on often. here, stand away from the window, please, madam; you're obstructing the other passengers!" an old gentleman who had been prodding him in the back for some moments here thrust him away, and, what was worse, addressed him as his good woman, which angered toad more than anything that had occurred that evening. baffled and full of despair, he wandered blindly down the platform where the train was standing, and tears trickled down each side of his nose. it was hard, he thought, to be within sight of safety and almost of home, and to be baulked by the want of a few wretched shillings and by the pettifogging mistrustfulness of paid officials. very soon his escape would be discovered, the hunt would be up, he would be caught, reviled, loaded with chains, dragged back again to prison and bread-and-water and straw; his guards and penalties would be doubled; and o, what sarcastic remarks the girl would make! what was to be done? he was not swift of foot; his figure was unfortunately recognisable. could he not squeeze under the seat of a carriage? he had seen this method adopted by schoolboys, when the journey-money provided by thoughtful parents had been diverted to other and better ends. as he pondered, he found himself opposite the engine, which was being oiled, wiped, and generally caressed by its affectionate driver, a burly man with an oil-can in one hand and a lump of cotton-waste in the other. "hullo, mother!" said the engine-driver, "what's the trouble? you don't look particularly cheerful." "o, sir!" said toad, crying afresh, "i am a poor unhappy washerwoman, and i've lost all my money, and can't pay for a ticket, and i _must_ get home to-night somehow, and whatever i am to do i don't know. o dear, o dear!" "that's a bad business, indeed," said the engine-driver reflectively. "lost your money--and can't get home--and got some kids, too, waiting for you, i dare say?" "any amount of 'em," sobbed toad. "and they'll be hungry--and playing with matches--and upsetting lamps, the little innocents!--and quarrelling, and going on generally. o dear, o dear!" "well, i'll tell you what i'll do," said the good engine-driver. "you're a washerwoman to your trade, says you. very well, that's that. and i'm an engine-driver, as you well may see, and there's no denying it's terribly dirty work. uses up a power of shirts, it does, till my missus is fair tired of washing of 'em. if you'll wash a few shirts for me when you get home, and send 'em along, i'll give you a ride on my engine. it's against the company's regulations, but we're not so very particular in these out-of-the-way parts." the toad's misery turned into rapture as he eagerly scrambled up into the cab of the engine. of course, he had never washed a shirt in his life, and couldn't if he tried and, anyhow, he wasn't going to begin; but he thought: "when i get safely home to toad hall, and have money again, and pockets to put it in, i will send the engine-driver enough to pay for quite a quantity of washing, and that will be the same thing, or better." the guard waved his welcome flag, the engine-driver whistled in cheerful response, and the train moved out of the station. as the speed increased, and the toad could see on either side of him real fields, and trees, and hedges, and cows, and horses, all flying past him, and as he thought how every minute was bringing him nearer to toad hall, and sympathetic friends, and money to chink in his pocket, and a soft bed to sleep in, and good things to eat, and praise and admiration at the recital of his adventures and his surpassing cleverness, he began to skip up and down and shout and sing snatches of song, to the great astonishment of the engine-driver, who had come across washerwomen before, at long intervals, but never one at all like this. they had covered many and many a mile, and toad was already considering what he would have for supper as soon as he got home, when he noticed that the engine-driver, with a puzzled expression on his face, was leaning over the side of the engine and listening hard. then he saw him climb on to the coals and gaze out over the top of the train; then he returned and said to toad: "it's very strange; we're the last train running in this direction to-night, yet i could be sworn that i heard another following us!" toad ceased his frivolous antics at once. he became grave and depressed, and a dull pain in the lower part of his spine, communicating itself to his legs, made him want to sit down and try desperately not to think of all the possibilities. by this time the moon was shining brightly, and the engine-driver, steadying himself on the coal, could command a view of the line behind them for a long distance. presently he called out, "i can see it clearly now! it is an engine, on our rails, coming along at a great pace! it looks as if we were being pursued!" the miserable toad, crouching in the coal-dust, tried hard to think of something to do, with dismal want of success. "they are gaining on us fast!" cried the engine-driver. "and the engine is crowded with the queerest lot of people! men like ancient warders, waving halberds; policemen in their helmets, waving truncheons; and shabbily dressed men in pot-hats, obvious and unmistakable plain-clothes detectives even at this distance, waving revolvers and walking-sticks; all waving, and all shouting the same thing--'stop, stop, stop!'" then toad fell on his knees among the coals, and, raising his clasped paws in supplication, cried, "save me, only save me, dear kind mr. engine-driver, and i will confess everything! i am not the simple washerwoman i seem to be! i have no children waiting for me, innocent or otherwise! i am a toad--the well-known and popular mr. toad, a landed proprietor; i have just escaped, by my great daring and cleverness, from a loathsome dungeon into which my enemies had flung me; and if those fellows on that engine recapture me, it will be chains and bread-and-water and straw and misery once more for poor, unhappy, innocent toad!" the engine-driver looked down upon him very sternly, and said, "now tell the truth; what were you put in prison for?" "it was nothing very much," said poor toad, colouring deeply. "i only borrowed a motor-car while the owners were at lunch; they had no need of it at the time. i didn't mean to steal it, really; but people--especially magistrates--take such harsh views of thoughtless and high-spirited actions." the engine-driver looked very grave and said, "i fear that you have been indeed a wicked toad, and by rights i ought to give you up to offended justice. but you are evidently in sore trouble and distress, so i will not desert you. i don't hold with motor-cars, for one thing; and i don't hold with being ordered about by policemen when i'm on my own engine, for another. and the sight of an animal in tears always makes me feel queer and soft-hearted. so cheer up, toad! i'll do my best, and we may beat them yet!" they piled on more coals, shovelling furiously; the furnace roared, the sparks flew, the engine leapt and swung, but still their pursuers slowly gained. the engine-driver, with a sigh, wiped his brow with a handful of cotton-waste, and said, "i'm afraid it's no good, toad. you see, they are running light, and they have the better engine. there's just one thing left for us to do, and it's your only chance, so attend very carefully to what i tell you. a short way ahead of us is a long tunnel, and on the other side of that the line passes through a thick wood. now, i will put on all the speed i can while we are running through the tunnel, but the other fellows will slow down a bit, naturally, for fear of an accident. when we are through, i will shut off steam and put on brakes as hard as i can, and the moment it's safe to do so you must jump and hide in the wood, before they get through the tunnel and see you. then i will go full speed ahead again, and they can chase me if they like, for as long as they like, and as far as they like. now mind and be ready to jump when i tell you!" they piled on more coals, and the train shot into the tunnel, and the engine rushed and roared and rattled, till at last they shot out at the other end into fresh air and the peaceful moonlight, and saw the wood lying dark and helpful upon either side of the line. the driver shut off steam and put on brakes, the toad got down on the step, and as the train slowed down to almost a walking pace he heard the driver call out, "now, jump!" toad jumped, rolled down a short embankment, picked himself up unhurt, scrambled into the wood and hid. peeping out, he saw his train get up speed again and disappear at a great pace. then out of the tunnel burst the pursuing engine, roaring and whistling, her motley crew waving their various weapons and shouting, "stop! stop! stop!" when they were past, the toad had a hearty laugh--for the first time since he was thrown into prison. but he soon stopped laughing when he came to consider that it was now very late and dark and cold, and he was in an unknown wood, with no money and no chance of supper, and still far from friends and home; and the dead silence of everything, after the roar and rattle of the train, was something of a shock. he dared not leave the shelter of the trees, so he struck into the wood, with the idea of leaving the railway as far as possible behind him. after so many weeks within walls, he found the wood strange and unfriendly and inclined, he thought, to make fun of him. night-jars, sounding their mechanical rattle, made him think that the wood was full of searching warders, closing in on him. an owl, swooping noiselessly towards him, brushed his shoulder with its wing, making him jump with the horrid certainty that it was a hand; then flitted off, moth-like, laughing its low ho! ho! ho! which toad thought in very poor taste. once he met a fox, who stopped, looked him up and down in a sarcastic sort of way, and said, "hullo, washerwoman! half a pair of socks and a pillow-case short this week! mind it doesn't occur again!" and swaggered off, sniggering. toad looked about for a stone to throw at him, but could not succeed in finding one, which vexed him more than anything. at last, cold, hungry, and tired out, he sought the shelter of a hollow tree, where with branches and dead leaves he made himself as comfortable a bed as he could, and slept soundly till the morning. ix wayfarers all the water rat was restless, and he did not exactly know why. to all appearance the summer's pomp was still at fullest height, and although in the tilled acres green had given way to gold, though rowans were reddening, and the woods were dashed here and there with a tawny fierceness, yet light and warmth and colour were still present in undiminished measure, clean of any chilly premonitions of the passing year. but the constant chorus of the orchards and hedges had shrunk to a casual evensong from a few yet unwearied performers; the robin was beginning to assert himself once more; and there was a feeling in the air of change and departure. the cuckoo, of course, had long been silent; but many another feathered friend, for months a part of the familiar landscape and its small society, was missing too, and it seemed that the ranks thinned steadily day by day. rat, ever observant of all winged movement, saw that it was taking daily a southing tendency; and even as he lay in bed at night he thought he could make out, passing in the darkness overhead, the beat and quiver of impatient pinions, obedient to the peremptory call. nature's grand hotel has its season, like the others. as the guests one by one pack, pay, and depart, and the seats at the _table-d'hôte_ shrink pitifully at each succeeding meal; as suites of rooms are closed, carpets taken up, and waiters sent away; those boarders who are staying on, _en pension_, until the next year's full re-opening, cannot help being somewhat affected by all these flittings and farewells, this eager discussion of plans, routes, and fresh quarters, this daily shrinkage in the stream of comradeship. one gets unsettled, depressed, and inclined to be querulous. why this craving for change? why not stay on quietly here, like us, and be jolly? you don't know this hotel out of the season, and what fun we have among ourselves, we fellows who remain and see the whole interesting year out. all very true, no doubt, the others always reply; we quite envy you--and some other year perhaps--but just now we have engagements--and there's the bus at the door--our time is up! so they depart, with a smile and a nod, and we miss them, and feel resentful. the rat was a self-sufficing sort of animal, rooted to the land, and, whoever went, he stayed; still, he could not help noticing what was in the air, and feeling some of its influence in his bones. it was difficult to settle down to anything seriously, with all this flitting going on. leaving the water-side, where rushes stood thick and tall in a stream that was becoming sluggish and low, he wandered country-wards, crossed a field or two of pasturage already looking dusty and parched, and thrust into the great sea of wheat, yellow, wavy, and murmurous, full of quiet motion and small whisperings. here he often loved to wander, through the forest of stiff strong stalks that carried their own golden sky away over his head--a sky that was always dancing, shimmering, softly talking; or swaying strongly to the passing wind and recovering itself with a toss and a merry laugh. here, too, he had many small friends, a society complete in itself, leading full and busy lives, but always with a spare moment to gossip, and exchange news with a visitor. to-day, however, though they were civil enough, the field-mice and harvest mice seemed pre-occupied. many were digging and tunnelling busily; others, gathered together in small groups, examined plans and drawings of small flats, stated to be desirable and compact, and situated conveniently near the stores. some were hauling out dusty trunks and dress-baskets, others were already elbow-deep packing their belongings; while everywhere piles and bundles of wheat, oats, barley, beech-mast and nuts, lay about ready for transport. "here's old ratty!" they cried as soon as they saw him. "come and bear a hand, rat, and don't stand about idle!" "what sort of games are you up to?" said the water rat severely. "you know it isn't time to be thinking of winter quarters yet, by a long way!" "o yes, we know that," explained a field-mouse rather shamefacedly; "but it's always as well to be in good time, isn't it? we really _must_ get all the furniture and baggage and stores moved out of this before those horrid machines begin clicking round the fields; and then, you know, the best flats get picked up so quickly nowadays, and if you're late you have to put up with _anything_; and they want such a lot of doing up, too, before they're fit to move into. of course, we're early, we know that; but we're only just making a start." "o, bother _starts_," said the rat. "it's a splendid day. come for a row, or a stroll along the hedges, or a picnic in the woods, or something." "well, i _think_ not _to-day_, thank you," replied the field-mouse hurriedly. "perhaps some _other_ day--when we've more _time_--" the rat, with a snort of contempt, swung round to go, tripped over a hat-box, and fell, with undignified remarks. "if people would be more careful," said a field-mouse rather stiffly, "and look where they're going, people wouldn't hurt themselves--and forget themselves. mind that hold-all, rat! you'd better sit down somewhere. in an hour or two we may be more free to attend to you." "you won't be 'free' as you call it, much this side of christmas, i can see that," retorted the rat grumpily, as he picked his way out of the field. he returned somewhat despondently to his river again--his faithful, steady-going old river, which never packed up, flitted, or went into winter quarters. in the osiers which fringed the bank he spied a swallow sitting. presently it was joined by another, and then by a third; and the birds, fidgeting restlessly on their bough, talked together earnestly and low. "what, _already_," said the rat, strolling up to them. "what's the hurry? i call it simply ridiculous." "o, we're not off yet, if that's what you mean," replied the first swallow. "we're only making plans and arranging things. talking it over, you know--what route we're taking this year, and where we'll stop, and so on. that's half the fun!" "fun?" said the rat; "now that's just what i don't understand. if you've _got_ to leave this pleasant place, and your friends who will miss you, and your snug homes that you've just settled into, why, when the hour strikes i've no doubt you'll go bravely, and face all the trouble and discomfort and change and newness, and make believe that you're not very unhappy. but to want to talk about it, or even think about it, till you really need--" "no, you don't understand, naturally," said the second swallow. "first, we feel it stirring within us, a sweet unrest; then back come the recollections one by one, like homing pigeons. they flutter through our dreams at night, they fly with us in our wheelings and circlings by day. we hunger to inquire of each other, to compare notes and assure ourselves that it was all really true, as one by one the scents and sounds and names of long-forgotten places come gradually back and beckon to us." "couldn't you stop on for just this year?" suggested the water rat, wistfully. "we'll all do our best to make you feel at home. you've no idea what good times we have here, while you are far away." "i tried 'stopping on' one year," said the third swallow. "i had grown so fond of the place that when the time came i hung back and let the others go on without me. for a few weeks it was all well enough, but afterwards, o the weary length of the nights! the shivering, sunless days! the air so clammy and chill, and not an insect in an acre of it! no, it was no good; my courage broke down, and one cold, stormy night i took wing, flying well inland on account of the strong easterly gales. it was snowing hard as i beat through the passes of the great mountains, and i had a stiff fight to win through; but never shall i forget the blissful feeling of the hot sun again on my back as i sped down to the lakes that lay so blue and placid below me, and the taste of my first fat insect! the past was like a bad dream; the future was all happy holiday as i moved southwards week by week, easily, lazily, lingering as long as i dared, but always heeding the call! no, i had had my warning; never again did i think of disobedience." "ah, yes, the call of the south, of the south!" twittered the other two dreamily. "its songs, its hues, its radiant air! o, do you remember--" and, forgetting the rat, they slid into passionate reminiscence, while he listened fascinated, and his heart burned within him. in himself, too, he knew that it was vibrating at last, that chord hitherto dormant and unsuspected. the mere chatter of these southern-bound birds, their pale and second-hand reports, had yet power to awaken this wild new sensation and thrill him through and through with it; what would one moment of the real thing work in him--one passionate touch of the real southern sun, one waft of the authentic odour? with closed eyes he dared to dream a moment in full abandonment, and when he looked again the river seemed steely and chill, the green fields grey and lightless. then his loyal heart seemed to cry out on his weaker self for its treachery. "why do you ever come back, then, at all?" he demanded of the swallows jealously. "what do you find to attract you in this poor drab little country?" "and do you think," said the first swallow, "that the other call is not for us too, in its due season? the call of lush meadow-grass, wet orchards, warm, insect-haunted ponds, of browsing cattle, of haymaking, and all the farm-buildings clustering round the house of the perfect eaves?" "do you suppose," asked the second one, "that you are the only living thing that craves with a hungry longing to hear the cuckoo's note again?" "in due time," said the third, "we shall be home-sick once more for quiet water-lilies swaying on the surface of an english stream. but to-day all that seems pale and thin and very far away. just now our blood dances to other music." they fell a-twittering among themselves once more, and this time their intoxicating babble was of violet seas, tawny sands, and lizard-haunted walls. restlessly the rat wandered off once more, climbed the slope that rose gently from the north bank of the river, and lay looking out towards the great ring of downs that barred his vision further southwards--his simple horizon hitherto, his mountains of the moon, his limit behind which lay nothing he had cared to see or to know. to-day, to him gazing south with a new-born need stirring in his heart, the clear sky over their long low outline seemed to pulsate with promise; to-day, the unseen was everything, the unknown the only real fact of life. on this side of the hills was now the real blank, on the other lay the crowded and coloured panorama that his inner eye was seeing so clearly. what seas lay beyond, green, leaping, and crested! what sun-bathed coasts, along which the white villas glittered against the olive woods! what quiet harbours, thronged with gallant shipping bound for purple islands of wine and spice, islands set low in languorous waters! he rose and descended river-wards once more; then changed his mind and sought the side of the dusty lane. there, lying half-buried in the thick, cool under-hedge tangle that bordered it, he could muse on the metalled road and all the wondrous world that it led to; on all the wayfarers, too, that might have trodden it, and the fortunes and adventures they had gone to seek or found unseeking--out there, beyond--beyond! footsteps fell on his ear, and the figure of one that walked somewhat wearily came into view; and he saw that it was a rat, and a very dusty one. the wayfarer, as he reached him, saluted with a gesture of courtesy that had something foreign about it--hesitated a moment--then with a pleasant smile turned from the track and sat down by his side in the cool herbage. he seemed tired, and the rat let him rest unquestioned, understanding something of what was in his thoughts; knowing, too, the value all animals attach at times to mere silent companionship, when the weary muscles slacken and the mind marks time. the wayfarer was lean and keen-featured, and somewhat bowed at the shoulders; his paws were thin and long, his eyes much wrinkled at the corners, and he wore small gold ear rings in his neatly-set well-shaped ears. his knitted jersey was of a faded blue, his breeches, patched and stained, were based on a blue foundation, and his small belongings that he carried were tied up in a blue cotton handkerchief. when he had rested awhile the stranger sighed, snuffed the air, and looked about him. "that was clover, that warm whiff on the breeze," he remarked; "and those are cows we hear cropping the grass behind us and blowing softly between mouthfuls. there is a sound of distant reapers, and yonder rises a blue line of cottage smoke against the woodland. the river runs somewhere close by, for i hear the call of a moorhen, and i see by your build that you're a freshwater mariner. everything seems asleep, and yet going on all the time. it is a goodly life that you lead, friend; no doubt the best in the world, if only you are strong enough to lead it!" "yes, it's _the_ life, the only life, to live," responded the water rat dreamily, and without his usual whole-hearted conviction. "i did not say exactly that," replied the stranger cautiously; "but no doubt it's the best. i've tried it, and i know. and because i've just tried it--six months of it--and know it's the best, here am i, footsore and hungry, tramping away from it, tramping southwards, following the old call, back to the old life, _the_ life which is mine and which will not let me go." "is this, then, yet another of them?" mused the rat. "and where have you just come from?" he asked. he hardly dared to ask where he was bound for; he seemed to know the answer only too well. "nice little farm," replied the wayfarer, briefly. "upalong in that direction--" he nodded northwards. "never mind about it. i had everything i could want--everything i had any right to expect of life, and more; and here i am! glad to be here all the same, though, glad to be here! so many miles further on the road, so many hours nearer to my heart's desire!" his shining eyes held fast to the horizon, and he seemed to be listening for some sound that was wanting from that inland acreage, vocal as it was with the cheerful music of pasturage and farmyard. "you are not one of _us_," said the water rat, "nor yet a farmer; nor even, i should judge, of this country." "right," replied the stranger. "i'm a seafaring rat, i am, and the port i originally hail from is constantinople, though i'm a sort of a foreigner there too, in a manner of speaking. you will have heard of constantinople, friend? a fair city and an ancient and glorious one. and you may have heard too, of sigurd, king of norway, and how he sailed thither with sixty ships, and how he and his men rode up through streets all canopied in their honour with purple and gold; and how the emperor and empress came down and banqueted with him on board his ship. when sigurd returned home, many of his northmen remained behind and entered the emperor's body-guard, and my ancestor, a norwegian born, stayed behind too, with the ships that sigurd gave the emperor. seafarers we have ever been, and no wonder; as for me, the city of my birth is no more my home than any pleasant port between there and the london river. i know them all, and they know me. set me down on any of their quays or foreshores, and i am home again." "i suppose you go great voyages," said the water rat with growing interest. "months and months out of sight of land, and provisions running short, and allowanced as to water, and your mind communing with the mighty ocean, and all that sort of thing?" "by no means," said the sea rat frankly. "such a life as you describe would not suit me at all. i'm in the coasting trade, and rarely out of sight of land. it's the jolly times on shore that appeal to me, as much as any seafaring. o, those southern seaports! the smell of them, the riding-lights at night, the glamour!" "well, perhaps you have chosen the better way," said the water rat, but rather doubtfully. "tell me something of your coasting, then, if you have a mind to, and what sort of harvest an animal of spirit might hope to bring home from it to warm his latter days with gallant memories by the fireside; for my life, i confess to you, feels to me to-day somewhat narrow and circumscribed." "my last voyage," began the sea rat, "that landed me eventually in this country, bound with high hopes for my inland farm, will serve as a good example of any of them, and, indeed, as an epitome of my highly-coloured life. family troubles, as usual, began it. the domestic storm-cone was hoisted, and i shipped myself on board a small trading vessel bound from constantinople, by classic seas whose every wave throbs with a deathless memory, to the grecian islands and the levant. those were golden days and balmy nights! in and out of harbour all the time--old friends everywhere--sleeping in some cool temple or ruined cistern during the heat of the day--feasting and song after sundown, under great stars set in a velvet sky! thence we turned and coasted up the adriatic, its shores swimming in an atmosphere of amber, rose, and aquamarine; we lay in wide landlocked harbours, we roamed through ancient and noble cities, until at last one morning, as the sun rose royally behind us, we rode into venice down a path of gold. o, venice is a fine city, wherein a rat can wander at his ease and take his pleasure! or, when weary of wandering, can sit at the edge of the grand canal at night, feasting with his friends, when the air is full of music and the sky full of stars, and the lights flash and shimmer on the polished steel prows of the swaying gondolas, packed so that you could walk across the canal on them from side to side! and then the food--do you like shell-fish? well, well, we won't linger over that now." he was silent for a time; and the water rat, silent too and enthralled, floated on dream-canals and heard a phantom song pealing high between vaporous grey wave-lapped walls. "southwards we sailed again at last," continued the sea rat, "coasting down the italian shore, till finally we made palermo, and there i quitted for a long, happy spell on shore. i never stick too long to one ship; one gets narrow-minded and prejudiced. besides, sicily is one of my happy hunting-grounds. i know everybody there, and their ways just suit me. i spent many jolly weeks in the island, staying with friends upcountry. when i grew restless again i took advantage of a ship that was trading to sardinia and corsica; and very glad i was to feel the fresh breeze and the sea-spray in my face once more." "but isn't it very hot and stuffy, down in the--hold, i think you call it?" asked the water rat. the seafarer looked at him with the suspicion of a wink. "i'm an old hand," he remarked with much simplicity. "the captain's cabin's good enough for me." "it's a hard life, by all accounts," murmured the rat, sunk in deep thought. "for the crew it is," replied the seafarer gravely, again with the ghost of a wink. "from corsica," he went on, "i made use of a ship that was taking wine to the mainland. we made alassio in the evening, lay to, hauled up our wine-casks, and hove them overboard, tied one to the other by a long line. then the crew took to the boats and rowed shorewards, singing as they went, and drawing after them the long bobbing procession of casks, like a mile of porpoises. on the sands they had horses waiting, which dragged the casks up the steep street of the little town with a fine rush and clatter and scramble. when the last cask was in, we went and refreshed and rested, and sat late into the night, drinking with our friends, and next morning i took to the great olive-woods for a spell and a rest. for now i had done with islands for the time, and ports and shipping were plentiful; so i led a lazy life among the peasants, lying and watching them work, or stretched high on the hillside with the blue mediterranean far below me. and so at length, by easy stages, and partly on foot, partly by sea, to marseilles, and the meeting of old shipmates, and the visiting of great ocean-bound vessels, and feasting once more. talk of shell-fish! why, sometimes i dream of the shell-fish of marseilles, and wake up crying!" [illustration: _"it's a hard life, by all accounts," murmured the rat_] "that reminds me," said the polite water rat; "you happened to mention that you were hungry, and i ought to have spoken earlier. of course, you will stop and take your mid-day meal with me? my hole is close by; it is some time past noon, and you are very welcome to whatever there is." "now i call that kind and brotherly of you," said the sea rat. "i was indeed hungry when i sat down, and ever since i inadvertently happened to mention shell-fish, my pangs have been extreme. but couldn't you fetch it along out here? i am none too fond of going under hatches, unless i'm obliged to; and then, while we eat, i could tell you more concerning my voyages and the pleasant life i lead--at least, it is very pleasant to me, and by your attention i judge it commends itself to you; whereas if we go indoors it is a hundred to one that i shall presently fall asleep." "that is indeed an excellent suggestion," said the water rat, and hurried off home. there he got out the luncheon-basket and packed a simple meal, in which, remembering the stranger's origin and preferences, he took care to include a yard of long french bread, a sausage out of which the garlic sang, some cheese which lay down and cried, and a long-necked straw-covered flask wherein lay bottled sunshine shed and garnered on far southern slopes. thus laden, he returned with all speed, and blushed for pleasure at the old seaman's commendations of his taste and judgment, as together they unpacked the basket and laid out the contents on the grass by the roadside. the sea rat, as soon as his hunger was somewhat assuaged, continued the history of his latest voyage, conducting his simple hearer from port to port of spain, landing him at lisbon, oporto, and bordeaux, introducing him to the pleasant harbours of cornwall and devon, and so up the channel to that final quayside, where, landing after winds long contrary, storm-driven and weather-beaten, he had caught the first magical hints and heraldings of another spring, and, fired by these, had sped on a long tramp inland, hungry for the experiment of life on some quiet farmstead, very far from the weary beating of any sea. spellbound and quivering with excitement, the water rat followed the adventurer league by league, over stormy bays, through crowded roadsteads, across harbour bars on a racing tide, up winding rivers that hid their busy little towns round a sudden turn; and left him with a regretful sigh planted at his dull inland farm, about which he desired to hear nothing. by this time their meal was over, and the seafarer, refreshed and strengthened, his voice more vibrant, his eye lit with a brightness that seemed caught from some far-away sea-beacon, filled his glass with the red and glowing vintage of the south, and, leaning towards the water rat, compelled his gaze and held him, body and soul, while he talked. those eyes were of the changing foam-streaked grey-green of leaping northern seas; in the glass shone a hot ruby that seemed the very heart of the south, beating for him who had courage to respond to its pulsation. the twin lights, the shifting grey and the steadfast red, mastered the water rat and held him bound, fascinated, powerless. the quiet world outside their rays receded far away and ceased to be. and the talk, the wonderful talk flowed on--or was it speech entirely, or did it pass at times into song--chanty of the sailors weighing the dripping anchor, sonorous hum of the shrouds in a tearing north-easter, ballad of the fisherman hauling his nets at sundown against an apricot sky, chords of guitar and mandoline from gondola or caique? did it change into the cry of the wind, plaintive at first, angrily shrill as it freshened, rising to a tearing whistle, sinking to a musical trickle of air from the leech of the bellying sail? all these sounds the spellbound listener seemed to hear, and with them the hungry complaint of the gulls and the sea-mews, the soft thunder of the breaking wave, the cry of the protesting shingle. back into speech again it passed, and with beating heart he was following the adventures of a dozen seaports, the fights, the escapes, the rallies, the comradeships, the gallant undertakings; or he searched islands for treasure, fished in still lagoons and dozed day-long on warm white sand. of deep-sea fishings he heard tell, and mighty silver gatherings of the mile-long net; of sudden perils, noise of breakers on a moonless night, or the tall bows of the great liner taking shape overhead through the fog; of the merry home-coming, the headland rounded, the harbour lights opened out; the groups seen dimly on the quay, the cheery hail, the splash of the hawser; the trudge up the steep little street towards the comforting glow of red-curtained windows. lastly, in his waking dream it seemed to him that the adventurer had risen to his feet, but was still speaking, still holding him fast with his sea-grey eyes. "and now," he was softly saying, "i take to the road again, holding on southwestwards for many a long and dusty day; till at last i reach the little grey sea town i know so well, that clings along one steep side of the harbour. there through dark doorways you look down flights of stone steps, overhung by great pink tufts of valerian and ending in a patch of sparkling blue water. the little boats that lie tethered to the rings and stanchions of the old sea-wall are gaily painted as those i clambered in and out of in my own childhood; the salmon leap on the flood tide, schools of mackerel flash and play past quay-sides and foreshores, and by the windows the great vessels glide, night and day, up to their moorings or forth to the open sea. there, sooner or later, the ships of all seafaring nations arrive; and there, at its destined hour, the ship of my choice will let go its anchor. i shall take my time, i shall tarry and bide, till at last the right one lies waiting for me, warped out into mid-stream, loaded low, her bowsprit pointing down harbour. i shall slip on board, by boat or along hawser; and then one morning i shall wake to the song and tramp of the sailors, the clink of the capstan, and the rattle of the anchor-chain coming merrily in. we shall break out the jib and the foresail, the white houses on the harbour side will glide slowly past us as she gathers steering-way, and the voyage will have begun! as she forges towards the headland she will clothe herself with canvas; and then, once outside, the sounding slap of great green seas as she heels to the wind, pointing south! "and you, you will come too, young brother; for the days pass, and never return, and the south still waits for you. take the adventure, heed the call, now ere the irrevocable moment passes! 'tis but a banging of the door behind you, a blithesome step forward, and you are out of the old life and into the new! then some day, some day long hence, jog home here if you will, when the cup has been drained and the play has been played, and sit down by your quiet river with a store of goodly memories for company. you can easily overtake me on the road, for you are young, and i am ageing and go softly. i will linger, and look back; and at last i will surely see you coming, eager and light-hearted, with all the south in your face!" the voice died away and ceased as an insect's tiny trumpet dwindles swiftly into silence; and the water rat, paralysed and staring, saw at last but a distant speck on the white surface of the road. mechanically he rose and proceeded to repack the luncheon-basket, carefully and without haste. mechanically he returned home, gathered together a few small necessaries and special treasures he was fond of, and put them in a satchel; acting with slow deliberation, moving about the room like a sleep-walker; listening ever with parted lips. he swung the satchel over his shoulder, carefully selected a stout stick for his wayfaring, and with no haste, but with no hesitation at all, he stepped across the threshold just as the mole appeared at the door. "why, where are you off to, ratty?" asked the mole in great surprise, grasping him by the arm. "going south, with the rest of them," murmured the rat in a dreamy monotone, never looking at him. "seawards first and then on shipboard, and so to the shores that are calling me!" he pressed resolutely forward, still without haste, but with dogged fixity of purpose; but the mole, now thoroughly alarmed, placed himself in front of him, and looking into his eyes saw that they were glazed and set and turned a streaked and shifting grey--not his friend's eyes, but the eyes of some other animal! grappling with him strongly he dragged him inside, threw him down, and held him. the rat struggled desperately for a few moments, and then his strength seemed suddenly to leave him, and he lay still and exhausted, with closed eyes, trembling. presently the mole assisted him to rise and placed him in a chair, where he sat collapsed and shrunken into himself, his body shaken by a violent shivering, passing in time into an hysterical fit of dry sobbing. mole made the door fast, threw the satchel into a drawer and locked it, and sat down quietly on the table by his friend, waiting for the strange seizure to pass. gradually the rat sank into a troubled doze, broken by starts and confused murmurings of things strange and wild and foreign to the unenlightened mole; and from that he passed into a deep slumber. very anxious in mind, the mole left him for a time and busied himself with household matters; and it was getting dark when he returned to the parlour and found the rat where he had left him, wide awake indeed, but listless, silent, and dejected. he took one hasty glance at his eyes; found them, to his great gratification, clear and dark and brown again as before; and then sat down and tried to cheer him up and help him to relate what had happened to him. poor ratty did his best, by degrees, to explain things; but how could he put into cold words what had mostly been suggestion? how recall, for another's benefit, the haunting sea voices that had sung to him, how reproduce at second-hand the magic of the seafarer's hundred reminiscences? even to himself, now the spell was broken and the glamour gone, he found it difficult to account for what had seemed, some hours ago, the inevitable and only thing. it is not surprising, then, that he failed to convey to the mole any clear idea of what he had been through that day. to the mole this much was plain: the fit, or attack, had passed away, and had left him sane again, though shaken and cast down by the reaction. but he seemed to have lost all interest for the time in the things that went to make up his daily life, as well as in all pleasant forecastings of the altered days and doings that the changing season was surely bringing. casually, then, and with seeming indifference, the mole turned his talk to the harvest that was being gathered in, the towering wagons and their straining teams, the growing ricks, and the large moon rising over bare acres dotted with sheaves. he talked of the reddening apples around, of the browning nuts, of jams and preserves and the distilling of cordials; till by easy stages such as these he reached midwinter, its hearty joys and its snug home life, and then he became simply lyrical. by degrees the rat began to sit up and to join in. his dull eye brightened, and he lost some of his listening air. presently the tactful mole slipped away and returned with a pencil and a few half-sheets of paper, which he placed on the table at his friend's elbow. "it's quite a long time since you did any poetry," he remarked. "you might have a try at it this evening, instead of--well, brooding over things so much. i've an idea that you'll feel a lot better when you've got something jotted down--if it's only just the rhymes." the rat pushed the paper away from him wearily, but the discreet mole took occasion to leave the room, and when he peeped in again some time later, the rat was absorbed and deaf to the world; alternately scribbling and sucking the top of his pencil. it is true that he sucked a good deal more than he scribbled; but it was joy to the mole to know that the cure had at least begun. x the further adventures of toad the front door of the hollow tree faced eastwards, so toad was called at an early hour; partly by the bright sunlight streaming in on him, partly by the exceeding coldness of his toes, which made him dream that he was at home in bed in his own handsome room with the tudor window, on a cold winter's night, and his bed-clothes had got up, grumbling and protesting they couldn't stand the cold any longer, and had run downstairs to the kitchen fire to warm themselves; and he had followed, on bare feet, along miles and miles of icy stone-paved passages, arguing and beseeching them to be reasonable. he would probably have been aroused much earlier, had he not slept for some weeks on straw over stone flags, and almost forgotten the friendly feeling of thick blankets pulled well up round the chin. sitting up, he rubbed his eyes first and his complaining toes next, wondered for a moment where he was, looking round for familiar stone wall and little barred window; then, with a leap of the heart, remembered everything--his escape, his flight, his pursuit; remembered, first and best thing of all, that he was free! free! the word and the thought alone were worth fifty blankets. he was warm from end to end as he thought of the jolly world outside, waiting eagerly for him to make his triumphal entrance, ready to serve him and play up to him, anxious to help him and to keep him company, as it always had been in days of old before misfortune fell upon him. he shook himself and combed the dry leaves out of his hair with his fingers; and, his toilet complete, marched forth into the comfortable morning sun, cold but confident, hungry but hopeful, all nervous terrors of yesterday dispelled by rest and sleep and frank and heartening sunshine. he had the world all to himself, that early summer morning. the dewy woodland, as he threaded it, was solitary and still: the green fields that succeeded the trees were his own to do as he liked with; the road itself, when he reached it, in that loneliness that was everywhere, seemed, like a stray dog, to be looking anxiously for company. toad, however, was looking for something that could talk, and tell him clearly which way he ought to go. it is all very well, when you have a light heart, and a clear conscience, and money in your pocket, and nobody scouring the country for you to drag you off to prison again, to follow where the road beckons and points, not caring whither. the practical toad cared very much indeed, and he could have kicked the road for its helpless silence when every minute was of importance to him. the reserved rustic road was presently joined by a shy little brother in the shape of a canal, which took its hand and ambled along by its side in perfect confidence, but with the same tongue-tied, uncommunicative attitude towards strangers. "bother them!" said toad to himself. "but, anyhow, one thing's clear. they must both be coming _from_ somewhere, and going _to_ somewhere. you can't get over that, toad, my boy!" so he marched on patiently by the water's edge. round a bend in the canal came plodding a solitary horse, stooping forward as if in anxious thought. from rope traces attached to his collar stretched a long line, taut, but dipping with his stride, the further part of it dripping pearly drops. toad let the horse pass, and stood waiting for what the fates were sending him. with a pleasant swirl of quiet water at its blunt bow the barge slid up alongside of him, its gaily painted gunwale level with the towing-path, its sole occupant a big stout woman wearing a linen sun-bonnet, one brawny arm laid along the tiller. "a nice morning, ma'am!" she remarked to toad, as she drew up level with him. "i dare say it is, ma'am!" responded toad politely, as he walked along the tow-path abreast of her. "i dare say it is a nice morning to them that's not in sore trouble, like what i am. here's my married daughter, she sends off to me post-haste to come to her at once; so off i comes, not knowing what may be happening or going to happen, but fearing the worst, as you will understand, ma'am, if you're a mother, too. and i've left my business to look after itself--i'm in the washing and laundering line, you must know, ma'am--and i've left my young children to look after themselves, and a more mischievous and troublesome set of young imps doesn't exist, ma'am; and i've lost all my money, and lost my way, and as for what may be happening to my married daughter, why, i don't like to think of it, ma'am!" "where might your married daughter be living, ma'am?" asked the barge-woman. "she lives near to the river, ma'am," replied toad. "close to a fine house called toad hall, that's somewheres hereabouts in these parts. perhaps you may have heard of it." "toad hall? why, i'm going that way myself," replied the barge-woman. "this canal joins the river some miles further on, a little above toad hall; and then it's an easy walk. you come along in the barge with me, and i'll give you a lift." she steered the barge close to the bank, and toad, with many humble and grateful acknowledgments, stepped lightly on board and sat down with great satisfaction. "toad's luck again!" thought he. "i always come out on top!" "so you're in the washing business, ma'am?" said the barge-woman politely, as they glided along. "and a very good business you've got too, i dare say, if i'm not making too free in saying so." "finest business in the whole country," said toad airily. "all the gentry come to me--wouldn't go to any one else if they were paid, they know me so well. you see, i understand my work thoroughly, and attend to it all myself. washing, ironing, clear-starching, making up gents' fine shirts for evening wear--everything's done under my own eye!" "but surely you don't _do_ all that work yourself, ma'am?" asked the barge-woman respectfully. "o, i have girls," said toad lightly: "twenty girls or thereabouts, always at work. but you know what _girls_ are, ma'am! nasty little hussies, that's what _i_ call 'em!" "so do i, too," said the barge-woman with great heartiness. "but i dare say you set yours to rights, the idle trollops! and are you _very_ fond of washing?" "i love it," said toad. "i simply dote on it. never so happy as when i've got both arms in the wash-tub. but, then, it comes so easy to me! no trouble at all! a real pleasure, i assure you, ma'am!" "what a bit of luck, meeting you!" observed the barge-woman, thoughtfully. "a regular piece of good fortune for both of us!" "why, what do you mean?" asked toad, nervously. "well, look at me, now," replied the barge-woman. "_i_ like washing, too, just the same as you do; and for that matter, whether i like it or not i have got to do all my own, naturally, moving about as i do. now my husband, he's such a fellow for shirking his work and leaving the barge to me, that never a moment do i get for seeing to my own affairs. by rights he ought to be here now, either steering or attending to the horse, though luckily the horse has sense enough to attend to himself. instead of which, he's gone off with the dog, to see if they can't pick up a rabbit for dinner somewhere. says he'll catch me up at the next lock. well, that's as may be--i don't trust him, once he gets off with that dog, who's worse than he is. but meantime, how am i to get on with my washing?" "o, never mind about the washing," said toad, not liking the subject. "try and fix your mind on that rabbit. a nice fat young rabbit, i'll be bound. got any onions?" "i can't fix my mind on anything but my washing," said the barge-woman, "and i wonder you can be talking of rabbits, with such a joyful prospect before you. there's a heap of things of mine that you'll find in a corner of the cabin. if you'll just take one or two of the most necessary sort--i won't venture to describe them to a lady like you, but you'll recognise them at a glance--and put them through the wash-tub as we go along, why, it'll be a pleasure to you, as you rightly say, and a real help to me. you'll find a tub handy, and soap, and a kettle on the stove, and a bucket to haul up water from the canal with. then i shall know you're enjoying yourself, instead of sitting here idle, looking at the scenery and yawning your head off." "here, you let me steer!" said toad, now thoroughly frightened, "and then you can get on with your washing your own way. i might spoil your things, or not do 'em as you like. i'm more used to gentleman's things myself. it's my special line." "let you steer?" replied the barge-woman, laughing. "it takes some practice to steer a barge properly. besides, it's dull work, and i want you to be happy. no, you shall do the washing you are so fond of, and i'll stick to the steering that i understand. don't try and deprive me of the pleasure of giving you a treat!" toad was fairly cornered. he looked for escape this way and that, saw that he was too far from the bank for a flying leap, and sullenly resigned himself to his fate. "if it comes to that," he thought in desperation, "i suppose any fool can _wash_!" he fetched tub, soap, and other necessaries from the cabin, selected a few garments at random, tried to recollect what he had seen in casual glances through laundry windows, and set to. a long half-hour passed, and every minute of it saw toad getting crosser and crosser. nothing that he could do to the things seemed to please them or do them good. he tried coaxing, he tried slapping, he tried punching; they smiled back at him out of the tub unconverted, happy in their original sin. once or twice he looked nervously over his shoulder at the barge-woman, but she appeared to be gazing out in front of her, absorbed in her steering. his back ached badly, and he noticed with dismay that his paws were beginning to get all crinkly. now toad was very proud of his paws. he muttered under his breath words that should never pass the lips of either washerwomen or toads; and lost the soap, for the fiftieth time. a burst of laughter made him straighten himself and look round. the barge-woman was leaning back and laughing unrestrainedly, till the tears ran down her cheeks. "i've been watching you all the time," she gasped. "i thought you must be a humbug all along, from the conceited way you talked. pretty washerwoman you are! never washed so much as a dish-clout in your life, i'll lay!" toad's temper, which had been simmering viciously for some time, now fairly boiled over, and he lost all control of himself. "you common, low, _fat_ barge-woman!" he shouted; "don't you dare to talk to your betters like that! washerwoman indeed! i would have you to know that i am a toad, a very well-known, respected, distinguished toad! i may be under a bit of a cloud at present, but i will _not_ be laughed at by a barge-woman!" the woman moved nearer to him and peered under his bonnet keenly and closely. "why, so you are!" she cried. "well, i never! a horrid, nasty, crawly toad! and in my nice clean barge, too! now that is a thing that i will _not_ have." she relinquished the tiller for a moment. one big, mottled arm shot out and caught toad by a fore-leg, while the other gripped him fast by a hind-leg. then the world turned suddenly upside down, the barge seemed to flit lightly across the sky, the wind whistled in his ears, and toad found himself flying through the air, revolving rapidly as he went. the water, when he eventually reached it with a loud splash, proved quite cold enough for his taste, though its chill was not sufficient to quell his proud spirit, or slake the heat of his furious temper. he rose to the surface spluttering, and when he had wiped the duck-weed out of his eyes the first thing he saw was the fat barge-woman looking back at him over the stern of the retreating barge and laughing; and he vowed, as he coughed and choked, to be even with her. he struck out for the shore, but the cotton gown greatly impeded his efforts, and when at length he touched land he found it hard to climb up the steep bank unassisted. he had to take a minute or two's rest to recover his breath; then, gathering his wet skirts well over his arms, he started to run after the barge as fast as his legs would carry him, wild with indignation, thirsting for revenge. the barge-woman was still laughing when he drew up level with her. "put yourself through your mangle, washerwoman," she called out, "and iron your face and crimp it, and you'll pass for quite a decent-looking toad!" toad never paused to reply. solid revenge was what he wanted, not cheap, windy, verbal triumphs, though he had a thing or two in his mind that he would have liked to say. he saw what he wanted ahead of him. running swiftly on he overtook the horse, unfastened the tow-rope and cast off, jumped lightly on the horse's back, and urged it to a gallop by kicking it vigorously in the sides. he steered for the open country, abandoning the tow-path, and swinging his steed down a rutty lane. once he looked back, and saw that the barge had run aground on the other side of the canal, and the barge-woman was gesticulating wildly and shouting, "stop, stop, stop!" "i've heard that song before," said toad, laughing, as he continued to spur his steed onward in its wild career. the barge-horse was not capable of any very sustained effort, and its gallop soon subsided into a trot, and its trot into an easy walk; but toad was quite contented with this, knowing that he, at any rate, was moving, and the barge was not. he had quite recovered his temper, now that he had done something he thought really clever; and he was satisfied to jog along quietly in the sun, steering his horse along by-ways and bridle-paths, and trying to forget how very long it was since he had had a square meal, till the canal had been left very far behind him. he had travelled some miles, his horse and he, and he was feeling drowsy in the hot sunshine, when the horse stopped, lowered his head, and began to nibble the grass; and toad, waking up, just saved himself from falling off by an effort. he looked about him and found he was on a wide common, dotted with patches of gorse and bramble as far as he could see. near him stood a dingy gipsy caravan, and beside it a man was sitting on a bucket turned upside down, very busy smoking and staring into the wide world. a fire of sticks was burning near by, and over the fire hung an iron pot, and out of that pot came forth bubblings and gurglings, and a vague suggestive steaminess. also smells--warm, rich, and varied smells--that twined and twisted and wreathed themselves at last into one complete, voluptuous, perfect smell that seemed like the very soul of nature taking form and appearing to her children, a true goddess, a mother of solace and comfort. toad now knew well that he had not been really hungry before. what he had felt earlier in the day had been a mere trifling qualm. this was the real thing at last, and no mistake; and it would have to be dealt with speedily, too, or there would be trouble for somebody or something. he looked the gipsy over carefully, wondering vaguely whether it would be easier to fight him or cajole him. so there he sat, and sniffed and sniffed, and looked at the gipsy; and the gipsy sat and smoked, and looked at him. presently the gipsy took his pipe out of his mouth and remarked in a careless way, "want to sell that there horse of yours?" toad was completely taken aback. he did not know that gipsies were very fond of horse-dealing, and never missed an opportunity, and he had not reflected that caravans were always on the move and took a deal of drawing. it had not occurred to him to turn the horse into cash, but the gipsy's suggestion seemed to smooth the way towards the two things he wanted so badly--ready money, and a solid breakfast. "what?" he said, "me sell this beautiful young horse of mine? o, no; it's out of the question. who's going to take the washing home to my customers every week? besides, i'm too fond of him, and he simply dotes on me." "try and love a donkey," suggested the gipsy. "some people do." "you don't seem to see," continued toad, "that this fine horse of mine is a cut above you altogether. he's a blood horse, he is, partly; not the part you see, of course--another part. and he's been a prize hackney, too, in his time--that was the time before you knew him, but you can still tell it on him at a glance, if you understand anything about horses. no, it's not to be thought of for a moment. all the same, how much might you be disposed to offer me for this beautiful young horse of mine?" the gipsy looked the horse over, and then he looked toad over with equal care, and looked at the horse again. "shillin' a leg," he said briefly, and turned away, continuing to smoke and try to stare the wide world out of countenance. "a shilling a leg?" cried toad. "if you please, i must take a little time to work that out, and see just what it comes to." he climbed down off his horse, and left it to graze, and sat down by the gipsy, and did sums on his fingers, and at last he said, "a shilling a leg? why, that comes to exactly four shillings, and no more. o, no; i could not think of accepting four shillings for this beautiful young horse of mine." "well," said the gipsy, "i'll tell you what i will do. i'll make it five shillings, and that's three-and-sixpence more than the animal's worth. and that's my last word." then toad sat and pondered long and deeply. for he was hungry and quite penniless, and still some way--he knew not how far--from home, and enemies might still be looking for him. to one in such a situation, five shillings may very well appear a large sum of money. on the other hand, it did not seem very much to get for a horse. but then, again, the horse hadn't cost him anything; so whatever he got was all clear profit. at last he said firmly, "look here, gipsy! i tell you what we will do; and this is _my_ last word. you shall hand me over six shillings and sixpence, cash down; and further, in addition thereto, you shall give me as much breakfast as i can possibly eat, at one sitting of course, out of that iron pot of yours that keeps sending forth such delicious and exciting smells. in return, i will make over to you my spirited young horse, with all the beautiful harness and trappings that are on him, freely thrown in. if that's not good enough for you, say so, and i'll be getting on. i know a man near here who's wanted this horse of mine for years." the gipsy grumbled frightfully, and declared if he did a few more deals of that sort he'd be ruined. but in the end he lugged a dirty canvas bag out of the depths of his trouser pocket, and counted out six shillings and sixpence into toad's paw. then he disappeared into the caravan for an instant, and returned with a large iron plate and a knife, fork, and spoon. he tilted up the pot, and a glorious stream of hot, rich stew gurgled into the plate. it was, indeed, the most beautiful stew in the world, being made of partridges, and pheasants, and chickens, and hares, and rabbits, and peahens, and guinea-fowls, and one or two other things. toad took the plate on his lap, almost crying, and stuffed, and stuffed, and stuffed, and kept asking for more, and the gipsy never grudged it him. he thought that he had never eaten so good a breakfast in all his life. when toad had taken as much stew on board as he thought he could possibly hold, he got up and said good-bye to the gipsy, and took an affectionate farewell of the horse; and the gipsy, who knew the riverside well, gave him directions which way to go, and he set forth on his travels again in the best possible spirits. he was, indeed, a very different toad from the animal of an hour ago. the sun was shining brightly, his wet clothes were quite dry again, he had money in his pocket once more, he was nearing home and friends and safety, and, most and best of all, he had had a substantial meal, hot and nourishing, and felt big, and strong, and careless, and self-confident. as he tramped along gaily, he thought of his adventures and escapes, and how when things seemed at their worst he had always managed to find a way out; and his pride and conceit began to swell within him. "ho, ho!" he said to himself, as he marched along with his chin in the air, "what a clever toad i am! there is surely no animal equal to me for cleverness in the whole world! my enemies shut me up in prison, encircled by sentries, watched night and day by warders; i walk out through them all, by sheer ability coupled with courage. they pursue me with engines, and policemen, and revolvers; i snap my fingers at them, and vanish, laughing, into space. i am, unfortunately, thrown into a canal by a woman fat of body and very evil-minded. what of it? i swim ashore, i seize her horse, i ride off in triumph, and i sell the horse for a whole pocketful of money and an excellent breakfast! ho, ho! i am the toad, the handsome, the popular, the successful toad!" he got so puffed up with conceit that he made up a song as he walked in praise of himself, and sang it at the top of his voice, though there was no one to hear it but him. it was, perhaps, the most conceited song that any animal ever composed. "the world has held great heroes, as history-books have showed; but never a name to go down to fame compared with that of toad! "the clever men at oxford know all that there is to be knowed. but they none of them know one half as much as intelligent mr. toad! "the animals sat in the ark and cried, their tears in torrents flowed. who was it said, 'there's land ahead?' encouraging mr. toad! "the army all saluted as they marched along the road. was it the king? or kitchener? no. it was mr. toad. "the queen and her ladies-in-waiting sat at the window and sewed. she cried, 'look! who's that _handsome_ man?' they answered, 'mr. toad.'" there was a great deal more of the same sort, but too dreadfully conceited to be written down. these are some of the milder verses. he sang as he walked, and he walked as he sang, and got more inflated every minute. but his pride was shortly to have a severe fall. after some miles of country lanes he reached the high road, and as he turned into it and glanced along its white length, he saw approaching him a speck that turned into a dot and then into a blob, and then into something very familiar; and a double note of warning, only too well known, fell on his delighted ear. "this is something like!" said the excited toad. "this is real life again, this is once more the great world from which i have been missed so long! i will hail them, my brothers of the wheel, and pitch them a yarn, of the sort that has been so successful hitherto; and they will give me a lift, of course, and then i will talk to them some more; and, perhaps, with luck, it may even end in my driving up to toad hall in a motor-car! that will be one in the eye for badger!" he stepped confidently out into the road to hail the motor-car, which came along at an easy pace, slowing down as it neared the lane; when suddenly he became very pale, his heart turned to water, his knees shook and yielded under him, and he doubled up and collapsed with a sickening pain in his interior. and well he might, the unhappy animal; for the approaching car was the very one he had stolen out of the yard of the red lion hotel on that fatal day when all his troubles began! and the people in it were the very same people he had sat and watched at luncheon in the coffee-room! he sank down in a shabby, miserable heap in the road, murmuring to himself in his despair, "it's all up! it's all over now! chains and policemen again! prison again! dry bread and water again! o, what a fool i have been! what did i want to go strutting about the country for, singing conceited songs, and hailing people in broad day on the high road, instead of hiding till nightfall and slipping home quietly by back ways! o hapless toad! o ill-fated animal!" the terrible motor-car drew slowly nearer and nearer, till at last he heard it stop just short of him. two gentlemen got out and walked round the trembling heap of crumpled misery lying in the road, and one of them said, "o dear! this is very sad! here is a poor old thing--a washerwoman apparently--who has fainted in the road! perhaps she is overcome by the heat, poor creature; or possibly she has not had any food to-day. let us lift her into the car and take her to the nearest village, where doubtless she has friends." they tenderly lifted toad into the motor-car and propped him up with soft cushions, and proceeded on their way. when toad heard them talk in so kind and sympathetic a way, and knew that he was not recognised, his courage began to revive, and he cautiously opened first one eye and then the other. "look!" said one of the gentlemen, "she is better already. the fresh air is doing her good. how do you feel now, ma'am?" "thank you kindly, sir," said toad in a feeble voice, "i'm feeling a great deal better!" "that's right," said the gentleman. "now keep quite still, and, above all, don't try to talk." "i won't," said toad. "i was only thinking, if i might sit on the front seat there, beside the driver, where i could get the fresh air full in my face, i should soon be all right again." "what a very sensible woman!" said the gentleman. "of course you shall." so they carefully helped toad into the front seat beside the driver, and on they went again. toad was almost himself again by now. he sat up, looked about him, and tried to beat down the tremors, the yearnings, the old cravings that rose up and beset him and took possession of him entirely. "it is fate!" he said to himself. "why strive? why struggle?" and he turned to the driver at his side. "please, sir," he said, "i wish you would kindly let me try and drive the car for a little. i've been watching you carefully, and it looks so easy and so interesting, and i should like to be able to tell my friends that once i had driven a motor-car!" the driver laughed at the proposal, so heartily that the gentleman inquired what the matter was. when he heard, he said, to toad's delight, "bravo, ma'am! i like your spirit. let her have a try, and look after her. she won't do any harm." toad eagerly scrambled into the seat vacated by the driver, took the steering-wheel in his hands, listened with affected humility to the instructions given him, and set the car in motion, but very slowly and carefully at first, for he was determined to be prudent. the gentlemen behind clapped their hands and applauded, and toad heard them saying, "how well she does it! fancy a washerwoman driving a car as well as that, the first time!" toad went a little faster; then faster still, and faster. he heard the gentlemen call out warningly, "be careful, washerwoman!" and this annoyed him, and he began to lose his head. the driver tried to interfere, but he pinned him down in his seat with one elbow, and put on full speed. the rush of air in his face, the hum of the engines, and the light jump of the car beneath him intoxicated his weak brain. "washerwoman, indeed!" he shouted recklessly. "ho! ho! i am the toad, the motor-car snatcher, the prison-breaker, the toad who always escapes! sit still, and you shall know what driving really is, for you are in the hands of the famous, the skilful, the entirely fearless toad!" with a cry of horror the whole party rose and flung themselves on him. "seize him!" they cried, "seize the toad, the wicked animal who stole our motor-car! bind him, chain him, drag him to the nearest police station! down with the desperate and dangerous toad!" alas! they should have thought, they ought to have been more prudent, they should have remembered to stop the motor-car somehow before playing any pranks of that sort. with a half-turn of the wheel the toad sent the car crashing through the low hedge that ran along the roadside. one mighty bound, a violent shock, and the wheels of the car were churning up the thick mud of a horse-pond. toad found himself flying through the air with the strong upward rush and delicate curve of a swallow. he liked the motion, and was just beginning to wonder whether it would go on until he developed wings and turned into a toad-bird, when he landed on his back with a thump, in the soft, rich grass of a meadow. sitting up, he could just see the motor-car in the pond, nearly submerged; the gentlemen and the driver, encumbered by their long coats, were floundering helplessly in the water. he picked himself up rapidly, and set off running across country as hard as he could, scrambling through hedges, jumping ditches, pounding across fields, till he was breathless and weary, and had to settle down into an easy walk. when he had recovered his breath somewhat, and was able to think calmly, he began to giggle, and from giggling he took to laughing, and he laughed till he had to sit down under a hedge. "ho! ho!" he cried, in ecstasies of self-admiration. "toad again! toad, as usual, comes out on the top! who was it got them to give him a lift? who managed to get on the front seat for the sake of fresh air? who persuaded them into letting him see if he could drive? who landed them all in a horse-pond? who escaped, flying gaily and unscathed through the air, leaving the narrow-minded, grudging, timid excursionists in the mud where they should rightly be? why, toad, of course; clever toad, great toad, _good_ toad!" then he burst into song again, and chanted with uplifted voice-- "the motor-car went poop-poop-poop, as it raced along the road. who was it steered it into a pond? ingenious mr. toad! o, how clever i am! how clever, how clever, how very clev--" a slight noise at a distance behind him made him turn his head and look. o horror! o misery! o despair! about two fields off, a chauffeur in his leather gaiters and two large rural policemen were visible, running towards him as hard as they could go! poor toad sprang to his feet and pelted away again, his heart in his mouth. "o, my!" he gasped, as he panted along, "what an _ass_ i am! what a _conceited_ and heedless ass! swaggering again! shouting and singing songs again! sitting still and gassing again! o my! o my! o my!" he glanced back, and saw to his dismay that they were gaining on him. on he ran desperately, but kept looking back, and saw that they still gained steadily. he did his best, but he was a fat animal, and his legs were short, and still they gained. he could hear them close behind him now. ceasing to heed where he was going, he struggled on blindly and wildly, looking back over his shoulder at the now triumphant enemy, when suddenly the earth failed under his feet, he grasped at the air, and, splash! he found himself head over ears in deep water, rapid water, water that bore him along with a force he could not contend with; and he knew that in his blind panic he had run straight into the river! he rose to the surface and tried to grasp the reeds and the rushes that grew along the water's edge close under the bank, but the stream was so strong that it tore them out of his hands. "o my!" gasped poor toad, "if ever i steal a motor-car again! if ever i sing another conceited song"--then down he went, and came up breathless and spluttering. presently he saw that he was approaching a big dark hole in the bank, just above his head, and as the stream bore him past he reached up with a paw and caught hold of the edge and held on. then slowly and with difficulty he drew himself up out of the water, till at last he was able to rest his elbows on the edge of the hole. there he remained for some minutes, puffing and panting, for he was quite exhausted. as he sighed and blew and stared before him into the dark hole, some bright small thing shone and twinkled in its depths, moving towards him. as it approached, a face grew up gradually around it, and it was a familiar face! brown and small, with whiskers. grave and round, with neat ears and silky hair. it was the water rat! xi "like summer tempests came his tears" the rat put out a neat little brown paw, gripped toad firmly by the scruff of the neck, and gave a great hoist and a pull; and the water-logged toad came up slowly but surely over the edge of the hole, till at last he stood safe and sound in the hall, streaked with mud and weed, to be sure, and with the water streaming off him, but happy and high-spirited as of old, now that he found himself once more in the house of a friend, and dodgings and evasions were over, and he could lay aside a disguise that was unworthy of his position and wanted such a lot of living up to. "o, ratty!" he cried. "i've been through such times since i saw you last, you can't think! such trials, such sufferings, and all so nobly borne! then such escapes, such disguises, such subterfuges, and all so cleverly planned and carried out! been in prison--got out of it, of course! been thrown into a canal--swam ashore! stole a horse--sold him for a large sum of money! humbugged everybody--made 'em all do exactly what i wanted! oh, i _am_ a smart toad, and no mistake! what do you think my last exploit was? just hold on till i tell you--" "toad," said the water rat, gravely and firmly, "you go off upstairs at once, and take off that old cotton rag that looks as if it might formerly have belonged to some washerwoman, and clean yourself thoroughly, and put on some of my clothes, and try and come down looking like a gentleman if you _can_; for a more shabby, bedraggled, disreputable-looking object than you are i never set eyes on in my whole life! now, stop swaggering and arguing, and be off! i'll have something to say to you later!" toad was at first inclined to stop and do some talking back at him. he had had enough of being ordered about when he was in prison, and here was the thing being begun all over again, apparently; and by a rat, too! however, he caught sight of himself in the looking-glass over the hat-stand, with the rusty black bonnet perched rakishly over one eye, and he changed his mind and went very quickly and humbly upstairs to the rat's dressing-room. there he had a thorough wash and brush-up, changed his clothes, and stood for a long time before the glass, contemplating himself with pride and pleasure, and thinking what utter idiots all the people must have been to have ever mistaken him for one moment for a washerwoman. by the time he came down again luncheon was on the table, and very glad toad was to see it, for he had been through some trying experiences and had taken much hard exercise since the excellent breakfast provided for him by the gipsy. while they ate toad told the rat all his adventures, dwelling chiefly on his own cleverness, and presence of mind in emergencies, and cunning in tight places; and rather making out that he had been having a gay and highly-coloured experience. but the more he talked and boasted, the more grave and silent the rat became. when at last toad had talked himself to a standstill, there was silence for a while; and then the rat said, "now, toady, i don't want to give you pain, after all you've been through already; but, seriously, don't you see what an awful ass you've been making of yourself? on your own admission you have been hand-cuffed, imprisoned, starved, chased, terrified out of your life, insulted, jeered at, and ignominiously flung into the water--by a woman, too! where's the amusement in that? where does the fun come in? and all because you must needs go and steal a motor-car. you know that you've never had anything but trouble from motor-cars from the moment you first set eyes on one. but if you _will_ be mixed up with them--as you generally are, five minutes after you've started--why _steal_ them? be a cripple, if you think it's exciting; be a bankrupt, for a change, if you've set your mind on it: but why choose to be a convict? when are you going to be sensible and think of your friends, and try and be a credit to them? do you suppose it's any pleasure to me, for instance, to hear animals saying, as i go about, that i'm the chap that keeps company with gaol-birds?" [illustration: _dwelling chiefly on his own cleverness, and presence of mind in emergencies_] now, it was a very comforting point in toad's character that he was a thoroughly good-hearted animal, and never minded being jawed by those who were his real friends. and even when most set upon a thing, he was always able to see the other side of the question. so although, while the rat was talking so seriously, he kept saying to himself mutinously, "but it _was_ fun, though! awful fun!" and making strange suppressed noises inside him, k-i-ck-ck-ck, and poop-p-p, and other sounds resembling stifled snorts, or the opening of soda-water bottles, yet when the rat had quite finished, he heaved a deep sigh and said, very nicely and humbly, "quite right, ratty! how _sound_ you always are! yes, i've been a conceited old ass, i can quite see that; but now i'm going to be a good toad, and not do it any more. as for motor-cars, i've not been at all so keen about them since my last ducking in that river of yours. the fact is, while i was hanging on to the edge of your hole and getting my breath, i had a sudden idea--a really brilliant idea--connected with motor-boats--there, there! don't take on so, old chap, and stamp, and upset things; it was only an idea, and we won't talk any more about it now. we'll have our coffee, _and_ a smoke, and a quiet chat, and then i'm going to stroll quietly down to toad hall, and get into clothes of my own, and set things going again on the old lines. i've had enough of adventures. i shall lead a quiet, steady, respectable life, pottering about my property, and improving it, and doing a little landscape gardening at times. there will always be a bit of dinner for my friends when they come to see me; and i shall keep a pony-chaise to jog about the country in, just as i used to in the good old days, before i got restless, and wanted to _do_ things." "stroll quietly down to toad hall?" cried the rat, greatly excited. "what are you talking about? do you mean to say you haven't _heard_?" "heard what?" said toad, turning rather pale. "go on, ratty! quick! don't spare me! what haven't i heard?" "do you mean to tell me," shouted the rat, thumping with his little fist upon the table, "that you've heard nothing about the stoats and weasels?" "what, the wild wooders?" cried toad, trembling in every limb. "no, not a word! what have they been doing?" "--and how they've been and taken toad hall?" continued the rat. toad leaned his elbows on the table, and his chin on his paws; and a large tear welled up in each of his eyes, overflowed and splashed on the table, plop! plop! "go on, ratty," he murmured presently; "tell me all. the worst is over. i am an animal again. i can bear it." "when you--got--into that--that--trouble of yours," said the rat, slowly and impressively; "i mean, when you--disappeared from society for a time, over that misunderstanding about a--a machine, you know--" toad merely nodded. "well, it was a good deal talked about down here, naturally," continued the rat, "not only along the riverside, but even in the wild wood. animals took sides, as always happens. the river-bankers stuck up for you, and said you had been infamously treated, and there was no justice to be had in the land nowadays. but the wild wood animals said hard things, and served you right, and it was time this sort of thing was stopped. and they got very cocky, and went about saying you were done for this time! you would never come back again, never, never!" toad nodded once more, keeping silence. "that's the sort of little beasts they are," the rat went on. "but mole and badger, they stuck out, through thick and thin, that you would come back again soon, somehow. they didn't know exactly how, but somehow!" toad began to sit up in his chair again, and to smirk a little. "they argued from history," continued the rat. "they said that no criminal laws had ever been known to prevail against cheek and plausibility such as yours, combined with the power of a long purse. so they arranged to move their things in to toad hall, and sleep there, and keep it aired, and have it all ready for you when you turned up. they didn't guess what was going to happen, of course; still, they had their suspicions of the wild wood animals. now i come to the most painful and tragic part of my story. one dark night--it was a _very_ dark night, and blowing hard, too, and raining simply cats and dogs--a band of weasels, armed to the teeth, crept silently up the carriage-drive to the front entrance. simultaneously, a body of desperate ferrets, advancing through the kitchen-garden, possessed themselves of the backyard and offices; while a company of skirmishing stoats who stuck at nothing occupied the conservatory and the billiard-room, and held the french windows opening on to the lawn. "the mole and the badger were sitting by the fire in the smoking-room, telling stories and suspecting nothing, for it wasn't a night for any animals to be out in, when those bloodthirsty villains broke down the doors and rushed in upon them from every side. they made the best fight they could, but what was the good? they were unarmed, and taken by surprise, and what can two animals do against hundreds? they took and beat them severely with sticks, those two poor faithful creatures, and turned them out into the cold and the wet, with many insulting and uncalled-for remarks!" here the unfeeling toad broke into a snigger, and then pulled himself together and tried to look particularly solemn. "and the wild wooders have been living in toad hall ever since," continued the rat; "and going on simply anyhow! lying in bed half the day, and breakfast at all hours, and the place in such a mess (i'm told) it's not fit to be seen! eating your grub, and drinking your drink, and making bad jokes about you, and singing vulgar songs, about--well, about prisons and magistrates, and policemen; horrid personal songs, with no humour in them. and they're telling the tradespeople and everybody that they've come to stay for good." "o, have they!" said toad, getting up and seizing a stick. "i'll jolly soon see about that!" "it's no good, toad!" called the rat after him. "you'd better come back and sit down; you'll only get into trouble." but the toad was off, and there was no holding him. he marched rapidly down the road, his stick over his shoulder, fuming and muttering to himself in his anger, till he got near his front gate, when suddenly there popped up from behind the palings a long yellow ferret with a gun. "who comes there?" said the ferret sharply. "stuff and nonsense!" said toad, very angrily. "what do you mean by talking like that to me? come out of that at once or i'll--" the ferret said never a word, but he brought his gun up to his shoulder. toad prudently dropped flat in the road, and _bang_! a bullet whistled over his head. the startled toad scrambled to his feet and scampered off down the road as hard as he could; and as he ran he heard the ferret laughing and other horrid thin little laughs taking it up and carrying on the sound. he went back, very crestfallen, and told the water rat. "what did i tell you?" said the rat. "it's no good. they've got sentries posted, and they are all armed. you must just wait." still, toad was not inclined to give in all at once. so he got out the boat, and set off rowing up the river to where the garden front of toad hall came down to the water-side. arriving within sight of his old home, he rested on his oars and surveyed the land cautiously. all seemed very peaceful and deserted and quiet. he could see the whole front of toad hall, glowing in the evening sunshine, the pigeons settling by twos and threes along the straight line of the roof; the garden, a blaze of flowers; the creek that led up to the boat-house, the little wooden bridge that crossed it; all tranquil, uninhabited, apparently waiting for his return. he would try the boat-house first, he thought. very warily he paddled up to the mouth of the creek, and was just passing under the bridge, when ... _crash_! a great stone, dropped from above, smashed through the bottom of the boat. it filled and sank, and toad found himself struggling in deep water. looking up, he saw two stoats leaning over the parapet of the bridge and watching him with great glee. "it will be your head next time, toady!" they called out to him. the indignant toad swam to shore, while the stoats laughed and laughed, supporting each other, and laughed again, till they nearly had two fits--that is, one fit each, of course. the toad retraced his weary way on foot, and related his disappointing experiences to the water rat once more. "well, _what_ did i tell you?" said the rat very crossly. "and, now, look here! see what you've been and done! lost me my boat that i was so fond of, that's what you've done! and simply ruined that nice suit of clothes that i lent you! really, toad, of all the trying animals--i wonder you manage to keep any friends at all!" the toad saw at once how wrongly and foolishly he had acted. he admitted his errors and wrong-headedness and made a full apology to rat for losing his boat and spoiling his clothes. and he wound up by saying, with that frank self-surrender which always disarmed his friends' criticism and won them back to his side, "ratty! i see that i have been a headstrong and a wilful toad! henceforth, believe me, i will be humble and submissive, and will take no action without your kind advice and full approval!" "if that is really so," said the good-natured rat, already appeased, "then my advice to you is, considering the lateness of the hour, to sit down and have your supper, which will be on the table in a minute, and be very patient. for i am convinced that we can do nothing until we have seen the mole and the badger, and heard their latest news, and held conference and taken their advice in this difficult matter." "oh, ah, yes, of course, the mole and the badger," said toad, lightly. "what's become of them, the dear fellows? i had forgotten all about them." "well may you ask!" said the rat reproachfully. "while you were riding about the country in expensive motor-cars, and galloping proudly on blood-horses, and breakfasting on the fat of the land, those two poor devoted animals have been camping out in the open, in every sort of weather, living very rough by day and lying very hard by night; watching over your house, patrolling your boundaries, keeping a constant eye on the stoats and the weasels, scheming and planning and contriving how to get your property back for you. you don't deserve to have such true and loyal friends, toad, you don't, really. some day, when it's too late, you'll be sorry you didn't value them more while you had them!" "i'm an ungrateful beast, i know," sobbed toad, shedding bitter tears. "let me go out and find them, out into the cold, dark night, and share their hardships, and try and prove by--hold on a bit! surely i heard the chink of dishes on a tray! supper's here at last, hooray! come on, ratty!" the rat remembered that poor toad had been on prison fare for a considerable time, and that large allowances had therefore to be made. he followed him to the table accordingly, and hospitably encouraged him in his gallant efforts to make up for past privations. they had just finished their meal and resumed their arm-chairs, when there came a heavy knock at the door. toad was nervous, but the rat, nodding mysteriously at him, went straight up to the door and opened it, and in walked mr. badger. he had all the appearance of one who for some nights had been kept away from home and all its little comforts and conveniences. his shoes were covered with mud, and he was looking very rough and touzled; but then he had never been a very smart man, the badger, at the best of times. he came solemnly up to toad, shook him by the paw, and said, "welcome home, toad! alas! what am i saying? home, indeed! this is a poor home-coming. unhappy toad!" then he turned his back on him, sat down to the table, drew his chair up, and helped himself to a large slice of cold pie. toad was quite alarmed at this very serious and portentous style of greeting; but the rat whispered to him, "never mind; don't take any notice; and don't say anything to him just yet. he's always rather low and despondent when he's wanting his victuals. in half an hour's time he'll be quite a different animal." so they waited in silence, and presently there came another and a lighter knock. the rat, with a nod to toad, went to the door and ushered in the mole, very shabby and unwashed, with bits of hay and straw sticking in his fur. "hooray! here's old toad!" cried the mole, his face beaming. "fancy having you back again!" and he began to dance round him. "we never dreamt you would turn up so soon! why, you must have managed to escape, you clever, ingenious, intelligent toad!" the rat, alarmed, pulled him by the elbow; but it was too late. toad was puffing and swelling already. "clever? o, no!" he said. "i'm not really clever, according to my friends. i've only broken out of the strongest prison in england, that's all! and captured a railway train and escaped on it, that's all! and disguised myself and gone about the country humbugging everybody, that's all! o, no! i'm a stupid ass, i am! i'll tell you one or two of my little adventures, mole, and you shall judge for yourself!" "well, well," said the mole, moving towards the supper-table; "supposing you talk while i eat. not a bite since breakfast! o my! o my!" and he sat down and helped himself liberally to cold beef and pickles. toad straddled on the hearth-rug, thrust his paw into his trouser-pocket and pulled out a handful of silver. "look at that!" he cried, displaying it. "that's not so bad, is it, for a few minutes' work? and how do you think i done it, mole? horse-dealing! that's how i done it!" "go on, toad," said the mole, immensely interested. "toad, do be quiet, please!" said the rat. "and don't you egg him on, mole, when you know what he is; but please tell us as soon as possible what the position is, and what's best to be done, now that toad is back at last." "the position's about as bad as it can be," replied the mole grumpily; "and as for what's to be done, why, blest if i know! the badger and i have been round and round the place, by night and by day; always the same thing. sentries posted everywhere, guns poked out at us, stones thrown at us; always an animal on the look-out, and when they see us, my! how they do laugh! that's what annoys me most!" "it's a very difficult situation," said the rat, reflecting deeply. "but i think i see now, in the depths of my mind, what toad really ought to do. i will tell you. he ought to--" "no, he oughtn't!" shouted the mole, with his mouth full. "nothing of the sort! you don't understand. what he ought to do is, he ought to--" "well, i shan't do it, anyway!" cried toad, getting excited. "i'm not going to be ordered about by you fellows! it's my house we're talking about, and i know exactly what to do, and i'll tell you. i'm going to--" by this time they were all three talking at once, at the top of their voices, and the noise was simply deafening, when a thin, dry voice made itself heard, saying, "be quiet at once, all of you!" and instantly every one was silent. it was the badger, who, having finished his pie, had turned round in his chair and was looking at them severely. when he saw that he had secured their attention, and that they were evidently waiting for him to address them, he turned back to the table again and reached out for the cheese. and so great was the respect commanded by the solid qualities of that admirable animal, that not another word was uttered, until he had quite finished his repast and brushed the crumbs from his knees. the toad fidgeted a good deal, but the rat held him firmly down. when the badger had quite done, he got up from his seat and stood before the fireplace, reflecting deeply. at last he spoke. "toad," he said severely. "you bad, troublesome little animal! aren't you ashamed of yourself? what do you think your father, my old friend, would have said if he had been here to-night, and had known of all your goings on?" toad, who was on the sofa by this time, with his legs up, rolled over on his face, shaken by sobs of contrition. "there, there!" went on the badger, more kindly. "never mind. stop crying. we're going to let bygones be bygones, and try and turn over a new leaf. but what the mole says is quite true. the stoats are on guard, at every point, and they make the best sentinels in the world. it's quite useless to think of attacking the place. they're too strong for us." "then it's all over," sobbed the toad, crying into the sofa cushions. "i shall go and enlist for a soldier, and never see my dear toad hall any more!" "come, cheer up, toady!" said the badger. "there are more ways of getting back a place than taking it by storm. i haven't said my last word yet. now i'm going to tell you a great secret." toad sat up slowly and dried his eyes. secrets had an immense attraction for him, because he never could keep one, and he enjoyed the sort of unhallowed thrill he experienced when he went and told another animal, after having faithfully promised not to. "there--is--an--underground--passage," said the badger, impressively, "that leads from the river-bank, quite near here, right up into the middle of toad hall." "o, nonsense! badger," said toad, rather airily. "you've been listening to some of the yarns they spin in the public-houses about here. i know every inch of toad hall, inside and out. nothing of the sort, i do assure you!" "my young friend," said the badger, with great severity, "your father, who was a worthy animal--a lot worthier than some others i know--was a particular friend of mine, and told me a great deal he wouldn't have dreamt of telling you. he discovered that passage--he didn't make it, of course; that was done hundreds of years before he ever came to live there--and he repaired it and cleaned it out, because he thought it might come in useful some day, in case of trouble or danger; and he showed it to me. 'don't let my son know about it,' he said. 'he's a good boy, but very light and volatile in character, and simply cannot hold his tongue. if he's ever in a real fix, and it would be of use to him, you may tell him about the secret passage; but not before.'" the other animals looked hard at toad to see how he would take it. toad was inclined to be sulky at first; but he brightened up immediately, like the good fellow he was. "well, well," he said; "perhaps i am a bit of a talker. a popular fellow such as i am--my friends get round me--we chaff, we sparkle, we tell witty stories--and somehow my tongue gets wagging. i have the gift of conversation. i've been told i ought to have a _salon_, whatever that may be. never mind. go on, badger. how's this passage of yours going to help us?" "i've found out a thing or two lately," continued the badger. "i got otter to disguise himself as a sweep and call at the back-door with brushes over his shoulder, asking for a job. there's going to be a big banquet to-morrow night. it's somebody's birthday--the chief weasel's, i believe--and all the weasels will be gathered together in the dining-hall, eating and drinking and laughing and carrying on, suspecting nothing. no guns, no swords, no sticks, no arms of any sort whatever!" "but the sentinels will be posted as usual," remarked the rat. "exactly," said the badger; "that is my point. the weasels will trust entirely to their excellent sentinels. and that is where the passage comes in. that very useful tunnel leads right up under the butler's pantry, next to the dining-hall!" "aha! that squeaky board in the butler's pantry!" said toad. "now i understand it!" "we shall creep out quietly into the butler's pantry--" cried the mole. "--with our pistols and swords and sticks--" shouted the rat. "--and rush in upon them," said the badger. "--and whack 'em, and whack 'em, and whack 'em!" cried the toad in ecstasy, running round and round the room, and jumping over the chairs. "very well, then," said the badger, resuming his usual dry manner, "our plan is settled, and there's nothing more for you to argue and squabble about. so, as it's getting very late, all of you go right off to bed at once. we will make all the necessary arrangements in the course of the morning to-morrow." toad, of course, went off to bed dutifully with the rest--he knew better than to refuse--though he was feeling much too excited to sleep. but he had had a long day, with many events crowded into it; and sheets and blankets were very friendly and comforting things, after plain straw, and not too much of it, spread on the stone floor of a draughty cell; and his head had not been many seconds on his pillow before he was snoring happily. naturally, he dreamt a good deal; about roads that ran away from him just when he wanted them, and canals that chased him and caught him, and a barge that sailed into the banqueting-hall with his week's washing, just as he was giving a dinner-party; and he was alone in the secret passage, pushing onwards, but it twisted and turned round and shook itself, and sat up on its end; yet somehow, at the last, he found himself back in toad hall, safe and triumphant, with all his friends gathered round about him, earnestly assuring him that he really was a clever toad. he slept till a late hour next morning, and by the time he got down he found that the other animals had finished their breakfast some time before. the mole had slipped off somewhere by himself, without telling any one where he was going to. the badger sat in the arm-chair, reading the paper, and not concerning himself in the slightest about what was going to happen that very evening. the rat, on the other hand, was running round the room busily, with his arms full of weapons of every kind, distributing them in four little heaps on the floor, and saying excitedly under his breath, as he ran, "here's-a-sword-for-the-rat, here's-a-sword-for-the-mole, here's-a-sword-for-the-toad, here's-a-sword-for-the-badger! here's-a-pistol-for-the-rat, here's-a-pistol-for-the-mole, here's-a-pistol-for-the-toad, here's-a-pistol-for-the-badger!" and so on, in a regular, rhythmical way, while the four little heaps gradually grew and grew. "that's all very well, rat," said the badger presently, looking at the busy little animal over the edge of his newspaper; "i'm not blaming you. but just let us once get past the stoats, with those detestable guns of theirs, and i assure you we shan't want any swords or pistols. we four, with our sticks, once we're inside the dining-hall, why, we shall clear the floor of all the lot of them in five minutes. i'd have done the whole thing by myself, only i didn't want to deprive you fellows of the fun!" "it's as well to be on the safe side," said the rat reflectively, polishing a pistol-barrel on his sleeve and looking along it. the toad, having finished his breakfast, picked up a stout stick and swung it vigorously, belabouring imaginary animals. "i'll learn 'em to steal my house!" he cried. "i'll learn 'em, i'll learn 'em!" "don't say 'learn 'em,' toad," said the rat, greatly shocked. "it's not good english." "what are you always nagging at toad for?" inquired the badger, rather peevishly. "what's the matter with his english? it's the same what i use myself, and if it's good enough for me, it ought to be good enough for you!" "i'm very sorry," said the rat humbly. "only i _think_ it ought to be 'teach 'em,' not 'learn 'em.'" "but we don't _want_ to teach 'em," replied the badger. "we want to _learn_ 'em--learn 'em, learn 'em! and what's more, we're going to _do_ it, too!" "oh, very well, have it your own way," said the rat. he was getting rather muddled about it himself, and presently he retired into a corner, where he could be heard muttering, "learn 'em, teach 'em, teach 'em, learn 'em!" till the badger told him rather sharply to leave off. presently the mole came tumbling into the room, evidently very pleased with himself. "i've been having such fun!" he began at once; "i've been getting a rise out of the stoats!" "i hope you've been very careful, mole?" said the rat anxiously. "i should hope so, too," said the mole confidently. "i got the idea when i went into the kitchen, to see about toad's breakfast being kept hot for him. i found that old washerwoman-dress that he came home in yesterday, hanging on a towel-horse before the fire. so i put it on, and the bonnet as well, and the shawl, and off i went to toad hall, as bold as you please. the sentries were on the look-out, of course, with their guns and their 'who comes there?' and all the rest of their nonsense. 'good morning, gentlemen!' says i, very respectful. 'want any washing done to-day?' they looked at me very proud and stiff and haughty, and said, 'go away, washerwoman! we don't do any washing on duty.' 'or any other time?' says i. ho, ho, ho! wasn't i _funny_, toad?" "poor, frivolous animal!" said toad, very loftily. the fact is, he felt exceedingly jealous of mole for what he had just done. it was exactly what he would have liked to have done himself, if only he had thought of it first, and hadn't gone and overslept himself. "some of the stoats turned quite pink," continued the mole, "and the sergeant in charge, he said to me, very short, he said, 'now run away, my good woman, run away! don't keep my men idling and talking on their posts.' 'run away?' says i; 'it won't be me that'll be running away, in a very short time from now!'" "o _moly_, how could you?" said the rat, dismayed. the badger laid down his paper. "i could see them pricking up their ears and looking at each other," went on the mole; "and the sergeant said to them, 'never mind _her_; she doesn't know what she's talking about.'" "'o! don't i?' said i. 'well, let me tell you this. my daughter, she washes for mr. badger, and that'll show you whether i know what i'm talking about; and _you'll_ know pretty soon, too! a hundred bloodthirsty badgers, armed with rifles, are going to attack toad hall this very night, by way of the paddock. six boatloads of rats, with pistols and cutlasses, will come up the river and effect a landing in the garden; while a picked body of toads, known as the die-hards, or the death-or-glory toads, will storm the orchard and carry everything before them, yelling for vengeance. there won't be much left of you to wash, by the time they've done with you, unless you clear out while you have the chance!' then i ran away, and when i was out of sight i hid; and presently i came creeping back along the ditch and took a peep at them through the hedge. they were all as nervous and flustered as could be, running all ways at once, and falling over each other, and every one giving orders to everybody else and not listening; and the sergeant kept sending off parties of stoats to distant parts of the grounds, and then sending other fellows to fetch 'em back again; and i heard them saying to each other, 'that's just like the weasels; they're to stop comfortably in the banqueting-hall, and have feasting and toasts and songs and all sorts of fun, while we must stay on guard in the cold and the dark, and in the end be cut to pieces by bloodthirsty badgers!'" "oh, you silly ass, mole!" cried toad, "you've been and spoilt everything!" "mole," said the badger, in his dry, quiet way, "i perceive you have more sense in your little finger than some other animals have in the whole of their fat bodies. you have managed excellently, and i begin to have great hopes of you. good mole! clever mole!" the toad was simply wild with jealousy, more especially as he couldn't make out for the life of him what the mole had done that was so particularly clever; but, fortunately for him, before he could show temper or expose himself to the badger's sarcasm, the bell rang for luncheon. it was a simple but sustaining meal--bacon and broad beans, and a macaroni pudding; and when they had quite done, the badger settled himself into an arm-chair, and said, "well, we've got our work cut out for us to-night, and it will probably be pretty late before we're quite through with it; so i'm just going to take forty winks, while i can." and he drew a handkerchief over his face and was soon snoring. the anxious and laborious rat at once resumed his preparations, and started running between his four little heaps, muttering, "here's-a-belt-for-the-rat, here's-a-belt-for-the-mole, here's-a-belt-for-the-toad, here's-a-belt-for-the-badger!" and so on, with every fresh accoutrement he produced, to which there seemed really no end; so the mole drew his arm through toad's, led him out into the open air, shoved him into a wicker chair, and made him tell him all his adventures from beginning to end, which toad was only too willing to do. the mole was a good listener, and toad, with no one to check his statements or to criticise in an unfriendly spirit, rather let himself go. indeed, much that he related belonged more properly to the category of what-might-have-happened-had-i-only-thought-of-it-in- time-instead-of-ten-minutes-afterwards. those are always the best and the raciest adventures; and why should they not be truly ours, as much as the somewhat inadequate things that really come off? xii the return of ulysses when it began to grow dark, the rat, with an air of excitement and mystery, summoned them back into the parlour, stood each of them up alongside of his little heap, and proceeded to dress them up for the coming expedition. he was very earnest and thorough-going about it, and the affair took quite a long time. first, there was a belt to go round each animal, and then a sword to be stuck into each belt, and then a cutlass on the other side to balance it. then a pair of pistols, a policeman's truncheon, several sets of handcuffs, some bandages and sticking-plaster, and a flask and a sandwich-case. the badger laughed good-humouredly and said, "all right, ratty! it amuses you and it doesn't hurt me. i'm going to do all i've got to do with this here stick." but the rat only said, "_please_, badger. you know i shouldn't like you to blame me afterwards and say i had forgotten _anything_!" when all was quite ready, the badger took a dark lantern in one paw, grasped his great stick with the other, and said, "now then, follow me! mole first, 'cos i'm very pleased with him; rat next; toad last. and look here, toady! don't you chatter so much as usual, or you'll be sent back, as sure as fate!" the toad was so anxious not to be left out that he took up the inferior position assigned to him without a murmur, and the animals set off. the badger led them along by the river for a little way, and then suddenly swung himself over the edge into a hole in the river bank, a little above the water. the mole and the rat followed silently, swinging themselves successfully into the hole as they had seen the badger do; but when it came to toad's turn, of course he managed to slip and fall into the water with a loud splash and a squeal of alarm. he was hauled out by his friends, rubbed down and wrung out hastily, comforted, and set on his legs; but the badger was seriously angry, and told him that the very next time he made a fool of himself he would most certainly be left behind. [illustration: _the badger said, "now then, follow me!"_] so at last they were in the secret passage, and the cutting-out expedition had really begun! it was cold, and dark, and damp, and low, and narrow, and poor toad began to shiver, partly from dread of what might be before him, partly because he was wet through. the lantern was far ahead, and he could not help lagging behind a little in the darkness. then he heard the rat call out warningly, "_come_ on, toad!" and a terror seized him of being left behind, alone in the darkness, and he "came on" with such a rush that he upset the rat into the mole, and the mole into the badger, and for a moment all was confusion. the badger thought they were being attacked from behind, and, as there was no room to use a stick or a cutlass, drew a pistol, and was on the point of putting a bullet into toad. when he found out what had really happened he was very angry indeed, and said, "now this time that tiresome toad _shall_ be left behind!" but toad whimpered, and the other two promised that they would be answerable for his good conduct, and at last the badger was pacified, and the procession moved on; only this time the rat brought up the rear, with a firm grip on the shoulder of toad. so they groped and shuffled along, with their ears pricked up and their paws on their pistols, till at last the badger said, "we ought by now to be pretty nearly under the hall." then suddenly they heard, far away as it might be, and yet apparently nearly over their heads, a confused murmur of sound, as if people were shouting and cheering and stamping on the floor and hammering on tables. the toad's nervous terrors all returned, but the badger only remarked placidly, "they _are_ going it, the weasels!" the passage now began to slope upwards; they groped onward a little further, and then the noise broke out again, quite distinct this time, and very close above them. "ooo-ray-oo-ray-oo-ray-ooray!" they heard, and the stamping of little feet on the floor, and the clinking of glasses as little fists pounded on the table. "_what_ a time they're having!" said the badger. "come on!" they hurried along the passage till it came to a full stop, and they found themselves standing under the trap-door that led up into the butler's pantry. such a tremendous noise was going on in the banqueting-hall that there was little danger of their being overheard. the badger said, "now, boys, all together!" and the four of them put their shoulders to the trap-door and heaved it back. hoisting each other up, they found themselves standing in the pantry, with only a door between them and the banqueting-hall, where their unconscious enemies were carousing. the noise, as they emerged from the passage, was simply deafening. at last, as the cheering and hammering slowly subsided, a voice could be made out saying, "well, i do not propose to detain you much longer"--(great applause)--"but before i resume my seat"--(renewed cheering)--"i should like to say one word about our kind host, mr. toad. we all know toad!"--(great laughter)--"_good_ toad, _modest_ toad, _honest_ toad!" (shrieks of merriment). "only just let me get at him!" muttered toad, grinding his teeth. "hold hard a minute!" said the badger, restraining him with difficulty. "get ready, all of you!" "--let me sing you a little song," went on the voice, "which i have composed on the subject of toad"--(prolonged applause). then the chief weasel--for it was he--began in a high, squeaky voice-- "toad he went a-pleasuring gaily down the street--" the badger drew himself up, took a firm grip of his stick with both paws, glanced round at his comrades, and cried-- "the hour is come! follow me!" and flung the door open wide. my! what a squealing and a squeaking and a screeching filled the air! well might the terrified weasels dive under the tables and spring madly up at the windows! well might the ferrets rush wildly for the fireplace and get hopelessly jammed in the chimney! well might tables and chairs be upset, and glass and china be sent crashing on the floor, in the panic of that terrible moment when the four heroes strode wrathfully into the room! the mighty badger, his whiskers bristling, his great cudgel whistling through the air; mole, black and grim, brandishing his stick and shouting his awful war-cry, "a mole! a mole!" rat, desperate and determined, his belt bulging with weapons of every age and every variety; toad, frenzied with excitement and injured pride, swollen to twice his ordinary size, leaping into the air and emitting toad-whoops that chilled them to the marrow! "toad he went a-pleasuring!" he yelled. "_i'll_ pleasure 'em!" and he went straight for the chief weasel. they were but four in all, but to the panic-stricken weasels the hall seemed full of monstrous animals, grey, black, brown and yellow, whooping and flourishing enormous cudgels; and they broke and fled with squeals of terror and dismay, this way and that, through the windows, up the chimney, anywhere to get out of reach of those terrible sticks. the affair was soon over. up and down, the whole length of the hall, strode the four friends, whacking with their sticks at every head that showed itself; and in five minutes the room was cleared. through the broken windows the shrieks of terrified weasels escaping across the lawn were borne faintly to their ears; on the floor lay prostrate some dozen or so of the enemy, on whom the mole was busily engaged in fitting handcuffs. the badger, resting from his labours, leant on his stick and wiped his honest brow. "mole," he said, "you're the best of fellows! just cut along outside and look after those stoat-sentries of yours, and see what they're doing. i've an idea that, thanks to you, we shan't have much trouble from _them_ to-night!" the mole vanished promptly through a window; and the badger bade the other two set a table on its legs again, pick up knives and forks and plates and glasses from the _débris_ on the floor, and see if they could find materials for a supper. "i want some grub, i do," he said, in that rather common way he had of speaking. "stir your stumps, toad, and look lively! we've got your house back for you, and you don't offer us so much as a sandwich." toad felt rather hurt that the badger didn't say pleasant things to him, as he had to the mole, and tell him what a fine fellow he was, and how splendidly he had fought; for he was rather particularly pleased with himself and the way he had gone for the chief weasel and sent him flying across the table with one blow of his stick. but he bustled about, and so did the rat, and soon they found some guava jelly in a glass dish, and a cold chicken, a tongue that had hardly been touched, some trifle, and quite a lot of lobster salad; and in the pantry they came upon a basketful of french rolls and any quantity of cheese, butter, and celery. they were just about to sit down when the mole clambered in through the window, chuckling, with an armful of rifles. "it's all over," he reported. "from what i can make out, as soon as the stoats, who were very nervous and jumpy already, heard the shrieks and the yells and the uproar inside the hall, some of them threw down their rifles and fled. the others stood fast for a bit, but when the weasels came rushing out upon them they thought they were betrayed; and the stoats grappled with the weasels, and the weasels fought to get away, and they wrestled and wriggled and punched each other, and rolled over and over, till most of 'em rolled into the river! they've all disappeared by now, one way or another; and i've got their rifles. so _that's_ all right!" "excellent and deserving animal!" said the badger, his mouth full of chicken and trifle. "now, there's just one more thing i want you to do, mole, before you sit down to your supper along of us; and i wouldn't trouble you only i know i can trust you to see a thing done, and i wish i could say the same of every one i know. i'd send rat, if he wasn't a poet. i want you to take those fellows on the floor there upstairs with you, and have some bedrooms cleaned out and tidied up and made really comfortable. see that they sweep _under_ the beds, and put clean sheets and pillow-cases on, and turn down one corner of the bed-clothes, just as you know it ought to be done; and have a can of hot water, and clean towels, and fresh cakes of soap, put in each room. and then you can give them a licking a-piece, if it's any satisfaction to you, and put them out by the back-door, and we shan't see any more of _them_, i fancy. and then come along and have some of this cold tongue. it's first rate. i'm very pleased with you, mole!" the good-natured mole picked up a stick, formed his prisoners up in a line on the floor, gave them the order "quick march!" and led his squad off to the upper floor. after a time, he appeared again, smiling, and said that every room was ready and as clean as a new pin. "and i didn't have to lick them, either," he added. "i thought, on the whole, they had had licking enough for one night, and the weasels, when i put the point to them, quite agreed with me, and said they wouldn't think of troubling me. they were very penitent, and said they were extremely sorry for what they had done, but it was all the fault of the chief weasel and the stoats, and if ever they could do anything for us at any time to make up, we had only got to mention it. so i gave them a roll a-piece, and let them out at the back, and off they ran, as hard as they could!" then the mole pulled his chair up to the table, and pitched into the cold tongue; and toad, like the gentleman he was, put all his jealousy from him, and said heartily, "thank you kindly, dear mole, for all your pains and trouble to-night, and especially for your cleverness this morning!" the badger was pleased at that, and said, "there spoke my brave toad!" so they finished their supper in great joy and contentment, and presently retired to rest between clean sheets, safe in toad's ancestral home, won back by matchless valour, consummate strategy, and a proper handling of sticks. the following morning, toad, who had overslept himself as usual, came down to breakfast disgracefully late, and found on the table a certain quantity of egg-shells, some fragments of cold and leathery toast, a coffee-pot three-fourths empty, and really very little else; which did not tend to improve his temper, considering that, after all, it was his own house. through the french windows of the breakfast-room he could see the mole and the water rat sitting in wicker chairs out on the lawn, evidently telling each other stories; roaring with laughter and kicking their short legs up in the air. the badger, who was in an arm-chair and deep in the morning paper, merely looked up and nodded when toad entered the room. but toad knew his man, so he sat down and made the best breakfast he could, merely observing to himself that he would get square with the others sooner or later. when he had nearly finished, the badger looked up and remarked rather shortly: "i'm sorry, toad, but i'm afraid there's a heavy morning's work in front of you. you see, we really ought to have a banquet at once, to celebrate this affair. it's expected of you--in fact, it's the rule." "o, all right!" said the toad, readily. "anything to oblige. though why on earth you should want to have a banquet in the morning i cannot understand. but you know i do not live to please myself, but merely to find out what my friends want, and then try and arrange it for 'em, you dear old badger!" "don't pretend to be stupider than you really are," replied the badger, crossly; "and don't chuckle and splutter in your coffee while you're talking; it's not manners. what i mean is, the banquet will be at night, of course, but the invitations will have to be written and got off at once, and you've got to write 'em. now sit down at that table--there's stacks of letter-paper on it, with 'toad hall' at the top in blue and gold--and write invitations to all our friends, and if you stick to it we shall get them out before luncheon. and _i'll_ bear a hand, too, and take my share of the burden. _i'll_ order the banquet." "what!" cried toad, dismayed. "me stop indoors and write a lot of rotten letters on a jolly morning like this, when i want to go around my property and set everything and everybody to rights, and swagger about and enjoy myself! certainly not! i'll be--i'll see you--stop a minute, though! why, of course, dear badger! what is my pleasure or convenience compared with that of others! you wish it done, and it shall be done. go, badger, order the banquet, order what you like; then join our young friends outside in their innocent mirth, oblivious of me and my cares and toils. i sacrifice this fair morning on the altar of duty and friendship!" the badger looked at him very suspiciously, but toad's frank, open countenance made it difficult to suggest any unworthy motive in this change of attitude. he quitted the room, accordingly, in the direction of the kitchen, and as soon as the door had closed behind him, toad hurried to the writing-table. a fine idea had occurred to him while he was talking. he _would_ write the invitations; and he would take care to mention the leading part he had taken in the fight, and how he had laid the chief weasel flat; and he would hint at his adventures, and what a career of triumph he had to tell about; and on the fly-leaf he would set out a sort of a programme of entertainment for the evening--something like this, as he sketched it out in his head:-- speech by toad. (there will be other speeches by toad during the evening.) address by toad. synopsis--our prison system--the waterways of old england--horse-dealing, and how to deal--property, its rights and its duties--back to the land--a typical english squire. song by toad. (_composed by himself._) other compositions by toad will be sung in the course of the evening by the composer. the idea pleased him mightily, and he worked very hard and got all the letters finished by noon, at which hour it was reported to him that there was a small and rather bedraggled weasel at the door, inquiring timidly whether he could be of any service to the gentleman. toad swaggered out and found it was one of the prisoners of the previous evening, very respectful and anxious to please. he patted him on the head, shoved the bundle of invitations into his paw, and told him to cut along quick and deliver them as fast as he could, and if he liked to come back again in the evening, perhaps there might be a shilling for him, or, again, perhaps there mightn't; and the poor weasel seemed really quite grateful, and hurried off eagerly to do his mission. when the other animals came back to luncheon, very boisterous and breezy after a morning on the river, the mole, whose conscience had been pricking him, looked doubtfully at toad, expecting to find him sulky or depressed. instead, he was so uppish and inflated that the mole began to suspect something; while the rat and the badger exchanged significant glances. as soon as the meal was over, toad thrust his paws deep into his trouser-pockets, remarked casually, "well, look after yourselves, you fellows! ask for anything you want!" and was swaggering off in the direction of the garden, where he wanted to think out an idea or two for his coming speeches, when the rat caught him by the arm. toad rather suspected what he was after, and did his best to get away; but when the badger took him firmly by the other arm he began to see that the game was up. the two animals conducted him between them into the small smoking-room that opened out of the entrance-hall, shut the door, and put him into a chair. then they both stood in front of him, while toad sat silent and regarded them with much suspicion and ill-humour. "now, look here, toad," said the rat. "it's about this banquet, and very sorry i am to have to speak to you like this. but we want you to understand clearly, once and for all, that there are going to be no speeches and no songs. try and grasp the fact that on this occasion we're not arguing with you; we're just telling you." toad saw that he was trapped. they understood him, they saw through him, they had got ahead of him. his pleasant dream was shattered. "mayn't i sing them just one _little_ song?" he pleaded piteously. "no, not _one_ little song," replied the rat firmly, though his heart bled as he noticed the trembling lip of the poor disappointed toad. "it's no good, toady; you know well that your songs are all conceit and boasting and vanity; and your speeches are all self-praise and--and--well, and gross exaggeration and--and--" "and gas," put in the badger, in his common way. "it's for your own good, toady," went on the rat. "you know you _must_ turn over a new leaf sooner or later, and now seems a splendid time to begin; a sort of turning-point in your career. please don't think that saying all this doesn't hurt me more than it hurts you." toad remained a long while plunged in thought. at last he raised his head, and the traces of strong emotion were visible on his features. "you have conquered, my friends," he said in broken accents. "it was, to be sure, but a small thing that i asked--merely leave to blossom and expand for yet one more evening, to let myself go and hear the tumultuous applause that always seems to me--somehow--to bring out my best qualities. however, you are right, i know, and i am wrong. henceforth i will be a very different toad. my friends, you shall never have occasion to blush for me again. but, o dear, o dear, this is a hard world!" and, pressing his handkerchief to his face, he left the room, with faltering footsteps. "badger," said the rat, "i feel like a brute; i wonder what _you_ feel like?" "o, i know, i know," said the badger gloomily. "but the thing had to be done. this good fellow has got to live here, and hold his own, and be respected. would you have him a common laughing-stock, mocked and jeered at by stoats and weasels?" "of course not," said the rat. "and, talking of weasels, it's lucky we came upon that little weasel, just as he was setting out with toad's invitations. i suspected something from what you told me, and had a look at one or two; they were simply disgraceful. i confiscated the lot, and the good mole is now sitting in the blue _boudoir_, filling up plain, simple invitation cards." * * * * * at last the hour for the banquet began to draw near, and toad, who on leaving the others had retired to his bedroom, was still sitting there, melancholy and thoughtful. his brow resting on his paw, he pondered long and deeply. gradually his countenance cleared, and he began to smile long, slow smiles. then he took to giggling in a shy, self-conscious manner. at last he got up, locked the door, drew the curtains across the windows, collected all the chairs in the room and arranged them in a semicircle, and took up his position in front of them, swelling visibly. then he bowed, coughed twice, and, letting himself go, with uplifted voice he sang, to the enraptured audience that his imagination so clearly saw: toad's last little song the toad--came--home! there was panic in the parlours and howling in the halls, there was crying in the cow-sheds and shrieking in the stalls, when the toad--came--home! when the toad--came--home! there was smashing in of window and crashing in of door, there was chivvying of weasels that fainted on the floor, when the toad--came--home! bang! go the drums! the trumpeters are tooting and the soldiers are saluting, and the cannon they are shooting and the motor-cars are hooting, as the--hero--comes! shout--hoo-ray! and let each one of the crowd try and shout it very loud, in honour of an animal of whom you're justly proud, for it's toad's--great--day! he sang this very loud, with great unction and expression; and when he had done, he sang it all over again. then he heaved a deep sigh; a long, long, long sigh. then he dipped his hairbrush in the water-jug, parted his hair in the middle, and plastered it down very straight and sleek on each side of his face; and, unlocking the door, went quietly down the stairs to greet his guests, who he knew must be assembling in the drawing-room. all the animals cheered when he entered, and crowded round to congratulate him and say nice things about his courage, and his cleverness, and his fighting qualities; but toad only smiled faintly, and murmured, "not at all!" or, sometimes, for a change, "on the contrary!" otter, who was standing on the hearthrug, describing to an admiring circle of friends exactly how he would have managed things had he been there, came forward with a shout, threw his arm round toad's neck, and tried to take him round the room in triumphal progress; but toad, in a mild way, was rather snubby to him, remarking gently, as he disengaged himself, "badger's was the master mind; the mole and the water rat bore the brunt of the fighting; i merely served in the ranks and did little or nothing." the animals were evidently puzzled and taken aback by this unexpected attitude of his; and toad felt, as he moved from one guest to the other, making his modest responses, that he was an object of absorbing interest to every one. the badger had ordered everything of the best, and the banquet was a great success. there was much talking and laughter and chaff among the animals, but through it all toad, who of course was in the chair, looked down his nose and murmured pleasant nothings to the animals on either side of him. at intervals he stole a glance at the badger and the rat, and always when he looked they were staring at each other with their mouths open; and this gave him the greatest satisfaction. some of the younger and livelier animals, as the evening wore on, got whispering to each other that things were not so amusing as they used to be in the good old days; and there were some knockings on the table and cries of "toad! speech! speech from toad! song! mr. toad's song!" but toad only shook his head gently, raised one paw in mild protest, and, by pressing delicacies on his guests, by topical small-talk, and by earnest inquiries after members of their families not yet old enough to appear at social functions, managed to convey to them that this dinner was being run on strictly conventional lines. he was indeed an altered toad! * * * * * after this climax, the four animals continued to lead their lives, so rudely broken in upon by civil war, in great joy and contentment, undisturbed by further risings or invasions. toad, after due consultation with his friends, selected a handsome gold chain and locket set with pearls, which he dispatched to the gaoler's daughter, with a letter that even the badger admitted to be modest, grateful, and appreciative; and the engine-driver, in his turn, was properly thanked and compensated for all his pains and trouble. under severe compulsion from the badger, even the barge-woman was, with some trouble, sought out and the value of her horse discreetly made good to her; though toad kicked terribly at this, holding himself to be an instrument of fate, sent to punish fat women with mottled arms who couldn't tell a real gentleman when they saw one. the amount involved, it was true, was not very burdensome, the gipsy's valuation being admitted by local assessors to be approximately correct. sometimes, in the course of long summer evenings, the friends would take a stroll together in the wild wood, now successfully tamed so far as they were concerned; and it was pleasing to see how respectfully they were greeted by the inhabitants, and how the mother-weasels would bring their young ones to the mouths of their holes, and say, pointing, "look, baby! there goes the great mr. toad! and that's the gallant water rat, a terrible fighter, walking along o' him! and yonder comes the famous mr. mole, of whom you so often have heard your father tell!" but when their infants were fractious and quite beyond control, they would quiet them by telling how, if they didn't hush them and not fret them, the terrible grey badger would up and get them. this was a base libel on badger, who, though he cared little about society, was rather fond of children; but it never failed to have its full effect. _the wind in the willows_ [illustration: "_she snatched the automatic pistol from her bosom and ... fired. the man stumbled back with a cry._"] the river prophet by raymond s. spears frontispiece by ralph pallen coleman garden city new york doubleday, page & company copyright, , , by doubleday, page & company all rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the scandinavian the river prophet the river prophet chapter i elijah rasba lived alone in a log cabin on temple run. he was a long, lank, blue-eyed young man, with curly brown hair and a pale, almost livid complexion. his eye-brows were heavy and dark brown, and the blue steel of his gaze was fixed unwaveringly upon any object that it distinguished. two generations before, old abe rasba had built a church on a little brook, a tributary of jackson river, away up in the mountains. the church was laid up of flat stones, gathered in fields, from ledges of rock and up the wooded mountain side. it was large enough to hold all the people for miles around, and the roof was supported by massive hewn timbers, and some few attempts had been made to decorate the structure. old abe had called his church "the temple," had preached from a big hollow oak stump, and laid down the law of the bible, which he had memorized by heart, and expounded from experience. elijah rasba, grandson of old abe, thus came honestly by reverence and religion, but the strange glory which had surrounded the old temple had departed from the ruin, and of all the congregation, only elijah remained. land-slips had ruined a score of farms cleared on too-steep hills; lightning had destroyed the overshot grist mill, and the two big stones had been cracked in the hot flames; a feud had opened graves before the allotted time of the victims. it seemed to elijah, sitting there in his cabin, as though damnation had visited the faithful, and that death was the reward of belief. the ruins of the old temple stood melancholy where the heavy stone wall, built by a man who believed in broad, firm foundations, had split an avalanche, but without avail, for the walls had given way and let the roof beams drop in. no less certain had been the fate of the congregation; they, too, were scattered or dead. there remained but one dwelling in the little valley, with a lone occupant, who was wrestling with his soul, trying to understand, for he knew in his heart that he must read the truth and discover the meaning of all this trouble, privation, disaster, and death. he was quite practical about it. he had a field of corn, and a little garden full of truck; over his fireplace hung a - repeating rifle, and in one corner were a number of steel traps, copper and brass wire for snares, and a home-made mattock with which a rabbit could be extricated from a burrow, or a skunk-skin from its den. an almanac, a bible, and a "resources of tennessee" comprised the library on the shelf. the almanac had come by mail from away off yonder, about a hundred miles, perhaps--anyhow, from new york. the "resources of tennessee" had come down with a spring freshet in jackson river, and was rather stained with mountain clays. the bible was, of course, an inheritance. it was a very small article, apparently, to create all the disturbances that seemed to have followed its interpretations there on temple run. elijah would hold it out at arms length and stare at it with those sharp eyes of his, wondering in his soul how it could be that the fate of nations, the future of humanity, the very salvation of every soul rested within the compass of that leather-covered, gilt-edged parcel of thin paper which weighed rather less than half as much as a box of cartridges. elijah did not spare himself in the least. he toiled at whatever task appeared for him to do. as he required for his own wants fifty bushels of corn for a year, he planted enough to shuck a hundred bushels. once, in the fervour of the hope that he was called upon to raise corn for humanity, he raised five hundred bushels, only to give it all away to poor white trash who had not raised enough for themselves. again he felt the call to preach, and he went forth with all the eagerness of a man who had at last discovered his life's calling. he went on foot, through storms, over mountains, and into a hundred schoolhouses and churches, showing his little leather-skinned bible and warning sinners to repent, christians to keep faith, and baal to lower his loathly head. he had returned from his five months' pilgrimage with the feeling that his utmost efforts had been futile, and that for all his good will, it had not been vouchsafed him to leave behind one thought in fertile soil. the matter had been brought home to him by an incident of the last meeting he had addressed, over on clinch. in the painted church he had volunteered a sermon, and no sermons had been preached there in years. feuds, inextricably tangled, had involved five different families, and members of all those families were in the church, answering to his challenge. they sat there with rifles or shotguns between their knees, with their pistols on their hips, and eternal vigilance in their eyes. while listening to his sermon they kept their gaze fastened upon one another, lest an unwary moment bring upon them the alert shot of an enemy. as he had stood there, gaunt in frame, famished of soul, driven by the torments of an ambition to see the right, to do it, it seemed to him as though the final burden had been heaped upon him, and that he must break under the weight on his mind. "what can i say to you all?" he burst out with sudden passion. "theh yo' set with guns in yo' hands an' murder in yo' souls--to listen to the word of god! how do yo' expect the prince of peace to come to yo' if yo' set there thataway?" his indignation rose as he saw them, and his scorn unbridled his tongue, so that in a few minutes the congregation watched one another less, the preacher more, and all settled back, to listen and blink under his accusations and his declarations. it really seemed, for the time, as though he had caught and engaged their attention. but when the sermon ended and he had taken his departure, before he was a hundred yards down the road he heard loud words, angry shouts, and then the scream of a woman. the next instant there came a salvo of gun and pistol shots and in all directions up and down the cross-roads people fled on horseback. three men had been killed, five wounded and a dozen become fugitives from justice at the end of the church service. elijah rasba fled homeward, his will and hopes broken, and sank dejectedly into a slough of despondency. all his good intentions, all the inspiration of his endeavour, his very spiritual exaltation had terminated in a tragedy, as inexplicable as it was depressing. his conscience would neither let him rest nor work. he looked at his bible, inside and out, the very fibres of his brain struggling by reason, by effort, by main strength, to discover what his duty was. no answer soothed his waking hours or gave him rest from his dreams. on him rested a kind of superstitious scorn and fear, and he began to believe the whisperings of his neighbours which reached his ears. they said: "he's possessed!" to his own freighted mind the statement seemed to be true. he did not know what new sin he had committed, nor could he look back on long years of his youth and young manhood and discover any sin which he had not already expiated, over and over again. he had obeyed the scriptural injunctions to the best of his knowledge, and the reward was this daily and nightly torment, the scorn of his fellows, and the questioning of his own soul. worst of all, constructively, he had given feud fighters the chance to do murder upon one another. under the guise of preaching for them for the good of their souls, he had enabled them to meet in antagonism, watch in wrath, and kill without mercy. too late he realized that he should have foreseen the tragedy, and that he should have provided against it by going first to each faction, preaching to each family, and then, when he had brought them to their knees, united them in the common cause of religion. "on me is thy wrath!" he cried out in the anguish of his soul. "give thy tortured slave something good to do, ere i go down!" there was no reply, immediate or audible; he was near the limits of his endurance; he drew his arm back to throw the bible into the flames of his fireplace, but that he could not do. he tossed it upon the shelf, drew his hat down upon his ears and at the approach of night started over the ridges to the kalbean stillhouse. he stalked down a ridge into that split-board shack of infamy. he found five or six men in the hot, sour-smelling place. they started to their feet when they saw the mountain preacher among them. "gimme some!" he told old kalbean. "i'm a fool! i'm damned. i'll go with the rest of ye to hell! gimme some!" "wha--what?" old kalbean choked with horror. "yo' gwine to drink, parson?" "suttinly!" rasba cried. "hit ain' no ust for me to preach! i preach, an' the congregation murders one anotheh! ef i don't preach, i cayn't live peaceable! they say hit makes a man happy--i ain' be'n happy, not in ten, not in twenty yeahs!" he caught up the jug that rested on the floor, threw the tin cup to one side, up-ended the receptacle, and the moonshiner and his customers stared. "theh!" rasba grunted, when he had to take the jug down for breath. he reached into his pocket, drew out a silver dollar, and handed it to the amazed mountain man. "theh!" he repeated, defiantly. "i've shore gone to hell, now, an' i don't give a damn, nuther. s'long, boys! d'rectly, yo'l heah me jes' a whoopin', yas suh! jes' a whoopin'!" he left them abruptly and he went up into the darkness of the laurels. they heard him crashing away into the night. when he was gone the men looked at one another: "yo' 'low he'll bring the revenuers?" one asked, nervously. "bring nothin'!" another grinned. "no man eveh lived could drink fifteen big gulps, like he done, an' git furder'n a stuck hog, no, suh!" they listened for the promised whoops; they strained their ears for the cries of jubilation; but none came. "co'rse," the stiller explained, as though an explanation were needed, "parson rasba ain' used to hit; he could carry more, an' hit'll take him longer to get lit up. but, law me, when hit begins to act! that's three yeah old, boys, mild, but no mewl yo' eveh saw has the kick that's got, apple an' berry cider, stilled down from the ferment!" chapter ii virtue had not been rewarded. this much was clear and plain to the consciousness of nelia carline. looking at herself in the glass disclosed no special reason why she should be unhappy and suffering. she was a pretty girl; everybody said that, and envy said she was too pretty. it seemed that poor folks had no right to be good-looking, anyhow. if poor folks weren't good-looking, then wealthy young men, with nothing better to do, wouldn't go around looking among poor folks for pretty girls. augustus carline had, apparently, done that. carline had a fortune that had been increased during three generations, and now he didn't have to work. that was bad in gage, illinois. it had never done any one any good, that kind of living. one of the fruits of the matter was when nelia crele's pretty face attracted his attention. she lived in a shack up the bottoms near st. genevieve, and he tried to flirt with her, but she wouldn't flirt. in some surprise, startled by his rebuff, he withdrew from the scene with a memory that would not forget. the scene was a wheat field near the turkey bayou, where he was hunting wild ducks with a shotgun. she had been gathering forty pounds of hickory nuts to eke out a meagre food supply. poor she might be; ill clad was her strong young figure; her face showed the strain of years of effort; her eyes had the fire of experience in suffering; and she stood, a supple girl of heightened beauty while the hunter, sure of his welcome, walked up to her, and, as both her hands held the awkward bushel basket, ventured to tickle her under the chin. she dropped the basket and before it reached the ground she caught the rash youth broad-handed from cheek to back of the ear, and he stumbled over a pile of wheat sheaves and fell headlong. as he had dropped his shotgun, she picked it up and with her thumb on the safety, her finger on the trigger, and her left hand on the breech, showed him how a $ shotgun looks in the hands of one who could and would use it on any further provocation. he took his departure, and she carried the gun and hickory nuts home with her. thus began the inauspicious acquaintance of nelia crele and augustus carline. the shotgun was very useful to the young woman. she killed gray and fox squirrels, wild turkeys, geese and ducks, several saleable fur-bearers, and other game in her neighbourhood. she told no one how she obtained the weapon, merely saying she had found it; and augustus carline did not pass any remarks on the subject. by and by, however, when the tang of the slap and the passion of the moment had left him, he knew that he had been foolish and cowardly. he had some good parts, and he was sorry that he had been precipitate in his attentions. after that encounter, he found the girls he met at dances lacked a certain appearance, a kindling of the eye, a complexion, and, a figure. he ventured again into the river bottoms across from st. genevieve and fortune favoured him while tricking her. he apologized and gave his name. nelia was poor, abjectly poor. her father was no 'count, and her mother was abject in suffering. one brother had gone west, a whisky criminal; a sister had gone wrong, with the inheritance of moral obliquity. nelia had, somehow, become possessed with a hate and horror of wrong. she had pictured to herself a home, happiness, and a life of plenty, but she held herself at the highest price a woman demands. that price augustus carline was only too willing to pay. he had found a girl of high spirits, of great good looks, of a most amusing quickness of wit and vigour of mentality. he married her, to the scandal of everybody, and carried her from her poverty to the fine old french-days mansion in gage. there he installed her with everything he thought she needed, and--pursued his usual futile life. too late she learned that he was weak, insignificant, and, like her own father, no 'count. augustus carline was a brute, a creature of appetites and desires, who by no chance rose to the heights of his wife's mental demands. nelia carline regarded the tragedy of her life with impatience. she studied the looking glass to see wherein she had failed to measure up to her duty; she ransacked her mind, and compared it with all the women she met by virtue of her place as gus carline's wife. those women had not proved to be what she had expected grand dames of society to be. "i want to talk learning," she told herself, "and they talk hairpins and dirty dishes and bill-don't-behave!" now one of those women, a kind of a grass widow, mrs. plosell, had attracted gus carline, and when he came home from her house, he was always drunk. when nelia remonstrated, he was ugly. he had thrown her down and gone back to the grass widow's the night before. nelia considered that grim fact, and, having made up her mind, acted. in her years of poverty she had learned many things, and now she put into service certain practical ideas. she had certain rights, under the law, since she had taken the name of augustus carline. there were, too, moral rights, and she preferred to exercise her moral rights. part of the carline fortune was in unregistered stocks and bonds, and when gus carline returned from the widow's one day he found that nelia was in great good humour, more attractive than he had ever known her, and so very pleasant during the two days of his headache that he was willing to do anything she asked. she asked him to have a good time with her, and put down on the table before him a filled punch bowl and two glasses. he had never known the refinements of intoxicating liquors. now he found them in his own home, and for a while forgot all else. he sang, danced, laughed and, in due course, signed a number of papers, receipts, bills and checks to settle up some accounts. these were sort of hit-or-miss, between-the-acts affairs, to which he paid little attention. to nelia, however, they represented a rite as valid as any solemn court procedure could be, for to her river-trained instinct there was no moral question as to the justice of her claim upon a part of carline's fortune. her later experience, her reading, had taught her that society and the law also held with the principle, if not the manner of her primitive method, for obtaining her rights to separate support. when carline awakened, nelia was gone. nelia had departed that morning, one of the servants said. the girl did not know where she had gone. she had taken a box of books, two trunks, two suitcases and was dressed up, departing in the automobile, which she drove herself. he had a feeling of alarm, which he banished as unworthy. finally toward night he went down to the post office where he found several letters. one seared his consciousness; gus: don't bother to look for me. i'm gone, and i'm going to stay gone. you have shown yourself to be a mere soak, a creature of appetite and vice, and with no redeeming mental traits whatever. i hate you, and worse yet, i despise you. get a divorce get another woman--the widow is about your calibre. but, i give you fair warning, leave me alone. i'm sick of men. nelia. chapter iii elijah rasba stalked homeward from the still in the dark, grimly and expectantly erect. now he was going to have that period of happiness which he knew was the chief reason for people drinking moonshine whiskey. he looked forward to the sensation of exuberant joy very much as a man would look forward to five hours of happiness, to be followed by hanging by the neck, till dead. the stars were shining, and the over-ridge trail which he followed was familiar enough under his feet, once he had struck into it from the immediate vicinity of the lawbreakers. he saw the bare-limbed oak trees against the sky, and he heard rabbits and other night runners scurrying away in the dead leaves. the stars fluttering in the sky were stern eyes whose gaze he avoided with determined wickedness and unrepentance. arriving at his own cabin, he stirred up the big pine-root log, and drew his most comfortable rocking chair up before the leaping flames. he sat there, and waited for the happiness of mind which was the characteristic of his idea of intoxication. he waited for it, all ready to welcome it. if it had come into his cabin, all dressed up like some image of temptation or allurement, he would not have been in the least surprised. he rather expected a real and tangible manifestation, a vision of delight, clothed in some fair figure. he sat there, rigidly, watching for the least symptom of unholy pleasure. he had no clock by which to tell the time, and his watch was thoroughly unreliable. again and again he poked up the fire. he was surprised, at last, to hear a far-away gobble, the welcome of a wild turkey for the first false dawn. by and by he became conscious of the light which was crowding the fire flare into a subordinate place. day had arrived, and as yet, the delight which everybody said was in moonshine whiskey had failed to touch him. however, he knew that he was not properly in a receptive mood for happiness. his soul was still stubborn against the allurements of sin. he stirred from his chair, fried a rabbit in a pan, and baked a batch of hot-bread in a dutch oven, brewing strong coffee and bringing out the jug of sorghum molasses. he ate breakfast. he was conscious of a certain rigidity of action, a certain precision of motion, ascribing them to the stern determination which he had that when he should at last discover the whiskey-happiness in his soul, he would let go with a whoop. "some hit makes happy, and some hit makes fightin' mad!" rasba suddenly thought, with much concern, "s'posen hit'd make me fightin' mad?" a fluttering trepidation clutched his heart. the bells ringing in his ears fairly clanged the alarm. he hadn't looked for anything else but joy from being drunk, and now suppose he should be stricken with a mad desire to fight--to kill someone! no deadlier fear ever clutched a man's heart than the one that seized elijah rasba. suppose that when the deferred hilarity arrived, he was made fighting drunk instead of joyous? the thought seized his soul and he looked about himself wondering how he could chain his hands and save his soul from murder, violence, fighting, and similar crimes! no feasible way appeared to his frightened mind. he dropped on his knees and began to pray for happiness, instead of for violence, when the drink that he had had should seize him in its embrace. he prayed with a voice that roared like thunder and which made the charcoal fall from the log in the fireplace, and which alarmed the jays and inquisitive mockingbirds about the little clearing. he prayed while his voice grew huskier and huskier, and his head bowed lower and lower as he wrestled with this peril which he had not foreseen. all he asked was that when the moonshine began to operate, it make him laugh instead of mad, but terrible doubts smote him. a glance at his rifle on the wall made him fairly grovel on the floor, and he knew that in his hands the andirons, the axe, the very hot-bread rolling pin would be deadly weapons. he hoped that he would not be able to shoot straight, but this hope was instantly blasted, for a flock of wild turkeys came down into the cornfield about ninety yards from his cabin, and although he seldom shot anything in his own clearing, he now tried a shot at the turkey gobbler and shot it dead where it strutted. if he should be stricken with anger instead of with joy, no worse man could possibly live! there was no telling what he would do if the liquor would work "wrong" on him. he could kill men at two hundred yards! he determined that he would see no human beings that day. few people ever visited him in his cabin, but he took no chances. he crept up the mountain and skulking through the woods found an immense patch of laurels. he crawled into it, and sat down there for hours and hours, so that no one should have an opportunity to speak to him and stir the latent devil of violence. he returned to his cabin long after dark, and raking some hot coals out of the ashes, whittled splinters and started a blaze. he was assailed by hunger, and he baked corn pones and dry-salted pork, then added a great flapjack of delicious sage sausage to the meal. he brought out cans of fruit, whose juice assuaged his increasing thirst. having eaten heartily he resumed his vigil before the fireplace, and then he noticed that some one had tied something on the stock of his rifle. it was a letter which a passer-by had brought up from the ford post office, and when he opened it and looked at the writing, remorse assailed him: dear parsun: ever senct you preched here i ben sufrin count of my boy jock. you know him for he set right thar, frade of no man, not the tobblys, nor the crents. when tha drawed down to shoot, he stud right thar an shot back shoot fer shoot, an now he has goned awa down the rivehs an i am worited abot his soul because he is a gud boy an neveh was no whars in all his borned days an an i hear now he is gettin bad down thataway on misipy riveh where thas all bad peple an i wisht yud prey fer him so's he wont get bad. mrs. drones panted church on clinch. rasba read the letter for the words at first. then he went back after the meaning, and the meaning struck him like a blow in the heart. "me pray fo' any man again," he gasped. "lawse! lawse!" he didn't feel fit to pray for himself, let alone for any other sinner, but there came to his memory a picture of mrs. drones, a motherly little woman who had taken him home to a dinner at which seven kinds of preserved fruit were on the table, and where the family laughed around the fireplace--only to see jock a fugitive the next night, and the terrors of a feud war upon them. "and jock's getting bad down the mississippi river!" rasba repeated to himself, striving to grapple with that fact. he could not think clearly or coherently. the widow's voice, however, was as clearly speaking in his thoughts as though she stood there, instead of merely having written to him. he took to walking up and down the floor, back and forth, on one plank. he had forgotten that there was such a thing for humans as sleep. the incongruity of his having been wide awake for two days and two nights did not occur to him till suddenly his eyes turned to the bed in the corner of the room and its purpose was recalled to his mind. he blinked at it. his eyes opened with difficulty. he threw chunks on the fire and went toward the bed, but as he stood by it the world grew black before his eyes and clutching about him, he sank to the floor. chapter iv nelia carline would not return to that miserable little river-bottom cabin where she had grown up in unhappy privation. she had other plans. she drove the little automobile down to chester, put it in the star garage, then walked to the river bank and gave the eddy a critical inspection. for years she had lived between the floods of the river and the poverty of the uplands. her life had often crossed that of river people, and although she had never been on the river, she had frequently gone visiting shanty-boaters who had landed in for a night or a week at the bank opposite her own shack home. she knew river men, and she had no illusions about river women. best of all now, in her great emergency, she knew shanty-boats, and as she gazed at the eddy and saw the fleet of houseboats there her heart leaped exultantly. no less than a score of boats were landed along the eddy bank, and instantly her eyes fell upon first one and then another that would serve her purpose. she walked down to the uppermost of the boats, and hailed from the bank: "u-whoo!" a lank, stoop-shouldered woman emerged from the craft and fixed the well-favoured young woman with keen, bright eyes. "you-all know if there's a shanty-boat here for sale--cheap?" nelia asked, without eagerness. the woman looked at the bank, reflectively. "i expect," she admitted at last. "this un yaint, but theh's two spo'ts down b'low, that's quittin' the riveh, that blue boat theh, but theh's spo'ts." "i 'lowed they mout be," nelia dropped into her childhood vernacular as she looked down the bank, "likely yo' mout he'p me bargain, er somebody?" "i 'low i could!" the river woman replied. "me an' my ole man he'ped a feller up to st. louis, awhile back, who was green on the river, but he let us kind of p'int out what he'd need fo' a skift trip down this away. real friendly feller, kind of city-like, an' sort of out'n the country, too. 'lowed he was a writin' feller, fer magazines an' books an' histries an' them kind of things. lawsy! he could ask questions, four hundred kinds of questions, an' writin' hit all down into a writin' machine onto paper. we shore told him a heap an' a passel, an' he writes mornin' an' nights. lots of curius fellers on ole mississip'. we'll sort of look aroun'. co'se, yo' got a man to go 'long?" "no." "wha-a-t! yo' ain' goin' to trip down alone?" "i might's well." "but, goodness, gracious sake, you're pretty, pretty as a picture! i 'lowed yo' had a man scoutin' aroun'. why somethin' mout happen to a lady, if she didn't have a man or know how to take cyar of herse'f." nelia shrugged her shoulders. mrs. tons, the river woman, gazed for a minute at the pretty, partly averted face. it was almost desperate, quite reckless, and by the expression, the river woman understood. she thought in silence, for a minute, and then looked down the eddy at a boat some distance away. "theh's a boat. like the looks of it?" "it's a fine boat, i 'low," nelia said. "fresh painted." "hit's new," the woman said. "is it for sale?" "we'll jes walk down thataway," the river woman suggested. "two ladies is mostly safe down thisaway." "my name's nelia crele. we used to live up by gage, on the bottoms----" "sho! co'se i know ole jim crele, an' his woman. my name's mrs. tons. we stopped in thah 'bout six weeks ago. i hearn say yo'd--yo'd married right well!" "umph!" nelia shrugged her shoulders, "liquor spoils many a home!" "yo' maw said he was a drinkin' man, an' i said to myse'f, from my own 'sperience.... yo' set inside yeah, nelia. i'll go down theh an' talk myse'f. we come near buyin' that bo't yistehd'y. leave hit to me!" nelia sat down in the shanty-boat, and waited. she had not long to wait. a tall, rather burly man returned with the woman, who introduced the two; "mis' crele, this is frank commer. his bo't's fo' sale, an' he'll take $ cash, for everything, ropes, anchor, stoves, a brass bedstead, an' everything and i said hit's reasonable. hit's a pine boat, built last fall, and the hull's sound, with oak framing. co'se, hit's small, foot long an' foot wide, but hit's cheap." "i'll take it, then," nelia nodded. "you can come look it over," the man declared. "tight hull and tight roof. we built it ourselves. but we're sick of the river, and we'll sell cheap, right here." the three went down to the boat, and nelia handed him seventy-five dollars in bills. he and his partner, who came down from the town a few minutes later, packed up their personal property in two trunks. they left the dishes and other outfit, including several blankets. the four talked as the two packed up. one of them suddenly looked sharply at nelia: "you dropping down alone?" she hesitated, and then laughed: "yes." "it's none of my business," the man said, doubtfully, "but it's a mean old river, some ways. a lady alone might get into trouble. river pirates, you know." it was a challenge. he was a clear-eyed, honest man, hardly twenty-five years of age, and not an evil type at all. what he had to suggest he did boldly, sure of his right at such a time, under such circumstances, to do. he was entirely likeable. in spite of herself, nelia wavered for a moment. she knew river people; the woman by her side would have said she would be safer with him than without his protection. there was only one reason why nelia could not accept that protection. "i'll have to take care of myself," she shook her head, without rebuke to the youth. "you see, i'm running away from a mean scoundrel." "hit's so," the river woman approved, and the men took their departure without further comment. the two women, disapproving the men's housekeeping, scrubbed the boat and washed all the bedding. nelia brought down her automobile and the two carried her own outfit on board. then nelia took the car back to the garage, and said that she would call for it in the morning. "all right, mrs. carline," the garage man replied, without suspicion. back at the landing, nelia bade the river woman good-bye. "i got to be going," she said, "likely there'll be a whole pack after me directly----" "got a gun?" the woman asked. "two," nelia smiled. "bill gave me a goose rifle and frank let me have this--he said it's the law down old mississip'!" "the law" was a -calibre automatic pistol in perfect condition. "them boys thought a heap of yo', gal!" the river woman shook her head. "frank'd sure made you a good man!" "oh, i know it," replied nelia, "but i'm sick of men--i hate men! i'm going to go droppin' along, same's the rest." "don't let go of that pistol. theh's mean, bad men down thisaway, nelia!" nelia laughed, but harshly. "i don't give a damn for anything now; i tell you that!" "don't forget it. shoot any man that comes." nelia, who could row a skiff with any one, set her shanty-boat sweeps on their pins, coiled up the two bow lines by which the boat was moored to the bank, and which the river woman untied, then rowed out of the eddy and into the main current. "it's good floating right down," mrs. tons called after her, "till yo' git to grand tower rock--thirty mile!" the river rapidly widened below chester, and the little houseboat swung out into mid-stream. nelia knew the river a little from having been down on a steamer, and the misery she left behind was in contrast to the sense of freedom and independence which she now had. stillness, peace, the sense of vast motion in the river torrent comforted her. the moment of embarking alone on the river had been full of nervous tenseness and anxiety, but now those feelings were left behind and she could breathe deeply and confront the future with a calm spirit. the veil that the blue mist of distance left behind her was penetrable by memory, but the future was hidden from her gaze, as it was hidden from her imagination. the determination to dwell in the immediate present caught up her soul with its grim, cold bonds, and as the sun was setting against the sky beyond the long, sky-line of limestone ledges, she entered the cabin, and looked about her with a feeling of home such as she had never had before. "i'll stand at the breech of my rifle, to defend it," she whispered to herself. "men are mean! i hate men!" she found a flat book on a shelf which held a half hundred magazines. the book was bound in blue boards, and backed with yellow leather. when she opened it, out of curiosity, she discovered that it was full of maps. "those dear boys!" she whispered, almost regretfully. "they left this map book for me, because they knew i'd need it; knew everybody down thisaway needs a map!" they had done more than that; they had left the equally indispensable "list of post lights," and when dusk fell and she saw a pale yellow light revealed against a bank the little book named it "wilkinson island." she pulled toward the east bank into the deadwater below lacours island, cast over her anchor, and came to rest in the dark of a starless night. chapter v in mid-afternoon, the man who had so desperately and as a last resource tested the efficiency of moonshine whiskey as a palliative for mental misery awaked gradually, in confusion of mind and aching of body. noises filled his ears, and streaking lights blurred the keenness of his eyes. reason had but little to do with his first thoughts, and feelings had nearly everything. there did not seem to be any possible atonement for him to make. too late, as it seemed, he realized the enormity of his offence and the bitterness of inevitable punishment. there remained but one thing for him to do, and that was go away down the rivers and find the fugitive jock drones, whose mother feared for him. no other usefulness of purpose remained in his reach. if he stood up, now, before any congregation, the imps of satan, the patrons of moonshiners, would leer up at him in his pulpit, reminding him that he, too, was one of them. he went over to the corner of his cabin, raised some planks there and dug down into the earth till he found a jug. he dragged the jug into the cabin and out of it poured the rasba patrimony, a hidden treasure of gold, which he put into a leather money belt and strapped on. there was not much in the cabin worth taking away, but he packed that little up and made ready for his departure. it was but a few miles over to tug river, and he readily engaged a wagon to carry him that far. on the wooded river bank he built a flatboat with his own hands, and covered one end of it with a poplar-wood cabin, purchased at a near-by sawmill. he floated out of the eddy in his shack-boat and began his journey down the rivers to the mississippi, where he would perform the one task that remained for him to do in the service of god. he would find jock, give him his mother's message, and after that expiate his own sins in the deserved misery of an exiled penitent. tug river was in flood, a heavy storm having cast nearly two inches of rainfall upon part of the watershed. on the crest of the flood it was fast running and there was no delay, no stopping between dawn and dusk. standing all day at the sweeps rasba cleared the shore in sharp bends, avoided the obstacles in mid stream, and outran the wave crests and the racing drift, entering the big sandy and emerging into the unimaginable breadths of the ohio. he had no time to waste on the ohio. the object of his search was on the mississippi, hundreds of miles farther down, and he could not go fast enough to suit him. but at that, pulling nervously at his sweeps and riding down the channel line, he "gain-speeded," till his eyes were smarting with the fury of the changing shores, and his arms were aching with the pulling and pushing of his great oars, and he neither recognized the miles that he floated nor the repeated days that ensued. long since he had escaped from his own mountain environment. the trees no longer overhung his course; railroad trains screamed along endless shores, bridges overhung his path like menacing deadfalls, and the rolling thunder of summer storms was mingled with the black smoke of ten thousand undreamed-of industries. the simplicity of the mountain cornfields of his youth had become a mystery of production, of activity, of passing phenomena which he neither knew nor understood. in his thoughts there was but one beacon. his purpose was to reach the mississippi, take the young man in hand, and redeem him from the evils into which he had fallen. his object was no more than that, nor any less. from the confusion of his experiences, efforts, and humiliations, he held fast to one fact: the necessity of finding jock drones. all things else had melted into that. the river banks fell apart along his course; the river ridges withdrew to wide distances, even blue at times; mere v-gullies or u-gorges, widened into vast corn fields. a post-office store-house at a rippling ford gave way to smoking cities, rumbling bridges, paved streets, and hurrying throngs. the lone fisherman in an -foot dugout had changed insensibly to darting motorboats and to huge, red-wheeled, white-castled monsters, whose passage in the midst of vast waters was attended by the sighs of toiling engines and the tossing of troubled seas. except for that one sure demand upon him, elijah rasba long since would have been lost in the confusion and doubts of his transition from narrow wooded ridges and trembling streamlets to this succession of visions. but his soul retained its composure, his eyes their quickness to seize the essential detail, and he rode the tug river freshet into the ohio flood tide bent upon his mission of redeeming one mountain youth who had strayed down into this far land, of which the shores were washed by the unimaginable sea of a river. when at the end of a day he arrived in a way-side eddy and moored his poplar-bottom craft against a steep bank and the last twilight had faded from his vision, he would eat some simple thing for supper, and then, by lamp-light, try to read his exotic life into the bible which accompanied him on his travels. he knew the book by heart, almost; he knew all the rivers told about in it; he knew the storms of the various biblical seas; he knew the jordan, in imagination, and the nile, the euphrates, the jabbok, and the brook of egypt, but they did not conform in his imagination with this living tide which was carrying him down its course, over shoal, around bend and from vale to vale of a size and grandeur beyond expression. elijah was speechless with amazement; the spies who had gone into canaan, holding their tongues, and befriended by women whose character elijah rasba could not identify, were less surprised by the riches which they discovered than rasba by the panorama which he saw rolled out for his inspection day by day. other shanty-boaters were dropping down before the approach of winter. sometimes one or another would drift near to rasba's boat and there would be an exchange of commonplaces. "how fur mout hit be, strangeh?" he would ask each man. "'low hit's a hundred mile yet to the mississippi?" a hundred miles! they could not understand that this term in the mountain man's mind meant "a long ways," if need be a thousand or ten thousand miles. when one answered that the mississippi was miles, and another said it was a "month's floating," their replies were equally without meaning to his mind. rasba could not understand them when they talked of reaches, crossings, wing dams, government works, and chutes and islands, but he would not offend any of them by showing that he did not in the least understand what they were talking about. he must never again hurt the feelings of any man or woman, and he must perform the one service which the deity had left for him to perform. little by little he began to understand that he was approaching the mississippi river. he saw the cumberland one day, and two hours later, he was witness to the tennessee, and that long, wonderful bridge which a railroad has flung from shore to shore of the great river. the current carried him down to it, and his face turned up and up till he was swept beneath that monument to man's inspiration and the industry of countless hands. rasba had seen cities and railroads and steamboats, but all in a kind of confusion and tumult. they had meant but incidents down the river; this bridge, however, a structure of huge proportions, was clearly one piece, one great idea fixed in steel and stone. "how big was the man who built that bridge?" he asked himself. while yet the question echoed in his expanding soul he hailed a passing skiff: "strangeh! how fur now is it to the mississippi river?" "theh 'tis!" the man cried, pointing down the current. "down by that air willer point!" chapter vi those first free days on the mississippi river revealed to nelia crele a woman she had never known before. daring, fearless, making no reckoning, she despised the past and tripped eagerly into the future. it was no business of any one what she did. she had married a man who had turned out to be a scoundrel, and when fate treated her so, she owed nothing to any one or to anything. even the fortune which she had easily seized through the alcoholic imbecility of her semblance of a man brought no gratitude to her. the money simply insured her against poverty and her first concern was to put that money where it would be safe from raiders and sure to bring her an income. this, watchfulness and alertness of mind had informed her, was the function of money. she dropped into cape girardeau, and sought a man whom she had met at her husband's house. this was duneau menard, who had little interest in the carlines, but who would be a safe counsellor for nelia crele. he greeted her with astonishment, and smiles, and told her what she needed to know. "i was just thinking of you, nelia," he said, "carline's sure raising a ruction trying to find you. he 'lows you are with some man who needs slow killing. he telephoned to me, and he's notified a hundred sheriffs, but, shucks! he's a mean scoundrel, and i'm glad to see yo'." "i want to have you help me invest some money," she said. "it's mine, and he signed every paper, for me. here's one of them." he took the sheet and read: i want my wife to share up with me all my fortune, and i hereby convey to her stocks, bonds, and cash, according to enclosed signed certificates, etc. augustus carline. "how come hit?" the man asked. "he was right friendly, then," she replied, grimly. "for what you-all said about the daughter of my mother i come here to claim your help. you know about money, about interest and dividends. i want it so i can have money, regular, like gus did----" "i shall be glad to fix that," he said, wiping his glasses. "what you wish is a diversified set of investments. how much is there?" she stacked up before him wads, rolls, briquettes, and bundles. he counted it, slip by slip and when he had completed the tally and reckoned some figures on the back of an envelope, he nodded his approval. "i expect that this will bring you around twelve or fifteen hundred dollars a year, safe, and a leetle besides, on speculation." "that'll do," she said, approvingly. no one in town connected her with the sensation up around gage. she was just one of those shanty-boat girls who come down the mississippi every once in a while, especially below st. louis. in a hundred cities and towns people were looking for mrs. augustus carline, supposed to be cutting a dashing figure, and probably in company with a certain dick asunder, who had been seen in chester, with his big black automobile on the same day that mrs. carline abandoned her husband's automobile there. of course, the shanty-boaters did not tell, if they knew; the river tells no tales. certainly, of all the women in the world this casual visitor at attorney menard's need not attract attention. menard always did have strange clients, and it was nothing new to see a shanty-boat land in and some man or woman walk up to his corner office and sit down to tell him in legal confidences things more interesting to know than any one not of his curiosity and sympathy would ever dream. attorney menard kept faith with river wastrels, floating nomads who are akin to gypsies, but who are of all bloods--tramps of the running floods. he listened to narratives stranger than any other attorney; in his safe he had documents of interest to sweethearts and wives, to husbands and sons, to fugitives and hunters. letters came to him from all parts of the great basin, giving him directions, or notifying him of the termination of lives whose passing had a significance or a meaning. nelia's mother knew him, and nelia herself recalled his good-humoured smile, his weathered face, his appeal to a girl for her confidence, and the certainty that her confidence would be respected. she had gone to him as naturally as she would have gone to a decent father or a wise mother. she took from him his neatly written receipt, but with the feeling that it was superfluous. in a little while she returned to the shanty-boat and dropped out of the eddy on her way down the river. she floated under the big thebes bridge, and landed against the west bank before dark, there to have the luck to shoot a wild goose. the maps showed that she was approaching the lower mississippi. when she had left cape girardeau, she had noticed a little brick-red shanty-boat which landed in just below her own. without looking up, she discovered that a man leaned against the roof of his low cabin whose eyes did not cease to watch her every motion while she cast off, coiled her ropes, and leaned to the light sweeps. when she was a safe distance down the river, she ventured to look up stream, and saw that the little red shanty-boat had left its mooring, and that the man was coming down the current astern of her. it was a free river; any one could go whither he pleased, but the certainty that she had attracted the man's attention revealed to her the necessity of considering her position there alone and dependent on her own resources. she remembered the two market hunters, and their warnings. the man astern was a patient, lurking, menacing brute, who might suspect her of having property enough to make a river piracy worth while; or he might have other designs, since she was unfortunately good-looking and attractive. night would surely be his opportunity and the test of her soul. she could have landed at commerce, where there were several shanty-boats and temporary safety; she could have floated on down at night and slipped into the shore in the dark, her lights out; she could have tried flight down the river hoping to lose the brick-red boat; she decided against all these. boldly she pulled into an eddy just before sunset, and had made fast to a snag and a live root when the little boat came dropping down in the edge of the current hardly forty feet distant, with the man leaning on his sweeps, watching her every motion, especially fastening his gaze upon her trim figure. as he came opposite she turned and faced him; her jaws set. "hello, girlie!" he called, leaning upon his sweeps to carry his skiff-like boat into the same eddy. on the instant she snatched the automatic pistol from her bosom and, dropping the muzzle, fired. the man stumbled back with a cry. he stood grabbing at his shoulder, his florid face turning white, his eyes starting with terror and pain. she saw him reel and fall through the open hatch of his cabin and his boat go drifting on into the crossing below. it occurred to her numbed brain that she was delivered from that peril, but as dusk fell she hated the misery of her loneliness. chapter vii the ohio had the mississippi eddied. the rains that had fallen over the valleys of kentucky and southern ohio, indiana, and illinois had brought a tide down the big branch and as there was not much water running out of the missouri and upper mississippi, the flood had backed up the mississippi for a little while, stopping the current almost dead. elijah rasba, running full tilt in the mid ohio current, looked ahead that afternoon, and he had a full view of the thing to which he had come, seeking the wandering son of mrs. drones. he arrived at the moment when the mississippi, having been banked up long enough, began to feel the restraint of the ohio and resent it. the gathered waters moved down against the ohio flood and pressed them back against the kentucky side. once more the mississippi river resumed its sway. on the loosed waters was a little cigar-box of a shanty-boat, and rasba rowed toward it across the saucer-like sucks and depressions where the two currents of different speeds dragged by each other. he pulled alongside, hailed, and, for answer, heard a groan, a weak cry: "help!" he carried a line across to the stranger's deck and made it fast. then he saw, stretched upon the floor, a stricken man, from whose side a pool of blood had run. working rapidly, elijah discovered the wound and as gunshot injuries were only too familiar in his mountain experience he well knew what he should do. examination showed that it was a painful and dangerous shoulder shot. he cleared away the stains, washed the hole, plucked the threads of cloth out of it, turned the man on his face and, with two quick slashes of a razor, cut out the missile which had done the injury. healing liniment, the inevitable concoction of a mountaineer's cabin, soothed while it dressed the wound. pads of cotton, and a bandage supplied the final need, and rasba stretched his patient upon the cabin-boat bunk, then looked out upon the world to which he had drifted. it was still a vast river, coming from the unknown and departing into the unknown. he knew it must be the mississippi, but he acknowledged it with difficulty. he did not ask the man about the bullet. born and bred in the mountains, he knew that that would be an unpardonable breach of etiquette. but the wounded man was uneasy, and when he was eased of his pain, he began to talk: "i wa'nt doin' nothing!" he explained, "i were jes' drappin' down, up above buffalo island, an' b'low commerce, an' a lady shot me--bang! ho law! she jes' shot me thataway. no 'count for hit at all." "a lady you knowed?" rasba asked. "no suh! but she's onto the riveh, into a shanty-boat, purty, too, an' jes' drappin' down, like she wa'nt goin' no wheres, an' like she mout of be'n jes' moseyin'. i jes 'lowed i'd drap in, an' say howdy like, an' she drawed down an' shot--bang!" "was she frightened?" "hit were a lonesome reach, along of powerses island," the man admitted, whining and reluctant. "she didn't own that there riveh. hain't a man no right to land in anywheres? she shot me jes' like i was a dawg, an' she hadn't no feelin's nohow. jes' like a dawg!" "did you know her?" "no, suh. we'd be'n drappin' down, an' drappin' down--come down below chester, an' sometimes she'd be ahead, an' sometimes me, an' how'd i know she wouldn't be friendly? ain't riveh women always friendly? an' theh she ups an' shoots me like a dawg. she's mean, that woman, mean an' pretty, too, like some women is!" rasba wondered. he had been long enough on the ohio to get the feeling of a great river. he saw the specious pleading of the wounded wretch, and his quick imagination pictured the woman alone in a vast, wild wood, at the edge of that running mile-wide flood. "of co'rse!" he said, half aloud, "of co'rse!" "co'rse what?" the man demanded, querulously. "co'rse she shot," rasba answered, tartly. "sometimes a lady jes' naturaly has to shoot, fearin' of men." rasba landed the two boats in at the foot of a sandbar, and made them fast to old stakes driven into the top of the low reef. he brought his patient some hot soup, and after they had eaten supper, he sat down to talk to him, keeping the man company in his pain, and leading him on to talk about the river, and the river people. in that first adventure at the ohio's forks rasba had discovered his own misconceptions, and the truth of the mississippi had been partly revealed to him. what the tug was to the big sandy, what the big sandy was to the ohio, the ohio was to the mississippi. what he had looked to as the end was but the beginning, and rasba was lost in the immensity of the river that was a mile wide, thousands of miles long, and unlike anything the mountain preacher had ever dreamed of. if this was the mississippi, what must the jordan be? "my name's prebol," the man said, "jest prebol. i live on old mississip'! i live anywhere, down by n'orleans, vicksburg--everywhere! i'm a grafter, i am--" "a grafter?" rasba repeated the strange word. "yas, suh, cyards, an' tradin' slum, barberin' mebby, an' mebby some otheh things. i can sell patent medicine to a doctor, i can! i clean cisterns, an' anything." "you gamble?" rasba demanded, grasping one fact. "sho!" prebol grinned. "who all mout _yo'_ be?" "elijah rasba," was the reply. "i am seeking a soul lost from the sheepfold of god. i ask but the strength to find him." "a parson?" prebol asked, doubtfully, his eyes resting a little in their uneasy flickerings. "one of them missionaries?" "no, suh." rasba shook his head, humbly. "jes' a mountang parson, lookin' for one po'r man, low enough fo' me to he'p, maybe." prebol made no reply or comment. his mind was grappling with a fact and a condition. he could not tell what he thought. he remembered with some worriment, that he had cursed under the pain of the dressing of the wound. he knew that it never brought any man good luck to swear within ear-range of any parson. he could think of nothing to do, just then, so he pretended weariness, which was not all pretense, at that. rasba left him to go to sleep on his cot, and went over to his own boat, where, after an audible session on his knees, he went to bed, and fell into a sound and dreamless sleep. in the morning, when the parson awakened, his first thought was of his patient, and he started out to look after the man. he looked at the face of the sandbar reef against which the little red shanty-boat had been moored. the boat was gone! rasba, studying the hard sand, soon found the prints of bare feet, and he knew that prebol had taken his departure precipitately, but the reason why was not so apparent to the man who had read many a wild turkey track, deer runway, and trails of other game. from sun-up till nearly noon, while he made and ate his breakfast, and while he turned to the scriptures for some hint as to this river man's mind, his thoughts turned again and again to the pictures which prebol's tales, boastings, whinings, and condition had inspired. he felt his own isolation, strangeness, and ignorance. he could not understand the man who had fled from assistance and succour; at the same time the liveliness of his fancy reverted again and again to the woman living alone in such a desolation, shooting whoever menaced. that type was not new to him. up in his own country he had known of women who had stood at their rifles, returning shot for shot of feud raiders. the pathetic courage of the woman who had shot prebol appealed to him. the wounded man, wicked beyond measure, and the woman assailed, he realized, were like hundreds of other men and women whose shanty-boats he had seen down the ohio river, and which lurked in bends and reaches on both sides of the mississippi. "give thyself no rest!" he read, and he obeyed. he believed that he had a black sin to expiate, and he dared not begin what his soul was hungering to do, because knowing wickedness, he had deliberately sinned. alternately, he read his bible and prayed. late in the day he dropped out of the eddy and floated on down. "i 'low i can keep on huntin' for jock drones," he told himself. "i shore can do that, yes, indeed!" chapter viii having rid herself of the leering river rat, nelia crele trembled for a time in weak dismay, the reaction from her tense and fiery determination to protect herself at all costs. but she quickly gathered her strength and, having brewed a pot of strong coffee, thrown together a light supper, and settled back in her small, but ample, rocking chair, she reviewed the incidents of her adventure; the flight from her worthless husband and her assumption of the right to protect herself. after all, shooting a man was less than running away from her husband. she could regard the matter with a rather calm spirit and even a laughing scorn of the man who had thought to impose himself on her, against her own will. "that's it!" she said, half aloud, "i needn't to allow any man to be mean to me!" she had given her future but little thought; now she wondered, and she pondered. she was free, she was independent, and she was assured of her living. she had even been more shrewd than old attorney menard had suspected; the money she had left with him was hardly half of her resources. she had another plan, by which she would escape the remote possibility of menard's proving faithless to his trust, as attorneys with his opportunities sometimes have proved. nelia crele could not possibly be regarded as an ordinary woman, as a mere commonplace, shack-bred, pretty girl. down through the years had come a strain of effectiveness which she inherited in its full strength; she was as inexplicable as abraham lincoln. her stress of mind relieved, she regarded the shooting of the man with increasing satisfaction, since by such things a woman could be assured of respect. gaiety had never been a part of her childhood or girlhood; she had withstood the insidious attacks and menaces that threatened her down to the day when gus carline had come to her. courted by him, married, and then living in the clammy splendour of the house of a back-country rich man, she had found no happiness, but merely a kind of animal comfort. she had had the carline library to read, and she had brought with her the handy pocket volumes which had been her own and her delight. she was glad of the foresight which enabled her to put into a set of book shelves the companions which had, alone, been her comfort and inspiration during the few years of her wedded misery. now, on the mississippi, in the shanty-boat, she need consult only her own fancy and whim. mistress of her own affairs, as she supposed, she could read or she could think. "i do what i please!" she thought, a little defiantly. "it's nobody's business what i do now; what'd mrs. plosell care what people said about her? i'll read, if i want to, and i'll flirt if i want to--and i'll do anything i want to----" she reckoned without the mississippi. everybody does, at first. her money was but a means to an end. she knew its use, its value, and the perfect freedom which it gave her; its protection was not underestimated. at the same time, sloth was no sin of hers. living on the river insured physical activity; her books insured her mental engagement. she had lived so many years in combat with grim necessity that the lesson of thrift of all her resources had been brought home to her. having been waylaid by circumstance so often, she took grim care now to count the costs, and to insure her getting what she was seeking. the trouble was she could not disassociate her feelings from her ideas. they were inextricably interwoven. the brief years of her wedlock had been in one way a disillusionment, in another a revelation. she had found her own hunger for learning, her own strength and weakness, and while she had lost to the widow plosell, she had clearly seen that it was not her fault but gus carline's meagreness of mind and shallowness of soul. instead of losing her confidence, she had found her own ability. for hours she debated there by her pretty lamp, with the curtains down, and the comforting and reassuring weight of the automatic pistol in her lap. she knew that she must never have that weapon at arm's length from her, but as she remembered where it had come from she wondered to think that she had so easily refused the suggestion of frank, the market hunter. "it's all right, though," she shrugged her shoulders, "i can take care of myself, and being alone, i can think things out!" in mid-morning she cut loose from the bank and floated away down stream. the river was very wide, and covered with crossing-ripples. she looked down what the map showed was the chute of hacker tow head, and then the current carried her almost to the bank at the head of buffalo island. here there was a stretch of caving bank; the earth, undercut by the river current, was lumping off in chunks and slices. her boat bobbed and danced in the waves from the cave-ins, and the rocking pleased her fancy. the names along this bit of river awakened her interest; blackbird island was clearly described: buffalo island harked back many years into tradition; dogtooth island was a matter of river shape; but saladin, tow head and orient field stirred her imagination, for they might reveal the scene of steamboat disasters or some surveyor's memory of the arabian nights. below dogtooth island, under brooks point, were a number of golden sandbars and farther down, in the lower curve of the famous s-bends she read the name "greenleaf," which was pretty and picturesque. she was living! every minute called upon some resource of her brain. she had read in old books things which gave even the name cairo, at the foot of the long, last reach of the upper mississippi, a significance of far lands and egyptian mysteries. gratefully she understood that the mississippi was summoning ideals which ought to have been called upon long since when in the longings of her girlhood she had been circumspect and patient, keeping her soul satisfied with dreams of fairies playing among the petals of hill-side flowers, or gnomes wandering among the stalks of toll-yielding cornfields. mature, now; fearless--and, as the word romped through her mind in all its changes, free--free!--she played with her thoughts. but below greenleaf bend, as another day was lost in waning evening, she early sought a sandbar mooring at the foot of missouri sister island, where there were two other shanty-boats, one of them with two children on the sand. she need not dread a boat where children were found. possibly she would be able to talk to another woman, which would be a welcome change, having had so much of her own thoughts! this other woman was mrs. disbon, out of the missouri. she and her husband had been five years coming down from the yellowstone, and they had fished, trapped, and enjoyed themselves in their -foot cabin-boat home. of course, taking care of two children on a shanty-boat was a good deal of work and some worry, for one or the other was always falling overboard, but since they had learned to swim it hadn't been so bad, and they could take care of themselves. "you all alone?" mrs. disbon asked. "i'm alone," nelia admitted, having told her name as nelia crele. "well, i don't know as i blame you," mrs. disbon declared, looking at her husband doubtfully. "seems to me that on the average, men are more of a nuisance than they're worth. it's which and t'other about them. i see you've had experience?" nelia looked down at her wedding ring. "yes, i've had experience," she nodded. "going clear down?" "you mean----?" "n'orleans?" "why, i hadn't thought much about it." "the lower river's pretty bad." disbon looked up from cleaning his repeating shotgun. "my first trip was out of the ohio and down to n'orleans. i wouldn't recommend to no woman that she go down thataway, not alone. theh's junker-pirates use up from n'orleans, and, course, there's always more or less meanness below cairo. above st. louis it ain't so bad, but mean men draps down from little klondike." "i haven't made up my mind," nelia said, adding, with a touch of bitterness, "i don't reckon it makes so much difference!" "lots that comes down feel thataway," mrs. disbon nodded, with sympathy, "seems like some has more'n their share, and some considerable less!" nelia remained there three days, for there was good company, and a two-day rain had set in between midnight and dawn on the following morning. there was no hurry, and she was going nowhere. she had the whole family over to supper the second night, and she ate two meals or so with them. the other shanty-boat, about a hundred yards down stream, was an old man's. he had a soldier's pension, and he lived in serene restfulness, reading general grant's memoirs, and poring over the documents of the rebellion, discovering points of military interest and renewing his own memories of his part in thirty-odd battles with grant before vicksburg and down the line with the army of the potomac. nelia could have remained there indefinitely, but restlessness was in her mind, as long as she had so much money on board her little shanty-boat. disbon knew so many tales of river piracy that she saw the wisdom of settling her possessions, either at cairo or memphis, whichever should prove best. landing against the bank just above the ferry, she walked over to cairo and sought for a man who had hired her father to help him hunt for wild turkeys. he was a banker, and would certainly be the right kind of a man to help her, if he would. "mr. brankeau," she addressed him in his office, "i don't know if you remember me, but you came hunting to the river bottoms below st. genevieve, one time, and you and father went over into missouri, hunting turkeys." "remember you?" he exclaimed. "why--you--of course! mrs. carline--nelia crele!" she met his questioning gaze unflinchingly. "i know i can trust you," she said, simply. "if you'd known gus carline!" "i knew his father," brankeau said. "i reckon as faithless a scoundrel as ever lived. old man carline left his first wife and two babies up in indiana--i know all about that family! i saw by the newspapers----" "i want some railroad stocks, so i can have interest on my money," she said by way of nature of her presence there. "when we separated, he let me have this paper, showing he wanted me to share his fortune----" "he was white as that?" brankeau exclaimed, astonished at the paper carline had signed. "he was that white," she replied, her eyes narrowing. brankeau from the wideness of his experience, laughed. she, an instant later, laughed, too. "so you settled the question between you?" he suggested, "i thought from the newspapers he hadn't suspicioned--this paper--um-m!" "it's not a forgery, mr. brankeau," she assured him. "he was one of those gay sports, you know, and, for a change, he sported around with me, once. i came away between days. you know his failing." "several of them, especially drink," the man nodded "it's in cash?" "every dollar, taken through his own banks, on his own orders." "and you want?" "railroads, and some good industrial or two. here's the amount----" she handed him a neatly written note. he took out a little green covered book, showing lists of stocks, range of prices, condition of companies, and, together, they made out a list. when they had finished it, he read it into the telephone. within an hour the stocks had been purchased, and a week later, he handed her the certificates. she rented a safe deposit box and put them into it, subject only to her own use and purposes. "thank you, mr. brankeau," she said, and turned to leave. "where are you stopping?" he asked. "i'm a shanty-boater." "you mean it? not alone?" "yes," she admitted. "i wish i were twenty years younger," he mourned. "do you, why?" she looked at him, and, turning, fled. he caught up his top-coat and hat, but he went to the ohio river, instead of to the mississippi, where nelia stood doubtfully staring down at her boat from the top of the big city levee. at last, she cast off her lines and dropped on down into the forks. she sat on the bow deck of her boat, looking at the place where the pale, greenish ohio waters mingled with the tawny missouri flood. a gleam of gold drew her attention, as she glanced downward and she was startled to see her wedding ring, with its guard ring, still on her left hand; it had never been off since the day her husband placed it there. for a minute she looked at it, and then deliberately, with sustained calmness, removed the thin guard, and slipped the ring from its place. she put it upon the same finger of her right hand, where it was snug and the guard was not necessary. chapter ix a whisper, that became a rumour, which became a report, reached gage and found the ears of augustus carline, whose wife had disappeared sometime previously. after two wild days of drinking carline suddenly sobered up when the fact became assured that nelia had gone and really meant to remain away, perhaps forever. the thing that startled him into certainty was the paper which he found signed by himself, at the bank. he had forgotten all about signing the papers that night when nelia had shown herself to be the gayest sport of them all. now he found that he had signed away his stocks and bonds, and that he had given over his cash account. the amount was startling enough, but it did not include his real estate, of which about two thirds of his fortune had been composed. if it had been all stocks and bonds, he thought he would have been left with nothing. he considered himself at once fortunate and unlucky. "i never knew the old girl was as lively as that!" he told himself, and having tasted a feast, he could not regard the widow plosell as more than a lunch, and a light lunch, at that. nelia had been easily traced to chester. beyond chester the trail seemed to indicate that dick asunder had eloped with her, but ten days later asunder returned home with a bride whom he had married in st. louis. beyond chester nelia had left no trace, and there was nothing even to indicate whether she had taken the river steamer, the railroad train, or gone into flight with someone who was unknown and unsuspected. when carline, sobered and regretful, began to make searching inquiries, he learned that there were a score, or half a hundred men for whom old crele had acted as a hunter's and fisher's guide. these sportsmen had come from far and wide during many years, and both crele and her wistful mother admitted that many of them had shown signs of interest and even indications of affection for the girl as a child and as a pretty maid, daughter of a poor old ne'er-do-well. "but she was good," carline cried. "didn't she tell you she was going--or where she'd go?" "never a word!" the two denied. "but where would she go?" the frantic husband demanded. "did she never talk about going anywhere?" "well-l," old crele meditated, "peahs like she used to go down an' watch ole mississip' a heap. what'd she use to say, old woman? i disremember, i 'clar i do." "why, she was always wishing she knowed where all that river come from an' where all it'd be goin' to," mrs. crele at last recollected. "but she wouldn't dare--she wouldn't go alone?" carline choked. "prob'ly not, a gal favoured like her," old crele admitted, without shame. "i 'low if she was a-picking, she'd 'a' had the pick." cold rage alternated with hot fear in the mind of gus carline. if she had gone alone, he might yet overtake her; on the other hand, if she had gone with some man, he was in honour bound to kill that man. he was sensitive, now, on points of honour. the widow plosell, having succeeded in creating a favourable condition, from her viewpoint, sought to take advantage of it. she was, however, obliged to go seeking her recent admirer, only to discover that he blamed her--as men do--for his trouble. she consulted a lawyer to see if she could not obtain financial redress for her unhappy position, only to learn of her own financial danger should mrs. carline determine upon legal revenge. carline, between trying to convince himself that he was the victim of fate and the innocent sufferer from a domestic tragedy brought upon himself by events over which he had no control, fell to hating liquor as the chief cause of his discomfiture. then a whisper that became a rumour, which at last seemed to be a fact, said that nelia carline was somewhere down old mississip'. someone who knew her by sight was reported to have seen her in cape girardeau, and the husband raced down there in his automobile to see if he could not learn something about the missing woman, whose absence now proved what a place she had filled in his heart. there was no doubt of it. nelia had been there, but no one had happened to think to tell carline about it. she had landed in a pretty shanty-boat, the wharf-master said, and had pulled out just before a river man in a brick-red cabin-boat of small size had left the eddy. the river man had dropped in just behind her, and, according to the wharf-master: "i shore kept my eyes on that man, for he was a riveh rat!" the thought was sickening to carline. his wife floating down the river with a river rat close behind presented but two explanations: she was being followed for crime, or the two were just flirting on the river, together. he bought a pretty -foot motorboat, -inch draft with a -foot beam and a raised deck cabin. having stocked up with supplies, he started down the ohio to find his woman. he could not tell what his intention was, not even to himself; his mind, long weakened and depraved by liquor, lacked clarity of thought and distinctiveness of purpose. one hour he raged with anger, and murder blackened his heart; another minute, his shattered nerves left him in a panic of fears and remorse, and he hoped for nothing better than to beg his wife and sweetheart for forgiveness. at all times dread of what he might find at the end of the trail tormented him from terror to despair. his anguish overcame all his other sensations. it even overcame his lust for liquor. he grew sturdier under his affliction, so that when he arrived at cairo, and swung his craft smartly up to the wharf-boat, his eyes were clear and his skin was honestly coloured by sunshine and pure winds. here fortune favoured him with more news of his wife. the engineer of the cairo-missouri ferryboat had seen a young and pretty woman moored at the bank some distance from the landing. she had remained there upward of a week, having no visitors, and making daily visits over the levee into the little city. "one day she stood there, i bet half an hour, looking back, like she was waiting," the engineer said. "i seen her onto the levee top. then she come down, jumped aboard with her lines, an' pulled out to go on trippin' down. i wondered then wouldn't some man be following of her." when carline passed below the sandbar point, at which the ohio and mississippi mingle their waters, and the human flotsam from ten thousand towns is caught by swirling eddies, he found himself subdued by a shadow that fell athwart his course, dulling the fire of his own spirit with a doubt and an awe which he had never before known. his wife had gone past the jumping off place; he had heard a thousand jests about that fork of the rivers, without comprehending its deeper meaning, till in his own experience he, too, was flung down the tide by forces now beyond his control, though he himself had set them in motion. his suffering was no less acute, his mind was no less active, but it dawned slowly on him that, after all, the acute pain which was in his heart was no greater than the sorrow, the suffering, the poisoned deliriums of the thousands who had given themselves to this mighty flood, which was so vast and powerful that it dwarfed the senses of mortals to a feeling of the proper proportion of their affairs in the workings of the universe. insensibly, but surely, his pride began to fade and his selfishness began to give way to better understanding and kindlier counsels. that much the river spirit had done for him. he would not give up the search, but rather would he increase its thoroughness, and redouble his efforts. but he would never again be quite without sympathy, quite without understanding of sensations and experiences which were not of his own heart and soul. the river was a mile wide; its current surged from the deeps; it flowed down the bend and along the reach with a noiselessness, a resistlessness, a magnitude that seemed to carry him out of his whole previous existence--and so it did carry him. still human, still finite, prone to error and lack of comprehension, nevertheless augustus carline entered for the moment upon a new life recklessly and willingly. chapter x for a minute elijah rasba, as the mississippi revealed itself to him, contemplated a greater field for service than he had ever dreamed of. then, humbled in his pride at the thought of great success, he felt that it could not be; for such an opportunity an apostle was needed, and rasba's cheeks warmed with shame at the realization of the vanity in his momentary thought. he was grateful for the privilege of seeing the panorama that unrolled and unfolded before his eyes with the same slow dignity with which the great storm clouds boiled up from the long backs of the mountains of his own homeland. he missed the elevations, the clustered wildernesses, and ledges of stone against a limited sky, but in their places he saw the pale heavens in a dome that was uninterrupted from horizon to horizon. there seemed to be hardly any earth commensurate with the sky, and the river seemed to be flowing between bounds so low and insignificant that he felt as though it might break through one side or the other and fall into the chaos beyond the brim of the world. instinctively he removed his hat in this cathedral. familiar from childhood with mountains and deep valleys, the sense of power and motion in the river appealed to him as the ocean might have done. he looked about him with curiosity and inquiry. he felt as though there must be some special meaning for him in that immediate moment, and it was a long time before he could quite believe that this thing which he witnessed had continued far back beyond the memory of men, and would continue into the unquestionable future. he floated down stream from bend to bend, carried along as easily as in the full run of time. he looked over vast reaches, and hardly recognized other houseboats, tucked in holes along the banks, as craft like his own. the clusters of houses on points of low ridges did net strike him as veritable villages, but places akin to those of fairyland. all the rest of the day he dropped on down, not knowing which side he should land against, and filled with doubts as to where his duty lay. once he caught up his big oars and began to row toward a number of little shanty-boats moored against a sandbar, close down to a wooded bank, only to find that the river current carried him away despite his most muscular endeavours, so he accepted it as a sign that he should not land there. for a time rasba thought that perhaps he had better just let the river carry him whither it would, but upon reflection he remembered what an old raftsman, who had run strands of logs down clinch and holston, told him about the nature of rivers: "come a falling tide, an' she drags along the banks and all that's afloat keeps in the middle; but come a fresh an' a risin' tide, an' the hoist of the water is in the mid-stream, and what's runnin' rolls off to one side or the other, an' jams up into the drift piles." the philosophy of that was, for this occasion, that if old mississip' was falling, elijah rasba might never get ashore, not in all the rest of his born days, unless he stirred his boots. so catching up his sweep handles he began to push a long stroke toward the west bank, and his boat began to move on the river surface. under the two corners of his square bow appeared little swirls and tiny ripples as he approached the bank and drifted down in the edge of the current looking for a place to land. before he knew it, a big patch of woods grew up behind him, and when he felt the current under the boat slacken he discovered that he had run out of the mississippi river and was in a narrow waterway no larger than tug fork. "where all mout i be?" he gasped, in wonderment. he saw three houseboats just below him, moored against a sandbar, with hoop nets drying near by, blue smoke curling out of tin pipes, and two or three people standing by to look at the stranger. he rowed ashore and carried out a big roped stone, which he used as anchor; then he walked down the bar toward the man who watched his approach with interest. "i am elijah rasba," he greeted him. "i come down out of tug river; i am looking for jock drones; he's down thisaway, somewheres; can yo' all tell me whichaway is the mississippi river?" "i don't know him," the fisherman shook his head. "but this yeah is wolf island chute; the current caught you off of columbus bluffs, and you drifted in yeah; jes' keep a-floatin' an' d'rectly you'll see old mississip' down thataway." "it's near night," rasba remarked, looking at the sun through the trees. "i'm a stranger down thisaway; mout i get to stay theh?" "yo' can land anywhere's," the man said. "no man can stop you all!" "but a woman mout!" rasba exclaimed, with sudden humour. "yistehd'y evenin', up yonway, by the ohio river, i found a man shot through into his shanty-boat. he said he 'lowed to land along of the same eddy with a woman, an' she shot him almost daid!" "ho law!" the fisherman cried, and another man and three or four women drew near to hear the rest of the narrative. "how come hit?" rasba stood there talking to them, a speaker to an audience. he told of his floating down into the mississippi, and of his surprise at finding the river so large, so without end. he said he kind of wanted to ask the way of a shanty-boat, for a poor sinner must needs inquire of those he finds in the wilderness, and he heard a groan and a weak cry for help. "i cyard for him, and he thanked me kindly; he said a woman had shot him when he was trying to be friendly; a pretty woman, young and alone. co'rse, i washed his wound and i linimented it, and i cut the bullet out of his back; law me, but that man swore! come night, an' he heard say i was a parson, he apologized because he cursed, and this mo'nin' he'd done lit out, yas, suh! neveh no good-bye. scairt, likely, hearin' me pray theh because i needed he'p, an' 'count of me being glad of the chanct to he'p any man in trouble." "sho! who all mout that man be, parson?" "he said his name were jest prebol----" "ho law! somebody done plugged jest prebol!" one of the women cried out, laughing. "that scoundrel's be'n layin' off to git shot this long time, an' so he's got hit. i bet he won't think he's so winnin' of purty women no more! he's bad, that man, gamblin' an' shootin' craps an' workin' the banks. served him right, yes, indeedy. but he'd shore hate to know a parson hearn him cussin' an' swearin' around. hit don't bring a gambler any luck, bein' heard swearin', no." "nor if any one else hears him; not if he thinks swearin' in hisn's heart!" rasba shook his head gravely. "how come hit yo' know that man?" "he's used down this riveh ten-fifteen years; besides, he married my sister what's mrs. dollis now. hit were a long time ago, though, 'fore anybody knowed he wa'n't no good. i bet we hearn yo' was comin', parson. whiskey williams said they was a hallelujah singer comin' down the ohio--said he could hear him a mile. i bet yo' sing out loud sometimes?" "hit's so," rasba admitted. "i sung right smart comin' down the ohio. seems like i jest wanted to sing, like birds in the posey time." "prebol shore should git to a doctor, shot up thataway. he didn't say which lady shot him, parson?" a woman asked. "no; jes' a lady into an eddy into a lonesome bend." rasba shook his head. "a purty woman, livin' alone on this riveh. do many do that?" "riveh ladies all do, sometimes. i tripped from cairo to vicksburg into a skift once," a tall, angular woman said. "my man that use to be had stoled the shanty-boat what i'd bought an' paid for with my own money. i went up the bank at columbus hickories, gettin' nuts; i come back, an' my boat was gone. wa'n't i tearin' an' rearin'! well, i hoofed hit down to columbus, an' i bought me a skift, count of me always havin' some money saved up." "i bet vicksburg's a hundred mile!" rasba mused. "a hundred mile!" the woman said with a guffaw. "hit's six hundred an' sixty-three miles from cairo to vicksburg, yes, indeed. a hundred mile! i made hit in ten days, stoppin' along. i ketched it theh." "you found yo' man?" "shucks! hit wa'n't the man i wanted, hit were my boat--a nice, reg'lar pine an' oak-frame boat. i bet me i chucked him ovehbo'd, an' towed back up to memphis. hit were a good $ bo't, sports built, an' hits on the riveh yet--dart mitto's got hit, junkin'. you'll see him down by arkansaw old mouth if yo's trippin' right down." "i expect to," rasba replied, doubtfully. never in his life before had he talked in terms of hundreds of miles, cities, and far rivers, "yo'll know that boat; he's went an' painted hit a sickly yeller, like a railroad station. i hate yeller! gimme a nice light blue or a right bright green." "hyar comes anotheh bo't!" one of the men remarked, and all turned to look up the chute, where a little cabin-boat had drifted into sight. no one was on deck, and it was apparent that the columbus banks had shunted the craft clear across the river and down the chute, just as rasba himself had been carried. the shadow of the trees on the west side of the chute fell across the boat and immediately brought the tripper out of the cabin. a shadow is a warning on wide rivers. it tells of the nearness of a bank, or towhead, or even of a steamboat. in mid-stream there is little need for apprehension, but when the current carries one down into a caving bend and close to overhanging trees or along the edges of short, boiling eddies, it is time to get out and look for snags and jeopardies. seeing the group of people on the sandbar, the journeyer, who was a woman, took the sweeps of her boat and began to work over to them. "hit handles nice, that bo't!" one of the fishermen said. "pulls jes' like a skift. wonder who that woman is?" "i've seen her some'rs," the powerful, angular woman, mrs. cooke, said after a time. "them's swell clothes she's got on. she's all alone, too, an' what a lady travels alone down yeah for i don't know. she's purty enough to have a husband, i bet, if she wants one." "looks like one of them pittsburgh er cincinnati women," jim caope declared. "no." mrs. caope shook her head. "she's off'n the riveh. leastwise, she handles that bo't reg'lar. i cayn't git to see her face, but i seen her some'rs, i bet. i can tell a man by hisns walk half a mile." in surprise she stared at the boat as it came nearer, and then walked down to the edge of the bar to greet the newcomer. "why, i jes' knowed i'd seen yo' somers! how's yer maw?" she greeted. "ho law! an' yo's come tripping down ole mississip'! i 'clare, now, i'd seen yo', an' i knowed hit, an' hyar yo' be, nelia crele. did yo' git shut of that up-the-bank feller yo' married, nelia?" "i'm alone," the girl laughed, her gaze turning to look at the others, who stood watching. "if yo' git a good man," mrs. caope philosophized, "hang on to him. don't let him git away. but if yo' git somebody that's shif'less an' no 'count, chuck him ovehbo'd. that's what i b'lieve in. well, i declare! hand me that line an' i'll tie yo' to them stakes. betteh throw the stern anchor over, fo' this yeah's a shallows, an' the riveh's eddyin', an' if hit don't go up hit'll go down, an'----" "theh's a head rise coming out the ohio," someone said. "yo' won't need no anchor over the stern!" "sho! i'm glad to see yo'!" mrs. caope cried, wrapping her arms around the young woman as she stepped down to the sand, and kissing her. "how is yo' maw?" "very well, indeed!" nelia laughed, clinging to the big river woman's hand. "i'm so glad to find someone i know!" "you'll know us all d'rectly. hyar's my man, mr. caope--real nice feller, too, if i do say hit--an' hyar's mrs. dobstan an' her two darters, an' this is mr. falteau, who's french and married may, there, an' this feller--say, mister, what is yo' name?" "rasba, elijah rasba." "mr. rasba, he's a parson, out'n the tug fork of the big sandy, comin' down. miss nelia crele, suh. i disremember the name of that feller yo' married, nelia." "it doesn't matter," nelia turned to the mountain man, her face flushing. "a preacher down this river?" "i'm looking for a man," rasba replied, gazing at her, "the son of a widow woman, and she's afraid for him. she's afraid he'll go wrong." "and you came clear down here to look for him--a thousand, two thousand miles?" she continued, quickly. "i had nothing else to do--but that!" he shook his head. "you see, missy, i'm a sinner myse'f!" he turned and walked away with bowed head. they all watched him with quick comprehension and real sympathy. chapter xi jest prebol, sore and sick with his bullet wound, but more alarmed on account of having sworn so much while a parson was dressing his injury, could not sleep, and as he thought it over he determined at last to cut loose and drop on down the river and land in somewhere among friends, or where he could find a doctor. but the practised hand of rasba had apparently left little to do, and it was superstitious dread that worried prebol. so the river rat crept out on the sandbar, cast off the lines, and with a pole in one hand, succeeded in pushing out into the eddy where the shanty-boat drifted into the main current. prebol, faint and weary with his exertions, fell upon his bunk. there in anguish, delirious at intervals, and weak with misery, he floated down reach, crossing, and bend, without light or signal. in olden days that would have been suicide. now the river was deserted and no steamers passed him up or down. his cabin-boat, but a rectangular shade amidst the river shadows, drifted like a leaf or chip, with no sound except when a coiling jet from the bottom suckled around the corners or rippled along the sides. the current carried him nearly six miles an hour, but two or three times his boat ran out of the channel and circled around in an eddy, and then dropped on down again. morning found him in mid-stream, between two wooded banks, as wild as primeval wilderness, apparently. the sun, which rose in a white mist, struck through at last, and the soft light poured in first on one side then on the other as the boat swirled around. once the squirrels barking in near-by trees awakened the man's dim consciousness, but a few minutes later he was in mid-stream, making a crossing where the river was miles wide. he passed hickman just before dawn, and toward noon he dropped by new madrid, and the slumping of high, caving banks pounded in his ears down three miles of changing channel. then the boat crossed to the other side and he lay there with eyes seared and staring. he discovered a grave stone poised upon the river bank, but he could not tell whether it was fancy or fact that the ominous thing bent toward him and fell with a splash into the river, while a wave tossed his boat on its way. he heard a quavering whine that grew louder until it became a shriek, and then fell away into silence, but his senses were slow in connecting it with one of the tiptonville cotton gins. he heard a voice, curiously human, and having forgotten the old hay-burner river ferry, worried to think that he should imagine someone was driving a mule team on the mississippi. for a long time he was in acute terror, because he thought he was blind, and could not see, but to his amazed relief he saw a river light and knew that another night had fallen upon him, so he went to sleep once more. voices awakened him. he opened his eyes, and the surroundings were familiar. he smelled iodine, and saw a man looking over a doctor's case. leaning against the wall of the cabin-boat was a tall, slender young man with arms folded. "how's he comin' doc'?" the young man was saying. "he'll be all right. how long has he been this way?" "don't know, doc; he come down the riveh an' drifted into this eddy. i see his lips movin', so i jes' towed 'im in an' sent fo' yo'!" "just as well, for that wound sure needed dressing. i 'low a horse doctor fixed hit first time," the physician declared. "he'll need some care now, but he's comin' along." "oh, we'll look afteh him, doc! friend of ourn." "i'll come in to-morrow. it's written down what to do, and about that medicine. you can read?" "howdy," prebol muttered, feebly. "he's a comin' back, doc!" the young man cried, starting up with interest. "well, old sport, looks like you'd got mussed up some?" the doctor inquired. "yas, suh," prebol grinned, feebly, his senses curiously clear. "hit don't pay none to mind a lady's business fo' her, no suh!" "a lady shot you, eh?" "yas, suh," prebol grinned. "'peahs like i be'n floatin' about two mile high like a flock o' ducks. where all mout i be?" "little prairie bend." "into that bar eddy theh?" "yas, suh--the short eddy." "much obliged, doc. co'se i'll pay yo'----" "your friend's paid!" "yas, suh," prebol whispered, sleepily, tired by the exertion and excitement. "sleep'll do him good," the doctor said, and returned to his little motorboat. the young man went on board his own boat which was moored just below prebol's. as he entered the cabin, a burly, whiskered man looked up and said: "how's he coming, slip?" "doc says he's all right. jest said a woman shot him for tryin' to mind her business, kind-a laughed about hit." "theh! i always knowed a man that'd chase women the way he done'd git what's comin'. a woman'll make trouble quicker'n anything else on gawd's earth, she will." "sho! buck, yo's soured!" "hit's so 'bout them women!" buck protested. "if a man'd mind his business, an' not try to mind their business, women'd be plumb amusin'," slip laughed. "wait'll yo've had experience," buck retorted. "shucks! ain't i had experience?" "eveh married?" "no-o." "eveh have a lady sic' yo' onto some'n bigger'n yo' is?" "no-o; reckon i pick my own people to scrap." "theh! that shows how much yo' don't know about women. never had no woman yo' 'lowed to marry?" "huh! catch me gittin' married--co'se not." "sonny, lemme tell yo'; hit ain't yo'll do the catchin', an' hit won't be yo' who'll be decidin' will yo' git married. an' hit won't be yo' who'll decide how long yo'll stay married, no, indeed." "peah's like yo' got an awful grouch ag'in women, buck." "why shouldn't i have?" buck started up from shuffling and throwing a book of cards. "look't me. if jest prebol's shot most daid by a woman, look't me. do you know me--where i come from, where the hell i'm goin'? yo' bet you don't. i've been shanty-boatin' fifteen years, but i ain't always been a shanty-boater, no, i haven't. talk to me about women. when i think what i've took from one woman--sho!" he stared at the floor, his teeth clenched and his strong face set. slip stared. his pal had disclosed a new phase of character. buck turned and glared into slip's eyes. "i'll tell you, slip, you're helpless when it comes to women. they've played the game for ten thousand years, practised it every day, wearing down men's minds and men never knew it. read history, as i've done. study psychology, as i have. go down into the fundamentals of human experience and human activities, and learn the lesson. fifteen years i've been up and down these rivers, from fort benton to the passes, from the foothills of the rockies to the headwaters of clinch and holston in the appalachians. why? because one woman sang her way into my heart, and because she tied my soul to her little finger, and when she found that i could not escape--when she had--when she had--what do you know about women?" slip stared at him. his pal, partner in river enterprises, an old river man, who talked little and who played the slickest games in the slickest way, had suddenly emerged like a turtle's head, and spoken in terms of science, education, breeding--regular quality folks' talk--under stress of an argument about women. and they had argued the subject before with jest and humour and without personal feeling. buck turned away, bent and shivering. "i 'low i'll roast up them squirrels fo' dinner?" slip suggested. "they'll shore go good!" buck assented. "i'll mux around some hot-bread, an' some gravy." "i got to make some meat soup for that feller, too." "huh! jest prebol's one of them damned fools what tried to forget a woman among women," buck sneered. at intervals during the day slip went over and gave prebol his medicine, or fed him on squirrel meat broth; toward night they floated their -foot shanty-boat out into the eddy, and anchored it a hundred yards from the bank, where the sheriff of lake county, tennessee, no longer had jurisdiction. in the late evening slip lighted a big carbide light and turned it toward the town on the opposite bank. pretty soon they heard the impatient dip of skiff oars, a river fisherman came aboard, and stood for a minute over the heater stove, warming his fingers. he soon went to the long, green-topped crap table in the end of the room, and slip stood opposite, to throw bones against him. a tiny motorboat crossed a little later; and three men, two heavy set and one a slim youth, entered, to sit down at one of the little round tables and play a game. one by one other patrons appeared, and soon there were fourteen or fifteen. slip and buck glided about among them quietly, their eyes alert, their hats drawn down over their eyes, taking a hand here, throwing bones there, poking up the coal fire, putting on coffee, making sandwiches, every moment on the _qui vive_, communicating with each other by jerks of the hand, lifting of shoulders, or the faintest of whisperings. a jar against the side of the boat sent one or other of the two out to look, to greet a newcomer or to fend off a drift log. a low whistle from the stern took buck through the aisle between the staterooms to the kitchen where a rat-eyed little man waited him on the stern deck, "lo, buck! i'm drappin' down in a hurry; i learn yo' was heah. theh's a feller drapping down out the ohio; he's lookin' fo' a feller name of jock drones--didn't hear what for. yo' know 'im?" "nope, but i'll pass the word around." "s'long!" "jock drones--huh!" buck repeated, turning into the lamp-lit kitchen where slip was sniffing the coffee pot. "friend of mine just stopped," buck whispered. "there's a detective coming down out of the ohio. told me to pass the word around. he's after somebody by the name of drones, dock or jock drones." slip started, turned white, and his jaws parted. buck's eyes opened a little wider. "s'all right, slip! keep your money in your belt, to be ready to run or swim. it's a long river." slip could not trust himself to speak. buck, patting him on the shoulder, went on into the card room and closed the kitchen door behind him, drawing the aisle curtains shut, too, so that no one would go back until slip had recovered his equilibrium. chapter xii augustus carline instinctively slowed down his motorboat and took to looking at the wide river, its quivering, palpitating surface; its vistas at which he had to "look twice to see the end," as the river man says with whimsical accuracy. negligent and thoughtless, he could now feel some things which had never occurred to him before: his loneliness, his doubts, his very helplessness and indecision. his wife had been like an island around which he sailed and cruised, sure in his consciousness that he could return at any time to that safe mooring. he had returned to find the island gone, himself adrift on a boundless ocean, and he did not know which way to turn. the cays and islets, the interesting rocks and the questionable coral reefs supplied him with not the slightest semblance of shelter, support, or safety. he did not even know which side of the river to go to, nor where to begin his search. he was wistful for human companionship, but as he looked at the distant shanty-boats, and passed a river town or two, he found himself diffident and shamed. he saw a woman in a blue mother-hubbard dress leaning against the cabin of her low, yellow shanty-boat, a cap a-rake on her head, one elbow resting on her palm, and in the other a long-stemmed missouri meerschaum. her face was as hard as a man's, her eyes were as blue and level as a deputy sheriff's in the bad lands, and her lips were straight and thin. how could a man ask her if she had seen his wife going down that way? he stopped his motor and let his boat drift. he wondered what he could or would say when he overtook nelia. there struck across his imagination the figure of a man, the unknown who had, perhaps, promised her the care he had never given her, the affection which she had almost never had from him. having won her, this unknown would likely defy him down there in that awful openness and carelessness of the river. he found a feeling of insignificance making its way into his mind. he had been vain of his looks, but what did looks amount to down there? he had been proud of his money, but what privilege did money give him on that flood? he had rejoiced in his popularity and the attention women paid him, but the indifferent gaze of that smoking amazon chilled his self-satisfaction. he cringed as he seemed to see nelia's pretty eyes glancing at him, her puzzled face as she apparently tried to remember where she had seen him. the river wilted the crumpling flower of his pride. as his boat turned like a compass needle in the surface eddies he saw a speck far up stream. he brought out his binoculars and looked at it, thinking that it was some toy boat, but to his astonishment it turned out to be a man in a skiff. it occurred to carline that he wished he could talk to someone, to any one, about anything. he had no resources of his own to draw on. he had always been obliged to be with people, talk to people, enjoy people; the silences of his wife's tongue had been more difficult for him to bear than her edged words. the skiff traveller, leisurely floating in that block of river, drew him irresistibly. he kicked over the flywheel and steered up stream, but only enough partly to overcome the speed of the current. the sensation of being carried down in spite of the motor power, complicated with the rapid approach of the stranger in his skiff, was novel and amusing. when he stopped the motor, the rowboat was within a hundred feet of him, and the two men regarded each other with interest and caution. the traveller was unusual, in a way. on his lap was a portable typewriter, in the stern of the boat a bundle of brown canvas; a brass oil stove was on the bottom at the man's feet; behind him in the bow were a number of tins, cans, and boxes. neither spoke for some time, and then carline hailed: "nice, pretty day on the river!" "fine!" the other replied. "out the ohio?" "no--well, yes--i started at evansville, where i bought this boat, but i live up the mississippi, at kaskaskia--gage, they call it now." "yes? i stopped at menard's on my way down from st louis." "when was that?" "about ten days ago--tell you in a minute--monday a week!" a big quarto loose-leaf notebook had revealed the day and date. "well, say--i----?" carline's one question leaped to his lips but remained unasked. for the minute he could not ask it. the thing that had been his rage, and then his wonder, suddenly drew back into his heart as a secret sorrow. "won't you come over?" carline asked, "it'd be company!" "yes, it'll be company," the other admitted, and with a pull of his oars brought the skiff alongside. he climbed aboard, painter in hand, and making the light line fast to one of the cleats, sat down on the locker across from his host. "my name's carline." "mine's lester terabon; a newspaper let me come down the river to write stories about it; it's the biggest thing i ever saw!" "it's an awful size!" carline admitted, looking around over his shoulder, and terabon watched the face. "are you a river man?" the visitor asked. "no. my father was a big farmer, and he made some money when they put a railroad through one of his places." "just tripping down to see the river?" "no-o--well----" carline hesitated, looking overside at the water. "that must be wolf island over there?" the reporter suggested. carline looked at the island. he looked down the main river and over toward the chute toward which the columbus bluffs had shunted them. then he started the motor and steered into the main channel to escape the rippling shoals which flickered in the sunshine ahead of them, past an island sandbar. "i don't know if it's wolf island." carline shook his head. "i'm looking for somebody--somebody who came down this way." the traveller waited. he looked across the current to the bluffs now passing up stream, columbus and all. "i don't suppose you find very much to write about, coming down?" carline changed his mind. for answer terabon drew his skiff alongside and reached for his typewriter. as he began to write, he said: "i write everything down--big or little. a man can't remember everything, you know." "make good money writing for the newspapers?" "enough to live on," terabon replied, "and, of course, it's living, coming down old mississip'!" "you like it travelling in that skiff? where do you sleep?" "i stretch that canvas between the gunwales in those staples; i put those hoops up, and draw a canvas over the whole length of the boat. i can sleep like a baby in its cradle." "well, that's one way," carline replied, doubtfully. "if i owned this old river, you could buy it for two cents." terabon laughed, and after a minute carline joined in, but he had told the truth. he hated the river, and he was cowed by it; yet he could not escape its clutches. "i fancy it hasn't always treated you right," terabon remarked. "treated me right!" carline doubled his fists and stiffened where he sat. "it's!--it's----" he could not speak for his emotion, but his little pointed chin trembled a minute later as he relaxed and looked over his shoulder again. the typewriter clicked along for minutes, terabon's fingers dancing over the keys as he put down, word for word, and motion for motion, the man who was afraid of the river and yet was tripping down it. it seemed as though the man afraid must have some kind of courage, too, because he was going in spite of his fears. "it's passing noon, and i think i'll get something to eat," terabon suggested; "i'll get up my----" "i forgot to eat!" carline said. "i've got everything, and that knob there is a three-burner oil stove. we'll eat on board. never mind your stuff, i've got so much it'll spoil--but i ain't much of a cook!" "i'm the original cook the cæsars wanted to buy for gold!" terabon boasted. "i got some squirrels, there, i killed up on buffalo island, and we'll fry them." nor did he fail to make his boast good, for he soon had hot-bread, gravy browned in the pan, boiled sweet potatoes, and canned corn ready for the table. when they sat down to eat, carline confessed that he hadn't had a real meal for a week except one he ate in a cairo restaurant. "i could have got a kind of a meal," he admitted, "but you see i was worried a good deal. did you stop at stillhouse island?" "where's that?" "just above gage, kind of across from st. genevieve." "let's see--oh, yes. there was an old fellow there, what's his name? he told me if i happened to see his daughter i should tell her to write him, for her mother wanted to hear." "he said that! and you--it was crele, darien crele said that?" "that's the name--nelia, his daughter." "yes, sir. i know. i guess i know! she's my wife--she was--it's her----" "you're looking for?" "yes, sir; she ran away and left me. she came down here." "kind of a careless girl, i imagine?" "careless! god, no! the finest woman you ever saw. it was me--i was to blame. i never knew, i never knew!" for a minute he held up his arms, looking tensely at the sky, struggling to overcome the emotion that long had been boiling up in his heart, rending the self-complacency of his mind. then he broke down--broke down abjectly, and fell upon the cabin floor, crying aloud in his agony, while the newspaper man sitting there whispered to himself: "poor devil, here's a story! he's sure getting his. i don't want to forget this; got to put this down. poor devil!" chapter xiii "and he says he's a sinner himself," nelia repeated, when she returned on board her cabin-boat in the sheltering safety of wolf island chute, with mamie caope, parson rasba, and the other shanty-boaters within a stone's toss of her. till she was among them, among friends she trusted, she had not noticed the incessant strain which she endured down those long, grim river miles. now she could give way, in the privacy of her boat, to feminine tears and bitterness. courage she had in plenty, but she had more sensitiveness than courage. she was not yet tuned to the river harmonies. something in rasba's words, or it was in his voice, or in the quick, full-flood of his glance, touched her senses. "you see, missy, i'm a sinner myse'f!" what had he meant? if he had meant that she, too, was a sinner, was that any of his business? of course, being a parson--she shrugged her shoulders. her thoughts ran swiftly back to her home that used-to-be. she laughed as she recalled the deprecatory little man who had preached in the church she had occasionally attended. she compared the trim, bird-like perspicuity and wing-flap gestures of rev. mr. beeve with the slow, huge turn and stand-fast of parson rasba. she was glad to escape the mississippi down this little chute; she was glad to have a phrase to puzzle over instead of the ever-present problem of her own future and her own fate; she was glad that she had drifted in on mrs. mame caope and jim and mr. falteau and mrs. dobstan and parson rasba, instead of falling among those other kinds of people. mrs. caope was an old acquaintance of her mother who had lived all her life on the rivers. she was a better boatman than most, and could pilot a stern-wheel whiskey boat or set hoop nets for fish. "if i get a man, and he's mean," mrs. caope had said often, "i shift him. i 'low a lady needs protection up the bank er down the riveh, but i 'low if my cookin' don't pay my board, an' if fish i take out'n my nets ain't my own, and the boat i live in ain't mine--well, i've drapped two men off'n the stern of my boat to prove hit!" mrs. caope had not changed at all, not in the years nelia could recall, except to change her name. it was the custom, to ask, perfectly respectfully, what name she might be having now, and mrs. mame never took offence, being good natured, and understanding how hard it was to keep track of her matrimonial adventures, episodes of sentiment but without any nonsense. "sho!" mrs. caope had said once, "i disremember if i couldn't stand him er he couldn't stand me!" nelia, adrift in her own life, and sure now that she never had really cared very much for gus carline, admitted to herself that her husband had been only a step up out of the poverty and misery of her parents' shack. "you see, missy, i'm a sinner myse'f!" her ears had caught the depths of the pathos of his regret and sorrow, and she pitied him. at the same time her own thoughts were ominous, and her face, regular, bright, vivacious, showed a hardness which was alien to it. nelia went over to mrs. caope's for supper, and parson rasba was there, having brought in a wild goose which he had shot on wolf island while going about his meditations that afternoon. mrs. caope had the goose sizzling in the big oven of her coal range--coal from pittsburgh barges wrecked along the river on bars--and the big supper was sweeter smelling than rasba ever remembered having waited for. mrs. caope told him to "ask one of them blessin's if yo' want, parson!" and the four bowed their heads. jim caope then fell upon the bird, neck, wings, and legs, and while he carved mrs. caope scooped out the dressing, piled up the fluffy biscuits, and handed around the soup tureen full of gravy. then she chased the sauce with glass jars full of quivering jellies, reaching with one hand to take hot biscuits from the oven while she caught up the six-quart coffee pot with the other. "i ain't got no patience with them women that don't feed their men!" she declared. "about all men want's a full stomach, anyhow, an' if you could only git one that wa'n't lazy, an' didn't drink, an' wasn't impedent, an' knowed anything, besides, you'd have something. ain't that so, nelia?" "oh, indeed yes," nelia cried, from the fullness of her experience, which was far less than that of the hostess. after they had eaten, they went from the kitchen into the sitting room, where rasba turned to nelia. "you came down the river alone?" he asked. "yes," she admitted. "i wonder you wouldn't be scairt up of it--nights, and those lonesome bends?" "it's better than some other things." nelia shook her head. "besides, you've come alone down the ohio yourself." he looked at her, and mrs. caope chuckled. "but--but you're a woman!" rasba exclaimed. "suppose a mean man came aboard your boat, and--and tried to rob you," nelia asked, level voiced, "what would you do?" "why, course, i'd--i'd likely stop him." "you'd throw him overboard?" "well--if hit were clost to the bank an' he could swim, i mout." nelia and the caopes laughed aloud, and rasba joined in the merriment. when the laughter had subsided, rasba said: "the reason i was asking, as i came by the river forks i found a little red boat there with a man on the cabin floor shot through----" "dead?" nelia gasped. "no, just kind of pricked up a bit, into one shoulder. he said a lady shot him because he 'lowed to land into the same eddy with her." "but--where----?" nelia half-whispered. "where did he go?" "hit were jest prebol," mrs. caope said. "you was tellin' of him, parson." "hit were prebol," rasba nodded, "an' he shore needed shooting!" "yas, suh. that kind has to be shot some to make 'em behave theirselves," mrs caope exclaimed, sharply. "if it wa'n't fer ladies shootin' men onct in awhile, down old mississip', why, ladies couldn't git to live here a-tall!" "and women, sometimes, don't do men any good," rasba mused, aloud, "i've wondered right smart about hit. you see, a parson circuit rides around, an' he sees a sight more'n he tells. lawse, he shore do!" the two women glared at him, but he was studying his huge hands, first the backs and then the calloused palms. he was really wondering, so the two women glanced at each other, laughing. the idea that probably some men needed protection from women could not help but amuse while it exasperated them. "prebol said," rasba continued, "hit were a pretty woman, young an' alone. 'how'd i know?' he asked. 'how'd i know she were a spit-fire an' mean, theh all alone into a lonesome bend? how'd i know?'" "i 'low he shore found out," mrs. caope spoke up, tartly, and nelia looked at her gratefully. "hit takes a bullet to learn fellers like jest prebol--an' him thinkin' he's so smart an' such a lady killer. i bet he knows theh's some ladies that's men killers, too, now. next time he meets a lady he'll wait to be invited 'fore he lands into the same eddy with her, even if hit's a three-mile eddy." "theh's mrs. minah," jim caope suggested. "mrs. minah!" mrs. caope exclaimed. "talk about riveh ladies--theh's one. she owns mozart bend. seventeen mile of mississippi river's her'n, an' nobody but knows hit, if not to start with, then by the end. she stands theh, at the breech of her rifle, and, ho law, cayn't she shoot! she's real respectable, too, cyarful an' 'cordin' to law. she's had seven husbands, four's daid an' two's divorced, an' one she's got yet, 'cordin' to the last i hearn say about it. i tell you, if a lady's got any self-respect, she'll git a divorce, an' she'll git married ag'in. that's what i say, with divorces reasonable, like they be, an' costin' on'y $ . to mendova, or memphis, er mos' anywheres." "how long--how long does it take?" nelia asked, eagerly. "why, hardly no time at all. you jes' go theh, an' the lawyer he takes all he wants to know, an' he says come ag'in, an' next day, er the next trip, why, theh's yo' papers, an' all for $ . . seems like they's got special reg'lations for us shanty-boaters." "i'm glad to know about that," nelia said. "i thought--i never knew much about--about divorces. i thought there was a lot of--of rigmarole and testimony and court business." "nope! i tell yo', some of them mendova lawyers is slick an' 'commodatin'. why, one time i was in an awful hurry, landin' in 'long of the upper ferry, an' i went up town, an' seen the lawyer, an' told him right how i was fixed. les' see, that wa--um-m----oh, i 'member now, jasper hill. i'd married him up the line, i disremember--anyhow, 'fore i'd drapped down to cairo, i knowed he'd neveh do, nohow, so i left him up the bank between columbus an' hickman--law me, how he squawked! down by tiptonville, where i'd landed, they was a real nice feller, mr. dickman. well, we kind of co'ted along down, one place an anotheh, an' he wanted to git married. i told how hit was, that i wasn't 'vorced, an' so on, but if he meant business, we'd drap into mendova, which we done. he wanted to pay for the divorce, but i'm independent thataway. i think a lady ought to pay for her own 'vorces, so i done hit, an' i was divorced at o'clock, married right next door into the justice's, an' we drapped out an' down the riveh onto our honeymoon. mr. dickman was a real gentleman, but, somehow, he couldn't stand the riveh. it sort of give him the malary, an' he got to thinking about salmon fishin' so he went to the columbia. we parted real good friends, but the mississippi's good 'nough for me, yes, indeed. i kind of feel zif i knowed hit, an' hit's real homelike." "it is lovely down here," nelia remarked. "everything is so kind of--kind of free and easy. but wasn't it dreadful--i mean the first time--the first divorce, mamie?" "course, yes, course," mrs. caope admitted, slowly, with a frown, "i neveh will forget mine. i'd shifted my man, an' i was right down to cornmeal an' bacon. then a real nice feller come along, mr. darlet. i had to take my choice between a divorce an' a new weddin' dress, an' i tell you hit were real solemocholy fer me decidin' between an' betwixt. you know how young gals are, settin' a lot by dresses an' how they look, an' so on. young gals ain' got much but looks, anyhow. time a lady gits experience, she don't set so much store by looks, an' she don't have to, nohow. well, theh i was, with a nice man, an' if i didn't divorce that first scoundrel where'd i be? so i let the dress go, an' mebby you'll b'lieve hit, an' mebby yo' won't, but i had $ . , an' i paid my $ . real reg'lar, an' i had jest what was left, $ . , an' me ready to bust out crying, feelin' so mean about marryin' into an old walking skirt. "i was all alone, an' i had a good notion to run down the back way, an' trip off down the riveh without no man, i felt so 'shamed. an' theh, right on the sidewalk, was a wad of bills, $ to a penny. my lan'! i wropped my hand around hit, an' yo' should of seen mr. darlet when he seen me come walking down, new hat, new dress, new shoes, new silk stockings--the whole business new. i wa'n't such a bad-lookin' gal, afteh all. that taught me a lesson. i've always be'n real savin' sinct then, an' i ain't be'n ketched sinct with the choice to make of a 'vorce er a weddin' dress. no, indeed, not me!" parson rasba looked at her, and nelia, her eyes twinkling, looked at the parson. nelia could understand the feelings in all their minds. she had her own viewpoint, too, which was exceedingly different from those of the others. the strain of weeks of questioning, weeks of mental suffering, was relieved by the river woman's serious statement and parson rasba's look of bewilderment at the kaleidoscopic matrimonial adventuring. at the same time, his wonder and mrs. caope's unconscious statement stirred up in her thoughts a new questioning. when nelia returned on board her boat, and sat in its cabin, a freed woman, she very calmly reckoned up the advantages of mrs. caope's standards. then seeing that it was after midnight, and that only the stars shone in that narrow, wooded chute, she felt she wanted to go out into the wide river again, to go where she was not shut in. she cast off her lines and noiselessly floated out and down the slow current. she saw parson rasba's boat move out into the current behind her and drift along in the soft, autumn night. her first thought was one of indignation, but when a little later they emerged into the broad river current and she felt the solitude of the interminable surface, her mood changed. what the big, quizzical mountain parson had in mind she did not know. it was possible that he was a very bad man, indeed. she could not help but laugh under her breath at his bewilderment regarding mrs. caope, which she felt was a genuine expression of his real feelings. at the same time, whatever his motive in following her, whether it was to protect her--which she could almost believe--or to court her, which was not at all unlikely, or whether he had a baser design, she did not know, but she felt neither worry nor fear. "i don't care," she shook her head, defiantly, "i like him!" chapter xiv carline recovered his equilibrium after a time. his nerves, long on the ragged edge, had given way, and he was ashamed of his display of emotion. "seems as though some things are about all a man can stand," he said to terabon, the newspaper man. "you know how it is!" "oh, yes! i've had my troubles, too," terabon admitted. "it isn't fair!" carline exclaimed. "why can't a man enjoy himself and have a good time, and not--and not----" "have a headache the next day?" terabon finished the sentence with a grave face. "that's it. i'm not what you'd call a hard drinker; i like to take a cocktail, or a whiskey, the same as any man. i like to go out around and see folks, talk to 'em, dance--you know, have a good time!" "everybody does," terabon admitted. "and my wife, she wouldn't go around and she was--she was----" "jealous because you wanted to use your talents to entertain?" "that's it, that's it. you understand! i'm a good fellow; i like to joke around and have a good time. take a man that don't go around, and he's a dead one. it ain't as though she couldn't be a good sport--lord! why, i'd just found out she was the best sport that ever lived. i thought everything was all right. next day she was gone--tricky as the devil! why, she got me to sign up a lot of papers, got all my spare cash, stocks, bonds--everything handy. oh, she's slick! bright, too--bright's anybody. why, she could talk about books, or flowers, or birds--about anything. i never took much interest in them." "and brought up in that shack on distiller's island?" "stillhouse island, yes, sir. what do you know about that?" "a remarkable woman!" "yes, sir--i--i've got some photographs," and carline turned to a writing desk built into the motorboat. he brought out fifteen or twenty photographs. terabon looked at them eagerly. he could not associate the girl of the pictures with the island shack, with this weakling man, nor yet with the mississippi river--at least not at that moment. "she's beautiful," he exclaimed, sincerely. "yes, sir." carline packed the pictures away. he started the motor, straightened the boat out and steered into mid-stream, looking uncertainly from side to side. "there's no telling," he said, "not about anything." "on the river no one can tell much about anything!" terabon assented. "you're just coming down, i suppose, looking for hist'ries to write?" "that's about it. i just sit in the skiff, there, and i write what i see, on the machine: a big sandbar, a flock of geese, a big oak tree just on the brink of the bank half the roots exposed and going to fall in a minute or a day--everything like that!" "i bet some of these shanty-boaters could tell you histories," carline said. "i tell you, some of them are bad. why, they'd murder a man for ten dollars--those river pirates would." "no doubt about it!" "but they wouldn't talk, 'course. it must be awful hard to make up them stories in the magazines." "oh, if a man gets an idea, he can work it up into a story. it takes work, of course, and time." "i don't see how anybody can do it." carline shook his head. "there's a man up to gage. he wants to write a book, but he ain't never been able to find anything to write about. you see, gage ain't much but a little landing, you might say." "chester, and the big penitentiary is just below there, isn't it?" "oh, yes!" "i'd think there might be at least one story for him to write there." "oh, he don't want to write about crooks; he wants to write about nice people, society people, and that kind, and big cities. he says it's awful hard to find anybody to write about." "you've got to look to find heroes," terabon admitted. "i came more than a thousand miles to see a shanty-boat." "you di-i-d? just to see a shanty-boat!" carline stared at terabon in amazement. in spite of terabon being such a queer duck he made a good companion. he was a good cook, for one thing, and when they landed in below hickman bend, he went ashore and killed three squirrels and two black ducks in the woods and marsh beyond the new levee. when he returned, he found a skiff landed near by on the sandbar. carline was talking to the man, who had just handed over a gallon jug. the man pulled away swiftly and disappeared down the chute. carline explained: "he's a whiskey pedlar; a man always needs to have whiskey on board; malaria is bad down here, and a fellow might catch cold. you see how it is if a man don't have some whiskey on board." "i understand," terabon admitted. after supper carline decided that there was a lot of night air around, and that a man couldn't take too many precautions against that deadly river miasma whose insidious menace so many people have ignored to their great cost. as for himself, carline didn't propose to be taken bad when he had so universal a specific, to take or leave alone, just as he wanted. terabon, having put up the hoops of his skiff and stretched the canvas over them, retired to his own boat and spent two hours writing. in the morning, when he stirred out, he found carline lying in the engine pit, oblivious to the night air that had fallen upon him, protected as he was by his absorption of the sure preventive of night air getting him first. the jug was on the floor, and terabon, after a little thought, poured out about two and a half quarts which he replaced with distilled water from the motorboat's drinking bottle. then he dropped down the chute into the main river to resume his search for really interesting "histories." the river had never been more glorious than that morning. the sun shone from a white, misty sky. it was warm, with the slight tang of autumn, and the yellow leaves were fluttering down; squirrels were barking, and a flock of geese, so high in the air that they sparkled, in the sunshine, were gossiping, and the music of their voices rained upon the river surface as upon a sounding board. terabon was approaching donaldson's point, winchester chute, island no. , and new madrid. an asterisk on his map showed that slough neck was interesting, and sure enough, he found a -foot boat just above upper slough landing, anchored off the sandbar. this was a notorious whiskey boat, and just below it was a flight of steps up the steep bank. no plantation darky ever used those steps. he would rather scramble in the loose silt and risk his neck than climb that easy stairway--yes, indeed! terabon, drifting by, close at hand, gazed at the scene. from that craft negroes had gone forth to commit crime; white men had gone out to do murder, and one of them had rolled down those steps, shot dead. on the other side of slough neck, just outside of tiptonville, there was a tree on which seven men had been lynched. he pulled across to the foot of island no. sandbar, to walk up over that historic ground, and to visit the remnants of winchester chute where general grant had moored barges carrying huge mortars with which to drop shells into the confederate works on island no. . he hailed a shanty-boat just below where he landed, and as the window opened and he saw someone within, he asked: "will you kindly watch my skiff? i'm going up over the island." "yes, glad to!" "thank you." he bowed, and went upon his exploration. it was hard to believe that this sandbar, grown to switch willows which increased to poles six or seven inches in diameter, had once been a big island covered with stalwart trees, with earthworks, cannon, and desperate soldiers. its serene quiet, undulating sands and casual weed-trees, showing the stain of floods that had filled the bark with sediment, proved the indifference of the river to fleeting human affairs--the trifling work of human hands had been washed away in a spring tide or two, and island no. was half way to the gulf by this time. terabon returned to his skiff three or four hours later, and taking up his typewriter, began to write down what he had seen, elaborating the pencil notes which he had made. as he wrote he became conscious of an observer, and of the approach of someone who was diffident and curious--a familiar enough sensation of late. he looked up, started, and reached for his hat. it was a woman, a young woman, with bright eyes, grace, dignity--and much curiosity. "i didn't mean to disturb you," she apologized. "i was just wondering what on earth you could be doing!" "oh, i'm writing--making notes----" "yes. but--here!" "i'm a newspaper writer," he made his familiar statement. "my name is lester terabon. i'm from new york. i came down here from st. louis to see the mississippi." "you write for newspapers?" she repeated. she came and sat down on the bow deck of his skiff, frankly curious and interested. "my name's nelia crele," she smiled. "i'm a shanty-boater. that's my boat." "i'm sure i'm glad to meet you," he bowed, "mrs. crele." "you find lots to write about?" "i can't write fast enough," he replied, enthusiastically, "i've been coming six weeks--from st. louis. i've made more than , words in notes already, and the more i make the more i despair of getting it all down. why, right here--new madrid, island , and--and----" "and me?" she asked. "did you stop at gage?" "at stillhouse island," he admitted, circumspectly. "mr. crele there said i should be sure and tell his daughter, if i happened to meet her, that her mother wanted her to be sure and write and let her know how she is getting along." "oh, i'll do that," she assured him. "i was just writing home when you landed in. isn't it strange how everybody knows everybody down here, and how you keep meeting people you know--that you've heard about? you knew me when you saw me!" "yes--i'd seen your pictures." "mammy hadn't but one picture of me!" she stared at him. "that's so," he thought, unused to such quick thought. "isn't it beautiful?" she asked him, looking around her. "do you try to write all that, too--i mean this sandbar, and those willows, and that woods down there, and--the caving bank?" "everything," he admitted. "see?" he handed her the page which he had just written. holding it in one hand--there was hardly a breath of air stirring--she read it word for word. "yes, that's it!" she nodded her head. "how do you do it? i've just been reading--let me see, '... the best romance becomes dangerous if by its excitement it renders the ordinary course of life uninteresting, and--and----' i've forgotten the rest of it. could anything make this life down here--anything written, i mean--seem uninteresting?" he looked at her without answering. what was this she was saying? what was this shanty-boat woman, this runaway wife, talking about? he was dazed at being transported so suddenly from his observations to such reflections. "that's right," he replied, inanely. "i remember reading that--somewhere!" "you've read ruskin?" she cried. "really, have you?" "sesame and lilies--there's where it was!" "oh, you know?" she exclaimed, looking at him. he caught the full flash of her delight, as well as surprise, at finding someone who had read what she quoted, and could place the phrase. "the sun's bright," she continued. "won't you come down on my boat in the shade? i've lots of books, and i'm hungry--i'm starving to talk to somebody about them!" it was a pretty little boat, sweet and clean; the sitting room was draped with curtains along the walls, and there was a bookcase against the partition. she drew a rocking chair up for him, drew her own little sewing chair up before the shelves, and began to take out books. he had but to sit there and show his sympathy with her excitement over those books. he could not help but remember where he had first heard her name, seen the depressed woman who was her mother. and the bent old hunter who was her father. it was useless for him to try to explain her. just that morning, too, he had left nelia crele's husband in an alcoholic stupor--a man almost incredibly stupid! "i know you don't mind listening to me prattle!" she laughed, archly. "you're used to it. you're amused, too, and you're thinking what a story i will make, aren't you, now?" "if--if a man could only write you!" he said, with such sincerity that she laughed aloud with glee. "oh, i've read books!" she declared. "i know--i've been miserable, and i've been unhappy, but i've turned to the books, and they've told me. they kept me alive--they kept me above those horrid little things which a woman--which i have. you've never been in jail, i suppose?" "what--in jail? i've been there, but not a prisoner. to see prisoners." "you couldn't know, then, the way prisoners feel. i know. i reckon most women know. but now i'm out of jail. i'm free." he could not answer; her eyes flashed as they narrowed, and she fairly glared at him in the intensity of her declaration. "oh, you couldn't know," she laughed, "but that's the way i feel. i'm free! isn't the river beautiful to-day? i'm like the river----" "which is kept between two banks?" he suggested. "i was wrong," she shook her head. "i'm a bird----" "i can well admit that," he laughed. "oh," she cried, in mock rebuke, "the idea!" "it's your own--and a very brilliant one," he retorted, and they laughed together. there was no resisting the gale of nelia crete's effervescent spirits. it was clear that she had burst through bonds of restraint that had imprisoned her soul for years. terabon was too acute an observer to frighten the sensitive exhilaration. it would pass--he was only too sure of that. what would follow? the sandbar was miles long, miles wide; six or seven miles of caving bend was visible below them, part of it over another sandbar that extended out into the river. there was not a boat, house, human being, or even fence in sight in any direction. across the river there was a cotton field, but so far away it was that the stalks were but a purple haze under the afternoon sun. "you think i'm queer?" she suddenly demanded. "no, but i would be if----" "if what?" "if i didn't think you were the dandiest river tripper in the world," he exclaimed. "you're a dear boy," she laughed. "you don't know how much good you've done me already. now we'll get supper." "i've two black ducks," he said. "i'll bet they'll make a good----" "roast," she took his word. "i'll show you i'm a dandy cook, too!" chapter xv the mississippi river brings people from the most distant places to close proximity; pittsburg and even salamanca meet fort benton and st. paul at the forks of the ohio. on the other hand, with uncanny certainty, those most eager to meet are kept apart and thrown to the ends of the world. parson rasba saw nelia crele's boat drift out into the current and drop down the chute of wolf island, and impelled by solitude and imagination he followed her. she had awakened sensations in his heart which he had never before known, so he acted with primitive directness and moved out into the mississippi. the river carried him swiftly toward a town whose electric lights sparkled on a high bluff, hickman, and he saw the cabin-boat of the young and venturesome woman clearly outlined between him and the town. for nearly an hour he was conscious of the assistance of the river in carrying him along at an even pace, permitting him to remain as guardian of the woman. he felt that she needed him, that he must help her, and there grew in his heart an emotion which strangely made him desire to sing and to shout. he watched the cabin-boat drift down right into the pathway of reflections that fell from the lights on hickman bluffs. his eyes were apparently fixed upon the boat, and he could not lose sight of it. the river carried him right into the same glare, and for a few minutes he looked up at the arcs, and shaded his eyes to get some view of the town whose sounds consisted of the mournful howling of a dog. rasba looked back at the town, and felt the awe which a sleeping village inspires in the thoughts of a passer-by. he thought perhaps he would never again see that town. he wondered if there was a lost soul there whose slumberings he could disturb and bring it to salvation. he looked down the river, and the next instant his boat was seized as by a strong hand and whirled around and around, and flung far from its course. he remembered the phenomenon at the forks of the ohio, and again at columbus bluff's. with difficulty he found his bearings. he looked around and saw to his surprise that he was drifting up stream. he looked about him in amazement. he searched the blackness of the river, and stared at the blinding lights of the town. he began to row with his sweeps, and look down stream whither had disappeared the cabin-boat whose occupant he had felt called upon to guard and protect. that boat was gone. in the few minutes it had disappeared from his view. he surmised, at last, that he had been thrust into an eddy, for the current was carrying him up stream, and he rowed against it in vain. only when he had floated hundreds of yards in the leisurely reverse current below the great bar of island no. and had drifted out into the main current again, almost under the hickman lights once more, was he able in his ignorance to escape from the time-trap into which he had fallen. standing at his oars, and rowing down stream, he tried to overtake the young woman whose good looks, bright eyes, sympathetic understanding, and need of his spiritual tutoring had caught his mind and made it captive. dawn, following false dawn, saw him passing new madrid, still rowing impatiently, his eyes staring down the wild current, past a graveyard poised ready to plunge on the left bank, and then down the baffling crossing at point pleasant and through the sunny breadths up to tiptonville, half sunk in the river, only to fall away toward little cypress--and still no sight of the lost cabin-boat. in mid-afternoon, weary and worn by sleeplessness and expectancy, he pulled his boat into the deadwater at the foot of an eddy and having thrown over his stone anchor, sadly entered his cabin and, without prayer, subsided into sleep. if he dreamed he was not awakened to consciousness by his visions. he slept on in the deep weariness which followed the wakefulness that had continued through a night of undiminished anxiety into a day of doubt and increasing despair. it had not occurred to him, in his simplicity, that the young woman would escape from him. the shadow and the gloom next to the bank on either side had not suggested his passing by the object of his intention. his thought was that she must have gone right on down stream, though he might have divined from his own condition that she, too, long since must have been weary. he awakened some time in the morning, after twelve hours or so of uninterrupted slumber. he turned out into the fascinating darkness of early morning on the mississippi. a gust of chill wind swept down out of the sky, rippling the surface and roaring through the woods up the bank. the gust was followed by a raw calm and further blanketing of the few stars that penetrated the veil of mist. he had in mind the further pursuit of nelia, and hauling in his anchor he pulled out into mid-current and then by lamp-light prepared his breakfast. while he worked, he discovered that dawn was near, and at lengthening intervals he went out to look ahead, hoping to see the object of his pursuit. perhaps he would have gone on down to new orleans, only it is not written in mississippi weather prophecies that the tenor of one's way shall be even. he heard wind blowing, and felt his boat bobbing about inexplicably. he went out to look about him, and in the morning twilight he discovered that the whole aspect of the mississippi had changed. with the invisible sunrise had come an awe-inspiring spectacle which excited in his mind forebodings and dismay. first, there was the cold wind which penetrated his clothes and shrivelled the very meat of his bones. the river's surface, which he had come to regard as a shimmering, polished floor, was now rumpled and broken into lumpy waves, like mud on a road, and the waves broke into dull yellow foam caps. there was not a light gleam on the whole surface, and dark shadows seemed to crawl and twist about in the very substance of the heavy and turgid waters. rasba stared. born and trained in mountains, where he remembered clear streams of pale, beautiful green, catching reflections of white clouds and clean foliage, with only occasional patches of sullen clay-bank wash, he refused to acknowledge the great tawny mississippi at its best, as a relation of the streams he knew. certainly this menacing dawn reminded him of nothing he had ever witnessed. waves slapped against his boat, waves which did not conceal, but rather accentuated, the sullen and relentless rush of the vast body of the water. while the surface leaped and struggled, wind-racked, the deeps moved steadily on. elijah saw that his boat was being driven into a river chute, and seizing his sweeps, he began to row toward a sandbar which promised shoal water and a landing. he managed to strike the foot of the bar, and threw out his anchor rock. he let go enough line to let the boat swing, and went in to breakfast. while he was eating, he noticed that the table turned gray and that a yellowish tinge settled upon everything. when he went out to look around, he found that the air was full of a cloud that filled his eyes with dust, and that a little drift of sand had already formed on the deck of his boat, gritting under his feet. the cloud was so thick that he could hardly see the river shores; a gale was blowing, and a whole sandbar, miles long, was coming down upon him from the air. the sandbar, when he looked at it, seemed fairly to be running, like water. parson rasba remembered the storms of biblical times, and better understood the wrath that was visited upon the children of israel. he dwelt in that storm all that day. he shut the door to keep the sand out, but it spurted through the cracks. he could see the puffing gusts as they burst through the keyhole, and he could hear the heavier grains rattling upon the thin, painted boards of his roof. his clothes grayed, his hands gritted, his teeth crunched fine stone; he pondered upon the question of what sin he had committed to bring on him this ancient punishment. for a long time his finite mind was without inspiration, without understanding, and then he choked with terror and regret. he had beguiled himself into believing that it was his duty to take care of nelia crele, the fair woman of the river. he had believed only too readily that his duty lay where his heart's desire had been most eager. he sat there in dumb horror at the sin which had blinded him. "i come down yeah to find jock drones for his mother!" he reminded himself by speaking his mission aloud, adding, "and hyar i've be'n floating down looking for a woman, looking for a pretty woman!" and because he could remember her shoes, the smooth leather over those exquisite ankles, parson rasba knew that his sin was mortal, and that no other son of man had ever strayed so far as he. no wonder he was caught in a desert blizzard where no one had ever said there was a desert! "lord god," he cried out, "he'p this yeah po'r sinner! he'p! he'p!" chapter xvi jock, _alias_ "slip," drones, was discovering how small the world really is. like many another man, he had figured that no one would know him, no one could possibly find him, down the mississippi river, more than a thousand miles from home. having killed, or at least fought his man in a deadly feud war, he had escaped into the far places. his many months of isolation had given him confidence and taken the natural uneasiness of flight from his mind. now someone was coming down the mississippi inquiring for jock drones! a detective, as relentless, as sure as a bullet in the heart, was coming. he might even then be lurking in the brush up the bank, waiting to get a sure drop. he might be dropping down that very night. he might step in among the players, unnoticed, unseen, and wait there for the moment of surprise and action. slip's mind ransacked the far places of which he had heard: oklahoma, the missouri river, california, the mexican border, texas. far havens seemed safest, but against their lure he felt the balance of buck's comradeship. caruthersville had a sporting crowd with money, lots of money. the people there were liberal spenders, and they liked a square game better than any other sport in the world. the boat was making good money, big money. the two partners had only to break even in their own play to make a big living out of the kitty in the poker tables, and there was always a big percentage in favour of the boat, because buck and slip understood each other so well. slip's share often amounted to more in a week than he had earned in two years up there in the mountains felling trees, rafting them in eddies, and tripping them down painfully to the sawmills. these never did pay the price they were advertised to pay for timber, and one had to watch the sealers to see that they didn't short the measure in the under water and goose-egg good logs. he remembered jest prebol, who was lying shot through in the boat alongside, and he went over to the boat, lighted the lamp, and sat down by the wounded man. prebol was a little delirious, and slip went over on his own boat, and called buck out. "we got a sick man on our hands," he whispered. "ain't doc grell come oveh yet?" "come the last boat," buck said, and called the doctor out. "say, doc, that sick feller out here, will you look't him?" doctor grell went over to the boat. he looked at the wounded man, and frowned as he took the limp wrist. he tried the temperature, too, and then shook his head. "he's a sick man, slip," he said. "thought he was coming all right last night. now----" he looked at the wound, and gazed at the great, blue plate around the bullet hole. "he's bad?" slip said, in alarm. "poison's workin', doc?" "mighty bad!" there was nothing for it. doctor grell's night of pleasure had turned into one of life-saving and effort. he sent slip over to drag away one of the young men from his game, and they rigged up two square trunks and a waterproof tarpaulin into an operating table. then, as slip was faint and sick, the two drove him back to the gambling boat, while they, the graduate and the student, entered upon a gamble with a human life the stake. of that night's efforts, fighting the "poison" with the few sharp weapons at their command--later reinforced by a hasty trip across the river to get others--the two need never tell. while they worked, they could hear at intervals the shout of a winner in the other boat. in moments of perfect quiet they heard the quick rustling of shuffled cards; they heard the rattling of dice in hard, muffled boxes; they heard, at intervals, the rattling of stove lids and smelt the soft-coal smoke which blew down on them from the kitchen chimney. slip, not forgetful of them, brought over pots of black coffee and inquired after the patient. he found the two men paler on each visit, and stripped down more and more, till they were merely in their sweaty undershirts. toward morning the wind began to blow; it began to grow cold. the noises on the neighbouring boat grew fainter in the low rumble of a stormy wind out of the northwest, and the shanty-boat lifted at intervals on a wave that rolled out of the main current and across the eddy, making their operating room even more unstable. under their onslaught the death which was taking hold of jest prebol was checked, and the river rat whose life had been forfeited for his sly crimes became the object of a doctor's sentiment and belief in his own training. long after midnight, when some few of the patrons of the games had already taken their departure, the doors opened oftener and oftener, letting the geometrical shaft of the yellow light flare out across the waters, and the grotesque shadows of those who departed stood out against the night and waters as the men shivered in the wind and bent to feel their way into the boats. after dawn doctor grell and his assistant, peaked and white, limp with their tremendous effort, and shivering with exhaustion of mind and body, walked out of the little shanty-boat, up to the big one, sat down with buck and slip to breakfast, and then took their own course across the ruffled and tumble-surfaced river. "i 'low he'll pull through," doctor grell admitted, almost reluctantly. "he's in bad shape, though, with the things the bullet carried into him, but we sure swabbed him out. how'd the game go to-night, boys?" "purty good." buck shook his head. "tammer sure had luck his way--won a seventy-dollar pot onct." "i sure wanted to play," grell shook his head, "but in my profession you aren't your own, and you cayn't quit." "we owe you for it," buck said. "he's our friend----" "and he's ourn, too," grell declared, "so we'll split the difference. i expect it was worth a hundred dollars what we two did to-night. that'll be fifty, boys, if it's all right." "yes, suh," slip said, handing over five ten-dollar bills, and grell handed two of them to his companion, who shook his head, saying: "nope, doc! ten only to-night. my first fee!" "and you'll never have a more interesting case," grell declared. "no, indeed! you'll see cases, come you go to college, but none more interesting, and if we've pulled him through, you'll never have better reason for satisfaction." the two got into a little motorboat and went bounding and rocking in the wind and waves toward the town behind the levee on the far bank. the two gamblers watched the little boat rocking along till it was but a black fleck in the midst of the weltering brown waters. "i don't reckon any one'll drap down to-day," slip muttered, looking up the river. "we'll keep our eyes open," buck replied. "you needn't to worry, you're plumb worn out, slip. git to bed, now, an' i'll slick up around." it was a cold, dry gale. from sharp gusts with near calms between the wind grew till it was a steady, driving storm that flattened against the shanty-boat sides, and whistled and roared through the trees up the bank. and instead of dying down at dusk, it increased so much that the big acetylene light was not hung out, and if any one came down to the opposite shore he saw that there would be no game that night. buck went in and sat down by the wounded man's bed, giving him the medicines doctor grell had left. for the attentions prebol, in lucid intervals, showed wondering looks of gratitude, like an ugly dog which has been trapped and then set free. what he had suffered during the night even he could hardly recall in the enfeebled condition of his mind, but the spoonfuls of broth, the medicine that thrilled his body, the man's very companionship, lending strength, took away the feeling of despair which a man in the extremities of anguish and alone in the world finds hardest to resist. buck, sitting there, gazed at the wan countenance, studying it. prebol had forgotten, but when buck first arrived on the river, the pirate, a much younger man then, had carelessly and perhaps for display told the stranger and softpaw many things about the river which were useful. it occurred to buck that he was now paying back a debt of gratitude. something boiled up in his thoughts, and he swore to himself that he owed nothing, that the world owed him, and he bridged the years of his disappointment and desolation back to the hour when he had stormed out of the life he had known, to come down the mississippi to be a gambler. prebol, in his lapses into delirium, called a woman's name, sadie--always sadie! and if he would have cursed that name in his consciousness, out of the depths of his soul it came with softness and gentleness of affection. buck wondered what jest prebol had done to sadie that she had driven him down there, and he cursed with his own lips, while he stifled in the depths of his own soul another name. his years, his life, had been wasted, just as this man prebol's life was wasted, just as slip's life was being wasted. buck gave himself over to the exquisite torture of memories and reflections. he wondered what had become of the woman for love of whom he had let go all holds and degenerated to this heartless occupation of common gambler? true to slip, he had watched the river for the stranger whose inquiries had been carried down in fair warning to all the river people--and buck, suddenly conscious of his own part in that river system, laughed in surprise. "why," he said to himself, "humans are faithful to one another! it's what they live for, to be faithful to one another!" it was an incredible, but undeniable theory. in spite of his own wilful disbelief in the faith of mankind, here he was sitting by one poor devil's bed while he kept his weather eye out upon the rough river in the interests of another--a murderer! he pondered on the question of whether any one kept faith with him. his mind cried out angrily, "no!" but on second thought, in spite of himself, he realized distinctly that he had let one person's faithlessness overcome his trust of all others. no day on the mississippi is longer than the cold, bleak monotone of a dry gale out of the north. there is an undertone to the voices which depresses the soul as the rank wind shrivels the body. on whistling wings great flocks of wild fowl come driving down before the wintry gales, or they turn back from the prospect of an early spring. steamboats are driven into the refuge of landing or eddy, and if the power craft cannot stand the buffetings, much less are the exposed little houseboats, toys of current and breeze, able to escape the resistless blasts. so the wind possesses itself of the whole river breadth and living creatures are driven to shelter. prebol, shot through and conscious of the reward of his manner of living; slip, a fugitive under the menace of a murderer's fate; and buck, given over to melancholy, were but types on the lengths and tributaries of the indifferent flood. nothing happened, nothing could happen. the arrival of slip from his restless bunk relieved buck of his vigil, and he went to bed and slept into the dawn of another day--a day like the previous one, and fit to drive him up the bank, into the woods, and among the fallen branches of rotten trees seeking in physical activity to check the mourning and tauntings of a mind over which he found, as often before, that he had no control. and yet, when the storm suddenly blew itself out with a light puff and a sudden flood of sunshine, just as the sun went down, prebol's condition took a sudden turn for the better, slip forgot his fears, and buck burst into a gay little whistled tune, which he could never whistle except when he was absurdly and inexplicably merry. chapter xvii terabon's notebooks held tens of thousands of words describing the mississippi river and the people he had met. he had drifted down long, lonely bends, and he had surprised a flock of wild geese under a little bluff on an island sandbar just above kaskaskia, in the big cut-off there. until this day the mississippi had been growing more and more into his consciousness; not people, not industries, not corn, wheat, or cotton had become interesting and important, but the yellow flood itself. his thought had been, when he left st. louis, to stop in towns and gather those things which minds not of the newspaper profession lump under the term of "histories," but now, after his hundreds of miles of association with the river, his thought took but brief note of those trifling and inconspicuous appearances known as "river towns." he had passed by many places with hardly a glance, so entrancing had been the prospect of endless miles of earth-bound flood!--bound but wearing away its bonds. now, in one of the most picturesque of all the scenes he had witnessed, in the historic double bend above new madrid, he found himself with a young and attractive woman. he realized that, in some way, the mississippi river "spirit"--as he always quoted it in his calm and dispassionate remarks and dissertations and descriptions--had encompassed him about, and, without giving him any choice, had tied him down to what in all the societies he had ever known would have been called a "compromising position." that morning he had left the husband of this pretty girl lying in a drunken stupor, and now in the late evening the fugitive wife was taking it for granted that he would dine with her on her boat--and he had himself entered upon a partnership with her for that meal which could not by any possibility be called prosaic or commonplace. he had a vivid recollection of having visited a girl back home--he thought the phrase with difficulty--and he remembered the word "chaperon" as from a foreign language, or at least from an obsolete and forgotten age. his familiarity with newspaper work did not relieve him of a feeling of uncertainty. in fact, it emphasized the questionableness of the occasion. "i'll show you i'm a dandy cook," she had said, and while he followed her on board the boat, with the two big black ducks to help prepare, he wondered and remembered and, in spite of his life-long avoidance of all appearance of evil, submitted to this irresistible circumstance, wherever it might lead. so he built the fire in her kitchen stove. she mixed up dressing and seasoned the birds, made biscuit batter for hot-bread, brought out stacks and stores of things to eat, or to eat with, and they set the table, ground the coffee, and got the oven hot for the roasting and baking. one thing took the curse off their position: they had to have all the windows and doors wide open so that they seemed fairly to be cooking on an open sandbar at the edge of the river. terabon took an inward satisfaction in that fact. it is not possible to feel exceedingly wicked or depraved when there is a mile-wide mississippi on the one hand and a mile-wide sandbar on the other side, and the sun is shining calmly upon the bright and innocent waters. as the ducks were young and tender, their cooking took but an hour, or a little more, and the interim was occupied in the countless things that must be done to prepare even a shanty-boat feast. he stirred some cranberry sauce, and she had to baste the ducks, get the flour stirred with water, and condensed cream for gravy, besides setting the table and raising the biscuits, to have them ready for the ducks. she must needs wonder if she'd forgotten the salt, and for ten minutes she was almost in a panic at the thought, while he watched her in breathless wonderment, and took covert glances up the mississippi river, fearful of, and yet almost wishing to see, that pursuing motorboat come into view. when at last the smoking viands were on the ample table and they sat with their knees under it, and he began to carve the ducks and dish out the unblessed meal, he glanced up stream through the cabin window on his right. he caught a glimpse of a window pane flashing miles distant in the light of the setting sun--the whiskey boat without doubt. he saw a flock of ducks coming like a great serpent just above the river surface, then a shadow lifted as out of the river, swept up the trees in the lost section of kentucky opposite, and from spattering gold the scene turned to blue which rapidly became purple, darkening visibly. through the open doors and windows swept the chill of twilight, and while she lighted the big lamp he did her bidding and closed the doors and windows. those shelves of books, classics and famous, time-tried fiction, leered at him from their racks. the gold of titles, the blues and reds and greens of covers fairly mocked him, and he saw himself struggling with the menace of sin; he saw an honourable career and carefully nurtured ambition fading from view, for did not all those master minds warn the young against evil? but they talked over the ducks of what a pity it was that all towns could not engage themselves in thought the way athens used to do, and they wondered to each other when the hurrying passion of greed and its varying phenomena would become reconciled to a modest competence and the simplicity which they, for example, were enjoying down the mississippi. when he looked up from his meat sometimes he caught her eyes looking at him. he recognized her superiority of experience and position; she made him feel like a boy, but a boy of whom she was really quite fond, or at least in whom she was interested. for that feeling he was grateful, though there was something in her smile which led him to doubt his own success in veiling or hiding the doubts or qualms which had, unbidden, risen in his thoughts at the equivocal nature of their position. having dined on the best meal he had had since leaving home, they talked a little while over the remains of the sumptuous repast. but their mood grew silent, and they kept up the conversation with difficulty. "i think i'd better put up my canvas top," he blurted out, and she assented. "and then you must come back and help me wash this awful pile of dishes," she added. "oh, of course!" he exclaimed. "i'll help with the canvas," she said, and he dared not look at her. by the light of his lantern they put up the canvas to protect the boat from dew. then they looked around at the night; stars overhead, the strange haze from the countless grains of sand which wavered over the bar, and the river in the dark, running by. they looked at the river together, and they felt its majesty, its power, its resistlessness. "it's overwhelming," he whispered. "when you can't see it you hear it, or you feel it!" "and it makes everything else seem so small, so unimportant, so perfectly negligible," she added, consciously, and then with vivacity: "i'll not make you wipe those dishes, after all. but you must take me for a walk up this sandbar!" "gladly," he laughed, "but i'll help with the dishes as well!" she put on a jacket, pinned on a cap, and together, in merry mood, they romped up the sandbar. it was all sand; there was not a log of timber, not a drift barrel, not a stick of wood anywhere as far as they could see. but as they walked along every foot of the sandbar was different, wind-rifts, covering long, water-shaped reefs; or rising knolls, like hills, and long depressions which held shadows darker by far than the gloom of the night. they walked along, sometimes yards apart, sometimes side by side. they forgot ruskin and carlyle--they remembered thoreau's "cape cod" and talked of the musical sands which they could hear now under their own feet. in the silence they heard river voices; murmurings and tones and rhythms and harmonies; and terabon, who had accumulated a vast store of information from the shanty-boaters, told her some of the simple superstitions with which the river people beguile themselves and add to the interest and difficulties of their lives. "an old river man can look at the river and tell when a headrise is coming," he told her. "he knows by the looks of the water when the river is due to fall again. when he dreams, he says he knows what is going to happen, and where to find buried treasure, and if there is going to be an earthquake or a bad storm." "they get queer living alone!" she said, thoughtfully. "lots of them used to stop in at our slough on kaw river. i was afraid of them!" "you afraid of anything!" he exclaimed. "of any one!" "oh, that was a long time ago--ages ago!" she laughed, and then gave voice to that most tragic riverside thought. "but now--nothing at all matters now!" she said it with an intonation which was almost relief and laughing, that terabon, whose mind had grappled for years with one of ruskin's most touching phrases, understood how it could be that the heart of a human being could become so used to sorrows that no misery could bring tears. he knew in that very moment, as by revelation, that he had caught from her lips one of the bitterest phrases which the human mind is capable of forming. he was glad of the favour which fate had bestowed upon him, and he thrilled, while he regretted, that in that hour he could not forget that he was a seeker of facts, a gatherer of information. to match her mood was beyond his own power. by a simple statement of fact she had given herself a place in his thought comparable to--he went at making ideas again, despite himself--comparable to one of those wonderful widows which are the delight, while they rend to tatters the ambitions of delvers into the mysteries of olympian lore. this bright, pretty, vivacious young woman had suffered till she had arrived at a helen's recklessness--nothing mattered! there was a pause. "i think you are in a fair way to become unforgetable in connection with the mississippi river," he suggested, with even voice. "what do you mean?" she demanded, quickly. "well, i'll tell you," with the semblance of perfect frankness. "i've been wondering which one of the grecian goddesses you would have been if you had lived, say, in homer's time." "which one of them i resemble?" she asked, amused. "exactly that," he declared. "oh, that's such a pretty compliment," she cried. "it fits so well into the things i've been thinking. the river grows and grows on me, and i feel as though i grew with it! you don't know--you could never know--you're a man--masculine! for the first time in my life i'm free--and--and i don't--i don't care a damn!" "but the future!" he protested, feebly. "that's it!" she retorted. "for a river goddess there is no future. it's all in the present for her, because she is eternal." they had walked clear up to the southernmost tip of the sandbar point. they could hear someone, perhaps a chorus of voices, singing on the whiskey boat at the upper landing. they could see the light of the boat's windows. there they turned and started back down the sandbar, reaching the two boats moored side by side in the deadwater. "shall i help with those dishes to-night?" he asked. "no, we'll do them in the morning," she replied without emphasis and as a matter of course, which left him unassisted in his obvious predicament. "well," he drawled, after a time, "it's about midnight. i must say a river goddess is--is beyond my most vivid dreams. i wonder----" "what do you wonder?" "if you'll let me kiss you good-night now?" "yes," she answered. the stars twinkled as he put his arm around her and took the kiss which her lips gave--smiling. "i'll help with those dishes in the morning," he said, helping her up the gang plank of her boat. "good-night!" "good-night," she answered, and entered the cabin, the dim light of her turned-down lamp flashing across the sandbar and revealing his face for a moment. then the door closed between them. he went to his skiff, raised the cover, and crawled into his canvas hammock which was swung from both sides of his boat. before going to sleep he looked under the canvas at the river, at the stars, at the dark cabin-boat forty feet distant in the eddy. at the same moment he saw a face against a window pane in the cabin. "what does it mean?" he asked himself, but there was no answer. the river, when asked, seldom answers. just as he was about to go to sleep, he started up, wide awake. for the first time on the river, he had forgotten to post up his notes. he felt that he had come that day, as never before, to the forks in the road--when he must choose between the present and the future. he lighted his lantern, sat up in his cot, and reached for his typewriter. he wrote steadily, at full speed, for an hour. when he had those wonderful and fleeting thoughts and observations nailed down and safe, he again put out his lantern, and turned in once more. then he heard a light, gay laugh, clear and distinct-a river voice beyond question--full of raillery, and yet beneath the mocking note was something else which he could neither identify nor analyze, which he hoped was not scorn or mere derision, which he wished might be understanding and sympathy--till he thought of his making those notes. then he despised himself, which was really good for his soul. his conscience, instead of rejoicing, rebuked him as a cad. he swore under his breath. chapter xviii augustus carline was a long time recovering even his consciousness. a thousand dreams, a thousand nightmares tormented his thoughts while the mangling grip of unnumbered vises and ropes sank deep into his flesh; ploughs and harrows dragged through his twisted muscles. yet he did rise at last out of his pit and, leaning against the cabin of his boat, look about him to see what hell he had escaped into. the sun was shining somewhere, blinding his eyes, which were already seared. a river coiled by, every ripple a blistering white flame. he heard birds and other music which sounded like an anvil chorus performing in the narrow confines of a head as large as a cabin. he remembered something. it was even worse than what he was undergoing, but he could not quite call the horror to the surface of the weltering sea of his feelings; he did not even know his name, nor his place, nor any detail except the present pain--and he didn't want to know. he fought against knowing, till the thing pressed exuberantly forward, and then he knew that the beautiful girl, the woman he loved and to whom he was married, had left him. that was the exquisite calamity of his soul, and he flinched from the fact as from a blow. he was always flinching, he remembered. he was always turning from the uncomfortable and the bothering to seek what was easy and unengaging. now, for the moment, he could not undertake any relief from his present misery. acres and lakes of water were flowing by, but his thirst was worse than oceans could quench. he wanted to drink, but the thought of drinking disgusted him beyond measure. it seemed to him that a drop of water would flame up in his throat like gasolene on a bed of coals, and at that moment his eyes fell upon the jug which stood by the misty engine against the intangible locker. the jug was a monument of comfort and substantiality. at the odour which filled the air when he had taken out the cork his very soul was filled with horror. "but i got to drink it!" he whimpered. "it's the only thing that'll cure me, the only thing i can stand. if i don't i'll die!" not to drink was suicide, and to drink was living death! he could not choose between the suggestions; he never had been trained to face fate manfully. his years' long dissipation had unfitted him for every squarely made decision, and now with horror on one side and terror on the other, he could not procrastinate and wonder what folly had brought him to this state. "why couldn't it smell good!" he choked. "the taste'll kill me!" taste he must, or perish! the taste was all that he had anticipated, and melted iron could hardly have been more painful than that first torture of cold, fusil acid. gulping it down, he was willing to congratulate himself on his endurance and wisdom, his very heroism in undertaking that deadly specific. after it was over with, however, the raw chill, which the heat of the sun did not help, began to yield to a glow of warmth. he straightened his twisted muscles and after a hasty look around retreated into his cabin and flung himself on his bunk. what length of time he spent in his recovery from the attacks of his enemy, or rather enemies of a misspent youth, he could not surmise. he did at last stir from his place and look with subdued melancholy into a world of woe. he recalled the visitor, the man who wrote for newspapers, and in a panic he searched for his money. the money was gone; $ , at least, had disappeared from his pockets. an empty wallet on the cabin floor showed with what contemptuous calm the funds had been abstracted from his pockets. he turned, however, to a cunning little hiding place, and found there his main supply of currency--a thousand dollars or more. no man likes to be robbed, and carline, fixing upon his visitor terabon as his assailant, worked himself into a fine frenzy of indignation. the fellow had purposely encouraged him to drink immoderately--carline's memory was clear and unmistaken on that point--and then, taking advantage of his unconsciousness, the pseudo writer had committed piracy. "i'd ought to be glad he didn't kill me!" carline sneered to himself, looking around to conjure up the things that might have been. the prospect was far from pleasing. the sky was dark, although it was clearly sometime near the middle of a day--what day, he could but guess. the wind was raw and penetrating, howling through the trees, and skipping down the chute with a quick rustling of low, breaking waves. the birds and animals which he had heard were gone with the sunshine. when carline took another look over his boat, he found that it had been looted of many things, including a good blanket, his shot gun and rifle, ammunition, and most of his food supply--though he could not recall that he had had much food on board. he lighted the coal-oil heater to warm the cabin, for he was chilled to the bone. he threw the jug overboard, bound now never again to touch another drop of liquor as long as he lived--that is, unless he happened to want a drink. wearily he set about cleaning up his boat. he was naturally rather inclined to neatness and orderliness. he picked up, folded, swept out, and put into shape. he appeased his delicate appetite with odds and ends of things from a locker full of canned goods which had escaped the looter. as long as he could, carline had not engaged his thoughts with the subject of his runaway wife. now, his mind clearing and his body numb, his soul took up the burden again, and he felt his helplessness thrice confounded. he did not mind anything now compared to the one fact that he had lost and deserved to lose the respect of the pretty girl who had become his wife. he took out the photographs which he had of her, and looked at them, one by one. what a fool he had been, and what a scoundrel he was! he could not give over the pursuit, however; he felt that he must save her from herself; he must seek and rescue her. he hoisted in his anchor and starting the motor, turned into the chute and ran down before the wind into the river. never had he seen the mississippi in such a dark and repellent mood. when he had cleared the partial shelter of island no. , he felt the wind and current at the stern of his boat, driving it first one way then the other. steering was difficult, and fear began to clutch at his heart. he felt his helplessness and the hopelessness of his search down that wide river with its hundred thousand hiding places. he knew nothing of the gossiping river people except that he despised them. he could not dream that his ignorance of things five or ten miles from his home was not typical of the shanty-boaters; he could not know that where he was a stranger in the next township to his own home, a shanty-boater would know the landing place of his friends a thousand miles or so down stream. without maps, without knowledge, without instinct, he might almost as well have been blind. his careless, ignorant glance swept the eight or nine miles of shoreline of sandbar from above island no. clear down to the fresh sloughing above hotchkiss's landing, opposite the dry winchester chute--in which deep-draft gun-barges had been moored fifty years or so before. he did not even know it was island no. , donaldson's point; he didn't know that he was leaving kentucky to skirt tennessee; much less did he dream that he was passing kentucky again. he looked at a shanty-boat moored at the foot of a mile-long sandbar; saw, without observing, a skiff against the bar just above the cabined scow. his gaze discovered smoke, houses, signs of settlement miles below, and he quickened the beat of his motor to get down there. he longed for people, for humanity, for towns and cities; and that was a big sawmill and cotton-gin town ahead of him, silhouetted along the top of a high bank. he headed straight for it, and found his boat inexplicably slowed up and rebuffed. strangers on the river always do find themselves baffled by the big new madrid eddy, which even power boats engage with difficulty of management. he landed at last against a floating dock, and found that it was a fish market. having made fast, he went up town and spent hours, till long after dark, buying supplies, talking to people, getting the lonesomeness out of his system, and making veiled inquiries to learn if anything had been heard about a woman coming down the mississippi. he succeeded in giving the impression that he was a detective. in the restaurant he talked with a cocky little bald-headed man all spruced up and dandyish. "i'm from pittsburgh," the man said. "my name's doss, ronald doss; i'm a sportsman, but every winter i drop down here, hunting and fishing; sometimes on the river, sometimes back in the bottoms. i suppose, mr. carline, that you're a stranger on the river?" "why, yes-s, down this way; i live near it, up at gage." "i see, your first trip down. got a nice gasolene boat, though!" "oh, yes! you're stopping here?" "just arrived this morning; trying to make up my mind whether i'll go over on st. francis, turkey-and deer-hunting, or get a boat and drop down the mississippi. been wondering about that." "well, say, now--why can't you drop down with me?" "oh, i'd be in the way----" "not a bit----" "costs a lot to run a motorboat, and i'd have to----" "no, you wouldn't! not a cent! your experience and my boat----" "well, of course, if you put it that way. if it'd be any accommodation to you to have an old river man--i mean i've always tripped the river, off and on, for sport." "it'd be an education for me, a great help!" "yes, i expect it would be an education, if you don't know the river." doss smiled. they walked over to the river bank. an arc light cast its rays upon the end of the street, down the sloping bank, and in a light circle upon the rocking, muddy waters where the fish dock and several shanty-boats rested against the bank. doss whistled a little tune as he rested on his cane. the front door of the third houseboat up the eddy opened and closed. a man climbed the bank and passed the two with a basket on his arm. "come on down," carline urged. "not to-night," doss said. "i've got my room up at the hotel, and i'll have to get my stuff out of the railroad baggage room. but i'll come down about or o'clock in the morning. then we'll fit up and drop down the river. good-night!" doss watched carline go down to the dock and on to his boat. then he went up the street and held earnest confab with a man who had a basket on his arm. they whispered ten minutes or so, then the man with the basket returned to his shanty-boat, and within half an hour was back up town, carrying two suitcases, a gun case, and a duffle bag. doss went to the smaller hotel with these things and registered. he walked down to the river in the morning and noticed that the third shanty-boat had dropped out into the river during the night, in spite of the storm that was blowing up. he went down and ate breakfast with carline, and the two went up and got doss's outfit at the hotel. they returned to the motorboat, and, having laid in a supply of groceries, cast off their lines and steered away down the river. "yes, sir, we'll find that girl if it takes all winter!" the fish-market man heard doss tell carline in a loud voice. that afternoon a man in a skiff came down the river and turned into the dock. as he landed, the fish-market man said to him: yes. "if you see any lady coming down, tell her a detector is below, lookin' fo' her. he's a cheap skate, into a motorboat--but i don't expect he'll be into hit long, 'count of some river fellers bein' with him. but he mout be bad, that detector. if you should see a nice lady, tell her." "you bet!" the skiff man, who was lester terabon, exclaimed. chapter xix for long hours parson rasba endured the drifting sand and the biting wind which penetrated the weather-cracks in his poplar shanty-boat. it was not until near nightfall that it dawned on him that he need not remain there, that it was the simplest thing in the world to let go his hold and blow before the wind till he was clear of the sandblast. he did haul in his anchor and float away. as he rode the waves and danced before the wind the clouds of sand were flung swiftly down upon the water, where the surface was covered with a film and a sheet of dust. standing at his sweeps, he saw that he was approaching the head of another sandbar, and as he felt the water shoaling under the boat he cast over the anchor and rode in clear air again. he was not quite without a sense of humour. shaking the dust out of his long hair and combing it out of his whiskers, he laughed at his ignorance and lack of resource. he swept the decks and floor of his cabin, and scooped the sand up with an ash shovel to throw overboard. a lesson learned on the mississippi is part of the education of the future--if there is anything in the pupil's head to hold a memory of a fact or experience. even though he knew it was his own ignorance that had kept him a prisoner in that storm, parson rasba did not fail to realize that his ignorance had been sin, and that his punishment was due to his absorption in the fate of a pretty woman. certainly after such a sharp rebuke he could not fail to return to his original task, imposed upon him because of his fault in bringing the feud fighters of his home mountains together, untrained and unrepentant, to hear the voice of his pride declare the word for the edification of sinners. parson rasba did not mince his words as he contemplated the joy he had felt in being eloquent and a "power" of a speaker from the pulpits of the mountain churches. the murdering by the feud fighters had taught him what he would never forget, and his frank acknowledgment of each rebuke gave him greater understanding. while the gale lasted he watched the river and the sky. the wild fowl flying low, and dropping into woods behind him led to forays seeking game, and in a bayou a mile distant he drew down with deadly aim on one of a flock of geese. he killed that bird, and then as its startled and lumbering mates sought flight, he got two more of them, missing another shot or two in the excitement. the three great birds made a load for him, and he returned to his boat with a heart lighter than he had known in many a day because it seemed to him a "sign" that he need not hate himself overmuch. the river consoled him, and its constancy and integrity were an example which he could not help but take to heart. gales might blow, fair weather might tempt, islands might interpose themselves in its way, banks and sandbars might stand against the flood, but come what might, the river poured on through its destined course like a human life. he entertained the whimsical fancy, as his smallest goose was roasting, that perhaps the mississippi might sin. in so many ways the river reminded him of humankind. he had stood beside a branch of the mississippi which was so small and narrow that he could dam it with his ample foot, or scoop it up with a bucket--and yet here it was a mile wide! in its youth it was subject to the control of trifling things, a stone or a log, or the careless handiwork of a man. down here all the little threads of its being had united in a full tide of life still subject to the influences of its normal course, but wearing and tearing along beyond any power to stop till its appointed course was run. insensibly parson rasba felt the resources of his own mind flocking to help him. just being there beside that mighty torrent helped him to get a perspective on things. tiny things seemed so useless in the front of that overwhelming power. what were the big things of his own life? what were the important affairs of his existence? he could not tell. he had always meant to do the right thing. he could see now, looking back on his life, that his good intentions had not prevented his ignorance from precipitating a feud fight. "i should have taken them, family by family, and brought them to their own knees fustest," he thought, grimly. "then i could have helt 'em all together in mutual repentance!" having arrived at that idea, he shrugged his shoulders almost self-contemptuously. "i'm a learnin'. that's one consolation, i'm a learnin'!" and then rasba heard the call! it was old mississip's voice; the river was heaping duties upon him more and more. so far, he had been rather looking out for himself, now he recalled the houseboats which he had seen moored down the reaches and in the bends. those river people, dropping down incessantly with the river current, must sometimes need help, comfort, and perhaps advice. his humility would not permit him to think that he could preach to them or exhort them. "man to man, likely i could he'p some po'r sinner see as much as i can see. if i could kind of get 'em to see what this big, old riveh is like! hit's carryin' a leaf er a duck, an' steamboats an' shanty-bo'ts; hit carries the livin' an' hit carries the daid; hit begrudges no man it's he'p if he comes to it to float down a log raft er a million bushels of coal. if ole mississip'll do that fo' anybody, suttin'ly hit's clear an' plain that god won't deny a sinner his he'p! yas, suh! now i've shore found a handle to keep hold of my religion!" peace of mind had come to him, but not the peace of indolence and neglect. far from that! he saw years of endless endeavour opening before him, but not with multitudes looking up to him as he stood, grand and noble, in the bright light of a thousand pulpits, circuit riding the earth. instead, he would go to a sinning man here, a sorrowing woman there, and perhaps sit down with a little child, to give it comfort and instruction. people were too scattered down the mississippi to think of congregations. all days were sunday, and for him there could be no day of rest. if he could not do big work, at least he could meet men and women, and he could get to know little children, to understand their needs. he knew it was a good thought, and when he looked across the mississippi, he saw night coming on, but between him and the dark was sunset. the cold white glare changed to brilliant colours; clouds whose gray-blue had oppressed the soul of the mountain man flashed red and purple, growing thinner and thinner, and when he had gazed for a minute at the glow of a fixed government light he was astonished by the darkness of night--only the night was filled with stars. thus the river, the weather, the climate, the sky, the sandbars, and the wooded banks revealed themselves in changing moods and varying lights to the mountain man whose life had always been pent in and narrowed, without viewpoint or a sense of the future. the monster size of the river dwarfed the little affairs of his own life and humbled the pride which had so often been humbled before. at last he began to look down on himself, seeing something of the true relation of his importance to the immeasurable efforts of thousands and millions of men. the sand clouds carried by the north wind must ever remain an epoch in his experience. definitely he was rid of a great deal of nonsense, ignorance, and pride; at the same time it seemed, somehow, to have grounded him on something much firmer and broader than the vanities of his youth. his eyes searched the river in the dark for some place to begin his work, and as they did so, he discovered a bright, glaring light a few miles below him across the sandbar at the head of which he had anchored. he saw other lights down that way, a regular settlement of lights across the river, and several darting firefly gleams in the middle of the stream which he recognized were boats, probably small gasolene craft. in forty minutes he was dipping his sweep blades to work his way into the eddy where several small passenger craft were on line-ends from a large, substantial craft which was brightly lighted by lanterns and a big carbide light. its windows were aglow with cheeriness, and the occupants engaged in strange pastimes. "come, now, come on, now!" someone was crying in a sing-song. "come along like i said! come along, now--seven--seven--seven!" parson rasba's oar pins needed wetting, for the strain he put on the sweeps made them squeak. the splash of oars down the current was heard by people on board and several walked out on the deck. "whoe-e-e!" one hailed. "who all mout yo' be?" "rasba!" the newcomer replied. "parson elijah rasba, suh. out of the ohio!" "hi-i-i!" a listener cried out, gleefully, "hyar comes the riveh prophet after yo sinners. hi-i-i!" there was a laugh through the crowd. others strolled out to see the phenomenon. a man who had been playing with fortune at one of the poker tables swore aloud. "i cayn't neveh git started, i don't shift down on my luck!" he whined. "las' time, jes' when i was coming home, i see a piebald mewl, an' now hyar comes a parson. dad drat this yeah ole riveh! i'm goin' to quit. i'm gwine to go to hot springs!" these casual asides were as nothing, however, to the tumult that stirred in the soul of jock drones, who had been cutting bread to make boiled-ham sandwiches for their patrons that night. his acute hearing had picked up the sound of the coming shanty-boat, and he had felt the menace of a stranger dropping in after dark. few men not on mischief bent, or determined to run all night, run into shanty-boat eddies. he even turned down the light a little, and looked toward the door to see if the way was clear. the hail relieved the tension of his mind strain, but only for a minute. then he heard that answer. "rasba!" he heard. "parson elijah rasba, suh. out of the ohio!" in a flash he knew the truth! old rasba, whose preaching he had listened to that bloody night away up in the mountains, had come down the rivers. a parson, none else, was camping on the mountain fugitive's trail. that meant tribulation, that meant the inescapableness of sin's punishment--not in jails, not in trial courts, not on the gallows, but worse than that! "come abo'd, parson!" someone shouted, and the boats bumped. there was a scramble to make a line fast, and then the trampling of many feet, as the prophet was introduced to that particular river hell, amid stifled cries of expectancy and murmurs of warning. next to being raided by the sheriff of an adjacent county, having a river prophet come on board is the greatest excitement and the smartest amusement of the bravados down the river. "hyar's the prophet!" a voice shouted. "now git ready fo' yo' eternal damnation. see 'im gather hisse'f!" rasba gathering himself! jock could not help but take a peep. it was rasba, gaunt, tall, his head up close to the shanty-boat roof and his shoulders nearly a head higher than the collars of most of those men who stood by with insolence and doubtful good humour. "which'd yo' rather git to play, parson?" someone asked, slyly. "cyards er bones er pull-sticks?" "i've a friend down yeah, gentlemen." the prophet ignored the insult. "his mother wants him. she's afeared likely he mout forget, since he was jes' a boy friendly and needing friends. he's no runt, no triflin' no-'count, puppy man, like this thing," in the direction whence the invitation had come, "but tall an' square, an' honourable, near six foot, an' likely pounds. not like this little runt thing yeah, but a real man!" there was a yell of approval and delight. "who all mout yo' friend be?" buck asked, respectfully, seeing that this was not a raid, but a visit. "jock, suh, jock drones, his mammy wants him, suh!" buck eyed the visitor keenly for a minute. someone said they never had heard of him. buck, who saw that the visitor was in mind to turn back, suggested: "won't yo' have a cup of coffee, suh? hit's raw outside to-night, fresh and mean. give him a chair, boys! i'm friendly with any man who takes a message from a mother to her wandering son." a dozen chairs were snatched out to the stove, and when parson rasba had accepted one, buck stepped into the kitchen. he found slip, _alias_ jock drones, standing with beads of sweat on his forehead. no need to ask the first question; buck poured out a cup of coffee and said: "what'll i tell him, slip?" "i cayn't go back, buck!" slip whimpered. "hit's a hanging crime!" "something may have changed," buck suggested. "no, suh, i've heard. hit were my bullet--i've heard. hit's a trial, an' hit's--hit's hanging!" "sh-h! not so loud!" buck warned. "if it's lawyer money you need?" "i got 'leven hundred, an' a trial lawyer'll cost only a thousand, buck! yo's a friend--lawse! i'd shore like to talk to him. he's no detector, parson rasba yain't. why, he's be'n right into a stillhouse, drunk the moonshine--an' no revenue hearn of hit, the way some feared. my sister wrote me. i want to talk to him, buck, but--but not let them outside know." "i'll fix it," buck promised, carrying out steaming coffee, a plate of sandwiches, and two big oranges for the parson. he returned, filled up the trays for the others, and took them out. soon the crowd were sitting around, or leaning against the heavy crap table, talking and listening. "yo' come way down from the mountangs to find a mammy's boy?" someone asked, his tone showing better than his words how well he understood the sacrifice of that journey. "hit's seo," rasba nodded. "i'm partly to blame, myse'f, for his coming down. i was a mountain preacher, exhorter, and i 'lowed i knowed hit all. one candlelight i had a congregation an' i hit 'er up loud that night, an' i 'lowed i'd done right smart with those people's souls. but--but hit were no such thing. this boy, jock, he runned away that night, 'count of my foolishness, an' we know he's down thisaway; if i could git to find him, his mammy'd shore be comforted. she's a heap more faith in me'n i have, but i come down yeah. likely i couldn't do much for that boy, but i kin show i'd like to." "trippin' a thousand miles shows some intrust!" somebody said. "i lived all my life up theh in the mountangs, an' hit's god's country, gem'men! this yeah--" he glanced around him till his glance fell upon the card cabinet on the wall between two windows, full of decks of cards and packets of dice and shaker boxes--"this yeah, sho! hit ain't god's country, gem'men! hit's shore the devil's, an' he's shore ketched a right smart haul to-night! but i live yeah now!" buck, who had been coming and going, had stopped at the parson's voice. he did not laugh, he did not even smile. the point was not missed, however. far from it! he went out, bowed by the truth of it, and in the kitchen he looked at slip, who was sitting in black and silent consideration of that cry, carried far in the echoes. "you're one of us, parson!" a voice exclaimed in disbelief. "yas, suh," rasba smiled as he looked into the man's eyes, "i'm one of you. i 'low we uns'll git thar together, 'cordin' as we die. look! this gem'men gives me bread an' meat; he quenches my thirst, too. an' i take hit out'n his hands. 'peahs like he owns this boat!" "yas, suh," someone affirmed. "then i shall not shake hit's dust off my feet when i go," rasba declared, sharply. buck stared; rasba did not look at even his shoes; buck caught his breath. whatever rasba meant, whatever the other listeners understood, buck felt and broke beneath those statements which brought to him things that he never had known before. "he'll not shake the dust of this gambling dive from his feet!" buck choked under his breath. "and this is how far down i've got!" rasba, conscious only of his own shortcomings, had no idea that he had fired shot after shot, let alone landed shell after shell. he knew only that the men sat in respectful, drawn-faced silence. he wondered if they were not sorry for him, a preacher, who had fallen so far from his circuit riding and feastings and meetings in churches. it did not occur to him that these men knew they were wicked, and that they were suffering from his unintentional but overwhelming rebuke. they turned away impatiently, and went in their boats to the village landing across the river; a night's sport spoiled for them by the coming of a luck-breaking parson. others waited to hear more of what they knew they needed, partly in amusement, partly in curiosity, and partly because they liked the whiskery fellow who was so interesting. at the same time, what he said was stinging however inoffensive. "game's closed for the night!" buck announced, and the gamesters took their departure. they made no protest, for it was not feasible to continue gambling when everyone knows a parson brings bad luck to a player. the outside lights were extinguished, and buck brought slip from the kitchen inside to rasba. "this is slip," buck explained, and the two shook hands, the fugitive staring anxiously at the other's face, expecting recognition. "don't yo' know me, parson?" slip exclaimed. "jock drones. don't yo' know me?" "jock drones?" rasba cried, staring. "why, sho! hit is! lawse--an' i found yo' right yeah--thisaway!" "yassuh," jock turned away under that bright gaze, "but i'm goin' back, parson! i'm goin' back to stand trial, suh! i neveh knowed any man, not a blood relation would think so much of me, as to come way down yeah to tell me my mammy, my good ole mammy, wanted me to be safe----" "an' good, jock!" rasba cried. "an' good, suh," the young man added, obediently. "i'd better go over and see our sick man," buck turned to slip. "a sick man?" rasba asked. "where mout he be?" "in that other shanty-boat, that little boat," slip exclaimed. "we'll all go!" when they entered the little boat, which sagged under their combined weights, slip held the light so it would shine on the cot. "sho!" rasba exclaimed. "hyar's my friend who got shot by a lady!" "yes, suh, parson!" prebol grinned, feebly. "seems like i cayn't get shut of yo' nohow, but i'm shore glad to see yo'. these yeah boys have took cyar of me great. same's you done, parson, but i wa'nt your kind, swearin' around, so i pulled out. yo' cayn't he'p me much, but likely--likely theh's some yo' kin." "i'd shore like to find them," rasba declared, smoothing the man's pillow. "but there's not so many i can he'p. yo' boys are tired; i'll give him his medicine till to'd mornin'. yo'd jes' soon, prebol?" "hit'd be friendly," prebol admitted. "yo' needn't to sit right yeah----" "i 'low i shall," rasba nodded. "i got some readin' to do. i'll git my book, an' come back an' set yeah!" he brought his bible, and looking up to bid the two good-night, he smiled. "hit's considerable wrestle, readin' this yeah book! i neveh did git to understand hit, but likely i can git to know some more now. i've had right smart of experiences, lately, to he'p me git to know." chapter xx terabon possessed a newspaper man's feeling of aloofness and detachment. when he went afloat on the mississippi at st. louis he had no intention of becoming a part of the river phenomena, and it did not occur to his mind that his position might become that of a participator rather than an observer. the great river was interesting. it had come to his attention several years before, when he read parkman's "la salle," and a little later he had read almost a column account of a flood down the mississippi. the a. p. had collected items from st. louis, cincinnati, memphis, cairo, natchez, vicksburg, baton rouge, and new orleans, and fired them into the aloof east. new york, boston, bangor, utica, albany, and other important centres had learned for the first time that a "levee"--whatever that might be--had suffered a cravasse; a steamboat and some towbarges had been wrecked, that cairo was registering . on the gauge; that some negroes had been drowned; that cattle thieves were operating in the overflow, and so on and so forth. the combination of la salle's last adventure and the mississippi flood caught the fancy of the newspaper man. "shall i ever get out there?" terabon asked himself. his dream was not of reporting wars, not of exploring africa, not of interviewing kings and making presidents in a national convention. far from it! his mind caught at the suggestion of singing birds in their native trees, and he could without regret think of spending days with a magnifying glass, considering the ant, or worshipping at the stalk of the flowering lily. he was astonished, one day, to discover that he had several hundred dollars in the chambers street savings bank. it happened that the city editor called him to the desk a few minutes later and said: "go see about this conference." "you go to hell!" the reporter replied, smilingly, gently replacing the slip on the greenish desk. "t-t-t-t-t----" mr. dekod sputtered. there _is_ something new under the sun! lester terabon strolled forth with easy nonchalance, and three days later he was in the office of the secretary of the mississippi river commission, at st. louis, calmly inquiring into the duties and performance thereof, involving the efforts of , negroes, , mules, contractors, , government officials, a few hundred pieces of floating plant, and sundry other things which terabon had conceived were of importance. he had approached the mississippi river from the human angle. he knew of no other way of approach. his first view of the river, as he crossed the merchants bridge, had not disturbed his equilibrium in the least, and he had floated out of an eddy in a -foot skiff still with the human-viewpoint approach. then had begun a combat in his mind between all his preconceived ideas and information and the river realities. faithfully, in the notebooks which he carried, he put down the details of his mental disturbances. by the time he reached island no. sandbar he had about resigned himself to the whimsicalities of river living. he had, however, preserved his attitude of aloofness and extraneousness. he regarded himself as a visiting observer who would record the events in which others had a part. it still pleased his fancy to say that he was interviewing the mississippi river as he might interview the president of the united states. but as lester terabon rowed his skiff back up the eddy above new madrid, and breasted the current in the sweep of the reach to that little cabin-boat half a mile above the island no. light, his attitude was undergoing a conscious change. while he had been reporting the mississippi river in its varying moods something had encircled him and grasped him, and was holding him. for some time he had felt the change in his position; glimmerings of its importance had appeared in his notes; his mind had fought against it as a corruption, lest it ruin the career which he had mapped out for himself. when the new madrid fish-dock man told him to carry the warning that a "detector" was hunting for a certain woman, and that the detective had gone on down with some river fellows, his place as a river man was assured. river folks trusted and used him as they used themselves. moreover, he was possessed of a vital river secret. nelia crele, _alias_ nelia carline, was the woman, and they were both stopping over at the island no. sandbar. he knew, what the fish-dock man probably did not know, that the pursuer was the woman's husband. "what'll i tell her?" terabon asked himself. with that question he uncovered an unsuspected depth to his feelings. it was a dark, dull day. the waves rolled and fell back, sometimes the wind seeming the stronger and then the current asserting its weight. with the wind's help over the stern, terabon swiftly passed the caving bend and landed in the lee above the young woman's boat. he carried some things he had bought for her into the kitchen and they sat in the cabin to read newspapers and magazines which he had obtained. "i heard some news, too," he told her. "yes? what news?" "the fish-dock man at new madrid told me to tell the people along that a detective has gone on down, looking for a woman." "a detective looking for a woman?" she repeated. "a man the name of carline----" "oh!" she shrugged her shoulders. "why didn't you tell me!" he flushed. almost an hour had elapsed since he had returned. he had found it difficult to mention the subject. "i did not tell you either," he apologized, "that i happened to meet mr. carline up at island no. , when i had no idea the good fortune would come to me of meeting you, whose--whose pictures he showed me. i could not--i saw----there was----" "and you didn't tell me," she accused him. "it seemed to me none of my affair. i'm a newspaper man--i----" "and did that excuse you from letting me know of his--of that pursuit of me?" his newspaper impartiality had failed him, and he hung his head in doubt and shame. she claimed, and she deserved, his friendship; the last vestige of his pretence of mere observation was torn from him. he was a human among humans--and he had a fervid if unexpected thought about the influence and exasperation of the river out yonder. "i could not tell you!" he cried. "i didn't think--it seemed----" "you know, then, you saw why i had left him?" "liquor!" he grasped at the excuse. "oh, that was plain enough." "perhaps a woman could forgive liquor," she suggested, thoughtfully, "but not--not stupidity and indifference. he never disturbed the dust on any of the books of his library. oh, what they meant my books mean to me!" she turned and stared at her book shelves. "suppose you hadn't found books?" he asked, glad of the opportunity for a diversion. "i'd be dead, i think," she surmised, "and one day, i did deliberately choose." "how was that?" "get your notebook!" she jeered. "i thought if he was going to rely on the specious joys of liquor i would, and tried it. it was a blizzard day last winter. he had gone over to see the widow, and there was a bottle of rum in the cupboard. i took some hot milk, nutmeg, sugar, and rum. i've never felt so happy in my life, except----" "with what exception?" he asked. "yesterday," she answered, laughing, "and last night and to-day! you see, i'm free now. i say and do what i please. i don't care any more. i'm perfectly brazen. i don't love you, but i like you very much. you're good company. i hope i am, too----" "you are--splendid!" he cried, almost involuntarily, and she shivered. "let's go walking again, will you?" she said. "i want to get out in the wind; i want to have the sky overhead, a sandbar under my feet, and all outdoors at my command. you don't mind, you'd like to go?" "to the earth's end!" he replied, recklessly, and her gay laugh showed how well he had pleased her mood. they kept close up to the north side of the bar because down the wind the sand was lifting and rolling up in yellow clouds. they went to winchester chute, and followed its winding course through the wood patch. there was a slough of green water, with a flock of ducks which left precipitately on their approach. they returned down to the sandbar, and pressed their way through the thick clump of small willows into the switch willows and along the edge of the unbroken desert of sand. they could see the very surface of the bar rolling along before the wind, and as they walked along they found their feet submerged in the blast. but when they arrived at the boat night was near at hand, and the enveloping cold became more biting and the gloom more depressing. just when they had eaten their supper together, and had seated themselves before the fire, and when the whirl and whistle of the wind was heard in the mad music of a river storm, a motorboat with its cut-out open ploughed up the river through the dead eddy and stopped to hail. jim talum, a fisherman whose line of hoop nets filled the reach of island no. for eight or ten miles, was on his way to his tent which he had pitched at the head of winchester chute. he tramped aboard, and welcomed a seat by the fire. "'lowed i'd drap in a minute," he declared. "powerful lonesome up on the chute where i got my tent. be'n runnin' my traps down the bank, yeah, an' along of the chute, gettin' rats. yo' trappin'?" "no, just tripping," terabon replied. "i was down to new madrid this morning." "i'm just up from there. ho law! theh's one man i'd hate to be down below. i expect yo've hearn tell of them despard riveh pirates? no! well, they've come drappin' down ag'in, an' they landed into new madrid yestehd'y evenin'. likely they 'lowed to raid some commissary down b'low--cayn't tell what they did 'low to do. but they picked good pickin's down theh! feller come down lookin' fo' a woman, hisn's i expect. anyhow, he's a strangeh on the riveh. he's got a nice power boat, an' likely he's got money. if he has, good-bye! them despards'd kill a man for $ . one of 'em, hilt despard's onto the bo't with him, pretendin' to be a sport, an' they've drapped out. the rest the gang's jes' waitin' fo' the wind to lay, down b'low, an' down by plum p'int, some'rs, mr. man'll sudden come daid." the fisherman had been alone so much that the pent-up conversation of weeks flowed uninterruptedly. he told details; he described the motorboat; he laughed at the astonishment the man would feel when the pirates disclosed their intentions with a bullet or knife; and he expected, by and by, to hear the story of the tragedy through the medium of some whiskey boater, some river gossip coming up in a power boat. for an hour he babbled and then, as precipitately as he had arrived, he took his departure. when he was gone, nelia crele turned to terabon with helpless dismay. augustus carline was worthless; he had been faithless to her; he had inflicted sufferings beyond her power of punishment or forgiveness. "but he's looking for me!" she recapitulated, "and he doesn't know. he's a fool, and they'll kill him like a rat! what can i do?" obviously there was nothing that she could do, but lester terabon rose instantly. "i'd better drop down and see if i can't help him--do something. i know that crew." "you'll do that for me!" her voice lifted in a cry of thankfulness. "oh, if you would, if you would. i couldn't think of his being--his being killed, trying to find me. get him; send him home!" "i'd better start right down," terabon said, "it's sixty or seventy miles, anyhow. they'll not hurry. they can't, for the gang's in a shanty-boat." she walked up to him with her arms raised. "how can i thank you?" she demanded. "you do this for me--a stranger!" "why not, if i can help?" he asked. "where shall i see you again?" he brought in his book of river maps, and together they looked down the tortuous stream; he rested the tip of his pencil on yankee bar below plum point. "it's a famous pirate resort, this twenty miles of river!" he said. "i'll wait at fort pillow landing. or if you are ahead?" "we'll meet there!" she cried. "i'll surely find you there. or at mendova--surely at mendova." she followed him out on the bow deck. "just a minute," she whispered, "while i get used to the thought of being alone again. i did not know there were men like you who would rather do a favour than ask for kisses." "it isn't that we don't like them!" he blurted out. "it's--it's just that we'd rather deserve them and not have them than have them and not deserve them!" she laughed. "good-bye--and don't forget, fort pillow!" "does a man forget his meals?" he demanded, lightly, and with his duffle packed low in his skiff he rowed out into the gray river and the black night. having found a lee along the caving bank above new madrid he gain-speeded down the current behind the sandbar, but when he turned the new madrid bend he pulled out into mid-river and with current and wind both behind him, followed the government lights that showed the channel. he had expected to linger long down this historic stretch of river with its sunk lands of the new madrid earthquakes, with its first glimpse of the cotton country, and with its countless river phenomena. "but old mississip' has other ideas," he said to himself, and miles below he was wondering if and when he would meet the girl of island no. again. chapter xxi pirates have infested the mississippi from the earliest days. the stranger on the river cannot possibly know a pirate when he sees one, and even shanty-boaters of long experience and sharp eyes penetrate their disguises with difficulty. how could gus carline suspect the loquacious, ingratiating, and helpful renald doss? lonely; pursued by doubts, ignorance, and a lurking timidity, carline was only too glad to take on a companion who discoursed about all the river towns, called river commissioners by their first names, knew all the makes of motors, and called the depth of the water in point pleasant crossing by reading the new madrid gauge. he relinquished the wheel of his boat to the dapper little man, and fed the motor more gas, or slowed down to half speed, while he listened to volumes of river lore. "you've been landing along down?" doss asked. "all along," carline replied, "everywhere." "seen anybody?" "i should say so; there was a fellow come down pretending to be a reporter. he stopped over with me, got me full's a tick, and then robbed me." "eh--_he_ robbed you?" "yes, sir! he got me to drinking heavy. i like my stew a little, but he fixed me. then he just went through me, but he didn't get all i had, you bet!" this was rich! "lucky he didn't hit you on the head, and take the boat, too!" doss grinned. "i suppose so." "yes, sir! lots of mean men on this river, they play any old game. they say they're preachers, or umbrella menders, or anything. every once in a while some feller comes down, saying he's off'n some magazine. they come down in skiffs, mostly. it's a great game they play. everybody tells 'em everything. if i was going to be a crook, i bet i'd say i was a hist'ry writer. i'd snoop around, and then i'd land--same's that feller landed on you. get much?" "two--three hundred dollars!" the little man laughed in his throat. he handled the boat like a river pilot. his eyes turned to the banks, swept the sandbars, gazed into the coiling waters alongside, and he whispered names of places as he passed them--landings, bars, crossings, bends, and even the plantations and log cuttings. he named the three cotton gins in tiptonville, and stared at the ferry below town with a sidelong leer. carline would have been the most astonished man on the mississippi had he known that nearly all his money was in the pockets of his guest. he babbled on, and before he knew it, he was telling all about his wife running away down the mississippi. "what kind of a boat's she in?" doss asked. "i don't know." "how do you expect to find her if you don't know the boat?" "why--why, somebody might know her; a woman alone!" "she's alone?" "why--yes, sir. i heard so." "good looker?" without a word carline handed the fellow a photograph. doss made no sign. for two minutes he stared at that fine face. "i bet she's got an awful temper," he half whispered. "she's quick," carline admitted, fervently. "she'd just soon shoot a man as look at him," doss added, with a touch of asperity. "why--she----" carline hesitated. he recalled a day in his own experience when she took his own shot gun from him, and stood a fury, flaming with anger. "yes, sir, she would," doss declared, with finality. doss had seen her. by that time a thousand shanty-boaters had heard about that girl's one shot of deadly accuracy. the woman folks on a thousand miles of reach and bend had had a bad example set before them. doss himself felt an anger which was impotent against the woman who had shot jest prebold down. probably other women would take to shooting, right off the bat, the same way. he despised that idea. carline, doubtful as to whether his wife was being insulted, congratulated, or described, gazed at the photograph. the more he looked, the more exasperated he felt. she was a woman--what right had she to run away and leave him with his honour impugned? he felt as though he hadn't taught her her place. at the same time, when he looked at the picture, he discovered a remembrance of his feeling that she was a very difficult person to teach anything to. her learning always had insulted his own meagreness of information and aptness in repartee. next to not finding her, his big worry had become finding her. they steered down the river without great haste. doss studied the shanty-boats which he saw moored in the various eddies, large and small. some he spoke of casually, as store-boats, fishermen, market hunters, or, as they passed between caruthersville and the opposite shore, a gambling boat. even the river pirate, gloating over his prey, and puzzled only as to the method of making the most of his victim, could not penetrate the veil which it happened the mississippi river interposed between them and the river gambling den--for the moment. there is no use seeking the method of the river, nor endeavouring to discover the processes by which the lives of thousands who go afloat down the mississippi are woven as woof and warp in the fabric of river life and river mysteries. the more faithful an effort to select one of the commonest and simplest of river complications, the more improbable and fanciful it must seem. doss, in intervals when he was not consciously registering the smile of good humour, the generosity of an experienced man toward the chance visitor, and the willingness to defer to the gentleman from up the bank, brought his expression unconsciously to the cold, rough woodenness of blank insensitiveness--the malignance of a snapping turtle, to mention a medium reptilian face. a whim, and the necessity of delay, led doss to suggest that they take a look up the obion river as a likely hiding place. of course, doss knew best, and they quit the tumbling mississippi for the quiet wooded aisle of the little river. when they emerged, two days later, augustus carline could well thank his stars, though he did not know it, that he was still on the boat. all unconscious of the real nature and habits of river rats he had given the little wretch a thousand opportunities to commit one of the many crimes he had in mind. but he developed a reluctance to choose the easiest one, when from hint after hint he understood that a mere river piracy and murder would be folly in view of the opportunity for a more profitable stake which a man of means offered. as he steered by the government boat which was surveying plum point bars, doss showed his teeth like an indignant cat. five or six miles below he offered the supine and helpless carline the information: "there's yankee bar. we'll swing wide and land in below, so's not to scare up any geese or ducks that may be roosting there." eagerly doss searched through the switch willows for a glimpse of the setback of the water beyond the bar. away down in the old eddy he discovered a shanty-boat, and to cover his involuntary exclamation of satisfaction he said: "shucks! there's somebody theh. i hoped we'd have it to ourselves but they may be sports, too. if they are, we'll sure have a good time. some of these shanty-boaters are great sports. we'll soon find out!" he steered into the eddy and the two men stepped out on the flat boat's deck to greet them. "seems like i've seen them before," doss said in a low voice; "i believe they're old timers. hello, boys! hunting?" "yes, suh! lots of game. sho, ain' yo' doss, ren doss?" "you bet. i knew you! i told mr. carline, here, that i knew you, that i'd seen you before! i'm glad to see you boys again. catch a line there." no doubt about it, they were old friends. in a minute they were shaking hands all around, then went into the shanty-boat, and they sat down in assorted chairs, and doss, jet, and cope exchanged the gossip of a river year. carline's eyes searched about him with interest, and the three men watched him more and more openly. when he walked toward the bow of the boat, where the slope of the yellow sand led up to the woods of flower island, one of them casually left his seat and followed. carline looked at the stand of guns in the cabin corner and started with surprise. he reached and picked up one of them to look at it. "why," he shouted, "this is my shot gu----" no more. his light went out on the instant and he felt that he was suspended in mid-air, poised between the abyss and the heavens. chapter xxii fortune, or rather the father of waters, had favoured parson elijah rasba in the accomplishment of his errand. it might not have happened in a decade that he locate a fugitive within a hundred miles of cairo, where the forks of the ohio is the jumping-off place of the stream of people from a million square miles. rasba knew it. the fervour of the prophets was in his heart, and the light of understanding was brightening in his mind. something seemed to have caught the doors of his intelligence and thrown them wide open. in the pent-up valleys of the mountains, with their little streams, their little trails, their dull and hopeless inhabitants, their wars begun in disputes over pigs and abandoned peach orchards, their moonshine and hate of government revenues, there had been no chance for parson rasba to get things together in his mind. the days and nights on the rivers had opened his eyes. when he asked himself: "if this is the mississippi, what must the jordan be?" he found a perspective. sitting there beside the wounded jest prebol, by the light of a big table lamp, he "wrestled" with his bible the obscurities of which had long tormented his ignorance and baffled his mental bondage. the noises of the witches' hours were in the air. wavelets splashed along the side and under the bow of the prebol shanty-boat. the mooring ropes stretched audibly, and the timber heads to which they were fastened squeaked and strained; the wind slapped and hissed and whined on all sides, crackling through the heavy timber up the bank. the great river pouring by seemed to have a low, deep growl while the wind in the skies rumbled among the clouds. no wonder rasba could understand! he could imagine anything if he did not hold fast to that great book which rested on his knees, but holding fast to it, the whisperings and chucklings and hissings which filled the river wilderness, and the deep tone of the flood, the hollow roar of the passing storm, were but signs of the necessity of faith in the presence of the mysteries. so rasba wrestled; so he grappled with the things he must know, in the light of the things he did know. and a kind of understanding which was also peace comforted him. he closed the book at last, and let his mind drift whither it would. panoramas of the river, like pictures, unfolded before his eyes; he remembered flashes taken of men, women, and children; he dwelt for a time on the ruin of the church up there in the valley, standing vainly against a mountain slide; his face warmed, his eyes moistened. his mind seized eagerly upon a vision of the memory, the pretty woman, whose pistol had shot down the deluded and now stricken wretch there in the cabin. the anomaly of the fact that he was caring for her victim was not lost on his shrewd understanding. he was gathering up and helping patch the wreckage she was making. it was a curious conceit, and elijah rasba, while he smiled at the humour of it, was at the same time conscious of its sad truth. her presence on the river meant no good for any one; prebol was but one of her victims; perhaps he was the least unfortunate of them all! others might perish through her, while it was not too much to hope that prebol, through his sufferings, might be willing to profit by their lesson. rasba was glad that he had not overtaken her that night of inexplicable pursuit. her brightness, her prettiness, her appeal had been irresistible to him, and he could but acknowledge, while he trembled at the fact, that for the time he had been possessed by her enchantment. thus he meditated and puzzled about the things which, in his words, had come to pass. before he knew it, daylight had arrived, and jock drones came over to greet him with "good mo'nin', parson!" prebol was sleeping and there was colour in his cheeks, enough to make them look more natural. when doctor grell arrived, just as the three sat down to breakfast, he cheered them with the information that prebol was coming through though the shadow had rested close to him. none of them admitted, even to himself, the strain the wounded man had been and was on their nerves. under his seeming indifference buck was near the breaking point; jock, victim of a thousand worries, was bent under his burdens. grell, having fought the all-night fight for a human life, was still weak with weariness from the effort. rasba, a newcomer, brought welcome reserves of endurance, assistance, and confidence. "yo' men shore have done yo' duty by a man in need," he told them, and none of them could understand why that truthful statement should make them feel so very comfortable. they left the sick man to go on board the gaming boat, and they sat on the stern deck, where they looked across the river and the levee to the roofs of caruthersville. if they looked at the horizon, their attention was attracted and their gaze held by the swirling of the river current. their eyes could not be drawn away from that tremendous motion, the rush of a thousand acres of surface; the senses were appalled by the magnitude of its suggestion. "going to play to-night?" grell asked, uneasily. "no," buck replied, instantly. "so!" the doctor exclaimed. "slip's going up on the steamboat." "for good?" "so'm i!" buck continued, breathlessly; "i'm quitting the riveh, too! i've been down here a good many years. i've been thinking. i'm going back. i'm going up the bank again." "what'll you do with the boat?" grell continued. "slip and i've been talking it all over. we're through with it. we guessed the prophet, here, could use it. we're going to give it to him." "going to give hit to me!" rasba started up and stared at the man. "yes, parson; that poplar boat of yours isn't what you need down here." buck smiled. "this big pine boat's better; you could preach in this boat." tears started in rasba's eyes and dripped through his dark whiskers. buck and jock had acted with the impulsiveness of gambling men. something in the fact that rasba had come down those strange miles had touched them, had given drones courage to go back and face the music, and to buck the desire to return into his old life. "we're going up on the _kate_ to-morrow morning," buck explained. "slip'd better show you how to run the gasolene boat if you don't know how, parson!" dazed by the access of fortune, rasba spent the mid-afternoon learning to run the -foot gasolene launch which was used to tow the big houseboat which would make such a wonderful floating church. it was a big boat only a little more than two years old. buck had made it himself, on the upper mississippi, for a gambling boat. the frame was light, and the cabin was built with double boards, with building paper between, to keep out the cold wintry winds. "gentlemen," rasba choked, looking at the two donors of the gift, "i'm going to be the best kind of a man i know how----" "it's your job to be a parson," buck laughed. "if it wasn't for men like us, that need reforming, you'd be up against it for something to look out for. you aren't much used to the river, and i'll suggest that when you drop down you land in eddies sheltered from the west and south winds. they sure do tear things up sometimes. i've had the roof tore off a boat i was in, and i saw sixty-three boats sunk at cairo's kentucky shanty-boat town one morning after a big wind." "i'll keep a-lookin'," rasba assured him, "but i've kind-a lost the which-way down heah. one day i had the sun ahead, behind, and both sides----" "there's maps in that pile of stuff in the corner," buck said, going to the duffle. "you're on sheet now. here's caruthersville." "yas, suh. those red lines?" "the new survey. you see, that sandbar up in little prairie bend has cut loose from island no. , and moved down three miles, and we're at the foot of this bar, here. that's moved down, too, and that big bar down there was made between the surveys. you see, they had to move the levee back, and caruthersville moved over the new levee----" "sho!" rasba gasped. "what ails this old riveh?" "she jes' wriggles, same's water into a muddy road downhill," kippy laughed. "up there in little prairie bend hit's caved right through the old levee, and they had to loop around. now they've reveted it." "reveted?" "they've woven a willow mattress and weighted it down with broken rock from up the river--more than a mile of it, now, and they'll have to put down another mile before they can head the river off there." "put a carpet down. how wide?" "four hundred feet probably----" "an' a mile long!" rasba whispered, awed. "every thing's big on the riveh!" "yes, sir--that's it--big!" buck laughed. thus the four gossiped, and when doctor grell had taken his departure the three talked together about the river and its wonders. at intervals they went over to look after prebol whose chief requirement was quiet, meat broths, and his medicines. as night drew down drones turned to buck: "it's goin' to be hard leaving the riveh! i neveh will forget, buck. if i'm sent to jail for all my life, i'll have something to remember. if they hang me, i shore will come back to walk with those that walk in the middle of the river." "what's that?" rasba turned and demanded. "riveh folks believe that thousands of people who died down thisaway, sunk in snagged steamers, caught in burned-up boats, blown to kingdom come in boiler explosions, those that have been murdered, and who died along the banks, keep a-goin' up and down." "sho!" rasba exclaimed. "yo' b'lieve that?" "a man believes a heap more after he's tripped the riveh once or twice, than he ever believed in all his borned days, eh, buck?" "it's so!" buck cried out. "last night i was thinking that i'd wasted my life down here; years and years i've been a shanty-boater, drifter, fisherman, trapper, market hunter, and late years, i've gambled. i've been getting in bad, worse all the while. the prophet here, coming along, seemed to wake me up--the man i used to be--i mean. it wasn't so much what you said, parson, but your being here. then i've been thinking all over again. i've an idea, boys, that when i go back up to-morrow i won't be so sorry for what i've been, as glad that i didn't grow worse than i did. it won't be easy, boys--going back. i'm taking the old river with me, though. i've framed its bends and islands, its chutes and reaches, like pictures in my mind. old parson here, too, coming in on us the way he did, saying that this was hell, but he'd come here to live in it. that's what waked me up, parson! i could see how you felt. you'd never seen such a place before, but you said in your heart and your eyes showed it, parson, that you would leave god's country to help us poor devils. it's just a point of view, though. i'm going right up to my particular hell, and i'll look back here to this thousand miles of river as heaven. yes, sir! but my job is up there--in that hell!" so they talked, and always their thoughts were on the river channel, and their minds groping into the future. when the _kate_ whistled way down at bell's landing, rasba took the two across to caruthersville and bade them good-bye at the landing. the _kate_ pulled out and parson rasba crossed to the three houseboats, two of them his own. he went in to see prebol, who was lonesome and wanted to talk a little. "what you going to do, parson?" prebol asked. "i'd kind-a like to get to see shanty-boaters, and talk to them," the man answered. "i wonder couldn't yo' sort of he'p me; tell me where i mout begin and where it'd he'p the most, an' hurt people's feelin's the least? i'd jes' kind-a like to be useful. course, i got to get you cured up an' took cyar of first." "i cayn't say much about being pious on old mississip'," prebol grinned, "but theh's two ways of findin' trouble. one's to set still long enough, and then, again, you can go lookin' fo' hit. course, yo' know me! i've hunted trouble pretty fresh, an' i've found hit, an' i've lived onto hit. i cayn't he'p much about doin' good, an' missionaryin', an' river prophetin'." when prebol's voice showed the strain of talking rasba bade him rest. then he went over to the big boat, a gift that would have sold for $ , . he looked at the crap table, the little poker tables with the brass-slot kitties; he stared at the cabinet of cards and dice. "all mine!" he said. he walked out on the deck where he could commune with the river, using his eyes, his ears, and the feeling that the warm afternoon gave him. the sun shone upon him, and made a narrow pathway across the rushing torrent. the sky was blue and cloudless. of the cold, the wind, the sea of liquid mud, not one trace remained. he looked down and up the river, and his eyes caught a flicker which became a flutter, like the agitation of a duck preening its feathers on a smooth surface. he watched it for a long time. he did not know what it was. as a river man, his curiosity was excited, but there was something more than mere curiosity; the river instinct that the inexplicable and unknown should be watched and inquired into moved him almost unconsciously to watch that distant agitation which became a dot afloat in a mirage of light. a little later a sudden flash along the river surface disclosed that the thing was a shanty-boat turning in the coiling currents at the bend. the sun drew nearer the tree tops. the little cabin-boat was seeking a place to land or anchor for the night. if it was an old river man, the boat would drop into some little eddy at caruthersville or down below; but a stranger on the river would likely shoot across into the gamblers' eddy tempted, perhaps, by the three boats already there. the boat drew swiftly near, and as it ran down, the navigator rowed to make the shanty-boat eddy. parson rasba discovered that it was a woman at the sweeps, and a few strokes later he knew that it was a slim, young woman. when she coasted down outside the eddy, to swing in at the foot, and arrived opposite him, he recognized her. "god he'p me!" he choked, "hit's missy nelia. hit's missy nelia! an' she's a runned away married woman--an' theh's the man she shot!" "hello-o, parson!" she hailed him, "did you see a skiff with a reporter man drop by?" "no, missy!" he shook his head, his heart giving a painful thump "i'm a-landing in, parson!" she cried. "i want to talk with you!" with that she leaned forward, drove the sweeps deep, and her boat started in like a skiff. it seemed to parson rasba that he had never seen a more beautiful picture in all his days. chapter xxiii lester terabon rowed down the rolling river waters in the dark night. he had, of course, looked out into the mississippi shades from the security of landing, anchorage, and sandbar; he knew the looks of the night but not the activities of currents and bends when a gale is sweeping by and the air is, by turns, penetrated by the hissing of darting whitecaps and the roar of the blustering winds. he would not from choice have selected a night of gale for a pull down the mississippi, and his first sensation as he sought a storm wave stroke was one of doubt. what dangers might engulf him was not plain, not the waves, for his skiff bobbed and rocked over them; not river pirates bent on plunder, for they could not see him; perhaps a snag in the shallows of a crossing; perhaps the leap of a sawyer, a great tree trunk with branches fast in the mud and the roots bounding up and down in the current; perhaps a collision with some other craft. he had salt-water rowlocks on his boat, open-topped "u" sockets, and the oars he used were cased with a foot of black leather and collars of leather strips; the tips were covered with copper sheets which gave them weight and balance. at first he pulled awkwardly, catching crabs in the hollows and backing into the heft of the waves, but after a time he felt the waves as they came, and the oars feathered and caught. while he watched ahead and searched the black horizon for the distant sparkle of government lights, he fell into the swing of his stroke before he knew it, and he was interested and surprised to observe that he swayed to the side-wash while he pulled to the rhythm of the waves. the government lights guided him. he had not paid much attention to them before; he had seen their white post standards as he dropped down, day after day, but his skiff, drawing only five inches of water, passed over the shallowest crossings and along the most gradually sloping sandbars. now he must keep to the deep water, follow the majestic curves and sweeps of the meandering channel, lest he collide with a boiling eddy, ram the shore line of sunken trees, or climb the point of a towhead. it was all a new experience, and its novelty compelled him at times to pause in his efforts to jot down a few hasty words by light of a little electric flash to preserve in his memory the sequence of the constantly varying features of the night, beginning with the curtain of the shanty-boat which flicked its good luck after him, passing the bright, clear lights of new madrid. after leaving far behind their glow against the thin haze in the night he "made" the scattered shoals of point pleasant, and hugged down vanishing ruddles point, taking a glimpse of tiptonville--which withdraws year by year from the fatal caving brink of its site--wishing as he passed that he might return to that strange place and visit reelfoot lake three or four miles beyond, where the new madrid earthquakes drowned a forest whose dead stubs rise as monuments to the tragedy. in little cypress bend, twenty-five miles below where he had left the young woman, he heard the splash and thud of a caving bank, and felt the big rollers from the falling earth twisting and tumbling him about for a third of a mile. it was after o'clock when he looked at his watch. he was beginning to feel the pull on his shoulders, and the crick which constantly looking over his shoulder to see the lights ahead caused him. the dulness of his vision, due to inevitable fatigue, compelled him constantly to sit more alert and dash away the fine spray which whipped up from the waves. a feeling of listlessness overpowered him. he could not row on forever, without resting at all. taking advantage of a moment of calm in the wind, he pulled the bow around and drifted down stern first. he had lost track of his position; he had not counted the lights, and now for many miles there was no town distinguishable. he had felt the loneliness of a mile-breadth; now he wondered whether he was in missouri or arkansas, whether he had come forty miles or eighty, and after a little he began to worry for fear he might have gone more than a hundred. with the wind astern or nearly astern, he knew that he had pulled four or five miles an hour, and he did not know how fast the current of the river ran; it might be four miles or eight miles. in ten hours he might leave more than a hundred miles of river bank behind him. a new sensation began to possess him: the feeling that he was not alone. he looked around, while he rested trying to find what proximity thus affected him. the wind? those dull banks, seemingly so distant? perhaps some fellow traveller? it was none of those things. it was the river! the "feel" of the flood was that of a person. he could not shake off the sensation, which seemed absurd. he shook his head resolutely and then searched through the gloom to discover what eyes might be shining in it. he saw the inevitable government lights between which was deep water and a safe channel. he had but to keep on the line between the lights, cutting across when he spied another one far ahead. the lights but accentuated the certainty that on all sides, but a little way from him, a host of invisible beings speculated on his presence and influenced his course. a newspaper man of much experience could not help but protest in his practical mind against such a determination of the invisible and the unknown to give him such nonsensical ideas. he had in play, in intellectual persiflage, and with some show of traditional reasonableness, called nelia crele "a river goddess." she was very well placed in his mind--a reckless woman, pretty, with a fine character for a masterpiece of fiction (should he ever get to the story-writing stage) and a delight to think about; commanding, too, mysterious and exacting; and now he thought it might be the laughter of her voice that carried in the wind, not a mocking laugh, nor a jeering one, but one of sweet encouragement which neither distance nor circumstances could dismiss from a distressed and reluctant heart, let alone a heart so willing to receive as his. lester terabon accepted the possibility of river lore and proclaimed beliefs. fishermen, store-boaters, trippers, pirates, and all sorts of the shanty-boaters whom he had interviewed on his way down had solemnly assured him that there were spirits who promenaded down mid-stream, and who sometimes could be seen. terabon was sorry when his cool, calculating mind refused to believe his eyes, which saw shapes; his flesh, which felt creeps; his ears, which heard voices; and his nostrils, which caught a whiff of a faint, sweet perfume more exquisite than any which he remembered. he knew that when he had kissed the river goddess whose eyes were blue, whose flesh was fair, whose grace was lovely, he had tasted that nectar and sniffed that ambrosia. he wondered if she were near him, watching to see whether he performed well the task which she had set for him, the rescue of the husband who had forfeited her love, and yet who still was under her protection since in his indignant sorrow he had supposed himself capable of finding and retaining her. terabon would have liked nothing better than to believe what the grecians used to believe, that goddesses and gods do come down to the earth to mingle among mankind. he fought the impossibility with his reason, and night winds laughed at him, while the voices of the waves chuckled at his predicament. they assailed him with their presence like living things, and then roared away to give room to new voices and new presences. "anyhow," terabon laughed, in spite of himself, "you're good company, old mississip'!" yet he felt the chilling and depressing possibility that he might never again see that woman who would remain as a "river goddess" in his imagination. he had been heart-free, a bystander in the world's affairs. now he knew what it was to see the memory of a woman rise unbidden to disturb his calculations; more than that, too, he was a part of the affairs of the river people. as a reporter "back home" he had never been able quite to reconcile himself to his constant position as a spectator, a neutral observer, obliged to write news without feeling and impartially. a politician could look him in the eye and tell him any smooth lie, and he could not, with white heat, deny the statement. he could not rise with his own strength to champion the cause of what he knew to be right against wrong; he could not elaborate on the details of things that he felt most interested in, but must consult the fancies of a not-particularly discriminating public, whose average intelligence, according to some learned students, must be placed at seventeen-years plus. as he was twenty-four plus, terabon was immensely discouraged with the public when he had set forth down the mississippi. now he was on the way from a river goddess to interfere with the infamous plans of river pirates, through a dry gale out of the north, on the winding course of the mississippi, a transition which troubled the self-possession while it awakened the spirit of the young man. dawn broke on the troubled river, and the prospect was enchanting to the heroic in the mind of the skiff-tripper. he could not be sure which was east or west, for the gray light appeared on all sides, in spots and patches of varying size. no gleam reflected from the yellow clay of the tumbling and tortured waters. as far as he could see there was light, but not a bright light. dull purples, muddy waters, gray tree trunks, black limbs against dark clouds; terabon felt the weariness of a desert, the melancholy of a wet, dripping-tree wilderness, and of a tumbling waste of waters; and yet never had the solid body of the stream been so awe-inspiring as in that hour of creeping and insinuating dawn. he ran out into the main river again, and a wonderful prospect opened before his eyes. sandbars spread out for miles across the river and lengthwise of the river; the bulk of the stream seemed broken up into channels and chutes and wandering waterways. he saw column after column of lines of spiles, like black teeth, through which the water broke with protesting foam. when he thought to reckon up, as he passed osceola bar, he found that he had come ninety-five miles. yankee bar was only five or six miles below him, and he eagerly pulled down to inspect the long beaches, the chutes and channels, which the river pirates had used for not less than years; where they still had their rendezvous. wild ducks and geese were there in many flocks. there were waters sheltered from the wind by willow patches. the woods of plum point peninsula were heavy and dark. the river main current slashed down the miles upon miles of craighead point, and shot across to impinge upon chickasaw bluffs no. , where a made dirt bank was silhouetted against the sky. not until his binoculars rested upon the bar at the foot of fort pillow bluff did terabon's eyes discover any human beings, and then he saw a white houseboat with a red hull. he headed toward it to ask the familiar river question. "no, suh!" the lank, sharp-eyed fisherman shook his head. "theh's no motorboat landed up theh, not this week. who all mout you be?" "lester terabon; i'm a newspaper writer; i live in new york; i came down the mississippi looking for things to tell about in the newspapers. you see, lots of people hardly know there's a mississippi river, and it's the most interesting place i ever heard of." "terabon? i expect you all's the feller whiskey williams was tellin' about; yo'n a feller name of carline was up by no. . he said yo' had one of them writin' machines right into a skift. sho! an' yo' have! the woman an' me'd jes' love to see yo' all use hit." "you'll see me," terabon laughed, "if you'll let me sit by your stove. i've some writing i could do. here's a goose for dinner, too." "sho! the woman shore will love to cook that goose! i'm a fisherman but no hunter. 'tain't of'en we git a roast bird!" so terabon sat by the stove, writing. he wrote for more than an hour--everything he could remember, with the aid of his pencilled midnight notes, about that long run down. with his maps before him he recognized the bends and reaches, the sandbars and islands which had loomed up in the dark. of all the parts of the river, the hundred miles from island no. down to fort pillow became the most familiar to his thoughts, black though the night had been. even each government light began to have characteristics, and the sky-line of levee, wilderness, sandbar, and caving bank grew more and more defined. having written his notes, and jeff slamey having fingered the nine loose-leaf sheets with exclamatory interest and delight, terabon said he must go rest awhile. "yas, suh," the fisherman cried, "when a man's pulled a hundred mile he shore needs sleep. when the woman's got that goose cooked, i bet yo'll be ready to eat, too." so terabon turned in to sleep. he was awakened at last by the sizzling of a goose getting its final basting. he started up, and slamey said: "hit's ready. i bet yo' feel betteh, now; six hours asleep!" it didn't seem like six minutes of dreamless recreation. with night the wind fell. the flood of sunset brilliance spread down the radiant sandbars and the bright waterways. the trees were plated with silver and gold, and the sweep of the caving bend was a dark shadow against which the river current swept with ceaseless attack. for hours that night terabon amused his host with his adventures, except that he made but most casual mention of the woman whom carline was seeking. he was cautious, too, about the motorboat and the companion who had taken carline down the river, till slamey burst out: "i know that feller. he's a bad man; he's a river rat. if he don't kill gus carline, i don't know these yeah riveh fellers. they use down thisaway every winter. i know; i know them all. i leave them alone, an' they leave me alone. i knew they was comin'. they got three four boats now. one feller, name of prebol--he's bad, too--was shot by a lady above cairo. he's with a coupla gamblers to caruthersville now. everybody stops yeah; i know everybody; everybody knows me." the next day was calm all day long, and terabon went up the bank to shoot squirrels or other woods game; he went almost up to the plum point, killed several head of game, and rejoiced in the bayous and sloughs and chutes of a changing land. the following morning he was hailed by slamey: "hi--i, terabon! theh's a shanty-boat up the head of flower island bar jes' drappin' in. they've floated down all night!" through his glasses terabon saw two men walking a shanty-boat across the dead water below yankee lower bar to the mainland. they were too far away for him to distinguish their personalities, but one was a tall, active man, the other obviously chunky, and when they ran their lines out and made fast to half-buried snags, it was with the quick decision of men used to work against currents and to unison of effort. there was something suggestive in their bearing, their scrutiny up and down the river, their standing close to each other as they talked. if terabon had not suspected them of being pirates, their attitude and actions would have betrayed them. terabon, after a little while, pulled up the eddy toward them; he was willing to take a long chance. few men resent a newspaper man's presence. the worst of them like to put themselves, their ideas, right with the world. terabon risked their knavery to win their approbation. come what might, he would seek to save augustus carline from the consequences of his ignorance, money, folly, and remorse. chapter xxiv the flow of the mississippi river is down stream--a perfectly absurd and trite statement at first thought. on second thought, one reverts to the people who are always trying to fight their way up that adverse current, with the thrust of two miles perpendicular descent and the body of a thousand storms in its rush. there are steamers which endeavour to stem the current, but they make scant headway; sometimes a fugitive afraid of the rails will pull up stream; the birds do fly with the spring winds against the retreat of winter; but all these things are trifles, and merely accentuate the fact that everything goes down. the sandbars are not fixed, they are literally rivers of sand flowing down, tormenting the current, and keeping human beings speculating on their probable course and the effect, when after a few years on a point, they disappear under the water. later they will lunge up and out into the wind again, gallumphing along, some coarse gravel bars, some yellow sand, some white sand, some fine quicksand, some gritty mud, and others of mud almost fit to use in polishing silver. thousands of people in shanty-boats, skiff's, fancy little yachts, and jon-boats, rag-shacks on rafts, and serviceable cruisers drift down with the flood, and are a part of it. autumn was passing; most of the birds had speeded south when the wild geese brought the alarm that a cold norther was coming. when the storm had gone by, shanty-boaters, having shivered with the cold, determined not to be caught again. the sunshine of the evening, when the wind died, saw boats drifting out for the all-night run. dawn, calm and serene, found boats moving out into mid-channel more or less in haste. so they floated down, sometimes within a few hundred feet of other boats, sometimes in merry fleets tied together by ropes and common joyousness, sometimes alone in the midst of the vacant waters. the migration of the shanty-boaters was watched with mingled hate, envy, and admiration by up-the-bank folks, who pretend to despise those who live as they please. and nelia carline pulled out into the current and followed her river friend, lester terabon, who had gone on ahead to save her husband from the river pirates. she despised her husband more as she let her mind dwell on the man who had shown no common frailties while he did enjoy a comradeship which included the charm of a pretty woman, recognizing her equality, and not permitting her to forget for a moment that he knew she was lovely, as well as intelligent. she had not noticed that fact so much at the time, as afterward, when she subjected him to the merciless scrutiny of a woman who has heretofore discovered in men only depravity, ignorance, selfishness, or brutality. her first thought had been to use terabon, play with him, and, if she could, hurt him. she knew that there were men who go about plaguing women, and as she subjected herself to grim analysis, she realized that in her disappointment and humiliation she would have hurt, while she hated, men. the long hours down the river, in pleasant sunshine, with only an occasional stroke of the oar to set the boat around broadside to the current, enabled her to sit on the bow of her boat and have it out with herself. she had never had time to think. things crowded her up-the-bank. now she had all the time in the world, and she used that time. she brought out her familiar books and compared the masters with her own mind. she could do it--there. "ruskin, carlyle, old mississip', plato, plutarch, thoreau, the bible, shelley, byron, and i, all together, dropping down," she chuckled, catching her breath. "i'm tripping down in that company. and there's terabon. he's a good sport, too, and he'll be better when i've--when i've caught him." terabon was just a raw young man as regards women. he might flatter himself that he knew her sex, and that he could maintain a pose of writing her into his notebooks, but she knew. she had seen stunned and helpless youth as she brought into play those subtle arts which had wrenched from his reluctant and fearful soul the kiss which he thought he had asked for, and the phrase of the river goddess, which he thought he had invented. she laughed, for she had realized, as she acted, that he would put into words the subtle name for which she had played. it all seemed so easy now that she considered the sequence of her inspired moves. drifting near another shanty-boat, she passed the time of day with a runaway couple who had come down the ohio. they had dinner together on their boat. a solitaire and an unscarred wedding ring attested to the respectability of the association. "larry's a river drifter," the girl explained, "and daddy's one of those set old fellows who hate the river. but mamma knew it was all right. larry's saved $ , in three years. he'd never tell me that till i married him, but i knew. we're going clear down to n'orleans. are you?" "probably." "and all alone--aren't you afraid?" "oh, i'll be all right, won't i?" she looked at the stern-featured youth. "if you can shoot and don't care," larry replied without a smile. "i can shoot," nelia said, showing her pistol. "that's river law!" larry cried, smiling. "that's law. you came out the upper river?" "yes," she nodded. "then i bet----" the girl-wife started to speak, but stopped, blushing. "yes," nelia smiled a hard smile. "i'm the woman who shot prebol above buffalo island--i had to." "you did right; men always respect a lady if she don't care who she shoots," larry cried, enthusiastically. "wish you'd get my wife to learn how to shoot. she's gun shy!" so nelia coaxed the little wife to shoot, first the -calibre repeating rifle and then the pistol. when nelia had to go down they parted good friends and larry thanked her, saying that probably they would meet down below somewhere. "you'll make caruthersville," larry told her. "there's a good eddy on the east side across from the town. there's likely some boats in there. they'll know, perhaps, if the folks you are looking for are around. there's an old river man there now, name of buck. he's a gambler, but he's all right, and he'll treat you all right. he's from up in our country, on the ohio. hardly anybody knows about him. he was always a dandy fellow, but he married a woman that wasn't fit to drink his coffee. she bothered the life out of him, and--well, he squared up. he gave her to the other fellow with a double-barrelled shotgun." when nelia ran down to the gambling boat and found parson rasba there, she enjoyed the idea. certainly the river prophet and the river gambler were an interesting combination. she was not prepared to find that buck had taken his departure and that parson rasba was converting the gambling hell into a mission boat. least of all was she prepared when parson rasba said with an unsteady voice: "theh's a man sick in that other boat, and likely he'd like to see somebody." "oh, if there's anything i can do!" she exclaimed, as a woman does. he led the way to the brick-red little boat, the like of which could be found in a thousand river eddies. she followed him on board and over to the bed. there she looked into the wan countenance and startled eyes of jest prebol. "hit's mister prebol," rasba said. "i know you have no hard feelings against him, and i know he has none against you, missy carline!" an introduction to a contrite river pirate, whom she had shot, for the moment rendered the young woman speechless. prebol was less at loss for words. "i'm glad to git to see yo'," he said, feebly. "if i'd knowed yo', i shore would have minded my own business. i'm bad, missy carline, but i ain' mean--not much. leastwise, not about women. i reckon the boys shore will let yo' be now. i made a mistake, an' i 'low to 'pologise to yo'." "i was--i was scairt to death," she cried, sitting in a chair. "i was all alone. i was afraid--the river was so big that night. i was so far away. i should have given you fair warning. i'm sorry, too, jest." "lawse!" prebol choked. "say hit thataway ag'in----" "i'm sorry, too, jest!" "i cayn't thank yo' all enough," the man-whispered. "i've got friends along down the riveh. i'll send word along to them, they'll shore treat yo' nice. treat friends of yourn nice, too. huh! 'pologizin' to me afteh what i 'lowed to do!" "we'll be good friends, jest. the prophet here and i are good friends, too. aren't we, parson?" "i hearn say, missy," the prophet said, slowly, picking his words, "i hearn say you've a power and a heap of book learning! books on yo' boat, all kinds. what favoured yo' thataway?" "oh, i read lots!" she exclaimed, surprised by the sudden shift of thought. "somehow, i've read lots!" "in my house i had a bible, an almanac, and the 'resources of tennessee,' yo' have that many books?" "why, i've a hundred--more than a hundred books!" she answered. "a bible?" "yes." "would you mind, missy, comin' on board this boat to-night, an' tellin' us about these books you have? i'm not educated; my daddy an' i read the bible, an' tried to understand hit. seems like we neveh did git to know the biggest and bestest of the words." "you had a dictionary?" "a which?" "a dictionary, a book that explains the meaning of all the words!" "ho law! a book that tells what words mean, missy. where all kin a man git to find one of them books?" "why, i've got----i'm hungry, mr. rasba, i must get something to eat. after supper we'll bring some books over here and talk about them!" "my supper is all ready, keeping warm in the oven," rasba said. "i always cook enough for one more than there is. yo' know, a vacant chair at the table for the stranger." "and i came?" she laughed. "an' yo' came, missy!" he replied. "parson," prebol pleaded, "i'm alone mos' the time. mout yo' two eat hyar on my bo't? the table--hit'd be comp'ny." "certainly we'll come," nelia promised, "if he'd just soon." "i'd rather," rasba assented, and at his tone nelia felt a curious sensation of pity and mischievousness. at the same time, she recovered her self-possession. she demanded that rasba let her help him bring over the supper, add a feminine relish, and set the table with a daintiness which was an addition to the fascination of her presence. gaily she fed prebol the delicate things which he was permitted to eat, then sat down with rasba, her face to the light, and prebol could watch her bantering, teasing, teaching parson rasba things he had never known he lacked. after supper she brought over a basket full of books, twenty volumes. she dumped them onto the table, leather, cloth, and board covers, of red, blue, gray, brown, and other gay colours. parson rasba had seen government documents and even some magazines with picture covers, but in the mountains where he had ridden his big circuit with such a disastrous end he had never seen such books. he hesitated to touch one; he cried out when three or four slipped off the pile onto the floor. "missy, won't they git muddied up!" "they're to read!" she told him. "listen," and she began to read--poetry, prose at random. the prophet did not know, he had never been trained to know--as few men ever are trained--how to combat feminine malice and spoiled power. he listened, but not with averted eyes. prebol, himself a spectator at a scene different from any he had ever witnessed, was still enough more sophisticated to know what she was doing, and he was delighted. by and by the injured man drifted into slumber, but rasba gave no sign of flagging interest, no traces of a mind astray from the subject at hand. he felt that he must make the most of this revelation, which came after the countless revelations which he had had since arriving down the river. there was a fear clutching at his heart that it might end; that in a moment this woman might depart and leave him unenlightened, and unable ever to find for himself the unimaginable world of words which she plucked out of those books and pinned into the great vacant spaces of his mind which he had kept empty all these years--not knowing that he was waiting for this night, when he should have the mississippi bring into his eddy, alongside his own mission boat, what he most needed. he sat there, a great, pathetic figure, shaggy, his heart thumping, taking from this trim, neat, beautiful woman the riches which she so casually, almost wantonly, threw to him in passing. the corridors of his mind echoed to the tread of hosts; he heard the rumblings of history, the songs of poets whose words are pitched to the music of the skies, and he hung word pictures which ruskin had painted in his imagination. fate had waited long to give him this night. it had waited till the man was ready, then with a lavish hand the storehouses of the master intellects of the world were opened to him, for him to help himself. nelia suddenly started up from her chair and looked around, herself the victim of her own raillery, which had grown to be an understanding of the pathetic hunger of the man for these things. it was daylight, and the flood of the sunrise was at hand. "parson," she said, "do you like these things--these books?" "missy," he whispered, "i could near repeat, word for word, all those things you've said and read to me to-night." "there are lots more," she laughed. "i want to do something for your mission boat, will you let me?" "lawse! yo've he'ped me now more'n yo' know!" she smiled the smile that women have had from all the ages, for she knew a thousand times more than even the prophet. "i'll give you a set of all these books!" she said; "all the books that i have. not these, my old pals--yes, these books, mr. rasba. if you'll take them? i'll get another lot down below." "lawd god! give me yo' books!" "oh, they're not expensive--they're----" "they're yours. cayn't yo' see? it's your own books, an' hit's fo' my work. i neveh knowed how good men could be, an' they give me that boat fo' a mission boat. now--now--missy--i cayn't tell yo'--i've no words----" and with gratitude, with the simplicity of a mountain parson, he dropped on his knees and thanked god. as he told his humility, prebol wakened from a deep and restful sleep to listen in amazement. when at last rasba looked up nelia was gone. the books were on the table and he found another stack heaped up on the deck of the mission boat. but the woman was gone, and when he looked down the river he saw something flicker and vanish in the distance. he stared, hurt; he choked, for a minute, in protest, then carried that immeasurable treasure into his cabin. chapter xxv renn doss, the false friend, saw the danger of the recognition of the firearms by carline. the savage swing of a half pound of fine shot braided up in a rawhide bag, and a good aim, reduced carline to an inert figure of a man. "renn doss" was hilt despard, pirate captain, whose instantaneous action always had served him well in moments of peril. the three men carried carline to a bunk and dropped him on it. they covered him up and emptied a cupful of whiskey on his pillow and clothes. they even poured a few spoonfuls down his throat. they thus changed him to what might be called a "natural condition." then, sitting around the stove, they whispered among themselves, discussing what they had better do. half a hundred possibilities occurred to their fertile fancies and replete memories. men and women who have always led sheltered lives can little understand or know what a pirate must understand and know even to live let alone be successful. "what's terabon up to?" despard demanded. "here he is, drappin' down by fort pillow landing, running around. where's that girl he had up above new madrid? what's his game? coming up here and talking to us? asking us all about the river and things--writin' it for the newspapers?" "that woman's this carline's wife!" jet sneered. "sure! an' here's terabon an' here's carline. terabon don't talk none about that woman--nor about carline," dock grumbled. "i bet terabon would be sorry none if carline hyar dropped out. y' know she's old crele's gal," jet said. "crele's a good feller. sent word down to have us take cyar of her, an' prebol, the fool, didn't know 'er, hadn't heard. look what she give him, bang in the shoulder! that old prophet'll take cyar of him, course. see how hit works out. she shined up to terabon, all right." "i 'low i better talk to him," despard suggested. "terabon's a good sport. he said, you' know, that graftin' and whiskey boatin', an' robbin' the bank wa'n't none of his business. he said, course, he could write it down in his notes, but without names, 'count of somebody might read somethin' in them an' get some good friend of his in dutch. he said it wouldn't be right for him to know about somebody robbin' a commissary, or a bank, or killin' somebody, because if somebody like a sheriff or detective got onto it, they might blame him, or somethin'." "i like that terabon!" jet declared. "y'see how he is. he says he's satisfied, makin' a fair living, gettin' notes so's he can write them magazine stories, an' if he was to try to rob the banks, he'd have to learn how, same's writin' for newspapers. an' probably he wouldn't have the nerve to do it really, 'count of his maw and paw bein' the kind they was. he told me hisself that they made him go to sunday school when he was a kid, an' things like that spoil a man for graftin'. stands to reason, all right, the way he talks. i like him; he knows enough to mind his own business." "he's comin' up to-night to go after geese on the bar. we'll talk to him. he'll look that business over, level-headed. that motorboat any good?" "nothin' extra. he's got ready money, though, i forgot that," despard grinned, walking over to the hapless victim of his black-jack skill. the three divided nearly thirteen hundred dollars among them. the money made them good humoured and they had some compassion for their prisoner. one of them noticed that a skiff was coming up from fort pillow landing, and fifteen minutes later terabon was talking to despard on the snag to one prong of which was fastened the line of carline's motorboat. "i was wondering where i'd see you again," terabon said. "didn't have a chance at new madrid, saw you was in business, so i didn't follow up none." "i was wondering if you had a line on that," despard said, doubtfully. "y'know that woman you was staying with up on island ten bar? well, we got her man in here full's a fish. lookin' for his woman, an' he's no good. fell off the cabin, hit a spark in the back of the head when the water sucked when that steamboat went by this morning. he'd ought to go down to memphis hospital, but--well, we can't take 'im. you know how that is." "be glad to help you boys out any way i can," terabon said. "i'll run him down." "say, would you? we don't want him on our hands," the pirate explained. "we'd get to see you down b'low some'rs." "sure, i would," terabon exclaimed. "fact is, the woman said it'd be a favour to her, too, if i'd get him home. she'll be dropping down likely. darn nice girl, but quick tempered." "that's right; quick ain't no name for it. she plugged a friend of mine up by buffalo island----" "prebol? i heard about him. she was scairt." "she needn't be, never again!" despard grinned. "when a lady can handle a river law like she does, us bad uns are real nice!" terabon laughed, and the two went into the cabin-boat where carline lay on the bunk. terabon ran his hand around the man's head and neck, found the lump near the base of the skull, found that the neck wasn't broken, and made sure that the heart was beating--things a reporter naturally learns to do in police-station and hospital experience. jet brought the motorboat down to the stern of the cabin-boat, and the four carried carline on board. they put him in his bunk, and terabon, his skiff towing astern, steered out into the main current and soon faded down by craighead point bar. "i knowed he'd be all right," despard declared. "he'll take him down to memphis, and out of our way. i'd 'a' hated to kill him; it ain't no use killin' a man less'n it's necessary. we got what we was after. course, if we'd rewarded him, likely we'd got a lot, but it ain't safe, holdin' a man for rewards ain't." "that boat'd been a good one to travel in," jet suggested. "everybody'd knowed it was carline's, an' it wa'n't worth fixing over. hull not much good, and the motor's been abused some. we'll do better'n that." they had rid themselves of an incumbrance. they had made an acquaintance who was making himself useful. they were considerably richer than they had been for some time. "i'd like to drap into mendova," jet mused. "we ain't had what you'd call a time----" "let's kill some birds first," gaspard suggested. "i got a hunch that yankee bar's a good bet for us for a little while. we dassn't look into memphis, 'count of last trip down. mendova's all right, but wait'll we've hunted yankee bar." the money burned in their pockets, but as they stood looking out at the long, beautiful yankee bar its appeal went home. for more than a hundred years generations of pirates had used there, and no one knows how many tragedies have left their stain in the great band around from gold dust landing to chickasaw bluffs no. . after dark they rowed over to the point and put out their decoys, dug their pits, screened them, and brushed over their tracks in the sand. then they played cards till midnight, turned in for a little sleep, and turned out again in the black morning to go to their places with repeating shotguns and cripple-killer rifles in their hands. when they were in their places, and the river silence prevailed, they saw the stars overhead, the reflections on sand and water around them, and the quivering change as air currents moved in the dark--the things that walk in the night. they heard, at intervals, many voices. some they knew as the fluent music of migrant geese flying over on long laps of their fall flight, but some they did not know, except that they were river voices. ducks flew by no higher than the tops of the willow trees up the bar, their wings whistling and their voices eager in the dark. the lurkers saw these birds darting by like black streaks, tempting vain shots, but they were old hunters, and knew they wanted at least a little light. over on the mainland they heard the noises of wilderness animals, and away off yonder a mule's "he-haw" reverberated through the bottoms and over bars and river. for these things, if the pirates had only known it, they found the world endurable. each in his own pit, given over to his own thoughts, they thrilled to the joy of living. all they wanted, really, was this kind of thing; hunting in fall and winter, fishing in the summer, and occasional visits to town for another kind of thrill, another sort of excitement. but their boyhood had been passed in privation, their youth amid temptations of appetite and vice, and now they were hopelessly mixed as to what they liked, what they didn't like, what the world would do for them, and what they would do to the world. weaklings, uneducated, without balance; habit-ridden, yet with all that miserable inheritance from the world, they waited there rigid, motionless, their hearts thrilling to the increasing music of the march of dawn across the bottoms of the mississippi. false dawn flushed and faded almost like a deliberate lightning flash. then dawn appeared, marking down the gray lines of the wilderness trees with one stroke, sweeping out all the stars with another brush, revealing the flocks of birds glistening against the sky while yet the earth was in shade. the watchers spied a score of birds, great geese far to the northward, coming right in line with them. they waited for a few seconds--ages long. then one of the men cried: "they're stoopin', boys! they're comin'!" the wild geese, coming down a magnificent slant from a mile height, headed straight for yankee bar. will birds never learn? they ploughed down with their wings folding, and poised. their voices grew louder and louder as they approached. with a hissing roar of their wings they pounded down out of the great, safe heights and circled around and inward. with a shout the three men started up through their masks and with levelled guns opened fire. too late the old gander at the point of the "v" began to climb; too late the older birds in the point screamed and gathered their strength. the river men turned their black muzzles against the necks of the young tail birds of the feathered procession and brought them tumbling down out of the line to the ground, where on the hard sand two of them split their breasts and exposed thick layers of fat dripping with oil. the cries of the fleeing birds, the echoes of the barking guns, died away. the men shouted their joy in their success, gathered up their victims, scurried pack to cover, brushing over their tracks, and crouched down again, to await another flock. hunger drove them to their cabin-boat within an hour. they had thought they wanted to get some more birds, but in fact they knew they had enough. they went over to their boat, cooked up a big breakfast, and sat around the fire smoking and talking it over. they chattered like boys. they were gleeful, innocent, harmless! but only for a time. then the hunted feeling returned to them. once more they had a back track to watch and ambushes to be wary of. they wanted to go to mendova, but again they didn't want to go there. they didn't know but what mendova might be watching for them, the same as memphis was. certainly, they determined, they must go to mendova after dark, and see a friend who would put them wise to actual conditions around town. they took catnaps, having had too little sleep, and yet they could not sleep deeply. they watched the shanty-boats which dropped down the river at intervals, most of them in the main current close to the far bank, and often hardly visible against the mottled background of caving earth, fallen trees, and flickering mirage. their restlessness was silent, morose, and one of them was always on the lookout. despard himself was on watch in the afternoon. he sat just inside the kitchen door, out of the sunshine, in a comfortable rocking chair. two windows and the stern door gave him a wide view of the river, sandbars and eddy. it seemed but a minute, but he had fallen into a doze, when the splash of a shanty-boat sweeps awakened all the crew with a sudden, frightened start. whispers, hardly audible, hailed in alarm. the three, crouching in involuntary doubt and dismay, glared at the newcomer. it was a woman drifting in. apparently she intended to land there, and the three men stared at her. "his wife!" despard said with soundless lips. the others nodded their recognition. mrs. carline had run into the great dead eddy at the foot of yankee lower bar, turned up in the slow reverse eddy of the chute, and was coming by their boat at the slowest possible speed. despard pulled his soft shirt collar, straightened his tie, hitched his suspenders, put on his coat, walked out on the stern deck, and, after a glance around, seemed suddenly to discover the stranger. "howdy!" he nodded, touching his cap respectfully, and gazing with flickering eyes at the woman whose marksmanship entitled her to the greatest respect. "howdy!" she nodded, scrutinizing him with level eyes. "where am i?" "yankee bar. them's chickasaw bluffs no. ." "do you know jest prebol?" "yessum." despard's head bobbed in alarmed, unwilling assent. "i thought perhaps you'd like to know that he's getting along all right." "i bet he learnt his lesson," despard grimaced. "what? i don't just understand." "about bein' impudent to a lady that can shoot--straight!" a flicker moved the woman's countenance, and she smiled, oddly. "oh, any one is likely to make mistakes!" "darn fools is, miss crele. and you old crele's girl! he might of knowed!" the other two stepped out to help enjoy the conversation and the scenery. "you know me?" she demanded. "yessum, we shore do. my name's despard--jet here and cope." she acknowledged the introductions. "i've friends down here," she said, with a little catch of her breath. "i was wondering if you--any of you gentlemen had seen them?" "your man, gus carline an' that writin' feller, terabon?" jet asked, without delicacy. her cheeks flamed. "yes!" she whispered. "terabon took him down to mendova or memphis," despard said. "carline was--was on the cabin and the boat lurched when the steamboat passing drawed. he drapped over and hit a spark plug on the head!" "was he badly hurt?" "not much--kind of a lump, that's all." she looked down at fort pillow bluff. the pirates awaited her pleasure, staring at her to their heart's content. they envied her husband and terabon; they felt the strangeness of the situation. she was following those two men down. she was part of the river tide, drifting by; she had shot prebol, their pal, and had cleverly ascertained their knowledge of him while insuring that they had fair warning. her boat drifted down till it was opposite them, and then, with quick decision, she caught up a handy line, and said: "i'm going to tie in a little while. i've been alone clear down from caruthersville; i want to talk to somebody!" she threw the rope, and they caught and made it fast. they swung her boat in, ran a plank from stern to bow, and despard gave her his hand. she came on board, and they sat on the stern deck to talk. only one kind of woman could have done that with safety, but she was that kind. she had shot a man down for a look. the three pirates took one of the fat young geese, plucked and dressed it, and baked it in a hot oven, with dressing, sweet potatoes, hot-bread, and a pudding which she mixed up herself. for three hours they gossiped, and before she knew it, she had told them about prebol, about parson rasba introducing them. the pirates shouted when she told of jest's apology. with river frankness, they said they thought a heap of terabon, who minded his own business so cleverly. "i like him, too," she admitted. "i was afraid you boys might make trouble for carline, though. he don't know much about people, treating them right." "he's one of those ignorant up-the-bankers," despard said. "oh, i know him." she shrugged her shoulders a little bitterly. as they ate the goose in camaraderie, the pirates took to warning and advising her about the lower river; they told her who would treat her right, and who wouldn't. they especially warned her against stopping anywhere near island . "they're bad there--and mean." despard shook his head, gravely. "i won't stop in there," nelia promised. "river folks anybody can get along with, but those up-the-bankers!" "hit's seo," jet cried. "they don't have no feelings for nobody." "you'll be dropping on down?" nelia asked. "d'rectly!" cope admitted. "we 'lowed we'd stop into mendova. you stop in there an' see palura; he'll treat you right. he was in the riveh hisse'f once. you talk to him----" "what did terabon and mr. carline go on in? what kind of a boat?" "a gasolene cruiser." "did he say where he'd be?" "terabon? no. ask into mendova or into memphis. they can likely tell." "thank you, boys! i'm awful glad you've no hard feelings on account of my shooting your partner; i couldn't know what good fellows you are. we'll see you later." her smile bewitched them; she went aboard her boat, pulled over into the main current, and floated away in the sunset--her favourite river hour. after hours of argument, debate, doubts, they, too, pulled out and floated past fort pillow. chapter xxvi parson rasba piled the books on the crap table in his cabin and stood them in rows with their lettered backs up. he read their titles, which were fascinating: "arabian nights," "representative men," "plutarch's lives," "modern painters," "romany rye"--a name that made him shudder, for it meant some terrible kind of whiskey to his mind--"lavengro," a foreign thing, "thesaurus of english words and phrases," "the stem dictionary," "working principles of rhetoric"--he wondered what rhetoric meant--"the fur buyers' guide," "stones of venice," "the french revolution," "sartor resartus," "poe's works," "balzac's tales," and scores of other titles. all at once the mississippi had brought down to him these treasures and a fair woman with blue eyes and a smile of understanding and sympathy, who had handed them to him, saying: "i want to do something for your mission boat; will you let me?" no fairyland, no enchantment, no translation from poverty and sorrow to a realm of wealth and happiness could have caught the soul of the prophet rasba as this revelation of unimagined, undreamed-of riches as he plucked the fruits of learning and enjoyed their luxuries. he had descended in his humility to the last, least task for which he felt himself worthy. he had humbly been grateful for even that one thing left for him to do: find jock drones for his mother. he had found jock, and there had been no wrestling with an obdurate spirit to send him back home, like a man, to face the law and accept the penalty. there had been nothing to it. jock had seen the light instantly, and with relief. his partner had also turned back after a decade of doubt and misery, to live a man's part "back home." the two of them had handed him a floating bethel, turning their gambling hell over to him as though it were a night's lodging, or a snack, or a handful of hickory nuts. the temple of his fathers had been no better for its purpose than this beautiful, floating boat. then a woman had come floating down, a beautiful strange woman whose voice had clutched at his heart, whose smile had deprived him of reason, whose eyes had searched his soul. with tears on her lashes she had flung to him that treasure-store of learning, and gone on her way, leaving him strength and consolation. he left his treasure and went out to look at the river. everybody leaves everything to look at the river! there is nothing in the world that will prevent it. he saw, in the bright morning, that prebol had raised his curtain, and was looking at the river, too, though the effort must have caused excruciating pain in his wounded shoulder. day was growing; from end to end of that vast, flowing sheet of water thousands upon thousands of old river people were taking a look at the mississippi. rasba carried a good broth over to prebol for breakfast, and then returned to his cabin, having made prebol comfortable and put a dozen of the wonderful books within his reach. then the river prophet sat down to read his treasures, any and all of them, his lap piled up, three or four books in one hand and trying to turn the pages of another in his other hand by unskilful manipulation of his thumb. he was literally starving for the contents of those books. he was afraid that his treasure would escape from him; he kept glancing from his printed page to the serried ranks on the crap table, and his hands unconsciously felt around to make sure that the weight on his lap and in his grasp was substantial and real, and not a dream or vision of delight. he forgot to eat; he forgot that he had not slept; he sat oblivious of time and river, the past or the future; he grappled with pages of print, with broadsides of pictures, with new and thrilling words, with sentences like hammer blows, with paragraphs that marched like music, with thoughts that had the gay abandon of a bird in song. and the things he learned! when night fell he was dismayed by his weariness, and could not understand it. for a little while he ransacked his dulled wits to find the explanation, and when he had fixed prebol for the night, with medicine, water, and a lamp handy to matches, he told the patient: "seems like the gimp's kind of took out of me. my eyes are sore, an' i doubt am i quite well." "likely yo' didn't sleep well," prebol suggested. "a man cayn't sleep days if he ain't used to hit." "sleep days?" rasba looked wildly about him. "sho! when did i git to sleep, why, i ain't slept--i----lawse!" prebol laughed aloud. "yo' see, parson, yo' all cayn't set up all night with a pretty gal an' not sleep hit off. yo' shore'll git tired, sportin' aroun'." "sho!" rasba snapped, and then a smile broke across his countenance. he cried out with laughter, and admitted: "hit's seo, prebol! i neveh set up with a gal befo' i come down the riveh. lawse! i plumb forgot." "i don't wonder," prebol replied, gravely. "she'd make any man forget. she sung me to sleep, an' i slept like i neveh slept befo'." rasba went on board his boat and, after a light supper, turned in. for a minute he saw in retrospect the most wonderful day in his life, a day which a kindly providence had drawn through thirty or forty hours of unforgettable exaltation. then he settled into the blank, deep sleep of a soul at peace and at rest. when in the full tide of the sunshine he awakened, he went about his menial tasks, attending prebol, cleaning out the boats, shaking up the beds, hanging the bedclothes to air in the sun, and getting breakfast. on prebol's suggestion he moved the fleet of boats out into the eddy, for the river was falling and they might ground. he went over to caruthersville and bought some supplies, brought doctor grell over to examine the patient to make sure all was well, killed several squirrels and three ducks back in the brakes, and, all the while, thought what duties he should enter upon. doctor grell advised that prebol go down to memphis, to the hospital, so as to have an x-ray examination, and any special treatment which might be necessary. the wound was healing nicely, but it would be better to make sure. rasba took counsel of prebol. the river man knew the needs of the occasion, and he agreed that he had better drop down to memphis or mendova, preferring the latter place, for he knew people there. he told rasba to line the two small shanty-boats beside the big mission boat, and fend them off with wood chunks. the skiffs could float on lines alongside or at the stern. the power boat could tow the fleet out into the current, and hold it off sandbars or flank the bends. rasba did as he was bid, and lashed the boats together with mooring lines, pin-head to towing bits, and side to side. then he floated the boats all on one anchor line, and ran the launch up to the bow. he hoisted in the anchor, rowed in a skiff out to the motorboat, and swung wide in the eddy to run out to the river current. there was a good deal of work to the task, and it was afternoon before the fleet reached the main stream. then rasba cast off his tow lines, ran the launch back to the fleet, and made it fast to the port bow of the big boat, so that it was part of the fleet, with its power available to shove ahead or astern. a big oar on the mission boat's bow and another one out from prebol's boat insured a short turn if it should be necessary to swing the boats around either way. rasba carried prebol on his cot up to the bow of the big boat, and put him down where he could help watch the river, and they cast off. prebol knew the bends and reaches, and named most of the landings; they gossiped about the people and the places. prebol told how river rats sometimes stole hogs or cattle for food, and rasba learned for the first time of organized piracy, of river men who were banded together for stealing what they could, raiding river towns, attacking "sports," tripping the river, and even more desperate enterprises. while he talked, prebol slyly watched his listener and thought for a long time that rasba was merely dumbfounded by the atrocities, but at last the prophet grinned: "an' yo's a riveh rat. ho law!" "why, i didn't say----" prebol began, but his words faltered. "yo' know right smart about such things," rasba reminded him. "i 'low hit were about time somebody shot yo' easy, so's to give yo' repentance a chance to catch up with yo' wickedness. don't yo'?" prebol glared at the accusation, but rasba pretended not to notice. "yo' see, prebol, this world is jes' the hounds a-chasin' the rabbits, er the rabbits a-gittin' out the way. the good that's into a man keeps a-runnin', to git shut of the sin that's in him, an' theh's a heap of wrestlin' when one an' tother catches holt an' fights." "hit's seo!" prebol admitted, reluctantly. he didn't have much use for religious arguments. "i wisht yo'd read them books to me, parson. i ain't neveh had much eddycation. i'll watch the riveh, an' warn ye, 'gin we make the crossin's." nothing suited them better. rasba read aloud, stabbing each word with his finger while he sought the range and rhythm of the sentences, and, as they happened to strike a book of fables, their minds could grasp the stories and the morals at least sufficiently to entertain and hold their attention. prebol said, warningly, after a time: "betteh hit that sweep a lick, parson, she's a-swingin' in onto that bar p'int." a few leisurely strokes, the boats drifted away into deep water, and rasba expressed his admiration. "sho, prebol! yo' seen that bar a mile up. we'd run down onto hit." "yas, suh," the wounded man grinned. "three-four licks on the oars up theh, and down yeah yo' save pullin' yo' livin' daylights out, to keep from goin' onto a sandbar or into a dryin'-up chute." "how's that?" rasba cocked his ear. "say hit oveh--slow!" "why, if yo's into the set of the current up theh, hit ain't strong; yo' jes' give two-three licks an' yo' send out clear. down theh on the bar she draws yo' right into shallow water, an' yo' hang up." rasba looked up the river; he looked down at the nearing sandbar, and as they passed the rippling head in safety he turned a grave face toward the pilot. "up theh, theh wasn't much suck to hit, but down yeah, afteh yo've drawed into the current, theh's a strong drag an' bad shoals?" "jes' so!" "hit's easy to git shut of sin, away long in the beginnin'," rasba bit his words out, "but when yo' git a long ways down into hit--ho law!" prebol started, caught by surprise. then both laughed together. they could understand each other better and if prebol felt himself being drawn in spite of his own reluctance by a new current in his life, rasba did not fail to gratify the river man's pride by turning always to him for advice about the river, its currents and its jeopardies. "i've tripped down with all kinds," prebol grinned as he spoke, "but this yeah's the firstest time i eveh did get to pilot a mission boat." "if you take it through in safety, do yo' reckon god will forget?" rasba asked, and prebol's jaw dropped. he didn't want to be reformed; he had no use for religion. he was very well satisfied with his own way of living. he objected to being prayed over and the good of his soul inquired into--but this parson rasba was making the idea interesting. they anchored for the night in the eddy at the head of needham's cut-off bar, and prebol was soon asleep, but rasba sat under the big lamp and read. he could read with continuity now; dread that the dream would vanish no longer afflicted him. he could read a book without having more than two or three other books in his lap. sometimes it was almost as though nelia were speaking the very words he read; sometimes he seemed to catch her frown of disapproval. the books, more precious than any other treasure could have been, seemed living things because she had owned them, because her pencil had marked them, and because she had given them all to his service, to fill the barren and hungry places in the long-empty halls of his mind. he would stop his reading to think, and thinking, he would take up a book to discover better how to think. he found that his reading and thinking worked together for his own information. he was musing, his mind enjoying the novelty of so many different images and ideas and facts, when something trickled among his senses and stirred his consciousness into alert expectancy. for a little he was curious, and then touched by dismay, for it was music which had roused him--music out of the black river night. people about to die sometimes hear music, and parson rasba unconsciously braced himself for the shock. it grew louder, however, more distinct, and the sound was too gay and lively to fit in with his dreams of a heavenly choir. he caught the shout of a human voice and he knew that dancers were somewhere, perhaps dancers damned to eternal mirth. he went out on the deck and closed the door on the light behind him; at first he could see nothing but black night. a little later he discovered boats coming down the river, eight or nine gleaming windows, and a swinging light hung on a flag staff or shanty-boat mast. as they drew nearer, someone shouted across the night: "goo-o-o-d wa-a-a-ter thar?" "ya-s-su-uh!" rasba called back. "where'll we come in?" "anywhere's b'low me fo' a hundred yards!" "thank-e-e!" three or four sweeps began to beat the water, and a whole fleet of shanty-boats drifted in slowly. they began to turn like a wheel as part of them ran into the eddy while the current carried the others down, but old river men were at the sweeps, and one of them called the orders: "raunch 'er, boys! raunch 'er! raunchin's what she needs!" they floated out of the current into the slow reverse eddy, and coming up close to rasba's fleet, talked back and forth with him till a gleam of light through a window struck him clearly out of the dark. "hue-e-e!" a shrill woman's voice laughed. "hit's rasba, the riveh prophet rasba! did yo' all git to catch nelia crele, parson?" "did i git to catch missy crele!" he repeated, dazed. "when yo' drapped out'n wolf island chute, parson, that night she pulled out alone?" "no'm; i lost her down by the sucks, but she drapped in by caruthersville an' give me books an' books--all fo' my mission boat!" "that big boat yourn?" "yeh." "where all was hit built?" "i don' remembeh, but buck done give hit to me, him an' jock drones." "hi-i-i! yo' all found the man yo' come a-lookin' fo'. ho law!" "hit's the riveh prophet," someone replied to a hail from within, the dance ending. a crowd came tumbling out onto the deck of the big boat of the dance hall, everyone talking, laughing, catching their breaths. "hi-i! likely he'll preach to-morrow," a woman cried. "to-morrow's sunday." "sunday?" rasba gasped. "sunday--i plumb lost track of the days." "you'll preach, won't yo', parson? i yain't hearn a sermon in a hell of a while," a man jeered, facetiously. "suttingly. an' when hit's through, yo'll think of hell jes' as long," rasba retorted, with asperity, and his wit turned the laugh into a cheer. the fleet anchored a hundred yards up the eddy, and rasba heard a woman say it was after midnight and she'd be blanked if she ever did or would dance on sunday. the dance broke up, the noise of voices lessened, one by one the lights went out, and the eddy was still again. but the feeling of loneliness was changed. "lord god, what'll i preach to them about?" rasba whispered. "i neveh 'lowed i'd be called to preach ag'in. lawse! lawse! what'll i say?" chapter xxvii carline ascended into the world again. it was a painful ascent, and when he looked around him, he recognized the interior of his motorboat cabin, heard and felt the throbbing of his motor, and discovered aches and pains that made his extremities tingle. he sat up, but the blackness that seemed to rise around him caused him to fall hastily back upon the stateroom bunk. he remembered his discovery of his own firearms on the shanty-boat, and fear assailed him. he remembered his folly in crying out that those were his guns. he might have known he had fallen among thieves. he cursed himself, and dread of what might yet follow his indiscretion made him whimper with terror. a most disgusting odour of whiskey was in his nostrils, and his throat was like a corrugated iron pipe partly filled with soot. the door of the tiny stateroom was closed, but the two ports were open to let the air in. it occurred to him that he might be a captive, and would be held for ransom. perhaps the pirates would bleed him for $ , ; perhaps they would take all his fortune! he began to cry and sob. they might cut his throat, and not give him any chance of escape. he had heard of men having had their throats cut down the river. he tried to sit up again, and succeeded without undue faintness. he could not wait, but must know his fate immediately. he found the door was unlocked, and when he slipped out into the cabin, he found that there was only one man on board, the steersman, who was sitting in the engine pit, and steering with the rail wheel instead of the bow-cabin one. he peered out, and found that it was terabon, who discovered him and hailed him, cheerily: "how are you feeling?" "tough--my head!" "you're lucky to be alive!" terabon said. "you got in with a crew of river pirates, but they let me have you. did they leave you anything?" "leave me anything!" carline repeated, feeling in his pockets. "i've got my watch, and here's----" he opened up his change pocketbook. there were six or seven dollars in change and two or three wadded bills. when he looked for his main supply, however, there was a difference. the money was all gone. he was stripped to the last dollar in his money belt and of his hidden resources. "they did me!" he choked. "they got all i had!" "they didn't kill you," terabon said. "you're lucky. how did they bang you and knock you out?" "why, i found they had my guns on board----" "and you accused them?" "no! i just said they were mine, i was surprised!" "then?" "my light went out." "when did they get your guns?" "i woke up, up there, and you were gone. my guns and pocket money were gone, too. i thought----" "you thought i'd robbed you?" "ye----well, i didn't know!" "this is a devil of a river, old man!" said terabon. "i guess you travelled with the real thing out of new madrid----" "doss, renald doss. he said he was a sportsman----" "oh, he is, all right, he's a familiar type here on the river. he's the kind of a sport who hunts men, up-the-bankers and game of that kind. he's a very successful hunter, too----" "he said we'd hunt wild geese. we went up obion river, and had lots of fun, and he said he'd help--he'd help----" "find your wife?" "yes, sir." carline was abject. terabon, however, was caught wordless. this man was the husband of the woman for whose sake he had ventured among the desperate river rats, and now he realized that he had succeeded in the task she had set him. looking back, he was surprised at the ease of its accomplishment, but he was under no illusions regarding the jeopardy he had run. he had trusted to his aloofness, his place as a newspaper man, and his frankness, to rescue carline, and he had brought him away. "you're all righ now," terabon suggested. "i guess you've had your lesson." "a whole book full of them!" carline cried. "i owe you something--an apology, and my thanks! where are we going?" "i was taking you down to a memphis hospital, or to mendova----" "i don't need any hospital. i'm broke; i must get some money. we'll go to mendova. i know some people there. i've heard it was a great old town, too! i always wanted to see it." terabon looked at him; carline had learned nothing. for a minute remorse and comprehension had flickered in his mind, now he looked ahead to a good time in mendova, to sight-seeing, sporting around, genial friends, and all the rest. argument would do no good, and terabon retreated from his position as friend and helper to that of an observer and a recorder of facts. whatever pity he might feel, he could not help but perceive that there was no use trying to help fools. it was just dusk when they ran into mendova. the city lights sparkled as they turned in the eddy and ran up to the shanty-boat town. they dropped an anchor into the deep water and held the boat off the bank by the stern while they ran a line up to a six-inch willow to keep the bow to the bank. the springy, ten-foot gangplank bridged the gap to the shore. more than thirty shanty-boats and gasolene cruisers were moored along that bank, and from nearly every one peered sharp eyes, taking a look at the newcomers. "hello, terabon!" someone hailed, and the newspaper man turned, surprised. one never does get over that feeling of astonishment when, fifteen hundred miles or so from home, a familiar voice calls one's name in greeting. "hello!" terabon replied, heartily, and then shook hands with a market hunter he had met for an hour's gossip in the eddy at st. louis. "any luck, bill? how's frank?" "averaging fine," was the answer. "frank's up town. going clear down after all, eh?" "probably." "any birds on yankee bar?" "i saw some geese there--hunters stopped in, too. how is the flight?" "we're near the tail of it; mostly they've all gone down. we're going to drive for it, and put out our decoys down around big island and below." "then i'll likely see you down there." "sure thing; here's frank." terabon shook hands with the two, introduced carline, and then the hunters cast off and steered away down the stream. they had come more than a thousand miles with the migrating ducks and geese, intercepting them at resting or feeding places. that touch and go impressed terabon as much as anything he had ever experienced. he went up town with carline, who found a cotton broker, a timber merchant, and others who knew him. it was easy to draw a check, have it cashed, and carline once more had ready money. nothing would do but they must go around to palura's to see mendova's great attraction for travellers. palura supplied entertainment and excitement for the whole community, and this happened to be one of his nights of special effort. personally, palura was in a temper. captain dalkard, of the mendova police, had been caught between the citizens' committee and palura's frequenters. there were citizens in the committee, and palura's frequenters were unnamed, but familiar enough in local affairs. the cotton broker thought it was a good joke, and he explained the whole situation to terabon and carline for their entertainment. "dalkard called in policeman laddam and told him to stand in front of palura's, and tell people to watch out. you see, there's been a lot of complaints about people being short changed, having their pockets picked, and getting doped there, and some people think it doesn't do the town any good. some think we got to have palura's for the sake of the town's business. i'm neutral, but i like to watch the fun. we'll go down there and look in to-night." they had dinner, and about o'clock they went around to palura's. it was an old market building made over into a pleasure resort, and it filled feet front on jimpson street and feet on the flanking side streets. a bright electric sign covered the front with a flare of yellow lights and there was one entrance, under the sign. as terabon, carline, and the cotton broker came along, they saw a tall, broad-shouldered, smooth-shaven policeman in uniform standing where the lights showed him up. "watch your pocketbooks!" the policeman called softly to the patrons. "watch your change; pickpockets, short-changers, and card-stackers work the unwary here! keep sober--look out for knock-out drops!" he said it over and over again, in a purring, jeering tone, and terabon noticed that he was poised and tense. in the shadows on both sides of the policeman terabon detected figures lurking and he was thrilled by the evident fact that one brave policeman had been sent alone into that deadly peril to confront a desperate gang of crooks, and that the lone policeman gloried to be there. the cotton broker, neutral that he was, whispered as they disregarded the warnings: "laddam cleaned up front street in six months; the mob has all come up here, and this is their last stand. it'll hurt business if they close this joint up, because the town'll be dead, but i wish palura'd kind of ease down a bit. he's getting rough." little hallways and corridors led into dark recesses on either side of the building, and faint lights of different colours showed the way to certain things. terabon saw a wonderfully beautiful woman, in furs, with sparkling diamonds, and of inimitable grace waiting in a little half-curtained cubby hole; he heard a man ask for "pete," and caught the word "game" twice. the sounds were muffled, and a sense of repression and expectancy permeated the whole establishment. they entered a reception room, with little tables around the sides, music blaring and blatant, a wide dancing floor, and a scurrying throng. all kinds were there: spectators who were sight-seeing; participants who were sporting around; men, women, and scoundrels; thugs and their prospective victims; people of supposed allurement; and sports of insipid, silly pose and tricked-up conspicuousness. terabon's gaze swept the throng. noise and merriment were increasing. liquor was working on the patrons. the life of mendova was stirring to blaring music. the big hall was bare, rough, and gaunt. dusty flags and cobwebs dangled from the rafters and hog-chain braces. a few hard, white lights cast a blinding glare straight down on the heads of the dancers and drinkers and onlookers. business was brisk, and shouts of "want the waiter!" indicated the insistence with which trade was encouraged and even insisted upon. no sooner had terabon and his companions seated themselves than a burly flat-face with a stained white apron came and inflicted his determined gaze upon them. he sniffed when terabon ordered plain soda. "we got a man's drink." "i'm on the water wagon for awhile," terabon smiled, and the waiter nodded, sympathetically. a tip of a quarter mollified his air of surly expectancy completely, and as he put the glasses down he said: "the boss is sick the way he's bein' treated. they ain't goin' to git away wit' stickin' a bull in front of his door like he was a crook." terabon heard a woman at a near-by table making her protest against the policeman out in front. no other topic was more than mentioned, and the buzz and burr of voices vied with the sound of the band till it ended. then there was a hush. "palura!" a whisper rippled in all directions. terabon saw a man about feet inches tall, compactly built, square shouldered, and just a trifle pursy at the waist line, approaching along the dancing floor. he was light on his small feet, his shoulders worked with feline grace, but his face was a face as hard as limestone and of about the same colour--bluish gray. his eyes were the colour of ice, with a greenish tinge. smooth-shaven cheeks, close-cropped hair, wing-like ears, and a little round head were details of a figure that might have been heroic--for his jaw was square, his nose large, and his forehead straight and broad. everyone knew he was going out to throw the policeman, laddam, into the street. the policeman had not hurt business a pennyworth as yet, but palura felt the insult. palura knew the consequences of failing to meet the challenge. "give 'im hell!" someone called. palura turned and nodded, and a little yelping cheer went up, which ceased instantly. terabon, observing details, saw that palura's coat sagged on the near side--in the shape of an automatic pistol. he saw, too, that the man's left sleeve sagged round and hard--a slingshot or black-jack. there was no delay; palura went straight through to his purpose. he disappeared in the dark and narrow entrance way and not a sound was audible except the scuffling of feet. "palura's killed four men," the cotton broker whispered to terabon, under his breath. what seemed an age passed. the lights flickered. terabon looked about in alarm lest that gang---- a crash outside brought all to their feet, and the whole crowd fell back against the walls. out of the corridor surged a mass of men, and among them stalked a stalwart giant of a man draped with the remnants of a policeman's uniform. he had in his right hand a club which he was swinging about him, and every six feet a man dropped upon the floor. terabon saw palura writhing, twisting, and working his way among the fighting mass. he heard a sharp bark: "back, boys!" four or five men stumbled back and two rolled out of the way of the feet of the policeman. it flashed to terabon what had been done. they had succeeded in getting the policeman into the huge den of vice, where he could not legally be without a warrant, where palura could kill him and escape once more on the specious plea of self-defence. terabon saw the grin of perfect hate on palura's face as both his hands came up with automatics in them--a two-handed gunman with his prey. this would teach the policemen of mendova to mind their own business! suddenly policeman laddam threw his night stick backhanded at the infamous scoundrel, and palura dodged, but not quite quickly nor quite far enough. the club whacked noisily against his right elbow and palura uttered a cry of pain as one pistol fell to the floor. then laddam snatched out his own automatic, a -calibre gun, three pounds or more in weight, and began to shoot, calmly, deliberately, and with the artistic appreciation of doing a good job thoroughly. his first bullet drove palura straight up, erect; his next carried the bully back three steps; his next whirled him around in a sagging spiral, and the fourth dropped the dive keeper like a bag of loose potatoes. laddam looked around curiously. he had never been there before. lined up on all sides of him were the waiters, bouncers, men of prey, their faces ghastly, and three or four of them sick. the silent throng around the walls stared at the scene from the partial shadows; no one seemed even to be breathing. then palura made a horrible gulping sound, and writhed as he gave up his last gasp of life. "now then!" laddam looked about him, and his voice was the low roar of a man at his kill. "you men pick them up, pack them outside there, and up to headquarters. march!" as one man, the men who had been palura's marched. they gathered up the remains of palura and the men with broken skulls, and carried them out into the street. the crowd followed, men and women both. but outside, the hundreds scurried away in all directions, men afraid and women choking with horror. terabon's friend the cotton broker fled with the rest, carline disappeared, but terabon went to headquarters, writing in his pocket notebook the details of this rare and wonderful tragedy. policeman laddam had single-handed charged and captured the last citadel of mendova vice, and the other policemen, when they looked at him, wore expressions of wonder and bewilderment. they knew the committee of would make him their next chief and a man under whom it would be a credit to be a cop. terabon, just before dawn, returned toward mousa slough. as he did so, from a dull corner a whisper greeted him: "say, terabon, is it straight, palura killed up?" "sure thing!" "then mendova's sure gone to hell!" hilt despard the river pirate cried. "say, terabon, there's a lady down by the slough wants to get to talk to you." "who----?" "she just dropped in to-night, nelia crele! she's into her boat down at the head of the sandbar, facing the switch willows. there's a little gasolene sternwheeler next below her boat." "she's dropped in? all right, boys, much obliged!" they separated. but when terabon searched along the slough for nelia's boat he did not find it, and to his amazed anger he found that the gasolene boat in which he had arrived was also gone, as well as his own skiff and all his outfit. "darn this river!" he choked. "but that's a great story i sent of the killing of palura!" chapter xxviii nelia crele had laughed in her heart at elijah rasba as he sat there listening to her reading. she knew what she was doing to the mountain parson! she played with his feelings, touched strings of his heart that had never been touched before, teased his eyes with a picture of feminine grace, stirred his mind with the sense of a woman who was bright and who knew so much that he had never known. at the same time, there was no malice in it--just the delight in making a strong man discover a strength beyond his own, and in humbling a masculine pride by the sheer superiority of a woman who had neglected no opportunity to satisfy a hunger to know. she knew the power of a single impression and a clear, quick getaway. she left him dazed by the fortune which heaped upon him literary classics in a dozen forms--fiction, essays, history, poetry, short stories, criticism, fable, and the like; she laughed at her own quick liking for the serious-minded, self-deprecatory, old-young man whose big innocent eyes displayed a soul enamoured by the spirited intelligence of an experienced and rather disillusioned young woman who had fled from him partly because she did know what a sting it would give him. so with light heart and singing tongue she floated away on the river, not without a qualm at leaving those books with rasba; she loved them too much, but the sacrifice was so necessary--for his work! the river needed him as a missionary. he could help ease the way of the old sinners, and perhaps by and by he would reform her, and paint her again with goodness where she was weather-beaten. it is easy to go wrong on the mississippi--just as easy, or easier, than elsewhere in the world. the student of astronomy, gazing into the vast spaces of the skies, feels his own insignificance increasing, while the magnitude of the constellations grows upon him. what can it matter what such a trifling thing, such a mere atom, as himself does when he is to the worlds of less size than the smallest of living organisms in a drop of water? nelia crele looked around as she left the eddy and saw that her houseboat was but a trifle upon a surface containing hundreds of square miles. a human being opposite her on the bank was less in proportion than a fly on the cabin window pane. then what could it matter what she did? why shouldn't she be reckless, abandoned, and live in the gaiety of ages? she had read thousands of pages of all kinds with no guide posts or moral landmarks. a picture of dangerous delights had come into her imagination. having read and understood so much, she had not failed to discover the inevitable nemesis on the trail of wrongdoing, as well as the inevitableness of reward for steadfastness in virtues--but she wondered doubtfully what virtue really was, whether she was not absolved from many rigid commandments by the failure of the world to keep faith with her and reward her for her own patience and atone for her own sufferings. it was easy, only too easy, on the surface to feel that if she wanted to be gay and wanton, living for the hour, it was no one's affair but her own. she fought the question out in her mind. she fixed her determination on the young and, in one sense, inexperienced newspaper man whose ambitions pleased her fancy and whose innocence delighted her own mood. he was down the river somewhere, and when she landed in at mendova in the late twilight she saw his skiff swinging from the stern of a motorboat. having made fast near it, she quickly learned that he had gone up town, and that someone had heard him say that he was going to palura's. palura's! nelia had heard the fascination of that den's ill-fame. she laughed to herself when she thought that terabon would excuse his going there on the ground of its being right in his line of work, that he must see that place because otherwise he would not know how to describe it. "if i can catch him there!" she thought to herself. she went to palura's, and old mississippi seemed to favour her. she found another woman who knew the ropes there and who was glad to help her play the game. from a distance nelia crele discovered that terabon was with carline, her own husband. she dismissed him with a shrug of her shoulders, and told her companion to take care of him. nelia, having plagued the soul of the river prophet, rasba, now with equal zest turned to seize terabon, careless of where the game ended if only she could begin it and carry it on to her own music and in her own measure. they had it all determined: carline was to be wedged away with his friend, a cotton broker that daisy--nelia's newfound accomplice--knew, and terabon was to be tempted to "do the palace," and he was to be caught unaware, by nelia, who wanted to dance with him, dine with him under bright lights, and drink dangerous drinks with him. she knew him sober and industrious, good and faithful, a decent, reputable working man--she wanted to see him waked up and boisterous, careless for her sake and because of her desires. she just felt wicked, wanted to be wicked, and didn't care how wicked she might be. she counted, however, without the bonds which the mississippi river seems at times to cast around its favourites--the spirit of the river which looks after his own. she had not even seen policeman laddam standing at the main entrance of the notorious resort, for daisy had taken her through another door. she went to the exclusive "third," and from there emerged onto the dancing floor just as palura ostentatiously went forth to drive laddam away, or to kill him. daisy checked her, for the minute or two of suspense, and then the whole scene, the tragedy, was enacted before her gaze. she was not frightened; she was not even excited; the thing was so astonishing that she did not quite grasp its full import till she saw palura stumbling back, shot again and again. daisy caught her arm and clutched it in dumb panic, and when the policeman calmly bent the cohorts of the dead man to his will and carried away his victims, daisy dragged nelia away. then daisy disappeared and nelia was left to her own devices. she was vexed and disappointed. she knew nothing of the war in mendova. politics had never engaged her attention, and the significance of the artistic killing of palura did not appear to her mind. she was simply possessed by an indignant feminine impatience to think that terabon had escaped, and she was angry when she had only that glimpse of him, as with his notebook in hand he raced his pencil across the blank pages, jotting down the details and the hasty, essential impressions as he caught them. she heard the exodus. she heard women sobbing and men gasping as they swore and fled. she gathered up her own cloak and left with reluctant footsteps. she realized that she had arrived there just one day too late to "do" palura's. the fugitives, as they scurried by, reminded her of some description which she had read of the sack of rome; or was it the fall of babylon? their sins were being visited upon the wicked, and nelia crele, since she had not sinned, could not thrill with quite the same terror and despair of the wretches who had sinned in spite of their consciences, instead of through ignorance or wantonness. she took her departure not quite able to understand why there had been so much furore because one man had been killed. she was among the last to leave the accursed place, and she saw the flight of the ones who had delayed, perhaps to loot, perhaps having just awakened to the fact of the tragedy. she turned toward mousa slough, and her little shanty-boat seemed very cool and bare that late evening. the bookshelves were all empty, and she was just a little too tired to sleep, just a little too stung by reaction to be happy, and rather too much out of temper to be able to think straight and clearly on the disappointment. mendova had been familiar in her ears since childhood; she had heard stories of its wildness, its gayeties, its recklessness. impression had been made upon impression, so that when she had found herself nearing the place of her dreams, she was in the mood to enter into its wildest and gayest activities; she had expected to, and she had known in her own mind that when she met terabon she would be irresistible. at last she shuddered. she seemed to hear a voice, the river's voice, declare that this thing had happened to prevent her seeking to betray herself and terabon, not to mention that other matter which did not affect her thought in the least, her husband's honour. the idea of her husband's honour made the thing absurd to her. there was no such thing as that honour. she had plotted to get carline out of the way now that she heard he was clear of the pirates. on second thought, she was sorry that she had been so hasty in returning to the boat, wishing that she had followed up terabon. she walked out onto the bow deck, and standing in the dark, with her door closed, looked up and down the slough. a dozen boats were in sight. she heard a number of men and women talking in near-by boats, and the few words she heard indicated that the river people had a pretty morsel of gossip in the killing of palura. she heard men rustling through the weeds and switch willows of the boatmen's pathway, and she hailed; she was now a true river woman, though she did not know it. "say, boys, do you know if terabon and carline landed here to-night?" "we just landed in," one answered. "i don't know." "going up town?" "yes----" "i want to know about them----" "hit's nelia crele!" one exclaimed. "that's right. hello, boys--despard--jet--cope!" "sure! when'd you land?" "late this evening; i was up to palura's when----" "that ain't no place fo' a lady." she laughed aloud, as she added, "i was there when palura was killed by the policeman." "palura killed a policeman!" despard said. "he's killed----" "no, palura was killed by a policeman. shot him dead right on the dance-hall floor." the pirates choked. the thing was unbelievable. they came down to the boat and she described the affair briefly, and they demanded details. they felt that it would vitally affect mendova. they whispered among themselves as to what it meant. they learned that a policeman had been stationed in front of the notorious resort and that that policeman had done the shooting during a fight with waiters and bouncers and with palura himself. "we hadn't better get to go up town," jet whimpered. "hit don't sound right!" they argued and debated, and finally went on their way, having promised nelia that they would see and tell terabon, on the quiet, that she had come into the slough, and that she wanted to see him. she waited for some time, hoping that terabon would come, but finally went to sleep. she was tired, and excitement had deserted her. she slept more soundly than in some time. once she partly awakened, and thought that some drift log had bumped into her boat; then she felt a gentle undulation, as of the waves of a passing steamer, but she was too sleepy to contemplate that phenomenon in a rather narrow water channel around a bend from the main current. it was not till she had slept long and well that she began to dream vividly. she was impatient with dreams; they were always full of disappointment. daylight came, and sunshine penetrated the window under which she slept. the bright rays fell upon her closed eyes and stung her cheeks. she awakened with difficulty, and looked around wonderingly. she saw the sunlight move along the wall and then drift back again. she felt the boat teetering and swaggering. she looked out of the window and saw a distant wood across the familiar, glassy yellow surface of the mississippi. with a low whisper of dismay she started out to look around, and found that she was really adrift in mid-river. on the opposite side of the boat she saw the blank side of a boat against her cabin window. as she stood there, she heard or felt a motion on the boat alongside. someone stepped, or rather jumped heavily, onto the bow deck of her boat and flung the cabin door open. she sprang to get her pistol, and stood ready, as the figure of a man stumbled drunkenly into her presence. chapter xxix parson elijah rasba, the river prophet, could not think what he would say to these river people who had determined to have a sermon for their sabbath entertainment. neither his bible nor his hurried glances from book to book which nelia crele had given him brought any suggestion which seemed feasible. his father had always declared that a sermon, to be effective, "must have one bullet fired straight." what bullet would reach the souls of these river people who sang ribald songs, danced to lively music, and lived clear of all laws except the one they called "the law," a deadly, large-calibre revolver or automatic pistol? "i 'low i just got to talk to them like folks," he decided at last, and with that comforting decision went to sleep. the first thing, after dawn, when he looked out upon the river in all the glory of sunshine and soft atmosphere and young birds, he heard a hail: "eh, prophet! what time yo' all goin' to hold the meeting?" "round or o'clock," he replied. rasba went to one of the boats for breakfast, and he was surprised when mamie caope asked him to invoke a blessing on their humble meal of hot-bread, sorghum, fried pork chops, oatmeal, fried spuds, percolator coffee, condensed cream, nine-inch perch caught that morning, and some odds and ends of what she called "leavings." then the women all went over on his big mission boat and cleaned things up, declaring that men folks didn't know how to keep their own faces clean, let alone houseboats. they scrubbed and mopped and re-arranged, and every time rasba appeared they splashed so much that he was obliged to escape. when at last he was allowed to return he found the boat all cleaned up like a honey-comb. he found that the gambling apparatus had been taken away, except the heavy crap table, which was made over into a pulpit, and that chairs and benches had been arranged into seats for a congregation. a store-boat man climbed to the boat's roof at : , with a texas steer's horn nearly three feet long, and began to blow. the blast reverberated across the river, and echoed back from the shore opposite; it rolled through the woods and along the sandbars; and the prophet, listening, recalled the tales of trumpets which he had read in the bible. at intervals of ten minutes old jodun filled his great lungs, pursed his lips, and swelled his cheeks to wind his great horn, and the summons carried for miles. people appeared up the bank, swamp angels from the timber brakes who strolled over to see what the river people were up to, and skiffs sculled over to bring them to the river meeting. the long bend opposite, and up and down stream, where no sign of life had been, suddenly disgorged skiffs and little motorboats of people whose floating homes were hidden in tiny bays, or covered by neutral colours against their backgrounds. the women hid rasba away, like a bridegroom, to wait the moment of his appearance, and when at last he was permitted to walk out into the pulpit he nearly broke down with emotion. there were more than a hundred men and women, with a few children, waiting eagerly for him. he was a good old fellow; he meant all right; he'd taken care of jest prebol, who had deserved to be shot; he was pretty ignorant of river ways, but he wanted to learn about them; he hadn't hurt their feelings, for he minded his own business, saying not a word about their good times, even if he wouldn't dance himself. they could do no better than let him know that they hadn't any hard feelings against him, even if he was a parson, for he didn't let on that they were sinners. anyway, they wanted to hear him hit it up! "i came down here to find a son whose mother was worrited about him," rasba began at the beginning. "i 'lowed likely if i could find jock it'd please his mammy, an' perhaps make her a little happier. and jock 'lowed he'd better go back, and stand trial, even if it was a hanging matter. "you see, i didn't expect you'd get to learn very much from me, and i haven't been disappointed. i'm the one that's learning, and when i think what you've done for me, and when i see what old mississip' does, friendlying for all of us, tripping us along----" they understood. he looked at the boat, at them, and through the wide-open windows at the sun-rippled water. "now for religion. seems like i'm impudent, telling you kindly souls about being good to one another, having no hard, mean feelings against anybody, and living like you ought to live. we're all sinners! time and again hit's ag'in the grain to do what's right, and if we taste a taste of white liquor, or if hit's stained with burnt sugar to make hit red, why----" "sho!" someone grinned. "parson rasba knows!" the preacher joined the laughter. "yas, suh!" he admitted, more gravely, "i know. i 'lowed, one time, that i'd git to know this yeah happiness that comes of liquor, an' i shore took one awful gulp. three nights an' three days i neveh slept a wink, an' me settin' theh by the fireplace, waitin' to be lit up an' jubulutin', but hit didn't come. i've be'n happier, jes' a-settin' an' lookin' at that old riveh, hearin' the wild geese flocking by! "that old riveh--lawse! if the mississippi brings you fish and game; if it gives you sheltered eddies to anchor in, and good banks or sandbars to tie against; if this great river out here does all that for you, what do you reckon the father of that river, of all the world, of all the skies would do, he being so much friendlier and powerfuller? "hit's easy to forget the good that's done to you. lots an' lots of times, i bet you've not even thought of the good you've had from the river, from the sunshine, from the winds, plenty to eat and warm of nights on your boats and in your cabins. it's easy to remember the little evil things, the punishments that are visited upon us for our sins or because we're ignorant and don't know; but reckon up the happiness you have, the times you are blessed with riches of comfort and pleasure, and you'll find yourself so much happier than you are sad that you'll know how well you are cared for. "i cayn't preach no reg'lar sermon, with text-tes and singing and all that. seems like i jes' want to talk along rambling like, and tell you how happy you are all, for i don't reckon you're much wickeder than you are friendly on the average. i keep a-hearing about murdering and stealing and whiskey boating and such things. they're signs of the world's sinfulness. we talk a heap about such things; they're real, of course, and we cayn't escape them. at the same time, look at me! "i came down here, sorry with myse'f, and you make me glad, not asking if i'd done meanness or if i'd betrayed my friends. you 'lowed i was jes' a man, same's you. i couldn't tell you how to be good, because i wasn't no great shakes myse'f, and the worse i was the better you got. buck an' jock gives me this boat for a mission boat; i'm ignorant, an' a woman gives me----" he choked up. what the woman had given him was too immeasurable and too wonderful for mere words to express his gratitude. "i'm just one of those shoutin', ignorant mountain parsons. i could out-whoop most of them up yonder. but down yeah, old mississip' don't let a man shout out. when yo' play dance music, hit's softer and sweeter than some of those awful mountain hymns in which we condemn lost souls to the fire. course, the wicked goes to hell, but somehow i cayn't git up much enthusiasm about that down yeah. what makes my heart rejoice is that there's so much goodness around that i bet 'most anybody's got a right smart chanct to get shut of slippin' down the claybanks into hell." "jest prebol?" someone asked, seeing prebol's face in the window of the little red shanty-boat moored close by, where he, too, could listen. "jest prebol's been my guide down the riveh," the prophet retorted. "i can say that i only wish i could be as good a pilot for poor souls and sinners toward heaven as jest is a river pilot for a wandering old mountain parson on the mississippi----" "hi-i-i!" a score of voices laughed, and someone shouted, "so row me down the jordan!" they all knew the old religious song which fitted so nicely into the conditions on the mississippi. somebody called to someone else, and the musicians in the congregation slipped away to return with their violins, banjos, accordions, guitars, and other familiar instruments. before the preacher knew it, he had more music in the church than he had ever heard in a church before--and they knew what to play and what to sing. the sermon became a jubilee, and he would talk along awhile till something he said struck a tuneful suggestion, and the singing would begin again; and when at last he brought the service to an end, he was astonished to find that he had preached and they had sung for more than two hours. then there was scurrying about, and from all sides the calm airs of the sunny sabbath were permeated with the odours of roasts and fried things, coffee and sauces. a score wanted rasba to dine out, but mrs. caope claimed first and personal acquaintance, and her claim was acknowledged. the people from far boats and tents returned to their own homes. two or three boats of the fleet, in a hurry to make some place down stream, dropped out in mid-afternoon, and the little shanty-boat town was already breaking up, having lasted but a day, but one which would long be remembered and talked about. it was more interesting than murder, for murders were common, and the circumstances and place were so remarkable that even a burning steamboat would have had less attention and discussion. the following morning mrs. caope offered rasba $ for his old poplar boat, and he accepted it gladly. she said she had a speculation in mind, and before nightfall she had sold it for $ to two men who were going pearling up the st. francis, and who thought that a boat a parson had tripped down in would bring them good luck. the dancers of saturday night, the congregation of sunday, on monday afternoon were scattered. mrs. caope's and another boat dropped off the river to visit friends, and mid-afternoon found parson rasba and prebol alone again, drawing down toward mendova. prebol knew that town, and he told rasba about it. he promised that they would see something of it, but they could not make it that evening, so they landed in sandbar reach for the night. just after dawn, while the rising sun was flashing through the tree tops from east to west, a motorboat driving up stream hailed as it passed. "ai-i-i, prebol! palura's killed up!" prebol shouted out for details, and the passer-by, slowing down, gave a few more: "had trouble with the police, an' they shot him daid into his own dance floor--and mendova's no good no more!" "now what the boys goin' to do when they make a haul?" prebol demanded in great disgust of parson rasba. "fust the planters shot up whiskey boats; then the towns went dry, an' now they closed up palura's an' shot him daid. wouldn't hit make yo' sick, parson! they ain't no fun left nowheres for good sports." rasba could not make any comment. he was far from sure of his understanding. he felt as though his own life had been sheltered, remote from these wild doings of murders and shanty-boat-fleet dances and a congregation assembling in a gambling boat handed to him for a mission! he could not quite get his bearings, but the books blessed him with their viewpoints, as numerous as the points of the compass. he could not turn a page or a chapter without finding something that gave him a different outlook or a novel idea. they landed in late on monday at mendova bar, just above the wharf. up the slough were many shanty-boats, and gaunt dogs and floppy buzzards fed along the bar and down the wharf. groups of men and women were scattered along both the slough and the river banks, talking earnestly and seriously. rasba, bound up town to buy supplies, heard the name of palura on many lips; the policemen on their beats waltzed their heavy sticks about in debonair skilfulness; and stooped, rat-like men passing by, touched their hats nervously to the august bluecoats. when rasba returned to the boat, he found a man waiting for him. "my name is lester terabon," the man said. "i landed in saturday, and went up town. when i returned, my skiff and outfit were all gone--somebody stole them." "sho!" rasba exclaimed. "i've heard of you. you write for newspapers?" "yes, sir, and i'm some chump, being caught that way." "they meant to rob you?" rasba asked. "why, of----i don't know!" terabon saw a new outlook on the question. "did they go down?" "yes, sir, i heard so. i don't care about my boat, typewriter, and duffle; what bothers me is my notebooks. months of work are in them. if i could get them back!" "what can i do for you?" "i don't know--i'm going down stream; it's down below, somewhere." "i need someone to help me," rasba said. "i've a wounded man here who has a doctor with him. if he goes up to the hospital or stays with us, i'll be glad to have you for your help and company." "i'm in luck." terabon laughed with relief. just that way the mississippi river's narrow channel brought the river prophet and the river reporter together. terabon went up town and bought some clothes, some writing paper, a big blank notebook, and a bottle of fountain-pen ink. with that outfit he returned on board, and a delivery car brought down his share of things to eat. the doctor said prebol ought to go into the hospital for at least a week, and terabon found prebol's pirate friends, hidden up the slough on their boat, not venturing to go out except at night. they took the little red shanty-boat up the slough, and prebol went to the hospital. rasba, frankly curious about the man who wrote for newspapers for a living, listened to accounts of an odd and entertaining occupation. he asked about the palura shooting which everyone was talking about, and when terabon described it as he had witnessed it, rasba shook his head. "now they'll close up that big market of sin?" he asked. "they've all scattered around." "yes, and they scattered with my skiff, too, and probably robbed carline of his boat----" "carline! you know him?" "i came down with him from yankee bar, and we went up to palura's together. i lost him in the shuffle, when the big cop killed palura." "and mrs. carline, nelia crele?" rasba demanded. "why--i--they said she'd landed in. she's gone, too----" "you know her?" "why, yes--i----" "so do i. those books," he waved his hand toward the loaded shelves, "she gave them all to me for my mission boat!" terabon stared. he went to the shelves and looked at the volumes. in each one he found the little bookmark which she had used in cataloguing them: nelia carline, a loved book. no. a jealous pang seized him, in spite of his reportorial knowledge that jealousy is vanity for a literary person. "i 'low we mout 's well drop out," rasba suggested. "missy crele's down below some'rs. her boat floated out to'd mornin', one of the boys said." chapter xxx carline had discovered his wife in the excitement at palura's, and with the cunning of a drunken man had shadowed her. he followed her down to mousa bayou, and saw her go on board her cabin-boat. he watched, with more cunning, to see for whom she was waiting. he had in his pocket a heavy automatic pistol with which to do murder. he had seen killing done, and the thing was fascinating; some consciousness that the policeman had done the right thing seemed now to justify his own intention of killing a man, or somebody. disappointment lingered in his mind when the lights went out on board nelia's boat, and for a long time he meditated as to what he should do. he saw skiffs, motorboats, shanty-boats pulling hastily down the slough into the mississippi. it was the exodus of sin. mendova's rectitude had asserted its strength and power, and now the exits of the city were flickering with the shadows of departing hordes of the night and of the dark, all of whom had two fears: one of daylight, the other of sudden death. their departure before his eyes, with darkened boats, gave carline an idea at last. he wanted to get away off somewhere, where he could be alone, without any interruption. bitter anger surged in his breast because his wife had shamed him, left him, led him this any-thing-but-merry chase down the mississippi. a proud carline had no call to be treated thataway by any woman, especially by the daughter of an old ne'er-do-well whom he had condescended to marry. he had always been a hunter and outdoor man, and it was no particular trick for him to cast off the lines of nelia's boat and push it out into the sluggish current, and it was as easy for him to take his own boat and drop down into the river. he brought the two boats quietly together and lashed them fast with rope fenders to prevent rubbing and bumping--did it with surprising skill. the mississippi carried them down the reach into the crossing, and around a bend out of sight of even the glow of the mendova lights. here was one of those lonesome stretches of the winding mississippi, with wooded bank, sandbar, sky-high and river-deep loneliness. carline, with alcoholic persistency, held to his scheme. he drank the liquor which he had salvaged in the riotous night. he thought he knew how to bring people to time, especially women. he had seen a big policeman set the pace, and the sound of the club breaking skull bones was still a shock in his brain, oft repeated. the sudden dawn caught him by surprise, and he stared rather nonplussed by the sunrise, but when he looked around and saw that he was in mid-stream and miles from anywhere and from any one, he knew that there was no better place in the world for taming one's wife, and extorting from her the apologies which seemed to carline appropriate, all things considered, for the occasion. the time had arrived for action. he rose with dignity and buttoned up his waistcoat; he pulled down his coat and gave his cravat a hitch; he rubbed a tentative hand on the lump where the pirates had bumped him; he scrambled over the side onto the cabin-boat deck, and entered upon the scene of his conquest. he found himself confronted by nelia in a white-faced, low-voiced fury instead of in the mood he had expected. she wasn't sorry; she wasn't apologetic; she wasn't even amiable or conciliatory. "gus carline! drunk, as usual. what do you mean by this?" "s'all right!" he assured her, flapping his hands. "y're m'wife; i'm your husban'! s'all right!" she drew her pistol and fired a bullet past him. "go!" she cried. before he knew what had happened he had backed out upon the bow deck, and she bundled him up onto his own craft. she cast off the bow line and ran to the stern to cast off the line there. as she did so, she discovered terabon's skiff around at the far side where carline could not see it. her husband was still shaking his fist in her direction, but the two boats were well apart as she rowed away with her sweeps. he stood there, undecided. he had not expected the sudden and effective resistance. before he knew it, she was lost in a whole fleet of little houseboats which were, to his eyes, both in the sky, underwater, and scattered all over the tip-tilting surfaces. the current, under the impulse of her rowing, carried nelia into an eddy and she saw the cruiser rocking down a crossing into the mirage of the distance. she sat on the bow deck while her boat made a long swing in the eddy. things did not happen down the river as she planned or expected. she regarded the previous night's entertainment with less indifference now; something about the calm of that broad river affected her. she realized that watching the killing of palura had given her a shock so deep that now she was trembling with the weakness of horror. she had seen gus carline stumble into her cabin, and with angry defiance she had acted with the intention of doing to him what she had done to prebol--but she had missed deliberately when she shot. when she recalled the matter, she saw that for weeks she had been living in a false frame of mind; that she was desperate, and not contented; that she was afraid--and that she hated fear. her pistol was sign of her bravado, and her shots were the indication of her desperation. the memory of the wan face of prebol brought down by her bullet was now an accusation, not a pride. old mississip' had received her gently in her most furious mood, but now that immense, active calm of vast power was working on the untamed soul which she owned. the river swept along, and its majesty no longer gave her the feeling that nothing mattered. far from it! though she rebelled against the idea, her mind knew that she was in rebellion, that she was going against the current. and the river's mood was dangerous, now, to the wanton feelings to which she had desperately yielded but unsuccessfully. the old, familiar, sharp division between right and wrong was presented to her gaze as if the river itself were calling her attention to it. she could not escape the necessity of a choice, with evil so persuasive and delightful and virtue so depressing and necessary. she investigated terabon's outfit with curiosity and questioning. his typewriter, his maps, his few books, his stack of notes neatly compiled in loose-leaf files, were the materials which caught and held her fancy. she took them on board her shanty-boat and read the record which he had made, from day to day, from his inspection of commission records at st. louis to the purchase of his boat in shanty-boat town, and his departure down the river. his words were intimate and revealing: oct. ; in mid-stream among a lot of islands; rafts of ducks; a dull, blue day, still those great limestone hills, with hollows through which the wind comes when opposite--coolies?----; in the far distance a rowboat. on the missouri side, the hills; on the other the flats, with landing sheds. ducks in great flocks--look like sea serpents when flying close to the water; like islands on it--wary birds. that was above the part of the river which she knew; she turned to kaskaskia, and read facts familiar to her: i met crele, an old hunter-trapper, in a slough below st. genevieve. he was talkative, and said he had the prettiest girl on a hundred miles of river. she had married a man of the name of carline, real rich and a big bug. "but my gal's got the looks, yes, indeed!" if i find her, i must be sure and tell her to write to her folks--river romance! nelia's face warmed as she read those phrases as well it might. she wondered what other things he had written in his book of notes, and her eye caught a page: house boatmen are a bad lot. once a young man came to work for a farmer back on the hills. he'd been there a month, when one night he disappeared; a set of double harness went with him. another man hung around a week, and raided a grocery store, filling washtubs with groceries, cloth, and shoes--went away in a skiff. she turned to where he travelled down the mississippi with her husband and read the description of gus carline's whiskey skiff man, his purchase of a gallon of whiskey; the result, which her imagination needed but few words to visualize; then terabon's drifting away down stream, leaving the sot to his own insensibilities. breathlessly she read his snatching sentences from bend to shoal, from reach to reach, until he described her red-hull, white cabin-boat, described the "young river woman" who occupied it; and then, page after page of memoranda, telling almost her own words, and his own words, as he had remembered them. what he wrote here had not been intended for her eyes. she's dropping down this river all alone; pirates nor scoundrels nor river storms nor jeopardies seem to disturb her in the least. she even welcomes me, as an interesting sort of intellectual specimen, who can talk about books and birds and a multitude of things. she may well rest assured that none of us river rats have any designs, whatever, on a lady who shoots quick, shoots straight, and dropped prebol at thirty yards off-hand with an automatic! she read the paragraph with interest and then with care; she did not know whether to be pleased or not by that brutally frank statement that he was afraid of her--suppose he hadn't been afraid? then, of what was he really afraid--not of her pistol! she read on through the pages of notes. the description of the walk with her up the sandbar and back, there at island no. , thrilled her, for it told the apparently trifling details--the different kinds of sands, the sounds, the night gloom, the quick sense of the river presence, the glow of distant new madrid. he had lived it, and he wrote it in terms that she realized were the words she might have used to describe her own observations and sensations. she searched through his notes in vain for any suggestion of the emotions which she had felt. she shrugged her shoulders, because he had not written anything to indicate that he had discovered her allurement. he had written in bald words the fact of her sending him on the errand of rescue, to save her husband--and she was obliged to digest in her mind the bare but significant phrase: and, because she has sent me, i am glad to go! his notes made her understand him better, but they did not reveal all his own feelings. he wrote her down as an object of curiosity, as he spoke of the sour face and similitude of good humour in the whiskey boater's expression. in the same painstaking way he described her own friendliness for a passing skiff boater. the impersonality of his remarks about himself surprised while it perplexed her. the mass of material which he had gathered for making articles and stories amazed her. the stack of pages, closely typewritten, was more than two inches thick. a few pages disclosed consecutive paragraphs with subjects, predicates, and complete sense, but other pages showed only disjointed phrases, words, and flashes of ideas. the changing notes, the questioning, the observations, the minute recording were fascinating to her. it revealed a phase of writers' lives of which she had known nothing--the gathering of myriads of details, in order to free the mind for accurate rendering of pictures and conditions. she wished she could see some of the finished product of terabon's use of these notes, and the wish revealed a chasm, an abyss that confronted her. she felt deserted, as though she had need of terabon to give her a view of his own life, that she might be diverted into something not sordid, and decidedly not according to augustus carline's ideals! after a time, seeing that carline's boat had disappeared down river, she threw over her anchor, and rested in the eddy. it was on the west side, with a chute entrance through a sandbar and willow-grown island points opposite. she brought out her map book to see if she could learn where she was anchored, but the printed map, with the bright red lines of recent surveys, helped her not at all. she turned from sheet to sheet down to memphis, without finding what she wanted to know. she saw some shanty-boats down the river; she saw some up the river; but there was none near her till just before dark a motor skiff came down in the day's gray gloom, and passed within a few yards of her. when she looked at the two men in the boats she learned to know what fear is--river terror--horror of mankind in its last extremities of depravity and heartlessness. she saw men stooped and slinking, whose glance was sidelong and whose expression was venomous, casting covert looks toward her as they passed by into the gray mist of falling night. they entered a narrow waterway among the sandbars, and left behind the feeling that along that waterway was the abiding place of lost souls. she wanted to take up the anchor and flee out onto the river, but when she looked into the darkening breadths, she felt the menace of the miles, of the mists, of the wooded shores. foreboding was in her tired soul. she examined her pistol, to make sure that it was ready to use; she locked the stern door, and drew the curtains; she went to the bow and looked carefully at the anchor-line fastenings. with no light on board to blind her gaze, she scrutinized all the surroundings, to make sure of her locality. in that blank gloom she was dubious but brave. not a thing visible, not a sound audible, nothing but her remote and little understood sensation of premonitory dread explained her perturbation. she entered the cabin, locked the door, set the window catches and sticks, lighted the lamp, and sat down to--think. her bookshelves were empty, and she was glad that she had emptied them in a good cause. it occurred to her that she ought to make up another list for her own service, and with pencil and paper she began that most fascinating work, the compilation of one's own library. as she made her selections, she forgot the menace which she had observed. in the stillness she thought her own ears were ringing and paid no attention to the humming that increased in volume moment by moment. it was a flash of lightning without thunder that stirred her senses. she looked up from her absorption. she heard a distant rumble, a near-by stirring. the wavelets along the side of the boat were noisy; they rattled like paper. something fell clattering on the roof of the cabin, and a tearing, ripping, crashing struck the boat and fairly tossed it skipping along the surface of the water. the lamp blew out as a window pane broke, and the woman was thrown to the floor in a confusion of chairs, table, and other loose objects. happily, the stove was screwed fast to the floor. the anchor line broke with a loud twang, and the black confusion was lighted with flares and flashes of gray-blue glaring. the river had made nelia crele believe that she was in jeopardy from man; but it was a little hurricane, or, as the river people call them, cyclones, that menaced. dire as was the confusion and imminent as was the peril, nelia felt a sense of relief from what would have been harder to bear--an attack by men. she had searched the map for information, but it was the river which inspired her to understand that the hurricane was her deliverance rather than her assailant. she did not know whether she would live or die during those seconds when the gale crashed like maul blows and wind and rain poured and whistled in at the broken window pane. she laughed at her predicament, tumbling in dishevelment around the bouncing cabin floor, and when the suck and send of the storm crater passed by, leaving a driving wind, she stepped out on the bows, and caught up her sweeps to ride the waves and face the gale that set steadily in from the north. it was gray, impenetrable black--that night. she could see nothing, neither the waves nor the sky nor the river banks; but singing aloud, she steadied the boat, bow to the wind, holding it to the gale by dipping the sweeps deep and strong. beaten steadily back, unable to know how far or in what direction, she found her soul, serenely above the mere physical danger, loving that vast torrent more than ever. the mississippi trains its own to be brave. chapter xxxi parson rasba and terabon floated out into the main river current and ran with the stream. they were passing through the famous, changeable channels among the great sandbars from island no. down to hopefield bend. they rounded dean island bend in the darkness, for they had floated all day and far into the night, driven by an anxiety which was inexplicable. they wanted to be going; they felt an urge which they commented upon; it was a voice in their hearts, and not audible in their ears. yet when they stood nervously at the great sweeps of the mission boat, to pull the occasional strokes necessary to clear a bar or flank a bend, they could almost declare that the river was talking. they strained their ears in vain, trying to distinguish the meanings of the distant murmurings. terabon, now well familiar with the river, could easily believe that he was listening to the river spirit, and his feelings were melancholy. for months he had strained every power of his mind to record the exact facts about the mississippi, and he put down tens of thousands of words describing and stating what he saw, heard, and knew. with one stroke he had been separated from his work, and he feared that he had lost his precious notes for all time. either carline or river pirates had carried them away. he hoped, he believed, that he would find them, but there was an uncertainty. he shivered apprehensively when he recalled with what frankness he had put down details, names, acts, rumours, reports--all the countless things which go to make up the "histories" of a voyage down from st. louis in skiff, shanty-boat, and launch. what would they say if they read his notes? he had notepaper, blank books, and ink, and he set about the weary task of keeping up his records, and putting down all that he could recall of the contents of his lost loose-leaf system. it was a staggering task. in one record he wrote the habitual hour-to-hour description, comment, talk, and fact; in his "memory journal" he put down all the things he could recall about the contents of his lost record. he had written the things down to save him the difficulty of trying to remember, but now he discovered that he had remembered. a thousand times faster than he could write the countless scenes and things he had witnessed flocked back into the consciousness of his mind, pressing for recognition and another chance to go down in black and white. as he wrote, parson rasba, in the intervals of navigating the big mission boat, would stand by gazing at the furious energy of his companion. rasba had seized upon a few great facts of life, and dwelt in silent contemplation of them, until a young woman with a library disturbed the echoing halls of his mind, and brought into them the bric-à-brac of the thought of the ages. now, from that brief experience, he could gaze with nearer understanding at this young man who regarded the pathway of the moon reflecting in a narrow line across a sandbar and in a wide dancing of cold blue flames upon the waters, as an important thing to remember; who recorded the wavering flight of the nigger geese, or cormorants, as compared to the magnificent v-figure, straight drive of the canadians and the other huge water fowl; who paused to seize such simple terms as "jump line," "dough-bait," "snag line," "reef line," as though his life might depend on his verbal accuracy. the prophet pondered. the mississippi had taught him many lessons. he was beginning to look for the lesson in casual phenomena, and when he said so to terabon, the writer stared at him with open mouth. "why--that explains!" terabon gasped. "explains what?" "the heathen who was awed by the myriad impressions of nature, and who learned, by hard experience, that he must not neglect even the apparently trivial things lest he suffer disaster." then terabon fell to writing even more furiously in his day-by-day journal, for that was something of this moment, although he has just jotted down the renewed impression of coming into the bottoms at cape girardeau. rasba took up the pages of the notes which terabon was rewriting. happily, terabon's writing was like copper-plate script, however fast he wrote, and the mountain man read: big hickory tree grove--columbus hickories--largest cane in some bend down below helena--spanish moss bend--famous river bend--fisherman at brickey's mill told of hoop nets, trammels, seines (stillwater bayous), jump, hand, snag, reef, lines----jugging for catfish down the crossings, half pound pork, or meat, for bait, also called "blocking" for catfish. "what will you do with all this?" rasba asked. "why, i'll----" terabon hesitated, and then continued: "it's like building a house. i gather all this material: lumber, stone, logs, cement, shingles, lathes, quick-lime, bricks, and everything. i store it all up in this notebook; that's my lumber yard. then when i dig the foundation, i'll come in here and i'll find the things i need to build my house, or mansion. of course, to start with, i'll just build little shacks and cabins. see what i mean? i am going to write articles first and they're kind of like barns and shacks, and even mere fences. but by and by i'll write fiction stories, and they will be like the mansions, and the material will all fit in: all about a fisherman, all about a market hunter, all about a drifter, all about a river----" "all about a river woman?" rasba asked, as he hesitated. "i wasn't thinking that." terabon shook his head, his colour coming a little. "i had in mind, all about a river prophet!" "sho!" rasba exclaimed. "what could you all find to write about a riveh prophet?" terabon looked at the stern, kindly, friendly, picturesque mountaineer who had come so far to find one man, for that man's mother, and he rejoiced in his heart to think that the parson did not know, could never know, because of the honest simplicity of his heart, how extraordinarily interesting he was. so they drifted with the current, absorbed in their immediate present. it seemed as though they found their comprehension expanding and widening till it encompassed the answers to a thousand questions. rasba, dazed by his own accretion of new interests, discovery of undreamed-of powers, seizure of opportunities never known before, could but gaze with awe and thankfulness at the evidences of his great good fortune, the blessings that were his in spite of his wondering why one of so little desert had received such bountiful favour. terabon, remembering what he feared was irrevocably lost, knew that he had escaped disaster, and that the pile of notes which he had made only to be deprived of them were after all of less importance than that he should have suffered the deep emotion of seeing so much of his toil and time vanish. here it was again--rasba might well wonder at that gathering and hoarding of trifles. they were not the important things, those minute words and facts and points; no, indeed. at last terabon knew that most important fact of all that it was the emotions that counted. as a mere spectator, he could never hope to know the mississippi, to describe and write it truly; the river had forced him into the activities of the river life, and had done him by that act its finest service. he was in the fervour of his most recent discovery when rasba went out on the bow deck and looked into the night. he called terabon a minute later, and the two looked at a phenomenon. the west was aglow, like a sunset, but with flarings and flashings instead of slowly changing lights and hues. the light under the clouds at the horizon extended through degrees of the compass, and in the centre of the bright greenish flare there was a compact, black, apparently solid mass from which streaks of lightning constantly exuded on all sides. for a minute terabon stared, cold chills goose-pimpling his flesh. then he cried: "cyclone, parson! get ready!" they were opposite the head of a long bend near the end of a big sandbar, and skirting the edge of an eddy, near its foot. terabon sprang into the gasolene launch, started the motor, and steered for the shelter of the west bank. in the quiet he and rasba told each other what to do. rasba ran out two big anchors with big mooring lines tied to them. he closed the bow door but opened all the windows and other doors. then, as they heard the storm coming, they covered the launch with the heavy canvas, heaved over the anchors into a fathom of water, let out long lines, and played the launch out over the stern on a heavy line fast to towing bits. a sweep of hail and rain was followed by a moment of calm. then a blast of wind, which scraped over the cabin roof, was succeeded by the suck of the tornado, which swept, a waterspout, across the river a quarter of a mile down stream, struck a sandbar, and carried up a golden yellow cloud of dust, which disappeared in the gray blackness of a terrific downpour of rain. they stretched out on their anchor lines till the whole fabric of the cabin hummed and crackled with the strain, but the lines held, and the windows being open, prevented the semi-vacuum created by the storm's passing from "exploding" the boat, and tearing off the cabin, or the roof. after the varying gusts and blasts the wind settled down, colder by forty degrees, and with the steady white of a norther. it meant days and nights of waiting while the storm blew itself out. and when the danger had passed and the boats were safe against the lines, the two men turned in to sleep, more tired after their adventures than they remembered ever being before. in the morning rain was falling intermittently with some sleet, but toward afternoon there was just a cold wind. they built hot fires in their heater, burning coal with which the gamblers had filled bow and stern bins from coal barges somewhere up the river. having plenty to eat on board, there was nothing to worry them. terabon, his fountain pen racing, wrote for his own distant sunday editor a narrative which excited the compiler of the magazine supplement to deep oaths of admiration for the fertile, prolific imagination of the wandering writer--for who would believe in a romance ready made? the night of the big wind was followed by a day and a night of gusts of wind and sleety rain; then followed a day and a night of rising clouds, then a day when the clouds were scattered and the sun was cold. that day the sunset was grim, white, and freezing cold. in the morning there was a bright, warm sunrise, a breath of sweet, soft air, and unimaginable brightness and buoyancy, birds singing, squirrels barking, and all the dismal pangs banished. shanty-boats shot out into the gay river and dotted the wide surface up and down the current for miles. the ears of the parson and the writer, keener with the acuteness of distant sounds, could hear music from a boat so far away that they could not see it, a wonderfully enchanting experience. they, too, ran out into the flood of sunshine to float down with the rest. at the foot of brandywine bar a little cabin-boat suddenly rowed out into the current and signalled them; somebody recognized and wanted to speak to the mission boat. they were rapidly sucking down the swift chute current, but terabon turned over the motor, and flanked the big houseboat across the current so that the hail could be answered. the little cabin-boat, almost lost to view astern, rapidly gained, and as they ran down beef island chute, where the current is slow, they were overtaken. "sho!" parson rasba cried aloud, "hit's missy carline, missy nelia, shore as i'm borned!" terabon had known it for half an hour. he had been noticing river details, and he could not fail to recognize that little boat. his hands trembled as he steered the launch to take advantage of slack current and dead water, and his throat choked with an emotion which he controlled with difficulty. he looked fearfully at the gaunt river prophet whose own cheeks were staining with warm blood, and whose eyes gazed so keenly at the young woman who was coming, leaning to her sweeps with viking grace and abandon. she was coming to _them_, with the fatalistic certainty that is so astonishing to the student observer. carried away by her sottish husband; threatened by the tornado; rescued, perhaps, by the storm from worse jeopardy, caught in safety under an island sandbar; her eyes, sweeping the lonesome breadths of the flowing river-sea, had seen and recognized her friend's boat, the floating mission, and pulled to join safe company. she rowed up, with her eyes on the prophet. he stood there in his majesty while terabon stooped unnoticed in the engine pit of the motorboat. not till she had run down near enough to throw a line did she take her eyes off the mountain parson, and then she turned and looked into the eyes, dumb with misery, of the other man, terabon. her cheeks, red with her exertions, turned white. three days she had read that heap of notes in loose-leaf file which terabon had written. she had read the lines and between the lines, facts and ideas, descriptions and reminiscence, dialogue and history, statistics and appreciation of a thousand river things, all viewpoints, including her own. she knew, now, how wicked she was. she knew, now, the wilfulness of her sins, and the merciful interposition of the river's inviolable strength. her sight of the mission boat had awakened in her soul the knowledge that she must go out and talk to the good man on board, confess her naughtiness, and beg the prophet for instruction. woman-like, she knew what the outcome would be. he would take her, protect her, and there would be some way out of the predicament in which they both found themselves. but again she reckoned without the river. how could she know that terabon and he had come down the mississippi together? but there he was, chauffeuring for the prophet! she threw the line, rasba caught it, drew the two boats together and made them fast. he welcomed her as a father might have welcomed a favourite child. he threw over the anchor, and terabon dropped the launch back to the stern, and hung it there on a light line. when he entered the big cabin nelia was sitting beside a table, and rasba was leaning against the shelves which he had put up for the books. nelia, dumbfounded, had said little or nothing. when she glanced up at terabon, she looked away again, quickly, flushing. she was lost now. that was her feeling. her defiance and her courage seemed to have utterly left her, and in those bitter days of cold wind and clammy rain, sleet and discomfort had changed the outlook of everything. married, without a husband; capable of great love, and yet sure that she must never love; two lovers and an unhappy marriage between her and happiness; a mind made up to sin, wantonly, and a soul that taunted her with a life-time of struggle against sordidness. the two men saw her burst into tears and cry out in an agony of spirit. dumbly they stood there, man-like, not knowing what to do, or what thought was in the woman's mind. the prophet rasba, his face full of compassion, turned from her and went aft through the alley into the kitchen, closing the doors behind him. he knew, and with knowledge he accepted the river fate. terabon went to her, and gave her comfort. he talked to her as a lover should when his sweetheart is in misery, her heart breaking. and she accepted his gentleness, and sobbed out the impossibility of everything, while she clung to him. within the hour they had plighted troth, regardless. she confessed to her lover, instead of to the prophet. he said he didn't care, and she said she didn't care, either--which was mutually satisfactory. when they went out to parson rasba, they found him calmly reading one of the books which she had given him. he looked up at their red faces and smiled with indulgence. they would never know what went on inside his heart, what was in his mind behind that kindly smile. that he knew and understood everything was clear to them, but they did not and would not have believed that he had, for a minute, hated terabon as standing between him and happiness. "what are we going to do?" terabon cried, when he had told the parson that they loved each other, that they would complete the voyage down the river together, that her husband still lived, and that they could get a $ . divorce at memphis. "hit wouldn't be no 'count, that divorce." the prophet shrugged his shoulders, and the two hung their heads. they knew it, and yet they had been willing to plead ignorance as an excuse for sin. he seemed to close the incident by suggesting that it was time to eat something, and the three turned to getting a square meal. they cooked a bountiful dinner, and sat down to it, the prophet asking a blessing that seared the hearts of the two because of its fervour. rasba asked her to read to them after they had cleared up the dishes, and she took down the familiar volumes and read. rasba sat with his eyes closed, listening. terabon watched her face. she seemed to choose the pages at random, and read haphazardly, but it was all delight and all poetry. she was reading, which was strange, the humphrey-abbott book about the mississippi river levees, the classic report on river facts, all fascinating to the mind that grasps with pleasure any river fact. when rasba looked up and smiled, the two were absorbed in their occupations, one reading, the other watching her read. she stopped in conscious confusion. "yas, suh!" he smiled aloud. "i 'low we uns can leave hit to old mississip', these yeah things that trouble us: i, my triflin' doubts, and you children yo' own don't-know-yets." what made him say that, if he wasn't a river prophet? who told him, what voice informed him, at that moment? who can say? the following morning the big mission boat and missy nelia's boat landed in at memphis wharf, and the three went up town to buy groceries, newspapers and magazines to read, and to help nelia choose another set of books from the shelves of local book stores. old rasba had never been in a book store before, and he stared at the hundreds of feet of shelves, with books of all sizes, kinds, and makes. "sho!" he cried aloud, and then, again, "sho! sho!" it was fairyland for him, a land of enchantment, of impossible satisfaction and glory-be! terabon and nelia saw that they had given him another pleasure, and rasba was happy to know that he would always be able to visit such places, and add to his own store of literature, when he had read the books which he had, as he would do, page by page, and word by word, his dictionary at hand. magazines and newspapers had little interest for him. nelia and terabon could not help but wish to keep closer in touch with the world. they picked up a copy of the _trade-appealer_, and then a copy of the _evening battle ax_, just out. they read one headline: unknown drowns in cruiser it was a brutally frank description of a motorboat cruiser which had floated down hopefield bend, awash and waterlogged, but held afloat by air-tight tanks: in the cabin was the body of a man, apparently about years of age, with a whiskey jug clasped in one hand by the handle. he was face downward, and had been dead two or three days. it is supposed he was caught in the heavy wind-storm of wednesday night and drowned. the river had planned again. the river had acted again. they went to look at the boat, which was pumped out and in ash slough. it was carline's cruiser. then they went to the morgue, and it was carline's body. nelia broke down and cried. after all, one's husband is one's husband. she did the right thing. she owned him, now, and she carried his remains back home to gage, and there she buried him, and wept on his grave. she put on widow's weeds for him, and though she might have claimed his property, she ignored the will which left her all of it, and gave to his relatives and to her own poor people what was theirs. she gave parson rasba, whom she had brought home with her to bury her husband, $ , for his services. then, after the estate was all settled up, she returned to memphis, and terabon met her at the union station, dutifully, as she had told him to do. together they went to the city clerk's and obtained a marriage license, and the river prophet, rasba, with firm voice and unflinching gaze, united them in wedlock. they went aboard their own little shanty-boat, and while the rice and old shoes of a host of river people rattled and clattered on their cabin, they drifted out into the current and rapidly slipped away toward president's island. parson rasba, as they drifted clear, said to them: "i 'lowed we uns could leave hit to old mississip'!" the end [illustration] the country life press garden city, n. y. captains all by w.w. jacobs the constable's move [illustration: "the constable's move."] mr. bob grummit sat in the kitchen with his corduroy-clad legs stretched on the fender. his wife's half-eaten dinner was getting cold on the table; mr. grummit, who was badly in need of cheering up, emptied her half-empty glass of beer and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "come away, i tell you," he called. "d'ye hear? come away. you'll be locked up if you don't." he gave a little laugh at the sarcasm, and sticking his short pipe in his mouth lurched slowly to the front-room door and scowled at his wife as she lurked at the back of the window watching intently the furniture which was being carried in next door. "come away or else you'll be locked up," repeated mr. grummit. "you mustn't look at policemen's furniture; it's agin the law." mrs. grummit made no reply, but, throwing appearances to the winds, stepped to the window until her nose touched, as a walnut sideboard with bevelled glass back was tenderly borne inside under the personal supervision of police-constable evans. "they'll be 'aving a pianner next," said the indignant mr. grummit, peering from the depths of the room. "they've got one," responded his wife; "there's the end if it stickin' up in the van." mr. grummit advanced and regarded the end fixedly. "did you throw all them tin cans and things into their yard wot i told you to?" he demanded. "he picked up three of 'em while i was upstairs," replied his wife. "i 'eard 'im tell her that they'd come in handy for paint and things." "that's 'ow coppers get on and buy pianners," said the incensed mr. grummit, "sneaking other people's property. i didn't tell you to throw good 'uns over, did i? wot d'ye mean by it?" mrs. grummit made no reply, but watched with bated breath the triumphal entrance of the piano. the carman set it tenderly on the narrow footpath, while p. c. evans, stooping low, examined it at all points, and mrs. evans, raising the lid, struck a few careless chords. "showing off," explained mrs. grummit, with a half turn; "and she's got fingers like carrots." "it's a disgrace to mulberry gardens to 'ave a copper come and live in it," said the indignant grummit; "and to come and live next to me!-- that's what i can't get over. to come and live next door to a man wot has been fined twice, and both times wrong. why, for two pins i'd go in and smash 'is pianner first and 'im after it. he won't live 'ere long, you take my word for it." "why not?" inquired his wife. "why?" repeated mr. grummit. "why? why, becos i'll make the place too 'ot to hold him. ain't there enough houses in tunwich without 'im a-coming and living next door to me?" for a whole week the brain concealed in mr. grummit's bullet-shaped head worked in vain, and his temper got correspondingly bad. the day after the evans' arrival he had found his yard littered with tins which he recognized as old acquaintances, and since that time they had travelled backwards and forwards with monotonous regularity. they sometimes made as many as three journeys a day, and on one occasion the heavens opened to drop a battered tin bucket on the back of mr. grummit as he was tying his bootlace. five minutes later he spoke of the outrage to mr. evans, who had come out to admire the sunset. "i heard something fall," said the constable, eyeing the pail curiously. "you threw it," said mr. grummit, breathing furiously. "me? nonsense," said the other, easily. "i was having tea in the parlour with my wife and my mother-in-law, and my brother joe and his young lady." "any more of 'em?" demanded the hapless mr. grummit, aghast at this list of witnesses for an alibi. "it ain't a bad pail, if you look at it properly," said the constable. "i should keep it if i was you; unless the owner offers a reward for it. it'll hold enough water for your wants." mr. grummit flung indoors and, after wasting some time concocting impossible measures of retaliation with his sympathetic partner, went off to discuss affairs with his intimates at the _bricklayers' arms_. the company, although unanimously agreeing that mr. evans ought to be boiled, were miserably deficient in ideas as to the means by which such a desirable end was to be attained. "make 'im a laughing-stock, that's the best thing," said an elderly labourer. "the police don't like being laughed at." "'ow?" demanded mr. grummit, with some asperity. "there's plenty o' ways," said the old man. "i should find 'em out fast enough if i 'ad a bucket dropped on my back, i know." mr. grummit made a retort the feebleness of which was somewhat balanced by its ferocity, and subsided into glum silence. his back still ached, but, despite that aid to intellectual effort, the only ways he could imagine of making the constable look foolish contained an almost certain risk of hard labour for himself. he pondered the question for a week, and meanwhile the tins--to the secret disappointment of mr. evans--remained untouched in his yard. for the whole of the time he went about looking, as mrs. grummit expressed it, as though his dinner had disagreed with him. "i've been talking to old bill smith," he said, suddenly, as he came in one night. mrs. grummit looked up, and noticed with wifely pleasure that he was looking almost cheerful. "he's given me a tip," said mr. grummit, with a faint smile; "a copper mustn't come into a free-born englishman's 'ouse unless he's invited." "wot of it?" inquired his wife. "you wasn't think of asking him in, was you?" mr. grummit regarded her almost play-fully. "if a copper comes in without being told to," he continued, "he gets into trouble for it. now d'ye see?" "but he won't come," said the puzzled mrs. grummit. mr. grummit winked. "yes 'e will if you scream loud enough," he retorted. "where's the copper-stick?" "have you gone mad?" demanded his wife, "or do you think i 'ave?" "you go up into the bedroom," said mr. grummit, emphasizing his remarks with his forefinger. "i come up and beat the bed black and blue with the copper-stick; you scream for mercy and call out 'help!' 'murder!' and things like that. don't call out 'police!' cos bill ain't sure about that part. evans comes bursting in to save your life--i'll leave the door on the latch--and there you are. he's sure to get into trouble for it. bill said so. he's made a study o' that sort o' thing." mrs. grummit pondered this simple plan so long that her husband began to lose patience. at last, against her better sense, she rose and fetched the weapon in question. "and you be careful what you're hitting," she said, as they went upstairs to bed. "we'd better have 'igh words first, i s'pose?" "you pitch into me with your tongue," said mr. grummit, amiably. mrs. grummit, first listening to make sure that the constable and his wife were in the bedroom the other side of the flimsy wall, complied, and in a voice that rose gradually to a piercing falsetto told mr. grummit things that had been rankling in her mind for some months. she raked up misdemeanours that he had long since forgotten, and, not content with that, had a fling at the entire grummit family, beginning with her mother-in-law and ending with mr. grummit's youngest sister. the hand that held the copper-stick itched. "any more to say?" demanded mr. grummit advancing upon her. mrs. grummit emitted a genuine shriek, and mr. grummit, suddenly remembering himself, stopped short and attacked the bed with extraordinary fury. the room resounded with the blows, and the efforts of mrs. grummit were a revelation even to her husband. [illustration: "mr. grummit, suddenly remembering himself, stopped short and attacked the bed with extraordinary fury."] "i can hear 'im moving," whispered mr. grummit, pausing to take breath. "mur--der!" wailed his wife. "help! help!" mr. grummit, changing the stick into his left hand, renewed the attack; mrs. grummit, whose voice was becoming exhausted, sought a temporary relief in moans. "is--he----deaf?" panted the wife-beater, "or wot?" he knocked over a chair, and mrs. grummit contrived another frenzied scream. a loud knocking sounded on the wall. "hel--lp!" moaned mrs. grummit. "halloa, there!" came the voice of the constable. "why don't you keep that baby quiet? we can't get a wink of sleep." mr. grummit dropped the stick on the bed and turned a dazed face to his wife. "he--he's afraid--to come in," he gasped. "keep it up, old gal." he took up the stick again and mrs. grummit did her best, but the heart had gone out of the thing, and he was about to give up the task as hopeless when the door below was heard to open with a bang. "here he is," cried the jubilant grummit. "now!" his wife responded, and at the same moment the bedroom door was flung open, and her brother, who had been hastily fetched by the neighbours on the other side, burst into the room and with one hearty blow sent mr. grummit sprawling. "hit my sister, will you?" he roared, as the astounded mr. grummit rose. "take that!" mr. grummit took it, and several other favours, while his wife, tugging at her brother, endeavoured to explain. it was not, however, until mr. grummit claimed the usual sanctuary of the defeated by refusing to rise that she could make herself heard. "joke?" repeated her brother, incredulously. "joke?" mrs. grummit in a husky voice explained. her brother passed from incredulity to amazement and from amazement to mirth. he sat down gurgling, and the indignant face of the injured grummit only added to his distress. "best joke i ever heard in my life," he said, wiping his eyes. "don't look at me like that, bob; i can't bear it." "get off 'ome," responded mr. grummit, glowering at him. "there's a crowd outside, and half the doors in the place open," said the other. "well, it's a good job there's no harm done. so long." he passed, beaming, down the stairs, and mr. grummit, drawing near the window, heard him explaining in a broken voice to the neighbours outside. strong men patted him on the back and urged him gruffly to say what he had to say and laugh afterwards. mr. grummit turned from the window, and in a slow and stately fashion prepared to retire for the night. even the sudden and startling disappearance of mrs. grummit as she got into bed failed to move him. "the bed's broke, bob," she said faintly. "beds won't last for ever," he said, shortly; "sleep on the floor." mrs. grummit clambered out, and after some trouble secured the bedclothes and made up a bed in a corner of the room. in a short time she was fast asleep; but her husband, broad awake, spent the night in devising further impracticable schemes for the discomfiture of the foe next door. he saw mr. evans next morning as he passed on his way to work. the constable was at the door smoking in his shirt-sleeves, and mr. grummit felt instinctively that he was waiting there to see him pass. "i heard you last night," said the constable, playfully. "my word! good gracious!" "wot's the matter with you?" demanded mr. grummit, stopping short. the constable stared at him. "she has been knocking you about," he gasped. "why, it must ha' been you screaming, then! i thought it sounded loud. why don't you go and get a summons and have her locked up? i should be pleased to take her." mr. grummit faced him, quivering with passion. "wot would it cost if i set about you?" he demanded, huskily. "two months," said mr. evans, smiling serenely; "p'r'aps three." mr. grummit hesitated and his fists clenched nervously. the constable, lounging against his door-post, surveyed him with a dispassionate smile. "that would be besides what you'd get from me," he said, softly. "come out in the road," said mr. grummit, with sudden violence. "it's agin the rules," said mr. evans; "sorry i can't. why not go and ask your wife's brother to oblige you?" he went in laughing and closed the door, and mr. grummit, after a frenzied outburst, proceeded on his way, returning the smiles of such acquaintances as he passed with an icy stare or a strongly-worded offer to make them laugh the other side of their face. the rest of the day he spent in working so hard that he had no time to reply to the anxious inquiries of his fellow-workmen. he came home at night glum and silent, the hardship of not being able to give mr. evans his deserts without incurring hard labour having weighed on his spirits all day. to avoid the annoyance of the piano next door, which was slowly and reluctantly yielding up "_the last rose of summer_" note by note, he went out at the back, and the first thing he saw was mr. evans mending his path with tins and other bric-a-brac. "nothing like it," said the constable, looking up. "your missus gave 'em to us this morning. a little gravel on top, and there you are." he turned whistling to his work again, and the other, after endeavouring in vain to frame a suitable reply, took a seat on an inverted wash-tub and lit his pipe. his one hope was that constable evans was going to try and cultivate a garden. the hope was realized a few days later, and mr. grummit at the back window sat gloating over a dozen fine geraniums, some lobelias and calceolarias, which decorated the constable's plot of ground. he could not sleep for thinking of them. he rose early the next morning, and, after remarking to mrs. grummit that mr. evans's flowers looked as though they wanted rain, went off to his work. the cloud which had been on his spirits for some time had lifted, and he whistled as he walked. the sight of flowers in front windows added to his good humour. he was still in good spirits when he left off work that afternoon, but some slight hesitation about returning home sent him to the brick-layers' firms instead. he stayed there until closing time, and then, being still disinclined for home, paid a visit to bill smith, who lived the other side of tunwich. by the time he started for home it was nearly midnight. the outskirts of the town were deserted and the houses in darkness. the clock of tunwich church struck twelve, and the last stroke was just dying away as he turned a corner and ran almost into the arms of the man he had been trying to avoid. "halloa!" said constable evans, sharply. "here, i want a word with you." mr. grummit quailed. "with me, sir?" he said, with involuntary respect. "what have you been doing to my flowers?" demanded the other, hotly. "flowers?" repeated mr. grummit, as though the word were new to him. "flowers? what flowers?" "you know well enough," retorted the constable. "you got over my fence last night and smashed all my flowers down." "you be careful wot you're saying," urged mr. grummit. "why, i love flowers. you don't mean to tell me that all them beautiful flowers wot you put in so careful 'as been spoiled?" "you know all about it," said the constable, choking. "i shall take out a summons against you for it." "ho!" said mr. grummit. "and wot time do you say it was when i done it?" "never you mind the time," said the other. "cos it's important," said mr. grummit. "my wife's brother--the one you're so fond of--slept in my 'ouse last night. he was ill arf the night, pore chap; but, come to think of it, it'll make 'im a good witness for my innocence." "if i wasn't a policeman," said mr. evans, speaking with great deliberation, "i'd take hold o' you, bob grummit, and i'd give you the biggest hiding you've ever had in your life." "if you wasn't a policeman," said mr. grummit, yearningly, "i'd arf murder you." the two men eyed each other wistfully, loth to part. "if i gave you what you deserve i should get into trouble," said the constable. "if i gave you a quarter of wot you ought to 'ave i should go to quod," sighed mr. grummit. "i wouldn't put you there," said the constable, earnestly; "i swear i wouldn't." "everything's beautiful and quiet," said mr. grummit, trembling with eagerness, "and i wouldn't say a word to a soul. i'll take my solemn davit i wouldn't." "when i think o' my garden--" began the constable. with a sudden movement he knocked off mr. grummit's cap, and then, seizing him by the coat, began to hustle him along the road. in the twinkling of an eye they had closed. tunwich church chimed the half-hour as they finished, and mr. grummit, forgetting his own injuries, stood smiling at the wreck before him. the constable's helmet had been smashed and trodden on; his uniform was torn and covered with blood and dirt, and his good looks marred for a fortnight at least. he stooped with a groan, and, recovering his helmet, tried mechanically to punch it into shape. he stuck the battered relic on his head, and mr. grummit fell back--awed, despite himself. "it was a fair fight," he stammered. the constable waved him away. "get out o' my sight before i change my mind," he said, fiercely; "and mind, if you say a word about this it'll be the worse for you." "do you think i've gone mad?" said the other. he took another look at his victim and, turning away, danced fantastically along the road home. the constable, making his way to a gas-lamp, began to inspect damages. they were worse even than he had thought, and, leaning against the lamp-post, he sought in vain for an explanation that, in the absence of a prisoner, would satisfy the inspector. a button which was hanging by a thread fell tinkling on to the footpath, and he had just picked it up and placed it in his pocket when a faint distant outcry broke upon his ear. he turned and walked as rapidly as his condition would permit in the direction of the noise. it became louder and more imperative, and cries of "police!" became distinctly audible. he quickened into a run, and turning a corner beheld a little knot of people standing at the gate of a large house. other people only partially clad were hastening to-wards them. the constable arrived out of breath. "better late than never," said the owner of the house, sarcastically. mr. evans, breathing painfully, supported himself with his hand on the fence. "they went that way, but i suppose you didn't see them," continued the householder. "halloa!" he added, as somebody opened the hall door and the constable's damaged condition became visible in the gas-light. "are you hurt?" "yes," said mr. evans, who was trying hard to think clearly. to gain time he blew a loud call on his whistle. "the rascals!" continued the other. "i think i should know the big chap with a beard again, but the others were too quick for me." mr. evans blew his whistle again--thoughtfully. the opportunity seemed too good to lose. "did they get anything?" he inquired. "not a thing," said the owner, triumphantly. "i was disturbed just in time." the constable gave a slight gulp. "i saw the three running by the side of the road," he said, slowly. "their behaviour seemed suspicious, so i collared the big one, but they set on me like wild cats. they had me down three times; the last time i laid my head open against the kerb, and when i came to my senses again they had gone." he took off his battered helmet with a flourish and, amid a murmur of sympathy, displayed a nasty cut on his head. a sergeant and a constable, both running, appeared round the corner and made towards' them. "get back to the station and make your report," said the former, as constable evans, in a somewhat defiant voice, repeated his story. "you've done your best; i can see that." mr. evans, enacting to perfection the part of a wounded hero, limped painfully off, praying devoutly as he went that the criminals might make good their escape. if not, he reflected that the word of a policeman was at least equal to that of three burglars. he repeated his story at the station, and, after having his head dressed, was sent home and advised to keep himself quiet for a day or two. he was off duty for four days, and, the tunwich gazette having devoted a column to the affair, headed "a gallant constable," modestly secluded himself from the public gaze for the whole of that time. to mr. grummit, who had read the article in question until he could have repeated it backwards, this modesty was particularly trying. the constable's yard was deserted and the front door ever closed. once mr. grummit even went so far as to tap with his nails on the front parlour window, and the only response was the sudden lowering of the blind. it was not until a week afterwards that his eyes were gladdened by a sight of the constable sitting in his yard; and fearing that even then he might escape him, he ran out on tip-toe and put his face over the fence before the latter was aware of his presence. "wot about that 'ere burglary?" he demanded in truculent tones. "good evening, grummit," said the constable, with a patronizing air. "wot about that burglary?" repeated mr. grummit, with a scowl. "i don't believe you ever saw a burglar." mr. evans rose and stretched himself gracefully. "you'd better run indoors, my good man," he said, slowly. "telling all them lies about burglars," continued the indignant mr. grummit, producing his newspaper and waving it. "why, i gave you that black eye, i smashed your 'elmet, i cut your silly 'ead open, i----" "you've been drinking," said the other, severely. "you mean to say i didn't?" demanded mr. grummit, ferociously. mr. evans came closer and eyed him steadily. "i don't know what you're talking about," he said, calmly. mr. grummit, about to speak, stopped appalled at such hardihood. "of course, if you mean to say that you were one o' them burglars," continued the constable, "why, say it and i'll take you with pleasure. come to think of it, i did seem to remember one o' their voices." mr. grummit, with his eyes fixed on the other's, backed a couple of yards and breathed heavily. "about your height, too, he was," mused the constable. "i hope for your sake you haven't been saying to anybody else what you said to me just now." mr. grummit shook his head. "not a word," he faltered. "that's all right, then," said mr. evans. "i shouldn't like to be hard on a neighbour; not that we shall be neighbours much longer." mr. grummit, feeling that a reply was expected of him, gave utterance to a feeble "oh!" "no," said mr. evans, looking round disparagingly. "it ain't good enough for us now; i was promoted to sergeant this morning. a sergeant can't live in a common place like this." mr. grummit, a prey to a sickening fear, drew near the fence again. "a-- a sergeant?" he stammered. mr. evans smiled and gazed carefully at a distant cloud. "for my bravery with them burglars the other night, grummit," he said, modestly. "i might have waited years if it hadn't been for them." he nodded to the frantic grummit and turned away; mr. grummit, without any adieu at all, turned and crept back to the house. captains all by w.w. jacobs captains all [illustration: "captains all."] every sailorman grumbles about the sea, said the night-watchman, thoughtfully. it's human nature to grumble, and i s'pose they keep on grumbling and sticking to it because there ain't much else they can do. there's not many shore-going berths that a sailorman is fit for, and those that they are--such as a night-watchman's, for instance--wants such a good character that there's few as are to equal it. sometimes they get things to do ashore. i knew one man that took up butchering, and 'e did very well at it till the police took him up. another man i knew gave up the sea to marry a washerwoman, and they hadn't been married six months afore she died, and back he 'ad to go to sea agin, pore chap. a man who used to grumble awful about the sea was old sam small--a man i've spoke of to you before. to hear 'im go on about the sea, arter he 'ad spent four or five months' money in a fortnight, was 'artbreaking. he used to ask us wot was going to happen to 'im in his old age, and when we pointed out that he wouldn't be likely to 'ave any old age if he wasn't more careful of 'imself he used to fly into a temper and call us everything 'e could lay his tongue to. one time when 'e was ashore with peter russet and ginger dick he seemed to 'ave got it on the brain. he started being careful of 'is money instead o' spending it, and three mornings running he bought a newspaper and read the advertisements, to see whether there was any comfortable berth for a strong, good-'arted man wot didn't like work. he actually went arter one situation, and, if it hadn't ha' been for seventy-nine other men, he said he believed he'd ha' had a good chance of getting it. as it was, all 'e got was a black eye for shoving another man, and for a day or two he was so down-'arted that 'e was no company at all for the other two. for three or four days 'e went out by 'imself, and then, all of a sudden, ginger dick and peter began to notice a great change in him. he seemed to 'ave got quite cheerful and 'appy. he answered 'em back pleasant when they spoke to 'im, and one night he lay in 'is bed whistling comic songs until ginger and peter russet 'ad to get out o' bed to him. when he bought a new necktie and a smart cap and washed 'imself twice in one day they fust began to ask each other wot was up, and then they asked him. "up?" ses sam; "nothing." "he's in love," ses peter russet. "you're a liar," ses sam, without turning round. "he'll 'ave it bad at 'is age," ses ginger. sam didn't say nothing, but he kept fidgeting about as though 'e'd got something on his mind. fust he looked out o' the winder, then he 'ummed a tune, and at last, looking at 'em very fierce, he took a tooth-brush wrapped in paper out of 'is pocket and began to clean 'is teeth. "he is in love," ses ginger, as soon as he could speak. "or else 'e's gorn mad," ses peter, watching 'im. "which is it, sam?" sam made believe that he couldn't answer 'im because o' the tooth-brush, and arter he'd finished he 'ad such a raging toothache that 'e sat in a corner holding 'is face and looking the pictur' o' misery. they couldn't get a word out of him till they asked 'im to go out with them, and then he said 'e was going to bed. twenty minutes arterwards, when ginger dick stepped back for 'is pipe, he found he 'ad gorn. he tried the same game next night, but the other two wouldn't 'ave it, and they stayed in so long that at last 'e lost 'is temper, and, arter wondering wot ginger's father and mother could ha' been a-thinking about, and saying that he believed peter russet 'ad been changed at birth for a sea-sick monkey, he put on 'is cap and went out. both of 'em follered 'im sharp, but when he led 'em to a mission-hall, and actually went inside, they left 'im and went off on their own. they talked it over that night between themselves, and next evening they went out fust and hid themselves round the corner. ten minutes arterwards old sam came out, walking as though 'e was going to catch a train; and smiling to think 'ow he 'ad shaken them off. at the corner of commercial road he stopped and bought 'imself a button-hole for 'is coat, and ginger was so surprised that 'e pinched peter russet to make sure that he wasn't dreaming. old sam walked straight on whistling, and every now and then looking down at 'is button-hole, until by-and-by he turned down a street on the right and went into a little shop. ginger dick and peter waited for 'im at the corner, but he was inside for so long that at last they got tired o' waiting and crept up and peeped through the winder. it was a little tobacconist's shop, with newspapers and penny toys and such-like; but, as far as ginger could see through two rows o' pipes and the police news, it was empty. they stood there with their noses pressed against the glass for some time, wondering wot had 'appened to sam, but by-and-by a little boy went in and then they began to 'ave an idea wot sam's little game was. as the shop-bell went the door of a little parlour at the back of the shop opened, and a stout and uncommon good-looking woman of about forty came out. her 'ead pushed the _police news_ out o' the way and her 'and came groping into the winder arter a toy. ginger 'ad a good look at 'er out o' the corner of one eye, while he pretended to be looking at a tobacco-jar with the other. as the little boy came out 'im and peter russet went in. "i want a pipe, please," he ses, smiling at 'er; "a clay pipe--one o' your best." the woman handed 'im down a box to choose from, and just then peter, wot 'ad been staring in at the arf-open door at a boot wot wanted lacing up, gave a big start and ses, "why! halloa!" "wot's the matter?" ses the woman, looking at 'im. "i'd know that foot anywhere," ses peter, still staring at it; and the words was hardly out of 'is mouth afore the foot 'ad moved itself away and tucked itself under its chair. "why, that's my dear old friend sam small, ain't it?" "do you know the captin?" ses the woman, smiling at 'im. "cap----?" ses peter. "cap----? oh, yes; why, he's the biggest friend i've got." "'ow strange!" ses the woman. "we've been wanting to see 'im for some time," ses ginger. "he was kind enough to lend me arf a crown the other day, and i've been wanting to pay 'im." "captin small," ses the woman, pushing open the door, "here's some old friends o' yours." old sam turned 'is face round and looked at 'em, and if looks could ha' killed, as the saying is, they'd ha' been dead men there and then. "oh, yes," he ses, in a choking voice; "'ow are you?" "pretty well, thank you, captin," ses ginger, grinning at 'im; "and 'ow's yourself arter all this long time?" he held out 'is hand and sam shook it, and then shook 'ands with peter russet, who was grinning so 'ard that he couldn't speak. "these are two old friends o' mine, mrs. finch," ses old sam, giving 'em a warning look; "captin dick and captin russet, two o' the oldest and best friends a man ever 'ad." "captin dick 'as got arf a crown for you," ses peter russet, still grinning. "there now," ses ginger, looking vexed, "if i ain't been and forgot it; i've on'y got arf a sovereign." "i can give you change, sir," ses mrs. finch. "p'r'aps you'd like to sit down for five minutes?" ginger thanked 'er, and 'im and peter russet took a chair apiece in front o' the fire and began asking old sam about 'is 'ealth, and wot he'd been doing since they saw 'im last. "fancy your reckernizing his foot," ses mrs. finch, coming in with the change. "i'd know it anywhere," ses peter, who was watching ginger pretending to give sam small the 'arf-dollar, and sam pretending in a most lifelike manner to take it. ginger dick looked round the room. it was a comfortable little place, with pictures on the walls and antimacassars on all the chairs, and a row of pink vases on the mantelpiece. then 'e looked at mrs. finch, and thought wot a nice-looking woman she was. "this is nicer than being aboard ship with a crew o' nasty, troublesome sailormen to look arter, captin small," he ses. "it's wonderful the way he manages 'em," ses peter russet to mrs. finch. "like a lion he is." "a roaring lion," ses ginger, looking at sam. "he don't know wot fear is." sam began to smile, and mrs. finch looked at 'im so pleased that peter russet, who 'ad been looking at 'er and the room, and thinking much the same way as ginger, began to think that they was on the wrong tack. "afore 'e got stout and old," he ses, shaking his 'ead, "there wasn't a smarter skipper afloat." "we all 'ave our day," ses ginger, shaking his 'ead too. "i dessay he's good for another year or two afloat, yet," ses peter russet, considering. "with care," ses ginger. old sam was going to say something, but 'e stopped himself just in time. "they will 'ave their joke," he ses, turning to mrs. finch and trying to smile. "i feel as young as ever i did." mrs. finch said that anybody with arf an eye could see that, and then she looked at a kettle that was singing on the 'ob. "i s'pose you gentlemen wouldn't care for a cup o' cocoa?" she ses, turning to them. ginger dick and peter both said that they liked it better than anything else, and, arter she 'ad got out the cups and saucers and a tin o' cocoa, ginger held the kettle and poured the water in the cups while she stirred them, and old sam sat looking on 'elpless. "it does seem funny to see you drinking cocoa, captin," ses ginger, as old sam took his cup. "ho!" ses sam, firing up; "and why, if i might make so bold as to ask?" "'cos i've generally seen you drinking something out of a bottle," ses ginger. "now, look 'ere," ses sam, starting up and spilling some of the hot cocoa over 'is lap. "a ginger-beer bottle," ses peter russet, making faces at ginger to keep quiet. "yes, o' course, that's wot i meant," ses ginger. old sam wiped the cocoa off 'is knees without saying a word, but his weskit kept going up and down till peter russet felt quite sorry for 'im. "there's nothing like it," he ses to mrs. finch. "it was by sticking to ginger-beer and milk and such-like that captain small 'ad command of a ship afore 'e was twenty-five." "lor'!" ses mrs. finch. she smiled at old sam till peter got uneasy agin, and began to think p'r'aps 'e'd been praising 'im too much. "of course, i'm speaking of long ago now," he ses. "years and years afore you was born, ma'am," ses ginger. old sam was going to say something, but mrs. finch looked so pleased that 'e thought better of it. some o' the cocoa 'e was drinking went the wrong way, and then ginger patted 'im on the back and told 'im to be careful not to bring on 'is brownchitis agin. wot with temper and being afraid to speak for fear they should let mrs. finch know that 'e wasn't a captin, he could 'ardly bear 'imself, but he very near broke out when peter russet advised 'im to 'ave his weskit lined with red flannel. they all stayed on till closing time, and by the time they left they 'ad made theirselves so pleasant that mrs. finch said she'd be pleased to see them any time they liked to look in. sam small waited till they 'ad turned the corner, and then he broke out so alarming that they could 'ardly do anything with 'im. twice policemen spoke to 'im and advised 'im to go home afore they altered their minds; and he 'ad to hold 'imself in and keep quiet while ginger and peter russet took 'is arms and said they were seeing him 'ome. he started the row agin when they got in-doors, and sat up in 'is bed smacking 'is lips over the things he'd like to 'ave done to them if he could. and then, arter saying 'ow he'd like to see ginger boiled alive like a lobster, he said he knew that 'e was a noble-'arted feller who wouldn't try and cut an old pal out, and that it was a case of love at first sight on top of a tram-car. "she's too young for you," ses ginger; "and too good-looking besides." "it's the nice little bisness he's fallen in love with, ginger," ses peter russet. "i'll toss you who 'as it." ginger, who was siting on the foot o' sam's bed, said "no" at fust, but arter a time he pulled out arf a dollar and spun it in the air. that was the last 'e see of it, although he 'ad sam out o' bed and all the clothes stripped off of it twice. he spent over arf an hour on his 'ands and knees looking for it, and sam said when he was tired of playing bears p'r'aps he'd go to bed and get to sleep like a christian. they 'ad it all over agin next morning, and at last, as nobody would agree to keep quiet and let the others 'ave a fair chance, they made up their minds to let the best man win. ginger dick bought a necktie that took all the colour out o' sam's, and peter russet went in for a collar so big that 'e was lost in it. they all strolled into the widow's shop separate that night. ginger dick 'ad smashed his pipe and wanted another; peter russet wanted some tobacco; and old sam small walked in smiling, with a little silver brooch for 'er, that he said 'e had picked up. it was a very nice brooch, and mrs. finch was so pleased with it that ginger and peter sat there as mad as they could be because they 'adn't thought of the same thing. "captain small is very lucky at finding things," ses ginger, at last. "he's got the name for it," ses peter russet. "it's a handy 'abit," ses ginger; "it saves spending money. who did you give that gold bracelet to you picked up the other night, captin?" he ses, turning to sam. "gold bracelet?" ses sam. "i didn't pick up no gold bracelet. wot are you talking about?" "all right, captin; no offence," ses ginger, holding up his 'and. "i dreamt i saw one on your mantelpiece, i s'pose. p'r'aps i oughtn't to ha' said anything about it." old sam looked as though he'd like to eat 'im, especially as he noticed mrs. finch listening and pretending not to. "oh! that one," he ses, arter a bit o' hard thinking. "oh! i found out who it belonged to. you wouldn't believe 'ow pleased they was at getting it back agin." ginger dick coughed and began to think as 'ow old sam was sharper than he 'ad given 'im credit for, but afore he could think of anything else to say mrs. finch looked at old sam and began to talk about 'is ship, and to say 'ow much she should like to see over it. "i wish i could take you," ses sam, looking at the other two out o' the corner of his eye, "but my ship's over at dunkirk, in france. i've just run over to london for a week or two to look round." "and mine's there too," ses peter russet, speaking a'most afore old sam 'ad finished; "side by side they lay in the harbour." "oh, dear," ses mrs. finch, folding her 'ands and shaking her 'cad. "i should like to go over a ship one arternoon. i'd quite made up my mind to it, knowing three captins." she smiled and looked at ginger; and sam and peter looked at 'im too, wondering whether he was going to berth his ship at dunkirk alongside o' theirs. "ah, i wish i 'ad met you a fortnight ago," ses ginger, very sad. "i gave up my ship, the high flyer, then, and i'm waiting for one my owners are 'aving built for me at new-castle. they said the high flyer wasn't big enough for me. she was a nice little ship, though. i believe i've got 'er picture somewhere about me!" he felt in 'is pocket and pulled out a little, crumpled-up photograph of a ship he'd been fireman aboard of some years afore, and showed it to 'er. "that's me standing on the bridge," he ses, pointing out a little dot with the stem of 'is pipe. "it's your figger," ses mrs. finch, straining her eyes. "i should know it anywhere." "you've got wonderful eyes, ma'am," ses old sam, choking with 'is pipe. "anybody can see that," ses ginger. "they're the largest and the bluest i've ever seen." mrs. finch told 'im not to talk nonsense, but both sam and peter russet could see 'ow pleased she was. "truth is truth," ses ginger. "i'm a plain man, and i speak my mind." "blue is my fav'rit' colour," ses old sam, in a tender voice. "true blue." peter russet began to feel out of it. "i thought brown was," he ses. "ho!" ses sam, turning on 'im; "and why?" "i 'ad my reasons," ses peter, nodding, and shutting 'is mouth very firm. "i thought brown was 'is fav'rit colour too," ses ginger. "i don't know why. it's no use asking me; because if you did i couldn't tell you." "brown's a very nice colour," ses mrs. finch, wondering wot was the matter with old sam. "blue," ses ginger; "big blue eyes--they're the ones for me. other people may 'ave their blacks and their browns," he ses, looking at sam and peter russet, "but give me blue." they went on like that all the evening, and every time the shop-bell went and the widow 'ad to go out to serve a customer they said in w'ispers wot they thought of each other; and once when she came back rather sudden ginger 'ad to explain to 'er that 'e was showing peter russet a scratch on his knuckle. ginger dick was the fust there next night, and took 'er a little chiney teapot he 'ad picked up dirt cheap because it was cracked right acrost the middle; but, as he explained that he 'ad dropped it in hurrying to see 'er, she was just as pleased. she stuck it up on the mantelpiece, and the things she said about ginger's kindness and generosity made peter russet spend good money that he wanted for 'imself on a painted flower-pot next evening. with three men all courting 'er at the same time mrs. finch had 'er hands full, but she took to it wonderful considering. she was so nice and kind to 'em all that even arter a week's 'ard work none of 'em was really certain which she liked best. they took to going in at odd times o' the day for tobacco and such-like. they used to go alone then, but they all met and did the polite to each other there of an evening, and then quarrelled all the way 'ome. then all of a sudden, without any warning, ginger dick and peter russet left off going there. the fust evening sam sat expecting them every minute, and was so surprised that he couldn't take any advantage of it; but on the second, beginning by squeezing mrs. finch's 'and at ha'-past seven, he 'ad got best part of his arm round 'er waist by a quarter to ten. he didn't do more that night because she told him to be'ave 'imself, and threatened to scream if he didn't leave off. he was arf-way home afore 'e thought of the reason for ginger dick and peter russet giving up, and then he went along smiling to 'imself to such an extent that people thought 'e was mad. he went off to sleep with the smile still on 'is lips, and when peter and ginger came in soon arter closing time and 'e woke up and asked them where they'd been, 'e was still smiling. "i didn't 'ave the pleasure o' seeing you at mrs. finch's to-night," he ses. "no," ses ginger, very short. "we got tired of it." "so un'ealthy sitting in that stuffy little room every evening," ses peter. old sam put his 'ead under the bedclothes and laughed till the bed shook; and every now and then he'd put his 'ead out and look at peter and ginger and laugh agin till he choked. "i see 'ow it is," he ses, sitting up and wiping his eyes on the sheet. "well, we cant all win." "wot d'ye mean?" ses ginger, very disagreeable. "she wouldn't 'ave you, sam, thats wot i mean. and i don't wonder at it. i wouldn't 'ave you if i was a gal." "you're dreaming, ses peter russet, sneering at 'im. "that flower-pot o' yours'll come in handy," ses sam, thinking 'ow he 'ad put 'is arm round the widow's waist; "and i thank you kindly for the teapot, ginger. "you don't mean to say as you've asked 'er to marry you?" ses ginger, looking at peter russet. "not quite; but i'm going to," ses sam, "and i'll bet you even arf-crowns she ses 'yes.'" ginger wouldn't take 'im, and no more would peter, not even when he raised it to five shillings; and the vain way old sam lay there boasting and talking about 'is way with the gals made 'em both feel ill. "i wouldn't 'ave her if she asked me on 'er bended knees," ses ginger, holding up his 'ead. "nor me," ses peter. "you're welcome to 'er, sam. when i think of the evenings i've wasted over a fat old woman i feel----" "that'll do," ses old sam, very sharp; "that ain't the way to speak of a lady, even if she 'as said 'no.'" "all right, sam," ses ginger. "you go in and win if you think you're so precious clever." old sam said that that was wot 'e was going to do, and he spent so much time next morning making 'imself look pretty that the other two could 'ardly be civil to him. he went off a'most direckly arter breakfast, and they didn't see 'im agin till twelve o'clock that night. he 'ad brought a bottle o' whisky in with 'im, and he was so 'appy that they see plain wot had 'appened. "she said 'yes' at two o'clock in the arternoon," ses old sam, smiling, arter they had 'ad a glass apiece. "i'd nearly done the trick at one o'clock, and then the shop-bell went, and i 'ad to begin all over agin. still, it wasn't unpleasant." "do you mean to tell us you've asked 'er to marry you?" ses ginger, 'olding out 'is glass to be filled agin. "i do," ses sam; "but i 'ope there's no ill-feeling. you never 'ad a chance, neither of you; she told me so." ginger dick and peter russet stared at each other. "she said she 'ad been in love with me all along," ses sam, filling their glasses agin to cheer 'em up. "we went out arter tea and bought the engagement-ring, and then she got somebody to mind the shop and we went to the pagoda music-'all." "i 'ope you didn't pay much for the ring, sam," ses ginger, who always got very kind-'arted arter two or three glasses o' whisky. "if i'd known you was going to be in such a hurry i might ha' told you before." "we ought to ha' done," ses peter, shaking his 'ead. "told me?" ses sam, staring at 'em. "told me wot?" "why me and peter gave it up," ses ginger; "but, o' course, p'r'aps you don't mind." "mind wot?" ses sam. "it's wonderful 'ow quiet she kept it," ses peter. old sam stared at 'em agin, and then he asked 'em to speak in plain english wot they'd got to say, and not to go taking away the character of a woman wot wasn't there to speak up for herself. "it's nothing agin 'er character," ses ginger. "it's a credit to her, looked at properly," ses peter russet. "and sam'll 'ave the pleasure of bringing of 'em up," ses ginger. "bringing of 'em up?" ses sam, in a trembling voice and turning pale; "bringing who up?" "why, 'er children," ses ginger. "didn't she tell you? she's got nine of 'em." sam pretended not to believe 'em at fust, and said they was jealous; but next day he crept down to the greengrocer's shop in the same street, where ginger had 'appened to buy some oranges one day, and found that it was only too true. nine children, the eldest of 'em only fifteen, was staying with diff'rent relations owing to scarlet-fever next door. old sam crept back 'ome like a man in a dream, with a bag of oranges he didn't want, and, arter making a present of the engagement-ring to ginger--if 'e could get it--he took the fust train to tilbury and signed on for a v'y'ge to china. the lady of the barge and other stories by w. w. jacobs a tiger's skin the travelling sign-painter who was repainting the sign of the "cauliflower" was enjoying a well-earned respite from his labours. on the old table under the shade of the elms mammoth sandwiches and a large slice of cheese waited in an untied handkerchief until such time as his thirst should be satisfied. at the other side of the table the oldest man in claybury, drawing gently at a long clay pipe, turned a dim and regretful eye up at the old signboard. "i've drunk my beer under it for pretty near seventy years," he said, with a sigh. "it's a pity it couldn't ha' lasted my time." the painter, slowly pushing a wedge of sandwich into his mouth, regarded him indulgently. "it's all through two young gentlemen as was passing through 'ere a month or two ago," continued the old man; "they told smith, the landlord, they'd been looking all over the place for the 'cauliflower,' and when smith showed 'em the sign they said they thought it was the 'george the fourth,' and a very good likeness, too." the painter laughed and took another look at the old sign; then, with the nervousness of the true artist, he took a look at his own. one or two shadows-- he flung his legs over the bench and took up his brushes. in ten minutes the most fervent loyalist would have looked in vain for any resemblance, and with a sigh at the pitfalls which beset the artist he returned to his interrupted meal and hailed the house for more beer. "there's nobody could mistake your sign for anything but a cauliflower," said the old man; "it looks good enough to eat." the painter smiled and pushed his mug across the table. he was a tender- hearted man, and once--when painting the sign of the "sir wilfrid lawson"--knew himself what it was to lack beer. he began to discourse on art, and spoke somewhat disparagingly of the cauliflower as a subject. with a shake of his head he spoke of the possibilities of a spotted cow or a blue lion. "talking of lions," said the ancient, musingly, "i s'pose as you never 'eard tell of the claybury tiger? it was afore your time in these parts, i expect." the painter admitted his ignorance, and, finding that the allusion had no reference to an inn, pulled out his pipe and prepared to listen. "it's a while ago now," said the old man, slowly, "and the circus the tiger belonged to was going through claybury to get to wickham, when, just as they was passing gill's farm, a steam-ingine they 'ad to draw some o' the vans broke down, and they 'ad to stop while the blacksmith mended it. that being so, they put up a big tent and 'ad the circus 'ere. "i was one o' them as went, and i must say it was worth the money, though henry walker was disappointed at the man who put 'is 'ead in the lion's mouth. he said that the man frightened the lion first, before 'e did it. "it was a great night for claybury, and for about a week nothing else was talked of. all the children was playing at being lions and tigers and such-like, and young roberts pretty near broke 'is back trying to see if he could ride horseback standing up. "it was about two weeks after the circus 'ad gone when a strange thing 'appened: the big tiger broke loose. bill chambers brought the news first, 'aving read it in the newspaper while 'e was 'aving his tea. he brought out the paper and showed us, and soon after we 'eard all sorts o' tales of its doings. "at first we thought the tiger was a long way off, and we was rather amused at it. frederick scott laughed 'imself silly a'most up 'ere one night thinking 'ow surprised a man would be if 'e come 'ome one night and found the tiger sitting in his armchair eating the baby. it didn't seem much of a laughing matter to me, and i said so; none of us liked it, and even sam jones, as 'ad got twins for the second time, said 'shame!' but frederick scott was a man as would laugh at anything. "when we 'eard that the tiger 'ad been seen within three miles of claybury things began to look serious, and peter gubbins said that something ought to be done, but before we could think of anything to do something 'appened. "we was sitting up 'ere one evening 'aving a mug o' beer and a pipe--same as i might be now if i'd got any baccy left--and talking about it, when we 'eard a shout and saw a ragged-looking tramp running toward us as 'ard as he could run. every now and then he'd look over 'is shoulder and give a shout, and then run 'arder than afore. "'it's the tiger!' ses bill chambers, and afore you could wink a'most he was inside the house, 'aving first upset smith and a pot o' beer in the doorway. "before he could get up, smith 'ad to wait till we was all in. his langwidge was awful for a man as 'ad a license to lose, and everybody shouting 'tiger!' as they trod on 'im didn't ease 'is mind. he was inside a'most as soon as the last man, though, and in a flash he 'ad the door bolted just as the tramp flung 'imself agin it, all out of breath and sobbing 'is hardest to be let in. "'open the door,' he ses, banging on it. "'go away,' ses smith. "'it's the tiger,' screams the tramp; 'open the door.' "'you go away,' ses smith, 'you're attracting it to my place; run up the road and draw it off.'" "just at that moment john biggs, the blacksmith, come in from the taproom, and as soon as he 'eard wot was the matter 'e took down smith's gun from behind the bar and said he was going out to look after the wimmen and children. "'open the door,' he ses. "he was trying to get out and the tramp outside was trying to get in, but smith held on to that door like a briton. then john biggs lost 'is temper, and he ups with the gun--smith's own gun, mind you--and fetches 'im a bang over the 'ead with it. smith fell down at once, and afore we could 'elp ourselves the door was open, the tramp was inside, and john biggs was running up the road, shouting 'is hardest. "we 'ad the door closed afore you could wink a'most, and then, while the tramp lay in a corner 'aving brandy, mrs. smith got a bowl of water and a sponge and knelt down bathing 'er husband's 'ead with it. "'did you see the tiger?' ses bill chambers. "'see it?' ses the tramp, with a shiver. 'oh, lord!' "he made signs for more brandy, and henery walker, wot was acting as landlord, without being asked, gave it to 'im. "'it chased me for over a mile,' ses the tramp; 'my 'eart's breaking.' "he gave a groan and fainted right off. a terrible faint it was, too, and for some time we thought 'ed never come round agin. first they poured brandy down 'is throat, then gin, and then beer, and still 'e didn't come round, but lay quiet with 'is eyes closed and a horrible smile on 'is face. "he come round at last, and with nothing stronger than water, which mrs. smith kept pouring into 'is mouth. first thing we noticed was that the smile went, then 'is eyes opened, and suddenly 'e sat up with a shiver and gave such a dreadful scream that we thought at first the tiger was on top of us. "then 'e told us 'ow he was sitting washing 'is shirt in a ditch, when he 'eard a snuffling noise and saw the 'ead of a big tiger sticking through the hedge the other side. he left 'is shirt and ran, and 'e said that, fortunately, the tiger stopped to tear the shirt to pieces, else 'is last hour would 'ave arrived. "when 'e 'ad finished smith went upstairs and looked out of the bedroom winders, but 'e couldn't see any signs of the tiger, and 'e said no doubt it 'ad gone down to the village to see wot it could pick up, or p'raps it 'ad eaten john biggs. "however that might be, nobody cared to go outside to see, and after it got dark we liked going 'ome less than ever. "up to ten o'clock we did very well, and then smith began to talk about 'is license. he said it was all rubbish being afraid to go 'ome, and that, at any rate, the tiger couldn't eat more than one of us, and while 'e was doing that there was the chance for the others to get 'ome safe. two or three of 'em took a dislike to smith that night and told 'im so. "the end of it was we all slept in the tap-room that night. it seemed strange at first, but anything was better than going 'ome in the dark, and we all slept till about four next morning, when we woke up and found the tramp 'ad gone and left the front door standing wide open. "we took a careful look-out, and by-and-by first one started off and then another to see whether their wives and children 'ad been eaten or not. not a soul 'ad been touched, but the wimmen and children was that scared there was no doing anything with 'em. none o' the children would go to school, and they sat at 'ome all day with the front winder blocked up with a mattress to keep the tiger out. "nobody liked going to work, but it 'ad to be done and as farmer gill said that tigers went to sleep all day and only came out toward evening we was a bit comforted. not a soul went up to the 'cauliflower' that evening for fear of coming 'ome in the dark, but as nothing 'appened that night we began to 'ope as the tiger 'ad travelled further on. "bob pretty laughed at the whole thing and said 'e didn't believe there was a tiger; but nobody minded wot 'e said, bob pretty being, as i've often told people, the black sheep o' claybury, wot with poaching and, wot was worse, 'is artfulness. "but the very next morning something 'appened that made bob pretty look silly and wish 'e 'adn't talked quite so fast; for at five o'clock frederick scott, going down to feed 'is hins, found as the tiger 'ad been there afore 'im and 'ad eaten no less than seven of 'em. the side of the hin-'ouse was all broke in, there was a few feathers lying on the ground, and two little chicks smashed and dead beside 'em. "the way frederick scott went on about it you'd 'ardly believe. he said that govinment 'ud 'ave to make it up to 'im, and instead o' going to work 'e put the two little chicks and the feathers into a pudding basin and walked to cudford, four miles off, where they 'ad a policeman. "he saw the policeman, william white by name, standing at the back door of the 'fox and hounds' public house, throwing a 'andful o' corn to the landlord's fowls, and the first thing mr. white ses was, 'it's off my beat,' he ses. "'but you might do it in your spare time, mr. white,' ses frederick scott. it's very likely that the tiger'll come back to my hin 'ouse for the rest of 'em, and he'd be very surprised if 'e popped 'is 'ead in and see you there waiting for 'im.' "he'd 'ave reason to be,' ses policeman white, staring at 'im. "'think of the praise you'd get,' said frederick scott, coaxing like. "'look 'ere,' ses policeman white, 'if you don't take yourself and that pudding basin off pretty quick, you'll come along o' me, d'ye see? you've been drinking and you're in a excited state.' "he gave frederick scott a push and follered 'im along the road, and every time frederick stopped to ask 'im wot 'e was doing of 'e gave 'im another push to show 'im. "frederick scott told us all about it that evening, and some of the bravest of us went up to the 'cauliflower' to talk over wot was to be done, though we took care to get 'ome while it was quite light. that night peter gubbins's two pigs went. they were two o' the likeliest pigs i ever seed, and all peter gubbins could do was to sit up in bed shivering and listening to their squeals as the tiger dragged 'em off. pretty near all claybury was round that sty next morning looking at the broken fence. some of them looked for the tiger's footmarks, but it was dry weather and they couldn't see any. nobody knew whose turn it would be next, and the most sensible man there, sam jones, went straight off 'ome and killed his pig afore 'e went to work. "nobody knew what to do; farmer hall said as it was a soldier's job, and 'e drove over to wickham to tell the police so, but nothing came of it, and that night at ten minutes to twelve bill chambers's pig went. it was one o' the biggest pigs ever raised in claybury, but the tiger got it off as easy as possible. bill 'ad the bravery to look out of the winder when 'e 'eard the pig squeal, but there was such a awful snarling noise that 'e daresn't move 'and or foot. "dicky weed's idea was for people with pigs and such-like to keep 'em in the house of a night, but peter gubbins and bill chambers both pointed out that the tiger could break a back door with one blow of 'is paw, and that if 'e got inside he might take something else instead o' pig. and they said that it was no worse for other people to lose pigs than wot it was for them. "the odd thing about it was that all this time nobody 'ad ever seen the tiger except the tramp and people sent their children back to school agin and felt safe going about in the daytime till little charlie gubbins came running 'ome crying and saying that 'e'd seen it. next morning a lot more children see it and was afraid to go to school, and people began to wonder wot 'ud happen when all the pigs and poultry was eaten. "then henery walker see it. we was sitting inside 'ere with scythes, and pitchforks, and such-like things handy, when we see 'im come in without 'is hat. his eyes were staring and 'is hair was all rumpled. he called for a pot o' ale and drank it nearly off, and then 'e sat gasping and 'olding the mug between 'is legs and shaking 'is 'ead at the floor till everybody 'ad left off talking to look at 'im. "'wot's the matter, henery?' ses one of 'em. "'don't ask me,' ses henery walker, with a shiver. "'you don't mean to say as 'ow you've seen the tiger?" ses bill chambers. "henery walker didn't answer 'im. he got up and walked back'ards and for'ards, still with that frightened look in 'is eyes, and once or twice 'e give such a terrible start that 'e frightened us 'arf out of our wits. then bill chambers took and forced 'im into a chair and give 'im two o' gin and patted 'im on the back, and at last henery walker got 'is senses back agin and told us 'ow the tiger 'ad chased 'im all round and round the trees in plashett's wood until 'e managed to climb up a tree and escape it. he said the tiger 'ad kept 'im there for over an hour, and then suddenly turned round and bolted off up the road to wickham. "it was a merciful escape, and everybody said so except sam jones, and 'e asked so many questions that at last henery walker asked 'im outright if 'e disbelieved 'is word. "'it's all right, sam,' ses bob pretty, as 'ad come in just after henery walker. 'i see 'im with the tiger after 'im.' "'wot?' ses henery, staring at him. "'i see it all, henery,' ses bob pretty, 'and i see your pluck. it was all you could do to make up your mind to run from it. i believe if you'd 'ad a fork in your 'and you'd 'ave made a fight for it." "everybody said 'bravo!'; but henery walker didn't seem to like it at all. he sat still, looking at bob pretty, and at last 'e ses, 'where was you?' 'e s,es. "'up another tree, henery, where you couldn't see me,' ses bob pretty, smiling at 'im. "henery walker, wot was drinking some beer, choked a bit, and then 'e put the mug down and went straight off 'ome without saying a word to anybody. i knew 'e didn't like bob pretty, but i couldn't see why 'e should be cross about 'is speaking up for 'im as 'e had done, but bob said as it was 'is modesty, and 'e thought more of 'im for it. "after that things got worse than ever; the wimmen and children stayed indoors and kept the doors shut, and the men never knew when they went out to work whether they'd come 'ome agin. they used to kiss their children afore they went out of a morning, and their wives too, some of 'em; even men who'd been married for years did. and several more of 'em see the tiger while they was at work, and came running 'ome to tell about it. "the tiger 'ad been making free with claybury pigs and such-like for pretty near a week, and nothing 'ad been done to try and catch it, and wot made claybury men madder than anything else was folks at wickham saying it was all a mistake, and the tiger 'adn't escaped at all. even parson, who'd been away for a holiday, said so, and henery walker told 'is wife that if she ever set foot inside the church agin 'ed ask 'is old mother to come and live with 'em. "it was all very well for parson to talk, but the very night he come back henery walker's pig went, and at the same time george kettle lost five or six ducks. "he was a quiet man, was george, but when 'is temper was up 'e didn't care for anything. afore he came to claybury 'e 'ad been in the militia, and that evening at the 'cauliflower' 'e turned up with a gun over 'is shoulder and made a speech, and asked who was game to go with 'im and hunt the tiger. bill chambers, who was still grieving after 'is pig, said 'e would, then another man offered, until at last there was seventeen of 'em. some of 'em 'ad scythes and some pitchforks, and one or two of 'em guns, and it was one o' the finest sights i ever seed when george kettle stood 'em in rows of four and marched 'em off. "they went straight up the road, then across farmer gill's fields to get to plashett's wood, where they thought the tiger 'ud most likely be, and the nearer they got to the wood the slower they walked. the sun 'ad just gone down and the wood looked very quiet and dark, but john biggs, the blacksmith, and george kettle walked in first and the others follered, keeping so close together that sam jones 'ad a few words over his shoulder with bill chambers about the way 'e was carrying 'is pitchfork. "every now and then somebody 'ud say, _'wot's that!'_ and they'd all stop and crowd together and think the time 'ad come, but it 'adn't, and then they'd go on agin, trembling, until they'd walked all round the wood without seeing anything but one or two rabbits. john biggs and george kettle wanted for to stay there till it was dark, but the others wouldn't 'ear of it for fear of frightening their wives, and just as it was getting dark they all come tramp, tramp, back to the 'cauliflower' agin. "smith stood 'em 'arf a pint apiece, and they was all outside 'ere fancying theirselves a bit for wot they'd done when we see old man parsley coming along on two sticks as fast as 'e could come. "'are you brave lads a-looking for the tiger?' he asks. "'yes,' ses john biggs. "'then 'urry up, for the sake of mercy,' ses old mr. parsley, putting 'is 'and on the table and going off into a fit of coughing; 'it's just gone into bob pretty's cottage. i was passing and saw it.' "george kettle snatches up 'is gun and shouts out to 'is men to come along. some of 'em was for 'anging back at first, some because they didn't like the tiger and some because they didn't like bob pretty, but john biggs drove 'em in front of 'im like a flock o' sheep and then they gave a cheer and ran after george kettle, full pelt up the road. "a few wimmen and children was at their doors as they passed, but they took fright and went indoors screaming. there was a lamp in bob pretty's front room, but the door was closed and the 'ouse was silent as the grave. "george kettle and the men with the guns went first, then came the pitchforks, and last of all the scythes. just as george kettle put 'is 'and on the door he 'eard something moving inside, and the next moment the door opened and there stood bob pretty. "'what the dickens!' 'e ses, starting back as 'e see the guns and pitchforks pointing at 'im. "''ave you killed it, bob?' ses george kettle. "'killed _wot?'_ ses bob pretty. 'be careful o' them guns. take your fingers off the triggers.' "'the tiger's in your 'ouse, bob,' ses george kettle, in a whisper. ''ave you on'y just come in?' "'look 'ere,' ses bob pretty. 'i don't want any o' your games. you go and play 'em somewhere else.' "'it ain't a game,' ses john biggs; 'the tiger's in your 'ouse and we're going to kill it. now, then, lads.' "they all went in in a 'eap, pushing bob pretty in front of 'em, till the room was full. only one man with a scythe got in, and they wouldn't 'ave let 'im in if they'd known. it a'most made 'em forget the tiger for the time. "george kettle opened the door wot led into the kitchen, and then 'e sprang back with such a shout that the man with the scythe tried to escape, taking henery walker along with 'im. george kettle tried to speak, but couldn't. all 'e could do was to point with 'is finger at bob pretty's kitchen--_and bob pretty's kitchen was for all the world like a pork-butcher's shop_. there was joints o' pork 'anging from the ceiling, two brine tubs as full as they could be, and quite a string of fowls and ducks all ready for market. "'wot d'ye mean by coming into my 'ouse?' ses bob pretty, blustering. 'if you don't clear out pretty quick, i'll make you.' "nobody answered 'im; they was all examining 'ands o' pork and fowls and such-like. "'there's the tiger,' ses henery walker, pointing at bob pretty; 'that's wot old man parsley meant.' "'somebody go and fetch policeman white,' ses a voice. "'i wish they would,' ses bob pretty. "i'll 'ave the law on you all for breaking into my 'ouse like this, see if i don't.' "'where'd you get all this pork from?' ses the blacksmith. "'and them ducks and hins?' ses george kettle. "'that's my bisness,' ses bob pretty, staring 'em full in the face. 'i just 'ad a excellent oppertunity offered me of going into the pork and poultry line and i took it. now, all them as doesn't want to buy any pork or fowls go out o' my house.' "'you're a thief, bob pretty!' says henery walker. 'you stole it all.' "'take care wot you're saying, henery,' ses bob pretty, 'else i'll make you prove your words.' "'you stole my pig,' ses herbert smith. "'oh, 'ave i?' ses bob, reaching down a 'and o' pork. 'is that your pig?' he ses. "'it's just about the size o' my pore pig,' ses herbert smith. "'very usual size, i call it,' ses bob pretty; 'and them ducks and hins very usual-looking hins and ducks, i call 'em, except that they don't grow 'em so fat in these parts. it's a fine thing when a man's doing a honest bisness to 'ave these charges brought agin 'im. dis'eartening, i call it. i don't mind telling you that the tiger got in at my back winder the other night and took arf a pound o' sausage, but you don't 'ear me complaining and going about calling other people thieves.' "'tiger be hanged,' ses henery walker, who was almost certain that a loin o' pork on the table was off 'is pig; 'you're the only tiger in these parts.' "why, henery,' ses bob pretty, 'wot are you a-thinkin' of? where's your memory? why, it's on'y two or three days ago you see it and 'ad to get up a tree out of its way.' "he smiled and shook 'is 'ead at 'im, but henery walker on'y kept opening and shutting 'is mouth, and at last 'e went outside without saying a word. "'and sam jones see it, too,' ses bob pretty; 'didn't you, sam?' "sam didn't answer 'im. "'and charlie hall and jack minns and a lot more,' ses bob; 'besides, i see it myself. i can believe my own eyes, i s'pose?' "'we'll have the law on you,' ses sam jones. "'as you like,' ses bob pretty; 'but i tell you plain, i've got all the bills for this properly made out, upstairs. and there's pretty near a dozen of you as'll 'ave to go in the box and swear as you saw the tiger. now, can i sell any of you a bit o' pork afore you go? it's delicious eating, and as soon as you taste it you'll know it wasn't grown in claybury. or a pair o' ducks wot 'ave come from two 'undered miles off, and yet look as fresh as if they was on'y killed last night.' "george kettle, whose ducks 'ad gone the night afore, went into the front room and walked up and down fighting for 'is breath, but it was all no good; nobody ever got the better o' bob pretty. none of 'em could swear to their property, and even when it became known a month later that bob pretty and the tramp knew each other, nothing was done. but nobody ever 'eard any more of the tiger from that day to this." book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the google books project.) +-------------------------------------------------+ |transcriber's note: | | | |obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ grit or the young boatman of pine point by horatio alger, jr. author of "the young acrobat," "the store boy," "the tin box," "tom tracy," "sam's chance," "only an irish boy," "joe's luck," and forty-nine other rattling good stories of adventure published in the medal library new york hurst & company publishers grit. chapter i. grit. "grit!" "well, mother, what is it?" the speaker was a sturdy, thick-set boy of fifteen, rather short for his age, but strongly made. his eyes were clear and bright, his expression was pleasant, and his face attractive, but even a superficial observer could read in it unusual firmness and strength of will. he was evidently a boy whom it would not be easy to subdue or frighten. he was sure to make his way in the world, and maintain his rights against all aggression. it was the general recognition of this trait which had led to the nickname, "grit," by which he was generally known. his real name was harry morris, but even his mother had fallen into the habit of calling him grit, and his own name actually sounded strange to him. "well, mother, what is it?" he asked again, as his mother continued to look at him in silence, with an expression of trouble on her face. "i had a letter this morning, grit." "from--_him_?" "yes, from your father." "don't call him my father!" said the boy hastily. "he isn't my father." "he is your stepfather--and my husband," said mrs. morris soberly. "yes, worse luck for you! well, what does he say?" "he's coming home." an expression of dismay quickly gathered on the boy's face. "how can that be? his term isn't out." "it is shortened by good behavior, and so he comes out four months before his sentence would have expired." "i wouldn't have him here, mother," said grit earnestly. "he will only worry and trouble you. we are getting on comfortably now without him." "yes, thanks to my good, industrious boy." "oh, don't talk about that," said grit, who always felt embarrassed when openly praised. "but it is true, grit. but for the money you make in your boat, i might have to go to the poorhouse." "you will never go while i live, mother," said grit quickly. "no, grit, i feel sure of that. it seems wicked to rejoice in your father's misfortune and disgrace----" "not my father," interrupted grit. "mr. brandon, then. as i was saying, it seems wicked to feel relieved by his imprisonment, but i can't help it." "why should you try to help it? he has made you a bad husband, and only brought you unhappiness. how did you ever come to marry him, mother?" "i did it for the best, as i thought, grit. i was left a widow when you were four years old. i had this cottage, to be sure, and about two thousand dollars, but the interest of that sum at six per cent. only amounted to a hundred and twenty dollars, and i was not brave and self-reliant like some, so when mr. brandon asked me to marry him, i did so, thinking that he would give us a good home, be a father to you, and save us from all pecuniary care or anxiety." "you were pretty soon undeceived, mother." "no, not soon. your stepfather had a good mercantile position in boston, and we occupied a comfortable cottage in newton. for some years all went well, but then i began to see a change for the worse in him. he became fond of drink, was no longer attentive to business, picked up bad associates, and eventually lost his position. this was when you were ten years of age. then he took possession of my little capital and went into business for himself. but his old habits clung to him, and of course there was small chance of success. he kept up for about a year, however, and then he failed, and the creditors took everything----" "except this house, mother." "yes, this house was fortunately settled upon me, so that my husband could not get hold of it. when we were turned out of our home in newton, it proved a welcome refuge for us. it was small, plain, humble, but still it gave us a home." "it has been a happy home, mother--that is, ever since mr. brandon left us." "yes; we have lived plainly, but i have had you, and you have always been a comfort to me. you were always a good boy, grit." "i'm not quite an angel, mother. ask phil courtney what he thinks about it," said grit, smiling. "he is a bad, disagreeable boy," said mrs. brandon warmly. "so i think, mother; but phil, on the other hand, thinks i am a low, vulgar boy, unworthy of associating with him." "i don't want you to associate with him, grit." "i don't care to, mother; but we are getting away from the subject. how did mr. brandon behave after you moved here?" "he did nothing to earn money, but managed to obtain liquor at the tavern, and sometimes went off for three or four days or a week, leaving me in ignorance of his whereabouts. at last he did not come back at all, and i heard that he had been arrested for forgery, and was on trial. the trial was quickly over, and he was sentenced to imprisonment for a term of years. i saw him before he was carried to prison, but he treated me so rudely that i have not felt it my duty to visit him since. gradually i resumed your father's name, and i have been known as mrs. morris, though my legal name of course is brandon." "it is a pity you ever took the name, mother," said grit hastily. "i agree with you, grit; but i cannot undo the past." "the court ought to grant you a divorce from such a man." "perhaps i might obtain one, but it would cost money, and we have no money to spend on such things." "if you had one," said grit thoughtfully, "mr. brandon would no longer have any claim upon you." "that is true." "you said you had a letter from him. when did you receive it?" "while you were out, this morning. mr. wheeler saw it in the post-office, and brought it along, thinking we might not have occasion to call." "may i see the letter, mother?" "certainly, grit; i have no secrets from you." mrs. morris--to call her by the name she preferred--took from the pocket of her dress a letter in a yellow envelope, which, however, was directed in a neat, clerky hand, for mr. brandon had been carefully prepared for mercantile life, and had once been a bookkeeper, and wrote a handsome, flowing hand. "here it is, grit." grit opened the letter, and read as follows: "'---- prison, may . "my affectionate wife: i have no doubt you will be overjoyed to hear that my long imprisonment is nearly over, and that on the fifteenth, probably, i shall be set free, and can leave these cursed walls behind me. of course, i shall lose no time in seeking out my loving wife, who has not deigned for years to remember that she has a husband. you might at least have called now and then, to show some interest in me.' "why should you?" ejaculated grit indignantly. "he has only illtreated you, spent your money, and made you unhappy." "you think, then, i was right in staying away, grit?" asked his mother. "certainly i do. you don't pretend to love him?" "no, i only married him at his urgent request, thinking i was doing what was best for you. it was a bad day's work for me. i could have got along much better alone." "of course you could, mother. well, i will read the rest: "'however, you are my wife still, and owe me some reparation for your long neglect. i shall come to pine point as soon as i can, and it is hardly necessary to remind you that i shall be out of money, and shall want you to stir round and get me some, as i shall want to buy some clothes and other things." "how does he think you are to supply him with money, when he has left you to take care of yourself all these years?" again burst from grit's indignant lips. he read on: "'how is the cub? is he as independent and saucy as ever? i am afraid you have allowed him to do as he pleases. he needs a man's hand to hold him in check and train him up properly.'" "heaven help you if mr. brandon is to have the training of you, grit!" exclaimed his mother. "he'll have a tough job if he tries it!" said grit. "he'll find me rather larger and stronger than when he went to prison." "don't get into any conflict with him, grit," said his mother, a new alarm seizing her. "i won't if i can help it, mother; but i don't mean to have him impose upon me." chapter ii. the young boatman. pine point was situated on the kennebec river, and from its height overlooked it, so that a person standing on its crest could scan the river for a considerable distance up and down. there was a small grove of pine-trees at a little distance, and this had given the point its name. a hundred feet from the brink stood the old-fashioned cottage occupied by mrs. morris. it had belonged, in a former generation, to an uncle of hers, who, dying unmarried, had bequeathed it to her. perhaps half an acre was attached to it. there had been more, but it had been sold off. when grit and his mother came to chester to live--it was in this township that pine point was situated--she had but little of her two thousand dollars' remaining, and when her husband was called to expiate his offense against the law in prison, there were but ten dollars in the house. mrs. morris was fortunate enough to secure a boarder, whose board-money paid nearly all their small household expenses for three years, the remainder being earned by her own skill as a dressmaker; but when the boarder went to california, never to return, grit was already thirteen years old, and hit upon a way of earning money. on the opposite bank of the kennebec was the village of portville, but there was no bridge at that point. so grit bought a boat for a few dollars, agreeing to pay for it in instalments, and established a private ferry between the two places. his ordinary charge for rowing a passenger across--the distance being half a mile--was ten cents; but if it were a child, or a poor person, he was willing to receive five, and he took parties of four at a reduction. it was an idea of his own, but it paid. grit himself was rather surprised at the number of persons who availed themselves of his ferry. sometimes he found at the end of the day that he had received in fares over a dollar, and one fourth of july, when there was a special celebration in portville, he actually made three dollars. of course, he had to work pretty hard for it, but the young boatman's arms were strong, as was shown by his sturdy stroke. grit was now fifteen, and he could reflect with pride that for two years he had been able to support his mother in a comfortable manner, so that she had wanted for nothing--that is, for nothing that could be classed as a comfort. luxuries he had not been able to supply, but for them neither he nor his mother cared. they were content with their plain way of living. but if his stepfather were coming home, grit felt that his income would no longer be adequate to maintain the household. mr. brandon ought to increase the family income, but, knowing what he and his mother did of his ways, he built no hope upon that. it looked as if their quiet home happiness was likely to be rudely broken in upon by the threatened invasion. "well, mother," said grit, "i must get to work." "you haven't finished your dinner, my son." "your news has spoiled my appetite, mother. however, i dare say i'll make up for it at supper." "i'll save a piece of meat for you to eat then. you work so hard that you need meat to keep up your strength." "i haven't had to work much this morning, mother, worse luck! i only earned twenty cents. people don't seem inclined to travel to-day." "never mind, grit. i've got five dollars in the house." "save it for a rainy day, mother. the day is only half over, and i may have good luck this afternoon." as grit left the house with his quick, firm step, mrs. morris looked after him with blended affection and pride. "what a good boy he is!" she said to herself. "he is a boy that any mother might be proud of." and so he was. our young hero was not only a strong, manly boy, but there was something very attractive in his clear eyes and frank smile, browned though his skin was by constant exposure to the sun and wind. he was a general favorite in the town, or, rather, in the two towns, for he was as well known in portville as he was in chester. i have said he was a general favorite, but there was one at least who disliked him. this was phil courtney, a boy about his own age, the son of an ex-president of the chester bank, a boy who considered himself of great consequence, and socially far above the young boatman. he lived in a handsome house, and had a good supply of pocket-money, though he was always grumbling about his small allowance. it by no means follows that money makes a boy a snob, but if he has any tendency that way, it is likely to show itself under such circumstances. now, it happened that phil had a cousin staying at his house as a visitor, quite a pretty girl, in whose eyes he liked to appear to advantage. as grit reached the shore, where he had tied his boat, they were seen approaching the same point. "i wonder if phil is going to favor me with his patronage," thought grit, as his eyes fell upon them. "here, you boatman!" called out phil, in a tone of authority. "we want to go over to portville." grit's eyes danced with merriment, as he answered gravely: "i have no objection to your going." the girl laughed merrily, but phil frowned, for his dignity was wounded by grit's flippancy. "i am not in the habit of considering whether you have any objection or not," he said haughtily. "don't be a goose, phil!" said his cousin. "the boy is in fun." "i would rather he would not make fun of me," said phil. "i won't, then," said grit, smiling. "ahem! you may convey us across," said phil. "if you please," added the young lady, with a smile. "she is very good-looking, and five times as polite as phil," thought grit, fixing his eyes admiringly upon the pretty face of marion clarke, as he afterward learned her name to be. "i shall be glad to have you as a passenger," said our hero, but he looked at marion, not at phil. "thank you." "if you've got through with your compliments," said phil impatiently, "we'd better start." "i am ready," said grit. "may i help you in?" he asked of marion. "yes, thank you." "it is quite unnecessary. i can assist you," said phil, advancing. but he was too late, for marion had already availed herself of the young boatman's proffered aid. "thank you," said marion again, pleasantly, as she took her seat in the stern. "why didn't you wait for me?" demanded phil crossly, as he took his seat beside her. "i didn't want to be always troubling you, cousin phil," said marion, with a coquettish glance at grit, which her cousin did not at all relish. "don't notice him so much," he said, in a low voice. "he's only a poor boatman." "he is very good-looking, i think," said marion. grit's back was turned, but he heard both question and answer, and his cheeks glowed with pleasure at the young lady's speech, though it was answered by a contemptuous sniff from phil. "i don't admire your taste, marion," he said. "hush, he'll hear you," she whispered. "what's his name?" by way of answering, phil addressed grit in a condescending tone. "well, grit, how is business to-day?" "rather quiet, thank you." "you see, he earns his living by boating, explained phil, with the manner of one who was speaking of a very inferior person. "how much have you earned now?" he asked further. "only twenty cents," answered grit; "but i suppose," he added, smiling, "i suppose you intend to pay me liberally." "i mean to pay you your regular fare," said phil, who was not of a liberal disposition. "thank you; i ask no more." "do you row across often?" asked marion. "sometimes i make eight or ten trips in a day. on the fourth of july i went fifteen times." "how strong you must be!" "pooh! i could do more than that," said phil loftily, unwilling that grit should be admired for anything. "oh, i know you're remarkable," said his cousin dryly. just then the wind, which was unusually strong, took phil's hat, and it blew off to a considerable distance. "my hat's off!" exclaimed phil, in excitement. "row after it, quick. it's a new panama, and cost ten dollars." chapter iii. the lost hat. grit complied with the request of his passenger, and rowed after phil's hat. but there was a strong current, and it was not without considerable trouble that he at last secured it. but, alas! the new hat, with its bright ribbon, was well soaked when it was fished out of the water. "it's mean," ejaculated phil, lifting it with an air of disgust. "just my luck." "are you so unlucky, then?" asked his cousin marion, with a half smile. "i should say so. what do you call this?" "a wet hat." "how am i ever to wear it? it will drip all over my clothes." "i think you had better buy a common one in portville, and leave this one here to dry." "how am i going round portville bareheaded?" inquired phil crossly. "shall i lend you my hat?" asked marion. "wouldn't i look like a fool, going round the streets with a girl's hat on?" "well, you are the best judge of that," answered marion demurely. grit laughed, as the young lady glanced at him with a smile. "what are you laughing at, you boatman?" snarled phil. "i beg your pardon," said grit good-naturedly; "i know it must be provoking to have your hat wet. can i help you in any way? if you will give me the money, and remain in the boat, i will run up to davis, the hatter's, and get you a new hat." "how can you tell my size?" asked phil, making no acknowledgment for the offer. "then i will lend you my hat to go up yourself." phil's lip curled, as if he considered that there would be contamination in such a plebeian hat. however, as marion declared it would be the best thing to do, he suppressed his disdain, and, without a word of thanks, put grit's hat on his head. "come with me, marion," he said. "no, phil; i will remain here with mr. ----," and she turned inquiringly toward the young boatman. "grit," he suggested. "mr. grit," she said, finishing the sentence. "just as you like. i admire your taste," said phil, with a sneer. as he walked away, marion turned to the young boatman. "is your name really grit?" she asked. "no; people call me so." "i can understand why," she answered with a smile. "you look--gritty." "if i do, i hope it isn't anything disagreeable," responded our hero. "oh, no," said marion; "quite the contrary. i like to see boys that won't allow themselves to be imposed upon." "i don't generally allow myself to be imposed upon." "what is your real name?" "harry morris." "i suppose you and phil know each other very well?" "we have known each other a long time, but we are not very intimate friends." "i don't think phil has any intimate friends," said marion thoughtfully. "he--i don't think he gets on very well with the other boys." "he wants to boss them," said grit bluntly. "yes; i expect that is it. he's my cousin, you know." "is he? i don't think you are much alike." "is that remark a compliment to me--or him?" asked marion, laughing. "to you, decidedly." "well, phil can be very disagreeable when he sets out to be. i should not want to be that, you know." "you couldn't," said grit, with an admiring glance. "that's a compliment," said marion. "but you're mistaken. i can be disagreeable when i set out to be. i expect phil finds me so sometimes." "i wouldn't." "you know how to flatter as well as to row, mr. grit. it's true. i tease phil awfully sometimes." by this time phil came back with a new hat on his head, holding grit's in the tips of his fingers, as if it would contaminate him. he pitched it into grit's lap, saying shortly: "there's your hat." "upon my word, phil, you're polite," said his cousin. "can't you thank mr. grit?" "mr. grit!" repeated phil contemptuously. "of course i thank him." "you're welcome," answered grit dryly. "here's your fare!" said phil, taking out two dimes, and offering them to the young boatman. "thank you." "phil, you ought to pay something extra for the loan of the hat," said marion, "and the delay." with evident reluctance phil took a nickel from his vest pocket, and offered it to grit. "no, thank you!" said grit, drawing back, "i wouldn't be willing to take anything for that. i've found it very agreeable to wait," and he glanced significantly at marion. "i suppose i am to consider that another compliment," said the young lady, with a coquettish glance. "what, has he been complimenting you?" asked phil jealously. "yes, and it was very agreeable, as i got no compliments from you. good afternoon, mr. grit. i hope you will row us back by and by." "i hope so, too," said the young boatman, bowing. "look here, marion," said phil, as they walked away, "you take altogether too much notice of that fellow." "why do i? i am sure he is a very nice boy." "he is a common working boy!" snapped phil. "he lives with his mother in a poor hut upon the bluff, and makes his living by boating." "i am sure that is to his credit." "oh, yes, i suppose it is. so's a ditch-digger engaged in a creditable employment, but you don't treat him as an equal." "i should be willing to treat grit as an equal. he is very good-looking, don't you think so, phil?" "good-looking! so is a cow good-looking." "i've seen some cows that were very good-looking," answered marion, with a mischievous smile. "i suppose grit and you are well acquainted." "oh, i know him to speak to him," returned phil loftily. "of course, i couldn't be intimate with such a boy." "i was thinking," said marion, "it would be nice to invite him round to the house to play croquet with us." "invite grit morris?" gasped phil. "yes, why not?" "a boy like him!" "why, wouldn't he behave well?" "oh, i suppose he would, but he isn't in our circle." "then it's a pity he isn't. he's the most agreeable boy i have met in chester." "you say that only to provoke me." "no, i don't. i mean it." "i won't invite him," said phil doggedly. "i am surprised that you should think of such a thing." "propriety, miss marion, propriety!" said the young lady, in a tone of mock dignity, turning up the whites of her eyes. "that's just the way my governess used to talk. it's well i've got so experienced a young gentleman to look after me, and see that i don't stumble into any impropriety." meanwhile, grit sat in his boat, waiting for a return passenger, and as he waited he thought of the young lady he had just ferried over. "i can't see how such a fellow as phil courtney can have such a nice cousin," he said to himself. "she's very pretty, too! she isn't stuck-up, like him. i hope i shall get the chance of rowing them back." he waited about ten minutes, when he saw a gentleman and a little boy approaching the river. "are you the ferry-boy?" asked the gentleman. "yes, sir." "i heard there was a boy who would row me across. i want to go to chester with my little boy. can you take us over?" "yes, sir; i shall be happy to do so." "are you ready to start?" "yes, sir, just as soon as you get into the boat." "come, willie," said the gentleman, addressing his little boy, "won't you like to ride over in the boat?" "oh, yes, papa," answered willie eagerly. "i hope you are well acquainted with rowing, and careful," said mr. jackson, for this was his name. "i am rather timid about the water, for i can't swim." "yes, sir, i am as much at home on the water as on the land. i've been rowing every day for the last three years." the gentleman and his little boy sat down, and grit bent to his oars. chapter iv. a boy in the water. mr. jackson was a slender, dark-complexioned man of forty, or thereabouts. he was fashionably dressed, and had the air of one who lives in a city. he had an affable manner, and seemed inclined to be social. "is this your business, ferrying passengers across the river?" he asked of grit. "yes, sir," answered the young boatman. "does it pay?" was the next inquiry--an important one in the eyes of a city man. "yes, sir; i make more in this way than i could in any other." "how much, for instance?" "from five to seven dollars. once--it was fourth of july week--i made nearly ten dollars." "that is a great deal more than i made at your age," said mr. jackson. "you look as if you made more now," said grit, smiling. "yes," said the passenger, with an answering smile. "i am afraid i couldn't get along on that sum now." "do you live in the city?" asked grit, with a sudden impulse. "yes, i live in what i regard as the city. i mean new york." "it must be a fine place," said the young boatman thoughtfully. "yes, it is a fine place, if you have money enough to live handsomely. did you ever hear of wall street?" "yes, sir." "i am a wall street broker. i commenced as a boy in a broker's office. i don't think i was any better off than you at your age--certainly i did not earn so much money." "but you didn't have a mother to take care of, did you, sir?" "no; do you?" "yes, sir." "you are a good boy to work for your mother. my poor boy has no mother;" and the gentleman looked sad. "what is your name?" "grit." "is that your real name?" "no, sir, but everybody calls me so." "for a good reason, probably. willie, do you like to ride in the boat?" "yes, papa," answered the little boy, his bright eyes and eager manner showing that he spoke the truth. "grit," said mr. jackson, "i see we are nearly across the river. unless you are due there at a specified time, you may stay out, and we will row here and there, prolonging our trip. of course, i will increase your pay." "i shall be very willing, sir," said grit. "my boat is my own, and my time also, and i have no fixed hours for starting from either side." "good! then we can continue our conversation. is there a good hotel in chester?" "quite a good one, sir. they keep summer boarders." "that was the point i wished to inquire about. willie and i have been staying with friends in portville, but they are expecting other visitors, and i have a fancy for staying a while on your side of the river--that is, if you live in chester." "yes, sir; our cottage is on yonder bluff--pine point, it is called." "then i think i will call at the hotel, and see whether i can obtain satisfactory accommodations." "are you taking a vacation?" asked grit, with curiosity. "yes; the summer is a dull time in wall street, and my partner attends to everything. by and by i shall return, and give him a chance to go away." "do people make a great deal of money in wall street?" asked grit. "sometimes, and sometimes they lose a great deal. i have known a man who kept his span of horses one summer reduced to accept a small clerkship the next. if a broker does not speculate, he is not so liable to such changes of fortune. what is your real name, since grit is only a nickname?" "my real name is harry morris." "have you any brothers or sisters?" "no, sir; i am an only child." "were you born here?" "no, sir; i was born in boston." "have you formed any plans for the future? you won't be a boatman all your life, i presume?" "i hope not, sir. it will do well enough for the present, and i am glad to have such a chance of earning a living for my mother and myself; but when i grow up i should like to go to the city, and get into business there." "all the country boys are anxious to seek their fortune in the city. in many cases they would do better to stay at home." "were you born in the city, sir?" asked grit shrewdly. "no; i was born in the country." "but you didn't stay there." "no; you have got me there. i suppose it was better for me to go to the city, and perhaps it may be for you; but there is no hurry. you wouldn't have a chance to earn six dollars a week in the city, as you say you do here. besides, it would cost much more for you and your mother to live." "i suppose so, sir. i am contented to remain where i am at present." "is your father dead?" "yes, sir." "it is a great loss. then your mother is a widow?" "i wish she were," said grit hastily. "but she must be, if your father is dead," said mr. jackson. "no, sir; she married again." "oh, there is a stepfather, then? don't you and he get along well together?" "there has been no chance to quarrel for nearly five years." "why?" "because he has been in prison." "excuse me if i have forced upon you a disagreeable topic," said the passenger, in a tone of sympathy. "his term of confinement will expire, and then he can return to you." "that is just what troubles me, sir," said grit bluntly. "we are expecting him in a day or two, and then our quiet life will be at an end." "will he make things disagreeable for you?" "yes, sir." "at least, you will not have to work so hard." "yes, sir. i shall have to work harder, for i shall have to support him, too." "won't he be willing to work?" "no, sir, he is very lazy, and if he can live without work, he will." "that is certainly unfortunate." "it is worse than having no father at all," said grit bluntly. "i don't care to have him remain in prison, if he will only keep away from us, but i should be glad if i could never set eyes upon him again." "well, my boy, you must bear the trial as well as you can. we all have our trials, and yours comes in the shape of a disagreeable stepfather----" he did not finish the sentence, for there was a startling interruption. mr. jackson and grit had been so much engaged in their conversation that they had not watched the little boy. willie had amused himself in bending over the side of the boat, and dipping his little fingers in the rippling water. with childish imprudence he leaned too far, and fell head first into the swift stream. a splash told the startled father what had happened. "good heaven!" he exclaimed, "my boy is overboard, and i cannot swim." he had scarcely got the words out of his mouth than grit was in the water, swimming for the spot where the boy went down, now a rod or two distant, for the boat had been borne onward by the impulse of the oars. the young boatman was an expert swimmer. it would naturally have been expected, since so much of his time had been spent on the river. he had often engaged in swimming-matches with his boy companions, and there was no one who could surpass him in speed or endurance. he struck out boldly, and, as willie rose to the surface for the second time, he seized him by the arm, and, turning, struck out for the boat. the little boy struggled, and this made his task more difficulty but grit was strong and wary, and, holding willie in a strong grasp, he soon gained the boat. mr. jackson leaned over, and drew the boy, dripping, into its safe refuge. "climb in, too, grit!" he said. "no, i shall upset it. if you will row to the shore, i will swim there." "very well." mr. jackson was not wholly a stranger to the use of oars, and the shore was very near. in three minutes the boat touched the bank, and almost at the same time grit clambered on shore. "you have saved my boy's life," said mr. jackson, his voice betraying the strong emotion he felt. "i shall not forget it." "willie is cold!" said the little boy. "our house is close by," said grit. "let us take him there at once, and mother will take care of him, and dry his clothes." the suggestion was adopted, and mr. jackson and his two young companions were soon standing at the door of the plain cottage on the bluff. when his mother admitted them, grit noticed that she looked disturbed, and he seized the first chance to ask her if anything were the matter. "your stepfather has come!" she answered. chapter v. the stepfather. grit was disagreeably surprised at the news of mr. brandon's arrival, and he looked about him in the expectation of seeing his unwelcome figure, in vain. "where is he, mother?" the boy inquired. "gone to the tavern," she answered significantly. "did you give him any money?" "i gave him a dollar," she replied sadly. "it is easy to tell how it will be spent." grit had no time to inquire further at that time, for he was assisting his mother in necessary attentions to their guests, having hurriedly exchanged his own wet clothes for dry ones. mr. jackson seemed very grateful to mrs. morris for her attention to willie. she found an old suit of grit's, worn by him at the age of eight, and dressed willie in it, while his own wet suit was being dried. the little boy presented a comical spectacle, the suit being three or four sizes too large for him. "i don't like it," he said. "it is too big." "so it is, willie," said his father; "but you won't have to wear it long. you would catch your death of cold if you wore your wet clothes. how long will it take to dry his clothes, mrs. morris?" "two or three hours at least," answered the widow. "i have a great mind to go back to portville, and get a change of garments," said the father. "that would be the best thing, probably." "but i should have to burden you with willie; for i should need to take grit with me to ferry me across." "it will be no trouble, sir. i will take good care of him." "willie, will you stay here while i go after your other clothes?" asked mr. jackson. willie readily consented, especially after grit had brought him a picture-book to look over. then he accompanied the father to the river, and they started to go across. while they were gone, mr. brandon returned to the cottage. his flushed face and unsteady gait showed that he had been drinking. he lifted the latch, and went in. when he saw willie sitting in a small chair beside his wife, he gazed at the child in astonishment. "is that the cub?" he asked doubtfully. "seems to me he's grown smaller since i saw him." "i ain't a cub," said willie indignantly. "oh! yer ain't a cub, hey?" repeated brandon mockingly. "no, i ain't. my name is willie jackson, and my papa lives in new york." "what is the meaning of this, mrs. brandon?" asked the inebriate. "where did you pick up this youngster?" his wife explained in a few words. "i thought it wasn't the cub," said mr. brandon indistinctly. "where is he?" "he has gone to row mr. jackson over to portville." "i say, mrs. b., does he earn much money that way?" "he earns all the money that supports us," answered his wife coldly. "i must see to that," said brandon unsteadily. "he must bring me his money every night--do you hear, mrs. b.?--must bring me his money every night." "to spend for liquor, i suppose?" she responded bitterly. "i'm a gentleman. my money--that is, his money is my money. d'ye understand?" "i understand only too well, mr. brandon." "that's all right. i feel tired. guess i'll go and lie down." to his wife's relief he went up-stairs, and was soon stretched out on the bed in a drunken sleep. "i am glad he is out of the way. i should be ashamed to have mr. jackson see him," thought grit's mother, or mrs. brandon, as we must now call her. "who is that man?" asked willie anxiously. "his name is brandon," answered grit's mother. "he isn't a nice man. i don't like him." mrs. brandon said nothing. what could she say? if she had spoken as she felt, she would have been compelled to agree with the boy. yet this man was her husband, and was likely to be to her a daily source of anxiety and annoyance. "i am afraid grit and he won't agree," she thought anxiously. "oh i why did he ever come back? for the last five years we have been happy. we have lived plainly and humbly, but our home has been peaceful. now, heaven knows what trouble is in store for us." half an hour later mr. jackson and grit returned. chapter vi. grit's recompense. no time was lost in arraying willie in clothes more suitable for him. the little boy was glad to lay aside grit's old suit, which certainly was not very becoming to him. "are we going now, papa?" asked the little boy. "yes, willie; but first i must express to this good lady my great thanks for her kindness." "i have done but little, sir," said mrs. brandon; "but that little i was very glad to do." "i am sure of that," said the visitor cordially. "if you remain in the neighborhood, i shall hope to see your little boy again, and yourself, also." "i will come," said willie promptly. "he answers for himself," said his father, smiling, "and he will keep his promise. now, grit," he said, turning to the young boatman, "i will ask you to accompany me to the hotel." "certainly, sir." when they had passed from the cottage, mr. jackson turned to the boy and grasped his hand. "i have not yet expressed to you my obligations," he said, with emotion, "for the great service you have done me--the greatest in the power of any man, or boy." "don't speak of it, sir," said grit modestly. "but i must. you have saved the life of my darling boy." "i don't know, sir." "but i do. i cannot swim a stroke, and but for your prompt bravery, he would have drowned before my eyes." grit could not well contradict this statement, for it was incontestably true. "it was lucky i could swim," he answered. "yes, it was. it seems providential that i should have had with me so brave a boy, when willie's life was in peril. it will be something that you will remember with satisfaction to the end of your own life." "yes, sir, there is no doubt of that," answered grit sincerely. "i shudder to think what a sad blank my own life would have been if i had lost my dear boy. he is my only child, and for this reason i should have missed him the more. your brave act is one that i cannot fitly reward----" "i don't need any reward, mr. jackson," said grit hastily. "i am sure you do not. you do not look like a mercenary boy. but, for all that, i owe it to myself to see that so great a favor does not go unacknowledged. my brave boy, accept this wallet and what it contains, not as the payment of a debt, but as the first in the series of my acknowledgments to you." as he spoke, he put into the hand of the young boatman a wallet. "i am very much obliged to you, mr. jackson," said grit, "but i am not sure that i ought to take this." "then let me decide for you," said the broker, smiling. "i am older, and may be presumed to have more judgment." "it will seem as if i took pay for saving willie from drowning." "if you did, it would be perfectly proper. but you forget that i have had the use of your boat and your own services for the greater part of the afternoon." "i presume you have paid me more than i ask for such services." "very likely," answered mr. jackson. "in fact, outside of my obligations to you, i have formed a good opinion of a boy who works hard and faithfully to support his mother. i was a poor boy once, and i have not forgotten how to sympathize with those who are beginning the conflict with narrow means. mind, grit, i don't condole with you. you have good health and strong hands, and in our favored country there is no reason why, when you reach my age, you may not be equally well off." "i wish i might--for mother's sake," said grit, his face lighting up with hope. "i shall see more of you while i am here, but i may as well say now that i mean to bear you in mind, and wish you to come to me, either here or in the city, when you stand in need of advice or assistance." grit expressed his gratitude. mr. jackson selected a room at the hotel, and promised to take up his quarters there the next day. then grit once more took up his oars and ferried willie and his father across the river. it was not for some time, therefore, that he had a chance to examine the wallet which had been given him. chapter vii. grit astonishes phil. grit was not wholly without curiosity, and, as was natural, he speculated as to the amount which the wallet contained. when mr. jackson and willie had left him, he took it out of his pocket and opened it. he extracted a roll of bills and counted them over. there were ten five-dollar bills, and ten dollars in notes of a smaller denomination. "sixty dollars!" ejaculated grit, with a thrill of pleasure. "i never was so rich in all my life." he felt that the sum was too large for him to accept, and he was half tempted to run after mr. jackson and say so. but quick reflection satisfied him that the generous new yorker wished him to retain it, and, modest though he was, he was conscious that in saving the little boy's life he had placed his passenger under an obligation which a much larger sum would not have overpaid. besides, he saw two new passengers walking toward his boat, who doubtless wished to be ferried across the river. they were phil courtney and marion clarke. "we are just in time, mr. grit," said the young lady, smiling. "yes, my good fellow," said phil condescendingly, "we will employ you again." "you are very kind," answered grit, with a smile of amusement. "i like to encourage you," continued phil, who was not very quick to interpret the looks of others. grit looked at marion, and noticed that she, too, looked amused. "have you had any passengers since we came over?" asked phil, in a patronizing tone. he was quite ready to employ his old schoolmate, provided he would show proper gratitude, and be suitably impressed by his condescension. "i have been across several times," answered grit briefly. "and how much have you made now?" asked phil, with what he intended to pass for benevolent interest. if phil had been his friend, grit would not have minded telling him; but he had the pride of self-respect, and he objected to being patronized or condescended to. "i haven't counted up," he answered. "i might have brought my own boat," said phil, "but i like to encourage you." "really, phil, you are appearing in a new character," said marion. "i never should have taken you for a philanthropist before. i thought you told your mother it would be too much bother to row over in your own boat." "that was one reason," said phil, looking slightly embarrassed. "besides, i didn't want to interfere with grit's business. he is poor, and has to support his mother out of his earnings." this was in bad taste, and grit chafed against it. "that is true," he said, "but i don't ask any sympathy. i am prosperous enough." "oh, yes; you are doing well enough for one in your position, i don't doubt. how much would you give, now, to have as much money as i carry in this pocketbook?" asked phil boastfully. he had just passed his birthday, and had received a present of ten dollars from his father, and five dollars each from his mother and an aunt. he had spent a part of it for a hat and in other ways, but still he had seventeen dollars left. "perhaps i have as much money," answered grit quietly. "oho! that's a good joke," said phil. "no joke at all," said grit. "i don't know how much money you have in your pocketbook, but i presume i can show more." phil's face grew red with anger. he was one of those disagreeable boys who are purse-proud, and he was provoked at hearing such a ridiculous assertion from a poor boy who had to earn his own living. even marion regarded grit with some wonder, for she happened to know how much money her cousin carried, and it seemed to her very improbable that the young boatman should have as much in his possession. "don't make a fool of yourself, grit!" said phil sharply. "thank you; i don't propose to." "but you are doing it." "how?" "didn't you say you had more money than i?" "i think i have." "hear him talk!" said phil, with a glance of derision. by this time the young boatman's grit was up, if i may use the expression, and he resolved to surprise and mortify his young adversary. "if you are not afraid to test it," he said, "i will leave it to the young lady to decide. let her count the money in your pocketbook, and i will then give her my wallet for the same purpose." "done!" said phil promptly. marion, wondering a little at grit's confidence, took her cousin's pocketbook, and counted the contents. "well, marion, how much is there?" said phil exultingly. "seventeen dollars and thirty-seven cents," was the announcement of the fair umpire. phil smiled triumphantly. "you didn't think i had so much--eh, grit?" he said. "no, i didn't," grit admitted. "now hand over your wallet." "with pleasure, if miss marion will take the trouble," answered the young boatman, with a polite bow. when marion opened the wallet, and saw the roll of bills, both she and phil looked astonished. she proceeded to count the bills, however, and in a tone of serious surprise announced: "i find sixty dollars here." "that is right," said grit quietly, as he received back his wallet, and thrust it into his pocket. phil hardly knew whether he was more surprised or mortified at this unexpected result. but a thought struck him. "whose money is that?" he demanded abruptly. "it is mine." "i don't believe it. you are carrying it over to some one in chester." "perhaps i am; but, if so, that some one is my mother." "you don't mean to say that you have sixty dollars of your own?" "yes, i do. you didn't think i had so much money--eh, phil?" he retorted, with a smile. "i don't believe a word of it," returned phil crossly. "it is ridiculous that a boy like you should have so much money. it can't be yours." "do you doubt it, miss marion?" asked grit, turning to the young lady. "no; i believe that it is yours since you say so." "thank you." "if it is yours, where did you get it?" asked phil, whose curiosity overcame his mortification sufficiently to induce him to ask the question. "i don't feel called upon to tell you," answered grit. "then i can guess." "very well. if you guess right, i will admit it." "you found it, and won't be long before finding the owner." "you are wrong. the money is mine, and was paid me in the course of business." phil did not know what to say, but marion said pleasantly: "allow me to congratulate you, mr. grit, on being so well off. you are richer than either of your passengers. i never had sixty dollars of my own in my life." by this time they had reached the other side of the river, and the two passengers disembarked. "well, phil, you came off second best," said his cousin. "i can't understand how the boy came into possession of such a sum of money," said phil, frowning. "nor i; but i am sure of one thing." "what is that?" "that he came by it honestly." "don't be too sure of that," said phil, shaking his head. "phil, you are too bad," said marion warmly. "you seem to have taken an unaccountable prejudice against grit. i am sure he seems to me a very nice boy." "you're welcome to the young boatman's society," said phil, with a sneer. "you seem to be fond of low company." "if you call him low company, then perhaps i am. i never met grit before this morning, but he seems a very polite, spirited boy, and it is certainly to his credit that he supports his mother." "i can tell you something about him that may chill your ardor? his father is in jail." "i heard that it was his stepfather." "oh, well, it doesn't matter which." "in one sense, no. the boy isn't to blame for it." "no, but it shows of what stock he comes." meanwhile, grit, having fastened his boat, made his way to the cottage on the bluff. he wanted to tell his mother of his good fortune. chapter viii. grit puts his money away. "you seem to be in good spirits, grit," said his mother, as our hero opened the outside door and entered the room where she sat sewing. "yes, mother, i have reason to be. is--is mr. brandon home?" "yes; he is up-stairs lying down," answered mrs. brandon, with a sigh. grit rose and closed the door. "i don't want him to hear what i'm going to tell you," he said. "mother, i have been very lucky to-day." "i suppose mr. jackson was liberal." "i should say he was. guess how much money i have in this wallet, mother." "five dollars." "multiply that by twelve." "you don't mean to say that he gave you sixty dollars?" inquired his mother quickly. "yes, i do. see here," and grit displayed the roll of bills. "you are, indeed, in luck, grit. how much good this money will do us. but i forgot," she added, her expression changing to one of anxious solicitude. "what did you forget, mother?" "that your father--that mr. brandon had returned." "what difference will that make, mother? i suppose, of course, it will increase our expenses." "if that were all, grit." "what is it, then, you fear, mother?" "that he will take this money away from you." "i should like to see him try it," exclaimed grit, compressing his lips. "he will try it, grit. he said only an hour ago that you would have to account to him for your daily earnings." "doesn't he mean to do any work himself?" "i fear not. you know what sort of a man he is, grit. he probably means to live on what we can earn, and spend his time and what money he can get hold of at the tavern." "and he calls himself a man!" said grit disdainfully. "i am afraid our quiet, happy life is at an end, grit," sighed his mother. grit did not answer for a moment, but he looked stern and determined. finally, he answered: "i don't want to make any disturbance, mother, or to act improperly, but i feel sure that we ought not to submit to such treatment." "what can we do, grit?" "if mr. brandon cares to stay here we will provide him a home, give him his board, but, as to supplying him with money, we ought not to do it." "i agree with you, grit, but i don't see how we can help it. mr. brandon is a man, and you are only a boy. i don't want you to quarrel with him." "i won't if i can help it. by the way, mother, i don't think it will be prudent to leave all this money in the house." "what can we do with it?" "i will put it out of my hands. perhaps i had better not tell you what i am going to do with it, for mr. brandon might ask you, and it is better that you should be able to tell him that you don't know." "you are right, grit." "i will attend to that matter at once, mother. i will be back in half or three-quarters of an hour," and the young boatman hurried from the house. he bent his steps to the house of his particular friend, fred lawrence, the son of a lawyer in the village. mr. lawrence was rated as wealthy by the people in the village, and lived in a house quite as good as mr. courtney's, but his son fred was a very different style of boy. he had no purse-pride, and it never occurred to him that grit was unfit to associate with, simply because he was poor, and had to earn a living for himself and his mother by ferrying passengers across the kennebec. in fact, he regarded grit as his most intimate friend, and spent as much time in his company as their differing engagements would allow. phil courtney, though he condescended to grit, regarded fred as his social equal, and wished to be intimate with him; but fred did not fancy phil, and the latter saw, with no little annoyance, that the young boatman's company was preferred to his. it displayed shocking bad taste on the part of fred, but he did not venture to express himself to the lawyer's son as he would not scruple to do to the young ferryman. naturally, when grit felt the need of advice, he thought of his most intimate friend, and sought the lawyer's house. he met fred on the way. "hello, grit!" said fred cordially. "where are you going?" "i was going to your house." "then turn round, and we will go there." "i can talk with you in the street. i want your advice and help." "my advice is probably very valuable," said fred, smiling, "considering my age and experience. however, my help you can rely upon, if i can give it." "did you hear that mr. brandon had got home?" asked grit abruptly. "your stepfather?" "yes; i am sorry to say that there is that tie between us. i presume you know where he has spent the last five years?" "yes," answered fred. "of course, i am glad for his sake that he is free; but i am afraid he is going to give us trouble." "how does he appear?" "i have not seen him yet." "how's that?" "he only arrived to-day, and i was absent when he reached home." "does he mean to live here?" "i am afraid so; and, what is more, i am afraid he means that mother and i shall pay his expenses. he has already told mother that he shall require me to account to him for my daily earnings." "that will be hard on you." "yes; i need all i can make to pay our daily expenses, and i don't feel like letting mother suffer for the necessaries of life in order to supply mr. brandon with money for drink." "you are right there, grit. i sympathize with you; but how can i help it?" "that is what i am coming to. i want to deposit my money with you--that is, what i don't need to use." "i suppose you haven't much. it might not be well to trust me too far," said fred, smiling. "i have sixty dollars here, which i would like to put in your hands--that is, all but two dollars." "sixty dollars! where on earth did you get so much money, grit?" asked his friend, opening his eyes wide in astonishment. grit told the story briefly, and received the warm congratulations of his friend. "you deserve it all, grit," he said, "for your brave deed." "don't flatter me, fred, or i may put on airs like phil courtney. but, to come back to business--will you do me this favor?" "of course, i will. father has a safe in his office, and i will put the money in there. whenever you want any of it, you have only to ask me." "thank you. that will suit me. i shan't break in upon it unless i am obliged to, as i would like to have it in reserve to fall back upon." "come and take supper with us, grit, won't you?" asked fred cordially. "thank you, fred; not to-night. i haven't seen mr. brandon yet, and i may as well get over the first interview as soon as possible. we shall have to come to an understanding, and it is better not to delay it." "good night, then; i shall see you to-morrow, for i am going to portville, and i shall go over in your boat." "then we can have a chat together. good night." meanwhile, mr. brandon, having slept off his debauch, had come down-stairs. "where's the cub?" he asked. "i wish you wouldn't call him by that name," said his wife. "he wouldn't like it." "i shall call him what i please. hasn't he been in?" "yes, grit has been in." "grit?" "that's a nickname the boys have given him, and as everybody calls him so, i have got into that way." "oh, well, call him what you like. has he been in?" "yes." "where is he now?" "he went out for a short time. i expect him in every minute." "did he leave his day's earnings with you?" "no," answered mrs. brandon, with a troubled look. "he has the best right to that himself." "has he, hey? we'll see about that. i, as his stepfather and legal guardian, shall have something to say to that." mrs. brandon was not called upon to reply, for the door opened just then, and the young boatman stood in the presence of his worthy stepfather. chapter ix. a little discussion. grit was only ten years old when his stepfather began to serve out his sentence at the penitentiary, and the two had not seen each other since. instead of the small boy he remembered, brandon saw before him a boy large and strong for his age, of well-knit frame and sturdy look. five years had made him quite a different boy. his daily exercise in rowing had strengthened his muscles and developed his chest, so that he seemed almost a young man. brandon stared in surprise at the boy. "is that--the cub?" he asked. "i object to that name, mr. brandon," said grit quietly. "you've grown!" said brandon, still regarding him with curiosity. "yes, i ought to have grown some in five years." it occurred to mr. brandon that it might not be so easy as he had expected to bully his stepson. he resolved at first to be conciliatory. "i'm glad to see you," he said. "it's long since we met." "yes," answered grit. he was not prepared to return the compliment, and express pleasure at his stepfather's return. "i'm glad you and your mother have got along so well while i was away." grit felt tempted to say that they had got along better during mr. brandon's absence than when he was with them, but he forbore. he did not want to precipitate a conflict, though, from what his mother had said, he foresaw that one would come soon enough. "your mother tells me that you make money by your boat," continued mr. brandon. "yes, sir." "that's a good plan. i approve it. how much money have you made to-day, now?" "i have a dollar or two in my pocket," answered grit evasively. "very good!" said brandon, in a tone of satisfaction. "you may as well hand it to me." so the crisis had come! mrs. brandon looked at her son and her husband with anxiety, fearing there would be a quarrel, and perhaps something worse. she was tempted to say something in deprecation, but grit said promptly: "thank you, mr. brandon, but i would prefer to keep the money myself." brandon was rather taken aback by the boy's perfect coolness and self-possession. "how old are you?" he asked, with a frown. "fifteen." "indeed!" sneered brandon. "i thought, from the way you talked, you were twenty-one. you don't seem to be aware that i am your legal guardian." "no, sir, i was not aware of it." "then it's time you knew it. ain't i your stepfather?" "i suppose so," said grit, with reluctance. "ha, you admit that, do you? i'm the master of this house, and it's my place to give orders. your wages belong to me, but if you are obedient and respectful, i will allow you a small sum daily, say five cents." "that arrangement is not satisfactory, mr. brandon," said grit firmly. "why isn't it?" demanded his stepfather, frowning. "i use my money to support the family." "did i say anything against it? as the master of the house, the bills come to me to be paid, and therefore i require you to give me every night whatever you may have taken during the day." "do you intend to earn anything yourself?" asked grit pointedly; "or do you expect to live on us?" "boy, you are impertinent," said brandon, coloring. "don't provoke mr. brandon," said grit's mother timidly. "we may as well come to an understanding," said grit boldly. "i am willing to do all i can for you, mother, but mr. brandon is able to take care of himself, and i cannot support him, too." "is this the way you talk to your father, you impertinent boy?" exclaimed brandon wrathfully. "you are not my father, mr. brandon," said grit coldly. "it is all the same; i am your mother's husband." "that's a different thing." "once more, are you going to give me the money you have in your pocket?" "no, sir." brandon looked at grit, and he felt that it would have given him pleasure to shake the rebellion out of his obstinate stepson, but supper was almost ready, and he felt hungry. he decided that it would be as well to postpone an open outbreak. grit was in the house, and not likely to run away. "we'll speak of this another time," he said, waving his hand. "you will find, young man, that it is of no use opposing me. mrs. brandon, is supper almost ready?" "nearly," answered his wife, glad to have the subject postponed. "then serve it as soon as possible," he said, in a lordly tone. "i am to meet a gentleman on business directly afterward." supper was on the table in fifteen minutes. mr. brandon ate with evident enjoyment. indeed, it was so short a time since he had been restricted to prison fare that he relished the plain but well-cooked dishes which his wife prepared. "another cup of tea, mrs. brandon," he said. "it seems pleasant to be at home again after my long absence." "i shouldn't think he would like to refer to his imprisonment," thought grit. "i hope soon to be in business," continued brandon, "and we shall then be able to live in better style. when that time comes i shall be willing to have grit retain his small earnings, stipulating only that he shall buy his own clothes, and pay his mother, say a dollar and a quarter a week, for board." he said this with the air of a man who considered himself liberal, but neither grit nor his mother expressed their sense of his generosity. "of course, just at present," mr. brandon proceeded, "i have no money. the minions of the law took from me all i had when they unjustly thrust me into a foul dungeon. for a time, therefore, i shall be compelled to accept grit's earnings, but it will not be for long." grit said nothing to this hint, but all the same he determined, whether for a short or a long time, to resist the exactions of his stepfather. as for brandon, his change of front was induced by the thought that he could accomplish by stratagem what he might have had some difficulty in securing by force. he still had twenty-five cents of the dollar which his wife had given him in the morning. when supper was over he rose, and, putting on his hat, said: "i am going to the village on business. i shall be home in good season. are you going my way, grit?" "not just at present," answered grit. mother and son looked at each other when they were alone. "i suppose he's gone to the tavern," said grit. "yes, i presume so," said his mother, sighing. "well, mother, i didn't give up the money." "no, grit, but he means to have it yet." "he's welcome to it if he can get it," said the boy manfully. "you haven't got the sixty dollars with you?" said his mother anxiously. "no, they are safe. i have kept only two dollars, thinking you might need some groceries." "yes, i do, grit. they go off faster, now that we have another mouth to feed." "suppose you make out a list of what you want, mother, and i will go up to the store this evening. i may as well save mr. brandon from temptation." his mother made a list, and grit, putting it in his pocket, walked up to the village. the groceries, with a pound of steak, cost a dollar and ninety cents. as grit took the bundles and walked homeward, he thought to himself. "mr. brandon wouldn't feel very well repaid for his trouble if he should take all i have left. he ought to be satisfied with free board, without expecting us to supply him with pocket-money besides. i wonder what he would say if he knew how much money i have deposited with fred lawrence?" grit congratulated himself that his stepfather was not likely to make this discovery, but in this he reckoned without his host. mr. brandon made the discovery that same evening. how it came about will appear in the next chapter. chapter x. brandon learns grit's secret. "i had no idea the boy had grown so much," said brandon to himself, as he directed his course toward the tavern. "i thought he was a little kid, but he's almost as big as i am. he's kind of obstinate, too, but he'll find out who's master before long. it's ridiculous, his expectin' to have the handlin' of all the money that comes into the house. just as if he had any judgment--a boy of his age." the chances are that grit's judgment in the matter would have proved better than brandon's, since the latter proposed to spend a large portion of the money for drink. "i expect the boy makes a good thing out of his boating," resumed mr. brandon. "he owned up that he had almost two dollars, and it's likely he earned it all to-day." presently brandon reached the tavern, and entered the barroom. he called for whisky, and swallowed it with gusto. "you may charge it to me," said he carelessly; "i'll pay once a week." "we don't care to do business that way," said the barkeeper. "you ain't afraid i won't pay you?" said brandon, in a tone of affected indignation. "i don't know whether you would or not, but our terms are cash." "oh, well, if you're so strict as that, take it out of this quarter," said brandon, throwing his sole remaining coin on the counter. fifteen cents were returned to him, and in half an hour that sum was also expended at the bar. it might have been supposed that brandon would be satisfied, but he was not. he made an attempt to obtain another drink on credit, but the barkeeper proved obdurate. then he engaged in a game of cards, and about half-past nine set out to go home, in a better condition than if he had had more money to spend. "this will never do!" he muttered, in a discontented tone; "i can't be kept so short as this. it is humiliating to think of me, a grown man, going round without a cent in my pocket, while my stepson is reveling in money. i won't have it, and i'll let him understand it." a few feet in front of brandon two boys were walking. one of them was phil courtney, and the other dick graham, a poor boy, who, by proper subserviency, had earned a position as chief favorite with his companion. brandon could not help hearing their conversation. he heard grit's name mentioned, and this made him listen attentively. "i can't understand where grit got his money," phil was saying. "how much did you say he had?" inquired dick. "sixty dollars!" "whew!" brandon felt like saying "whew!" too, for his amazement was great, but he wanted to hear more, and remained silent. "are you sure there were sixty dollars?" "yes; my cousin marion counted it." "how did grit happen to show his money?" "he was boasting that he had more money than i, and i challenged him to show his money." "i suppose he did show more?" "yes, i had only seventeen dollars. but what i can't understand is, where did a common boatman pick up so much money?" "perhaps he has been saving for a long time." "perhaps so, but i don't believe he could save so much," answered phil. "perhaps he stole it." phil didn't believe this, but he would like to have believed it true. "i shouldn't wonder if he did, though i don't know where he could get the chance." "i wonder if he'd lend me five dollars," thought dick graham, though he did not care to let phil know his thought. he resolved to be more attentive to grit, in the hope of pecuniary favors. meanwhile, he did not forget that phil also was well provided. "you were pretty well fixed, too," he said. "i wonder how i'd feel if i had seventeen dollars." "what do i care about seventeen dollars?" said phil discontentedly, "when a boy like grit morris can show more than three times as much." "oh, well, he'll have to spend it. he won't keep it long. by the way, phil, will you do me a favor?" "what is it?" asked phil cautiously. "won't you lend me two dollars? i want it the worst way. i haven't got a cent to my name." "i can't spare it," said phil curtly. "it will leave you fifteen----" "i'm going to use it all. besides, it would be the same as giving it----" "no, i'd pay you back in a week or two." "you've been owing me fifty cents for three months. if you'd paid that up punctually, perhaps i would have lent you. you'd better go to grit." "he isn't my friend, and i thought you might not like my going to him." "oh, you can borrow as much as you like of him--the more, the better!" returned phil, with a laugh. "i'll try it, then. i shall have to pretend to be his friend." "all right. the faster he gets rid of his money, the better it will suit me." brandon heard no more of the conversation, for the boys turned down a side street. but he had heard enough to surprise him. "grit got sixty dollars!" he repeated to himself. "why, the artful young villain! who'd have thought it? and he coolly refuses to let his father have a cent. he's actually rolling in riches, while i haven't got a penny in my purse. and his mother aids and abets him in it, i'll be bound. it's the blackest ingratitude i ever heard of." what grit had to be grateful to him for mr. brandon might have found it difficult to instance, but he actually managed to work himself into a fit of indignation because grit declined to commit his money to his custody. brandon felt very much like a man who has suddenly been informed that a pot of gold was concealed in his back yard. actually, a member of his family possessed the handsome sum of sixty dollars. how was he to get it into his own hands? that was easier to ask than to answer. as he had said, grit was a stout, strong boy, nearly his equal in size and strength, and he had already had sufficient acquaintance with his firmness, or obstinacy, as he preferred to call it, to make sure that the boy would not give up the money without a struggle. if now he could get hold of the money by stratagem, it would be easier, and make less disturbance. where did grit keep the money? "he may have given it to his mother," thought brandon. "if so, i can find it in one of her bureau drawers. she always used to keep money there. but it is more likely that the boy keeps it in his own pocket. i know what i'll do. i'll get up in the night, when he and his mother are asleep, and search his pockets. gad, how astonished he'll look in the morning when he searches for it, and finds it missing!" brandon was very much amused by this thought, and he laughed aloud. "sixty dollars'll set me on my feet again," he reflected. "let me see. i'll go to boston, and look round, and see if i can't pick up a job of some kind. there isn't anything to do here in this beastly hole. by the way, i wonder where the boy did get so much money. he must find boatin' more profitable than i had any idea of." at this point brandon entered the little path that led to his wife's cottage. "mrs. b. is sittin' up," he said, as he saw through the window the figure of his wife in a rocking-chair, apparently occupied with some kind of work. "i'll get her off to bed soon, so that i can have a clear field." mrs. brandon looked up when her husband entered, and noticed, with a feeling of relief, that he was sober. that, however, was not owing to any intentional moderation on his part, but to his lack of funds. "sittin' up for me, mrs. b.?" asked brandon. "i generally sit up till past this hour," she answered. "i feel rather tired myself," said brandon, succeeding in yawning. "it isn't on account of having done any work," thought his wife. "i've been walkin' round considerably, and got tired." "do you come from the tavern?" asked mrs. brandon coldly. "yes, mrs. b., i expected to meet a gentleman there on business, but he disappointed me. where's grit?" "he has gone to bed. he has got to get up early in the morning, to help me, and then he spends the day in ferrying passengers across the river." "that's a bright idea of grit's. i approve it. he makes considerable money, doesn't he?" "considerable for a boy. i don't know what i should do if it were not for grit." "just so. but now i'm home, and shall soon get into business. then you won't need to depend on him. of course, i shall need a little money to start with." mrs. brandon did not reply to this obvious hint. she prepared for bed. an hour later, brandon, having ascertained that his wife was asleep, left the room cautiously, and stole into grit's chamber. chapter xi. the midnight visit. grit was not aware that brandon had discovered his secret, but still was not unprepared for a night visit. as we already know, he had but ten cents left of the two dollars he had reserved, and this coin he put into a small leather purse, which he usually carried. "if mr. brandon searches for money, he will be disappointed," he said to himself, with a quiet smile. "he won't find enough to pay him for his trouble." grit was not anxious enough about his money to keep awake. when, therefore, his stepfather entered his chamber, he was fast asleep. brandon listened for a moment to the deep breathing of the boy, and felt that there was no need of caution. he therefore boldly advanced, candle in hand, to the bedside. the candle he set on the bureau, and then took up grit's clothes, which hung over a chair, and proceeded to examine the pockets. his countenance changed as he continued the search. at last he came to the purse, but it felt empty, and he did not open it with much confidence. thrusting in his finger, he drew out the solitary dime which it contained. "only ten cents!" he exclaimed, with intense disappointment. "it isn't worth taking. on second thoughts, i'll take it, though, for it will pay for a drink." he pocketed the coin, and resumed his search. "the boy must have a pocketbook somewhere," he muttered. "he wouldn't carry bank-bills in a purse. where can he keep it?" once more he explored the pockets of his stepson, but he met with no greater success than before. it is a curious circumstance that sometimes in profound sleep a person seems vaguely aware of the presence of an intruder, and the feeling is frequently strong enough to disturb slumber. grit was a sound sleeper, but, however we may account for it, whether it was the instinctive feeling i have mentioned, or the glare of the candle, he woke up, and his glance rested on the kneeling figure of his stepfather rummaging his pockets. instantly grit realized the situation, and he felt more amused than indignant, knowing how poorly the searcher would be rewarded. brandon's back was turned to him, and our hero felt inclined to try the effect of a practical joke. in a deep, sepulchral voice, he called out: "what are you doing there?" brandon, taken by surprise, started as if he had been shot, and sprang to his feet in confusion. turning to the bed, he saw grit surveying him calmly. then his natural hardihood restored his self-possession. "where do you keep your money, you young cub?" he demanded. "where do i keep it? i suspect you know well enough. haven't you looked into my purse?" "yes, and i only found ten cents." "did you take it?" asked grit. "yes." "then it's lucky i had no more in it." "where is the rest of your money?" demanded brandon. "what do you mean by the rest of my money?" "i mean the sixty dollars you had with you to-day." grit whistled. "so you heard i had sixty dollars?" he said. "yes." "it is in a safe place." "ha! you own that you had so much money. you wanted to keep it from me, did you?" demanded brandon, with a frown. "yes, i did," admitted grit. "did phil courtney tell you i had it?" "no matter how i heard. i know that you are trying to conceal a large sum of money, which ought to be in my hands." "indeed! how do you make that out?" "i am your stepfather and natural guardian. i am the best person to take care of your money." "i don't think so, and i propose to keep it myself," said grit firmly. "do you defy me?" demanded brandon angrily. "if you call my refusing to give you my own money by that name, then i do." "boy, you don't know me!" said brandon, in a tone intended to strike terror into the heart of his stepson. "hitherto you have had only your mother to look after you, and she has been foolishly indulgent. now you have a man to deal with. once more, will you hand me that money?" "i decline," said grit firmly. "then on your head be the consequences," said brandon. "you will hear from me again, and soon." so saying, he stalked majestically from the chamber. "i wonder what he means to do?" thought grit. but the thought did not keep him awake. chapter xii. grit's misfortune. the next morning grit came down to breakfast nearly an hour later than usual. it might have been because he was unusually fatigued, or it may have been on account of his slumbers having been interrupted. when he came down-stairs, he looked at the clock, and realized that he had overslept himself. "i am nearly an hour late, mother," he said. "why didn't you call me?" "i thought you were tired, grit, and needed sleep." "where is mr. brandon? i suppose he has not got up!" "yes, he has had his breakfast and gone out." "he is in a great hurry to spend my ten cents," said grit, laughing. "what do you mean, grit?" "i had a visit from him last night," grit explained. "he rummaged my pockets, and was successful in finding a dime." "is it possible?" "why should you be surprised, mother? i was not." "did he say anything to you?" "yes; he has found out somehow about the sixty dollars, and he asked me to give it to him." "oh, grit, i am afraid there will be trouble," said mrs. brandon anxiously. "he won't rest till he gets the money." "then he won't rest at all," said grit firmly. "i am afraid you will have to give it to him, grit." "not if i know what i am about. no, mother, the money is safe, where he won't find it. i won't tell you, for he might annoy you till you told him." "no, grit; don't tell me. i would rather not know. how happy we were before he came, and how rich we should feel if this money had come to you before mr. brandon came home!" "that is true, mother. it's a shame that he should come home to give us so much trouble." "i can't see how it's all going to end," murmured mrs. brandon sadly. "nor i; but i mean to resist mr. brandon till he finds it's of no use trying to appropriate my money. when he finds he can't get anything out of us except a bare living, he may become disgusted and leave us." "he won't do it while he has any hope left. what do you think he has been trying to persuade me to do, grit?" "i don't know." "he wants me to mortgage this cottage, and give him the money." "just like him, mother. i hope you were firm?" "yes, grit. i told him i would not consent. it is all we have. i cannot part with our home and the roof that shelters us." "of course not, mother. you would be very foolish if you did. did he mention any one that wanted to buy it?" "yes, he said that mr. green would be willing to advance money upon it." "mr. green--the landlord of the hotel? i don't doubt it. he knows that brandon would pay back the whole for drink in a short time." "i am afraid that would be the case." "mother," said grit, with energy, "promise me that you will never consent to this wicked plan." "no, grit, i won't. i consider that the house is as much yours as mine, and i am not willing to leave you without a home." "i don't so much mind that, for i could shift for myself somehow, but i want you to keep it in your own hands, and i am not willing that mr. brandon should sacrifice it for drink." "i agree with you, grit. whatever it may cost me, i won't consent." "the sooner he becomes convinced that he has nothing to hope from either of us, the sooner he will leave us," said grit. "if i thought he would go away and never come back, i would be willing to let him have the sixty dollars, but it would only make him stay, in the hope of getting more." by this time grit had finished his breakfast. "i must get to work, mother," he said. "i'll be home to dinner at the usual time, if i can." "if not, i will save something for you, grit." the young boatman made his way to the river. here an unpleasant surprise awaited him. his boat was not where he had left it. he looked in all directions, but it had disappeared. "what can have become of it?" thought grit, in perplexity. chapter xiii. grit's boat is sold. brandon was not usually an early riser, and would not on this occasion have got up so soon if a bright idea had not occurred to him likely to bring money to his purse. it was certainly vexatious that grit so obstinately refused to pay into his hands the money he had managed in some way unknown to his stepfather to accumulate. perhaps some way of forcing the boy to do so might suggest itself, but meanwhile he was penniless; that is, with the exception of the dime he had abstracted during the night. possibly his wife might have some money. he proceeded to sound her on the subject. "mrs. b.," said he, "i shall have to trouble you for a little money." "i gave you a dollar yesterday," said mrs. brandon. "what's a dollar? i have none of it left now." "did you spend it at the tavern?" asked his wife gravely. "i am not willing to be catechized upon that point," returned brandon, in a tone of lofty dignity. "it is quite impossible to supply you with money for such a purpose," continued mrs. brandon. "what money grit earns is wanted for necessary expenses." "i am not so easily deceived," said her husband, nodding sagaciously. "it is quite true." "i won't argue the point, mrs. b. have you any change now? that is the question." "no, i have not." "be it so. i have only to remark that you and your son will have occasion to regret the unfriendly and suspicious manner in which you see fit to treat me." so saying, mr. brandon sat down to his breakfast, which he ate with an appetite such as is usually earned by honest toil. when he rose from the table, he left the cottage without a word. "how it all this to end?" thought mrs. brandon, following his retreating form with an anxious glance. "he has not been here twenty-four hours yet, and he has spent a dollar of grit's hard earnings, and is dissatisfied because we will not give him more. besides, he has already broached the subject of mortgaging the house, and all to gratify his insatiable thirst for strong drink." certainly the prospects were not very bright, and mrs. brandon might well be excused for feeling anxious. though brandon had ten cents in his pocket, the price of a glass of whisky, he did not go at once to the tavern, as might have been expected. instead of this, he bent his steps toward the river. he knew about where grit kept his boat, and went directly to it. "ha! a very good boat!" he said, after surveying it critically. "it ought to be worth ten dollars, at least, though i suppose i can't get over five for it. well, five dollars will be a lift to me, and if grit wants another boat he's got the money to buy one. i can get even with him this way, at least. he'd better have treated me well and saved his boat." the boat was tied fast, but this presented no insurmountable difficulty. brandon pulled a jack-knife out of his pocket, and after awhile--for it was very dull--succeeded in severing the rope. then he jumped into the boat and began to row out into the stream. he was a little at a loss at first as to where he would be most likely to find a purchaser. in his five years' absence from the neighborhood he had lost his former acquaintances, and there had been, besides, changes in the population. as he was rowing at random, he chanced to look back to the shore he had left, and noticed that a boy was signaling to him. he recognized him as the boy whom he had heard speaking of grit's treasure, and, being desirous of hearing more on the subject, he at once began to pull back to the river bank. the boy, as the reader will surmise, was phil courtney. "hello, there!" said phil; "isn't that grit morris' boat?" "no, it's mine." "it is the same grit usually rows in," said phil, beginning to suspect brandon of theft. "that may be, but the boat is mine." "did he sell it to you?" "no." "who are you, then?" "i am mr. brandon, grit's stepfather." phil whistled. "oh, it's you, is it?" he said, surveying brandon, not over respectfully, for he knew where he had spent the last five years. "so you've come home?" "yes, but i might as well have stayed away." "how is that?" asked phil, regarding the man before him with curiosity. brandon was not too proud to speak of his domestic grievances, as he regarded them, to a stranger. "my wife and son treat me like a stranger," he said. "instead of giving me a warm welcome after my long absence, they seem to be sorry to see me." "i don't wonder much," thought phil, but he did not say so, not being averse to drawing brandon out on this subject. "and that reminds me, young gentleman; i was walking behind you last evening, and i heard you say something about grit's having a large sum of money." "yes; he showed me sixty dollars yesterday." "are you sure there was as much as that?" inquired brandon eagerly. "yes, i am sure, for my cousin counted it in my presence." "it might have belonged to some one else," suggested brandon. "no; i thought so myself, but grit said it belonged to him." "did he say where he got it?" "no; he's mighty close about his affairs. i couldn't help wondering myself, and asked him, but he wouldn't tell me." "if he's got as much money as that, he ought to give it to me to take care of." "why don't you make him give it to you?" suggested phil maliciously. "i did ask him, but he refused. a boy of his age ought not to carry about so much money. did he carry it in a roll of bills, or in a pocketbook?" "he had it in a wallet." "i didn't see the wallet," thought brandon. "i only found the purse. the boy must have hidden it somewhere. i must look for it." "what are you going to do about it?" asked phil. "are you going to let him keep it?" "not if i can find it. i will take it away from him if i get the chance." "i wish he would," thought phil. "it would soon go for drink, and then master grit wouldn't put on so many airs." "may i ask your name?" asked brandon. "i am phil courtney, the son of squire courtney, the president of the bank," answered phil pompously. "you don't say so!" exclaimed brandon, in a tone of flattering deference. "i am proud to know you. you come of a fine family." "yes, my father stands pretty high," remarked phil complacently. "really," thought he, "this man has very good manners, even if he has just come from the penitentiary. he treats me with a good deal more respect than grit does. if i could help him to get the money i would." "not a man in town stands higher," said brandon emphatically. "are you a friend of my stepson?" "well, hardly," answered phil, shrugging his shoulders. "you must excuse my saying so, but grit hasn't very good manners, and, though i patronize him by riding in his boat, i cannot regard him as a fitting associate." "you are entirely right, young gentleman," said brandon. "though grit is my stepson, i am not blind to his faults. he has behaved very badly to me already, and i shall be obliged to require him to treat me with more respect. if he would only copy you, i should be very glad." "you are very polite, mr. brandon," said phil, flattered. "i hope, for your sake, that grit will improve." "by the way, mr. courtney"--phil swelled with conscious pride at this designation--"do you know any one who would like to buy a boat?" "what boat do you refer to?" asked phil. "this boat." "but i thought it was grit's." "i am his stepfather, and have decided to sell it." "what'll you take?" asked phil, not unwilling to buy a good boat, especially as he knew it would annoy grit. "it is worth ten dollars, but i will sell it for six dollars cash." "say five, and i'll take it." "very well, mr. courtney, seeing it's you, i will say five." "it's a bargain." phil had his money in his pocket, and he lost no time in binding the bargain by paying the money. "i think i'll take a row myself," he said. he jumped into the boat, and brandon, with five dollars in his pocket, took the nearest road to the tavern. chapter xiv. the bill of sale. a sudden thought struck phil, and he called back brandon. "what's wanted now?" asked the latter impatiently. "i want you to give me a bill of sale of the boat," said phil. "what's the use of that?" "i don't want grit to charge me with taking his boat without leave." "oh, bother! it's all right. i haven't got any paper," said brandon, who was anxious to reach the tavern, and take his morning dram. "i have," said phil promptly, as he drew out a small note-book and tore out a leaf, which he handed, with a pencil, to brandon. "what do you want me to write?" asked the latter. phil dictated a form, which brandon wrote down and signed. "will that do?" he asked. "yes, that will do. now i am all right, and the boat is mine in spite of all grit may say." "i have made a good bargain," said phil, to himself, complacently. "this boat is worth at least twice what i have paid for it. i will get it painted, and a new name for it, and it will pass for a new boat. won't grit be mad when he hears what his stepfather has done?" this was, on the whole, the pleasantest reflection connected with the purchase. it was not creditable to phil to cherish such malice against a boy, simply because he would not treat him with as much deference as he expected; but human nature is often betrayed into petty meannesses, and phil was a very human boy, so far, at least, as such traits were concerned. we now come back to grit, who stood on the river's bank in perplexity, when he discovered that his boat had been abstracted. "who can have taken it?" he thought. here he felt quite at a loss. it did not occur to him that his stepfather had had anything to do with his boat, for he could not understand of what advantage it would be to him. he did not comprehend fully, however, how serious the loss was likely to prove, since it took away his means of living. he stooped over and examined the rope. clearly, it had been cut, and this showed that the boat had been taken by some unauthorized person. "i can't understand who would serve me such a trick," thought grit. "i don't know that i have any enemies." but at this point he could not help thinking of phil courtney, who, if not an enemy, was certainly not a friend. "is it possible that phil would play me such a trick?" he asked himself. "no; he would think too much of himself. he would not condescend to do such a thing." grit walked up and down along the river bank, looking here and there to see if anywhere he could descry his boat. at length he saw a boat, but the boat was not his. it belonged to jesse burns, the son of the postmaster, and was of about the same size and build as his own. "jesse!" he called out, putting his hands to his mouth to increase the volume of sound. jesse heard the call, and rowed toward where grit was standing. "what is it, grit?" "my boat has been taken, and i don't know what has become of it." "is that so?" asked jesse, in surprise. "why, i saw phil courtney out on the river with it. i passed him only fifteen minutes since. i thought you had let it to him." "phil courtney!" exclaimed grit, angry and surprised. "i didn't think he would take it without leave." "did he?" "yes, i found the rope cut." "that doesn't seem like phil. he's mean enough to do anything, but i didn't think he would do that." "nor i. i'll give him a good piece of my mind when we meet. where did you meet him?" "just above glen cove." "do me a favor, jesse. take me into your boat, and row me up there, so that i may meet him, and recover my boat." "all right, grit. i'm very glad to do you a favor." "are you sure it is my boat phil had?" asked grit, still unwilling to believe that phil had deliberately taken his boat. "yes, i know your boat as well as my own. besides, there was the name, _water lily_, on it, as plain as day. there is no doubt about it." "well," said grit, closing his lips firmly, "all i can say is, i'll make him pay for the use of the boat, or there'll be trouble." "you won't challenge him, will you, grit?" asked jesse, smiling. "that's just what i will do. i should be justified in thrashing him, without notice, but i will give him a chance to defend himself." "if you want a second, call on me," said jesse. "i don't like phil any better than you do, and i shan't object to seeing his pride humbled. it's bad for your business, having the boat taken." "yes, i shall lose the chance of two passengers who wanted to go across to portville an hour from now." "you may use my boat for that, grit." "thank you, jesse; i should like to, if i don't get back my own. did you speak to phil?" "no. i said 'good morning,' but, with his usual politeness, he only gave a slight nod, and did not answer. i wanted to ask him how it happened that he was using your boat so early in the morning, but, you see, i got no chance." "it is queer. i can't guess what he will have to say for himself." "there he is now!" said jesse suddenly, looking up the river. "where?" "don't you see? he is rowing this way. his back is turned, and he hasn't seen us yet." yes, it was phil. he had enjoyed a good row, and now was on his return course. he was rowing slowly and lazily, as if fatigued. "you will soon hear what he has to say, grit," said jesse. at that moment phil chanced to turn round, and he saw and recognized the boys that were approaching him. he did not, however, seem confused or embarrassed; neither did he change his course. he merely smiled, and continued to row toward his pursuers. "he sees us, and still he comes on. there's cheek for you!" ejaculated jesse. grit said nothing, but his mouth closed firmly, and his eyes sparkled with anger. he waited till phil was within earshot, and then he demanded sternly: "what are you doing there with my boat, phil courtney?" phil would have resented grit's tone, but he gloated over the triumphant answer he was able to make, and thought he would tantalize grit a little. "to what boat do you allude?" he asked, in a nonchalant tone. "to what boat do i allude?" repeated grit, provoked. "i allude to my boat, in which you are rowing." "you are mistaken," said phil composedly. "i am rowing in my own boat." "isn't that the _water lily_?" asked jesse, coming to the help of his friend. "it is at present. i shall change the name for one i like better." "look here, phil courtney!" said grit indignantly, "this is carrying the joke a little too far. you have taken my boat without leave or license from me, and now you actually claim it as your own. do you mean to say that isn't the boat i have been rowing on this river for the last year?" "i never said it wasn't." "isn't it the boat in which i carried you across the river yesterday?" "of course." "then what business had you to cut the rope and carry it off?" "i didn't." "then how did you come by it?" "i bought it!" "bought it!" exclaimed grit and jesse simultaneously. "yes, i bought it, and it is mine," continued phil, with a smile of triumph. "it's just as much mine to-day as it was yours yesterday." "i never sold it to you," said grit, perplexed. "no, but your stepfather, mr. brandon, did. if the rope was cut, he cut it." "can you prove this, phil courtney?" asked grit. "if you will row up alongside, i will satisfy your curiosity." jesse pulled his boat alongside, and phil drew from his vest pocket a paper and handed it to grit. "read that," he said. grit read as follows: "in consideration of five dollars, to me paid, i make over and sell the boat called the _water lily_ to philip courtney. nathan brandon." "there!" said philip triumphantly, "what have you to say now?" chapter xv. grit engages another boat. when phil displayed the bill of sale, made out in due form by brandon, grit was for the moment taken aback. "whose boat is it now?" continued phil triumphantly. "it is mine," answered grit quietly; "for mr. brandon had no right to sell it." "i have nothing to do with that," said phil. "he is your stepfather--you ought to feel proud of having a jail-bird in the family--and he told me the boat was his." "i shall not contest your claim at present," said grit. "as long as it passes out of my hands, you may as well have it as any one." "i'll sell it back for ten dollars," said phil, who had a keen scent for a bargain. "thank you, i don't care to buy back my own property. besides, mr. brandon would be ready to sell it again to-morrow. as to what you say of him, i shan't undertake to defend him. i am not particularly proud of the relationship." "what are you going to do for a boat to ferry your passengers?" asked phil. "i don't know." "i'll let you this for fifty cents a day." "that would be about half of my receipts, and you would get your money back in ten days. i don't care about making such a bargain as that." "you'll have to give up your business, then," said phil. "no, he won't," said jesse burns. "i will give him the use of mine, and won't charge him a cent." "thank you, jesse. you are a true friend," said grit warmly. "you are doing me a great favor." "and i am glad to do it. suppose we pull to land? there are three persons at the landing who look as if they wanted to be ferried across." grit seized the oars and impelled the boat to land. as jesse had said, there were three persons waiting, a gentleman and two ladies, who at once engaged the services of the young boatman. for this service he received thirty cents, and, finding two persons at the other end who wished to come to chester, the first hour in his new boat brought him fifty cents. grit's spirits rose. his misfortune was not irremediable, after all. he had feared that his means of living were taken away, and though he had money enough to buy a new boat, he did not dare to do so, lest brandon should also sell that. "i'll give him a piece of my mind," he thought. "it's contemptible to come home and live on us, and then to take away my means of living." meanwhile, brandon had gone to the tavern, which he entered with a swagger, and immediately called for a glass of whisky. the barkeeper hesitated. "my orders are not to sell on credit," he said. "who wants you to sell on credit?" asked brandon haughtily. "you had no money last night." "i've got some now. what do you say to that?" and he displayed the five-dollar bill he had received from phil courtney. "that alters the case," said the barkeeper complaisantly. "your money is as good as anybody's." "i should say so. give me another." when brandon left the barroom, he had spent a dollar, having drunk himself and treated others. "wonder if grit has found out about his boat?" he said to himself, with a waggish smile, as he walked homeward with unsteady steps. "serves the boy right for treating me so disrespectfully." it was not much out of his way to go down to the margin of the river, and he did so. it happened that, as he reached it, grit had just arrived from portville with a second load of passengers. fortune, as if to compensate him for his loss of a boat, had brought him an unusual number of passengers, so that he had already earned a dollar. when brandon saw grit engaged in his usual avocation, he opened wide his eyes in surprise. "has the boy got his boat back again?" he asked himself. he was not familiar with the appearance of the boat, and the name had slipped from his recollection. then, also, jesse's boat looked very much like grit's. when the passengers had walked away brandon took measures to gratify his curiosity. "where did you get that boat, grit?" he asked. "ah, it's you, is it?" said grit, seeing his stepfather for the first time. "what business had you to sell my boat, mr. brandon?" "ain't i your stepfather, i'd like to know?" retorted brandon. "i am sorry to say you are," answered grit; "but that doesn't give you any authority to steal and sell my boat." "don't you dare to charge me with stealin', you--you young puppy!" exclaimed brandon, indignantly. "if you had behaved as you ought to me, i wouldn't have meddled with your boat." "i understand you, mr. brandon. because i wouldn't give you the money that i need to support my mother, you meanly and maliciously plot to take away my means of living." "you wouldn't give me your money to take care of for you." "you take care of my money for me!" returned grit disdainfully. "i know very well how you would take care of it. you've already spent a part of the five dollars you received for stolen property at the tavern, and the result is that you can't walk straight." "you lie! i can walk as straight as you!" said brandon, and proceeded to prove it by falling against a tree, and recovering his equilibrium with difficulty. "i see you can," said grit sarcastically. "of course i can. where did you get that boat? is it the same----" "the same you stole from me? no, it isn't." "have you bought it?" inquired brandon, with a cunning look. "no, i haven't, and i don't intend to buy another boat for you to sell. i have borrowed it of my friend, jesse burns." mr. brandon looked disappointed. he had thought the new boat would prove a second bonanza, and he was already considering whether he could find another purchaser for it. "have you made much money this mornin', grit?" next inquired brandon, changing the conversation. "i decline to tell you," answered grit shortly. "grit, you don't seem to reflect that i am your stepfather, and set in authority over you." "i am not very likely to forget that i have a stepfather i am ashamed of," said grit. "this is unkind, grit," said brandon, in a voice tremulous with maudlin sentiment. "because i've been unfortunate, and have been shut out from all enjoyment for five years, you mock and insult me when i get home and pine for domestic happiness." "if you would behave decently, you wouldn't be reminded of the past," said grit. "but how is it? you haven't been home but twenty-four hours, and have already borrowed all the money mother had, and have sold my boat, to gratify your taste for rum. there may be more contemptible men in the world, but i never met with one." "grit, if you talk to me in that way," said brandon, with attempted dignity, "i shall be under the necessity of flogging you." "you'd better not try it, mr. brandon. i wouldn't stand still while you were doing it. i promise you that." just then two gentlemen came down to phil's pier, and one asked: "can you take us across to portville?" "yes, sir," answered grit promptly. the two gentlemen got in, and grit was about to push off, when brandon said: "stop, grit; i'll go, too." "you'll have to wait, mr. brandon," said grit coolly, and a determined push sent the boat out into the stream, and frustrated the design of his stepfather. "you don't want any more passengers, i see," said one of the gentlemen, smiling. "not of that kind," answered grit. "you are right. the man had evidently been drinking, and his presence would have been disagreeable to us." when the boat reached the opposite shore, the gentleman who had engaged him handed grit half a dollar. grit was about to offer change, but the passenger said: "no, keep the change, my lad. you'll find a use for it, i make no doubt." "after all," thought grit, who did not forget to thank his liberal patron, "this isn't going to be so bad a day for me." five minutes later a man with a heavy black beard and rather shabbily attired presented himself as a passenger. "i say, boy," said he, "do you know a man named brandon that has recently gone to chester?" "yes," answered grit. "all right. when we get over on the other side, you can just point out to me where he lives." chapter xvi. mr. brandon's friend. it was clear that grit's new passenger was a stranger in the neighborhood. had he been a resident of chester or portville, the young boatman would have known him. it must be confessed, however, that the appearance of the newcomer was not such as to render any one anxious to make his acquaintance. he was a black-haired, low-browed man, with a cunning, crafty look, and, to sum up, with the general appearance of a tramp. he seated himself comfortably, and scanned the young boatman critically. "where do you live?" he asked abruptly. "in chester," answered grit briefly. "that's where my friend brandon lives, isn't it?" "yes." "do you know him?" "yes." grit felt reluctant to admit that any tie existed between himself and the returned convict. "brandon's wife is living, isn't she?" "yes." "there's a kid, isn't there?" "mrs. brandon has a son, if that's what you mean," said grit. "of course, that's what i mean. mrs. brandon got any property?" grit was getting provoked. he did not fancy discussing his mother's affairs with a man of this stamp. "you seem to feel considerable interest in the family," he could not help saying. "s'pose i do! that's my business, isn't it?" "i suppose so," answered grit. "well, why don't you answer my question?" demanded the passenger impatiently. "i haven't agreed to answer your questions; i have engaged to row you across the river, and i am doing it." "look here, boy!" said the passenger, bending his brows, "i don't want you to talk back to me--do you hear?" "yes, i hear; but if you ask me questions i shall answer as i please." "you will, hey? i've a great mind to throw you into the river." "that wouldn't do you any good. you wouldn't get over any quicker, and, besides, you would find yourself under arrest before night." "and you would drown." "not if i could help it. i can swim across the river easily." "you're a cool hand. then you are not willing to answer my questions?" "i will, if you will answer mine." "go ahead. i'll see about it." "where did you meet mr. brandon?" "where? well, let that pass." it so happened that the two had first met as fellow prisoners--a confession the passenger did not care to make. grit inferred this from the reluctance displayed in giving the answer. "what is your name?" "thomas travers," answered the passenger, rather slowly. "what is yours?" "harry morris." this answer revealed nothing, since travers did not know the name of brandon's wife before marriage. "do you make much, ferrying passengers across the river?" "i do pretty well." "what is your fare?" "ten cents." "pretty good. i'd do it for that myself." "there's a chance to run opposition to me," said grit, smiling. "i've got more important business on hand. so you know brandon, do you?" "yes, i know him." "do you know his wife?" "yes." "has she property?" "she owns the small cottage she lives in." "good!" said travers, nodding. "that's luck for brandon." "how is it?" asked grit, desirous of drawing out travers, as he probably knew mr. brandon's intentions, and it was important that these should be understood. "it's a good thing to have property in the family. my friend brandon is short of funds, and he can sell the house, or raise money on it." "without his wife's consent?" "oh, she'll have to give in," said travers nonchalantly. "we'll see about that," said grit to himself, but he did not utter his thoughts aloud. by this time they had reached the opposite shore of the river, and travers stepped out of the boat. he felt in his vest pocket, as a matter of form, but did not succeed in finding anything there. "i've got no change, boy," he said. "i'll get some from brandon, and pay you to-morrow." "mr. brandon's credit isn't good with me," said grit. "ha, does he owe you money?" "i refused to take him across the river this morning," answered grit. "look here, young fellow, that isn't the way to carry on business. when you insult my friend brandon, you insult me. i've a great mind never to ride across on your boat again." "i don't mind losing your patronage," repeated grit. "it doesn't pay." "we'll discuss that another time. where does my friend brandon live?" "you can inquire," returned grit, by no means anxious to point out the way to his mother's house to this objectionable stranger. "you're the most impudent boy i've met lately," said travers angrily. "i'll settle you yet." "better settle with me first, mr. travers," said grit coolly, and he pushed his boat back into the stream. "i wonder who he is," thought travers, as he walked away from the boat landing. "i must ask brandon. i wish i could meet him. i'm precious short of funds, and i depend on him to take care of me for a few days." thomas travers passed by the little cottage on the bluff, quite unaware that it was the house he was in search of. he kept on his way toward the village, not meeting any one of whom he could ask the proper direction. at length, greatly to his relief, he espied in the distance the familiar figure of brandon, walking, or, more properly, reeling, toward him. "that's he--that's my friend brandon!" he exclaimed joyfully. "now i'm all right. say, old fellow, how are you?" "is it you, travers?" said brandon, trying to steady himself. "yes, it's i--tom travers." "when did you get out?" "sh! don't speak too loud!" said travers, looking about him cautiously. "i got out two days after you." "what are you doing here?" "just come. come to see you, old boy. i can stay with you, can't i?" brandon looked dubious. "i don't know what mrs. b. will say," he answered slowly. "you're boss in your own house, ain't you?" "well, that's where it is! it isn't my own house. it belongs to mrs. b." "same thing, i take it." "no, it isn't. the old lady's bound to keep it in her own hands." "can't you sell or mortgage it?" "she won't let me." "bah! can't you control a woman?" returned travers disdainfully. "i might, but for the cub." "the boy?" "yes. he's the most obstinate, perverse, independent young kid you ever saw." "you don't say so!" "fact! it's pretty hard on me." "then he'll make a pretty good match for the boy i met this morning." "where?" "the boy that ferried me across the river. he's as sassy a young kid as i ever saw." "why, that's him--that's grit." "grit! he told me his name was harry morris." "so it is, and his mother was mrs. morris before i married her." "you don't mean to say that boy is your stepson?" "yes, he is." "whew!" whistled travers. "well, he doesn't seem to admire you very much," continued the visitor. "no, doesn't treat me with any respect. if it wasn't for him, i could manage his mother. he sets her against me, and gets her to stand out against anything i propose. it's hard, travers," continued brandon, showing an inclination to indulge in maudlin tears. "then why do you submit to it, brandon? ain't you a match for a boy like that? why, you ain't half the man i thought you was." "ain't i? i was too much for grit this morning, anyway," said brandon, with a cunning smile. "what did you do?" "i sold his boat before he was up, and he had to borrow another." "good!" exclaimed travers, delighted. "you're a trump. have you got any of the money left?" "a little." "then steer for the tavern, old fellow. i'm awfully thirsty." the next hour was spent in the barroom, and then the worthy and well-matched pair bent their steps toward the little cottage, travers supporting his friend brandon as well as he could. chapter xvii. an unwelcome visitor. mrs. brandon was laying the cloth for dinner when she heard a scuffling sound, as of footsteps, in the entry. "who is with mr. brandon?" she thought. "it can't be grit. they wouldn't be likely to come home together." her uncertainty was soon at an end, for the door was opened, and her husband reeled in, sinking into the nearest chair, of necessity, for his limbs refused to support him. just behind him was mr. thomas travers, who was also under the influence of his recent potations, but not to the same extent as his companion. "how do, mrs. b.?" said her liege lord. "mrs. b., i have the pleasure of introducin' my frien' travers. come in, travers." mrs. brandon surveyed the two with a look of disgust, and did not speak. "i hope i see you well, ma'am," said travers, rather awkwardly, endeavoring, with some difficulty, to maintain an erect attitude. "sorry to intrude, but my old friend brandon insisted." "you can come in if you like," said mrs. brandon coldly. "i say, mrs. b., is dinner almost ready? my frien', mr. travers, is hungry, an' so'm i." "dinner is nearly ready. i suppose, mr. brandon, you have just come from the tavern." "yes, mrs. b., i've come from the tavern," hiccoughed brandon. "have you anything to say against it?" "i would say something if it would do any good," said his wife despondently. "if you think--hic--that i've been drinking mrs. b., you're mistaken; ain't she, travers?" "you didn't drink enough to hurt you, brandon," said his companion, coming to his assistance. mrs. brandon looked at travers, but did not deign to answer him. it was clear that his assurance possessed no value in her eyes. she continued her preparations, and laid the dinner on the table. then she went to the door, and, shading her eyes, looked out, hoping to see grit on his way home. but she looked in vain. just as he was about fastening his boat, or, rather, the boat he had borrowed, two passengers came up and wished to be conveyed across the river. "my dinner can wait," thought grit. "i must not disappoint passengers." so his coming home was delayed, and brandon and his friend had the field to themselves. when dinner was ready, brandon staggered to the table and seated himself. "sit down, travers," he said. "you're in my house, and you must make yourself at home." he said this a little defiantly, for he saw by mrs. brandon's expression that she was not pleased with his friend's presence. "i'm glad to hear it," said travers, with a knowing smile. "i was told that the house belonged to your wife." "it's the same thing, isn't it, mrs. b.?" returned brandon. "not quite," answered his wife bitterly. "if it were, we should not have a roof over our heads." "there you go again!" said brandon fiercely, pounding the table with the handle of his knife. "don't let me hear no more such talk. i'm master here, d'ye hear that?" "that's the talk, brandon!" said travers approvingly. "i like to hear a man show proper independence. of course you're master here." mrs. brandon was of a gentle nature, but she was roused to resentment by this rudeness. turning to travers, she said: "i don't know who you are, sir, but your remarks are offensive and displeasing." "i'm the friend of my friend brandon," said travers insolently, "and as long as he don't complain of my remarks, i shall remark what i please. what d'ye say, brandon?" "quite right, travers, old boy! you're in my house, and i expect you to be treated accordingly. mrs. b., you will be kind enough to remember that this gen'leman is a frien' of mine," and brandon closed the sentence with a drunken hiccough. "i think it necessary to say that this house belongs to me," said mrs. brandon, "and that no one is welcome here who does not treat me with respect." "spunky, eh?" said travers, laughing rudely. "yes, she's spunky," said brandon, "but we'll cure her of that, eh, travers?--the same way as i cured that boy of hers." "that was good!" laughed travers. "he's an impudent young rascal." mrs. brandon was alarmed. what did they mean by these references? what had been done to grit, and how had he been served? was it possible that brandon had dared to use violence to the boy? the very thought hardened her, and gave her courage. "mr. brandon," she said, with flashing eyes, "what do you mean? what have you done to grit? have you dared to illtreat him? if you have, it will be a bad day's work for you." "ha! she threatens you, brandon. now, brace up, man, and show your spunk," said travers, enjoying the scene. "i'm not accountable to you, mrs. b.," stammered brandon, in what he essayed to make a dignified tone. "grit is my stepson, and i'm his natural guardian." "mr. brandon, what have you done to grit?" persisted his wife, with flashing eyes. "have you dared to lay a finger upon him?" "i'll lay two fingers, three fingers, on him, if i like," said brandon doggedly. "he's a sassy puppy, mrs. b." mrs. brandon became more and more anxious. generally, grit was home by this time, and his failure to appear led the anxious mother to conclude that he had been injured by her husband. "where is grit?" she asked, with startling emphasis. "he's all right," stammered brandon. "he's all right, but he isn't happy," said travers, laughing. "that was a good move of yours, selling his boat." "did you sell grit's boat, mr. brandon?" demanded his wife quickly. "yes, i did, mrs. b. have you got anything to say against it?" "i say that it was a mean, contemptible, dishonest act!" said mrs. brandon warmly. "you have taken away the poor boy's means of living, in order to gratify your love of drink. the food which you are eating was bought with his earnings. how do you expect to live, now that you have taken away his boat?" "he'll get along; he's got sixty dollars," said brandon thickly. "sixty dollars won't last forever. to whom did you sell the boat?" "phil courtney." "he was just the boy to buy it. little he cared for the harm he was doing my poor grit. how much did he pay you?" "five dollars." "and how much of the money have you got left?" brandon drew out two silver half-dollars from his pocket. "that's all i've got left," he said. "and you have actually squandered four dollars on liquor, you and your friend!" said mrs. brandon--"nearly the whole sum you received for my poor boy's boat!" "hush up, mrs. b.! it's none of your business," said brandon. "that's the way to talk, brandon!" said travers, surveying the scene with boorish delight. "i like to see a man show the proper spirit of a man. i like to see a man master in his own house." "you would not insult me so if grit were here!" said mrs. brandon, with a red spot on either cheek. "mr. brandon, i tolerate your presence here, because i was foolish enough to accept you as my husband. as for this man whom you have brought here, he is unwelcome. he has dared to insult me while sitting at my table, and i ask him in your presence to leave the house." "travers is my frien'; he will stay here, mrs. b., and don't you forget it!" brandon pounded the table as he spoke, and nodded his head vigorously. "sorry to disappoint you, mrs. brandon," said travers impudently, "but when my friend brandon tells me to stay, stay i must. if you don't enjoy my being here, let me suggest to you, in the politest manner, to go and take a walk. eh, brandon?" "yes, go take a walk!" said brandon, echoing his friend's remark. "i'll have you to know, mrs. b., that this is my house, an' i am master here. my frien' travers will stay here as long as he pleases." "that's the talk, brandon. i knew you weren't under petticoat government. you're too much of a man for that." "yesh, i'm too much of a man for that," said brandon sleepily. travers took from his pocket a clay pipe, and, deliberately filling the bowl with tobacco, began to smoke. as he leaned back in his chair, winking insolently at mrs. brandon, the poor woman cried: "will no one relieve me from this insolent intruder?" the words caught the ears of grit, who entered at this moment. he looked from one to the other of the two men who sat at his mother's table, and his eyes flashed, and his boyish form dilated with passion. chapter xviii. a stormy time. "what does this mean?" demanded grit, in a stern voice. "what have these men been doing?" "oh, grit, i am glad you are here!" said his mother. "mr. brandon has brought this man here against my will, and he has treated me rudely." travers looked round and saw the boy. "hello, my young friend!" he said. "you didn't tell me that my friend brandon was your stepfather." "because i was ashamed of it," answered grit promptly. "d'ye hear that, brandon?" said travers. "the boy says he is ashamed of you." "i'll settle with him when i feel better," said brandon, who realized that he was not in a condition even to deal with a boy. "he's a bad-mannered cub, an' deserves a floggin'." "you won't give it to me!" said grit contemptuously. "what is the name of this man you have brought into the house?" "he's my frien' travers," answered brandon. "my frien' travers is a gen'l'man." "a gentleman isn't insolent to ladies," retorted grit. "mr. travers, if that is your name, my mother wishes you to leave the house." "couldn't do it," said travers, leering. "my frien' brandon wants me to stay--don't you, brandon?" "certainly, travers. this is my house, an' i'm master of the house. don't you mind what mrs. b. or this cub says. just stay where you are, and stand by me." "i'll do it with pleasure," said travers. "my friend brandon is the master of this house, and what he says i will do." "mr. travers," said grit firmly, "you shall not stay here. this house belongs to my mother, and she wishes you to go. i suppose you can understand that?" "my dear boy, you may as well shut up. i shan't go." "you won't!" said grit menacingly. "oh, grit, don't get into any difficulty," said his mother, becoming alarmed. travers puffed away at his pipe, surveying grit with an insulting smile. "listen to your mother, boy!" he said. "she talks sense." "mother," said grit quietly, "will you be kind enough to go up-stairs for five minutes? i will deal with these men." "i will go if you think it best, grit; but do be cautious. i am sure mr. travers will see the impropriety of his remaining here against my wishes." "i may see it in a few days," said travers insolently. "don't trouble yourself, ma'am. the law is on my side, and i am the guest of my friend brandon. isn't that so, brandon?" "to be sure, travers," said brandon, in a drowsy tone. "mr. brandon's friends are not welcome here," said grit, "nor is he himself welcome." "that's an unkind thing for your own boy to say," said brandon, in a tone which he tried to make pathetic. "because i've been unfortunate, my own family turn against me." "if you had behaved decently, mr. brandon, we would have tolerated your presence," said grit; "but during the short time you have been here, you have annoyed and robbed my mother and myself, and spent the money you stole at the tavern. we have had enough of you!" "do you hear that, travers?" asked brandon, by a ludicrous transition shedding maudlin tears. "do you hear that ungrateful boy?" meanwhile, mrs. brandon, in accordance with grit's request, had left the room. grit felt that the time had come for decisive measures. he was not a quarrelsome boy, nor was he given to fighting, but he had plenty of spirit, and he was deeply moved and provoked by the insolence of travers. some consideration he perhaps owed to his mother's husband; but to his disreputable companion, none whatever. "mr. travers," he said, with cool determination, turning toward the intruder, "did you hear me say that my mother desired you to leave the house?" "i don't care that for your mother!" said travers, snapping his fingers. "my friend brandon----" he did not complete the sentence. grit could not restrain himself when he heard this insolent defiance of his mother, and, without a moment's hesitation, he approached travers, with one sweep of his arm dashed the pipe he was smoking into a hundred pieces, and, seizing the astonished visitor by the shoulders, pushed him forcibly to the door and thrust him out. travers was so astonished that he was quite unable to resist, nor indeed was he a match for the strong and muscular boy in his present condition. "well, that beats all i ever heard of!" he muttered, as he stumbled into a sitting position on the door-step. brandon stared at grit and his summary proceeding in a dazed manner. "wha--what's all this, grit?" he asked, trying to rise from his chair. "how dare you treat my friend travers so rudely?" grit's blood was up. his cheeks were flushed, and his eyes sparkled with resentment. "mr. brandon," he said, "we have borne with you, my mother and i, but this has got to stop. when you bring one of your disreputable friends here to insult my mother, you've got me to deal with. don't you dare bring that man here again!" this was, i admit, rather a singular tone for a boy of grit's age to assume, but it must be considered what provocation he had. circumstances had made him feel older than he really was. for nearly five years he had been his mother's adviser, protector, and dependence, and he felt indignant through and through at the mean and dastardly course of his stepfather. "don't be sassy, grit," said brandon, slipping back into his chair. "i'm the master of this house." "that is where you are mistaken, mr. brandon," said grit. "perhaps you are," retorted brandon, with mild sarcasm. "this house has no master. my mother is the mistress and owner," said grit. "i'm goin' to flog you, grit, when i feel better." "i'm willing to wait," said grit calmly. here there was an interruption. the ejected guest rose from his sitting posture on the steps, and essayed to lift the latch and gain fresh admittance. he failed, for grit, foreseeing the attempt, had bolted the door. finding he could not open the door, travers rattled the latch and called out: "open the door, brandon, and let me in!" "open the door, grit," said his stepfather, not finding it convenient to rise. "i refuse to do so, mr. brandon," said grit, in a firm tone. "why don't you let me in?" was heard from the outside, as travers rattled the latch once more. "i'll have to open it myself," said brandon, half rising and trying to steady himself. the attempt was vain, for he had already drunk more than was good for him when he met travers, and had drunk several glasses on top of that. instead of going to the door, he sank helpless and miserable on the floor. "that disposes of him," said grit, eying the prostrate form with a glance of disgust and contempt. "i shall be able to manage the other one now with less trouble." "let me in, brandon!" repeated travers, beginning to pound on the door. grit went to a window on a line with the door, and, raising it, looked out at the besieging force. "mr. travers," he said, "you may as well go away; you won't get back into the house." "my friend brandon will let me in. you're only a boy. my friend brandon is the master of the house. he will let me in." "your friend brandon is lying on the floor, drunk, and doesn't hear you," said grit. "then i'll let myself in!" said travers, with an oath. he picked up a rock, and began to pound the door, to the imminent danger of breaking the panels. "there's more than one way to get in. when i get in, i'll mash you!" the time had come for decisive action. drunk as he was, travers would sooner or later break down the door, and then there would be trouble. grit seized an old pistol which lay on the mantel-piece. it had long been disused, and was so rusty that it was very doubtful whether any use could have been made of it. still it presented a formidable appearance, as the young boatman pointed it at travers. "stop pounding that door, or i fire!" grit exclaimed, in a commanding tone. travers turned quickly at the word, and as he saw the rusty weapon pointed at him, his small stock of courage left him, and he turned pale, for he was a coward at heart. "for the lord's sake, don't fire!" he cried hastily. chapter xix. travers picks up a friend. travers looked the picture of fright as he beheld the rusty pistol which grit pointed at him. "don't fire, for the lord's sake!" he repeated, in alarm. "will you go away, then, and give up troubling us?" demanded the young boatman sternly. "yes, yes, i'll go," said travers hurriedly. "lower that pistol. it might go off." grit lowered the weapon, as desired, seeing that travers was likely to keep his word. "tell brandon i want to see him. i will be at the tavern this afternoon at four o'clock." "i'll tell him," said grit, who preferred that his stepfather should be anywhere rather than at home. having got rid of travers, grit turned to survey his stepfather, who was lying on the floor, breathing heavily. his eyes were closed, and he seemed in a drunken stupor. "how long have we got to submit to this?" thought grit. "i must go up and consult with mother about what is to be done." he went up-stairs, and found his mother seated in her chamber, nervously awaiting the issue of the interview between grit and the worthy pair below. "are they gone, grit?" she asked quickly. "travers is gone, mother. i turned him out of the house." "did you have any trouble with him?" "i should have had, but he was too weak to resist me, on account of having drunk too much." "i thought i heard him pounding on the door." "so he did, but i frightened him away with the old pistol," and grit laughed at the remembrance. "he thought it was loaded." "he may come back again," said mrs. brandon apprehensively. "yes, he may. brandon is likely to draw such company. i wish we could get rid of him, too." "what a fatal mistake i made in marrying that man!" said mrs. brandon mournfully. "that is true, mother but it can't be helped now. the question is, what shall we do?" "where is he?" "lying on the floor, drunk," said grit, in a tone of disgust. "we may as well leave him there for the present." "he has hardly been home twenty-four hours, yet how he has changed our quiet life. if he would only reform!" "not much chance of that, mother." "what shall we do, grit?" asked mrs. brandon, who was wont to come to grit, young as he was, for advice. "i have thought of two ways. i might buy him a ticket for boston, if i thought he would use it. it would be of no use to give him the money, or he would spend it at the tavern instead." "if he would only leave us to ourselves, it would a blessing." "if he won't hear of that, there is another way." "what is it?" "i could engage board for you and myself at the house of one of our neighbors for a week." "what good would that do, grit?" "you would prepare no meals at home, and mr. brandon would be starved out. while he can live upon us, and raise money to buy liquor at the tavern, there is little chance of getting rid of him." "i don't know, grit. it seems a harsh thing to do." "but consider the circumstances, mother. we can't allow him to continue annoying us as he has done." "do as you think best, grit." "then i will go over to mrs. sprague's and ask if she will take us for a few days. that will probably be sufficient." going down-stairs, grit saw his stepfather still lying on the floor. grit's step aroused him, and he lifted his head. "'s'that you grit?" he asked, in thick accents. "yes, sir." "where's my frien' travers?" "he's gone." "where's he gone?" "to the tavern. he said he would meet you there at four o'clock." "what time is it?" asked brandon, trying to get up. "two o'clock." "i'll be there. you tell him so, grit." "i will if i see him." grit went on his way to mrs. sprague's, and had no difficulty in making the arrangement he desired for his mother and himself, when she learned that mr. brandon was not to come, too. "i feel for your mother, grit," she said. "if i can help her in this trial, i certainly will." "thank you, mrs. sprague. i will return and tell her. perhaps she may come over by the middle of the afternoon. i don't like to leave her alone in the house with mr. brandon." "she will be welcome whenever she comes, grit." "you had better go over at once, mother," said grit, on his return. "a drunken man is not fit company for you." mrs. brandon was easily persuaded to take the step recommended, and her husband was left in the house alone. meanwhile, travers went on his way to the tavern. it was rather a serious thing for him to be turned out of his friend's house, for he had but a scanty supply of money, and his appearance was not likely to give him credit. "confound that boy!" he muttered. "he's just reckless enough to shoot me, if i don't give up to him. i pity brandon, having such a son as that." it would have been more in order to pity grit for having such a stepfather, but travers looked upon the matter from his own point of view, which, it is needless to say, was influenced by his own interests. "will they take me at the tavern?" he thought to himself. "if they won't, i shall have to sleep out, and that would be hard for a gentleman like me." when we are in a tight place, help often comes from unexpected quarters, and this to those who hardly deserve such a favor. so it happened in the case of travers. as he was walking slowly along, his face wrinkled with perplexity, he attracted the attention of a tall man, dressed in black, who might readily have passed for a clergyman, so far as his externals went. he crossed the street, and accosted travers. "my friend," he said, "you appear to be in trouble." "so i am," answered travers readily. "of what nature?" "i've just been turned out of the house of the only friend i have in the village, and i don't know where to go." "go to the tavern." "so i would if i had money enough to pay my score. you haven't got five dollars to spare, have you?" travers had no expectation of being answered in the affirmative, and he was surprised, as well as gratified, when the stranger drew out his wallet, and, taking therefrom a five-dollar bill, put it into his hand. "there," said he. "well!" exclaimed the astonished travers, "you're a gentleman if ever there was one. may i know the name of such an--an ornament to his species?" the stranger smiled. "i am glad you appreciate my little favor," he said. "as to my name, you may call me colonel johnson." "proud to know you, colonel," said travers, clasping the hand of his new acquaintance warmly. "what is your name?" asked johnson. "thomas travers." "i am glad to know you, mr. travers," said the colonel. "let me drop you a hint. there's more money where that came from." "you couldn't lend me any more, could you?" asked travers eagerly. "well, not exactly lend, mr. travers, but perhaps we can enter into a little business arrangement." "all right, colonel," said travers briskly. "i'm out of business. fact is, i've been in seclusion lately--confined to the house in fact, and haven't been able to earn anything." "just so. suppose we take a walk in yonder field, and i will tell you what i have in view." they got over a fence, and walked slowly along a path that led a quarter of a mile farther on into the woods. here they sat down under a tree, and colonel johnson, producing a couple of cigars and a match, said: "i can always talk better when i am smoking. have one, travers." "you're a man after my own heart, colonel," said travers enthusiastically. "now, if i only had a nip i should be in clover." "take one, then," said the colonel, producing a pocket-flask of brandy. travers was by no means bashful in accepting this invitation. chapter xx. a promising plan. the conference between colonel johnson and travers was apparently of great interest to the latter. it is important that the reader should be made acquainted with its nature. "i take it for granted, mr. travers," said the colonel, after their potation, "that you are ready to undertake a job if there is money in it." "that's as true as you live," said travers emphatically. "am i also right in concluding that you are not squeamish as to how the money is earned? you are not overburdened with conscientious scruples, eh?" "not much! they're all nonsense," returned travers. "good! i see you are the sort of a man i took you for. now you must, to begin with, promise that you will regard as confidential what i am about to say to you." "tom travers can be relied upon, colonel. he's safe every time." "good again! then i shall not hesitate to unfold to you my little plan. i believe you have a bank in the village?" "yes; but, colonel, i am a stranger here. i only know one person here--my friend brandon." "is he--the same kind of a man as yourself?" inquired johnson. "the same identical kind, colonel. what is it shakespeare, or some other poet, says: "'two flowers upon a single stalk, two hearts that beat as one.'" "i compliment you on your knowledge of poetry, mr. travers. i didn't think it was in you." travers looked complimented. "i've had an education, colonel," he said complacently, "though circumstances have been against me for the last four years. as for my friend brandon, he's one you can rely upon." "i shall probably require his services as well as yours," said johnson. "now let me proceed. you agree with me that bank capitalists are grasping monopolists, that they grind down the poor man, and live in luxury at the expense of the poor laborer." "just my notion, colonel!" "and whatever we can get out of them is what they richly deserve to lose?" "just so!" "well and good! i see you agree with me. and now, friend travers, i will tell you what i have in view, and why it is that i need the services of two gentlemen like you and your friend. the fact is"--here johnson dropped the mask, being assured of the character of his listener--"there's a good haul to be made within three days--a haul which, if successful, will make all three of us easy in our circumstances for years to come." "go ahead, colonel. i'm with you, and my friend brandon, too. i'll answer for him. we both need a lift mightily." "i learn--no matter how"--said johnson, lowering his voice, "that a messenger from the bank goes to boston day after to-morrow with a package of thirty thousand dollars in government bonds. he's to carry them to the merchant's national bank in boston. these bonds are not registered, but coupon bonds, and can easily be sold. they are at a premium of fifteen or sixteen per cent., which would bring up the value to nearly or quite thirty-five thousand dollars." travers listened with eager interest. he began to understand the service that was expected of him, but it did not apparently shock him. "well?" he said. "my plan," continued colonel johnson, "is for you and your friend to follow this bank messenger, and between here and boston to relieve him of this package. you will meet me at a spot agreed upon in or near the city, and i will take the package." "you will take the package?" repeated travers blankly. "yes, but i will reward you liberally for your service. you and brandon will each receive from me, in case the affair succeeds, the sum of five thousand dollars." "i thought we would share and share alike," said travers, in a tone of disappointment. "nonsense, man! isn't it my plan? am i to reap no benefit from my own conception? besides, shall i not have the care and responsibility of disposing of the bonds? this will involve danger." "so will our part involve danger," objected travers. "that is true, but your hazard is small. there will be two of you to one bank messenger. besides, i take it for granted that you will be adroit enough to relieve the messenger without his knowing anything about it. when he discovers his loss you will be out of sight. it strikes me you will be rewarded very handsomely for the small labor imposed upon you." travers made a further effort to secure better terms, but his new acquaintance was firm in refusing them. the result was, that travers unconditionally accepted for himself and brandon. "when shall you see your friend brandon, as you call him?" inquired the colonel. "this very afternoon," answered travers promptly. "good! i like your promptness." "that is, if i can," continued travers, a shade doubtfully, for he remembered the summary manner in which he had been ejected from the house of his congenial companion and friend. "very well. then we will postpone further debate till you have done so. i shall stay at the tavern here, and you can readily find me." "i will stay there, too. i was staying with my friend brandon, but his wife and her son did not treat me well, and i left them. they want to separate us--old friends as we are." "they are jealous of you," suggested johnson, smiling. "just so, but i'll euchre them yet." the two walked together to the road, and there they separated, johnson suggesting that it might be prudent for them not to be seen together too much. travers assented, and turned back in the direction of the house he had recently left under rather mortifying circumstances. "the boy'll be gone to his boat," he thought, "and i don't care for the old lady. she doesn't like me, but i can stand that. i must see my friend brandon, if i can." although travers decided that grit had returned to his boat, he approached the house cautiously. he thought it possible that grit might still be on guard with the formidable pistol which he had pointed at him an hour or more earlier, and he did not like the looks of the weapon. "it might go off!" he thought. "that plaguy boy is awfully reckless, and he wouldn't mind shooting a gentleman, if he felt like it. i'd like to pitch him into the water, pistol and all," he ejaculated fervently, in conclusion. as i have said, travers approached the little cottage with cautious steps. drawing near, he listened to see if he could hear any sound of voices that would betray the presence of the boy he wished to avoid. all was still. nothing was to be heard but the deep breathing of brandon, who still lay on the floor in a stupor. grit was back at his boat, and mrs. brandon had already left the house and gone to spend the remainder of the afternoon with her neighbor. brandon was, therefore, the only occupant of the cottage. "i hear my friend brandon," said travers to himself. "i can hear nothing of the boy. he must be away." by way of ascertaining definitely, travers moved round to the window and peered in. he caught sight of the prostrate figure of brandon, but could see no one else. "it's all right," he said to himself, in a satisfied tone. he tried the door, and found it unlocked. he entered, and stooping over, seized brandon by the shoulder, and called him loudly by name. "i say, brandon, wake up!" "go away, grit," said brandon drowsily. "it isn't grit. it's i--your friend travers," said that gentleman. "thought my friend travers was gone," muttered brandon, opening his eyes. "so i did go, but i've come back. i want to see you on important business." "'portant business?" repeated brandon. "yes, very important business. do you want to earn five thousand dollars?" "five thousand dollars!" said brandon, roused by this startling inquiry. "'course i do." "then rouse yourself, and i'll tell you all about it. here, let me bring you some water, and you can dip your face in it. it will bring you to yourself sooner than anything else." brandon acceded to the proposal, and was soon in a clearer state of mind. travers proceeded to unfold his plan, after learning that mrs. brandon was out; but he had a listener he did not know of. grit had come home for something he had forgotten, and, with his ear to the keyhole, heard the whole plot. he listened attentively. when all was told, he said to himself: "i'll foil them, or my name isn't grit!" chapter xxi. mr. brandon loses his supper. when brandon and travers had discussed the plan, and decided to accept the terms offered by colonel johnson, the latter, looking cautiously about, inquired: "where's the boy?" "out with the boat, i expect," said brandon. "he's a little ruffian. i never saw such a desperate boy of his age." "he managed you neatly," said brandon, with a smile. "pooh!" returned travers, who did not like the allusion. "i didn't want to hurt the boy." "he didn't want to harm you," said brandon, with an exasperating smile. "i could wind him round my finger," said travers disdainfully. "you don't think i'm afraid of that half-grown cub, i hope." grit heard this, and smiled to himself at the evident annoyance of travers. "as to winding me round his finger," thought the young boatman, "i may have something to say about that." brandon did not continue his raillery, not wishing to provoke the friend who had secured him participation in so profitable a job. "where's the old lady?" asked travers, with a glance toward the staircase. "i believe she's gone out, but i'll see." brandon went to the foot of the stairs, and called: "mrs. b.!" there was no response. "yes, she's gone, and the coast is clear. where are you staying, travers?" "i s'pose i'll have to stay at the hotel, unless you can provide for me here." "you'd better go to the tavern, for there might be trouble about keepin' you here. mrs. b. and the boy don't like you." "i thought you were master of the house," said travers, with mild sarcasm. "so i am," answered brandon, a little embarrassed, "but i don't want to be in hot water all the time." "you don't want me to stay to supper, i reckon." "well, i guess not to-night. fact is, i don't know when we shall have supper. mrs. b. ought to be here gettin' it ready." "come out and have a walk, brandon. i will introduce you to colonel johnson, and we can talk this thing over." "all right. that'll take up the time till supper." the two men walked over to the tavern, and colonel johnson walked out with them. they had a conference together, but it is not necessary to give the details here. a little after six o'clock brandon directed his steps homeward. "i'll be a little late to supper," he said to himself, "but mrs. b. will save some for me. i feel confoundedly hungry. must be in the air. there's nothing like country air to give a man a good appetite." brandon opened the door of the cottage, and went in. all was quiet and solitary, as he had left it. "well. i'll be blowed!" he ejaculated. "what does all this mean? where's mrs. b., and where's supper?" he sat down, and looked about him in surprise and bewilderment. "what has become of mrs. b.?" he thought. "she hasn't gone and left me, just when i've come home after an absence of five years? that boy can't have carried her off, can he?" brandon did not have long to debate this question in his own mind, for the door opened, and grit and his mother entered. brandon was relieved, but he could not forbear expressing his vexation. "well, mrs. b.," he said, "this i call pretty goings on. are you aware that it is nearly seven o'clock, ma'am?" "i supposed it was," answered his wife quietly. "and you've left me to starve here, ma'am! this is a strange time for supper." "we've had supper," answered grit coolly. "had supper!" ejaculated brandon, looking about him. "i don't see any signs of supper." "you won't see any signs of it here," continued grit. "what do you mean?" "i mean that mother and i have engaged board at mrs. sprague's. we have just had supper there." "you have! well, that's a new start. it doesn't matter much, though. i'll go over and get mine." "we haven't made any arrangements for you," said grit. "i shall pay for mother's board and mine. you can make any bargain you like for your board." "well, if that isn't the meanest treatment i ever received!" exclaimed brandon, in wrath and disgust. "you actually begrudge me the little i eat, and turn me adrift in the cold world!" "that's one way of looking at it, mr. brandon," said grit. "here's the other: you are a strong man, in good health, and able to work. most men in your position expect to support a family, but you come to live upon my earnings, and expect me not only to provide you with board, but with money for the purpose of drink. that isn't all! you bring home one of your disreputable companions, and expect us to provide for him, too. now, i am willing to work for mother, and consider it a privilege to do so, but i can't do any more. if you don't choose to contribute to the support of the family, you must at least take care of yourself. i am not going to do it." "how hard and unfeeling you are, grit!" said brandon, in the tone of a martyr. "after all i have suffered in the last five years you treat me like this." "as to the last five years, mr. brandon," said grit, "i should think you would hardly care to refer to them. it was certainly your own fault that you were not as free as i am." "i was a victim of circumstances," whined brandon. "we won't discuss that," said grit. "you had a fair trial, and were sentenced to five years' imprisonment. about the unkindness. i should like to know what you think of a man who deliberately takes away the means of earning a living from his stepson, who is filling his place, and supporting his family, in order to gratify his miserable love of drink." "you drove me to it, grit." "how did i drive you to it?" "you would not give me from your overflowing hoards, when i felt sick and in need of a mild stimulus. you had sixty dollars, and would not spare me one." "so you sold my boat for half price, and squandered nearly the whole proceeds in one forenoon!" exclaimed grit scornfully. "mr. brandon, your reasoning is altogether too thin. we have decided to leave you to support yourself as you can." here the glowing prospects offered by the plan suggested by colonel johnson occurred to brandon, and his tone changed. "you may find you have made a mistake, grit, you and mrs. b.," said brandon pompously. "you have snubbed and illtreated me because you looked upon me as a poor, destitute, friendless man. it's the way of the world! but you may regret it, and that very soon. what will you say when i tell you that i have a chance to earn five thousand dollars in the next five days, eh?" mrs. brandon looked surprised, for grit had not thought it wise to confide to his mother what he had heard of the conversation between travers and his stepfather. grit, on the other hand, was immediately interested, for the compensation offered was one of the things he had not overheard. "five thousand dollars!" he repeated, appearing to be surprised. "yes, five thousand dollars!" repeated brandon complacently. "that's a thousand dollars a day! perhaps you won't be so anxious to get rid of me when i am worth my thousands." "that's pretty good pay," said grit quietly. "what have you got to do?" "that would be telling," said brandon cunningly. "it's a joint speculation of my friend travers and myself--my friend travers, whom you treated so badly. it's he that's brought me this fine offer, and you insult and order him out of the house. you were just as bad as grit, mrs. b." "you are welcome to all you make, mr. brandon," said grit. "neither my mother nor myself will ask a penny of the handsome sum you expect to make. you can spend it all on yourself if you like. all we ask is, that you will take care of yourself, and leave us alone." "i mean to do so," said brandon independently, "but, as i shan't get the money for three or four days, i should like to borrow five dollars, and i'll repay you double within a week." "that's a very generous offer," said grit, "but i don't lend without better security." "isn't there anything to eat in the house, mrs. b.?" asked brandon, changing the subject. "i'm famished." "you will find some cold meat, and bread, and butter in the pantry." brandon went to the pantry, and satisfied his appetite as well as he could. he then went out, and grit soon followed. "mother," he said, "i have an important call to make, but will be back soon." it will be remembered that mr. courtney had formerly been president of the bank, but proving unpopular in consequence of his disposition to manage it in his own interest, mr. philo graves, a manufacturer, was put in his place. to the house of mr. graves grit directed his steps. chapter xxii. bank officials in council. mr. graves was at home, but he was not alone. mr. courtney had dropped in, and as he was still a director of the bank, it was natural that the conversation should turn upon affairs of the bank in which he and mr. graves had a common interest. though no longer president, mr. courtney was still anxious to control the affairs of the bank, and to make it of as much service to himself as possible. he had recently become interested in certain speculative securities, through a firm of wall street brokers, and finding himself rather cramped for money, desired to obtain a loan on them from the bank. to this end he had sought a preliminary interview with mr. graves, previous to making a formal application to the full board of directors. "you are aware, mr. courtney," said the president, "that to grant your request would be contrary to the general usage of the bank." "i ought to know the usage of the bank, having served as president for three years," said mr. courtney. "in my time such loans were made." mr. graves was aware of this, but he was also aware that such loans had been made on the former president's sole authority, and either to himself or some one of his friends, and that it was on account of this very circumstance that he had been removed from office. "i know that such loans were made, but i am equally certain that such a course would not meet the approval of the directors." "but," insinuated mr. courtney, "if you openly favored it, and my vote as director was given, we could probably influence enough other votes to accomplish our object." "i cannot say whether this would or would not follow," said mr. graves, "but i am bound to say for myself that i cannot recommend, or vote for, granting such a loan." "perhaps you think i am not responsible," said mr. courtney, irritated. "i presume you are, but that ought not to be considered, when the question is about violating our fixed usage." "it seems to me, considering my official connection with the bank, that a point might be strained in my favor." "that is not my view, mr. courtney; although i am now president, i should not care to ask any special favor of the bank. i prefer to be treated like any other customer." mr. courtney mentally voted graves slow and behind the times. in his views, one great advantage of holding a high financial position was to favor himself and his own interests, without special regard to the welfare of the corporation or stockholders. "you wouldn't find many bank presidents agree with you, mr. graves," said courtney impatiently. "i am sorry to hear it," returned the president gravely. "it seems to me that i owe a duty to the stockholders of the bank which ought to override any personal considerations." "you are very quixotic in your ideas," said courtney coldly. "i am sure i am right, at any rate," returned graves firmly. "i consider your refusal unfriendly--nay, more, i think it is calculated to throw suspicion on my financial position." "not at all. i have no reason to doubt your financial stability, and as to the unkindness, when i distinctly state that i would not ask such a favor for myself, you will see that i am disposed to treat you as well as myself." "it may be so," sneered courtney, "but i presume you are not at present in need of a personal loan, and--circumstances alter cases, you know." "if you mean that i shall at any future time ask favors for myself, which, i am not disposed to grant to you, you are mistaken," said the president. "my financial position is as strong as yours," said courtney rather irrelevantly. "very probably you are a richer man than i am, but as i said, that is not in question." at this point a servant entered, and said to the president: "mr. graves, there is a boy outside who says he wants to see you." "what boy is it?" "grit morris." "very well; you can bring him in." "the young boatman," said courtney contemptuously. "i wouldn't allow a boy like that to take up my time." "he may have something of importance to communicate. besides, i don't set so high a value on my time." this will illustrate the difference between the two men. mr. graves was pleasant and affable to all, while mr. courtney was stiff, and apparently always possessed of a high idea of his own importance and dignity. in this respect, his son phil was his counterpart. into the presence of these two gentlemen grit was admitted. "good morning, grit," said the president pleasantly. "take a seat. margaret tells me you wish to see me." "yes, sir, i wish to see you on a matter of importance." "perhaps he wants a loan from the bank," suggested mr. courtney scornfully. "if grit wanted a loan, he would not need to apply to the bank," said mr. graves, in a friendly manner. "i would lend him, myself." "thank you, mr. graves," said grit gratefully, "but i don't wish any loan for myself. my business relates to the bank, however." both gentlemen were rather surprised to hear this. they could not understand what business grit could have with the bank. "go on, grit," said mr. graves. "mr. courtney is one of our directors, so that you may speak freely before him." "i understand," commenced grit, coming at once to the point, "that you are intending to send up thirty thousand dollars in government bonds to the merchants' bank, in boston." mr. graves and mr. courtney looked at each other in surprise. this was a bank secret, and such matters were generally kept very close with them. "how did you learn this?" asked the president, in surprise, "and if so, what can you have to say in regard to it?" "perhaps he wants to be the messenger," said mr. courtney, with a derisive smile. grit took no notice of this, for his mind was occupied with the plan of the would-be robbers. "i will tell you at once," he said. "there is a plan to waylay the messenger, and relieve him of the bonds." here was a fresh surprise. mr. graves began to find grit's communication of absorbing interest. "how do you know this?" he asked cautiously. "because i overheard the robbers discussing their plan." "you say the robbers. then there are more than one?" "yes, there are two." "are you willing to tell me who they are, grit?" "that is what i came to tell you. i am sorry to say that one is my stepfather, as i am obliged to call him, mr. brandon." "mr. brandon? i thought he was----" here mr. graves paused, out of delicacy. "he has been in prison until a few days since," said grit, understanding what the president of the bank intended to say, "but now he is free." "and where is he?" "he is living at our house. since he got back, he has given my mother and myself a great deal of trouble. not content with living on us, he has spent what money he could get at the tavern, and because i would give him no more, he sold my boat without my knowledge." "that was bad, grit. to whom did he sell it?" asked mr. graves. "to mr. courtney's son phil!" answered grit. "my son's name is philip," said mr. courtney stiffly. "we boys generally call him phil," said grit, smiling. "however, that doesn't matter." "my son had a right to purchase the boat," said mr. courtney. "i have nothing to say as to that, at any rate now," returned grit. "i only mention it to show how mr. brandon has treated us." "who was the other conspirator, grit?" asked graves. "a companion of mr. brandon's, named travers. i understand they are to be employed by a third person, now staying at the hotel, a man named johnson." "one thing more, grit, how did you come to hear of their plan?" grit answered this question fully. he related how he had overheard the conference between his stepfather and travers in the afternoon. "this information is of great importance, grit," said the president. "if, as you say, there are three conspirators, there would be a very good chance of their succeeding in overpowering any messenger, and abstracting the bonds. as it happens, the bonds do not belong to the bank, but to an individual depositor, but it would be very unpleasant and mortifying to have them taken from our messenger. it might lead to a supposition on the part of some that we didn't keep our secrets well, but suffered a matter as important as this to become known outside. mr. courtney, what would you advise to be done in such an emergency?" courtney always looked important when his advice was asked, and answered promptly: "it is a very simple matter. put the messenger on his guard. supply him with a revolver, if need be, and if he is on the watch he can't be robbed." mr. graves looked thoughtful, and appeared to be turning over this advice in his mind. "if mr. courtney will excuse me," grit said, "i think there is a better plan than that." courtney's lip curled. "ask the boy's advice, by all means, mr. graves," he said, with a palpable sneer. "it must be very valuable, considering his experience and knowledge of the world." chapter xxiii. grit gives important advice. "let me hear your idea, grit," said mr. graves courteously. "i have little experience or knowledge of the world," said grit, "as mr. courtney says, or means to say, but it occurs to me to ask whether you have full confidence in your messenger?" "of course we have," said mr. courtney. "what foolish idea have you got in your head?" "tell me why this question occurs to you, grit?" asked the president. "i thought it possible that this colonel johnson, who employs the conspirators, as you call them, may have learned from the messenger that he was to be entrusted with a valuable package of bonds." "why on earth should the messenger reveal this news to a stranger?" demanded mr. courtney sharply. "because," said grit quietly, not allowing himself to be disturbed by the sneering tone of the ex-president, "he might be well paid for doing so." "nonsense!" said mr. courtney, but the president of the bank said thoughtfully: "there may be something in that." "i am sure the messenger is faithful," asserted mr. courtney positively, but it may be remarked that his confidence sprang rather from a desire to discredit grit's suggestion than from any real belief in the integrity of the bank messenger. "it isn't best to take this integrity for granted in a matter where a mistake would subject us to serious loss," observed president graves. "i hope he is reliable, but i do not shut my eyes to the fact that such a price as he might demand for conniving with these conspirators would be a strong temptation to a poor man like ephraim carver." "what are you going to do about it?" asked courtney. "for my part i am free to confess that i attach very little importance to the astounding discovery of this young man, who knows a good deal more, i presume, about managing a boat than managing a bank." "you are right there, mr. courtney," said grit good-naturedly. "i don't want mr. graves to attach any more importance to my suggestion than he thinks it deserves." "whatever your suggestion may be worth, grit," said the president of the bank, "there can be no doubt that you have brought me news of great importance. i shall not forget the obligation the bank is under to you." mr. courtney shrugged his shoulders. "the story looks to me very improbable," he said. "if i were still president of the bank, i should probably dismiss it as an idle fabrication." "then, mr. courtney," said mr. graves emphatically, "permit me to say that you would be wanting in your duty to the bank and its interests." "i understand the duties of a bank president at least as well as you, mr. graves," said mr. courtney stiffly. "after that remark you will not be surprised if i bid you good evening." "good evening!" said the president quietly, not attempting to call back or placate the offended director. "perhaps i had better go, too," said grit, rising from his chair. "no, grit, stay a few minutes longer; i wish to inquire further into this affair." "certainly, mr. graves, i will stay, with pleasure." mr. courtney heard this fragment of conversation, and it led him to say with pointed sarcasm, as he stood with the knob of the door in his hand: "perhaps i had better resign my position, and suggest this young boatman as bank director in my place." "i doubt whether grit would consider himself competent to discharge the duties of a director," said mr. graves, smiling. "it may come in time." mr. courtney shut the door hastily, and left the room. "mr. courtney is rather a peculiar man; you needn't mind him, grit," said mr. graves, when the ruffled director was gone. "he doesn't like me very much, nor phil, either," said grit. "it is lucky you are president of the bank now, and not he, for there is no humbug about the news i bring you." "i consider it highly important," said mr. graves, "as i have already stated. i am a little puzzled as to what i ought to do in the matter. as you say, the messenger himself may be in the plot. by the way, what put that idea into your head?" "i didn't know how otherwise colonel johnson could have learned about the bonds being sent up to boston." "frequently the messenger himself is ignorant of the service he is to render, but in this particular instance it happened that i told mr. carver that i should have occasion to send him to boston this week, and for what purpose." "i am sorry that one who is in any way connected with our family should be concerned in such a plot," said grit. "of course; that is natural. still, you did your duty in telling me of it. whatever consequences may follow, you have done right." "i can't take much credit to myself for that," said grit, "since i don't like mr. brandon, and it would be a great relief both to my mother and myself if he were away." "as i have already consulted you on this matter, grit," said the bank president, after a pause, "i am disposed to consult you further. have you any advice to offer as to the best course to pursue?" "yes, sir," answered grit. "as long as you don't think it presumption in me, i will tell you of a plan i thought of as i was coming here. in the first place, i would send the messenger as usual, without letting him know that he was suspected." "but that would involve risks, wouldn't it grit," objected mr. graves. "we can't afford to lose the bonds." "i did not intend that he should carry the bonds," continued grit. "i would make up a parcel, filled with old papers, of about the same size, and let him think he was carrying the bonds." "so far, so good, but what of the bonds? they would still be here, when we want them delivered in boston." "i have thought of that," said grit promptly. "either a little before or a little afterward, i would send them by another messenger." "good, grit! you're a trump!" said the banker, his face lighting up. "it's a capital plan. but one thing you have forgotten. we shall not in this way ascertain whether the messenger is in collusion with the conspirators--that is, not necessarily." "i think you can, sir. as i understand, this is the way in which the theft will be accomplished: the conspirators will make up a bundle of the same shape as the messenger's, and slyly substitute it at some point on the route. they will not openly rob him, for there will be no chance of doing so without attracting attention." "if the messenger is careful, they could not easily substitute a false for the true package." "that is true, and that is the reason why i think the messenger is in league with them. if he is careless, the change can easily be made. i understand brandon and travers are to receive five thousand dollars each for their services, and colonel johnson may, perhaps, have offered the same sum to mr. carver." "it would be a great temptation to a man employed on a small salary like carver," said mr. graves thoughtfully. "what do you think of my plan, mr. graves?" asked grit. "i think it a capital one. i shall adopt it in every detail. the only thing that remains is to decide whom to employ to carry the genuine package of bonds to boston. do you think of any one?" grit shook his head. "no, sir, i don't know of any one." "i do," said the president. "who is it?" asked grit, with considerable curiosity. "i mean to send you!" answered mr. graves. chapter xxiv. what grit overheard behind the elm-tree. grit listened with incredulous amazement to the words of the bank president. "you mean to send me?" he ejaculated. "yes," answered mr. graves, nodding. "but i am only a boy!" "that is true; but you have shown a sagacity and good judgment which justify me in selecting you, young as you are. of course, i shall take care that you are paid for your time. now, are you willing to go?" willing to go to boston, where he had not been for five years? grit did not take long to consider. "yes," he answered promptly. "if you are willing to trust me, i am willing to go." "that is well," said the president. "i need hardly caution you to keep your errand a profound secret." "you must not even tell your mother," continued mr. graves. "but she will feel anxious if i go away without a word to her." "you mistake me. i would not for the world have you give her unnecessary anxiety. you may tell her that you are employed on an errand which may detain you from home a day or two, and ask her not to question you till you return." "yes, i can say that," returned grit. "mother will very likely think mr. jackson has employed me." "mr. jackson?" "a gentleman now staying at the hotel. he has already been very kind to me." if grit had been boastful or vainglorious, he would have given the particulars of his rescue of little willie jackson from drowning. as it was, he said no more than i have recorded above. "very well," answered the president. "your mother will not, at any rate, think you are in any mischief, as she knows you too well for that." "when do you want me to go, sir?" asked grit. "let me see. to-day is wednesday, and friday is the day when we had decided to send the messenger. he was to go by the morning train. i think i will send you off in advance by the evening train of thursday. then the bonds will be in the bank at boston, while the regular messenger is still on the way." "that will suit me very well, sir." "the train starts at ten o'clock. you can be at the train at half-past nine. i will be there at the same hour, and will have the bonds with me. i will at the same time provide you with money for the journey." "all right, sir. do you want to see me any time to-morrow?" "no. i think it best that we should not be too much together. even then, i don't think any one would suspect that i would employ you on such an errand. still, it will be most prudent not to do anything to arouse suspicion." "then, mr. graves, i will bid you good night," said grit, rising. "i thank you very much for the confidence you are going to repose in me. i will do my best, so that you may not have occasion to repent it." "i don't expect to repent it," said mr. graves, shaking hands with grit in a friendly manner. when the young boatman left the house of the bank president, it was natural that he should feel a thrill of pride as the thought of the important mission on which he was to be sent. then again, it was exhilarating to reflect that he was about to visit boston. he had lived at chester for five years and more, and during that time he had once visited portland. that was an exciting day for him; but boston he knew was a great deal larger than the beautiful city of which maine people are pardonably proud, and contained possibilities of pleasure and excitement which filled him with eager anticipations. but grit knew that his journey was undertaken not for his own enjoyment, but was to be an important business mission, and he resolved that he would do his duty, even if he did not have a bit of fun. as he thought over the business on which he was to be employed, his thoughts reverted to ephraim carver, the bank messenger, and the more he thought of him, the more he suspected that he was implicated in the projected robbery. it was perhaps this thought that led him to make a detour so that he could pass the house of the messenger. it was a small cottage-house, standing back from the street, from which a narrow lane led to it. connected with it were four or five acres of land, which might have yielded quite an addition to his income, but mr. carver was not very fond of working on land, and he let it lie fallow, making scarcely any use of it. until he obtained the position of bank messenger he had a hard time getting a living, and was generally regarded as rather a shiftless man. he was connected with the wife of one of the directors, and that was the way in which he secured his position. now he received a small salary, but one on which he might have lived comfortably in a cheap place like chester. but in spite of this he was dissatisfied, and on many occasions complained of the difficulty he experienced in making both ends meet. grit turned down the lane and approached the house. he hardly knew why he did so. he had no expectation of learning anything that would throw light on the question whether carver was or was not implicated in the conspiracy. still, he was drawn toward the house. the night was quite dark, but grit knew every step of the way, and he walked slowly up the lane, which was probably two hundred feet long. he had gone, perhaps, half the distance, when he saw the front door of carver's house open. mr. carver himself could be seen in the doorway with a kerosene-lamp in his hand, and at his side was a person whom with a thrill of surprise grit recognized as the man staying at the hotel under the name of colonel johnson. "that looks suspicious," thought grit. "i am afraid the messenger is guilty." he reflected that it would not do for either of them to see him, as it might render them suspicious. he took advantage of the darkness, and the fact that the two were not looking his way, to jump over the stone wall and hide behind the broad trunk of the lofty elm which stood just in that spot. "i wish i could hear what they are saying," thought grit. "then i should know for certain if my suspicions are well founded." the two men stood at the door for the space of a minute or more, and then the stranger departed, but not alone. ephraim carver took his hat and accompanied him, both walking slowly up the lane toward the main road. by a piece of good luck, as grit considered it, they halted beneath the very elm-tree behind which he lay concealed. these were the first words grit heard spoken: "my dear friend," said johnson, in bland, persuasive accents, "there isn't a particle of danger in it. you have only to follow my directions, and all will be well." "i shall find it hard to explain how it happened that i lost the package," said carver. "not at all! you will have a facsimile in your possession--one so like that no one need wonder that you mistook it for the original. undoubtedly you will be charged with negligence, but they can't prove anything more against you. you can stand being found fault with for five thousand dollars, can't you?" "if that is all, i won't mind. i shall probably lose my situation." "suppose you do; it brings you in only six hundred dollars a year, while we pay you in one lump five thousand dollars--over eight times as much. why, man, the interest of this sum at six per cent. will yield half as much as your annual salary." "the bank people ought to pay me more," said carver. "two months since i asked them to raise me to eight hundred a year, but they wouldn't. there was only one of the directors in favor of it--the man who married my wife's cousin." "they don't appreciate you, friend carver," said johnson. "how can they expect you to be honest, when they treat you in so niggardly a manner?" "just so," said carver, eager to find some justification for his intended treachery. "if they paid me a living salary, i wouldn't do this thing you ask of me." "as it is, they have only themselves to blame," said colonel johnson. "that's the way i look at it," said the bank messenger. "and quite right, too! i shouldn't be surprised if you managed to keep your place, after all. they won't suspect you of anything more than carelessness." "that would be splendid!" returned carver. "with my salary and the interest of five thousand dollars, i could live as comfortably as i wanted to. how soon shall i receive the money?" "as soon as we can dispose of the bonds safely. it won't be long." here the two men parted, and carver returned to his house. grit crept out from behind the elm-tree when the coast was clear, and made his way home. he had learned a most important secret, but resolved to communicate it only to mr. graves. chapter xxv. mrs. brandon is mystified. when grit explained to his mother that he was going away for a day or two on a journey, she was naturally surprised, and asked for particulars. "i should like to tell you, mother," said the young boatman, "but there are reasons why i cannot. it is a secret mission, and the secret is not mine." "that is perfectly satisfactory, grit," said mrs. brandon. "i have full confidence in you, and know i can trust you." "after i return i shall probably be able to tell you all," said grit. "meanwhile, i shall, no doubt, be paid better than if i were ferrying passengers across the river." "at any rate, i shall be glad to see you back. we have not been separated for a night for years, or, indeed, since you were born." the next day, mr. brandon, taught by experience that he need not look for his meals at home, went over to the tavern to breakfast. he felt unusually independent and elated, for he had money in his pocket, obtained from colonel johnson, and he expected soon to receive the handsome sum of five thousand dollars. a shrewder man, in order to avert suspicion, would have held his tongue, at least until he had performed the service for which he was to be so liberally paid; but brandon could not forego the opportunity to boast a little. "it is quite possible, mrs. b.," he said, in the morning, "that i may leave you in a day or two, to be gone a considerable time." mrs. b. did not show the expected curiosity, but received the communication in silence. "you don't inquire where i am going," said brandon. "where do you propose to go?" asked his wife, whose chief feeling was that she and grit would now be left to their old quiet and peace. "i may go to europe," said mr. brandon, in an important tone. "isn't this a new plan?" asked mrs. brandon, really surprised. "yes, it is new. i shall go on business, mrs. b. my friend travers and i will probably go together. you and grit made a great mistake when you treated him with rudeness. it is through him that i am offered most remunerative employment." "i don't enjoy the society of your friend," said mrs. brandon. "if he is likely to give you a chance to earn something, i am glad, but that does not excuse the rudeness with which he treated me." "my friend travers is a gentleman, mrs. b., a high-toned gentleman, and if you had treated him with the respect which is his due, you would have had nothing to complain of. as it is, you may soon discover that you have made a mistake, and lost a great pleasure. i had not intended to tell you, but i am tempted to do so, that but for your impoliteness to travers, i might have taken you and grit with me on a european tour." mr. brandon watched his wife, to see if she exhibited severe disappointment at the dazzling prospect which was no sooner shown than withdrawn, but she showed her usual equanimity. "grit and i will be quite as happy at home," she answered. "sour grapes!" thought brandon, but he was wrong. a tour of europe taken in his company would have no attractions for his wife. "very well," said brandon. "you and grit are welcome to the charms of pine point. as for me, it is too small and contracted for a man of my business capacity." "i wonder whether there is any truth in what he says," thought mrs. brandon, puzzled. "your business seems a profitable one," she ventured to remark. "it is, mrs. b.," answered her husband. "it is of an unusually delicate nature, and requires business talents of a high order." "your friend travers does not impress one as a man possessed of a high order of business talent," said mrs. brandon. "that is where you fail to appreciate him, but i cannot say more. my business is secret, and cannot be revealed." so saying, brandon took his hat, and with a jaunty step walked to the hotel. "more secrecy!" thought mrs. brandon. "grit tells me that his mission is a secret one, and now mr. brandon says he, too, is engaged in something that cannot be revealed. i know that it is all right with grit, but i do not feel so sure about mr. brandon." the day passed as usual. grit plied his boat on the river, and did a fair day's work. but about four o'clock he came home. "you are home early, grit," said his mother. "yes, for i must get ready to go." he had not yet mentioned to his mother when he was to start. "do you go to-morrow morning?" asked mrs. brandon. "i go to-night, and may be away for a couple of days, mother." mrs. brandon uttered an exclamation of surprise. "i suppose i must not ask you where you are going," said his mother. "i cannot tell, for it is somebody else's secret. one thing more, will you take care to say as little as possible about my going away? i would rather mr. brandon should not know of it." "i will do as you wish, grit. by the way, mr. brandon tells me he is soon going to europe." grit smiled. he knew where the money was to come from, which his stepfather depended upon to defray the expenses of a foreign journey. "i don't feel sure about his going, mother," he answered. "he said he would have taken you and me if we had treated his friend travers more politely." "well, mother, we must reconcile ourselves as well as we can to staying at home." "home will be happy while i have you with me, grit." "and mr. brandon away," added the young boatman. "yes; i can't help hoping that he will be able to carry out his purpose, and go to europe, or somewhere else as far off." "i think it very likely we sha'n't see him again for some time," said grit, "though i don't think he will be traveling in europe." "as you and mr. brandon are both to be engaged in business of a secret nature," said mrs. brandon, smiling, "i don't know but i ought to follow your example." "i have full confidence in you, mother, whatever you undertake," said grit, with a laugh, repeating his mother's own words. evening came on, and grit stole out of the house early, lest his stepfather might by some chance return home, and suspect something from his unusual journey. he need not have been alarmed, for brandon did not leave the tavern till ten o'clock, though he, too, expected to leave town the next morning. when he returned he didn't inquire for grit, whom he supposed to be abed and asleep. "mrs. b.," he said, "i must trouble you to wake me at seven o'clock to-morrow morning. i am going to take the early train to portland." "very well." "and as it will be rather inconvenient for me to go out to breakfast, i would be glad if you would give me some breakfast before i go." "i will do so," said his wife. "it may be some time before i see you again, as i am to go away on business." "i hope you may be successful," said mrs. brandon. brandon laughed queerly. "if the old lady knew that i was going to steal some government bonds, she would hesitate a little before she wished me success," he thought, but he said: "thank you, mrs. b., your good wishes are appreciated, and i may hereafter be able to show my appreciation in a substantial way. i suppose grit is asleep." mrs. brandon did not answer, finding the question an embarrassing one. the next morning brandon, contrary to his wont, showed considerable alacrity in dressing, and did justice to the breakfast his wife had set before him. "well, good-bye, mrs. b.," he said, as he took his hat and prepared to leave the house. "perhaps i had better go up-stairs and bid good-by to grit, as i may not see him again for some time." "grit is out," said mrs. brandon hastily, for she did not wish her husband to go up to grit's room, as he would discover that his bed had not been slept in. "out already?" said brandon. "he's made an early start. well, bid him good-by for me." "it's very strange," repeated mrs. brandon, as she cleared away the breakfast dishes; "there's grit gone, i don't know where, and now mr. brandon has started off on some mysterious business. what can it all mean?" chapter xxvi. the fall river manufacturer. grit lost no time in prosecuting his journey. in portland he found that he should need to stay over a few hours, and repaired to the united states hotel. he left word to be called early, as he wished to take a morning train to boston. at the breakfast-table he found himself sitting next to a man of swarthy complexion and bushy black whiskers. "good morning, my young friend," said the stranger, after a scrutinizing glance. "good morning, sir," said grit politely. "are you stopping at this hotel?" "for the present, yes," answered the young boatman. "are you going farther?" "i think of it," said grit cautiously. "perhaps you are going to boston," proceeded the stranger. "i may do so," grit admitted. "i am glad of it, for i am going, too. if agreeable, we will travel in company." "i suppose we shall go on the same train?" said grit evasively. "just so. i am going to boston on business. you, i suppose, are too young to have business of any importance?" "boys of my age seldom have business of importance," said grit, resolved to baffle the evident curiosity of the stranger. "exactly. i suppose you have relations in boston?" "i once lived in that neighborhood," said grit. "just so. are you going to stay long in the city?" "that depends on circumstances?" "do you live in this state?" "at present i do." the man looked a little annoyed, for he saw that grit was determined to say as little about himself as possible. he decided to set the boy an example of frankness. "i do not live in maine," he said; "i am a manufacturer in fall river, mass. i suppose you have heard of fall river?" "oh, yes!" "it is a right smart place, as a philadelphian would say. you never heard of townsend's woolen mill, i dare say?" "no, i never have." "it is one of the largest mills in fall river. i own a controlling interest in it. i assure you i wouldn't take a hundred thousand dollars for my interest in it." "you ought to be in very easy circumstances," said grit politely, though it did occur to him to wonder why the owner of a controlling interest in a large woolen mill should be attired in such a rusty suit. "i am," said the stranger complacently. "daniel townsend's income--i am daniel t., at your service--for last year was twelve thousand three hundred and sixty-nine dollars." "this gentleman seems very communicative," thought grit. "your income was rather larger than mine," he said. "ho, ho! i should say so," laughed mr. townsend. "are you in any business, my young friend?" "i am connected with navigation," said grit. "indeed?" observed townsend, appearing puzzled. "do you find it a paying business?" "tolerably so, but i presume woolen manufacturing is better?" "just so," assented townsend, rather absently. at this point grit rose from the table, having finished his breakfast. "mr. townsend seems very social," thought our hero, "but i think he is given to romancing. i don't believe he has anything more to do with a woolen mill in fall river than i have." grit reached the station in time, and took his seat in the train. he bought a morning paper, and began to read. "ah, here you are, my young friend!" fell on his ears just after they passed saco, and grit, looking up, saw his breakfast companion. "is the seat beside you taken?" asked mr. daniel townsend. grit would like to have said "yes," but he was compelled to admit that it was unengaged. "so much the better for me," said the woolen manufacturer, and he sat down beside our hero. he had with him a small, well-worn valise, which looked as if in some remote period it had seen better days. he laid it down, and, looking keenly about, observed grit's parcel, which, though commonplace in appearance, contained, as we know, thirty thousand dollars in government bonds. "it is rather a long ride to boston," said mr. townsend. "yes; but it seems shorter when you have something to read," answered grit, looking wistfully at his paper, which he would have preferred reading to listening to the conversation of his neighbor. "i never care to read on the cars," said mr. townsend. "i think it is injurious to the eyes. do you ever find it so?" "i have not traveled enough to be able to judge," said grit. "very likely. at your age i had traveled a good deal. my father was a rich merchant, and as i was fond of roving, he sent me on a voyage to the mediterranean on one of his vessels. i was sixteen at that time." "i wonder whether this is true, or not," thought grit. "i enjoyed the trip, though i was seasick on the mediterranean. it is really more trying than the ocean, though you might not imagine it. don't you think you would enjoy a trip of that sort?" "yes; i am sure i would," said grit, with interest. "just so; most boys of your age are fond of traveling. perhaps i might find it in my way to gratify your wishes. our corporation is thinking of sending a traveler to europe. you are rather young, but still i might be able to get it for you." "you know so little about me," said grit sensibly, "that i wonder you should think of me in any such connection." "that is true. i don't know anything of you, except what you have told me." "that isn't much," thought grit. "and it may be necessary for me to know more. i will ask you a few questions, and report your answers to our directors at their meeting next week." "thank you, sir; but i think we will postpone discussing the matter this morning." "is any time better than the present?" inquired townsend. grit did not care to say much about himself until after he had fulfilled his errand in the city. he justly felt that with such an important charge it was necessary for him to use the greatest caution and circumspection. still, there was a bare possibility that the man beside him was really what he claimed to be, and might have it in his power to give him a business commission which he would enjoy. "if you will call on me at the parker house this evening," said grit, "i will speak with you on the subject." "whom shall i inquire for?" asked the fall river manufacturer. "you need not inquire for any one. you will find me in the reading-room at eight o'clock." "very well," answered mr. townsend, appearing satisfied. the conversation drifted along till they reached exeter. then mr. townsend rose in haste, and, seizing grit's bundle instead of his own, hurried toward the door. grit sprang after him and snatched the precious package. "you have made a mistake, mr. townsend," he said, eyeing his late seat companion with distrust. "why, so i have!" ejaculated townsend, in apparent surprise. "by jove! it's lucky you noticed it. that little satchel of mine contains some papers and certificates of great value." "in that case i would advise you to be more careful," said grit, who did not believe one word of the last statement. "so i will," said townsend, taking the satchel. "i am going into the smoking-car. won't you go with me?" "no, thank you." "i have a spare cigar," urged townsend. "thank you again, but i don't smoke." "oh, well, you're right, no doubt, but it's an old habit of mine. i began to smoke when i was twelve years old. my wife often tells me i am injuring my health, and perhaps i am. take the advice of a man old enough to be your father, and don't smoke." "that's good advice, sir, and i shall probably follow it." "well, good day, if we don't meet again," said townsend. mr. townsend, instead of passing into the smoking-car, got off the train. grit observed this, and was puzzled to account for it, particularly as the train started on, leaving him standing on the platform. a few minutes later the conductor passed through the train, calling for tickets. grit looked in vain for his, and, deciding that he should have to pay the fare over again, he felt for his pocketbook, but that, too, was missing. he began to understand why mr. townsend left the train at exeter. chapter xxvii. a friend in need. the conductor waited while grit was searching for his ticket. he was not the same one who started with the train, so that he could not know whether our hero had shown a ticket earlier in the journey. "i can't find my ticket or my money," said grit, perplexed. "then you will have to leave the train at the next station," said the conductor suspiciously. "it is very important that i should proceed on my journey," pleaded grit. "i will give you my name, and send you the money." "that won't do, youngster," said the conductor roughly. "i have heard of that game before. it won't go down." "there is no game about it," said grit. "my ticket and pocketbook have been stolen." "of course," sneered the conductor. "perhaps you can point out the thief." "no, i can't, for he has left the train. he got out at exeter." "very likely. you can take the next train back and find him." "do you doubt that i had a ticket?" asked grit, nettled by the conductor's evident incredulity. "yes, i do, if you want the truth. you want to steal a ride; that's what's the matter." "that is not true," said grit. "i am sure some of these passengers have seen me show my ticket. didn't you, sir?" he addressed this question to a stout old gentleman who sat in the seat behind him. "really, i couldn't say," answered the old gentleman addressed. "i was reading my paper, and didn't take notice." the conductor looked more incredulous than ever. "i can't waste any more time with you, young man," he said. "at the next station you must get out." grit was very much disturbed. it was not pleasant to be left penniless at a small station, but if he had been left alone he would not have cared so much. but to have the custody of thirty thousand dollars' worth of government bonds, under such circumstances, was certainly embarrassing. he could not get along without money, and for a tramp without money to be in charge of such a treasure was ample cause of suspicion. what could he do? the train was already going slower, and it was evident that the next station was near at hand. grit was trying in vain to think of some way of securing a continuation of his journey, when a stout, good-looking lady of middle age, who sat just opposite, rose from her seat and seated herself beside him. "you seem to be in trouble," she said kindly. "yes, ma'am," answered grit. "my ticket and money have been stolen, and the conductor threatens to put me off the train." "so i heard. who do you think robbed you?" "the man who sat beside me and got out at exeter." "i noticed him. i wonder you didn't detect him in the act of robbing you." "so do i," answered grit. "he must be a professional. all the same, i am ashamed of being so taken in." "i heard you say it was important for you to reach boston." "it is," said grit. he was about to explain why, when it occurred to him that it would not be prudent in a crowded car, which might contain suspicious and unprincipled persons, to draw attention to the nature of his packet. "i can't explain why just at present," he said; "but if any one would lend me money to keep on my journey i would willingly repay the loan two for one." at this point the train came to a stop, and the conductor, passing through the car, addressed grit: "young man, you must get out at this station." "no, he needn't," said the stout lady decidedly. "here, my young friend, pay your fare out of this," and she drew from a pearl portemonnaie a ten-dollar bill. grit's heart leaped for joy. it was such an intense relief. "how can i ever thank you?" he said gratefully, as he offered the change to his new friend. "no," she said; "keep the whole. you will need it, and you can repay me whenever you find it convenient." "that will be as soon as i get home," said grit promptly. "i have the money there." "that will be entirely satisfactory." "let me know your name and address, madam," said grit, taking out a small memorandum-book, "so that i may know where to send." "mrs. jane bancroft, no. mount vernon street," said the lady. grit noted it down. "let me tell you mine," he said. "my name is harry morris, and i live in the town of chester, in maine." "chester? i know that place. i have a cousin living there, or, rather, i should say, a cousin of my late husband." "who is it, mrs. bancroft?" asked grit. "i know almost everybody in the village." "mr. courtney. i believe he has something to do with the bank." "yes, he is a director. he was once president." "exactly. do you know him?" "yes, ma'am. i saw him only a day or two before i left." "i presume you know his son philip, also." "oh, yes, i know phil," said grit. "is he a friend of yours?" asked the lady curiously. "no, i can't say that. we don't care much for each other." "and whose fault is that?" asked the lady, smiling. "i don't think it is mine. i have always treated phil well enough, but he doesn't think me a suitable associate for him." "why?" "because i am poor, while he is the son of a rich man." "that is as it may be," said the lady, shrugging her shoulders. "money sometimes has wings. so you are not rich?" "i have to work for a living." "what do you do?" "i ferry passengers across the kennebec, and in that way earn a living for my mother and myself." "do you make it pay?" "i earn from seven to ten dollars a week." "that is doing very well for a boy of your age. what sort of a boy is phil? is he popular?" "i don't think he is." "why?" "he is your nephew, mrs. bancroft, and i don't like to criticize him." "never mind that. speak freely." "he puts on too many airs to be popular. if he would just forget that his father is a rich man, and meet the rest of the boys on an equality, i think we should like him well enough." "that is just the opinion i have formed of him. last winter he came to make me a visit, but i found him hard to please. he wanted a great deal of attention, and seemed disposed to order my servants about, till i was obliged to check him." "i remember hearing him say he was going to visit a rich relative in boston," said grit. mrs. bancroft smiled. "it was all for his own gratification, no doubt," she said. "so your name is harry morris?" "yes, but i am usually called grit." "a good omen. it is a good thing for any boy--especially a poor boy--to possess grit. most of our successful men were poor boys, and most of them possessed this quality." "you encourage me, mrs. bancroft," said our hero. "i want to succeed in life, for my mother's sake especially." "i think you will; i have little knowledge of you, but you seem like one born to prosper. how long are you going to stay in boston?" "till to-morrow, at any rate." "you will be in the city overnight, then. where did you think of staying?" "at the parker house." "it is an expensive hotel. you had better stay at my house." "at your house?" exclaimed grit, surprised. "yes; i may want to ask more questions about chester. we have tea at half-past six. that will give you plenty of time to attend to your business. i shall be at home any time after half-past five. will you come?" "with pleasure," said grit politely. "then i will expect you." mrs. bancroft returned to her seat. our hero mentally congratulated himself on making so agreeable and serviceable a friend. "what will phil say when he learns that i have been the guest of his fashionable relatives in boston?" thought he. in due time the train reached boston, and grit lost no time in repairing to the bank. chapter xxviii. the train robbery. when grit had delivered the bonds at the bank, a great load seemed to be lifted from his shoulders. especially after he had been robbed on the train, he realized the degree of risk and responsibility involved in the custody of so valuable a packet. the officials at the bank seemed surprised at the youth of the messenger, but grit felt at liberty to explain why he was selected as a substitute for the regular messenger. leaving our hero for a time, we go back to chester to speak of other characters in our story. ephraim carver, the bank messenger, went to the bank at the hour of opening to receive the package of bonds which he expected to convey to boston. he had no suspicion that his negotiations of a previous evening had been overheard and reported to the president. he felt somewhat nervous, it is true, for he felt that a few hours would make him a rich man. then the risk involved, though he did not consider it to be great, was yet sufficient to excite him. he was admitted into the president's room, as usual. mr. graves was already in his office, but his manner was his ordinary one, and the messenger did not dream that the quiet official read him through and through and understood him thoroughly. "you know, i suppose, mr. carver," said president graves, "that you are to go to boston by the next train." "yes, sir." "the packet you will carry is of unusual value, and requires an unusual degree of care and caution." "yes, sir." "it contains thirty thousand dollars in government bonds," said the president, laying his hand on the prepared packet, which was in the usual form. "that is a fortune in itself," he added, closely scrutinizing the face of the messenger. he thought he detected a transient gleam of exultation in the eyes of the bank messenger. "of course," he proceeded, "if it were known that you carried a packet of such value, there would be great danger of your being robbed. indeed, you might be in some personal danger." "yes, sir." "but as it is only known to you and the officers of the bank, there is no special danger. still, i advise you to be more than usually vigilant, on account of the value of your charge." "oh, yes, sir, i shall take good care of it," answered carver, reaching out his hand for the packet. "let me see, how long have you been in the employ of the bank?" asked the president. "nearly three years, sir." "you have found it a light, easy position, have you not?" "yes, sir, though, if you will allow me to say so, the salary is small." "true; but the expenses of living in chester are small, also. however, we will not discuss that question now. possibly at the end of the year, if they continue satisfied with you, the directors may increase your salary slightly. there cannot be a large increase." "i may not need an increase then," thought carver. "with five thousand dollars to fall back upon, i shall feel independent." "you will report to me when you return," said mr. graves, as the messenger left the bank parlor. "yes, sir, directly." the president fixed his eyes upon the vanishing figure of the messenger, and said to himself: "my friend, you have deliberately planned your own downfall. greed of money has made you dishonest, but your plans are destined to miscarry, as this time to-morrow you and your confederates will be made aware." "now," thought the bank messenger, as he bent his steps toward the railway station, "the path is clear. here is what will completely change my fortunes, and lift me from an humble dependent to a comfortable position in life." then he thought, with some dissatisfaction, that he was to receive but one-sixth of the value of the bonds, and that the man who employed him to betray his trust would be much more richly paid. however, in his case, there would be no risk of being personally implicated. no one could prove that he had allowed himself to be robbed. even if suspicion fastened upon him, nothing could be proved. so, on the whole, perhaps it was better to be content with one-sixth than to incur greater risk, and the dread penalty of imprisonment for a term of years. on the railroad platform carver glanced furtively about him. he easily recognized brandon and travers, who stood side by side, each having provided himself with a ticket. they on their side also glanced swiftly at him, and then turned away with a look of indifference. but they had not failed to notice the important packet which the bank messenger carried in his hand. "it is all right!" was the thought that passed through their minds. there was another passenger waiting for the train, whom they did not notice. he was a small, quiet, unpretentious-looking man, attired in a suit of pepper and salt, and looked like a retail merchant in a small way, going to portland or boston, to order goods. they would have been very much startled had they known that it was a boston detective, who had been telegraphed for by mr. graves, and that his special business was to follow them and observe their actions. when the train reached the station carver got in, and took a seat by himself in the second car. just behind him sat the two confederates, brandon and travers, and in line with them, on the opposite side of the car, sat the quiet man, whom we will call denton. ten minutes before the train reached portland ephraim carver left his seat, and very singularly forgot to take the parcel, of which he had special custody, with him. it was a remarkable piece of forgetfulness, truly. but his oversight was not unobserved. travers sprang from his seat, took the parcel, and following the messenger overtook him at the door of the car. he tapped carver on the shoulder, and the latter turned round. "i beg pardon," said travers, "but you left this on the seat." as he spoke he handed a packet to carver. "a thousand thanks!" said the messenger hurriedly. "i was very careless. i am very much indebted to you." "i thought the packet might contain something valuable," said travers. "at any rate, i should not like to lose it," said the messenger, who appeared to be properly on his guard. "oh, don't mention it," said travers politely, and he walked back and resumed his seat beside brandon. the quiet man, to whom we have already referred, noted this little piece of acting with a smile of enjoyment. "very well done, good people," he said to himself. "it ought to succeed, but it won't." his sharp eyes had detected what the other passengers had not--that travers had skilfully substituted another package for the one he had picked up from the seat vacated by carver. carver passed on into the next car, and denton now concentrated his attention upon brandon and travers. he noticed in both traces of joyful excitement, for which he could easily account. they thought they had succeeded, and each mentally congratulated himself on the acquisition of a neat little fortune. "they will get out at portland," thought denton, "and take account of their booty. i should like to be there to see, but i am instructed to follow my friend the bank messenger to boston, and must, therefore, forego the pleasure." at portland, brandon and travers got out of the cars, and took a hack to the falmouth hotel. they went to the office, and, calling for the hotel register, carefully scanned the list of arrivals. the afternoon previous they found entered the name of colonel johnson. "is colonel johnson in?" asked brandon. "we will ascertain," was the reply. the bell-boy who was despatched to inquire returned with the message that colonel johnson would see the gentlemen. they followed the attendant to a room on the third floor, where they found their employer pacing the room in visible excitement. "give me the parcel," he said, in a peremptory tone. he cut the strings, and hastily opened the coveted prize. but his eager look was succeeded by black disappointment, as, instead of the bonds, he saw a package of blank paper of about the same shape and size. "confusion!" he ejaculated; "what does all this mean? what devil's mess have you made of the business?" chapter xxix. the conspirators are perplexed. johnson's hasty exclamation was heard with blank amazement by his two confederates. "what do you mean, colonel? ain't the bonds there?" asked travers. "do you call these bonds?" demanded johnson savagely, as he pointed to the neatly folded brown paper. "you must have brought back your own parcel, and left the genuine one with the bank messenger." "no," said travers, shaking his head; "our package was filled with old newspapers. this is different." "it is evidently only a dummy. was it the only parcel carver had?" "yes, it was the only one." "is it possible the villain has fooled us?" said johnson, frowning ominously. "if he has, we'll get even with him--i swear it!" "i don't know what to think, colonel," said travers. "you can tell better than i, for you saw him about this business." "he didn't seem like it, for he caught at my suggestion greedily. there's another possibility," added johnson, after a pause, with a searching glance at his two confederates. "how do i know but you two have secured the bonds, and palmed off this dummy upon me?" both men hastily disclaimed doing anything of the kind, and johnson was forced to believe them, not from any confidence he felt in them, but from his conviction that they were not astute enough to think of any such treachery. "this must be looked into," he said slowly. "there has been treachery somewhere. it lies between you and the messenger, though i did not dream that either would be up to such a thing." "you don't think the bank people did it, do you?" suggested brandon. "i don't know," said johnson slowly. "i can't understand how they could learn what was in the wind, unless one of you three blabbed." of course, travers and brandon asseverated stoutly that they had not breathed a word to any third party. johnson was deeply perplexed, and remained silent for five minutes. at length he announced his decision. "we can do nothing, and decide upon nothing," he said, "till we see carver. he went on to boston, i conclude?" "yes, sir." "he will be back to-morrow. we must watch the trains, and intercept him." leaving this worthy trio in portland, we follow ephraim carver to boston. as the cars sped on their way, he felt an uneasy excitement as he thought of his treachery, and he feared he should look embarrassed when he was called to account by the boston bank officials. but there was a balm in the thought of the substantial sum he was to receive as the reward of his wrongdoing. that, he thought, would well repay him for the bad quarter of an hour he would pass in boston. "five thousand dollars! five thousand dollars!" this was the burden of his thoughts as he considered the matter. "it will make me independent. if i can keep my post, i will, and i can then afford to be faithful to the bank. if they discharge me, i will move away, for my living without work, and having money to spend, would attract suspicion if i continued to live in chester. somewhere else i can go into business for myself. i might stock a small dry-goods store, for instance. i must inquire into the chances of making a living at that business." so, in spite of his treachery, ephraim carver, on the whole, indulged in pleasing reflections, so that the railroad journey seemed short. arrived in boston, he found that he had just time to go to the bank and deliver his parcel within banking hours. "i may as well do it, and have it over with," he said to himself. so, with a return of nervousness, which he tried to conceal by outward indifference, he made his way to the bank to which he was commissioned. he had been there before, and was recognized when he entered. he was at once conducted into the presence of the president. to him he delivered the parcel of bonds. "that will do, mr. carver," said the president. "you may go outside while i examine them." he was ushered into the ordinary room, and waited five minutes. he was trying to brace himself for an outburst of surprise, perhaps of stormy indignation, and searching cross-examination, when the president presented himself at the door of his private office. "that will do," he said. "you can go, mr. carver." carver stared at him in blank amazement. this was precisely what he did not expect. "have you examined the bonds?" he asked. "of course," answered the president. "and you find them all right?" continued the messenger, with irrepressible surprise. "i suppose so," answered the president. "i will examine more carefully presently." "then you don't wish me to stay?" inquired carver. "no; there is no occasion to do so." ephraim carver left the bank in a state of stupefaction. "what can it all mean?" he asked himself. "the man must be blind as a bat if he didn't discover that the package contained no bonds. i don't believe he opened it at all." so carver was left in a state of uncertainty. on the whole he wished that the substitution had been discovered, so that the president could have had it out with him. now he felt that a sword was impending over his head, which might fall at any time. this was unpleasant, for he did not know what to expect. he went back to portland by a late train, however, as he had arranged to do. at the depot he met colonel johnson. he was puzzled to find that johnson did not look as jubilant as he anticipated, now that their plot had succeeded. on the other hand, he looked grave and stern. "well, colonel, how goes it?" he asked. "that is for you to say," returned johnson. "you have seen brandon and travers, i suppose?" "yes, i have seen them." "then it's all right, and the parcel is in your hands." "he takes it pretty coolly," thought johnson. "i can't understand what it means. i must get to the bottom of this thing. well, how did they take it at the bank?" he added, aloud. "did they make any fuss?" "no," answered the bank messenger. johnson was surprised. "they didn't question you about the parcel you brought them?" "no; they told me it was all right, and let me go." "then they must have got the bonds," said johnson hastily. "what! haven't you got them?" asked the messenger, in genuine surprise. "no," said johnson bitterly. "the fools brought me a package stuffed with sheets of brown paper." carver stared at him in open-mouthed amazement. "i don't understand it," he said. "i can't account for any parcel of the kind." "they couldn't have made the exchange at all. this must have been their own parcel." "no," said carver; "theirs was stuffed with old newspapers." "that was what they said." "they told the truth. i helped them make up the parcel myself." "then it must have been their parcel that is now in the hands of the bank." "it seems likely." "then where are the bonds?" demanded johnson sternly. "that is more than i can tell," said the bank messenger, in evident perplexity. "it's enough to make a man tear his hair to have such a promising scheme miscarry," said johnson gloomily. "i wish i could lay my finger on the man that's responsible for it." "i can't understand it at all, colonel. we followed out your instructions to the letter. everything went off smoothly." "can you tell me where are the bonds?" interrupted johnson harshly. "no, i can't." "then you may as well be silent." "i will follow your directions," said carver submissively. "what do you wish me to do?" johnson reflected a moment. finally he said: "take the earliest morning train to chester. i will stay here. so will the other two men." "anything further?" "only this: keep your eyes and ears open when you get home. if you hear anything that will throw light on this affair, write or telegraph, or send a special messenger, so that i may act promptly on your information. do you understand?" "yes, sir. your directions shall be followed. i am as anxious as you are to find out why we failed." chapter xxx. grit is betrayed. in sending grit to boston instead of the regular messenger, president graves had acted on his own responsibility, as he had a right to do, since it was a matter to be decided by the executive. he might, indeed, have consulted the directors, but that would have created delay, and might have endangered the needful secrecy. when, however, grit returned and reported to him that his mission had been satisfactorily accomplished, he informed the directors of what had been done at a special meeting summoned at his own house. all approved the action except mr. courtney, who was prejudiced against grit, and, moreover, felt offended because his own counsel had not been asked or regarded. "it seems to me," he said, with some heat, "that our president has acted in a very rash manner." "how do you make that out, mr. courtney?" interrogated that official. "it was actually foolhardy to trust a boy like grit morris with a package of such value." "why?" inquired graves. "why? he is only a common boy, who makes a living by ferrying passengers across the river." "does that prevent his being honest?" "a valuable package like that would be a powerful temptation to a boy like that," asserted courtney. "the package was promptly delivered," said mr. graves dryly. "he says so," sneered courtney. "pardon me, mr. courtney, i have had advice to that effect from the boston bank," said the president blandly. "well, i'm glad the danger has been averted," said courtney, rather discomfited. "all the same, i blame your course as hazardous and injudicious. i suppose the boy was afraid to appropriate property of so much value." "i think, mr. courtney, you do injustice to grit," said mr. saunders, another director. "i am satisfied that he is strictly honest." "perhaps you'd be in favor of appointing him regular bank messenger," said courtney, with a sneer. "i should certainly prefer him to ephraim carver." "i consider carver an honest man." "and i have positive proof that he is not honest," said the president. "i have proof, moreover, that he was actually in league with the man who plotted to rob the bank." this statement made a sensation, and the president proceeded: "indeed, i have called this extra meeting partly to suggest the necessity of appointing in carver's place a man in whom we can repose confidence." here he detailed briefly the conversation which grit overheard between the bank messenger and colonel johnson. it impressed all, except mr. courtney. "all a fabrication of that boy, i'll be bound," he declared. "i am surprised, mr. graves, that you should have been humbugged by such a palpable invention." "what could have been the boy's object in inventing such a story, allow me to ask, mr. courtney?" "oh, he wanted to worm himself into our confidence," said courtney. "very likely he wished to be appointed bank messenger, though that would, of course, be preposterous." "gentlemen," said president graves, "as my course does not seem to command entire approval, i will ask those of you who think i acted with discretion to signify it." all voted in the affirmative except mr. courtney. "i regret, mr. courtney, that you disapprove my course," said the president; "but i continue to think it wise, and am glad that your fellow directors side with me." soon after the meeting dissolved, and mr. courtney went home very much dissatisfied. nothing was done about the appointment of a new messenger, the matter being postponed for three days. when mr. courtney went home he did a very unwise thing. he inveighed in the presence of his family against the course of president graves, though it was a matter that should have been kept secret. he found one to sympathize with him--his son phil. "you don't mean to say," exclaimed that young man, "that grit morris was sent to boston in charge of thirty thousand dollars in bonds?" "yes, i do. that is just what was done." "it's a wonder he didn't steal them and make himself scarce." "that is in substance what i said at the meeting of the directors, my son." "i wish they'd sent me," said phil. "i should have enjoyed the trip." "it would certainly have been more appropriate," said mr. courtney, "as you are the son of one of the directors, and not the least influential or prominent, i flatter myself." "to take a common boatman!" said phil scornfully. "why, mr. graves must be crazy!" "he is certainly a very injudicious man," said his father. "do you believe carver to be dishonest, father?" "no, i don't, though graves does, on some evidence trumped up by the boy grit. he wants to supersede him, and it would not at all surprise me if he should be in favor of appointing grit." "how ridiculous! what is the pay?" asked phil. "six hundred dollars a year, i believe," said courtney. "can't you get it for me?" asked phil eagerly. "i don't think it would be suitable to appoint a boy," returned courtney. "that is my objection to grit." "surely i would be a better messenger than a common boy like that." "of course, you come of a very different family. still, i prefer a man, and indeed i am in favor of retaining ephraim carver." phil would really have liked the office of bank messenger. he was tired of studying, and would have found it very agreeable to have an income of his own. he got considerable sums from his father, but not sufficient for his needs, or, rather, his wishes. besides, like most boys of his age, he enjoyed traveling about, and considered the office a light and pleasant one. "what a fool graves must be," he said to himself, "to think of a common boatman for such a place! he'd better stick to his boat, it's all he's qualified for. i'd like to put a spoke in his wheel." he left the house, and a short distance up the street he met ephraim carver, who had come back to town in obedience to colonel johnson's suggestion, to learn what he could about the mysterious package. "i'll see what i can learn from him," thought phil. "good morning, mr. carver," he said. "good morning, philip." "you've been to boston lately, haven't you?" "i wonder whether he has heard anything about the matter from his father," thought carver. "yes," he answered. "you didn't happen to meet grit morris there, did you?" asked phil. "grit morris!" exclaimed carver, in genuine surprise. "yes, didn't you know he had been to boston?" "no; what business had he in boston?" asked the messenger. "none of his own," answered phil significantly. "did any one send him?" "you had better ask mr. graves," said phil, telling more than he intended to. "why didn't mr. graves get me to attend to his business?" asked carver, still in the dark. "i didn't say graves had any business of his own. he is president of the bank, you know." "but i attend to the bank business. i am the messenger." "perhaps you don't attend to all of it," said phil, telling considerably more than he intended when the conversation commenced. "tell me what you know, phil, about this matter. it is important for me to know," said carver coaxingly. "i know you don't like grit, neither do i. if he is trying to curry favor with mr. graves, i want to know it, so as to circumvent him." before phil quite knew what he was saying, he had revealed everything to carver, adding that grit was after his place. the bank messenger now understood why the package entrusted to him was a dummy, and who carried the real package. he lost no time in sending information to colonel johnson, in portland. the gentleman was very much excited when he learned in what way he had been circumvented. "so it was a boy, was it?" he said savagely. "that boy must be looked after. he may find that he has made a mistake in meddling with affairs that don't concern him." chapter xxxi. new plans. when grit returned he found his mother naturally curious to know where he had been and on what errand. "i should like to tell you everything, mother," he said, "but it may not be prudent just yet." "it's nothing wrong, i hope, grit?" "you may be sure of that, mother; i wouldn't engage in anything that i thought wrong. i feel justified in telling you confidentially that i was sent by mr. graves." "what! the president of the bank?" "yes." "then it's all right," said mrs. brandon, with an air of relief. "my time wasn't wasted, mother," said grit cheerfully, as he displayed a ten-dollar note, new and crisp, which mr. graves had given him, besides paying the expenses of his trip. "i've only been gone two days, and ten dollars will pay me very well. it's better than boating, at any rate." "yes, but it isn't a steady employment." "no; don't suppose i have any idea of giving up boating, because i have been paid five dollars a day for my trip. it's a help, though." "did you see anything of mr. brandon while you were gone?" asked his mother apprehensively. "no, mother. i can't say i was disappointed, either." "when he went away he spoke mysteriously of some good fortune that was coming to him. he expected to earn a large sum of money, and talked of going to europe." "he is welcome to do so," said grit, smiling. "i hope he will, and then we can resume our old life. i tell you, mother, i feel more sure than ever of getting along. i am certain i can earn considerably more next year than i have ever done before," and the boy's cheeks glowed and his eyes sparkled with cheerful hope. "i am sure you deserve to, grit, for you've always been a good son." "i ought to be, for i've got a good mother," said the boy, with a glance of affection at his mother. "he pays me for all," thought mrs. brandon, as she watched with pride and a mother's love the form of her boy as he walked down to the river. "as long as he lives, i have reason to be grateful to god. mr. brandon is a heavy cross to me, but i can bear it while i have grit." mr. brandon, however, did not show himself. he was at portland, subject to the orders of colonel johnson, who thought it not prudent that he or travers should return just at present, lest, under the influence of liquor, they might become talkative and betray more than he desired. it was at this point that he learned from ephraim carver that grit had been sent to boston in the place of the regular bank messenger. "it looks as if somebody suspected something," he reflected anxiously. "is it possible that any part of our plan has leaked out? and if so, how? then why should a boy like that be selected for so responsible a duty? he must have had some agency in the discovery. ha! i have it! he is the stepson of this brandon. i must question brandon." "brandon," he said abruptly, summoning that worthy to his presence, "you have a son named grit, have you not?" "yes--curse the brat!" answered brandon, in a tone by no means paternal. "what kind of a boy is he?" "impudent and undutiful," said brandon. "he doesn't treat me with any kind of respect." "i don't blame him for that," thought johnson, surveying his instrument with a glance that did not indicate the highest esteem. "did you tell him anything of our plans?" he asked searchingly. "tell him! he's the last person i'd tell!" returned brandon, with emphasis. "he didn't overhear you and travers speaking of the matter, did he?" "certainly not. what makes you ask me that, colonel?" "because it was he who carried the genuine package of bonds to boston--that's all." "grit--carried--the bonds!" brandon ejaculated, in amazement. "yes." "how did you find out?" "carver found out. i have just had a despatch from him." "well, that beats me!" muttered brandon. "i can't understand it at all." "it looks as if carver were distrusted. i shall find out presently. in the meanwhile, i must see that boy of yours." "i'll go and bring him here," said brandon. "don't trouble yourself. i can manage the matter better by myself. i shall go to boston this afternoon." "are travers and i to go, too?" "no; you can stay here. i'll direct you to a cheap boarding-house, where you can await my orders. i may take travers with me." this arrangement did not suit brandon very well, though it might had he been entrusted with a liberal sum of money. but colonel johnson, having lost the valuable prize for which he had striven, was in no mood to be generous. he agreed to be responsible for brandon's board, but only gave him two dollars for outside expenses, thus enforcing a degree of temperance which was very disagreeable to brandon. chapter xxxii. grit receives a business letter. grit returned to his old business, but i am obliged to confess that he was not as well contented with it as he had been a week previous. the incidents of the past four days had broadened his views, and given him thoughts of a career which would suit him better. he earned a dollar and a quarter during the day, and this made a very good average. multiply it by six, and it stood for an income of seven dollars and a half per week. this, to be sure, was not a large sum, but it was quite sufficient to maintain the little household in a degree of comfort which left nothing to be desired. "it's all very well now," thought grit, "but it won't lead to anything. i'm so old now"--he was not quite sixteen--"that i ought to be getting hold of some business that i can follow when i am a man. i don't mean to be a boatman when i am twenty-five years old." there was something in this, no doubt. still grit need not have felt in such a hurry. he was young enough to wait. waiting, however, is a very bad thing for boys of his age. i only want to show how his mind was affected, in order that the reader may understand how it happened that he fell unsuspiciously into a trap which colonel johnson prepared for him. after supper--it was two days later--grit prepared to go to the village. he had a little errand of his own, and besides, his mother wanted a few articles at the grocery-store. our hero, unlike some boys that i know, was always ready to do any errands for his mother, so that she was spared the trouble of exacting unwilling service. grit had done all his business, when he chanced to meet his friend jesse burns, who, as i have already said, was the son of the postmaster. "how are you, jesse?" said grit. "all right, grit. have you got your letter?" "my letter!" returned grit, in surprise. "yes; there's a letter for you in the post-office." "i wonder who it can be from?" "perhaps it's from your affectionate stepfather," suggested jesse, smiling. "i hope not, i don't want to see or hear from him." "well, you can easily solve the problem. you have only to take the letter out." "that's good advice, jesse. i'll follow it." grit called for his letter, and noticed, with some surprise, that it was addressed to him, not under his real name, but under that familiar name by which we know him. "grit morris," said jesse, scanning the envelope. "who can it be from?" the letter was postmarked boston, and was addressed in a bold, business hand. grit opened the envelope, read it through hastily, and with a look of evident pleasure. "what's it all about, grit?" asked jesse. "read it for yourself, jesse," said the young boatman, handing the letter to his friend. this was the letter: "dear sir: i need a young person on whom i can rely to travel for me at the west. i don't know you personally, but you have been recommended to me as likely to suit my purpose. i am willing to pay twelve dollars per week and traveling expenses. if this will suit your views, come to boston at once, and call upon me at my private residence, no. ----, essex street. "yours truly, "solomon weaver." "what are you going to do about it, grit?" asked jesse, when he had finished reading the letter. "i shall go to boston to-morrow morning," answered grit promptly. chapter xxxiii. grit leaves pine point. "it does seem to be a good offer," said jesse thoughtfully. "i should think it was--twelve dollars a week and traveling expenses," said grit enthusiastically. "i wonder how this mr. weaver came to hear of you?" "i can't think. that's what puzzles me," said grit. "he says that you have been recommended to him, i see." "yes. at any rate, i am very much obliged to the one who recommended me." "what will your mother say?" "she won't want to part with me; but when i tell her how good the offer is, she will get reconciled to it." when grit went home and read the letter to his mother, it was a shock to the good woman. "how can i part from you, grit?" she said, with a troubled look. "it won't be for long, mother," said grit hopefully. "i shall soon be able to send for you, and we can settle down somewhere near boston. i've got tired of this place, haven't you?" "no, grit. i think pine point is very pleasant, as long as i can keep you with me. when you are gone, of course, it will seem very different. i don't see how i am going to stand it." "it won't be for long, mother; and you'll know i am doing well." "you can make a living with your boat, grit." "yes, mother; but it isn't going to lead to anything. it's all very well now, but half a dozen years from now i ought to be established in some good business." "can't you put off going for a year, grit?" "a year hence there may be no such chance as this, mother." "that is true." "you'll give your consent, then, mother?" "if you really think it is best, grit--that is, if you've set your heart on it." "i have, mother," said grit earnestly. "i was getting tired of boating before this letter came, but i kept at it because there didn't seem to be anything else. now it would seem worse than ever, and i'm afraid i should be very discontented." "i wish you would call on your friend mr. jackson, at the hotel, and see what he thinks of it," said mrs. brandon. "he is an experienced man of business, and his judgment will be better than ours." "i will do as you say, mother. i am sure he will recommend me to go." grit went to the hotel, arriving there about eight o'clock, and inquired for mr. jackson. he was told that that gentleman had started in the morning for augusta, and would not return for a day or two. the young boatman was not, on the whole, sorry to hear this, for it was possible that the broker might not think favorably of the plan proposed, and he felt unwilling, even in that case, to give it up. he returned, and acquainted his mother with the result of his visit. "can't you wait till mr. jackson returns?" asked his mother. "no, mother; i should run the risk of losing the chance." the evening was spent in getting ready to go. grit left in his mother's hands all the money he had, except the ten dollars he had last received, and gave an order for the sixty dollars in the hands of mr. lawrence, the lawyer, so that even if this western journey were prolonged for three months, his mother would have enough to provide for her wants. "now, mother, i can leave home without any anxiety," he said. "you will write me often, grit?" said mrs. brandon anxiously. "oh, yes, mother; there is no danger i shall forget that." "your letters will be all i shall have to think of, you know, grit." "i won't forget it, mother." grit kissed his mother good-by, and bent his steps toward the railway station. on the way he met ephraim carver. "where are you going, grit?" asked the bank messenger. "i am going to boston." "it seems to me you have a good deal of business in boston." "i hope to have." "you ain't going to stay, are you?" "i expect to stay. i've got an offer from a party there." "of what sort?" "that letter will tell you." ephraim carver looked over the letter, and he smiled to himself, for he recognized the handwriting of colonel johnson, though the letter was signed by another name. "you're walking into the lion's den, young man," he thought; but he only said: "it seems to be a good offer. why, you will be paid as much as i get. how old are you?" "almost sixteen." "boys get on more rapidly now than they did when i was of your age. why, i'm more'n twenty years older than you are, and i haven't got any higher than twelve dollars a week yet." mr. carver laughed in what seemed to be an entirely uncalled-for manner. "i don't believe you'll keep your place long," thought the young boatman; but he, too, was not disposed to tell all he knew. so the two parted, each possessed of a secret in regard to the other. mr. carver, however, was destined to receive the first disagreeable surprise. after parting from grit he met mr. graves in the street. "good morning, mr. graves," he said, in his usual deferential manner, for he was a worldly-wise man, though he had committed one fatal mistake. "good morning, mr. carver," said the president of the bank gravely. "shall you have any errand for me this week?" "i have something to say to you, mr. carver," said mr. graves, "and i may as well take the present opportunity to do so. we have concluded to dispense with your services, and you are at liberty to look elsewhere for employment." "you are going to dispense with my services!" repeated carver, in dismay. "such is the determination of the directors, mr. carver." "but, sir, that is very hard on me. how am i to get along?" "i hope you may find something else to do. we shall pay you a month's salary in advance, to give you an opportunity of looking about." "but, mr. graves, why am i treated so harshly? can't you intercede for me? i am a poor man." "i feel for your situation, mr. carver, but i am compelled to say that i do not feel disposed to intercede for you." "haven't i always served the bank faithfully?" "i advise you to ask yourself that question, mr. carver," said the president significantly. "you can answer it to your own conscience better than i or any one else can do for you." "what does he mean?" thought carver, startled. then it occurred to the messenger that nothing had been discovered, but that mr. graves, who had recently shown such partiality to grit, wished to create a vacancy for him. "are you going to put grit morris in my place?" he asked angrily. "what makes you think so?" asked mr. graves keenly. "i knew you were partial to him," answered carver, who reflected that it would not do to give the source of his information. "i will at any rate answer your question, mr. carver. there is no intention of putting grit in your place. we have every confidence in his fidelity and capacity, but consider him too young for the position." "i was only going to say that grit has another chance in boston, so that there will be no need to provide for him." "grit has a chance in boston!" said mr. graves, in surprise. "yes; he has just started for the city." "what sort of a chance is it?" "he has received an offer to travel at the west, with a salary of twelve dollars a week and expenses." "that is strange." "it is true. he showed me the letter." "from whom did it come?" "i don't remember." carver did remember, but for obvious reasons did not think it best to acquaint mr. graves. "that is remarkable," thought mr. graves, as he walked home. "grit is a smart boy, but such offers are not often made by strangers to a boy of fifteen. i must speak to clark about it." he found mr. clark at his house. he was the quiet man who had been employed by the bank as a detective, and who had come to report to the president. there was a look of intelligence as he listened to the news about grit. "i tell you what i think of it," he said. "the rascals have found out the part which grit took in circumventing them, and this letter is part of a plot. they mean the boy mischief." "i hope not," said mr. graves anxiously. "i am attached to grit, and i wouldn't have harm come to him for a good deal." "leave the matter in my hands. i will take the next train for boston, and follow this clue. it may enable me to get hold of this johnson, who is a dangerous rascal, because he has brains." "do so, and i will see you paid, if necessary, out of my own pocket." chapter xxxiv. grit reaches boston. full of hope and joyful anticipation, grit left home and pursued his journey to boston. he had occasion to stop a couple of hours at portland, and improved it by strolling down to the pier of the little steamers that make periodical trips to the islands in the harbor. just outside a low saloon he unexpectedly ran across his stepfather. "how are you, grit?" said brandon affably. there was a flush on brandon's face, and an unsteadiness of gait which indicated that he had succeeded in evading what is known as the maine law. to grit it was not a welcome apparition. still, he felt it due to himself to be ordinarily polite. "i am well," he answered briefly. "and how's your mother?" asked brandon. "quite well, thank you," grit answered, as formally as if the question had been asked by a stranger. "does she miss me much?" asked his stepfather, with a smile. "she has not mentioned it," responded our hero coldly. "i am sorry that circumstances compel me to be absent from her for a time," continued brandon. "oh, don't disturb yourself," said grit. "she is quite used to being alone. i think she mentioned that you talked of going to europe." brandon frowned, and his bitter disappointment was thus recalled to his mind. "i don't know whether i shall or not," he answered. "it depends upon whether my--speculation turns out well. where are you going?" grit hesitated as to whether he should answer correctly. he was not anxious to have brandon looking him up in boston, but it occurred to him that he should be traveling at the west, and, therefore, he answered: "i have heard of a chance in boston, and am going to see about it." "all right, grit!" said brandon. "you have my consent." it occurred to grit that he did not stand in need of his stepfather's approval, but he did not say so. "yes, grit, i send you forth with a father's blessing," said brandon paternally. "by the way, have you a quarter about you?" grit thought that a quarter was rather a high price to pay for brandon's blessing, but he was in good spirits, and this made him good-natured. accordingly, he drew a quarter from his pocket and handed it to his stepfather. "thank you, grit," said brandon briskly, for he had felt uncertain as to the success of his application. "i like to see you respectful and dutiful. i will drink your good health, and success to your plans." "you had better drink it in cold water, mr. brandon." "that's all right," said brandon. "good-by!" he disappeared in the direction of the nearest saloon, and grit returned to the depot to take the train for boston. "i don't know that i ought to have given him any money," thought grit, "but i was so glad to get rid of him that i couldn't refuse." he reached boston without further adventure, arriving at the boston and maine depot in haymarket square about four o'clock. "i wonder whether it is too late to call on mr. weaver to-night," thought grit. he decided that it was not. even if it were too late for an interview, he thought it would be wise to let his prospective employer understand that he had met his appointment punctually. "carriage, sir?" asked a hackman. grit answered in the negative, feeling that to one in his circumstances it would be foolish extravagance to spend money for a carriage. but this was succeeded by the thought that time was valuable, and as he did not know where essex street was, it might consume so much to find out the place indicated in the letter that he might miss the opportunity of seeing mr. weaver. "how far is essex street from here?" he asked. "three or four miles," promptly answered the hackman. "is there any street-car line that goes there?" "oh, bless you, no." neither of these answers was correct, but grit did not know this. "how much will you charge to take me to no. ---- essex street?" "seein' it's you, i'll take you for a dollar and a quarter." grit was about to accept this offer, when a quiet-looking man beside him said: "the regular fare is fifty cents." "is it any of your business?" demanded the hackman angrily. "do you want to take the bread out of a poor man's mouth?" "yes, if the poor man undertakes to cheat a boy!" answered the quiet man keenly. "it's ridiculous expectin' to pay fifty cents for a ride of three or four miles," grumbled the hackman. "the distance isn't over a mile and a quarter, and you are not allowed to ask over fifty cents. my boy, i advise you to call another hack." "jump in," said the hackman, fearful of losing his fare. "i think i will get in, too, as i am going to that part of the city," said the small man, in whom my readers will probably recognize the detective already referred to. "that'll be extra." "of course," said the detective. "i understand that, and i understand how much extra," said the stranger significantly. as the man and boy rattled through the streets, they fell into a conversation, and grit, feeling that he was with a friend, told his plan. "humph!" said the detective. "may i see this letter?" "certainly, sir." "do you know who recommended you to mr. weaver?" asked grit's new friend. "no, sir." "and can't guess?" "no, sir." "doesn't it strike you as a little singular that such an offer should come from a stranger?" "yes, sir; that did occur to me. don't you think it genuine?" asked grit anxiously. "i don't know. i could tell better if i should see this mr. weaver." "won't you go in with me?" "no; it might seem odd, and the proposal may be genuine. i'll tell you what to do, my boy. that is, if you feel confidence in me." "i do, and shall be glad of your advice." "come to the parker house after your interview, and inquire for benjamin baker." "i will, sir, and thank you." when the hack drew up in front of no. ---- essex street, the stranger got out with grit. "i am calling close by," he said, "and won't ride any farther. here is the fare for both." "but, sir," said grit, "it is not right that you should pay my fare for me." "it is all right," said mr. baker. "i have more money than you, probably, my young friend. besides, meeting with you has saved me some trouble." this speech puzzled grit, but he did not feel like asking any explanation. he glanced with some interest at the house where he was to meet mr. weaver. it was a three-story brick house, with a swell front, such as used to be very popular in boston thirty or forty years since. it was very quiet in appearance, and there was nothing to distinguish it from its neighbors on either side. "good afternoon, mr. baker," said grit, as he ascended the steps to ring the bell. "good afternoon. remember to call upon me at the parker house." "thank you, sir." benjamin baker turned down a side street, and grit rang the bell. it was opened by a tall, gaunt woman, with a cast in her eye. "what's wanted?" she asked abruptly. "i called to see mr. weaver--mr. solomon weaver," said grit. "oh, yes," said the woman, with a curious smile. "come in." the hall which grit entered was dark and shabby in its general appearance. our hero followed his guide to a rear room, the door of which was thrown open, revealing a small apartment, with a shabby collection of furniture. there was no carpet on the floor, but one or two rugs relieved the large expanse of floor. "take a seat, and i'll call mr. weaver," said the woman. somehow grit's courage was dampened by the unpromising look of the house and its interior. he had pictured to himself mr. weaver as a pleasant, prosperous-looking man, who lived in good style, and was liberally disposed. he sat down in an armchair in the center of the room. he had but five minutes to wait. then the door opened, and to grit's amazement the man whom he had known as colonel johnson entered the room, and coolly locked the door after him. chapter xxxv. cross-examined. grit's face showed the astonishment he felt at the unexpected appearance of a man whom he knew to be the prime instigator of the attempt to rob the bank at chester. colonel johnson smiled grimly as he saw the effect produced by his presence. "you didn't expect to see me?" he said. "no, sir," answered grit. "i flatter myself you had done me the honor to call upon me," said johnson, seating himself at a little distance from our hero. "i came to see mr. solomon weaver, from whom i received a letter," explained grit. "if this is your house i may have made a mistake in the number." "not at all," answered johnson. "mr. weaver is a friend of mine." "does he live here?" "oh, yes," said johnson, smiling. "he wrote me that he wished to send me on a western trip." "that's all right." "then the letter was genuine," said grit, hoping that things might turn out right after all. could it be possible, he thought, that colonel johnson was the friend who had recommended him? it did not seem at all probable, but in his bewilderment he did not know what to think. "can i see mr. weaver?" asked grit, desirous of putting an end to his uncertainty. "presently," answered colonel johnson. "he is busy just at present, but he deputed me to speak with you." this was all very surprising, but would probably soon be explained. "i shall be glad to answer any questions," said grit. "i suppose you can present good recommendations, as the position is a responsible one," said johnson, with a half smile. "yes, sir." "whom, for instance?" "mr. graves, president of the chester bank," said grit. knowing what he did of colonel johnson's attempt upon the bank, it was perhaps a rather odd choice to make, but the young boatman thought it might help him to discover whether johnson knew anything of his recent employment by the bank. "i have heard of mr. graves," said johnson. "has he ever employed you?" "yes, sir." "in what capacity?" demanded johnson searchingly. "he sent me to this city with a package." "what did the package contain?" "i think it contained bonds." "haven't they a regular bank messenger?" "yes, sir." "what's his name?" "ephraim carver." "why was he not employed? why should you be sent in his place?" "i think you had better ask mr. graves," said grit independently. "why? don't you know?" "even if i did i should consider that i had no right to tell." "you are a very conscientious and honorable young man," said johnson sneeringly. "thank you, sir," returned grit, choosing not to show that he understood the sneer. "where is your stepfather?" inquired johnson, changing the subject abruptly. "in portland." "how do you know?" "i met him in the street while on my way through the city." "did you speak with him?" "yes, sir." "what did he say?" asked johnson suspiciously. "he wished to borrow twenty-five cents," answered grit, with a smile. "did you lend it to him?" "yes." "very dutiful, on my word!" "i have no feeling of that sort for mr. brandon," said grit frankly. "i thought it the easiest way to get rid of him." johnson changed the subject again. "is ephraim carver likely to lose his situation as bank messenger?" he asked. "i think you had better ask mr. graves," said grit, on his guard. johnson frowned, for he did not like grit's independence. "it is reported that you are intriguing for his position," he continued. "that is not true." "do you think there is any likelihood of your being appointed in his place?" "no, sir; i never dreamed of it." "yet there is a possibility of it. don't suppose that i am particularly interested in this carver. so far as i am concerned, i should not object to your succeeding him." "what does all this mean?" thought grit. "if you should do so, i might have a proposal to make to you that would be to your advantage." knowing what he did, grit very well understood what was meant. johnson, no doubt, wished to hire him to betray the confidence reposed in him by the bank, and deliver up any valuable package entrusted to him for a money consideration. like any right-minded and honorable boy, grit felt that the very hint of such a thing was an insult to him, and his face flushed with indignation. for the moment he forgot his prudence. "i don't think there is the least chance of my getting such a position," he said; "but even if i did, it would not do you any good to make me a proposal." "how do you know what sort of a proposal i should make?" demanded johnson keenly. "i don't know," answered grit, emphasizing the last word. "it appears to me, young man, that you are a little ahead of time," said johnson. "you shouldn't crow too soon." "i think i will bid you good evening," said grit, rising. "why so soon? you haven't seen mr. weaver." "on the whole, i don't think i should wish to engage with him." our hero felt that if mr. weaver were a friend of the man before him, it would be safest to have nothing to do with him. on the principle that a man is known by the company he keeps, the friend of colonel johnson could hardly be a desirable person to serve. "you seem to be in a hurry, especially as you have not seen my friend weaver." "you will be kind enough to explain to him that i have changed my plans," said grit. "resume your seat for five minutes," said johnson, "and i will call weaver. you had better see him for yourself." "very well, sir." he reflected that merely seeing mr. weaver would not commit him to anything. colonel johnson rose to his feet, and placed his foot firmly on a particular spot in the floor. to grit's dismay, the floor seemed to sink beneath him, and chair and all were lowered a dozen feet into a subterranean cavity, too quickly for him to help himself. he realized that the chair so conveniently placed in the center of the apartment rested on a trap-door. chapter xxxvi. the boy daniel. though grit was not hurt by his sudden descent into the dark cavity under the room in which he had been seated, he was, nevertheless, somewhat startled. indeed, it was enough to startle a person much older. for the first time it dawned upon him that he was the victim of a conspiracy, and mr. weaver was either an imaginary person, or his offer was not genuine. it was clear, also, from the tenor of johnson's questions that he fully understood, or at least suspected, that his plan had been known in advance to the bank officials. the young boatman understood how to manage a boat, but in the present case he found that he was out of his element. the tricks, traps, and devices of a great city he knew very little about. he had, indeed, read about trap-doors and subterranean chambers in certain sensational stories which had come into his possession, but he looked upon them as mere figments of the imagination, and did not believe they really existed. now, here was he himself made an unexpected victim by a conspiracy of the same class familiar to him in novels. naturally, the first thing to do was to take a survey of his new quarters, and obtain some idea of his position. at first everything seemed involved in thick darkness, but as his eye became accustomed to it, he could see that he was in a cellar of about the same size as the room above, though there was a door leading into another. he felt his way to it, and tried to open it, but found that it was fastened, probably by a bolt on the other side. there was no other door. "i am like a rat in a trap," thought grit. "what are they going to do with me, i wonder?" while it was unpleasant enough to be where he was, he did not allow himself to despond or give way to unmanly fears. there was no reason, he thought, to apprehend serious peril or physical violence. colonel johnson probably intended to frighten him, with a view of securing his compliance with the demands of the conspirators. "he will find he has made a mistake," thought grit. "i am not a baby, and don't mean to act like one." he heard a noise, and, looking round, discovered the armchair in which he had descended being drawn up toward the trap-door. the door was opened by some agency, the chair disappeared, and again he was in darkness. "they don't mean to keep me here in luxury," thought grit. "if i sit down anywhere, it will have to be on the floor." it was late in the afternoon, as we know, and it seemed likely that our hero would have to remain in the subterranean chamber all night. as there was no bed, he would have to lie down on the ground. grit kneeled down, and ascertained that the floor was cemented, and not a damp earthen flooring as he had feared. he congratulated himself, for he was bound to make the best of the situation. there was another source of discomfort, however. it was already past grit's ordinary supper hour, and, except a very slight lunch, consisting of a sandwich bought in the cars, our hero had had nothing to eat since breakfast, and an early breakfast at that. now, grit was not one of those delicate boys who are satisfied with a few mouthfuls, but he had what is called a "healthy appetite," such as belongs to most boys who have good stomachs and spend considerable time in the open air. he began to feel an aching void in the region of his stomach, and thought, with a sigh, of the plain but hearty supper he should have had at home. "i hope colonel johnson isn't going to starve me," he thought. "that is carrying the joke too far. it seems to me i never felt so hungry in all my life before." half an hour passed, and poor grit's reflections became decidedly gloomy as his stomach became more and more troublesome. however, he was perfectly helpless, and must wait till the man, or men, who had him in their clutches, saw fit to provide for him. under these circumstances it may well be imagined that his heart leaped for joy when he heard the bolt of the only door, already referred to, slowly withdrawn with a rasping sound, as if it did not slide easily in its socket. he turned his eyes eagerly toward the door. it was opened, and a tall, overgrown youth entered with a small basket in his hand, which he set down on the floor while he carefully closed the door. "hello, there! where are you?" he asked, for his eyes were not used to the darkness. "here i am," answered grit. "i hope you've brought me some supper." "right you are!" said the youth. "oh, now i see you." the speaker was tall and overgrown, as i have said. he was also painfully thin, and his clothes were two or three sizes too small for him, so that his long, bony arms protruded from his coat-sleeves, and his legs appeared to have outgrown his pants. his face was long, and his cheeky were hollow. "he reminds me of smike, in 'nicholas nickleby,'" thought grit. "take your supper, young one, and eat it quick," said the youth, for he was not more than eighteen. grit needed no second invitation. he quickly explored the contents of the basket. the supper consisted of cold meat and slices of bread and butter, with a mug of tea. to grit everything tasted delicious, and he did not leave a crumb. "my! haven't you got an appetite?" said the youth. "i haven't had anything to eat since morning," said grit apologetically--"that is, only a sandwich." "say, what are you here for?" asked the youth curiously. "i don't know," answered grit. "honor bright?" "yes, honor bright. do you live here?" "yes," answered the youth soberly. "is this man--colonel johnson--any relation of yours?" "no." "where are your folks?" "haven't got any. never had any as i know of." "have you always lived here?" "always lived with him," answered the boy, jerking his thumb in an upward direction. "sometimes here, sometimes in new york." "do you like to be with--him?" "no." "why don't you run away?" "run away!" repeated the other, looking around him nervously. "he'd get me back, and half kill me." "there's some mystery about this boy," thought grit. "do you think he will keep me here long?" he asked, in some anxiety. "can't say--maybe." "what's your name?" "daniel." "what's your other name?" "haven't got any." "daniel," said grit, a thought striking him. "do you ever go out--about the city, i mean?" "oh, yes; i go to the post-office and other places." "will you carry a message for me to the parker house?" "i darsn't," said daniel, trembling. "no one will know it," pleaded grit. "besides, i'll give you--five dollars," he added, after a pause. "have you got so much?" asked daniel eagerly. "yes." "show it to me." grit did so. "yes, i'll do it," said the youth, after a pause; "but i must be careful so he won't know." "all right. when can you leave the house?" "in the morning." "that will suit me very well. now, shall i see you again to-morrow morning?" "yes, i shall bring you your breakfast." "very well; i will write a note, and will describe the gentleman you are to hand it to." "you'll be sure to give me the money?" "yes, i will give it to you before you go, if you will promise to do my errand faithfully." "i'll promise. i never had five dollars," continued daniel. "there's many things i can buy for five dollars." "so you can," answered grit, who began to perceive that this overgrown youth was rather deficient mentally. "you mustn't tell anybody that you are going to carry a message for me," said grit, thinking the caution might be necessary. "oh, no, i darsn't," said daniel quickly, and grit was satisfied. our hero felt much more comfortable after he was left alone, partly in consequence of the plain supper he had eaten, partly because he thought he saw his way out of the trap into which he had been inveigled. "to-morrow i hope to be free," he said to himself, as he lay down on the floor and sought the refreshment of sleep. fortunately for him, he was feeling pretty well fatigued, and though it was but eight o'clock, he soon lost consciousness of all that was disagreeable in his situation under the benignant influence of sleep. when grit awoke, he had no idea what time it was, for there was no way for light to enter the dark chamber. "i hope it is almost breakfast-time," thought our hero, for he already felt the stirrings of appetite, and besides, all his hope centered in daniel, whom he was then to see. after awhile he heard the welcome sound of the bolt drawn back. then a sudden fear assailed him. it might be some one else, not daniel, who would bring his breakfast. if so, all his hopes would be dashed to the ground, and he could fix no limit to his captivity. but his fears were dissipated when he saw the long, lank youth, with the same basket which he had brought the night before. "good morning, daniel," said grit joyfully. "i am glad to see you." "you're hungry, i reckon," said the youth practically. "yes; but i wanted to see you, so as to give you my message. are you going out this morning?" "yes; i'm goin' to market." "can you go to the parker house? you know where it is, don't you?" "yes; it is on school street." grit was glad that daniel knew, for he could not have told him. grit had written a note in pencil on a sheet of paper which he fortunately had in his pocket. this he handed to daniel, with full instructions as to the outward appearance of mr. benjamin baker, to whom it was to be handed. "now give me the money," said daniel. "here it is. mind, daniel, i expect you to serve me faithfully." "all right!" said, the lank youth, as he disappeared through the door, once more leaving grit alone. chapter xxxvii. daniel calls at the parker house. it was half-past nine o'clock in the forenoon, and mr. benjamin baker, detective, sat smoking a cigar in the famous hotel on school street, known as "parker's." "i hope nothing has happened to the boy," he said to himself, uneasily, as he drew out his watch. "it is time he was here. have i done rightly in leaving him in the clutches of a company of unprincipled men? yet i don't know what else i could do. if i had accompanied him to the door, my appearance would have awakened suspicion. if through his means i can get authentic information as to the interior of this house, which i strongly suspect to be the headquarters of the gang, i shall have done a good thing. yet perhaps i did wrong in not giving the boy a word of warning." mr. baker took the cigar from his mouth and strolled into the opposite room, where several of the hotel guests were either reading the morning papers or writing letters. he glanced quickly about him, but saw no one that resembled grit. "not here yet?" he said to himself, "perhaps he can't find the hotel. but he looks too smart to have any difficulty about that. ha! whom have we here?" this question was elicited by a singular figure upon the sidewalk. it was a tall, overgrown boy, whose well-worn suit appeared to have been first put on when he was several years younger, and several inches shorter. the boy was standing still, with mouth and eyes wide open, staring in a bewildered way at the entrance of the hotel, as if he had some business therein, but did not know how to go about it. "that's an odd-looking boy," he thought. "looks like one of dickens' characters." finally the boy, in an uncertain, puzzled way, ascended the steps into the main vestibule, and again began to stare helplessly in different directions. one of the employees of the hotel went up to him. "what do you want?" he demanded, rather roughly. "be you mr. baker?" asked the boy. "no; i am not mr. baker." "where is mr. baker?" "i don't know anything about mr. baker," answered the attendant impatiently. "the boy told me i would find him here," said daniel, for of course my reader recognizes him. "then the boy was playing a trick on you, most likely." by this time mr. baker thought it advisable to make himself known. "i am mr. benjamin baker," he said, advancing. "do you want to see me?" daniel looked very much relieved. "i've got a note for you," he said. "give it to me." daniel did so, and was about to go out. "wait a minute, my young friend, there may be an answer," said the detective. mr. baker read rapidly the following note: "i am in trouble. i think the letter i received was only meant to entrap me. i have not seen mr. weaver, but i have had an interview with colonel johnson, who planned the robbery of the bank at chester. he seems to know that i had something to do with defeating his plans, and has sounded me as to whether i will help him in case i act again as bank messenger. on my refusing, he touched a spring, and let me down through a trap-door in the floor of the rear room to a cellar beneath, where i am kept in darkness. the boy who gives you this brings me my meals. he doesn't seem very bright, but i have agreed to pay him well if he will hand you this, and i hope he will succeed. i don't know what colonel johnson proposes to do with me, but i hope you will be able to help me. grit." benjamin baker nodded to himself while he was reading this note. "this confirms my suspicions," he said to himself. "if i am lucky i shall succeed in trapping the trappers. hark you, my boy, when are you going back?" "as soon as i have been to the market." "very well; what did the boy agree to give you for bringing this note?" "five dollars," answered daniel, his dull face lighting up, for he knew the power of money. "would you like five dollars more?" "wouldn't i?" was the eager response. "then don't say a word to anybody about bringing this note." "no, i won't. he'd strap me if i did." "shall you see the boy?" "yes, at twelve o'clock, when i carry his dinner." "when you see him, tell him you've seen me, and it's all right. do you understand?" daniel nodded. "i may call up there some time this morning. if i do i want you to open the door and let me in." daniel nodded again. "that will do. you can go." mr. baker left the hotel with a preoccupied air. chapter xxxviii. grit makes a discovery. grit, left to himself, was subjected to the hardest trial, that of waiting for deliverance, and not knowing whether the expected help would come. "at any rate i have done the best i could," he said to himself. "daniel is the best messenger i could obtain. he doesn't seem to be more than half-witted, but he ought to be intelligent enough to find mr. baker and deliver my note." the subterranean apartment, with its utter destitution of furniture, furnished absolutely no resources against ennui. grit was fond of reading, and in spite of his anxiety might in an interesting paper or book have forgotten his captivity, but there was nothing to read, and even if there had been, it was too dark to avail himself of it. "i suppose i sha'n't see daniel till noon," he reflected. "till then i am left in suspense." he sat down in a corner and began to think over his position and future prospects. he was not wholly cast down, for he refused to believe that he was in any real peril. in fact, though a captive, he had never felt more hopeful, or more self-reliant than now. but he was an active boy, and accustomed to exercise, and he grew tired of sitting down. "i will walk a little," he decided, and proceeded to pace up and down his limited apartment. then it occurred to him to ascertain the dimensions of the room, by pacing. as he did so, he ran his hand along the side wall. a most remarkable thing occurred. a door flew open, which had appeared like the rest of the wall, and a narrow passageway was revealed, leading grit could not tell where. "i must have touched some spring," he thought. "this house is a regular trap. i wonder where this passageway leads?" grit stooped down, for the passage was but about four feet in height, and tried to peer through the darkness. but he could see nothing. "shall i explore it?" he thought. he hesitated a moment, not knowing whether it would be prudent, but finally curiosity overruled prudence, and he decided to do so. stooping over, he felt his way for possibly fifty feet, when he came to a solid wall. here seemed to be the end of the passage. he began to feel slowly with his hand, when another small door, only about twelve inches square, flew open, and he looked through it into another subterranean apartment. it did not appear to be occupied, but on a small wooden table was a candle, and by the light of the candle grit could see a variety of articles, including several trunks, one open, revealing its contents to be plate. "what does it mean?" thought grit. then the thought came to him, for, though he was a country boy, his wits had been sharpened by his recent experiences. "it must be a storehouse of stolen goods." this supposition seemed in harmony with the character of the man who had lured him here, and now held him captive. "if i were only outside," thought grit, "i would tell mr. baker of this. the police ought to know it." just then he heard his name called, and, turning suddenly, distinguished by the faint light which the candle threw into the passage the stern and menacing countenance of colonel johnson. "come out here, boy!" he called, in an angry tone. "i have an account to settle with you." chapter xxxix. an unpleasant interview. there was nothing to do but to obey. judging by his own interpretation of the discovery our hero was not surprised that his captor should be incensed. he retraced his steps, and found himself once more in the subterranean chamber facing an angry man. "what took you in there?" demanded colonel johnson. "curiosity, i suppose," answered grit composedly. he felt that he was in a scrape, but he was not a boy to show fear or confusion. "how did you happen to discover the entrance?" "it was quite accidental. i was pacing the floor to see how wide the room was, when my hand touched the spring." "why did you want to know the width of the room?" asked johnson suspiciously. "i didn't care much to know, but the time hung heavily on my hands, and that was one way of filling it up." colonel johnson eyed the boy attentively. he was at a loss to know whether grit really suspected the nature and meaning of his discovery, or not. if not, he didn't wish to excite suspicion in the boy's mind. he decided to insinuate an explanation. "i suppose you were surprised to find the passageway," he remarked. "yes, sir." "as you have always lived in the country, that is natural. such arrangements are common enough in the city." "i wonder whether trap doors are common," thought grit, but he did not give expression to his thought. "the room into which you looked is under the house of my brother-in-law, and the passage affords an easy mode of entrance." "i should think it would be easier going into the street," thought grit. "still i am annoyed at your meddlesome curiosity, and shall take measures to prevent your gratifying it again. i had a great mind when i first saw you to shut you up in the passage. i fancy you wouldn't enjoy that." "i certainly shouldn't," said grit, smiling. "i will have some consideration for you, and put a stop to your wanderings in another way." as he spoke he drew from his pocket a thick, stout cord, and directing grit to hold his hands together, proceeded to tie his wrists. this our hero naturally regarded as distasteful. "you need not do this," he said. "i will promise not to go into the passage." "humph! will you promise not to attempt to escape?" "no, sir, i can't promise that." "ha! you mean, then, to attempt to escape?" "of course!" answered grit. "i should be a fool to stay here if any chance offered of getting away." "you are candid, young man," returned johnson. "there is no earthly chance of your escaping. still, i may as well make sure. put out your feet." "you are not going to tie my feet, too, are you?" asked grit, in some dismay. "to be sure i am. i can't trust you after what you have done this morning." it was of no use to resist, for colonel johnson was a powerful man, and grit, though strong, only a boy of sixteen. "this doesn't look much like escaping," thought grit. "i hope he won't search my pockets and discover my knife. if i can get hold of that, i may be able to release myself." colonel johnson had just completed tying the last knot when the door, which had been left unbolted, was seen to open, and the half-witted boy, daniel, entered hastily. "how now, idiot!" said johnson harshly. "what brings you here?" "there's a gentleman up-stairs wants to see you, master," said daniel, with the scared look with which he always regarded his tyrant. "a gentleman!" repeated johnson hastily. "who let him in?" "i did, sir." "you did!" thundered johnson. "how often have i told you to let in nobody? do you want me to choke you?" "i--forgot," faltered the boy. "besides, he said he wanted to see you particular." "all the more reason why i don't want to see him. what does he look like?" "he's a small man, sir." "humph! where did you leave him?" "room above, sir." "i'll go up and see him. if it's somebody i don't want to see, i'll choke you." "yes, sir," said daniel humbly. as johnson went out, daniel lingered a moment, and, in a hoarse whisper, said to grit: "it's him." "who is it?" asked grit puzzled. "it's the man you sent me to." "good! you're a trump, daniel," said grit joyfully. a minute after a confused noise was heard in the room above. daniel turned pale. "tell him where i am, daniel," said grit, as the boy timidly left the room. chapter xl. colonel johnson comes to grief. we must now follow johnson up-stairs. in the room above, sitting down tranquilly in an arm-chair, but not in that in the center of the room, was a small, wiry man of unpretending exterior. "what is your business here, sir?" demanded johnson rudely. "are you the owner of this house?" asked benjamin baker coolly. "yes. that does not explain your presence here, however." "i am in search of a quiet home, and it struck me that this was about the sort of a house i would like," answered baker. "then, sir, you have wasted your time in coming here. this house is not for sale." "indeed! perhaps i may offer you enough to make it worth your while to sell it to me." "quite impossible, sir. this is my house, and i don't want to sell." "i am sorry to hear it. perhaps you would be kind enough to show me over the house to let me see its arrangements, as i may wish to copy them if i build." "it strikes me, sir, you are very curious, whoever you are," said johnson angrily. "you intrude yourself into the house of a quiet citizen, and wish to pry into his private arrangements." "i really beg your pardon, mr. ---- i really forget your name." "because you never heard it. the name is of no consequence." "i was about to say, if you have anything to conceal, i won't press my request." "who told you i had anything to conceal?" said johnson suspiciously. "i inferred it from your evident reluctance to let me go over your house." "then, sir, i have only to say that you are mistaken. because i resent your impertinent intrusion, you jump to the conclusion that i have something to conceal." "just so. there might, for example, be a trap-door in this very room----" colonel johnson sprang to his feet and advanced toward his unwelcome guest. "tell me what you mean," he said savagely. "i am not the man to be bearded in my own house. you will yet repent your temerity in thrusting yourself here." benjamin baker also rose to his feet, and, putting a whistle to his mouth, whistled shrilly. instantly two stalwart policemen sprang into the apartment from the hall outside. "seize that man!" said the detective. "what does this mean?" asked johnson, struggling, but ineffectually. "it means, colonel johnson, alias robert kidd, that you are arrested on a charge of being implicated in the attempt to steal a parcel of bonds belonging to the national bank of chester, maine." "i don't know anything about it," said johnson sullenly. "you've got the wrong man." "possibly. if so, you'll be released, especially as there are other charges against you. guard him, men, while i search the house." "here, boy, show me where my young friend is concealed," said baker to daniel, who was timidly peeping in at the door. a minute later and baker cut the cords that confined the hands and feet of grit. "now," said he quickly, "have you discovered anything that will be of service to me?" grit opened for him the dark passage. the detective walked to the end, and saw the room into which it opened. "do you know, grit," he said, on his return, "you have done a splendid day's work? with your help i have discovered the headquarters of a bold and desperate gang of thieves, which has long baffled the efforts of the boston police. there is a standing reward of two thousand dollars for their discovery, to which you will be entitled." "no, sir; it belongs to you," said grit modestly. "i could have done nothing without you." "nor i without your information. but we can discuss this hereafter." johnson ground his teeth when grit was brought upstairs, free, to see him handcuffed and helpless. "i believe you are at the bottom of this, you young rascal!" he said. "you are right," said the detective. "we have received very valuable information from this boy, whom you supposed to be in your power." "i wish i had killed him!" said johnson furiously. "fortunately, you were saved that crime, and need expect nothing worse than a long term of imprisonment. officers, take him along." chapter xli. conclusion. the boston and portland papers of the next morning contained full accounts of the discovery of the rendezvous of a gang of robbers whose operations had been extensive in and near boston, together with the arrest of their chief. in the account full credit was given to our young hero, grit, for his agency in the affair, and it was announced that the prize offered would be divided between grit and the famous detective, benjamin baker. it may readily be supposed that this account created great excitement in chester. most of the villagers were heartily pleased by the good fortune and sudden renown of the young boatman; but there was at least one household to which the news brought no satisfaction. this was the home of phil courtney. "what a fuss the papers make about that boy!" exclaimed phil, in disgust. "i suppose he will put on no end of airs when he gets home." "very likely," said mr. courtney. "he seems to have had good luck, that's all." "it's pretty good luck to get a thousand dollars," said phil enviously. "papa, will you do me a favor?" "what is it?" "can't you put a thousand dollars in the bank for me, so that the boatman can't crow over me?" "money is very scarce with me just now, philip," said his father. "it will do just as well to tell him you have a thousand dollars in my hands." "i would rather have it in a bank," said philip. "then you'll have to wait till it is convenient for me," said his father shortly. it was true that money was scarce with mr. courtney. i have already stated that he had been speculating in wall street heavily, and with by no means unvarying success. in fact, the same evening he received a letter from his brother, stating that the market was so heavily against him that he must at once forward five thousand dollars to protect his margin, or the stocks carried on his account must be sold. as mr. courtney was unable to meet this demand, the stocks were sold, involving a loss of ten thousand dollars. this, in addition to previous losses, so far crippled mr. courtney that he was compelled materially to change his way of living, and phil had to come down in the social scale, much to his mortification. but the star of the young boatman was in the ascendant. on his return to pine point he found mr. jackson, the new york broker, about to leave the hotel for a return to the city. he congratulated grit on his success as an amateur detective, and then asked: "what are your plans, grit? probably you won't care to remain a boatman?" "no, sir; i have decided to give up that business, at any rate." "have you anything in view?" "i thought i might get a situation of some kind in boston. the prize-money will keep us going till i can earn a good salary." "will your mother move from pine point?" "yes, sir; she would be lonely here without me." "i have an amendment to offer to your plans, grit." "what is that, sir?" "come to new york instead of boston." "i have no objection, sir, if there is any opening there for me." "there is, and in my office. do you think you would like to enter my office?" "i should like it very much," said grit eagerly. "then i will engage you at a salary of twelve dollars per week--for the first year." "twelve dollars!" exclaimed grit, overwhelmed. "i had no idea a green hand could get such pay." "nor can they," answered mr. jackson, smiling; "but you remember that there is an unsettled account between us. i have not forgotten that you saved the life of my boy." "i don't want any reward for that, sir." "i appreciate your delicacy, but i shall feel better satisfied to recognize it in my own way. i have another proposal to make to you. it is this: place in my hands as much of your thousand dollars as you can spare, and i will invest it carefully for your advantage in stock operations, and hope materially to increase it." "i shall be delighted if you will do so, mr. jackson, and think myself very fortunate that you take this trouble for me." "now, how soon can you go to new york?" "when you think best, sir?" "i advise you to go on with me, and select a home for your mother. then you can come back for her, and settle yourself down to work." * * * * * * * * a year later, in a pleasant cottage on staten island, grit and his mother sat in a neatly furnished sitting-room. our young hero was taller, as befitted his increased age, but there was the same pleasant, frank expression which had characterized him as a boy. "mother," said he, "i have some news for you." "what is it, grit?" "mr. jackson has raised my pay to twenty dollars a week." "that is excellent news, grit." "he has besides rendered an account of the eight hundred dollars he took from me to operate with. how much do you think it amounts to now?" "perhaps a thousand." "between four and five thousand!" answered grit, in exultation. "how can that be possible?" exclaimed mrs. morris, in astonishment. "he used it as a margin to buy stocks which advanced greatly in a short time. this being repeated once or twice, has made me almost rich." "i can hardly believe it, grit. it is too good to be true." "but it is true, mother. now we can change our mode of living." "wait till you are worth ten thousand dollars, grit--then i will consent. but, i, too, have some news for you." "what is it?" "i had a letter from chester to-day. our old neighbor, mr. courtney, has lost everything--or almost everything--and has been compelled to accept the post of bank messenger, at a salary of fifty dollars per month." "that is indeed a change," said grit. "what will phil do?" "he has gone into a store in chester, on a salary of three dollars a week." "poor fellow!" said grit. "i pity him. it must be hard for a boy with his high notions to come down in the world so. i would rather begin small and rise, than be reared in affluence only to sink into poverty afterward." it was quite true. the result of his rash speculations was to reduce mr. courtney to poverty, and make him for the balance of his life a soured, discontented man. as for phil, he is still young, and adversity may teach him a valuable lesson. still, i hardly think he will ever look with satisfaction upon the growing success and prosperity of the young boatman. i must note another change. it will be observed that i have referred to grit's mother as mrs. morris. mr. brandon was accidentally drowned in portland harbor, having undertaken, while under the influence of liquor, to row to peake's island, some two miles distant. his wife and grit were shocked by his sudden death, but they could hardly be expected to mourn for him. his widow resumed the name of her former husband, and could now lay aside all anxiety as to the quiet tenor of her life being broken in upon by her ill-chosen second husband. it looks as if grit's prosperity had come to stay. i am privately informed that mr. jackson intends next year to make him junior partner, and this will give him a high position in business circles. i am sure my young readers will feel that his prosperity has been well earned, and will rejoice heartily in the brilliant success of the young boatman of pine point. the end. captains all by w.w. jacobs the white cat [illustration: "the white cat."] the traveller stood looking from the tap-room window of the _cauliflower_ at the falling rain. the village street below was empty, and everything was quiet with the exception of the garrulous old man smoking with much enjoyment on the settle behind him. "it'll do a power o' good," said the ancient, craning his neck round the edge of the settle and turning a bleared eye on the window. "i ain't like some folk; i never did mind a drop o' rain." the traveller grunted and, returning to the settle opposite the old man, fell to lazily stroking a cat which had strolled in attracted by the warmth of the small fire which smouldered in the grate. "he's a good mouser," said the old man, "but i expect that smith the landlord would sell 'im to anybody for arf a crown; but we 'ad a cat in claybury once that you couldn't ha' bought for a hundred golden sovereigns." the traveller continued to caress the cat. "a white cat, with one yaller eye and one blue one," continued the old man. "it sounds queer, but it's as true as i sit 'ere wishing that i 'ad another mug o' ale as good as the last you gave me." the traveller, with a start that upset the cat's nerves, finished his own mug, and then ordered both to be refilled. he stirred the fire into a blaze, and, lighting his pipe and putting one foot on to the hob, prepared to listen. it used to belong to old man clark, young joe clark's uncle, said the ancient, smacking his lips delicately over the ale and extending a tremulous claw to the tobacco-pouch pushed towards him; and he was never tired of showing it off to people. he used to call it 'is blue-eyed darling, and the fuss 'e made o' that cat was sinful. young joe clark couldn't bear it, but being down in 'is uncle's will for five cottages and a bit o' land bringing in about forty pounds a year, he 'ad to 'ide his feelings and pretend as he loved it. he used to take it little drops o' cream and tit-bits o' meat, and old clark was so pleased that 'e promised 'im that he should 'ave the cat along with all the other property when 'e was dead. young joe said he couldn't thank 'im enough, and the old man, who 'ad been ailing a long time, made 'im come up every day to teach 'im 'ow to take care of it arter he was gone. he taught joe 'ow to cook its meat and then chop it up fine; 'ow it liked a clean saucer every time for its milk; and 'ow he wasn't to make a noise when it was asleep. "take care your children don't worry it, joe," he ses one day, very sharp. "one o' your boys was pulling its tail this morning, and i want you to clump his 'ead for 'im." "which one was it?" ses joe. "the slobbery-nosed one," ses old clark. "i'll give 'im a clout as soon as i get 'ome," ses joe, who was very fond of 'is children. "go and fetch 'im and do it 'ere," ses the old man; "that'll teach 'im to love animals." joe went off 'ome to fetch the boy, and arter his mother 'ad washed his face, and wiped his nose, an' put a clean pinneyfore on 'im, he took 'im to 'is uncle's and clouted his 'ead for 'im. arter that joe and 'is wife 'ad words all night long, and next morning old clark, coming in from the garden, was just in time to see 'im kick the cat right acrost the kitchen. he could 'ardly speak for a minute, and when 'e could joe see plain wot a fool he'd been. fust of all 'e called joe every name he could think of-- which took 'im a long time--and then he ordered 'im out of 'is house. "you shall 'ave my money wen your betters have done with it," he ses, "and not afore. that's all you've done for yourself." joe clark didn't know wot he meant at the time, but when old clark died three months arterwards 'e found out. his uncle 'ad made a new will and left everything to old george barstow for as long as the cat lived, providing that he took care of it. when the cat was dead the property was to go to joe. the cat was only two years old at the time, and george barstow, who was arf crazy with joy, said it shouldn't be 'is fault if it didn't live another twenty years. the funny thing was the quiet way joe clark took it. he didn't seem to be at all cut up about it, and when henery walker said it was a shame, 'e said he didn't mind, and that george barstow was a old man, and he was quite welcome to 'ave the property as long as the cat lived. "it must come to me by the time i'm an old man," he ses, "ard that's all i care about." henery walker went off, and as 'e passed the cottage where old clark used to live, and which george barstow 'ad moved into, 'e spoke to the old man over the palings and told 'im wot joe clark 'ad said. george barstow only grunted and went on stooping and prying over 'is front garden. "bin and lost something?" ses henery walker, watching 'im. "no; i'm finding," ses george barstow, very fierce, and picking up something. "that's the fifth bit o' powdered liver i've found in my garden this morning." henery walker went off whistling, and the opinion he'd 'ad o' joe clark began to improve. he spoke to joe about it that arternoon, and joe said that if 'e ever accused 'im o' such a thing again he'd knock 'is 'ead off. he said that he 'oped the cat 'ud live to be a hundred, and that 'e'd no more think of giving it poisoned meat than henery walker would of paying for 'is drink so long as 'e could get anybody else to do it for 'im. they 'ad bets up at this 'ere _cauliflower_ public-'ouse that evening as to 'ow long that cat 'ud live. nobody gave it more than a month, and bill chambers sat and thought o' so many ways o' killing it on the sly that it was wunnerful to hear 'im. george barstow took fright when he 'eard of them, and the care 'e took o' that cat was wunnerful to behold. arf its time it was shut up in the back bedroom, and the other arf george barstow was fussing arter it till that cat got to hate 'im like pison. instead o' giving up work as he'd thought to do, 'e told henery walker that 'e'd never worked so 'ard in his life. "wot about fresh air and exercise for it?" ses henery. "wot about joe clark?" ses george bar-stow. "i'm tied 'and and foot. i dursent leave the house for a moment. i ain't been to the _cauliflower_ since i've 'ad it, and three times i got out o' bed last night to see if it was safe." "mark my words," ses henery walker; "if that cat don't 'ave exercise, you'll lose it. "i shall lose it if it does 'ave exercise," ses george barstow, "that i know." he sat down thinking arter henery walker 'ad gone, and then he 'ad a little collar and chain made for it, and took it out for a walk. pretty nearly every dog in claybury went with 'em, and the cat was in such a state o' mind afore they got 'ome he couldn't do anything with it. it 'ad a fit as soon as they got indoors, and george barstow, who 'ad read about children's fits in the almanac, gave it a warm bath. it brought it round immediate, and then it began to tear round the room and up and downstairs till george barstow was afraid to go near it. [illustration: "he 'ad a little collar and chain made for it, and took it out for a walk."] it was so bad that evening, sneezing, that george barstow sent for bill chambers, who'd got a good name for doctoring animals, and asked 'im to give it something. bill said he'd got some powders at 'ome that would cure it at once, and he went and fetched 'em and mixed one up with a bit o' butter. "that's the way to give a cat medicine," he ses; "smear it with the butter and then it'll lick it off, powder and all." he was just going to rub it on the cat when george barstow caught 'old of 'is arm and stopped 'im. "how do i know it ain't pison?" he ses. "you're a friend o' joe clark's, and for all i know he may ha' paid you to pison it." "i wouldn't do such a thing," ses bill. "you ought to know me better than that." "all right," ses george barstow; "you eat it then, and i'll give you two shillings in stead o' one. you can easy mix some more." "not me," ses bill chambers, making a face. "well, three shillings, then," ses george barstow, getting more and more suspicious like; "four shillings--five shillings." bill chambers shook his 'ead, and george barstow, more and more certain that he 'ad caught 'im trying to kill 'is cat and that 'e wouldn't eat the stuff, rose 'im up to ten shillings. bill looked at the butter and then 'e looked at the ten shillings on the table, and at last he shut 'is eyes and gulped it down and put the money in 'is pocket. "you see, i 'ave to be careful, bill," ses george barstow, rather upset. bill chambers didn't answer 'im. he sat there as white as a sheet, and making such extraordinary faces that george was arf afraid of 'im. "anything wrong, bill?" he ses at last. bill sat staring at 'im, and then all of a sudden he clapped 'is 'andkerchief to 'is mouth and, getting up from his chair, opened the door and rushed out. george barstow thought at fust that he 'ad eaten pison for the sake o' the ten shillings, but when 'e remembered that bill chambers 'ad got the most delikit stummick in claybury he altered 'is mind. the cat was better next morning, but george barstow had 'ad such a fright about it 'e wouldn't let it go out of 'is sight, and joe clark began to think that 'e would 'ave to wait longer for that property than 'e had thought, arter all. to 'ear 'im talk anybody'd ha' thought that 'e loved that cat. we didn't pay much attention to it up at the _cauliflower_ 'ere, except maybe to wink at 'im--a thing he couldn't a bear--but at 'ome, o' course, his young 'uns thought as everything he said was gospel; and one day, coming 'ome from work, as he was passing george barstow's he was paid out for his deceitfulness. "i've wronged you, joe clark," ses george barstow, coming to the door, "and i'm sorry for it." "oh!" ses joe, staring. "give that to your little jimmy," ses george barstow, giving 'im a shilling. "i've give 'im one, but i thought arterwards it wasn't enough." "what for?" ses joe, staring at 'im agin. "for bringing my cat 'ome," ses george barstow. "'ow it got out i can't think, but i lost it for three hours, and i'd about given it up when your little jimmy brought it to me in 'is arms. he's a fine little chap and 'e does you credit." joe clark tried to speak, but he couldn't get a word out, and henery walker, wot 'ad just come up and 'eard wot passed, took hold of 'is arm and helped 'im home. he walked like a man in a dream, but arf-way he stopped and cut a stick from the hedge to take 'ome to little jimmy. he said the boy 'ad been asking him for a stick for some time, but up till then 'e'd always forgotten it. at the end o' the fust year that cat was still alive, to everybody's surprise; but george barstow took such care of it 'e never let it out of 'is sight. every time 'e went out he took it with 'im in a hamper, and, to prevent its being pisoned, he paid isaac sawyer, who 'ad the biggest family in claybury, sixpence a week to let one of 'is boys taste its milk before it had it. the second year it was ill twice, but the horse-doctor that george barstow got for it said that it was as 'ard as nails, and with care it might live to be twenty. he said that it wanted more fresh air and exercise; but when he 'eard 'ow george barstow come by it he said that p'r'aps it would live longer indoors arter all. at last one day, when george barstow 'ad been living on the fat o' the land for nearly three years, that cat got out agin. george 'ad raised the front-room winder two or three inches to throw something outside, and, afore he knew wot was 'appening, the cat was out-side and going up the road about twenty miles an hour. george barstow went arter it, but he might as well ha' tried to catch the wind. the cat was arf wild with joy at getting out agin, and he couldn't get within arf a mile of it. he stayed out all day without food or drink, follering it about until it came on dark, and then, o' course, he lost sight of it, and, hoping against 'ope that it would come home for its food, he went 'ome and waited for it. he sat up all night dozing in a chair in the front room with the door left open, but it was all no use; and arter thinking for a long time wot was best to do, he went out and told some o' the folks it was lost and offered a reward of five pounds for it. you never saw such a hunt then in all your life. nearly every man, woman, and child in claybury left their work or school and went to try and earn that five pounds. by the arternoon george barstow made it ten pounds provided the cat was brought 'ome safe and sound, and people as was too old to walk stood at their cottage doors to snap it up as it came by. joe clark was hunting for it 'igh and low, and so was 'is wife and the boys. in fact, i b'lieve that everybody in claybury excepting the parson and bob pretty was trying to get that ten pounds. o' course, we could understand the parson--'is pride wouldn't let 'im; but a low, poaching, thieving rascal like bob pretty turning up 'is nose at ten pounds was more than we could make out. even on the second day, when george barstow made it ten pounds down and a shilling a week for a year besides, he didn't offer to stir; all he did was to try and make fun o' them as was looking for it. "have you looked everywhere you can think of for it, bill?" he ses to bill chambers. "yes, i 'ave," ses bill. "well, then, you want to look everywhere else," ses bob pretty. "i know where i should look if i wanted to find it." "why don't you find it, then?" ses bill. "'cos i don't want to make mischief," ses bob pretty. "i don't want to be unneighbourly to joe clark by interfering at all." "not for all that money?" ses bill. "not for fifty pounds," ses bob pretty; "you ought to know me better than that, bill chambers." "it's my belief that you know more about where that cat is than you ought to," ses joe gubbins. "you go on looking for it, joe," ses bob pretty, grinning; "it's good exercise for you, and you've only lost two days' work." "i'll give you arf a crown if you let me search your 'ouse, bob," ses bill chambers, looking at 'im very 'ard. "i couldn't do it at the price, bill," ses bob pretty, shaking his 'ead. "i'm a pore man, but i'm very partikler who i 'ave come into my 'ouse." o' course, everybody left off looking at once when they heard about bob-- not that they believed that he'd be such a fool as to keep the cat in his 'ouse; and that evening, as soon as it was dark, joe clark went round to see 'im. "don't tell me as that cat's found, joe," ses bob pretty, as joe opened the door. "not as i've 'eard of," said joe, stepping inside. "i wanted to speak to you about it; the sooner it's found the better i shall be pleased." "it does you credit, joe clark," ses bob pretty. "it's my belief that it's dead," ses joe, looking at 'im very 'ard; "but i want to make sure afore taking over the property." bob pretty looked at 'im and then he gave a little cough. "oh, you want it to be found dead," he ses. "now, i wonder whether that cat's worth most dead or alive?" joe clark coughed then. "dead, i should think," he ses at last. "george barstow's just 'ad bills printed offering fifteen pounds for it," ses bob pretty. "i'll give that or more when i come into the property," ses joe clark. "there's nothing like ready-money, though, is there?" ses bob. "i'll promise it to you in writing, bob," ses joe, trembling. "there's some things that don't look well in writing, joe," says bob pretty, considering; "besides, why should you promise it to me?" "o' course, i meant if you found it," ses joe. "well, i'll do my best, joe," ses bob pretty; "and none of us can do no more than that, can they?" they sat talking and argufying over it for over an hour, and twice bob pretty got up and said 'e was going to see whether george barstow wouldn't offer more. by the time they parted they was as thick as thieves, and next morning bob pretty was wearing joe clark's watch and chain, and mrs. pretty was up at joe's 'ouse to see whether there was any of 'is furniture as she 'ad a fancy for. she didn't seem to be able to make up 'er mind at fust between a chest o' drawers that 'ad belonged to joe's mother and a grand-father clock. she walked from one to the other for about ten minutes, and then bob, who 'ad come in to 'elp her, told 'er to 'ave both. "you're quite welcome," he ses; "ain't she, joe?" joe clark said "yes," and arter he 'ad helped them carry 'em 'ome the prettys went back and took the best bedstead to pieces, cos bob said as it was easier to carry that way. mrs. clark 'ad to go and sit down at the bottom o' the garden with the neck of 'er dress undone to give herself air, but when she saw the little prettys each walking 'ome with one of 'er best chairs on their 'eads she got and walked up and down like a mad thing. "i'm sure i don't know where we are to put it all," ses bob pretty to joe gubbins, wot was looking on with other folks, "but joe clark is that generous he won't 'ear of our leaving anything." "has 'e gorn mad?" ses bill chambers, staring at 'im. "not as i knows on," ses bob pretty. "it's 'is good-'artedness, that's all. he feels sure that that cat's dead, and that he'll 'ave george barstow's cottage and furniture. i told 'im he'd better wait till he'd made sure, but 'e wouldn't." before they'd finished the prettys 'ad picked that 'ouse as clean as a bone, and joe clark 'ad to go and get clean straw for his wife and children to sleep on; not that mrs. clark 'ad any sleep that night, nor joe neither. henery walker was the fust to see what it really meant, and he went rushing off as fast as 'e could run to tell george barstow. george couldn't believe 'im at fust, but when 'e did he swore that if a 'air of that cat's head was harmed 'e'd 'ave the law o' bob pretty, and arter henery walker 'ad gone 'e walked round to tell 'im so. "you're not yourself, george barstow, else you wouldn't try and take away my character like that," ses bob pretty. "wot did joe clark give you all them things for?" ses george, pointing to the furniture. "took a fancy to me, i s'pose," ses bob. "people do sometimes. there's something about me at times that makes 'em like me." "he gave 'em to you to kill my cat," ses george barstow. "it's plain enough for any-body to see." bob pretty smiled. "i expect it'll turn up safe and sound one o' these days," he ses, "and then you'll come round and beg my pardon. p'r'aps--" "p'r'aps wot?" ses george barstow, arter waiting a bit. "p'r'aps somebody 'as got it and is keeping it till you've drawed the fifteen pounds out o' the bank," ses bob, looking at 'im very hard. "i've taken it out o' the bank," ses george, starting; "if that cat's alive, bob, and you've got it, there's the fifteen pounds the moment you 'and it over." "wot d'ye mean--me got it?" ses bob pretty. "you be careful o' my character." "i mean if you know where it is," ses george barstow trembling all over. "i don't say i couldn't find it, if that's wot you mean," ses bob. "i can gin'rally find things when i want to." "you find me that cat, alive and well, and the money's yours, bob," ses george, 'ardly able to speak, now that 'e fancied the cat was still alive. bob pretty shook his 'ead. "no; that won't do," he ses. "s'pose i did 'ave the luck to find that pore animal, you'd say i'd had it all the time and refuse to pay." "i swear i wouldn't, bob," ses george barstow, jumping up. "best thing you can do if you want me to try and find that cat," says bob pretty, "is to give me the fifteen pounds now, and i'll go and look for it at once. i can't trust you, george barstow." "and i can't trust you," ses george barstow. "very good," ses bob, getting up; "there's no 'arm done. p'r'aps joe clark 'll find the cat is dead and p'r'aps you'll find it's alive. it's all one to me." george barstow walked off 'ome, but he was in such a state o' mind 'e didn't know wot to do. bob pretty turning up 'is nose at fifteen pounds like that made 'im think that joe clark 'ad promised to pay 'im more if the cat was dead; and at last, arter worrying about it for a couple o' hours, 'e came up to this 'ere _cauliflower_ and offered bob the fifteen pounds. "wot's this for?" ses bob. "for finding my cat," ses george. "look here," ses bob, handing it back, "i've 'ad enough o' your insults; i don't know where your cat is." "i mean for trying to find it, bob," ses george barstow. "oh, well, i don't mind that," ses bob, taking it. "i'm a 'ard-working man, and i've got to be paid for my time; it's on'y fair to my wife and children. i'll start now." he finished up 'is beer, and while the other chaps was telling george barstow wot a fool he was joe clark slipped out arter bob pretty and began to call 'im all the names he could think of. "don't you worry," ses bob; "the cat ain't found yet." "is it dead?" ses joe clark, 'ardly able to speak. "'ow should i know?" ses bob; "that's wot i've got to try and find out. that's wot you gave me your furniture for, and wot george barstow gave me the fifteen pounds for, ain't it? now, don't you stop me now, 'cos i'm goin' to begin looking." he started looking there and then, and for the next two or three days george barstow and joe clark see 'im walking up and down with his 'ands in 'is pockets looking over garden fences and calling "puss." he asked everybody 'e see whether they 'ad seen a white cat with one blue eye and one yaller one, and every time 'e came into the _cauliflower_ he put his 'ead over the bar and called "puss," 'cos, as 'e said, it was as likely to be there as anywhere else. it was about a week after the cat 'ad disappeared that george barstow was standing at 'is door talking to joe clark, who was saying the cat must be dead and 'e wanted 'is property, when he sees a man coming up the road carrying a basket stop and speak to bill chambers. just as 'e got near them an awful "miaow" come from the basket and george barstow and joe clark started as if they'd been shot. "he's found it?" shouts bill chambers, pointing to the man. "it's been living with me over at ling for a week pretty nearly," ses the man. "i tried to drive it away several times, not knowing that there was fifteen pounds offered for it." george barstow tried to take 'old of the basket. "i want that fifteen pounds fust," ses the man. "that's on'y right and fair, george," ses bob pretty, who 'ad just come up. "you've got all the luck, mate. we've been hunting 'igh and low for that cat for a week." then george barstow tried to explain to the man and call bob pretty names at the same time; but it was all no good. the man said it 'ad nothing to do with 'im wot he 'ad paid to bob pretty; and at last they fetched policeman white over from cudford, and george barstow signed a paper to pay five shillings a week till the reward was paid. george barstow 'ad the cat for five years arter that, but he never let it get away agin. they got to like each other in time and died within a fortnight of each other, so that joe clark got 'is property arter all. captains all by w.w. jacobs the four pigeons [illustration: "the four pigeons."] the old man took up his mug and shifted along the bench until he was in the shade of the elms that stood before the _cauliflower_. the action also had the advantage of bringing him opposite the two strangers who were refreshing themselves after the toils of a long walk in the sun. "my hearing ain't wot it used to be," he said, tremulously. "when you asked me to have a mug o' ale i 'ardly heard you; and if you was to ask me to 'ave another, i mightn't hear you at all." one of the men nodded. "not over there," piped the old man. "that's why i come over here," he added, after a pause. "it 'ud be rude like to take no notice; if you was to ask me." he looked round as the landlord approached, and pushed his mug gently in his direction. the landlord, obeying a nod from the second stranger, filled it. "it puts life into me," said the old man, raising it to his lips and bowing. "it makes me talk." "time we were moving, jack," said the first traveller. the second, assenting to this as an abstract proposition, expressed, however, a determination to finish his pipe first. i heard you saying something about shooting, continued the old man, and that reminds me of some shooting we 'ad here once in claybury. we've always 'ad a lot o' game in these parts, and if it wasn't for a low, poaching fellow named bob pretty--claybury's disgrace i call 'im--we'd 'ave a lot more. it happened in this way. squire rockett was going abroad to foreign parts for a year, and he let the hall to a gentleman from london named sutton. a real gentleman 'e was, open-'anded and free, and just about october he 'ad a lot of 'is friends come down from london to 'elp 'im kill the pheasants. the first day they frightened more than they killed, but they enjoyed theirselves all right until one gentleman, who 'adn't shot a single thing all day, shot pore bill chambers wot was beating with about a dozen more. bill got most of it in the shoulder and a little in the cheek, but the row he see fit to make you'd ha' thought he'd been killed. he laid on the ground groaning with 'is eyes shut, and everybody thought 'e was dying till henery walker stooped down and asked 'im whether 'e was hurt. it took four men to carry bill 'ome, and he was that particular you wouldn't believe. they 'ad to talk in whispers, and when peter gubbins forgot 'imself and began to whistle he asked him where his 'art was. when they walked fast he said they jolted 'im, and when they walked slow 'e asked 'em whether they'd gone to sleep or wot. bill was in bed for nearly a week, but the gentleman was very nice about it and said that it was his fault. he was a very pleasant-spoken gentleman, and, arter sending dr. green to him and saying he'd pay the bill, 'e gave bill chambers ten pounds to make up for 'is sufferings. bill 'ad intended to lay up for another week, and the doctor, wot 'ad been calling twice a day, said he wouldn't be responsible for 'is life if he didn't; but the ten pounds was too much for 'im, and one evening, just a week arter the accident, he turned up at this _cauliflower_ public-'ouse and began to spend 'is money. his face was bandaged up, and when 'e come in he walked feeble-like and spoke in a faint sort o' voice. smith, the landlord, got 'im a easy-chair and a couple of pillers out o' the parlour, and bill sat there like a king, telling us all his sufferings and wot it felt like to be shot. i always have said wot a good thing beer is, and it done bill more good than doctor's medicine. when he came in he could 'ardly crawl, and at nine o'clock 'e was out of the easy-chair and dancing on the table as well as possible. he smashed three mugs and upset about two pints o' beer, but he just put his 'and in his pocket and paid for 'em without a word. "there's plenty more where that came from," he ses, pulling out a handful o' money. peter gubbins looked at it, 'ardly able to speak. "it's worth while being shot to 'ave all that money," he ses, at last. "don't you worry yourself, peter," ses bob pretty; "there's plenty more of you as'll be shot afore them gentlemen at the hall 'as finished. bill's the fust, but 'e won't be the last--not by a long chalk." "they're more careful now," ses dicky weed, the tailor. "all right; 'ave it your own way," ses bob, nasty-like. "i don't know much about shooting, being on'y a pore labourin' man. all i know is i shouldn't like to go beating for them. i'm too fond o' my wife and family." "there won't be no more shot," ses sam jones. "we're too careful," ses peter gubbins. "bob pretty don't know everything," ses dicky weed. "i'll bet you what you like there'll be some more of you shot," ses bob pretty, in a temper. "now, then." "'ow much'll you bet, bob," ses sam jones, with a wink at the others. "i can see you winking, sam jones," ses bob pretty, "but i'll do more than bet. the last bet i won is still owing to me. now, look 'ere; i'll pay you sixpence a week all the time you're beating if you promise to give me arf of wot you get if you're shot. i can't say fairer than that." "will you give me sixpence a week, too?" ses henery walker, jumping up. "i will," ses bob; "and anybody else that likes. and wot's more, i'll pay in advance. fust sixpences now." claybury men 'ave never been backward when there's been money to be made easy, and they all wanted to join bob pretty's club, as he called it. but fust of all 'e asked for a pen and ink, and then he got smith, the land-lord, being a scholard, to write out a paper for them to sign. henery walker was the fust to write 'is name, and then sam jones, peter gubbins, ralph thomson, jem hall, and walter bell wrote theirs. bob stopped 'em then, and said six 'ud be enough to go on with; and then 'e paid up the sixpences and wished 'em luck. wot they liked a'most as well as the sixpences was the idea o' getting the better o' bob pretty. as i said afore, he was a poacher, and that artful that up to that time nobody 'ad ever got the better of 'im. they made so much fun of 'im the next night that bob turned sulky and went off 'ome, and for two or three nights he 'ardly showed his face; and the next shoot they 'ad he went off to wickham and nobody saw 'im all day. that very day henery walker was shot. several gentlemen fired at a rabbit that was started, and the next thing they knew henery walker was lying on the ground calling out that 'is leg 'ad been shot off. he made more fuss than bill chambers a'most, 'specially when they dropped 'im off a hurdle carrying him 'ome, and the things he said to dr. green for rubbing his 'ands as he came into the bedroom was disgraceful. the fust bob pretty 'eard of it was up at the _cauliflower_ at eight o'clock that evening, and he set down 'is beer and set off to see henery as fast as 'is legs could carry 'im. henery was asleep when 'e got there, and, do all he could, bob pretty couldn't wake 'im till he sat down gentle on 'is bad leg. [illustration: "the fust bob pretty 'eard of it was up at the _cauliflower_ at eight o'clock that evening."] "it's on'y me, old pal," he ses, smiling at 'im as henery woke up and shouted at 'im to get up. henery walker was going to say something bad, but 'e thought better of it, and he lay there arf busting with rage, and watching bob out of the corner of one eye. "i quite forgot you was on my club till smith reminded me of it," ses bob. "don't you take a farthing less than ten pounds, henery." henery walker shut his eyes again. "i forgot to tell you i made up my mind this morning not to belong to your club any more, bob," he ses. "why didn't you come and tell me, henery, instead of leaving it till it was too late?" ses bob, shaking his 'ead at 'im. "i shall want all that money," ses henery in a weak voice. "i might 'ave to have a wooden leg, bob." "don't meet troubles arf way, henery," ses bob, in a kind voice. "i've no doubt mr. sutton'll throw in a wooden leg if you want it, and look here, if he does, i won't trouble you for my arf of it." he said good-night to henery and went off, and when mrs. walker went up to see 'ow henery was getting on he was carrying on that alarming that she couldn't do nothing with 'im. he was laid up for over a week, though it's my opinion he wasn't much hurt, and the trouble was that nobody knew which gentleman 'ad shot 'im. mr. sutton talked it over with them, and at last, arter a good deal o' trouble, and henery pulling up 'is trousers and showing them 'is leg till they was fair sick of the sight of it, they paid 'im ten pounds, the same as they 'ad bill. it took bob pretty two days to get his arf, but he kept very quiet about it, not wishing to make a fuss in the village for fear mr. sutton should get to hear of the club. at last he told henery walker that 'e was going to wickham to see 'is lawyer about it, and arter smith the landlord 'ad read the paper to henery and explained 'ow he'd very likely 'ave to pay more than the whole ten pounds then, 'e gave bob his arf and said he never wanted to see 'im again as long as he lived. bob stood treat up at the _cauliflower_ that night, and said 'ow bad he'd been treated. the tears stood in 'is eyes a'most, and at last 'e said that if 'e thought there was going to be any more fuss of that kind he'd wind up the club. "it's the best thing you can do," ses sam jones; "i'm not going to belong to it any longer, so i give you notice. if so be as i get shot i want the money for myself." "me, too," ses peter gubbins; "it 'ud fair break my 'art to give bob pretty five pounds. i'd sooner give it to my wife." all the other chaps said the same thing, but bob pointed out to them that they 'ad taken their sixpences on'y the night afore, and they must stay in for the week. he said that was the law. some of 'em talked about giving 'im 'is sixpences back, but bob said if they did they must pay up all the sixpences they had 'ad for three weeks. the end of it was they said they'd stay in for that week and not a moment longer. the next day sam jones and peter gubbins altered their minds. sam found a couple o' shillings that his wife 'ad hidden in her sunday bonnet, and peter gubbins opened 'is boy's money-box to see 'ow much there was in it. they came up to the _cauliflower_ to pay bob their eighteen-pences, but he wasn't there, and when they went to his 'ouse mrs. pretty said as 'ow he'd gone off to wickham and wouldn't be back till saturday. so they 'ad to spend the money on beer instead. that was on tuesday, and things went on all right till friday, when mr. sutton 'ad another shoot. the birds was getting scarce and the gentlemen that anxious to shoot them there was no 'olding them. once or twice the keepers spoke to 'em about carefulness, and said wot large families they'd got, but it wasn't much good. they went on blazing away, and just at the corner of the wood sam jones and peter gubbins was both hit; sam in the leg and peter in the arm. the noise that was made was awful--everybody shouting that they 'adn't done it, and all speaking at once, and mr. sutton was dancing about a'most beside 'imself with rage. pore sam and peter was 'elped along by the others; sam being carried and peter led, and both of 'em with the idea of getting all they could out of it, making such 'orrible noises that mr. sutton couldn't hear 'imself calling his friends names. "there seems to be wounded men calling out all over the place," he ses, in a temper. "i think there is another one over there, sir," ses one o' the keepers, pointing. sam jones and peter gubbins both left off to listen, and then they all heard it distinctly. a dreadful noise it was, and when mr. sutton and one or two more follered it up they found poor walter bell lying on 'is face in a bramble. "wot's the matter?" ses mr. sutton, shouting at 'im. "i've been shot from behind," ses walter. "i'd got something in my boot, and i was just stooping down to fasten it up agin when i got it. "but there oughtn't to be anybody 'ere," ses mr. sutton to one of the keepers. "they get all over the place, sir," ses the 'keeper, scratching his 'ead. "i fancied i 'eard a gun go off here a minute or two arter the others was shot." "i believe he's done it 'imself," says mr. sutton, stamping his foot. "i don't see 'ow he could, sir," ses the keeper, touching his cap and looking at walter as was still lying with 'is face on 'is arms. they carried walter 'ome that way on a hurdle, and dr. green spent all the rest o' that day picking shots out o' them three men and telling 'em to keep still. he 'ad to do sam jones by candle-light, with mrs. jones 'olding the candle with one hand and crying with the other. twice the doctor told her to keep it steady, and poor sam 'ad only just passed the remark, "how 'ot it was for october," when they discovered that the bed was on fire. the doctor said that sam was no trouble. he got off of the bed by 'imself, and, when it was all over and the fire put out, the doctor found him sitting on the stairs with the leg of a broken chair in 'is hand calling for 'is wife. of course, there was a terrible to-do about it in claybury, and up at the hall, too. all of the gentlemen said as 'ow they hadn't done it, and mr. sutton was arf crazy with rage. he said that they 'ad made 'im the laughing-stock of the neighbourhood, and that they oughtn't to shoot with anything but pop-guns. they got to such high words over it that two of the gentlemen went off 'ome that very night. there was a lot of talk up at the _cauliflower,_ too, and more than one pointed out 'ow lucky bob pretty was in getting four men out of the six in his club. as i said afore, bob was away at the time, but he came back the next night and we 'ad the biggest row here you could wish for to see. henery walker began it. "i s'pose you've 'eard the dreadful news, bob pretty?" he ses, looking at 'im. "i 'ave," ses bob; "and my 'art bled for 'em. i told you wot those gentlemen was like, didn't i? but none of you would believe me. now you can see as i was right." "it's very strange," ses henery walker, looking round; "it's very strange that all of us wot's been shot belonged to bob pretty's precious club." "it's my luck, henery," ses bob, "always was lucky from a child." "and i s'pose you think you're going to 'ave arf of the money they get?" ses henery walker. "don't talk about money while them pore chaps is suffering," ses bob. "i'm surprised at you, henery." "you won't 'ave a farthing of it," ses henery walker; "and wot's more, bob pretty, i'm going to 'ave my five pounds back." "don't you believe it, henery," ses bob, smiling at 'im. "i'm going to 'ave my five pounds back," ses henery, "and you know why. i know wot your club was for now, and we was all a pack o' silly fools not to see it afore." "speak for yourself, henery," ses john biggs, who thought henery was looking at 'im. "i've been putting two and two together," ses henery, looking round, "and it's as plain as the nose on your face. bob pretty hid up in the wood and shot us all himself!" for a moment you might 'ave heard a pin drop, and then there was such a noise nobody could hear theirselves speak. everybody was shouting his 'ardest, and the on'y quiet one there was bob pretty 'imself. "poor henery; he's gorn mad," he ses, shaking his 'ead. "you're a murderer," ses ralph thomson, shaking 'is fist at him. "henery walker's gorn mad," ses bob agin. "why, i ain't been near the place. there's a dozen men'll swear that i was at wickham each time these misfortunate accidents 'appened." "men like you, they'd swear anything for a pot o' beer," ses henery. "but i'm not going to waste time talking to you, bob pretty. i'm going straight off to tell mr. sutton." "i shouldn't do that if i was you, henery," ses bob. "i dessay," ses henery walker; "but then you see i am." "i thought you'd gorn mad, henery," ses bob, taking a drink o' beer that somebody 'ad left on the table by mistake, "and now i'm sure of it. why, if you tell mr. sutton that it wasn't his friends that shot them pore fellers he won't pay them anything. 'tain't likely 'e would, is it?" henery walker, wot 'ad been standing up looking fierce at 'im, sat down agin, struck all of a heap. "and he might want your ten pounds back, henery," said bob in a soft voice. "and seeing as 'ow you was kind enough to give five to me, and spent most of the other, it 'ud come 'ard on you, wouldn't it? always think afore you speak, henery. i always do." henery walker got up and tried to speak, but 'e couldn't, and he didn't get 'is breath back till bob said it was plain to see that he 'adn't got a word to say for 'imself. then he shook 'is fist at bob and called 'im a low, thieving, poaching murderer. "you're not yourself, henery," ses bob. "when you come round you'll be sorry for trying to take away the character of a pore labourin' man with a ailing wife and a large family. but if you take my advice you won't say anything more about your wicked ideas; if you do, these pore fellers won't get a farthing. and you'd better keep quiet about the club mates for their sakes. other people might get the same crazy ideas in their silly 'eads as henery. keepers especially." that was on'y common sense; but, as john biggs said, it did seem 'ard to think as 'ow bob pretty should be allowed to get off scot-free, and with henery walker's five pounds too. "there's one thing," he ses to bob; "you won't 'ave any of these other pore chaps money; and, if they're men, they ought to make it up to henery walker for the money he 'as saved 'em by finding you out." "they've got to pay me fust," ses bob. "i'm a pore man, but i'll stick up for my rights. as for me shooting 'em, they'd ha' been 'urt a good deal more if i'd done it--especially mr. henery walker. why, they're hardly 'urt at all." "don't answer 'im, henery," ses john biggs. "you save your breath to go and tell sam jones and the others about it. it'll cheer 'em up." "and tell 'em about my arf, in case they get too cheerful and go overdoing it," ses bob pretty, stopping at the door. "good-night all." nobody answered 'im; and arter waiting a little bit henery walker set off to see sam jones and the others. john biggs was quite right about its making 'em cheerful, but they see as plain as bob 'imself that it 'ad got to be kept quiet. "till we've spent the money, at any rate," ses walter bell; "then p'r'aps mr. sutton might get bob locked up for it." mr. sutton went down to see 'em all a day or two afterwards. the shooting-party was broken up and gone 'ome, but they left some money behind 'em. ten pounds each they was to 'ave, same as the others, but mr. sutton said that he 'ad heard 'ow the other money was wasted at the _cauliflower,_ and 'e was going to give it out to 'em ten shillings a week until the money was gorn. he 'ad to say it over and over agin afore they understood 'im, and walter bell 'ad to stuff the bedclo'es in 'is mouth to keep civil. peter gubbins, with 'is arm tied up in a sling, was the fust one to turn up at the _cauliflower,_ and he was that down-'arted about it we couldn't do nothing with 'im. he 'ad expected to be able to pull out ten golden sovereigns, and the disapp'intment was too much for 'im. "i wonder 'ow they heard about it," ses dicky weed. "i can tell you," ses bob pretty, wot 'ad been sitting up in a corner by himself, nodding and smiling at peter, wot wouldn't look at 'im. "a friend o' mine at wickham wrote to him about it. he was so disgusted at the way bill chambers and henery walker come up 'ere wasting their 'ard-earned money, that he sent 'im a letter, signed 'a friend of the working man,' telling 'im about it and advising 'im what to do." "a friend o' yours?" ses john biggs, staring at 'im. "what for?" "i don't know," ses bob; "he's a wunnerful good scholard, and he likes writin' letters. he's going to write another to-morrer, unless i go over and stop 'im." "another?" ses peter, who 'ad been tellin' everybody that 'e wouldn't speak to 'im agin as long as he lived. "wot about?" "about the idea that i shot you all," ses bob. "i want my character cleared. o' course, they can't prove anything against me--i've got my witnesses. but, taking one thing with another, i see now that it does look suspicious, and i don't suppose any of you'll get any more of your money. mr. sutton is so sick o' being laughed at, he'll jump at anything." "you dursn't do it, bob," ses peter, all of a tremble. "it ain't me, peter, old pal," ses bob, "it's my friend. but i don't mind stopping 'im for the sake of old times if i get my arf. he'd listen to me, i feel sure." at fust peter said he wouldn't get a farthing out of 'im if his friend wrote letters till dooms-day; but by-and-by he thought better of it, and asked bob to stay there while he went down to see sam and walter about it. when 'e came back he'd got the fust week's money for bob pretty; but he said he left walter bell carrying on like a madman, and, as for sam jones, he was that upset 'e didn't believe he'd last out the night. the lady of the barge and other stories by w. w. jacobs in the library the fire had burnt low in the library, for the night was wet and warm. it was now little more than a grey shell, and looked desolate. trayton burleigh, still hot, rose from his armchair, and turning out one of the gas-jets, took a cigar from a box on a side-table and resumed his seat again. the apartment, which was on the third floor at the back of the house, was a combination of library, study, and smoke-room, and was the daily despair of the old housekeeper who, with the assistance of one servant, managed the house. it was a bachelor establishment, and had been left to trayton burleigh and james fletcher by a distant connection of both men some ten years before. trayton burleigh sat back in his chair watching the smoke of his cigar through half-closed eyes. occasionally he opened them a little wider and glanced round the comfortable, well-furnished room, or stared with a cold gleam of hatred at fletcher as he sat sucking stolidly at his brier pipe. it was a comfortable room and a valuable house, half of which belonged to trayton burleigh; and yet he was to leave it in the morning and become a rogue and a wanderer over the face of the earth. james fletcher had said so. james fletcher, with the pipe still between his teeth and speaking from one corner of his mouth only, had pronounced his sentence. "it hasn't occurred to you, i suppose," said burleigh, speaking suddenly, "that i might refuse your terms." "no," said fletcher, simply. burleigh took a great mouthful of smoke and let it roll slowly out. "i am to go out and leave you in possession?" he continued. "you will stay here sole proprietor of the house; you will stay at the office sole owner and representative of the firm? you are a good hand at a deal, james fletcher." "i am an honest man," said fletcher, "and to raise sufficient money to make your defalcations good will not by any means leave me the gainer, as you very well know." "there is no necessity to borrow," began burleigh, eagerly. "we can pay the interest easily, and in course of time make the principal good without a soul being the wiser." "that you suggested before," said fletcher, "and my answer is the same. i will be no man's confederate in dishonesty; i will raise every penny at all costs, and save the name of the firm--and yours with it--but i will never have you darken the office again, or sit in this house after to-night." "you won't," cried burleigh, starting up in a frenzy of rage. "i won't," said fletcher. "you can choose the alternative: disgrace and penal servitude. don't stand over me; you won't frighten me, i can assure you. sit down." "you have arranged so many things in your kindness," said burleigh, slowly, resuming his seat again, "have you arranged how i am to live?" "you have two strong hands, and health," replied fletcher. "i will give you the two hundred pounds i mentioned, and after that you must look out for yourself. you can take it now." he took a leather case from his breast pocket, and drew out a roll of notes. burleigh, watching him calmly, stretched out his hand and took them from the table. then he gave way to a sudden access of rage, and crumpling them in his hand, threw them into a corner of the room. fletcher smoked on. "mrs. marl is out?" said burleigh, suddenly. fletcher nodded. "she will be away the night," he said, slowly; "and jane too; they have gone together somewhere, but they will be back at half-past eight in the morning." "you are going to let me have one more breakfast in the old place, then," said burleigh. "half-past eight, half-past----" he rose from his chair again. this time fletcher took his pipe from his mouth and watched him closely. burleigh stooped, and picking up the notes, placed them in his pocket. "if i am to be turned adrift, it shall not be to leave you here," he said, in a thick voice. he crossed over and shut the door; as he turned back fletcher rose from his chair and stood confronting him. burleigh put his hand to the wall, and drawing a small japanese sword from its sheath of carved ivory, stepped slowly toward him. "i give you one chance, fletcher," he said, grimly. "you are a man of your word. hush this up and let things be as they were before, and you are safe." "put that down," said fletcher, sharply. "by ---, i mean what i say!" cried the other. "i mean what i said!" answered fletcher. he looked round at the last moment for a weapon, then he turned suddenly at a sharp sudden pain, and saw burleigh's clenched fist nearly touching his breast-bone. the hand came away from his breast again, and something with it. it went a long way off. trayton burleigh suddenly went to a great distance and the room darkened. it got quite dark, and fletcher, with an attempt to raise his hands, let them fall to his side instead, and fell in a heap to the floor. he was so still that burleigh could hardly realize that it was all over, and stood stupidly waiting for him to rise again. then he took out his handkerchief as though to wipe the sword, and thinking better of it, put it back into his pocket again, and threw the weapon on to the floor. the body of fletcher lay where it had fallen, the white face turned up to the gas. in life he had been a commonplace-looking man, not to say vulgar; now burleigh, with a feeling of nausea, drew back toward the door, until the body was hidden by the table, and relieved from the sight, he could think more clearly. he looked down carefully and examined his clothes and his boots. then he crossed the room again, and with his face averted, turned out the gas. something seemed to stir in the darkness, and with a faint cry he blundered toward the door before he had realized that it was the clock. it struck twelve. [illustration: burleigh, with a feeling of nausea, drew back toward the dooor.] he stood at the head of the stairs trying to recover himself; trying to think. the gas on the landing below, the stairs and the furniture, all looked so prosaic and familiar that he could not realize what had occurred. he walked slowly down and turned the light out. the darkness of the upper part of the house was now almost appalling, and in a sudden panic he ran down stairs into the lighted hall, and snatching a hat from the stand, went to the door and walked down to the gate. except for one window the neighbouring houses were in darkness, and the lamps shone tip a silent street. there was a little rain in the air, and the muddy road was full of pebbles. he stood at the gate trying to screw up his courage to enter the house again. then he noticed a figure coming slowly up the road and keeping close to the palings. the full realization of what he had done broke in upon him when he found himself turning to fly from the approach of the constable. the wet cape glistening in the lamplight, the slow, heavy step, made him tremble. suppose the thing upstairs was not quite dead and should cry out? suppose the constable should think it strange for him to be standing there and follow him in? he assumed a careless attitude, which did not feel careless, and as the man passed bade him good-night, and made a remark as to the weather. ere the sound of the other's footsteps had gone quite out of hearing, he turned and entered the house again before the sense of companionship should have quite departed. the first flight of stairs was lighted by the gas in the hall, and he went up slowly. then he struck a match and went up steadily, past the library door, and with firm fingers turned on the gas in his bedroom and lit it. he opened the window a little way, and sitting down on his bed, tried to think. he had got eight hours. eight hours and two hundred pounds in small notes. he opened his safe and took out all the loose cash it contained, and walking about the room, gathered up and placed in his pockets such articles of jewellery as he possessed. the first horror had now to some extent passed, and was succeeded by the fear of death. with this fear on him he sat down again and tried to think out the first moves in that game of skill of which his life was the stake. he had often read of people of hasty temper, evading the police for a time, and eventually falling into their hands for lack of the most elementary common sense. he had heard it said that they always made some stupid blunder, left behind them some damning clue. he took his revolver from a drawer and saw that it was loaded. if the worst came to the worst, he would die quickly. eight hours' start; two hundred odd pounds. he would take lodgings at first in some populous district, and let the hair on his face grow. when the hue-and-cry had ceased, he would go abroad and start life again. he would go out of a night and post letters to himself, or better still, postcards, which his landlady would read. postcards from cheery friends, from a sister, from a brother. during the day he would stay in and write, as became a man who described himself as a journalist. or suppose he went to the sea? who would look for him in flannels, bathing and boating with ordinary happy mortals? he sat and pondered. one might mean life, and the other death. which? his face burned as he thought of the responsibility of the choice. so many people went to the sea at that time of year that he would surely pass unnoticed. but at the sea one might meet acquaintances. he got up and nervously paced the room again. it was not so simple, now that it meant so much, as he had thought. the sharp little clock on the mantel-piece rang out "one," followed immediately by the deeper note of that in the library. he thought of the clock, it seemed the only live thing in that room, and shuddered. he wondered whether the thing lying by the far side of the table heard it. he wondered---- he started and held his breath with fear. somewhere down stairs a board creaked loudly, then another. he went to the door, and opening it a little way, but without looking out, listened. the house was so still that he could hear the ticking of the old clock in the kitchen below. he opened the door a little wider and peeped out. as he did so there was a sudden sharp outcry on the stairs, and he drew back into the room and stood trembling before he had quite realized that the noise had been made by the cat. the cry was unmistakable; but what had disturbed it? there was silence again, and he drew near the door once more. he became certain that something was moving stealthily on the stairs. he heard the boards creak again, and once the rails of the balustrade rattled. the silence and suspense were frightful. suppose that the something which had been fletcher waited for him in the darkness outside? he fought his fears down, and opening the door, determined to see what was beyond. the light from his room streamed out on to the landing, and he peered about fearfully. was it fancy, or did the door of fletcher's room opposite close as he looked? was it fancy, or did the handle of the door really turn? in perfect silence, and watching the door as he moved, to see that nothing came out and followed him, he proceeded slowly down the dark stairs. then his jaw fell, and he turned sick and faint again. the library door, which he distinctly remembered closing, and which, moreover, he had seen was closed when he went up stairs to his room, now stood open some four or five inches. he fancied that there was a rustling inside, but his brain refused to be certain. then plainly and unmistakably he heard a chair pushed against the wall. he crept to the door, hoping to pass it before the thing inside became aware of his presence. something crept stealthily about the room. with a sudden impulse he caught the handle of the door, and, closing it violently, turned the key in the lock, and ran madly down the stairs. a fearful cry sounded from the room, and a heavy hand beat upon the panels of the door. the house rang with the blows, but above them sounded the loud hoarse cries of human fear. burleigh, half-way down to the hall, stopped with his hand on the balustrade and listened. the beating ceased, and a man's voice cried out loudly for god's sake to let him out. at once burleigh saw what had happened and what it might mean for him. he had left the hall door open after his visit to the front, and some wandering bird of the night had entered the house. no need for him to go now. no need to hide either from the hangman's rope or the felon's cell. the fool above had saved him. he turned and ran up stairs again just as the prisoner in his furious efforts to escape wrenched the handle from the door. "who's there?" he cried, loudly. "let me out!" cried a frantic voice. "for god's sake, open the door! there's something here." "stay where you are!" shouted burleigh, sternly. "stay where you are! if you come out, i'll shoot you like a dog!" the only response was a smashing blow on the lock of the door. burleigh raised his pistol, and aiming at the height of a man's chest, fired through the panel. the report and the crashing of the wood made one noise, succeeded by an unearthly stillness, then the noise of a window hastily opened. burleigh fled hastily down the stairs, and flinging wide the hall door, shouted loudly for assistance. it happened that a sergeant and the constable on the beat had just met in the road. they came toward the house at a run. burleigh, with incoherent explanations, ran up stairs before them, and halted outside the library door. the prisoner was still inside, still trying to demolish the lock of the sturdy oaken door. burleigh tried to turn the key, but the lock was too damaged to admit of its moving. the sergeant drew back, and, shoulder foremost, hurled himself at the door and burst it open. he stumbled into the room, followed by the constable, and two shafts of light from the lanterns at their belts danced round the room. a man lurking behind the door made a dash for it, and the next instant the three men were locked together. burleigh, standing in the doorway, looked on coldly, reserving himself for the scene which was to follow. except for the stumbling of the men and the sharp catch of the prisoner's breath, there was no noise. a helmet fell off and bounced and rolled along the floor. the men fell; there was a sobbing snarl and a sharp click. a tall figure rose from the floor; the other, on his knees, still held the man down. the standing figure felt in his pocket, and, striking a match, lit the gas. the light fell on the flushed face and fair beard of the sergeant. he was bare-headed, and his hair dishevelled. burleigh entered the room and gazed eagerly at the half-insensible man on the floor-a short, thick-set fellow with a white, dirty face and a black moustache. his lip was cut and bled down his neck. burleigh glanced furtively at the table. the cloth had come off in the struggle, and was now in the place where he had left fletcher. "hot work, sir," said the sergeant, with a smile. "it's fortunate we were handy." the prisoner raised a heavy head and looked up with unmistakable terror in his eyes. "all right, sir," he said, trembling, as the constable increased the pressure of his knee. "i 'ain't been in the house ten minutes altogether. by ---, i've not." the sergeant regarded him curiously. "it don't signify," he said, slowly; "ten minutes or ten seconds won't make any difference." the man shook and began to whimper. "it was 'ere when i come," he said, eagerly; "take that down, sir. i've only just come, and it was 'ere when i come. i tried to get away then, but i was locked in." "what was?" demanded the sergeant. "that," he said, desperately. the sergeant, following the direction of the terror-stricken black eyes, stooped by the table. then, with a sharp exclamation, he dragged away the cloth. burleigh, with a sharp cry of horror, reeled back against the wall. "all right, sir," said the sergeant, catching him; "all right. turn your head away." he pushed him into a chair, and crossing the room, poured out a glass of whiskey and brought it to him. the glass rattled against his teeth, but he drank it greedily, and then groaned faintly. the sergeant waited patiently. there was no hurry. "who is it, sir?" he asked at length. "my friend--fletcher," said burleigh, with an effort. "we lived together." he turned to the prisoner. "you damned villain!" "he was dead when i come in the room, gentlemen," said the prisoner, strenuously. "he was on the floor dead, and when i see 'im, i tried to get out. s' 'elp me he was. you heard me call out, sir. i shouldn't ha' called out if i'd killed him." "all right," said the sergeant, gruffly; "you'd better hold your tongue, you know." "you keep quiet," urged the constable. the sergeant knelt down and raised the dead man's head. "i 'ad nothing to do with it," repeated the man on the floor. "i 'ad nothing to do with it. i never thought of such a thing. i've only been in the place ten minutes; put that down, sir." the sergeant groped with his left hand, and picking up the japanese sword, held it at him. "i've never seen it before," said the prisoner, struggling. "it used to hang on the wall," said burleigh. "he must have snatched it down. it was on the wall when i left fletcher a little while ago." "how long?" inquired the sergeant. "perhaps an hour, perhaps half an hour," was the reply. "i went to my bedroom." the man on the floor twisted his head and regarded him narrowly. "you done it!" he cried, fiercely. "you done it, and you want me to swing for it." "that 'll do," said the indignant constable. the sergeant let his burden gently to the floor again. "you hold your tongue, you devil!" he said, menacingly. he crossed to the table and poured a little spirit into a glass and took it in his hand. then he put it down again and crossed to burleigh. "feeling better, sir?" he asked. the other nodded faintly. "you won't want this thing any more," said the sergeant. he pointed to the pistol which the other still held, and taking it from him gently, put it into his pocket. "you've hurt your wrist, sir," he said, anxiously. burleigh raised one hand sharply, and then the other. "this one, i think," said the sergeant. "i saw it just now." he took the other's wrists in his hand, and suddenly holding them in the grip of a vice, whipped out something from his pocket--something hard and cold, which snapped suddenly on burleigh's wrists, and held them fast. "that's right," said the sergeant; "keep quiet." the constable turned round in amaze; burleigh sprang toward him furiously. "take these things off!" he choked. "have you gone mad? take them off!" "all in good time," said the sergeant. "take them off!" cried burleigh again. for answer the sergeant took him in a powerful grip, and staring steadily at his white face and gleaming eyes, forced him to the other end of the room and pushed him into a chair. "collins," he said, sharply. "sir?" said the astonished subordinate. "run to the doctor at the corner hard as you can run!" said the other. "this man is not dead!" as the man left the room the sergeant took up the glass of spirits he had poured out, and kneeling down by fletcher again, raised his head and tried to pour a little down his throat. burleigh, sitting in his corner, watched like one in a trance. he saw the constable return with the breathless surgeon, saw the three men bending over fletcher, and then saw the eyes of the dying man open and the lips of the dying man move. he was conscious that the sergeant made some notes in a pocket-book, and that all three men eyed him closely. the sergeant stepped toward him and placed his hand on his shoulder, and obedient to the touch, he arose and went with him out into the night. the lady of the barge and other stories by w. w. jacobs cupboard love in the comfortable living-room at negget's farm, half parlour and half kitchen, three people sat at tea in the waning light of a november afternoon. conversation, which had been brisk, had languished somewhat, owing to mrs. negget glancing at frequent intervals toward the door, behind which she was convinced the servant was listening, and checking the finest periods and the most startling suggestions with a warning _'ssh!_ "go on, uncle," she said, after one of these interruptions. "i forget where i was," said mr. martin bodfish, shortly. "under our bed," mr. negget reminded him. "yes, watching," said mrs. negget, eagerly. it was an odd place for an ex-policeman, especially as a small legacy added to his pension had considerably improved his social position, but mr. bodfish had himself suggested it in the professional hope that the person who had taken mrs. negget's gold brooch might try for further loot. he had, indeed, suggested baiting the dressing-table with the farmer's watch, an idea which mr. negget had promptly vetoed. "i can't help thinking that mrs. pottle knows something about it," said mrs. negget, with an indignant glance at her husband. "mrs. pottle," said the farmer, rising slowly and taking a seat on the oak settle built in the fireplace, "has been away from the village for near a fortnit." "i didn't say she took it," snapped his wife. "i said i believe she knows something about it, and so i do. she's a horrid woman. look at the way she encouraged her girl looey to run after that young traveller from smithson's. the whole fact of the matter is, it isn't your brooch, so you don't care." "i said--" began mr. negget. "i know what you said," retorted his wife, sharply, "and i wish you'd be quiet and not interrupt uncle. here's my uncle been in the police twenty-five years, and you won't let him put a word in edgeways.' "my way o' looking at it," said the ex-policeman, slowly, "is different to that o' the law; my idea is, an' always has been, that everybody is guilty until they've proved their innocence." "it's a wonderful thing to me," said mr. negget in a low voice to his pipe, "as they should come to a house with a retired policeman living in it. looks to me like somebody that ain't got much respect for the police." the ex-policeman got up from the table, and taking a seat on the settle opposite the speaker, slowly filled a long clay and took a spill from the fireplace. his pipe lit, he turned to his niece, and slowly bade her go over the account of her loss once more. "i missed it this morning," said mrs. negget, rapidly, "at ten minutes past twelve o'clock by the clock, and half-past five by my watch which wants looking to. i'd just put the batch of bread into the oven, and gone upstairs and opened the box that stands on my drawers to get a lozenge, and i missed the brooch." "do you keep it in that box?" asked the ex-policeman, slowly. "always," replied his niece. "i at once came down stairs and told emma that the brooch had been stolen. i said that i named no names, and didn't wish to think bad of anybody, and that if i found the brooch back in the box when i went up stairs again, i should forgive whoever took it." "and what did emma say?" inquired mr. bodfish. "emma said a lot o' things," replied mrs. negget, angrily. "i'm sure by the lot she had to say you'd ha' thought she was the missis and me the servant. i gave her a month's notice at once, and she went straight up stairs and sat on her box and cried." "sat on her box?" repeated the ex-constable, impressively. "oh!" "that's what i thought," said his niece, "but it wasn't, because i got her off at last and searched it through and through. i never saw anything like her clothes in all my life. there was hardly a button or a tape on; and as for her stockings--" "she don't get much time," said mr. negget, slowly. "that's right; i thought you'd speak up for her," cried his wife, shrilly. "look here--" began mr. negget, laying his pipe on the seat by his side and rising slowly. "keep to the case in hand," said the ex-constable, waving him back to his seat again. "now, lizzie." "i searched her box through and through," said his niece, "but it wasn't there; then i came down again and had a rare good cry all to myself." "that's the best way for you to have it," remarked mr. negget, feelingly. mrs. negget's uncle instinctively motioned his niece to silence, and holding his chin in his hand, scowled frightfully in the intensity of thought. "see a cloo?" inquired mr. negget, affably. "you ought to be ashamed of yourself, george," said his wife, angrily; "speaking to uncle when he's looking like that." mr. bodfish said nothing; it is doubtful whether he even heard these remarks; but he drew a huge notebook from his pocket, and after vainly trying to point his pencil by suction, took a knife from the table and hastily sharpened it. "was the brooch there last night?" he inquired. "it were," said mr. negget, promptly. "lizzie made me get up just as the owd clock were striking twelve to get her a lozenge." "it seems pretty certain that the brooch went since then," mused mr. bodfish. "it would seem like it to a plain man," said mr. negget, guardedly. "i should like to see the box," said mr. bodfish. mrs. negget went up and fetched it and stood eyeing him eagerly as he raised the lid and inspected the contents. it contained only a few lozenges and some bone studs. mr. negget helped himself to a lozenge, and going back to his seat, breathed peppermint. "properly speaking, that ought not to have been touched," said the ex-constable, regarding him with some severity. "eh!" said the startled farmer, putting his finger to his lips. "never mind," said the other, shaking his head. "it's too late now." "he doesn't care a bit," said mrs. negget, somewhat sadly. "he used to keep buttons in that box with the lozenges until one night he gave me one by mistake. yes, you may laugh--i'm glad you can laugh." mr. negget, feeling that his mirth was certainly ill-timed, shook for some time in a noble effort to control himself, and despairing at length, went into the back place to recover. sounds of blows indicative of emma slapping him on the back did not add to mrs. negget's serenity. "the point is," said the ex-constable, "could anybody have come into your room while you was asleep and taken it?" "no," said mrs. negget, decisively. i'm a very poor sleeper, and i'd have woke at once, but if a flock of elephants was to come in the room they wouldn't wake george. he'd sleep through anything." "except her feeling under my piller for her handkerchief," corroborated mr. negget, returning to the sitting-room. mr. bodfish waved them to silence, and again gave way to deep thought. three times he took up his pencil, and laying it down again, sat and drummed on the table with his fingers. then he arose, and with bent head walked slowly round and round the room until he stumbled over a stool. "nobody came to the house this morning, i suppose?" he said at length, resuming his seat. "only mrs. driver," said his niece. "what time did she come?" inquired mr. bodfish. "here! look here!" interposed mr. negget. "i've known mrs. driver thirty year a'most." "what time did she come?" repeated the ex-constable, pitilessly. his niece shook her head. "it might have been eleven, and again it might have been earlier," she replied. "i was out when she came." "out!" almost shouted the other. mrs. negget nodded. "she was sitting in here when i came back." her uncle looked up and glanced at the door behind which a small staircase led to the room above. "what was to prevent mrs. driver going up there while you were away?" he demanded. "i shouldn't like to think that of mrs. driver," said his niece, shaking her head; "but then in these days one never knows what might happen. never. i've given up thinking about it. however, when i came back, mrs. driver was here, sitting in that very chair you are sitting in now." mr. bodfish pursed up his lips and made another note. then he took a spill from the fireplace, and lighting a candle, went slowly and carefully up the stairs. he found nothing on them but two caked rims of mud, and being too busy to notice mr. negget's frantic signalling, called his niece's attention to them. "what do you think of that?" he demanded, triumphantly. "somebody's been up there," said his niece. "it isn't emma, because she hasn't been outside the house all day; and it can't be george, because he promised me faithful he'd never go up there in his dirty boots." mr. negget coughed, and approaching the stairs, gazed with the eye of a stranger at the relics as mr. bodfish hotly rebuked a suggestion of his niece's to sweep them up. "seems to me," said the conscience-stricken mr. negget, feebly, "as they're rather large for a woman." "mud cakes," said mr. bodfish, with his most professional manner; "a small boot would pick up a lot this weather." "so it would," said mr. negget, and with brazen effrontery not only met his wife's eye without quailing, but actually glanced down at her boots. mr. bodfish came back to his chair and ruminated. then he looked up and spoke. "it was missed this morning at ten minutes past twelve," he said, slowly; "it was there last night. at eleven o'clock you came in and found mrs. driver sitting in that chair." "no, the one you're in," interrupted his niece. "it don't signify," said her uncle. "nobody else has been near the place, and emma's box has been searched. "thoroughly searched," testified mrs. negget. "now the point is, what did mrs. driver come for this morning?" resumed the ex-constable. "did she come--" he broke off and eyed with dignified surprise a fine piece of wireless telegraphy between husband and wife. it appeared that mr. negget sent off a humorous message with his left eye, the right being for some reason closed, to which mrs. negget replied with a series of frowns and staccato shakes of the head, which her husband found easily translatable. under the austere stare of mr. bodfish their faces at once regained their wonted calm, and the ex-constable in a somewhat offended manner resumed his inquiries. "mrs. driver has been here a good bit lately," he remarked, slowly. mr. negget's eyes watered, and his mouth worked piteously. "if you can't behave yourself, george--began began his wife, fiercely. "what is the matter?" demanded mr. bodfish. "i'm not aware that i've said anything to be laughed at." "no more you have, uncle," retorted his niece; "only george is such a stupid. he's got an idea in his silly head that mrs. driver--but it's all nonsense, of course." "i've merely got a bit of an idea that it's a wedding-ring, not a brooch, mrs. driver is after," said the farmer to the perplexed constable. mr. bodfish looked from one to the other. "but you always keep yours on, lizzie, don't you?" he asked. "yes, of course," replied his niece, hurriedly; "but george has always got such strange ideas. don't take no notice of him." her uncle sat back in his chair, his face still wrinkled perplexedly; then the wrinkles vanished suddenly, chased away by a huge glow, and he rose wrathfully and towered over the match-making mr. negget. "how dare you?" he gasped. mr. negget made no reply, but in a cowardly fashion jerked his thumb toward his wife. "oh! george! how can you say so?" said the latter. "i should never ha' thought of it by myself," said the farmer; "but i think they'd make a very nice couple, and i'm sure mrs. driver thinks so." the ex-constable sat down in wrathful confusion, and taking up his notebook again, watched over the top of it the silent charges and countercharges of his niece and her husband. "if i put my finger on the culprit," he asked at length, turning to his niece, "what do you wish done to her?" mrs. negget regarded him with an expression which contained all the christian virtues rolled into one. "nothing," she said, softly. "i only want my brooch back." the ex-constable shook his head at this leniency. "well, do as you please," he said, slowly. "in the first place, i want you to ask mrs. driver here to tea to-morrow--oh, i don't mind negget's ridiculous ideas--pity he hasn't got something better to think of; if she's guilty, i'll soon find it out. i'll play with her like a cat with a mouse. i'll make her convict herself." "look here!" said mr. negget, with sudden vigour. "i won't have it. i won't have no woman asked here to tea to be got at like that. there's only my friends comes here to tea, and if any friend stole anything o' mine, i'd be one o' the first to hush it up." "if they were all like you, george," said his wife, angrily, "where would the law be?" "or the police?" demanded mr. bodfish, staring at him. "i won't have it!" repeated the farmer, loudly. "i'm the law here, and i'm the police here. that little tiny bit o' dirt was off my boots, i dare say. i don't care if it was." "very good," said mr. bodfish, turning to his indignant niece; "if he likes to look at it that way, there's nothing more to be said. i only wanted to get your brooch back for you, that's all; but if he's against it--" "i'm against your asking mrs. driver here to my house to be got at," said the farmer. "o' course if you can find out who took the brooch, and get it back again anyway, that's another matter." mr. bodfish leaned over the table toward his niece. "if i get an opportunity, i'll search her cottage," he said, in a low voice. "strictly speaking, it ain't quite a legal thing to do, o course, but many o' the finest pieces of detective work have been done by breaking the law. if she's a kleptomaniac, it's very likely lying about somewhere in the house." he eyed mr. negget closely, as though half expecting another outburst, but none being forthcoming, sat back in his chair again and smoked in silence, while mrs. negget, with a carpet-brush which almost spoke, swept the pieces of dried mud from the stairs. mr. negget was the last to go to bed that night, and finishing his pipe over the dying fire, sat for some time in deep thought. he had from the first raised objections to the presence of mr. bodfish at the farm, but family affection, coupled with an idea of testamentary benefits, had so wrought with his wife that he had allowed her to have her own way. now he half fancied that he saw a chance of getting rid of him. if he could only enable the widow to catch him searching her house, it was highly probable that the ex-constable would find the village somewhat too hot to hold him. he gave his right leg a congratulatory slap as he thought of it, and knocking the ashes from his pipe, went slowly up to bed. he was so amiable next morning that mr. bodfish, who was trying to explain to mrs. negget the difference between theft and kleptomania, spoke before him freely. the ex-constable defined kleptomania as a sort of amiable weakness found chiefly among the upper circles, and cited the case of a lady of title whose love of diamonds, combined with great hospitality, was a source of much embarrassment to her guests. for the whole of that day mr. bodfish hung about in the neighbourhood of the widow's cottage, but in vain, and it would be hard to say whether he or mr. negget, who had been discreetly shadowing him, felt the disappointment most. on the day following, however, the ex-constable from a distant hedge saw a friend of the widow's enter the cottage, and a little later both ladies emerged and walked up the road. he watched them turn the corner, and then, with a cautious glance round, which failed, however, to discover mr. negget, the ex-constable strolled casually in the direction of the cottage, and approaching it from the rear, turned the handle of the door and slipped in. he searched the parlour hastily, and then, after a glance from the window, ventured up stairs. and he was in the thick of his self-imposed task when his graceless nephew by marriage, who had met mrs. driver and referred pathetically to a raging thirst which he had hoped to have quenched with some of her home-brewed, brought the ladies hastily back again. "i'll go round the back way," said the wily negget as they approached the cottage. "i just want to have a look at that pig of yours." he reached the back door at the same time as mr. bodfish, and placing his legs apart, held it firmly against the frantic efforts of the exconstable. the struggle ceased suddenly, and the door opened easily just as mrs. driver and her friend appeared in the front room, and the farmer, with a keen glance at the door of the larder which had just closed, took a chair while his hostess drew a glass of beer from the barrel in the kitchen. mr. negget drank gratefully and praised the brew. from beer the conversation turned naturally to the police, and from the police to the listening mr. bodfish, who was economizing space by sitting on the bread- pan, and trembling with agitation. "he's a lonely man," said negget, shaking his head and glancing from the corner of his eye at the door of the larder. in his wildest dreams he had not imagined so choice a position, and he resolved to give full play to an idea which suddenly occurred to him. "i dare say," said mrs. driver, carelessly, conscious that her friend was watching her. "and the heart of a little child," said negget; "you wouldn't believe how simple he is." mrs. clowes said that it did him credit, but, speaking for herself, she hadn't noticed it. "he was talking about you night before last," said negget, turning to his hostess; "not that that's anything fresh. he always is talking about you nowadays." the widow coughed confusedly and told him not to be foolish. "ask my wife," said the farmer, impressively; "they were talking about you for hours. he's a very shy man is my wife's uncle, but you should see his face change when your name's mentioned." as a matter of fact, mr. bodfish's face was at that very moment taking on a deeper shade of crimson. "everything you do seems to interest him," continued the farmer, disregarding mrs. driver's manifest distress; "he was asking lizzie about your calling on monday; how long you stayed, and where you sat; and after she'd told him, i'm blest if he didn't go and sit in the same chair!" this romantic setting to a perfectly casual action on the part of mr. bodfish affected the widow visibly, but its effect on the ex-constable nearly upset the bread-pan. "but here," continued mr. negget, with another glance at the larder, "he might go on like that for years. he's a wunnerful shy man--big, and gentle, and shy. he wanted lizzie to ask you to tea yesterday." "now, mr. negget," said the blushing widow. "do be quiet." "fact," replied the farmer; "solemn fact, i assure you. and he asked her whether you were fond of jewellery." "i met him twice in the road near here yesterday," said mrs. clowes, suddenly. "perhaps he was waiting for you to come out." "i dare say," replied the farmer. "i shouldn't wonder but what he's hanging about somewhere near now, unable to tear himself away." mr. bodfish wrung his hands, and his thoughts reverted instinctively to instances in his memory in which charges of murder had been altered by the direction of a sensible judge to manslaughter. he held his breath for the next words. mr. negget drank a little more ale and looked at mrs. driver. [illustration: mrs. driver fell rack beore the emerging form of mr. bodfish] "i wonder whether you've got a morsel of bread and cheese?" he said, slowly. "i've come over that hungry--" the widow and mr. bodfish rose simultaneously. it required not the brain of a trained detective to know that the cheese was in the larder. the unconscious mrs. driver opened the door, and then with a wild scream fell back before the emerging form of mr. bodfish into the arms of mrs. clowes. the glass of mr. negget smashed on the floor, and the farmer himself, with every appearance of astonishment, stared at the apparition open-mouthed. "mr.--bodfish!" he said at length, slowly. mr. bodfish, incapable of speech, glared at him ferociously. "leave him alone," said mrs. clowes, who was ministering to her friend. "can't you see the man's upset at frightening her? she's coming round, mr. bodfish; don't be alarmed." "very good," said the farmer, who found his injured relative's gaze somewhat trying. "i'll go, and leave him to explain to mrs. driver why he was hidden in her larder. it don't seem a proper thing to me." "why, you silly man," said mrs. clowes, gleefully, as she paused at the door, "that don't want any explanation. now, mr. bodfish, we're giving you your chance. mind you make the most of it, and don't be too shy." she walked excitedly up the road with the farmer, and bidding him good-bye at the corner, went off hastily to spread the news. mr. negget walked home soberly, and hardly staying long enough to listen to his wife's account of the finding of the brooch between the chest of drawers and the wall, went off to spend the evening with a friend, and ended by making a night of it. the lady of the barge and other stories by w. w. jacobs a golden venture the elders of the tidger family sat at breakfast--mrs. tidger with knees wide apart and the youngest tidger nestling in the valley of print-dress which lay between, and mr. tidger bearing on one moleskin knee a small copy of himself in a red flannel frock and a slipper. the larger tidger children took the solids of their breakfast up and down the stone-flagged court outside, coming in occasionally to gulp draughts of very weak tea from a gallipot or two which stood on the table, and to wheedle mr. tidger out of any small piece of bloater which he felt generous enough to bestow. "peg away, ann," said mr. tidger, heartily. his wife's elder sister shook her head, and passing the remains of her slice to one of her small nephews, leaned back in her chair. "no appetite, tidger," she said, slowly. "you should go in for carpentering," said mr. tidger, in justification of the huge crust he was carving into mouthfuls with his pocket-knife. "seems to me i can't eat enough sometimes. hullo, who's the letter for?" he took it from the postman, who stood at the door amid a bevy of tidgers who had followed him up the court, and slowly read the address. "'mrs. ann pullen,'" he said, handing it over to his sister-in-law; "nice writing, too." mrs. pullen broke the envelope, and after a somewhat lengthy search for her pocket, fumbled therein for her spectacles. she then searched the mantelpiece, the chest of drawers, and the dresser, and finally ran them to earth on the copper. she was not a good scholar, and it took her some time to read the letter, a proceeding which she punctuated with such "ohs" and "ahs" and gaspings and "god bless my souls" as nearly drove the carpenter and his wife, who were leaning forward impatiently, to the verge of desperation. "who's it from?" asked mr. tidger for the third time. "i don't know," said mrs. pullen. "good gracious, who ever would ha' thought it!" "thought what, ann?" demanded the carpenter, feverishly. "why don't people write their names plain?" demanded his sister-in-law, impatiently. "it's got a printed name up in the corner; perhaps that's it. well, i never did--i don't know whether i'm standing on my head or my heels." "you're sitting down, that's what you're a-doing," said the carpenter, regarding her somewhat unfavourably. "perhaps it's a take-in," said mrs. pullen, her lips trembling. "i've heard o' such things. if it is, i shall never get over it--never." "get--over--what?" asked the carpenter. "it don't look like a take-in," soliloquized mrs. pullen, "and i shouldn't think anybody'd go to all that trouble and spend a penny to take in a poor thing like me." mr. tidger, throwing politeness to the winds, leaped forward, and snatching the letter from her, read it with feverish haste, tempered by a defective education. "it's a take-in, ann," he said, his voice trembling; "it must be." "what is?" asked mrs. tidger, impatiently. "looks like it," said mrs. pullen, feebly. "what is it?" screamed mrs. tidger, wrought beyond all endurance. her husband turned and regarded her with much severity, but mrs. tidger's gaze was the stronger, and after a vain attempt to meet it, he handed her the letter. mrs. tidger read it through hastily, and then snatching the baby from her lap, held it out with both arms to her husband, and jumping up, kissed her sister heartily, patting her on the back in her excitement until she coughed with the pain of it. "you don't think it's a take-in, polly?" she inquired. "take-in?" said her sister; "of course it ain't. lawyers don't play jokes; their time's too valuable. no, you're an heiress all right, ann, and i wish you joy. i couldn't be more pleased if it was myself." she kissed her again, and going to pat her back once more, discovered that she had sunk down sufficiently low in her chair to obtain the protection of its back. "two thousand pounds," said mrs. pullen, in an awestruck voice. "ten hundered pounds twice over," said the carpenter, mouthing it slowly; "twenty hundered pounds." he got up from the table, and instinctively realizing that he could not do full justice to his feelings with the baby in his arms, laid it on the teatray in a puddle of cold tea and stood looking hard at the heiress. "i was housekeeper to her eleven years ago," said mrs. pullen. "i wonder what she left it to me for?" "didn't know what to do with it, i should think," said the carpenter, still staring openmouthed. "tidger, i'm ashamed of you," said his wife, snatching her infant to her bosom. "i expect you was very good to her, ann." "i never 'ad no luck," said the impenitent carpenter. "nobody ever left me no money. nobody ever left me so much as a fi-pun note." he stared round disdainfully at his poor belongings, and drawing on his coat, took his bag from a corner, and hoisting it on his shoulder, started to his work. he scattered the news as he went, and it ran up and down the little main street of thatcham, and thence to the outlying lanes and cottages. within a couple of hours it was common property, and the fortunate legatee was presented with a congratulatory address every time she ventured near the door. it is an old adage that money makes friends; the carpenter was surprised to find that the mere fact of his having a moneyed relation had the same effect, and that men to whom he had hitherto shown a certain amount of respect due to their position now sought his company. they stood him beer at the "bell," and walked by his side through the street. when they took to dropping in of an evening to smoke a pipe the carpenter was radiant with happiness. "you don't seem to see beyond the end of your nose, tidger," said the wife of his bosom after they had retired one evening. "h'm?" said the startled carpenter. "what do you think old miller, the dealer, comes here for?" demanded his wife. "smoke his pipe," replied her husband, confidently. "and old wiggett?" persisted mrs. tidger. "smoke his pipe," was the reply. "why, what's the matter, polly?" mrs. tidger sniffed derisively. "you men are all alike," she snapped. "what do you think ann wears that pink bodice for?" "i never noticed she 'ad a pink bodice, polly," said the carpenter. "no? that's what i say. you men never notice anything," said his wife. "if you don't send them two old fools off, i will." "don't you like 'em to see ann wearing pink?" inquired the mystified tidger. mrs. tidger bit her lip and shook her head at him scornfully. "in plain english, tidger, as plain as i can speak it,"--she said, severely, "they're after ann and 'er bit o' money." mr. tidger gazed at her open-mouthed, and taking advantage of that fact, blew out the candle to hide his discomposure. "what!" he said, blankly, "at 'er time o' life?" "watch 'em to-morrer," said his wife. the carpenter acted upon his instructions, and his ire rose as he noticed the assiduous attention paid by his two friends to the frivolous mrs. pullen. mr. wiggett, a sharp-featured little man, was doing most of the talking, while his rival, a stout, clean-shaven man with a slow, oxlike eye, looked on stolidly. mr. miller was seldom in a hurry, and lost many a bargain through his slowness--a fact which sometimes so painfully affected the individual who had outdistanced him that he would offer to let him have it at a still lower figure. "you get younger than ever, mrs. pullen," said wiggett, the conversation having turned upon ages. "young ain't the word for it," said miller, with a praiseworthy determination not to be left behind. "no; it's age as you're thinking of, mr. wiggett," said the carpenter, slowly; "none of us gets younger, do we, ann?" [illustration: "you get younger than ever, mrs. pullen."] "some of us keeps young in our ways," said mrs. pullen, somewhat shortly. "how old should you say ann is now?" persisted the watchful tidger. mr. wiggett shook his head. "i should say she's about fifteen years younger nor me," he said, slowly, "and i'm as lively as a cricket." "she's fifty-five," said the carpenter. "that makes you seventy, wiggett," said mr. miller, pointedly. "i thought you was more than that. you look it." mr. wiggett coughed sourly. "i'm fifty-nine," he growled. "nothing 'll make me believe as mrs. pullen's fifty-five, nor anywhere near it." "ho!" said the carpenter, on his mettle--"ho! why, my wife here was the sixth child, and she---- he caught a gleam in the sixth child's eye, and expressed her age with a cough. the others waited politely until he had finished, and mr. tidger, noticing this, coughed again. "and she--" prompted mr. miller, displaying a polite interest. "she ain't so young as she was," said the carpenter. "cares of a family," said mr. wiggett, plumping boldly. "i always thought mrs. pullen was younger than her." "so did i," said mr. miller, "much younger." mr. wiggett eyed him sharply. it was rather hard to have miller hiding his lack of invention by participating in his compliments and even improving upon them. it was the way he dealt at market-listening to other dealers' accounts of their wares, and adding to them for his own. "i was noticing you the other day, ma'am," continued mr. wiggett. "i see you going up the road with a step free and easy as a young girl's." "she allus walks like that," said mr. miller, in a tone of surprised reproof. "it's in the family," said the carpenter, who had been uneasily watching his wife's face. "both of you seem to notice a lot," said mrs. tidger; "much more than you used to." mr. tidger, who was of a nervous and sensitive disposition, coughed again. "you ought to take something for that cough," said mr. wiggett, considerately. "gin and beer," said mr. miller, with the air of a specialist. "bed's the best thing for it," said mrs. tidger, whose temper was beginning to show signs of getting out of hand. mr. tidger rose and looked awkwardly at his visitors; mr. wiggett got up, and pretending to notice the time, said he must be going, and looked at mr. miller. that gentleman, who was apparently deep in some knotty problem, was gazing at the floor, and oblivious for the time to his surroundings. "come along," said wiggett, with feigned heartiness, slapping him on the back. mr. miller, looking for a moment as though he would like to return the compliment, came back to everyday life, and bidding the company good- night, stepped to the door, accompanied by his rival. it was immediately shut with some violence. "they seem in a hurry," said wiggett. "i don't think i shall go there again." "i don't think i shall," said mr. miller. after this neither of them was surprised to meet there again the next night, and indeed for several nights. the carpenter and his wife, who did not want the money to go out of the family, and were also afraid of offending mrs. pullen, were at their wits' end what to do. ultimately it was resolved that tidger, in as delicate a manner as possible, was to hint to her that they were after her money. he was so vague and so delicate that mrs. pullen misunderstood him, and fancying that he was trying to borrow half a crown, made him a present of five shillings. it was evident to the slower-going mr. miller that his rival's tongue was giving him an advantage which only the ever-watchful presence of the carpenter and his wife prevented him from pushing to the fullest advantage. in these circumstances he sat for two hours after breakfast one morning in deep cogitation, and after six pipes got up with a twinkle in his slow eyes which his brother dealers had got to regard as a danger signal. he had only the glimmering of an idea at first, but after a couple of pints at the "bell" everything took shape, and he cast his eyes about for an assistant. they fell upon a man named smith, and the dealer, after some thought, took up his glass and went over to him. "i want you to do something for me," he remarked, in a mysterious voice. "ah, i've been wanting to see you," said smith, who was also a dealer in a small way. "one o' them hins i bought off you last week is dead." "i'll give you another for it," said miller. "and the others are so forgetful," continued mr. smith. "forgetful?" repeated the other. "forget to lay, like," said mr. smith, musingly. "never mind about them," said mr. miller, with some animation. "i want you to do something for me. if it comes off all right, i'll give you a dozen hins and a couple of decentish-sized pigs." mr. smith called a halt. "decentish-sized" was vague. "take your pick," said mr. miller. "you know mrs. pullen's got two thousand pounds--" "wiggett's going to have it," said the other; "he as good as told me so." "he's after her money," said the other, sadly. "look 'ere, smith, i want you to tell him she's lost it all. say that tidger told you, but you wasn't to tell anybody else. wiggett 'll believe you." mr. smith turned upon him a face all wrinkles, lit by one eye. "i want the hins and the pigs first," he said, firmly. mr. miller, shocked at his grasping spirit, stared at him mournfully. "and twenty pounds the day you marry mrs. pullen," continued mr. smith. mr. miller, leading him up and down the sawdust floor, besought him to listen to reason, and mr. smith allowed the better feelings of our common human nature to prevail to the extent of reducing his demands to half a dozen fowls on account, and all the rest on the day of the marriage. then, with the delightful feeling that he wouldn't do any work for a week, he went out to drop poison into the ears of mr. wiggett. "lost all her money!" said the startled mr. wiggett. "how?" "i don't know how," said his friend. "tidger told me, but made me promise not to tell a soul. but i couldn't help telling you, wiggett, 'cause i know what you're after." "do me a favour," said the little man. "i will," said the other. "keep it from miller as long as possible. if you hear any one else talking of it, tell 'em to keep it from him. if he marries her i'll give you a couple of pints." mr. smith promised faithfully, and both the tidgers and mrs. pullen were surprised to find that mr. miller was the only visitor that evening. he spoke but little, and that little in a slow, ponderous voice intended for mrs. pullen's ear alone. he spoke disparagingly of money, and shook his head slowly at the temptations it brought in its train. give him a crust, he said, and somebody to halve it with--a home-made crust baked by a wife. it was a pretty picture, but somewhat spoiled by mrs. tidger suggesting that, though he had spoken of halving the crust, he had said nothing about the beer. "half of my beer wouldn't be much," said the dealer, slowly. "not the half you would give your wife wouldn't," retorted mrs. tidger. the dealer sighed and looked mournfully at mrs. pullen. the lady sighed in return, and finding that her admirer's stock of conversation seemed to be exhausted, coyly suggested a game of draughts. the dealer assented with eagerness, and declining the offer of a glass of beer by explaining that he had had one the day before yesterday, sat down and lost seven games right off. he gave up at the seventh game, and pushing back his chair, said that he thought mrs. pullen was the most wonderful draught- player he had ever seen, and took no notice when mrs. tidger, in a dry voice charged with subtle meaning, said that she thought he was. "draughts come natural to some people," said mrs. pullen, modestly. "it's as easy as kissing your fingers." mr. miller looked doubtful; then he put his great fingers to his lips by way of experiment, and let them fall unmistakably in the widow's direction. mrs. pullen looked down and nearly blushed. the carpenter and his wife eyed each other in indignant consternation. "that's easy enough," said the dealer, and repeated the offense. mrs. pullen got up in some confusion, and began to put the draught-board away. one of the pieces fell on the floor, and as they both stooped to recover it their heads bumped. it was nothing to the dealer's, but mrs. pullen rubbed hers and sat down with her eyes watering. mr. miller took out his handkerchief, and going to the scullery, dipped it into water and held it to her head. "is it better?" he inquired. "a little better," said the victim, with a shiver. mr. miller, in his emotion, was squeezing the handkerchief hard, and a cold stream was running down her neck. "thank you. it's all right now." the dealer replaced the handkerchief, and sat for some time regarding her earnestly. then the carpenter and his wife displaying manifest signs of impatience, he took his departure, after first inviting himself for another game of draughts the following night. he walked home with the air of a conqueror, and thought exultingly that the two thousand pounds were his. it was a deal after his own heart, and not the least satisfactory part about it was the way he had got the better of wiggett. he completed his scheme the following day after a short interview with the useful smith. by the afternoon wiggett found that his exclusive information was common property, and all thatcham was marvelling at the fortitude with which mrs. pullen was bearing the loss of her fortune. with a view of being out of the way when the denial was published, mr. miller, after loudly expressing in public his sympathy for mrs. pullen and his admiration of her qualities, drove over with some pigs to a neighbouring village, returning to thatcham in the early evening. then hurriedly putting his horse up he made his way to the carpenter's. the tidgers were at home when he entered, and mrs. pullen flushed faintly as he shook hands. "i was coming in before," he said, impressively, "after what i heard this afternoon, but i had to drive over to thorpe." "you 'eard it?" inquired the carpenter, in an incredulous voice. "certainly," said the dealer, "and very sorry i was. sorry for one thing, but glad for another." the carpenter opened his mouth and seemed about to speak. then he checked himself suddenly and gazed with interest at the ingenuous dealer. "i'm glad," said mr. miller, slowly, as he nodded at a friend of mrs. tidger's who had just come in with a long face, "because now that mrs. pullen is poor, i can say to her what i couldn't say while she was rich." again the astonished carpenter was about to speak, but the dealer hastily checked him with his hand. "one at a time," he said. "mrs. pullen, i was very sorry to hear this afternoon, for your sake, that you had lost all your money. what i wanted to say to you now, now that you are poor, was to ask you to be mrs. miller. what d'ye say?" mrs. pullen, touched at so much goodness, wept softly and said, "yes." the triumphant miller took out his handkerchief--the same that he had used the previous night, for he was not an extravagant man--and tenderly wiped her eyes. "well, i'm blowed!" said the staring carpenter. "i've got a nice little 'ouse," continued the wily mr. miller. "it's a poor place, but nice, and we'll play draughts every evening. when shall it be?" "when you like," said mrs. pullen, in a faint voice. "i'll put the banns up to-morrow," said the dealer. mrs. tidger's lady friend giggled at so much haste, but mrs. tidger, who felt that she had misjudged him, was touched. "it does you credit, mr. miller," she said, warmly. "no, no," said the dealer; and then mr. tidger got up, and crossing the room, solemnly shook hands with him. "money or no money, she'll make a good wife," he said. "i'm glad you're pleased," said the dealer, wondering at this cordiality. "i don't deny i thought you was after her money," continued the carpenter, solemnly. "my missus thought so, too." mr. miller shook his head, and said he thought they would have known him better. "of course it is a great loss," said the carpenter. "money is money." "that's all it is, though," said the slightly mystified mr. miller. "what i can't understand is," continued the carpenter, "'ow the news got about. why, the neighbours knew of it a couple of hours before we did." the dealer hid a grin. then he looked a bit bewildered again. "i assure you," said the carpenter, "it was known in the town at least a couple of hours before we got the letter." mr. miller waited a minute to get perfect control over his features. "letter?" he repeated, faintly. "the letter from the lawyers," said the carpenter. mr. miller was silent again. his features were getting tiresome. he eyed the door furtively. "what-was-in-the letter?" he asked. "short and sweet," said the carpenter, with bitterness. "said it was all a mistake, because they'd been and found another will. people shouldn't make such mistakes." "we're all liable to make mistakes," said miller, thinking he saw an opening. "yes, we made a mistake when we thought you was after ann's money," assented the carpenter. "i'm sure i thought you'd be the last man in the world to be pleased to hear that she'd lost it. one thing is, you've got enough for both." [illustration: "we'll leave you two young things alone."] mr. miller made no reply, but in a dazed way strove to realize the full measure of the misfortune which had befallen him. the neighbour, with the anxiety of her sex to be the first with a bit of news, had already taken her departure. he thought of wiggett walking the earth a free man, and of smith with a three-months' bill for twenty pounds. his pride as a dealer was shattered beyond repair, and emerging from a species of mist, he became conscious that the carpenter was addressing him. "we'll leave you two young things alone for a bit," said mr. tidger, heartily. "we're going out. when you're tired o' courting you can play draughts, and ann will show you one or two of 'er moves. so long." captains all by w.w. jacobs the nest egg [illustration: "the nest egg."] "artfulness," said the night-watch-man, smoking placidly, "is a gift; but it don't pay always. i've met some artful ones in my time--plenty of 'em; but i can't truthfully say as 'ow any of them was the better for meeting me." he rose slowly from the packing-case on which he had been sitting and, stamping down the point of a rusty nail with his heel, resumed his seat, remarking that he had endured it for some time under the impression that it was only a splinter. "i've surprised more than one in my time," he continued, slowly. "when i met one of these 'ere artful ones i used fust of all to pretend to be more stupid than wot i really am." he stopped and stared fixedly. "more stupid than i looked," he said. he stopped again. "more stupid than wot they thought i looked," he said, speaking with marked deliberation. and i'd let 'em go on and on until i thought i had 'ad about enough, and then turn round on 'em. nobody ever got the better o' me except my wife, and that was only before we was married. two nights arterwards she found a fish-hook in my trouser-pocket, and arter that i could ha' left untold gold there--if i'd ha' had it. it spoilt wot some people call the honey-moon, but it paid in the long run. one o' the worst things a man can do is to take up artfulness all of a sudden. i never knew it to answer yet, and i can tell you of a case that'll prove my words true. it's some years ago now, and the chap it 'appened to was a young man, a shipmate o' mine, named charlie tagg. very steady young chap he was, too steady for most of 'em. that's 'ow it was me and 'im got to be such pals. he'd been saving up for years to get married, and all the advice we could give 'im didn't 'ave any effect. he saved up nearly every penny of 'is money and gave it to his gal to keep for 'im, and the time i'm speaking of she'd got seventy-two pounds of 'is and seventeen-and-six of 'er own to set up house-keeping with. then a thing happened that i've known to 'appen to sailormen afore. at sydney 'e got silly on another gal, and started walking out with her, and afore he knew wot he was about he'd promised to marry 'er too. sydney and london being a long way from each other was in 'is favour, but the thing that troubled 'im was 'ow to get that seventy-two pounds out of emma cook, 'is london gal, so as he could marry the other with it. it worried 'im all the way home, and by the time we got into the london river 'is head was all in a maze with it. emma cook 'ad got it all saved up in the bank, to take a little shop with when they got spliced, and 'ow to get it he could not think. he went straight off to poplar, where she lived, as soon as the ship was berthed. he walked all the way so as to 'ave more time for thinking, but wot with bumping into two old gentlemen with bad tempers, and being nearly run over by a cabman with a white 'orse and red whiskers, he got to the house without 'aving thought of anything. they was just finishing their tea as 'e got there, and they all seemed so pleased to see 'im that it made it worse than ever for 'im. mrs. cook, who 'ad pretty near finished, gave 'im her own cup to drink out of, and said that she 'ad dreamt of 'im the night afore last, and old cook said that he 'ad got so good-looking 'e shouldn't 'ave known him. "i should 'ave passed 'im in the street," he ses. "i never see such an alteration." "they'll be a nice-looking couple," ses his wife, looking at a young chap, named george smith, that 'ad been sitting next to emma. charlie tagg filled 'is mouth with bread and butter, and wondered 'ow he was to begin. he squeezed emma's 'and just for the sake of keeping up appearances, and all the time 'e was thinking of the other gal waiting for 'im thousands o' miles away. "you've come 'ome just in the nick o' time," ses old cook; "if you'd done it o' purpose you couldn't 'ave arranged it better." "somebody's birthday?" ses charlie, trying to smile. old cook shook his 'ead. "though mine is next wednesday," he ses, "and thank you for thinking of it. no; you're just in time for the biggest bargain in the chandlery line that anybody ever 'ad a chance of. if you 'adn't ha' come back we should have 'ad to ha' done it without you." "eighty pounds," ses mrs. cook, smiling at charlie. "with the money emma's got saved and your wages this trip you'll 'ave plenty. you must come round arter tea and 'ave a look at it." "little place not arf a mile from 'ere," ses old cook. "properly worked up, the way emma'll do it, it'll be a little fortune. i wish i'd had a chance like it in my young time." he sat shaking his 'ead to think wot he'd lost, and charlie tagg sat staring at 'im and wondering wot he was to do. "my idea is for charlie to go for a few more v'y'ges arter they're married while emma works up the business," ses mrs. cook; "she'll be all right with young bill and sarah ann to 'elp her and keep 'er company while he's away." "we'll see as she ain't lonely," ses george smith, turning to charlie. charlie tagg gave a bit of a cough and said it wanted considering. he said it was no good doing things in a 'urry and then repenting of 'em all the rest of your life. and 'e said he'd been given to understand that chandlery wasn't wot it 'ad been, and some of the cleverest people 'e knew thought that it would be worse before it was better. by the time he'd finished they was all looking at 'im as though they couldn't believe their ears. "you just step round and 'ave a look at the place," ses old cook; "if that don't make you alter your tune, call me a sinner." charlie tagg felt as though 'e could ha' called 'im a lot o' worse things than that, but he took up 'is hat and mrs. cook and emma got their bonnets on and they went round. "i don't think much of it for eighty pounds," ses charlie, beginning his artfulness as they came near a big shop, with plate-glass and a double front. "eh?" ses old cook, staring at 'im. "why, that ain't the place. why, you wouldn't get that for eight 'undred." "well, i don't think much of it," ses charlie; "if it's worse than that i can't look at it--i can't, indeed." "you ain't been drinking, charlie?" ses old cook, in a puzzled voice. "certainly not," ses charlie. he was pleased to see 'ow anxious they all looked, and when they did come to the shop 'e set up a laugh that old cook said chilled the marrer in 'is bones. he stood looking in a 'elpless sort o' way at his wife and emma, and then at last he ses, "there it is; and a fair bargain at the price." "i s'pose you ain't been drinking?" ses charlie. "wot's the matter with it?" ses mrs. cook flaring up. "come inside and look at it," ses emma, taking 'old of his arm. "not me," ses charlie, hanging back. "why, i wouldn't take it at a gift." he stood there on the kerbstone, and all they could do 'e wouldn't budge. he said it was a bad road and a little shop, and 'ad got a look about it he didn't like. they walked back 'ome like a funeral procession, and emma 'ad to keep saying "_h's!_" in w'ispers to 'er mother all the way. [illustration: "he said it was a had road and a little shop, and 'ad got a look about it he didn't like."] "i don't know wot charlie does want, i'm sure," ses mrs. cook, taking off 'er bonnet as soon as she got indoors and pitching it on the chair he was just going to set down on. "it's so awk'ard," ses old cook, rubbing his 'cad. "fact is, charlie, we pretty near gave 'em to understand as we'd buy it." "it's as good as settled," ses mrs. cook, trembling all over with temper. "they won't settle till they get the money," ses charlie. "you may make your mind easy about that." "emma's drawn it all out of the bank ready," ses old cook, eager like. charlie felt 'ot and cold all over. "i'd better take care of it," he ses, in a trembling voice. "you might be robbed." "so might you be," ses mrs. cook. "don't you worry; it's in a safe place." "sailormen are always being robbed," ses george smith, who 'ad been helping young bill with 'is sums while they 'ad gone to look at the shop. "there's more sailormen robbed than all the rest put together." "they won't rob charlie," ses mrs. cook, pressing 'er lips together. "i'll take care o' that." charlie tried to laugh, but 'e made such a queer noise that young bill made a large blot on 'is exercise-book, and old cook, wot was lighting his pipe, burnt 'is fingers through not looking wot 'e was doing. "you see," ses charlie, "if i was robbed, which ain't at all likely, it 'ud only be me losing my own money; but if you was robbed of it you'd never forgive yourselves." "i dessay i should get over it," ses mrs. cook, sniffing. "i'd 'ave a try, at all events." charlie started to laugh agin, and old cook, who had struck another match, blew it out and waited till he'd finished. "the whole truth is," ses charlie, looking round, "i've got something better to do with the money. i've got a chance offered me that'll make me able to double it afore you know where you are." "not afore i know where i am," ses mrs. cook, with a laugh that was worse than charlie's. "the chance of a lifetime," ses charlie, trying to keep 'is temper. "i can't tell you wot it is, because i've promised to keep it secret for a time. you'll be surprised when i do tell you." "if i wait till then till i'm surprised," ses mrs. cook, "i shall 'ave to wait a long time. my advice to you is to take that shop and ha' done with it." charlie sat there arguing all the evening, but it was no good, and the idea o' them people sitting there and refusing to let 'im have his own money pretty near sent 'im crazy. it was all 'e could do to kiss emma good-night, and 'e couldn't have 'elped slamming the front door if he'd been paid for it. the only comfort he 'ad got left was the sydney gal's photygraph, and he took that out and looked at it under nearly every lamp-post he passed. he went round the next night and 'ad an-other try to get 'is money, but it was no use; and all the good he done was to make mrs. cook in such a temper that she 'ad to go to bed before he 'ad arf finished. it was no good talking to old cook and emma, because they daren't do anything without 'er, and it was no good calling things up the stairs to her because she didn't answer. three nights running mrs. cook went off to bed afore eight o'clock, for fear she should say something to 'im as she'd be sorry for arterwards; and for three nights charlie made 'imself so disagreeable that emma told 'im plain the sooner 'e went back to sea agin the better she should like it. the only one who seemed to enjoy it was george smith, and 'e used to bring bits out o' newspapers and read to 'em, showing 'ow silly people was done out of their money. on the fourth night charlie dropped it and made 'imself so amiable that mrs. cook stayed up and made 'im a welsh rare-bit for 'is supper, and made 'im drink two glasses o' beer instead o' one, while old cook sat and drank three glasses o' water just out of temper, and to show that 'e didn't mind. when she started on the chandler's shop agin charlie said he'd think it over, and when 'e went away mrs. cook called 'im her sailor-boy and wished 'im pleasant dreams. but charlie tagg 'ad got better things to do than to dream, and 'e sat up in bed arf the night thinking out a new plan he'd thought of to get that money. when 'e did fall asleep at last 'e dreamt of taking a little farm in australia and riding about on 'orseback with the sydney gal watching his men at work. in the morning he went and hunted up a shipmate of 'is, a young feller named jack bates. jack was one o' these 'ere chaps, nobody's enemy but their own, as the saying is; a good-'arted, free-'anded chap as you could wish to see. everybody liked 'im, and the ship's cat loved 'im. he'd ha' sold the shirt off 'is back to oblige a pal, and three times in one week he got 'is face scratched for trying to prevent 'usbands knocking their wives about. charlie tagg went to 'im because he was the only man 'e could trust, and for over arf an hour he was telling jack bates all 'is troubles, and at last, as a great favour, he let 'im see the sydney gal's photygraph, and told him that all that pore gal's future 'appiness depended upon 'im. "i'll step round to-night and rob 'em of that seventy-two pounds," ses jack; "it's your money, and you've a right to it." charlie shook his 'ead. "that wouldn't do," he ses; "besides, i don't know where they keep it. no; i've got a better plan than that. come round to the crooked billet, so as we can talk it over in peace and quiet." he stood jack three or four arf-pints afore 'e told 'im his plan, and jack was so pleased with it that he wanted to start at once, but charlie persuaded 'im to wait. "and don't you spare me, mind, out o' friendship," ses charlie, "because the blacker you paint me the better i shall like it." "you trust me, mate," ses jack bates; "if i don't get that seventy-two pounds for you, you may call me a dutchman. why, it's fair robbery, i call it, sticking to your money like that." they spent the rest o' the day together, and when evening came charlie went off to the cooks'. emma 'ad arf expected they was going to a theayter that night, but charlie said he wasn't feeling the thing, and he sat there so quiet and miserable they didn't know wot to make of 'im. "'ave you got any trouble on your mind, charlie," ses mrs. cook, "or is it the tooth-ache?" "it ain't the toothache," ses charlie. he sat there pulling a long face and staring at the floor, but all mrs. cook and emma could do 'e wouldn't tell them wot was the matter with 'im. he said 'e didn't want to worry other people with 'is troubles; let everybody bear their own, that was 'is motto. even when george smith offered to go to the theayter with emma instead of 'im he didn't fire up, and, if it 'adn't ha' been for mrs. cook, george wouldn't ha' been sorry that 'e spoke. "theayters ain't for me," ses charlie, with a groan. "i'm more likely to go to gaol, so far as i can see, than a theayter." mrs. cook and emma both screamed and sarah ann did 'er first highstericks, and very well, too, considering that she 'ad only just turned fifteen. "gaol!" ses old cook, as soon as they 'ad quieted sarah ann with a bowl o' cold water that young bill 'ad the presence o' mind to go and fetch. "gaol! what for?" "you wouldn't believe if i was to tell you." ses charlie, getting up to go, "and besides, i don't want any of you to think as 'ow i am worse than wot i am." he shook his 'cad at them sorrowful-like, and afore they could stop 'im he 'ad gone. old cook shouted arter 'im, but it was no use, and the others was running into the scullery to fill the bowl agin for emma. mrs. cook went round to 'is lodgings next morning, but found that 'e was out. they began to fancy all sorts o' things then, but charlie turned up agin that evening more miserable than ever. "i went round to see you this morning," ses mrs. cook, "but you wasn't at 'ome." "i never am, 'ardly," ses charlie. "i can't be--it ain't safe." "why not?" ses mrs. cook, fidgeting. "if i was to tell you, you'd lose your good opinion of me," ses charlie. "it wouldn't be much to lose," ses mrs. cook, firing up. charlie didn't answer 'er. when he did speak he spoke to the old man, and he was so down-'arted that 'e gave 'im the chills a'most, he 'ardly took any notice of emma, and, when mrs. cook spoke about the shop agin, said that chandlers' shops was for happy people, not for 'im. by the time they sat down to supper they was nearly all as miserable as charlie 'imself. from words he let drop they all seemed to 'ave the idea that the police was arter 'im, and mrs. cook was just asking 'im for wot she called the third and last time, but wot was more likely the hundred and third, wot he'd done, when there was a knock at the front door, so loud and so sudden that old cook and young bill both cut their mouths at the same time. "anybody 'ere o' the name of emma cook?" ses a man's voice, when young bill opened the door. "she's inside," ses the boy, and the next moment jack bates followed 'im into the room, and then fell back with a start as 'e saw charlie tagg. "ho, 'ere you are, are you?" he ses, looking at 'im very black. "wot's the matter?" ses mrs. cook, very sharp. "i didn't expect to 'ave the pleasure o' seeing you 'ere, my lad," ses jack, still staring at charlie, and twisting 'is face up into awful scowls. "which is emma cook?" "miss cook is my name," ses emma, very sharp. "wot d'ye want?" "very good," ses jack bates, looking at charlie agin; "then p'r'aps you'll do me the kindness of telling that lie o' yours agin afore this young lady." "it's the truth," ses charlie, looking down at 'is plate. "if somebody don't tell me wot all this is about in two minutes, i shall do something desprit," ses mrs. cook, getting up. "this 'ere--er--man," ses jack bates, pointing at charlie, "owes me seventy-five pounds and won't pay. when i ask 'im for it he ses a party he's keeping company with, by the name of emma cook, 'as got it, and he can't get it." "so she has," ses charlie, without looking up. "wot does 'e owe you the money for?" ses mrs. cook. "'cos i lent it to 'im," ses jack. "lent it? what for?" ses mrs. cook. "'cos i was a fool, i s'pose," ses jack bates; "a good-natured fool. anyway, i'm sick and tired of asking for it, and if i don't get it to-night i'm going to see the police about it." he sat down on a chair with 'is hat cocked over one eye, and they all sat staring at 'im as though they didn't know wot to say next. "so this is wot you meant when you said you'd got the chance of a lifetime, is it?" ses mrs. cook to charlie. "this is wot you wanted it for, is it? wot did you borrow all that money for?" "spend," ses charlie, in a sulky voice. "spend!" ses mrs. cook, with a scream; "wot in?" "drink and cards mostly," ses jack bates, remembering wot charlie 'ad told 'im about blackening 'is character. you might ha' heard a pin drop a'most, and charlie sat there without saying a word. "charlie's been led away," ses mrs. cook, looking 'ard at jack bates. "i s'pose you lent 'im the money to win it back from 'im at cards, didn't you?" "and gave 'im too much licker fust," ses old cook. "i've 'eard of your kind. if charlie takes my advice 'e won't pay you a farthing. i should let you do your worst if i was 'im; that's wot i should do. you've got a low face; a nasty, ugly, low face." "one o' the worst i ever see," ses mrs. cook. "it looks as though it might ha' been cut out o' the police news." "'owever could you ha' trusted a man with a face like that, charlie?" ses old cook. "come away from 'im, bill; i don't like such a chap in the room." jack bates began to feel very awk'ard. they was all glaring at 'im as though they could eat 'im, and he wasn't used to such treatment. and, as a matter o' fact, he'd got a very good-'arted face. "you go out o' that door," ses old cook, pointing to it. "go and do your worst. you won't get any money 'ere." "stop a minute," ses emma, and afore they could stop 'er she ran upstairs. mrs. cook went arter 'er and 'igh words was heard up in the bedroom, but by-and-by emma came down holding her head very 'igh and looking at jack bates as though he was dirt. "how am i to know charlie owes you this money?" she ses. jack bates turned very red, and arter fumbling in 'is pockets took out about a dozen dirty bits o' paper, which charlie 'ad given 'im for i o u's. emma read 'em all, and then she threw a little parcel on the table. "there's your money," she ses; "take it and go." mrs. cook and 'er father began to call out, but it was no good. "there's seventy-two pounds there," ses emma, who was very pale; "and 'ere's a ring you can have to 'elp make up the rest." and she drew charlie's ring off and throwed it on the table. "i've done with 'im for good," she ses, with a look at 'er mother. jack bates took up the money and the ring and stood there looking at 'er and trying to think wot to say. he'd always been uncommon partial to the sex, and it did seem 'ard to stand there and take all that on account of charlie tagg. "i only wanted my own," he ses, at last, shuffling about the floor. "well, you've got it," ses mrs. cook, "and now you can go." "you're pi'soning the air of my front parlour," ses old cook, opening the winder a little at the top. "p'r'aps i ain't so bad as you think i am," ses jack bates, still looking at emma, and with that 'e walked over to charlie and dumped down the money on the table in front of 'im. "take it," he ses, "and don't borrow any more. i make you a free gift of it. p'r'aps my 'art ain't as black as my face," he ses, turning to mrs. cook. they was all so surprised at fust that they couldn't speak, but old cook smiled at 'im and put the winder up agin. and charlie tagg sat there arf mad with temper, locking as though 'e could eat jack bates without any salt, as the saying is. "i--i can't take it," he ses at last, with a stammer. "can't take it? why not?" ses old cook, staring. "this gentleman 'as given it to you." "a free gift," ses mrs. cook, smiling at jack very sweet. "i can't take it," ses charlie, winking at jack to take the money up and give it to 'im quiet, as arranged. "i 'ave my pride." "so 'ave i," ses jack. "are you going to take it?" charlie gave another look. "no," he ses, "i cant take a favour. i borrowed the money and i'll pay it back. "very good," ses jack, taking it up. "it's my money, ain't it?" "yes," ses charlie, taking no notice of mrs. cook and 'er husband, wot was both talking to 'im at once, and trying to persuade 'im to alter his mind. "then i give it to miss emma cook," ses jack bates, putting it into her hands. "good-night everybody and good luck." he slammed the front door behind 'im and they 'eard 'im go off down the road as if 'e was going for fire-engines. charlie sat there for a moment struck all of a heap, and then 'e jumped up and dashed arter 'im. he just saw 'im disappearing round a corner, and he didn't see 'im agin for a couple o' year arterwards, by which time the sydney gal had 'ad three or four young men arter 'im, and emma, who 'ad changed her name to smith, was doing one o' the best businesses in the chandlery line in poplar. the lady of the barge and other stories by w. w. jacobs a mixed proposal major brill, late of the fenshire volununteers, stood in front of the small piece of glass in the hatstand, and with a firm and experienced hand gave his new silk hat a slight tilt over the right eye. then he took his cane and a new pair of gloves, and with a military but squeaky tread, passed out into the road. it was a glorious day in early autumn, and the soft english landscape was looking its best, but despite the fact that there was nothing more alarming in sight than a few cows on the hillside a mile away, the major paused at his gate, and his face took on an appearance of the greatest courage and resolution before proceeding. the road was dusty and quiet, except for the children playing at cottage doors, and so hot that the major, heedless of the fact that he could not replace the hat at exactly the same angle, stood in the shade of a tree while he removed it and mopped his heated brow. he proceeded on his way more leisurely, overtaking, despite his lack of speed, another man who was walking still more slowly in the shade of the hedge. "fine day, halibut," he said, briskly; "fine day." "beautiful," said the other, making no attempt to keep pace with him. "country wants rain, though," cried the major over his shoulder. halibut assented, and walking slowly on, wondered vaguely what gaudy color it was that had attracted his eye. it dawned on him at length that it must be the major's tie, and he suddenly quickened his pace, by no means reassured as the man of war also quickened his. "halloa, brill!" he cried. "half a moment." the major stopped and waited for his friend; halibut eyed the tie uneasily--it was fearfully and wonderfully made--but said nothing. "well?" said the major, somewhat sharply. "oh--i was going to ask you, brill--confound it! i've forgotten what i was going to say now. i daresay i shall soon think of it. you're not in a hurry?" "well, i am, rather," said brill. "fact is-- is my hat on straight, halibut?" the other assuring him that it was, the major paused in his career, and gripping the brim with both hands, deliberately tilted it over the right eye again. "you were saying--" said halibut, regarding this manoeuvre with secret disapproval. "yes," murmured the major, "i was saying. well, i don't mind telling an old friend like you, halibut, though it is a profound secret. makes me rather particular about my dress just now. women notice these things. i'm--sha'nt get much sympathy from a confirmed old bachelor like you--but i'm on my way to put a very momentous question." "the devil you are!" said the other, blankly. "sir!" said the astonished major. "not mrs. riddel?" said halibut. "certainly, sir," said the major, stiffly. "why not?" "only that i am going on the same errand," said the confirmed bachelor, with desperate calmness. the major looked at him, and for the first time noticed an unusual neatness and dressiness in his friend's attire. his collar was higher than usual; his tie, of the whitest and finest silk, bore a pin he never remembered to have seen before; and for the first time since he had known him, the major, with a strange sinking at the heart, saw that he wore spats. "this is extraordinary," he said, briefly. "well, good-day, halibut. can't stop." "good-day," said the other. the major quickened his pace and shot ahead, and keeping in the shade of the hedge, ground his teeth as the civilian on the other side of the road slowly, but surely, gained on him. it became exciting. the major was handicapped by his upright bearing and short military stride; the other, a simple child of the city, bent forward, swinging his arms and taking immense strides. at a by-lane they picked up three small boys, who, trotting in their rear, made it evident by their remarks that they considered themselves the privileged spectators of a foot-race. the major could stand it no longer, and with a cut of his cane at the foremost boy, softly called a halt. "well," said halibut, stopping. the man's manner was suspicious, not to say offensive, and the other had much ado to speak him fair. "this is ridiculous," he said, trying to smile. "we can't walk in and propose in a duet. one of us must go to-day and the other to-morrow." "certainly," said halibut; "that'll be the best plan." "so childish," said the major, with a careless laugh, "two fellows walking in hot and tired and proposing to her." "absurd," replied halibut, and both men eyed each other carefully. "so, if i'm unsuccessful, old chap," said the major, in a voice which he strove to render natural and easy, "i will come straight back to your place and let you know, so as not to keep you in suspense." "you're very good," said halibut, with some emotion; "but i think i'll take to-day, because i have every reason to believe that i have got one of my bilious attacks coming on to-morrow." "pooh! fancy, my dear fellow," said the major, heartily; "i never saw you look better in my life." "that's one of the chief signs," replied halibut, shaking his head. "i'm afraid i must go to-day." "i really cannot waive my right on account of your bilious attack," said the major haughtily. "your right?" said halibut, with spirit. "my right!" repeated the other. "i should have been there before you if you had not stopped me in the first place." "but i started first," said halibut. "prove it," exclaimed the major, warmly. the other shrugged his shoulders. "i shall certainly not give way," he said, calmly. "this is a matter in which my whole future is concerned. it seems very odd, not to say inconvenient, that you should have chosen the same day as myself, brill, for such an errand--very odd." "it's quite an accident," asseverated the major; "as a matter of fact, halibut, i nearly went yesterday. that alone gives me, i think, some claim to precedence." "just so," said halibut, slowly; "it constitutes an excellent claim." the major regarded him with moistening eyes. this was generous and noble. his opinion of halibut rose. "and now you have been so frank with me," said the latter, "it is only fair that you should know i started out with the same intention three days ago and found her out. so far as claims go, i think mine leads." "pure matter of opinion," said the disgusted major; "it really seems as though we want an arbitrator. well, we'll have to make our call together, i suppose, but i'll take care not to give you any opportunity, halibut, so don't cherish any delusions on that point. even you wouldn't have the hardihood to propose before a third party, i should think; but if you do, i give you fair warning that i shall begin, too." "this is most unseemly," said halibut. "we'd better both go home and leave it for another day." "when do you propose going, then?" asked the major. "really, i haven't made up my mind," replied the other. the major shrugged his shoulders. "it won't do, halibut," he said, grimly; "it won't do. i'm too old a soldier to be caught that way." there was a long pause. the major mopped his brow again. "i've got it," he said at last. halibut looked at him curiously. "we must play for first proposal," said the major, firmly. "we're pretty evenly matched." "chess?" gasped the other, a whole world of protest in his tones. "chess," repeated the major. "it is hardly respectful," demurred halibut. "what do you think the lady would do if she heard of it?" "laugh," replied the major, with conviction. "i believe she would," said the other, brightening. "i believe she would." "you agree, then?" "with conditions." "conditions?" repeated the major. "one game," said halibut, speaking very slowly and distinctly; "and if the winner is refused, the loser not to propose until he gives him permission." "what the deuce for?" inquired the other, suspiciously. "suppose i win," replied halibut, with suspicious glibness, "and was so upset that i had one of my bilious attacks come on, where should i be? why, i might have to break off in the middle and go home. a fellow can't propose when everything in the room is going round and round." "i don't think you ought to contemplate marriage, halibut," remarked the major, very seriously and gently. "thanks," said halibut, dryly. "very well," said the major, "i agree to the conditions. better come to my place and we'll decide it now. if we look sharp, the winner may be able to know his fate to-day, after all." halibut assenting, they walked back together. the feverish joy of the gambler showed in the major's eye as they drew their chairs up to the little antique chess table and began to place their pieces ready for the fray. then a thought struck him, and he crossed over to the sideboard. "if you're feeling a bit off colour, halibut," he said, kindly, "you'd better have a little brandy to pull yourself together. i don't wish to take a mean advantage." "you're very good," said the other, as he eyed the noble measure of liquid poured out by his generous adversary. "and now to business," said the major, as he drew himself a little soda from a siphon. "now to business," repeated halibut, rising and placing his glass on the mantel-piece. the major struggled fiercely with his feelings, but, despite himself, a guilty blush lent colour to the other's unfounded suspicions. "remember the conditions," said halibut, impressively. "here's my hand on it," said the other, reaching over. halibut took it, and, his thoughts being at the moment far away, gave it a tender, respectful squeeze. the major stared and coughed. it was suggestive of practice. if the history of the duel is ever written, it will be found not unworthy of being reckoned with the most famous combats of ancient times. piece after piece was removed from the board, and the major drank glass after glass of soda to cool his heated brain. at the second glass halibut took an empty tumbler and helped himself. suddenly there was a singing in the major's ears, and a voice, a hateful, triumphant voice, said, "checkmate!" then did his gaze wander from knight to bishop and bishop to castle in a vain search for succour. there was his king defied by a bishop--a bishop which had been hobnobbing with pawns in one corner of the board, and which he could have sworn he had captured and removed full twenty minutes before. he mentioned this impression to halibut. "that was the other one," said his foe. "i thought you had forgotten this. i have been watching and hoping so for the last half-hour." there was no disguising the coarse satisfaction of the man. he had watched and hoped. not beaten him, so the major told himself, in fair play, but by taking a mean and pitiful advantage of a pure oversight. a sheer oversight. he admitted it. halibut rose with a sigh of relief, and the major, mechanically sweeping up the pieces, dropped them one by one into the box. "plenty of time," said the victor, glancing at the clock. "i shall go now, but i should like a wash first." the major rose, and in his capacity of host led the way upstairs to his room, and poured fresh water for his foe. halibut washed himself delicately, carefully trimming his hair and beard, and anxiously consulting the major as to the set of his coat in the back, after he had donned it again. his toilet completed, he gave a satisfied glance in the glass, and then followed the man of war sedately down stairs. at the hall he paused, and busied himself with the clothes-brush and hat-pad, modestly informing his glaring friend that he could not afford to throw any chances away, and then took his departure. the major sat up late that night waiting for news, but none came, and by breakfast-time next morning his thirst for information became almost uncontrollable. he toyed with a chop and allowed his coffee to get cold. then he clapped on his hat and set off to halibut's to know the worst. "well?" he inquired, as he followed the other into his dining-room. "i went," said halibut, waving him to a chair. "am i to congratulate you?" "well, i don't know," was the reply; "perhaps not just yet." "what do you mean by that?" said the major, irascibly. "well, as a matter of fact," said halibut, "she refused me, but so nicely and so gently that i scarcely minded it. in fact, at first i hardly realized that she had refused me." the major rose, and regarding his poor friend kindly, shook and patted him lightly on the shoulder. "she's a splendid woman," said halibut. "ornament to her sex," remarked the major. "so considerate," murmured the bereaved one. "good women always are," said the major, decisively. "i don't think i'd better worry her to-day, halibut, do you?" "no, i don't," said halibut, stiffly. "i'll try my luck to-morrow," said the major. "i beg your pardon," said halibut. "eh?" said the major, trying to look puzzled. "you are forgetting the conditions of the game," replied halibut. "you have to obtain my permission first." "why, my dear fellow," said the major, with a boisterous laugh. "i wouldn't insult you by questioning your generosity in such a case. no, no, halibut, old fellow, i know you too well." he spoke with feeling, but there was an anxious note in his voice. "we must abide by the conditions," said halibut, slowly; "and i must inform you, brill, that i intend to renew the attack myself." "then, sir," said the major, fuming, "you compel me to say--putting all modesty aside--that i believe the reason mrs. riddel would have nothing to do with you was because she thought somebody else might make a similar offer." "that's what i thought," said halibut, simply; "but you see now that you have so unaccountably--so far as mrs. riddel is concerned--dropped out of the running, perhaps, if i am gently persistent, she'll take me." the major rose and glared at him. "if you don't take care, old chap," said halibut, tenderly, "you'll burst something." "gently persistent," repeated the major, staring at him; "gently persistent." "remember bruce and his spider," smiled the other. "you are not going to propose to that poor woman nine times?" roared his incensed friend. "i hope that it will not be necessary," was the reply; "but if it is, i can assure you, my dear brill, that i'm not going to be outclassed by a mere spider." "but think of her feelings!" gasped the major. "i have," was the reply; "and i'm sure she'll thank me for it afterward. you see, brill, you and i are the only eligibles in the place, and now you are out of it, she's sure to take me sooner or later." "and pray how long am i to wait?" demanded the major, controlling himself with difficulty. "i can't say," said halibut; "but i don't think it's any good your waiting at all, because if i see any signs that mrs. riddel is waiting for you i may just give her a hint of the hopelessness of it." "you're a perfect mephistopheles, sir!" bawled the indignant major. halibut bowed. "strategy, my dear brill," he said, smiling; "strategy. now why waste your time? why not make some other woman happy? why not try her companion, miss philpotts? i'm sure any little assistance--" the major's attitude was so alarming that the sentence was never finished, and a second later the speaker found himself alone, watching his irate friend hurrying frantically down the path, knocking the blooms off the geraniums with his cane as he went. he saw no more of him for several weeks, the major preferring to cherish his resentment in the privacy of his house. the major also refrained from seeing the widow, having a wholesome dread as to what effect the contemplation of her charms might have upon his plighted word. he met her at last by chance. mrs. riddel bowed coldly and would have passed on, but the major had already stopped, and was making wild and unmerited statements about the weather. "it is seasonable," she said, simply. the major agreed with her, and with a strong-effort regained his composure. "i was just going to turn back," he said, untruthfully; "may i walk with you?" "i am not going far," was the reply. with soldierly courage the major took this as permission; with feminine precision mrs. riddel walked about fifty yards and then stopped. "i told you i wasn't going far," she said sweetly, as she held out her hand. "goodby." "i wanted to ask you something," said the major, turning with her. "i can't think what it was. they walked on very slowly, the major's heart beating rapidly as he told himself that the lady's coldness was due to his neglect of the past few weeks, and his wrath against halibut rose to still greater heights as he saw the cruel position in which that schemer had placed him. then he made a sudden resolution. there was no condition as to secrecy, and, first turning the conversation on to indoor amusements, he told the astonished mrs. riddel the full particulars of the fatal game. mrs. riddel said that she would never forgive them; it was the most preposterous thing she had ever heard of. and she demanded hotly whether she was to spend the rest of her life in refusing mr. halibut. "do you play high as a rule?" she inquired, scornfully. "sixpence a game," replied the major, simply. the corners of mrs. riddel's mouth relaxed, and her fine eyes began to water; then she turned her head away and laughed. "it was very foolish of us, i admit," said the major, ruefully, "and very wrong. i shouldn't have told you, only i couldn't explain my apparent neglect without." "apparent neglect?" repeated the widow, somewhat haughtily. "well, put it down to a guilty conscience," said the major; "it seems years to me since i have seen you." "remember the conditions, major brill," said mrs. riddel, with severity. "i shall not transgress them," replied the major, seriously. mrs. riddel gave her head a toss, and regarded him from the corner of her eyes. "i am very angry with you, indeed," she said, severely. the major apologized again. "for losing," added the lady, looking straight before her. major brill caught his breath and his knees trembled beneath him. he made a half-hearted attempt to seize her hand, and then remembering his position, sighed deeply and looked straight before him. they walked on in silence. "i think," said his companion at last, "that, if you like, you can get back at cribbage what you lost at chess. that is, of course, if you really want to." "he wouldn't play," said the major, shaking his head. "no, but i will," said mrs. riddel, with a smile. "i think i've got a plan." she blushed charmingly, and then, in modest alarm at her boldness, dropped her voice almost to a whisper. the major gazed at her in speechless admiration and threw back his head in ecstasy. "come round to-morrow afternoon," said mrs. riddel, pausing at the end of the lane. "mr. halibut shall be there, too, and it shall be done under his very eyes." until that time came the major sat at home carefully rehearsing his part, and it was with an air of complacent virtue that he met the somewhat astonished gaze of the persistent halibut next day. it was a bright afternoon, but they sat indoors, and mrs. riddel, after an animated description of a game at cribbage with miss philpotts the night before, got the cards out and challenged halibut to a game. they played two, both of which the diplomatic halibut lost; then mrs. riddel, dismissing him as incompetent, sat drumming on the table with her fingers, and at length challenged the major. she lost the first game easily, and began the second badly. finally, after hastily glancing at a new hand, she flung the cards petulantly on the table, face downward. "would you like my hand, major brill?" she demanded, with a blush. "better than anything in the world," cried the major, eagerly. halibut started, and miss philpotts nearly had an accident with her crochet hook. the only person who kept cool was mrs. riddel, and it was quite clear to the beholders that she had realized neither the ambiguity of her question nor the meaning of her opponent's reply. "well, you may have it," she said, brightly. before miss philpotts could lay down her work, before mr. halibut could interpose, the major took possession of mrs. riddel's small white hand and raised it gallantly to his lips. mrs. riddel, with a faint scream which was a perfect revelation to the companion, snatched her hand away. "i meant my hand of cards," she said, breathlessly. "really, brill, really," said halibut, stepping forward fussily. "oh!" said the major, blankly; "cards!" "that's what i meant, of course," said mrs. riddel, recovering herself with a laugh. "i had no idea still--if you prefer----" the major took her hand again, and miss philpotts set mr. halibut an example--which he did not follow--by gazing meditatively out of the window. finally she gathered up her work and quitted the room. mrs. riddel smiled over at mr. halibut and nodded toward the major. [illustrations: "don't you think major brill is somewhat hasty in his conclusions?" she inquired softly.] "don't you think major brill is somewhat hasty in his conclusions?" she inquired, softly. "i'll tell major brill what i think of him when i get him alone," said the injured gentleman, sourly. captains all by w.w. jacobs the temptation of samuel burge [illustration: "the temptation of samuel burge."] mr. higgs, jeweller, sat in the small parlour behind his shop, gazing hungrily at a supper-table which had been laid some time before. it was a quarter to ten by the small town clock on the mantelpiece, and the jeweller rubbing his hands over the fire tried in vain to remember what etiquette had to say about starting a meal before the arrival of an expected guest. "he must be coming by the last train after all, sir," said the housekeeper entering the room and glancing at the clock. "i suppose these london gentlemen keep such late hours they don't understand us country folk wanting to get to bed in decent time. you must be wanting your supper, sir." mr. higgs sighed. "i shall be glad of my supper," he said slowly, "but i dare say our friend is hungrier still. travelling is hungry work." "perhaps he is thinking over his words for the seventh day," said the housekeeper solemnly. "forgetting hunger and thirst and all our poor earthly feelings in the blessedness of his work." "perhaps so," assented the other, whose own earthly feelings were particularly strong just at that moment. "brother simpson used to forget all about meal-times when he stayed here," said the housekeeper, clasping her hands. "he used to sit by the window with his eyes half-closed and shake his head at the smell from the kitchen and call it flesh-pots of egypt. he said that if it wasn't for keeping up his strength for the work, luscious bread and fair water was all he wanted. i expect brother burge will be a similar sort of man." "brother clark wrote and told me that he only lives for the work," said the jeweller, with another glance at the clock. "the chapel at clerkenwell is crowded to hear him. it's a blessed favour and privilege to have such a selected instrument staying in the house. i'm curious to see him; from what brother clark said i rather fancy that he was a little bit wild in his younger days." "hallelujah!" exclaimed the housekeeper with fervour. "i mean to think as he's seen the error of his ways," she added sharply, as her master looked up. "there he is," said the latter, as the bell rang. the housekeeper went to the side-door, and drawing back the bolt admitted the gentleman whose preaching had done so much for the small but select sect known as the seventh day primitive apostles. she came back into the room followed by a tall stout man, whose upper lip and short stubby beard streaked with grey seemed a poor match for the beady eyes which lurked behind a pair of clumsy spectacles. "brother samuel burge?" inquired the jeweller, rising. the visitor nodded, and regarding him with a smile charged with fraternal love, took his hand in a huge grip and shook it fervently. "i am glad to see you, brother higgs," he said, regarding him fondly. "oh, 'ow my eyes have yearned to be set upon you! oh, 'ow my ears 'ave longed to hearken unto the words of your voice!" he breathed thickly, and taking a seat sat with his hands upon his knees, looking at a fine piece of cold beef which the housekeeper had just placed upon the table. "is brother clark well?" inquired the jeweller, placing a chair for him at the table and taking up his carving-knife. "dear brother clark is in excellent 'ealth, i thank you," said the other, taking the proffered chair. "oh! what a man he is; what a instrument for good. always stretching out them blessed hands of 'is to make one of the fallen a seventh day primitive." "and success attends his efforts?" said the jeweller. "success, brother!" repeated mr. burge, eating rapidly and gesticulating with his knife. "success ain't no name for it. why, since this day last week he has saved three pick-pockets, two salvationists, one bigamist and a roman catholic." brother higgs murmured his admiration. "you are also a power for good," he said wistfully. "brother clark tells me in his letter that your exhortations have been abundantly blessed." mr. burge shook his head. "a lot of it falls by the wayside," he said modestly, "but some of it is an eye-opener to them as don't entirely shut their ears. only the day before yesterday i 'ad two jemmies and a dark lantern sent me with a letter saying as 'ow the owner had no further use for 'em." the jeweller's eyes glistened with admiration not quite untinged with envy. "have you expounded the word for long?" he inquired. "six months," replied the other. "it come to me quite natural--i was on the penitent bench on the saturday, and the wednesday afterwards i preached as good a sermon as ever i've preached in my life. brother clark said it took 'is breath away." "and he's a judge too," said the admiring jeweller. "now," continued brother burge, helping himself plentifully to pickled walnuts. "now there ain't standing room in our bethel when i'm expounding. people come to hear me from all parts--old and young--rich and poor--and the apostles that don't come early 'ave to stand outside and catch the crumbs i throw 'em through the winders." "it is enough," sighed brother higgs, whose own audience was frequently content to be on the wrong side of the window, "it is enough to make a man vain." "i struggle against it, brother," said mr. burge, passing his cup up for some more tea. "i fight against it hard, but once the evil one was almost too much for me; and in spite of myself, and knowing besides that it was a plot of 'is, i nearly felt uplifted." brother higgs, passing him some more beef, pressed for details. "he sent me two policemen," replied the other, scowling darkly at the meanness of the trick. "one i might 'ave stood, but two come to being pretty near too much for me. they sat under me while i gave 'em the word 'ot and strong, and the feeling i had standing up there and telling policemen what they ought to do i shall never forget." "but why should policemen make you proud?" asked his puzzled listener. mr. burge looked puzzled in his turn. "why, hasn't brother clark told you about me?" he inquired. mr. higgs shook his head. "he sort of--suggested that--that you had been a little bit wild before you came to us," he murmured apologetically. "a--little--bit--wild?" repeated brother burge, in horrified accents. "me? a little bit wild?" "no doubt he exaggerated a little," said the jeweller hurriedly. "being such a good man himself, no doubt things would seem wild to him that wouldn't to us--to me, i mean." "a little bit wild," said his visitor again. "sam burge, the converted burglar, a little bit wild. well, well!" "converted what?" shouted the jeweller, half-rising from his chair. "burglar," said the other shortly. "why, i should think i know more about the inside o' gaols than anybody in england; i've pretty near killed three policemen, besides breaking a gent's leg and throwing a footman out of window, and then brother clark goes and says i've been a little bit wild. i wonder what he would 'ave?" "but you--you've quite reformed now?" said the jeweller, resuming his seat and making a great effort to hide his consternation. "i 'ope so," said mr. burge, with alarming humility; "but it's an uncertain world, and far be it from me to boast. that's why i've come here." mr. higgs, only half-comprehending, sat back gasping. "if i can stand this," pursued brother burge, gesticulating wildly in the direction of the shop, "if i can stand being here with all these 'ere pretty little things to be 'ad for the trouble of picking of 'em up, i can stand anything. tempt me, i says to brother clark. put me in the way o' temptation, i says. let me see whether the evil one or me is the strongest; let me 'ave a good old up and down with the powers o' darkness, and see who wins." mr. higgs, gripping the edge of the table with both hands, gazed at this new michael in speechless consternation. "i think i see his face now," said brother burge, with tender enthusiasm. "all in a glow it was, and he patted me on the shoulder and says, 'i'll send you on a week's mission to duncombe,' he says, and 'you shall stop with brother higgs who 'as a shop full o' cunning wrought vanities in silver and gold.'" "but suppose," said the jeweller, finding his voice by a great effort, "suppose victory is not given unto you." "it won't make any difference," replied his visitor. "brother clark promised that it shouldn't. 'if you fall, brother,' he says, 'we'll help you up again. when you are tired of sin come back to us--there's always a welcome.'" "but--" began the dismayed jeweller. "we can only do our best," said brother burge, "the rest we must leave. i 'ave girded my loins for the fray, and taken much spiritual sustenance on the way down from this little hymn-book." mr. higgs paid no heed. he sat marvelling over the fatuousness of brother clark and trying to think of ways and means out of the dilemma into which that gentleman's perverted enthusiasm had placed him. he wondered whether it would be possible to induce brother burge to sleep elsewhere by offering to bear his hotel expenses, and at last, after some hesitation, broached the subject. "what!" exclaimed the other, pushing his plate from him and regarding him with great severity. "go and sleep at a hotel? after brother clark has been and took all this trouble? why, i wouldn't think of doing such a thing." "brother clark has no right to expose you to such a trial," said mr. higgs with great warmth. "i wonder what he'd say if he 'eard you," remarked mr. burge sternly. "after his going and making all these arrangements, for you to try and go and upset 'em. to ask me to shun the fight like a coward; to ask me to go and hide in the rear-ranks in a hotel with everything locked up, or a coffer pallis with nothing to steal." "i should sleep far more comfortably if i knew that you were not undergoing this tremendous strain," said the unhappy mr. higgs, "and besides that, if you did give way, it would be a serious business for me --that's what i want you to look at. i am afraid that if--if unhappily you did fall, i couldn't prevent you." "i'm sure you couldn't," said the other cordially. "that's the beauty of it; that's when the evil one's whispers get louder and louder. why, i could choke you between my finger and thumb. if unfortunately my fallen nature should be too strong for me, don't interfere whatever you do. i mightn't be myself." mr. higgs rose and faced him gasping. "not even--call for--the police--i suppose," he jerked out. "that would be interfering," said brother burge coldly. the jeweller tried to think. it was past eleven. the housekeeper had gone to spend the night with an ailing sister, and a furtive glance at brother burge's small shifty eyes and fat unwholesome face was sufficient to deter him from leaving him alone with his property, while he went to ask the police to give an eye to his house for the night. besides, it was more than probable that mr. burge would decline to allow such a proceeding. with a growing sense of his peril he resolved to try flattery. "it was a great thing for the brethren to secure a man like you," he said. "i never thought they'd ha' done it," said mr. burge frankly. "i've 'ad all sorts trying to convert me; crying over me and praying over me. i remember the first dear good man that called me a lorst lamb. he didn't say anything else for a month." "so upset," hazarded the jeweller. "i broke his jor, pore feller," said brother burge, a sad but withal indulgent smile lighting up his face at the vagaries of his former career. "what time do you go to bed, brother?" "any time," said the other reluctantly. "i suppose you are tired with your journey?" mr. burge assented, and rising from his chair yawned loudly and stretched himself. in the small room with his huge arms raised he looked colossal. "i suppose," said the jeweller, still seeking to re-assure himself, "i suppose dear brother clark felt pretty certain of you, else he wouldn't have sent you here?" "brother clark said 'what is a jeweller's shop compared with a 'uman soul, a priceless 'uman soul?'" replied mr. burge. "what is a few gew-gaws to decorate them that perish, and make them vain, when you come to consider the opportunity of such a trial, and the good it'll do and the draw it'll be--if i do win--and testify to the congregation to that effect? why, there's sermons for a lifetime in it." "so there is," said the jeweller, trying to look cheerful. "you've got a good face, brother burge, and you'll do a lot of good by your preaching. there is honesty written in every feature." mr. burge turned and surveyed himself in the small pier-glass. "yes," he said, somewhat discontentedly, "i don't look enough like a burglar to suit some of 'em." "some people are hard to please," said the other warmly. mr. burge started and eyed him thoughtfully, and then as mr. higgs after some hesitation walked into the shop to turn the gas out, stood in the doorway watching him. a smothered sigh as he glanced round the shop bore witness to the state of his feelings. the jeweller hesitated again in the parlour, and then handing brother burge his candle turned out the gas, and led the way slowly upstairs to the room which had been prepared for the honoured visitor. he shook hands at the door and bade him an effusive good-night, his voice trembling despite himself as he expressed a hope that mr. burge would sleep well. he added casually that he himself was a very light sleeper. to-night sleep of any kind was impossible. he had given up the front room to his guest, and his own window looked out on an over-grown garden. he sat trying to read, with his ears alert for the slightest sound. brother burge seemed to be a long time undressing. for half an hour after he had retired he could hear him moving restlessly about his room. twelve o'clock struck from the tower of the parish church, and was followed almost directly by the tall clock standing in the hall down-stairs. scarcely had the sounds died away than a low moaning from the next room caused the affrighted jeweller to start from his chair and place his ear against the wall. two or three hollow groans came through the plaster, followed by ejaculations which showed clearly that brother burge was at that moment engaged in a terrified combat with the powers of darkness to decide whether he should, or should not, rifle his host's shop. his hands clenched and his ear pressed close to the wall, the jeweller listened to a monologue which increased in interest with every word. "i tell you i won't," said the voice in the next room with a groan, "i won't. get thee behind me--get thee--no, and don't shove me over to the door; if you can't get behind me without doing that, stay where you are. yes, i know it's a fortune as well as what you do; but it ain't mine." the listener caught his breath painfully. "diamond rings," continued brother burge in a suffocating voice. "stop it, i tell you. no, i won't just go and look at 'em." a series of groans which the jeweller noticed to his horror got weaker and weaker testified to the greatness of the temptation. he heard brother burge rise, and then a succession of panting snarls seemed to indicate a fierce bodily encounter. "i don't--want to look at 'em," said brother burge in an exhausted voice. "what's--the good of--looking at 'em? it's like you, you know diamonds are my weakness. what does it matter if he is asleep? what's my knife got to do with you?" brother higgs reeled back and a mist passed before his eyes. he came to himself at the sound of a door opening, and impelled with a vague idea of defending his property, snatched up his candle and looked out on to the landing. the light fell on brother burge, fully dressed and holding his boots in his hand. for a moment they gazed at each other in silence; then the jeweller found his voice. "i thought you were ill, brother," he faltered. an ugly scowl lit up the other's features. "don't you tell me any of your lies," he said fiercely. "you're watching me; that's what you're doing. spying on me." "i thought that you were being tempted," confessed the trembling mr. higgs. an expression of satisfaction which he strove to suppress appeared on mr. burge's face. "so i was," he said sternly. "so i was; but that's my business. i don't want your assistance; i can fight my own battles. you go to bed--i'm going to tell the congregation i won the fight single-'anded." "so you have, brother," said the other eagerly; "but it's doing me good to see it. it's a lesson to me; a lesson to all of us the way you wrestled." "i thought you was asleep," growled brother burge, turning back to his room and speaking over his shoulder. "you get back to bed; the fight ain't half over yet. get back to bed and keep quiet." the door closed behind him, and mr. higgs, still trembling, regained his room and looked in agony at the clock. it was only half-past twelve and the sun did not rise until six. he sat and shivered until a second instalment of groans in the next room brought him in desperation to his feet. brother burge was in the toils again, and the jeweller despite his fears could not help realizing what a sensation the story of his temptation would create. brother burge was now going round and round his room like an animal in a cage, and sounds as of a soul wrought almost beyond endurance smote upon the listener's quivering ear. then there was a long silence more alarming even than the noise of the conflict. had brother burge won, and was he now sleeping the sleep of the righteous, or---- mr. higgs shivered and put his other ear to the wall. then he heard his guest move stealthily across the floor; the boards creaked and the handle of the door turned. mr. higgs started, and with a sudden flash of courage born of anger and desperation seized a small brass poker from the fire-place, and taking the candle in his other hand went out on to the landing again. brother burge was closing his door softly, and his face when he turned it upon the jeweller was terrible in its wrath. his small eyes snapped with fury, and his huge hands opened and shut convulsively. "what, agin!" he said in a low growl. "after all i told you!" mr. higgs backed slowly as he advanced. "no noise," said mr. burge in a dreadful whisper. "one scream and i'll-- what were you going to do with that poker?" he took a stealthy step forward. "i--i," began the jeweller. his voice failed him. "burglars," he mouthed, "downstairs." "what?" said the other, pausing. mr. higgs threw truth to the winds. "i heard them in the shop," he said, recovering, "that's why i took up the poker. can't you hear them?" mr. burge listened for the fraction of a second. "nonsense," he said huskily. "i heard them talking," said the other recklessly. "let's go down and call the police." "call 'em from the winder," said brother burge, backing with some haste, "they might 'ave pistols or something, and they're ugly customers when they're disturbed." he stood with strained face listening. "here they come," whispered the jeweller with a sudden movement of alarm. brother burge turned, and bolting into his room clapped the door to and locked it. the jeweller stood dumbfounded on the landing; then he heard the window go up and the voice of brother burge, much strengthened by the religious exercises of the past six months, bellowing lustily for the police. for a few seconds mr. higgs stood listening and wondering what explanation he should give. still thinking, he ran downstairs, and, throwing open the pantry window, unlocked the door leading into the shop and scattered a few of his cherished possessions about the floor. by the time he had done this, people were already beating upon the street-door and exchanging hurried remarks with mr. burge at the window above. the jeweller shot back the bolts, and half-a-dozen neighbours, headed by the butcher opposite, clad in his nightgown and armed with a cleaver, burst into the passage. a constable came running up just as the pallid face of brother burge peered over the balusters. the constable went upstairs three at a time, and twisting his hand in the ex-burglar's neck-cloth bore him backwards. "i've got one," he shouted. "come up and hold him while i look round." the butcher was beside him in a moment; brother burge struggling wildly, called loudly upon the name of brother higgs. "that's all right, constable," said the latter, "that's a friend of mine." "friend o' yours, sir?" said the disappointed officer, still holding him. the jeweller nodded. "mr. samuel burge the converted burglar," he said mechanically. "conver----" gasped the astonished constable. "converted burglar? here!" "he is a preacher now," added mr. higgs. "preacher?" retorted the constable. "why it's as plain as a pikestaff. confederates: his part was to go down and let 'em in." mr. burge raised a piteous outcry. "i hope you may be forgiven for them words," he cried piously. "what time did you go up to bed?" pursued the constable. "about half-past eleven," replied mr. higgs. the other grunted with satisfaction. "and he's fully dressed, with his boots off," he remarked. "did you hear him go out of his room at all?" "he did go out," said the jeweller truth-fully, "but----" "i thought so," said the constable, turning to his prisoner with affectionate solicitude. "now you come along o' me. come quietly, because it'll be the best for you in the end." "you won't get your skull split open then," added the butcher, toying with his cleaver. the jeweller hesitated. he had no desire to be left alone with mr. burge again; and a sense of humour, which many years' association with the primitive apostles had not quite eradicated, strove for hearing. "think of the sermon it'll make," he said encouragingly to the frantic mr. burge, "think of the congregation!" brother burge replied in language which he had not used in public since he had joined the apostles. the butcher and another man stood guard over him while the constable searched the premises and made all secure again. then with a final appeal to mr. higgs who was keeping in the background, he was pitched to the police-station by the energetic constable and five zealous assistants. a diffidence, natural in the circumstances, prevented him from narrating the story of his temptation to the magistrates next morning, and mr. higgs was equally reticent. he was put back while the police communicated with london, and in the meantime brother clark and a band of apostles flanked down to his support. on his second appearance before the magistrates he was confronted with his past; and his past to the great astonishment of the brethren being free from all blemish with the solitary exception of fourteen days for stealing milk-cans, he was discharged with a caution. the disillusioned primitive apostles also gave him his freedom. the lady of the barge and other stories by w. w. jacobs bill's paper chase sailormen 'ave their faults, said the night watchman, frankly. i'm not denying of it. i used to 'ave myself when i was at sea, but being close with their money is a fault as can seldom be brought ag'in 'em. i saved some money once--two golden sovereigns, owing to a 'ole in my pocket. before i got another ship i slept two nights on a doorstep and 'ad nothing to eat, and i found them two sovereigns in the lining o' my coat when i was over two thousand miles away from the nearest pub. i on'y knew one miser all the years i was at sea. thomas geary 'is name was, and we was shipmates aboard the barque _grenada,_ homeward bound from sydney to london. thomas was a man that was getting into years; sixty, i think 'e was, and old enough to know better. 'e'd been saving 'ard for over forty years, and as near as we could make out 'e was worth a matter o' six 'undered pounds. he used to be fond o' talking about it, and letting us know how much better off 'e was than any of the rest of us. we was about a month out from sydney when old thomas took sick. bill hicks said that it was owing to a ha'penny he couldn't account for; but walter jones, whose family was always ill, and thought 'e knew a lot about it, said that 'e knew wot it was, but 'e couldn't remember the name of it, and that when we got to london and thomas saw a doctor, we should see as 'ow 'e was right. whatever it was the old man got worse and worse. the skipper came down and gave 'im some physic and looked at 'is tongue, and then 'e looked at our tongues to see wot the difference was. then 'e left the cook in charge of 'im and went off. the next day thomas was worse, and it was soon clear to everybody but 'im that 'e was slipping 'is cable. he wouldn't believe it at first, though the cook told 'im, bill hicks told him, and walter jones 'ad a grandfather that went off in just the same way. "i'm not going to die," says thomas "how can i die and leave all that money?" "it'll be good for your relations, thomas," says walter jones. "i ain't got any," says the old man. "well, your friends, then, thomas," says walter, soft-like. "ain't got any," says the old man ag'in. "yes, you 'ave, thomas," says walter, with a kind smile; "i could tell you one you've got." thomas shut his eyes at 'im and began to talk pitiful about 'is money and the 'ard work 'e'd 'ad saving of it. and by-and-by 'e got worse, and didn't reckernise us, but thought we was a pack o' greedy, drunken sailormen. he thought walter jones was a shark, and told 'im so, and, try all 'e could, walter couldn't persuade 'im different. he died the day arter. in the morning 'e was whimpering about 'is money ag'in, and angry with bill when 'e reminded 'im that 'e couldn't take it with 'im, and 'e made bill promise that 'e should be buried just as 'e was. bill tucked him up arter that, and when 'e felt a canvas belt tied round the old man's waist 'e began to see wot 'e was driving at. the weather was dirty that day and there was a bit o' sea running, consequently all 'ands was on deck, and a boy about sixteen wot used to 'elp the steward down aft was lookin' arter thomas. me and bill just run down to give a look at the old man in time. "i am going to take it with me, bill," says the old man. "that's right," says bill. "my mind's--easy now," says thomas. "i gave it to jimmy--to--to--throw overboard for me." "wot?" says bill, staring. "that's right, bill," says the boy. "he told me to. it was a little packet o' banknotes. he gave me tuppence for doing it." old thomas seemed to be listening. 'is eyes was open, and 'e looked artful at bill to think what a clever thing 'e'd done. "nobody's goin'-to spend-my money," 'e says. "nobody's" we drew back from 'is bunk and stood staring at 'im. then bill turned to the boy. "go and tell the skipper 'e's gone," 'e says, "and mind, for your own sake, don't tell the skipper or anybody else that you've thrown all that money overboard." "why not?" says jimmy. "becos you'll be locked up for it," says bill; "you'd no business to do it. you've been and broke the law. it ought to ha' been left to somebody." jimmy looked scared, and arter 'e was gone i turned to bill, and i looks at 'im and i says "what's the little game, bill?" "_game_?" said bill, snorting at me. "i don't want the pore boy to get into trouble, do i? pore little chap. you was young yourself once." "yes," i says; "but i'm a bit older now, bill, and unless you tell me what your little game is, i shall tell the skipper myself, and the chaps too. pore old thomas told 'im to do it, so where's the boy to blame?" "do you think jimmy did?" says bill, screwing up his nose at me. "that little varmint is walking about worth six 'undered quid. now you keep your mouth shut and i'll make it worth your while." then i see bill's game. "all right, i'll keep quiet for the sake of my half," i says, looking at 'im. i thought he'd ha' choked, and the langwidge 'e see fit to use was a'most as much as i could answer. "very well, then," 'e says, at last, "halves it is. it ain't robbery becos it belongs to nobody, and it ain't the boy's becos 'e was told to throw it overboard." they buried pore old thomas next morning, and arter it was all over bill put 'is 'and on the boy's shoulder as they walked for'ard and 'e says, "poor old thomas 'as gone to look for 'is money," he says; "wonder whether 'e'll find it! was it a big bundle, jimmy?" "no," says the boy, shaking 'is 'ead. "they was six 'undered pound notes and two sovereigns, and i wrapped the sovereigns up in the notes to make 'em sink. fancy throwing money away like that, bill: seems a sin, don't it?" bill didn't answer 'im, and that afternoon the other chaps below being asleep we searched 'is bunk through and through without any luck, and at last bill sat down and swore 'e must ha' got it about 'im. we waited till night, and when everybody was snoring 'ard we went over to the boy's bunk and went all through 'is pockets and felt the linings, and then we went back to our side and bill said wot 'e thought about jimmy in whispers. "he must ha' got it tied round 'is waist next to 'is skin, like thomas 'ad," i says. we stood there in the dark whispering, and then bill couldn't stand it any longer, and 'e went over on tiptoe to the bunk ag'in. he was tremblin' with excitement and i wasn't much better, when all of a sudden the cook sat up in 'is bunk with a dreadful laughing scream and called out that somebody was ticklin' 'im. i got into my bunk and bill got into 'is, and we lay there listening while the cook, who was a terrible ticklish man, leaned out of 'is bunk and said wot 'e'd do if it 'appened ag'in. "go to sleep," says walter jones; "you're dreamin'. who d'you think would want to tickle you?" "i tell you," says the cook, "somebody come over and tickled me with a 'and the size of a leg o' mutton. i feel creepy all over." bill gave it up for that night, but the next day 'e pretended to think jimmy was gettin' fat an' 'e caught 'old of 'im and prodded 'im all over. he thought 'e felt something round 'is waist, but 'e couldn't be sure, and jimmy made such a noise that the other chaps interfered and told bill to leave 'im alone. for a whole week we tried to find that money, and couldn't, and bill said it was a suspicious thing that jimmy kept aft a good deal more than 'e used to, and 'e got an idea that the boy might ha' 'idden it somewhere there. at the end of that time, 'owever, owing to our being short-'anded, jimmy was sent for'ard to work as ordinary seaman, and it began to be quite noticeable the way 'e avoided bill. at last one day we got 'im alone down the fo'c'sle, and bill put 'is arm round 'im and got im on the locker and asked 'im straight out where the money was. "why, i chucked it overboard," he says. "i told you so afore. what a memory you've got, bill!" bill picked 'im up and laid 'im on the locker, and we searched 'im thoroughly. we even took 'is boots off, and then we 'ad another look in 'is bunk while 'e was putting 'em on ag'in. "if you're innercent," says bill, "why don't you call out?--eh?" "because you told me not to say anything about it, bill," says the boy. "but i will next time. loud, i will." "look 'ere," says bill, "you tell us where it is, and the three of us'll go shares in it. that'll be two 'undered pounds each, and we'll tell you 'ow to get yours changed without getting caught. we're cleverer than you are, you know." "i know that, bill," says the boy; "but it's no good me telling you lies. i chucked it overboard." "very good, then," says bill, getting up. "i'm going to tell the skipper." "tell 'im," says jimmy. "i don't care." "then you'll be searched arter you've stepped ashore," says bill, "and you won't be allowed on the ship ag'in. you'll lose it all by being greedy, whereas if you go shares with us you'll 'ave two 'undered pounds." i could see as 'ow the boy 'adn't thought o' that, and try as 'e would 'e couldn't 'ide 'is feelin's. he called bill a red-nosed shark, and 'e called me somethin' i've forgotten now. "think it over," says bill; "mind, you'll be collared as soon as you've left the gangway and searched by the police." "and will they tickle the cook too, i wonder?" says jimmy, savagely. "and if they find it you'll go to prison," says bill, giving 'im a clump o' the side o' the 'ead, "and you won't like that, i can tell you." "why, ain't it nice, bill?" says jimmy, holding 'is ear. bill looked at 'im and then 'e steps to the ladder. "i'm not going to talk to you any more, my lad," 'e says. "i'm going to tell the skipper." he went up slowly, and just as 'e reached the deck jimmy started up and called 'im. bill pretended not to 'ear, and the boy ran up on deck and follered 'im; and arter a little while they both came down again together. "did you wish to speak to me, my lad?" says bill, 'olding 'is 'ead up. "yes," says the boy, fiddling with 'is fingers; "if you keep your ugly mouth shut, we'll go shares." "ho!" says bill, "i thought you throwed it overboard!" "i thought so, too, bill," says jimmy, very softly, "and when i came below ag'in i found it in my trousers pocket." "where is it now?" says bill. "never mind where it is," says the boy; "you couldn't get it if i was to tell you. it'll take me all my time to do it myself." "where is it?" says bill, ag'in. "i'm goin' to take care of it. i won't trust you." "and i can't trust you," says jimmy. "if you don't tell me where it is this minute," says bill, moving to the ladder ag'in, "i'm off to tell the skipper. i want it in my 'ands, or at any rate my share of it. why not share it out now?" "because i 'aven't got it," says jimmy, stamping 'is foot, "that's why, and it's all your silly fault. arter you came pawing through my pockets when you thought i was asleep i got frightened and 'id it." "where?" says bill. "in the second mate's mattress," says jimmy. "i was tidying up down aft and i found a 'ole in the underneath side of 'is mattress and i shoved it in there, and poked it in with a bit o' stick." "and 'ow are you going to get it?" says bill, scratching 'is 'ead. "that's wot i don't know, seeing that i'm not allowed aft now," says jimmy. "one of us'll 'ave to make a dash for it when we get to london. and mind if there's any 'ankypanky on your part, bill, i'll give the show away myself." the cook came down just then and we 'ad to leave off talking, and i could see that bill was so pleased at finding that the money 'adn't been thrown overboard that 'e was losing sight o' the difficulty o' getting at it. in a day or two, 'owever, 'e see it as plain as me and jimmy did, and, as time went by, he got desprit, and frightened us both by 'anging about aft every chance 'e got. the companion-way faced the wheel, and there was about as much chance o' getting down there without being seen as there would be o' taking a man's false teeth out of 'is mouth without 'is knowing it. jimmy went down one day while bill was at the wheel to look for 'is knife, wot 'e thought 'e'd left down there, and 'ed 'ardly got down afore bill saw 'im come up ag'in, 'olding on to the top of a mop which the steward was using. we couldn't figure it out nohow, and to think o' the second mate, a little man with a large fam'ly, who never 'ad a penny in 'is pocket, sleeping every night on a six 'undered pound mattress, sent us pretty near crazy. we used to talk it over whenever we got a chance, and bill and jimmy could scarcely be civil to each other. the boy said it was bill's fault, and 'e said it was the boy's. "the on'y thing i can see," says the boy, one day, "is for bill to 'ave a touch of sunstroke as 'e's leaving the wheel one day, tumble 'ead-first down the companion-way, and injure 'isself so severely that 'e can't be moved. then they'll put 'im in a cabin down aft, and p'raps i'll 'ave to go and nurse 'im. anyway, he'll be down there." "it's a very good idea, bill," i says. "ho," says bill, looking at me as if 'e would eat me. "why don't you do it, then?" "i'd sooner you did it, bill," says the boy; "still, i don't mind which it is. why not toss up for it?" "get away," says bill. "get away afore i do something you won't like, you blood-thirsty little murderer." "i've got a plan myself," he says, in a low voice, after the boy 'ad 'opped off, "and if i can't think of nothing better i'll try it, and mind, not a word to the boy." he didn't think o' nothing better, and one night just as we was making the channel 'e tried 'is plan. he was in the second mate's watch, and by-and-by 'e leans over the wheel and says to 'im in a low voice, "this is my last v'y'ge, sir." "oh," says the second mate, who was a man as didn't mind talking to a man before the mast. "how's that?" "i've got a berth ashore, sir," says bill, "and i wanted to ask a favour, sir." the second mate growled and walked off a pace or two. "i've never been so 'appy as i've been on this ship," says bill; "none of us 'ave. we was saying so the other night, and everybody agreed as it was owing to you, sir, and your kindness to all of us." the second mate coughed, but bill could see as 'e was a bit pleased. "the feeling came over me," says bill, "that when i leave the sea for good i'd like to 'ave something o' yours to remember you by, sir. and it seemed to me that if i 'ad your--mattress i should think of you ev'ry night o' my life." "my wot?" says the second mate, staring at 'im. "your mattress, sir," says bill. "if i might make so bold as to offer a pound for it, sir. i want something wot's been used by you, and i've got a fancy for that as a keepsake." the second mate shook 'is 'ead. "i'm sorry, bill," 'e says, gently, "but i couldn't let it go at that." "i'd sooner pay thirty shillin's than not 'ave it, sir," says bill, 'umbly. "i gave a lot of money for that mattress," says the mate, ag'in. "i forgit 'ow much, but a lot. you don't know 'ow valuable that mattress is." "i know it's a good one, sir, else you wouldn't 'ave it," says bill. "would a couple o' pounds buy it, sir?" the second mate hum'd and ha'd, but bill was afeard to go any 'igher. so far as 'e could make out from jimmy, the mattress was worth about eighteen pence--to anybody who wasn't pertiklar. "i've slept on that mattress for years," says the second mate, looking at 'im from the corner of 'is eye. "i don't believe i could sleep on another. still, to oblige you, bill, you shall 'ave it at that if you don't want it till we go ashore?" "thankee, sir," says bill, 'ardly able to keep from dancing, "and i'll 'and over the two pounds when we're paid off. i shall keep it all my life, sir, in memory of you and your kindness." "and mind you keep quiet about it," says the second mate, who didn't want the skipper to know wot 'e'd been doing, "because i don't want to be bothered by other men wanting to buy things as keepsakes." bill promised 'im like a shot, and when 'e told me about it 'e was nearly crying with joy. "and mind," 'e says, "i've bought that mattress, bought it as it stands, and it's got nothing to do with jimmy. we'll each pay a pound and halve wot's in it." he persuaded me at last, but that boy watched us like a cat watching a couple of canaries, and i could see we should 'ave all we could do to deceive 'im. he seemed more suspicious o' bill than me, and 'e kep' worrying us nearly every day to know what we were going to do. we beat about in the channel with a strong 'ead-wind for four days, and then a tug picked us up and towed us to london. the excitement of that last little bit was 'orrible. fust of all we 'ad got to get the mattress, and then in some way we 'ad got to get rid o' jimmy. bill's idea was for me to take 'im ashore with me and tell 'im that bill would join us arterwards, and then lose 'im; but i said that till i'd got my share i couldn't bear to lose sight o' bill's honest face for 'alf a second. and, besides, jimmy wouldn't 'ave gone. all the way up the river 'e stuck to bill, and kept asking 'im wot we were to do. 'e was 'alf crying, and so excited that bill was afraid the other chaps would notice it. we got to our berth in the east india docks at last, and arter we were made fast we went below to 'ave a wash and change into our shoregoing togs. jimmy watched us all the time, and then 'e comes up to bill biting 'is nails, and says: "how's it to be done, bill?" "hang about arter the rest 'ave gone ashore, and trust to luck," says bill, looking at me. "we'll see 'ow the land lays when we draw our advance." we went down aft to draw ten shillings each to go ashore with. bill and me got ours fust, and then the second mate who 'ad tipped 'im the wink followed us out unconcerned-like and 'anded bill the mattress rolled up in a sack. "'ere you are, bill," 'e says. "much obliged, sir," says bill, and 'is 'ands trembled so as 'e could 'ardly 'old it, and 'e made to go off afore jimmy come on deck. then that fool of a mate kept us there while 'e made a little speech. twice bill made to go off, but 'e put 'is 'and on 'is arm and kept 'im there while 'e told 'im 'ow he'd always tried to be liked by the men, and 'ad generally succeeded, and in the middle of it up popped master jimmy. he gave a start as he saw the bag, and 'is eyes opened wide, and then as we walked forward 'e put 'is arm through bill's and called 'im all the names 'e could think of. "you'd steal the milk out of a cat's saucer," 'e says; "but mind, you don't leave this ship till i've got my share." "i meant it for a pleasant surprise for you, jimmy," says bill, trying to smile. "i don't like your surprises, bill, so i don't deceive you," says the boy. "where are you going to open it?" "i was thinking of opening it in my bunk," says bill. "the perlice might want to examine it if we took it through the dock. come on, jimmy, old man." "yes; all right," says the boy, nodding 'is 'ead at 'im. "i'll stay up 'ere. you might forget yourself, bill, if i trusted myself down there with you alone. you can throw my share up to me, and then you'll leave the ship afore i do. see?" "go to blazes," says bill; and then, seeing that the last chance 'ad gone, we went below, and 'e chucked the bundle in 'is bunk. there was only one chap down there, and arter spending best part o' ten minutes doing 'is hair 'e nodded to us and went off. half a minute later bill cut open the mattress and began to search through the stuffing, while i struck matches and watched 'im. it wasn't a big mattress and there wasn't much stuffing, but we couldn't seem to see that money. bill went all over it ag'in and ag'in, and then 'e stood up and looked at me and caught 'is breath painful. "do you think the mate found it?" 'e says, in a 'usky voice. we went through it ag'in, and then bill went half-way up the fo'c's'le ladder and called softly for jimmy. he called three times, and then, with a sinking sensation in 'is stummick, 'e went up on deck and i follered 'im. the boy was nowhere to be seen. all we saw was the ship's cat 'aving a wash and brush-up afore going ashore, and the skipper standing aft talking to the owner. we never saw that boy ag'in. he never turned up for 'is box, and 'e didn't show up to draw 'is pay. everybody else was there, of course, and arter i'd got mine and come outside i see pore bill with 'is back up ag'in a wall, staring 'ard at the second mate, who was looking at 'im with a kind smile, and asking 'im 'ow he'd slept. the last thing i saw of bill, the pore chap 'ad got 'is 'ands in 'is trousers pockets, and was trying 'is hardest to smile back. captains all by w.w. jacobs bob's redemption [illustration: "bob's redemption."] "gratitoode!" said the night-watchman, with a hard laugh. "_hmf!_ don't talk to me about gratitoode; i've seen too much of it. if people wot i've helped in my time 'ad only done arf their dooty--arf, mind you--i should be riding in my carriage." forgetful of the limitations of soap-boxes he attempted to illustrate his remark by lolling, and nearly went over backwards. recovering himself by an effort he gazed sternly across the river and smoked fiercely. it was evident that he was brooding over an ill-used past. 'arry thomson was one of them, he said, at last. for over six months i wrote all 'is love-letters for him, 'e being an iggernerant sort of man and only being able to do the kisses at the end, which he always insisted on doing 'imself: being jealous. only three weeks arter he was married 'e come up to where i was standing one day and set about me without saying a word. i was a single man at the time and i didn't understand it. my idea was that he 'ad gone mad, and, being pretty artful and always 'aving a horror of mad people, i let 'im chase me into a police-station. leastways, i would ha' let 'im, but he didn't come, and i all but got fourteen days for being drunk and disorderly. then there was bill clark. he 'ad been keeping comp'ny with a gal and got tired of it, and to oblige 'im i went to her and told 'er he was a married man with five children. bill was as pleased as punch at fust, but as soon as she took up with another chap he came round to see me and said as i'd ruined his life. we 'ad words about it--naturally--and i did ruin it then to the extent of a couple o' ribs. i went to see 'im in the horsepittle--place i've always been fond of--and the langwidge he used to me was so bad that they sent for the sister to 'ear it. that's on'y two out of dozens i could name. arf the unpleasantnesses in my life 'ave come out of doing kindnesses to people, and all the gratitoode i've 'ad for it i could put in a pint-pot with a pint o' beer already in it. the only case o' real gratitoode i ever heard of 'appened to a shipmate o' mine--a young chap named bob evans. coming home from auckland in a barque called the _dragon fly_ he fell overboard, and another chap named george crofts, one o' the best swimmers i ever knew, went overboard arter 'im and saved his life. we was hardly moving at the time, and the sea was like a duck pond, but to 'ear bob evans talk you'd ha' thought that george crofts was the bravest-'arted chap that ever lived. he 'adn't liked him afore, same as the rest of us, george being a sly, mean sort o' chap; but arter george 'ad saved his life 'e couldn't praise 'im enough. he said that so long as he 'ad a crust george should share it, and wotever george asked 'im he should have. the unfortnit part of it was that george took 'im at his word, and all the rest of the v'y'ge he acted as though bob belonged to 'im, and by the time we got into the london river bob couldn't call his soul 'is own. he used to take a room when he was ashore and live very steady, as 'e was saving up to get married, and as soon as he found that out george invited 'imself to stay with him. "it won't cost you a bit more," he ses, "not if you work it properly." bob didn't work it properly, but george having saved his life, and never letting 'im forget it, he didn't like to tell him so. he thought he'd let 'im see gradual that he'd got to be careful because of 'is gal, and the fust evening they was ashore 'e took 'im along with 'im there to tea. gerty mitchell--that was the gal's name--'adn't heard of bob's accident, and when she did she gave a little scream, and putting 'er arms round his neck, began to kiss 'im right in front of george and her mother. "you ought to give him one too," ses mrs. mitchell, pointing to george. george wiped 'is mouth on the back of his 'and, but gerty pretended not to 'ear. "fancy if you'd been drownded!" she ses, hugging bob agin. "he was pretty near," ses george, shaking his 'ead. "i'm a pore swimmer, but i made up my mind either to save 'im or else go down to a watery grave myself." he wiped his mouth on the back of his 'and agin, but all the notice gerty took of it was to send her young brother ted out for some beer. then they all 'ad supper together, and mrs. mitchell drank good luck to george in a glass o' beer, and said she 'oped that 'er own boy would grow up like him. "let 'im grow up a good and brave man, that's all i ask," she ses. "i don't care about 'is looks." "he might have both," ses george, sharp-like. "why not?" mrs. mitchell said she supposed he might, and then she cuffed young ted's ears for making a noise while 'e was eating, and then cuffed 'im agin for saying that he'd finished 'is supper five minutes ago. george and bob walked 'ome together, and all the way there george said wot a pretty gal gerty was and 'ow lucky it was for bob that he 'adn't been drownded. he went round to tea with 'im the next day to mrs. mitchell's, and arter tea, when bob and gerty said they was going out to spend the evening together, got 'imself asked too. they took a tram-car and went to a music-hall, and bob paid for the three of 'em. george never seemed to think of putting his 'and in his pocket, and even arter the music-hall, when they all went into a shop and 'ad stewed eels, he let bob pay. as i said afore, bob evans was chock-full of gratefulness, and it seemed only fair that he shouldn't grumble at spending a little over the man wot 'ad risked 'is life to save his; but wot with keeping george at his room, and paying for 'im every time they went out, he was spending a lot more money than 'e could afford. "you're on'y young once, bob," george said to him when 'e made a remark one arternoon as to the fast way his money was going, "and if it hadn't ha' been for me you'd never 'ave lived to grow old." wot with spending the money and always 'aving george with them when they went out, it wasn't long afore bob and gerty 'ad a quarrel. "i don't like a pore-spirited man," she ses. "two's company and three's none, and, besides, why can't he pay for 'imself? he's big enough. why should you spend your money on 'im? he never pays a farthing." bob explained that he couldn't say anything because 'e owed his life to george, but 'e might as well 'ave talked to a lamp-post. the more he argued the more angry gerty got, and at last she ses, "two's company and three's none, and if you and me can't go out without george crofts, then me and 'im 'll go out with-out you." she was as good as her word, too, and the next night, while bob 'ad gone out to get some 'bacca, she went off alone with george. it was ten o'clock afore they came back agin, and gerty's eyes were all shining and 'er cheeks as pink as roses. she shut 'er mother up like a concertina the moment she began to find fault with 'er, and at supper she sat next to george and laughed at everything 'e said. george and bob walked all the way 'ome arter supper without saying a word, but arter they got to their room george took a side-look at bob, and then he ses, suddenlike, "look 'ere! i saved your life, didn't i?" "you did," ses bob, "and i thank you for it." "i saved your life," ses george agin, very solemn. "if it hadn't ha' been for me you couldn't ha' married anybody." "that's true," ses bob. "me and gerty 'ave been having a talk," ses george, bending down to undo his boots. "we've been getting on very well together; you can't 'elp your feelings, and the long and the short of it is, the pore gal has fallen in love with me." bob didn't say a word. "if you look at it this way it's fair enough," ses george. "i gave you your life and you give me your gal. we're quits now. you don't owe me anything and i don't owe you anything. that's the way gerty puts it, and she told me to tell you so." "if--if she don't want me i'm agreeable," ses bob, in a choking voice. "we'll call it quits, and next time i tumble overboard i 'ope you won't be handy." he took gerty's photygraph out of 'is box and handed it to george. "you've got more right to it now than wot i 'ave," he ses. "i shan't go round there any more; i shall look out for a ship to-morrow." george crofts said that perhaps it was the best thing he could do, and 'e asked 'im in a offhand sort o' way 'ow long the room was paid up for. mrs. mitchell 'ad a few words to say about it next day, but gerty told 'er to save 'er breath for walking upstairs. the on'y thing that george didn't like when they went out was that young ted was with them, but gerty said she preferred it till she knew 'im better; and she 'ad so much to say about his noble behaviour in saving life that george gave way. they went out looking at the shops, george thinking that that was the cheapest way of spending an evening, and they were as happy as possible till gerty saw a brooch she liked so much in a window that he couldn't get 'er away. "it is a beauty," she ses. "i don't know when i've seen a brooch i liked better. look here! let's all guess the price and then go in and see who's right." they 'ad their guesses, and then they went in and asked, and as soon as gerty found that it was only three-and-sixpence she began to feel in her pocket for 'er purse, just like your wife does when you go out with 'er, knowing all the time that it's on the mantelpiece with twopence-ha'penny and a cough lozenge in it. "i must ha' left it at 'ome," she ses, looking at george. "just wot i've done," ses george, arter patting 'is pockets. gerty bit 'er lips and, for a minute or two, be civil to george she could not. then she gave a little smile and took 'is arm agin, and they walked on talking and laughing till she turned round of a sudden and asked a big chap as was passing wot 'e was shoving 'er for. "shoving you?" ses he. "wot do you think i want to shove you for?" "don't you talk to me," ses gerty, firing up. "george, make 'im beg my pardon." "you ought to be more careful," ses george, in a gentle sort o' way. "make 'im beg my pardon," ses gerty, stamping 'er foot; "if he don't, knock 'im down." "yes, knock 'im down," ses the big man, taking hold o' george's cap and rumpling his 'air. pore george, who was never much good with his fists, hit 'im in the chest, and the next moment he was on 'is back in the middle o' the road wondering wot had 'appened to 'im. by the time 'e got up the other man was arf a mile away; and young ted stepped up and wiped 'im down with a pocket-'andkerchief while gerty explained to 'im 'ow she saw 'im slip on a piece o' banana peel. "it's 'ard lines," she ses; "but never mind, you frightened 'im away, and i don't wonder at it. you do look terrible when you're angry, george; i didn't know you." she praised 'im all the way 'ome, and if it 'adn't been for his mouth and nose george would 'ave enjoyed it more than 'e did. she told 'er mother how 'e had flown at a big man wot 'ad insulted her, and mrs. mitchell shook her 'ead at 'im and said his bold spirit would lead 'im into trouble afore he 'ad done. they didn't seem to be able to make enough of 'im, and next day when he went round gerty was so upset at the sight of 'is bruises that he thought she was going to cry. when he had 'ad his tea she gave 'im a cigar she had bought for 'im herself, and when he 'ad finished smoking it she smiled at him, and said that she was going to take 'im out for a pleasant evening to try and make up to 'im for wot he 'ad suffered for 'er. "we're all going to stand treat to each other," she ses. "bob always would insist on paying for everything, but i like to feel a bit independent. give and take--that's the way i like to do things." "there's nothing like being independent," ses george. "bob ought to ha' known that." "i'm sure it's the best plan," ses gerty. "now, get your 'at on. we're going to a theayter, and ted shall pay the 'bus fares." george wanted to ask about the theayter, but 'e didn't like to, and arter gerty was dressed they went out and ted paid the 'bus fares like a man. "here you are," ses gerty, as the 'bus stopped outside the theayter. "hurry up and get the tickets, george; ask for three upper circles." she bustled george up to the pay place, and as soon as she 'ad picked out the seats she grabbed 'old of the tickets and told george to make haste. "twelve shillings it is," ses the man, as george put down arf a crown. "twelve?" ses george, beginning to stammer. "twelve? twelve? twel--?" "twelve shillings," ses the man; "three upper circles you've 'ad." george was going to fetch gerty back and 'ave cheaper seats, but she 'ad gone inside with young ted, and at last, arter making an awful fuss, he paid the rest o' the money and rushed in arter her, arf crazy at the idea o' spending so much money. "make 'aste," ses gerty, afore he could say anything; "the band 'as just begun." she started running upstairs, and she was so excited that, when they got their seats and george started complaining about the price, she didn't pay any attention to wot he was saying, but kept pointing out ladies' dresses to 'im in w'ispers and wondering wot they 'ad paid for them. george gave it up at last, and then he sat wondering whether he 'ad done right arter all in taking bob's gal away from him. gerty enjoyed it very much, but when the curtain came down after the first act she leaned back in her chair and looked up at george and said she felt faint and thought she'd like to 'ave an ice-cream. "and you 'ave one too, dear," she ses, when young ted 'ad got up and beckoned to the gal, "and ted 'ud like one too, i'm sure." she put her 'ead on george's shoulder and looked up at 'im. then she put her 'and on his and stroked it, and george, reckoning that arter all ice-creams were on'y a ha'penny or at the most a penny each, altered 'is mind about not spending any more money and ordered three. the way he carried on when the gal said they was three shillings was alarming. at fust 'e thought she was 'aving a joke with 'im, and it took another gal and the fireman and an old gentleman wot was sitting behind 'im to persuade 'im different. he was so upset that 'e couldn't eat his arter paying for it, and ted and gerty had to finish it for 'im. "they're expensive, but they're worth the money," ses gerty. "you are good to me, george. i could go on eating 'em all night, but you mustn't fling your money away like this always." "i'll see to that," ses george, very bitter. "i thought we was going to stand treat to each other? that was the idea, i understood." "so we are," ses gerty. "ted stood the 'bus fares, didn't he?" "he did," ses george, "wot there was of 'em; but wot about you?" "me?" ses gerty, drawing her 'ead back and staring at 'im. "why, 'ave you forgot that cigar already, george?" george opened 'is mouth, but 'e couldn't speak a word. he sat looking at 'er and making a gasping noise in 'is throat, and fortunately just as 'e got 'is voice back the curtain went up agin, and everybody said, "_h'sh!_" he couldn't enjoy the play at all, 'e was so upset, and he began to see more than ever 'ow wrong he 'ad been in taking bob's gal away from 'im. he walked downstairs into the street like a man in a dream, with gerty sticking to 'is arm and young ted treading on 'is heels behind. "now, you mustn't waste any more money, george," ses gerty, when they got outside. "we'll walk 'ome." george 'ad got arf a mind to say something about a 'bus, but he remembered in time that very likely young ted hadn't got any more money. then gerty said she knew a short cut, and she took them, walking along little, dark, narrow streets and places, until at last, just as george thought they must be pretty near 'ome, she began to dab her eyes with 'er pocket-'andkerchief and say she'd lost 'er way. "you two go 'ome and leave me," she ses, arf crying. "i can't walk another step." "where are we?" ses george, looking round. "i don't know," ses gerty. "i couldn't tell you if you paid me. i must 'ave taken a wrong turning. oh, hurrah! here's a cab!" afore george could stop 'er she held up 'er umbrella, and a 'ansom cab, with bells on its horse, crossed the road and pulled up in front of 'em. ted nipped in first and gerty followed 'im. "tell 'im the address, dear, and make 'aste and get in," ses gerty. george told the cabman, and then he got in and sat on ted's knee, partly on gerty's umbrella, and mostly on nothing. "you are good to me, george," ses gerty, touching the back of 'is neck with the brim of her hat. "it ain't often i get a ride in a cab. all the time i was keeping company with bob we never 'ad one once. i only wish i'd got the money to pay for it." george, who was going to ask a question, stopped 'imself, and then he kept striking matches and trying to read all about cab fares on a bill in front of 'im. "'ow are we to know 'ow many miles it is?" he ses, at last. "i don't know," ses gerty; "leave it to the cabman. it's his bisness, ain't it? and if 'e don't know he must suffer for it." there was hardly a soul in gerty's road when they got there, but afore george 'ad settled with the cabman there was a policeman moving the crowd on and arf the winders in the road up. by the time george had paid 'im and the cabman 'ad told him wot 'e looked like, gerty and ted 'ad disappeared indoors, all the lights was out, and, in a state o' mind that won't bear thinking of, george walked 'ome to his lodging. [illustration: "afore george had settled with the cabman, there was a policeman moving the crowd on."] bob was asleep when he got there, but 'e woke 'im up and told 'im about it, and then arter a time he said that he thought bob ought to pay arf because he 'ad saved 'is life. "cert'nly not," ses bob. "we're quits now; that was the arrangement. i only wish it was me spending the money on her; i shouldn't grumble." george didn't get a wink o' sleep all night for thinking of the money he 'ad spent, and next day when he went round he 'ad almost made up 'is mind to tell bob that if 'e liked to pay up the money he could 'ave gerty back; but she looked so pretty, and praised 'im up so much for 'is generosity, that he began to think better of it. one thing 'e was determined on, and that was never to spend money like that agin for fifty gertys. there was a very sensible man there that evening that george liked very much. his name was uncle joe, and when gerty was praising george to 'is face for the money he 'ad been spending, uncle joe, instead o' looking pleased, shook his 'ead over it. "young people will be young people, i know," he ses, "but still i don't approve of extravagance. bob evans would never 'ave spent all that money over you." "bob evans ain't everybody," ses mrs. mitchell, standing up for gerty. "he was steady, anyway," ses uncle joe. "besides, gerty ought not to ha' let mr. crofts spend his money like that. she could ha' prevented it if she'd ha' put 'er foot down and insisted on it." he was so solemn about it that everybody began to feel a bit upset, and gerty borrowed ted's pocket-'andkerchief, and then wiped 'er eyes on the cuff of her dress instead. "well, well," ses uncle joe; "i didn't mean to be 'ard, but don't do it no more. you are young people, and can't afford it." "we must 'ave a little pleasure sometimes," ses gerty. "yes, i know," ses uncle joe; "but there's moderation in everything. look 'ere, it's time somebody paid for mr. crofts. to-morrow's saturday, and, if you like, i'll take you all to the crystal palace." gerty jumped up off of 'er chair and kissed 'im, while mrs. mitchell said she knew 'is bark was worse than 'is bite, and asked 'im who was wasting his money now? "you meet me at london bridge station at two o'clock," ses uncle joe, getting up to go. "it ain't extravagance for a man as can afford it." he shook 'ands with george crofts and went, and, arter george 'ad stayed long enough to hear a lot o' things about uncle joe which made 'im think they'd get on very well together, he went off too. they all turned up very early the next arternoon, and gerty was dressed so nice that george couldn't take his eyes off of her. besides her there was mrs. mitchell and ted and a friend of 'is named charlie smith. they waited some time, but uncle joe didn't turn up, and they all got looking at the clock and talking about it, and 'oping he wouldn't make 'em miss the train. "here he comes!" ses ted, at last. uncle joe came rushing in, puffing and blowing as though he'd bust. "take 'em on by this train, will you?" he ses, catching 'old o' george by the arm. "i've just been stopped by a bit o' business i must do, and i'll come on by the next, or as soon arter as i can." he rushed off again, puffing and blowing his 'ardest, in such a hurry that he forgot to give george the money for the tickets. however, george borrowed a pencil of mrs. mitchell in the train, and put down on paper 'ow much they cost, and mrs. mitchell said if george didn't like to remind 'im she would. they left young ted and charlie to stay near the station when they got to the palace, uncle joe 'aving forgotten to say where he'd meet 'em, but train arter train came in without 'im, and at last the two boys gave it up. "we're sure to run across 'im sooner or later," ses gerty. "let's 'ave something to eat; i'm so hungry." george said something about buns and milk, but gerty took 'im up sharp. "buns and milk?" she ses. "why, uncle would never forgive us if we spoilt his treat like that." she walked into a refreshment place and they 'ad cold meat and bread and pickles and beer and tarts and cheese, till even young ted said he'd 'ad enough, but still they couldn't see any signs of uncle joe. they went on to the roundabouts to look for 'im, and then into all sorts o' shows at sixpence a head, but still there was no signs of 'im, and george had 'ad to start on a fresh bit o' paper to put down wot he'd spent. "i suppose he must ha' been detained on important business," ses gerty, at last. "unless it's one of 'is jokes," ses mrs. mitchell, shaking her 'ead. "you know wot your uncle is, gerty." "there now, i never thought o' that," ses gerty, with a start; "p'r'aps it is." "joke?" ses george, choking and staring from one to the other. "i was wondering where he'd get the money from," ses mrs. mitchell to gerty. "i see it all now; i never see such a man for a bit o' fun in all my born days. and the solemn way he went on last night, too. why, he must ha' been laughing in 'is sleeve all the time. it's as good as a play." "look here!" ses george, 'ardly able to speak; "do you mean to tell me he never meant to come?" "i'm afraid not," ses mrs. mitchell, "knowing wot he is. but don't you worry; i'll give him a bit o' my mind when i see 'im." george crofts felt as though he'd burst, and then 'e got his breath, and the things 'e said about uncle joe was so awful that mrs. mitchell told the boys to go away. "how dare you talk of my uncle like that?" ses gerty, firing up. "you forget yourself, george," ses mrs. mitchell. "you'll like 'im when you get to know 'im better." "don't you call me george," ses george crofts, turning on 'er. "i've been done, that's wot i've been. i 'ad fourteen pounds when i was paid off, and it's melting like butter." "well, we've enjoyed ourselves," ses gerty, "and that's what money was given us for. i'm sure those two boys 'ave had a splendid time, thanks to you. don't go and spoil all by a little bit o' temper." "temper!" ses george, turning on her. "i've done with you, i wouldn't marry you if you was the on'y gal in the world. i wouldn't marry you if you paid me." "oh, indeed!" ses gerty; "but if you think you can get out of it like that you're mistaken. i've lost my young man through you, and i'm not going to lose you too. i'll send my two big cousins round to see you to-morrow." "they won't put up with no nonsense, i can tell you," ses mrs. mitchell. she called the boys to her, and then she and gerty, arter holding their 'eads very high and staring at george, went off and left 'im alone. he went straight off 'ome, counting 'is money all the way and trying to make it more, and, arter telling bob 'ow he'd been treated, and trying hard to get 'im to go shares in his losses, packed up his things and cleared out, all boiling over with temper. bob was so dazed he couldn't make head or tail out of it, but 'e went round to see gerty the first thing next morning, and she explained things to him. "i don't know when i've enjoyed myself so much," she ses, wiping her eyes, "but i've had enough gadding about for once, and if you come round this evening we'll have a nice quiet time together looking at the furniture shops." short cruises by w. w. jacobs contents the changeling mixed relations his lordship alf's dream a distant relative the test in the family a love-knot her uncle the dreamer angels' visits a circular tour illustrations from drawings by will owen "'and what about my voice?' he demanded" "'george!' she exclaimed sharply" "he struck a match and, holding it before his face, looked up at the window" "mr. stokes, taking his dazed friend by the arm, led him gently away" "the mate smiled too" "sarcasm they did try, but at that the cook could more than hold his own" "'good-by,' he said slowly; 'and i wish you both every happiness'" "'she's got your eyes,' said his lordship" "'i like fools better than lords'" "he patted 'im on the shoulder and said 'ow well he was filling out" "mr. potter was then introduced and received a gracious reception" "a gold watch and chain lent an air of substance to his waistcoat" "'and we don't want you following us about,' said mr. dix, sharply" "'i tell you he can't swim,' repeated mr. heard, passionately" "'you leave go o' my lodger,' ses bob pretty" "he slammed the door in bob pretty's face" "on the third morning he took mrs. bowman out for a walk" "'i had forgotten it was there,' he said, nervously" "the corner of the trunk took the gesticulating mr. wragg by the side of the head" "'what did you do that for?' demanded mr. gale, sitting up" "'why didn't you tell me then?' ses ted" "'i shall take my opportunity,' he ses, 'and break it to 'er gentle like'" "he astonished mrs. jobling next day by the gift of a geranium" "they offered mrs. jobling her choice of at least a hundred plans for bringing him to his senses" "'she asked 'im whether 'e'd got a fancy for any partikler spot to be buried in" "'all right,' ses the cabman, taking his 'orse out and leading it into a stable, 'mind you don't catch cold'" "so long" [illustration: the changeling] the changeling mr. george henshaw let himself in at the front door, and stood for some time wiping his boots on the mat. the little house was ominously still, and a faint feeling, only partially due to the lapse of time since breakfast, manifested itself behind his waistcoat. he coughed--a matter- of-fact cough--and, with an attempt to hum a tune, hung his hat on the peg and entered the kitchen. mrs. henshaw had just finished dinner. the neatly cleaned bone of a chop was on a plate by her side; a small dish which had contained a rice- pudding was empty; and the only food left on the table was a small rind of cheese and a piece of stale bread. mr. henshaw's face fell, but he drew his chair up to the table and waited. his wife regarded him with a fixed and offensive stare. her face was red and her eyes were blazing. it was hard to ignore her gaze; harder still to meet it. mr. henshaw, steering a middle course, allowed his eyes to wander round the room and to dwell, for the fraction of a second, on her angry face. "you've had dinner early?" he said at last, in a trembling voice. "have i?" was the reply. mr. henshaw sought for a comforting explanation. "clock's fast," he said, rising and adjusting it. his wife rose almost at the same moment, and with slow deliberate movements began to clear the table. "what--what about dinner?" said mr. henshaw, still trying to control his fears. "dinner!" repeated mrs. henshaw, in a terrible voice. "you go and tell that creature you were on the 'bus with to get your dinner." mr. henshaw made a gesture of despair. "i tell you," he said emphatically, "it wasn't me. i told you so last night. you get an idea in your head and--" "that'll do," said his wife, sharply. "i saw you, george henshaw, as plain as i see you now. you were tickling her ear with a bit o' straw, and that good-for-nothing friend of yours, ted stokes, was sitting behind with another beauty. nice way o' going on, and me at 'ome all alone by myself, slaving and slaving to keep things respectable!" "it wasn't me," reiterated the unfortunate. "when i called out to you," pursued the unheeding mrs. henshaw, "you started and pulled your hat over your eyes and turned away. i should have caught you if it hadn't been for all them carts in the way and falling down. i can't understand now how it was i wasn't killed; i was a mask of mud from head to foot." despite his utmost efforts to prevent it, a faint smile flitted across the pallid features of mr. henshaw. "yes, you may laugh," stormed his wife, "and i've no doubt them two beauties laughed too. i'll take care you don't have much more to laugh at, my man." she flung out of the room and began to wash up the crockery. mr. henshaw, after standing irresolute for some time with his hands in his pockets, put on his hat again and left the house. he dined badly at a small eating-house, and returned home at six o'clock that evening to find his wife out and the cupboard empty. he went back to the same restaurant for tea, and after a gloomy meal went round to discuss the situation with ted stokes. that gentleman's suggestion of a double alibi he thrust aside with disdain and a stern appeal to talk sense. "mind, if my wife speaks to you about it," he said, warningly, "it wasn't me, but somebody like me. you might say he 'ad been mistook for me before." mr. stokes grinned and, meeting a freezing glance from his friend, at once became serious again. "why not say it was you?" he said stoutly. "there's no harm in going for a 'bus-ride with a friend and a couple o' ladies." "o' course there ain't," said the other, hotly, "else i shouldn't ha' done it. but you know what my wife is." mr. stokes, who was by no means a favorite of the lady in question, nodded. "you _were_ a bit larky, too," he said thoughtfully. "you 'ad quite a little slapping game after you pretended to steal her brooch." "i s'pose when a gentleman's with a lady he 'as got to make 'imself pleasant?" said mr. henshaw, with dignity. "now, if my missis speaks to you about it, you say that it wasn't me, but a friend of yours up from the country who is as like me as two peas. see?" "name o' dodd," said mr. stokes, with a knowing nod. "tommy dodd." "i'm not playing the giddy goat," said the other, bitterly, "and i'd thank you not to." "all right," said mr. stokes, somewhat taken aback. "any name you like; i don't mind." mr. henshaw pondered. "any sensible name'll do," he said, stiffly. "bell?" suggested mr. stokes. "alfred bell? i did know a man o' that name once. he tried to borrow a bob off of me." "that'll do," said his friend, after some consideration; "but mind you stick to the same name. and you'd better make up something about him-- where he lives, and all that sort of thing--so that you can stand being questioned without looking more like a silly fool than you can help." "i'll do what i can for you," said mr. stokes, "but i don't s'pose your missis'll come to me at all. she saw you plain enough." they walked on in silence and, still deep in thought over the matter, turned into a neighboring tavern for refreshment. mr. henshaw drank his with the air of a man performing a duty to his constitution; but mr. stokes, smacking his lips, waxed eloquent over the brew. "i hardly know what i'm drinking," said his friend, forlornly. "i suppose it's four-half, because that's what i asked for." mr. stokes gazed at him in deep sympathy. "it can't be so bad as that," he said, with concern. "you wait till you're married," said mr. henshaw, brusquely. "you'd no business to ask me to go with you, and i was a good-natured fool to do it." "you stick to your tale and it'll be all right," said the other. "tell her that you spoke to me about it, and that his name is alfred bell--b e double l--and that he lives in--in ireland. here! i say!" "well," said mr. henshaw, shaking off the hand which the other had laid on his arm. "you--you be alfred bell," said mr. stokes, breathlessly. mr. henshaw started and eyed him nervously. his friend's eyes were bright and, he fancied, a bit wild. "be alfred bell," repeated mr. stokes. "don't you see? pretend to be alfred bell and go with me to your missis. i'll lend you a suit o' clothes and a fresh neck-tie, and there you are." "_what?_" roared the astounded mr. henshaw. "it's as easy as easy," declared the other. "tomorrow evening, in a new rig-out, i walks you up to your house and asks for you to show you to yourself. of course, i'm sorry you ain't in, and perhaps we walks in to wait for you." "show me to myself?" gasped mr. henshaw. mr. stokes winked. "on account o' the surprising likeness," he said, smiling. "it is surprising, ain't it? fancy the two of us sitting there and talking to her and waiting for you to come in and wondering what's making you so late!" mr. henshaw regarded him steadfastly for some seconds, and then, taking a firm hold of his mug, slowly drained the contents. "and what about my voice?" he demanded, with something approaching a sneer. "that's right," said mr. stokes, hotly; "it wouldn't be you if you didn't try to make difficulties." "but what about it?" said mr. henshaw, obstinately. "you can alter it, can't you?" said the other. they were alone in the bar, and mr. henshaw, after some persuasion, was induced to try a few experiments. he ranged from bass, which hurt his throat, to a falsetto which put mr. stokes's teeth on edge, but in vain. the rehearsal was stopped at last by the landlord, who, having twice come into the bar under the impression that fresh customers had entered, spoke his mind at some length. "seem to think you're in a blessed monkey-house," he concluded, severely. "we thought we was," said mr. stokes, with a long appraising sniff, as he opened the door. "it's a mistake anybody might make." he pushed mr. henshaw into the street as the landlord placed a hand on the flap of the bar, and followed him out. "you'll have to 'ave a bad cold and talk in 'usky whispers," he said slowly, as they walked along. "you caught a cold travelling in the train from ireland day before yesterday, and you made it worse going for a ride on the outside of a 'bus with me and a couple o' ladies. see? try 'usky whispers now." mr. henshaw tried, and his friend, observing that he was taking but a languid interest in the scheme, was loud in his praises. "i should never 'ave known you," he declared. "why, it's wonderful! why didn't you tell me you could act like that?" mr. henshaw remarked modestly that he had not been aware of it himself, and, taking a more hopeful view of the situation, whispered himself into such a state of hoarseness that another visit for refreshment became absolutely necessary. "keep your 'art up and practise," said mr. stokes, as he shook hands with him some time later. "and if you can manage it, get off at four o'clock to-morrow and we'll go round to see her while she thinks you're still at work." [illustration: "'and what about my voice?' he demanded."] mr. henshaw complimented him upon his artfulness, and, with some confidence in a man of such resource, walked home in a more cheerful frame of mind. his heart sank as he reached the house, but to his relief the lights were out and his wife was in bed. he was up early next morning, but his wife showed no signs of rising. the cupboard was still empty, and for some time he moved about hungry and undecided. finally he mounted the stairs again, and with a view to arranging matters for the evening remonstrated with her upon her behavior and loudly announced his intention of not coming home until she was in a better frame of mind. from a disciplinary point of view the effect of the remonstrance was somewhat lost by being shouted through the closed door, and he also broke off too abruptly when mrs. henshaw opened it suddenly and confronted him. fragments of the peroration reached her through the front door. despite the fact that he left two hours earlier, the day passed but slowly, and he was in a very despondent state of mind by the time he reached mr. stokes's lodging. the latter, however, had cheerfulness enough for both, and, after helping his visitor to change into fresh clothes and part his hair in the middle instead of at the side, surveyed him with grinning satisfaction. under his directions mr. henshaw also darkened his eyebrows and beard with a little burnt cork until mr. stokes declared that his own mother wouldn't know him. "now, be careful," said mr. stokes, as they set off. "be bright and cheerful; be a sort o' ladies' man to her, same as she saw you with the one on the 'bus. be as unlike yourself as you can, and don't forget yourself and call her by 'er pet name." "pet name!" said mr. henshaw, indignantly. "pet name! you'll alter your ideas of married life when you're caught, my lad, i can tell you!" he walked on in scornful silence, lagging farther and farther behind as they neared his house. when mr. stokes knocked at the door he stood modestly aside with his back against the wall of the next house. "is george in?" inquired mr. stokes, carelessly, as mrs. henshaw opened the door. "no," was the reply. mr. stokes affected to ponder; mr. henshaw instinctively edged away. "he ain't in," said mrs. henshaw, preparing to close the door. "i wanted to see 'im partikler," said mr. stokes, slowly. "i brought a friend o' mine, name o' alfred bell, up here on purpose to see 'im." mrs. henshaw, following the direction of his eyes, put her head round the door. "george!" she exclaimed, sharply. mr. stokes smiled. "that ain't george," he said, gleefully; "that's my friend, mr. alfred bell. ain't it a extraordinary likeness? ain't it wonderful? that's why i brought 'im up; i wanted george to see 'im." mrs. henshaw looked from one to the other in wrathful bewilderment. "his living image, ain't he?" said mr. stokes. "this is my pal george's missis," he added, turning to mr. bell. "good afternoon to you," said that gentleman, huskily. "he got a bad cold coming from ireland," explained mr. stokes, "and, foolish-like, he went outside a 'bus with me the other night and made it worse." "oh-h!" said mrs. henshaw, slowly. "indeed! really!" "he's quite curious to see george," said mr. stokes. "in fact, he was going back to ireland tonight if it 'adn't been for that. he's waiting till to-morrow just to see george." mr. bell, in a voice huskier than ever, said that he had altered his mind again. [illustration: "'george!' she exclaimed, sharply."] "nonsense!" said mr. stokes, sternly. "besides, george would like to see you. i s'pose he won't be long?" he added, turning to mrs. henshaw, who was regarding mr. bell much as a hungry cat regards a plump sparrow. "i don't suppose so," she said, slowly. "i dare say if we wait a little while--" began mr. stokes, ignoring a frantic glance from mr. henshaw. "come in," said mrs. henshaw, suddenly. mr. stokes entered and, finding that his friend hung back, went out again and half led, half pushed him indoors. mr. bell's shyness he attributed to his having lived so long in ireland. "he is quite the ladies' man, though," he said, artfully, as they followed their hostess into the front room. "you should ha' seen 'im the other night on the 'bus. we had a couple o' lady friends o' mine with us, and even the conductor was surprised at his goings on." mr. bell, by no means easy as to the results of the experiment, scowled at him despairingly. "carrying on, was he?" said mrs. henshaw, regarding the culprit steadily. "carrying on like one o'clock," said the imaginative mr. stokes. "called one of 'em his little wife, and asked her where 'er wedding-ring was." "i didn't," said mr. bell, in a suffocating voice. "i didn't." "there's nothing to be ashamed of," said mr. stokes, virtuously. "only, as i said to you at the time, 'alfred,' i says, 'it's all right for you as a single man, but you might be the twin-brother of a pal o' mine-- george henshaw by name--and if some people was to see you they might think it was 'im.' didn't i say that?" "you did," said mr. bell, helplessly. "and he wouldn't believe me," said mr. stokes, turning to mrs. henshaw. "that's why i brought him round to see george." "i should like to see the two of 'em together myself," said mrs. henshaw, quietly. "i should have taken him for my husband anywhere." "you wouldn't if you'd seen 'im last night," said mr. stokes, shaking his head and smiling. "carrying on again, was he?" inquired mrs. henshaw, quickly. "no!" said mr. bell, in a stentorian whisper. his glance was so fierce that mr. stokes almost quailed. "i won't tell tales out of school," he said, nodding. "not if i ask you to?" said mrs. henshaw, with a winning smile. "ask 'im," said mr. stokes. "last night," said the whisperer, hastily, "i went for a quiet walk round victoria park all by myself. then i met mr. stokes, and we had one half-pint together at a public-house. that's all." mrs. henshaw looked at mr. stokes. mr. stokes winked at her. "it's as true as my name is--alfred bell," said that gentleman, with slight but natural hesitation. "have it your own way," said mr. stokes, somewhat perturbed at mr. bell's refusal to live up to the character he had arranged for him. "i wish my husband spent his evenings in the same quiet way," said mrs. henshaw, shaking her head. "don't he?" said mr. stokes. "why, he always seems quiet enough to me. too quiet, i should say. why, i never knew a quieter man. i chaff 'im about it sometimes." "that's his artfulness," said mrs. henshaw. "always in a hurry to get 'ome," pursued the benevolent mr. stokes. "he may say so to you to get away from you," said mrs. henshaw, thoughtfully. "he does say you're hard to shake off sometimes." mr. stokes sat stiffly upright and threw a fierce glance in the direction of mr. henshaw. "pity he didn't tell me," he said bitterly. "i ain't one to force my company where it ain't wanted." "i've said to him sometimes," continued mrs. henshaw, "'why don't you tell ted stokes plain that you don't like his company?' but he won't. that ain't his way. he'd sooner talk of you behind your back." "what does he say?" inquired mr. stokes, coldly ignoring a frantic headshake on the part of his friend. "promise me you won't tell him if i tell you," said mrs. henshaw. mr. stokes promised. "i don't know that i ought to tell you," said mrs. henshaw, reluctantly, "but i get so sick and tired of him coming home and grumbling about you." "go on," said the waiting stokes. mrs. henshaw stole a glance at him. "he says you act as if you thought yourself everybody," she said, softly, "and your everlasting clack, clack, clack, worries him to death." "go on," said the listener, grimly. "and he says it's so much trouble to get you to pay for your share of the drinks that he'd sooner pay himself and have done with it." mr. stokes sprang from his chair and, with clenched fists, stood angrily regarding the horrified mr. bell. he composed himself by an effort and resumed his seat. "anything else?" he inquired. "heaps and heaps of things," said mrs. henshaw; "but i don't want to make bad blood between you." "don't mind me," said mr. stokes, glancing balefully over at his agitated friend. "p'raps i'll tell you some things about him some day." "it would be only fair," said mrs. henshaw, quickly. "tell me now; i don't mind mr. bell hearing; not a bit." mr. bell spoke up for himself. "i don't want to hear family secrets," he whispered, with an imploring glance at the vindictive mr. stokes. "it wouldn't be right." "well, _i_ don't want to say things behind a man's back," said the latter, recovering himself. "let's wait till george comes in, and i'll say 'em before his face." mrs. henshaw, biting her lip with annoyance, argued with him, but in vain. mr. stokes was firm, and, with a glance at the clock, said that george would be in soon and he would wait till he came. conversation flagged despite the efforts of mrs. henshaw to draw mr. bell out on the subject of ireland. at an early stage of the catechism he lost his voice entirely, and thereafter sat silent while mrs. henshaw discussed the most intimate affairs of her husband's family with mr. stokes. she was in the middle of an anecdote about her mother-in-law when mr. bell rose and, with some difficulty, intimated his desire to depart. "what, without seeing george?" said mrs. henshaw. "he can't be long now, and i should like to see you together." "p'r'aps we shall meet him," said mr. stokes, who was getting rather tired of the affair. "good night." he led the way to the door and, followed by the eager mr. bell, passed out into the street. the knowledge that mrs. henshaw was watching him from the door kept him silent until they had turned the corner, and then, turning fiercely on mr. henshaw, he demanded to know what he meant by it. "i've done with you," he said, waving aside the other's denials. "i've got you out of this mess, and now i've done with you. it's no good talking, because i don't want to hear it." "good-by, then," said mr. henshaw, with unexpected hauteur, as he came to a standstill. "i'll 'ave my trousers first, though," said mr. stokes, coldly, "and then you can go, and welcome." "it's my opinion she recognized me, and said all that just to try us," said the other, gloomily. mr. stokes scorned to reply, and reaching his lodging stood by in silence while the other changed his clothes. he refused mr. henshaw's hand with a gesture he had once seen on the stage, and, showing him downstairs, closed the door behind him with a bang. left to himself, the small remnants of mr. henshaw's courage disappeared. he wandered forlornly up and down the streets until past ten o'clock, and then, cold and dispirited, set off in the direction of home. at the corner of the street he pulled himself together by a great effort, and walking rapidly to his house put the key in the lock and turned it. the door was fast and the lights were out. he knocked, at first lightly, but gradually increasing in loudness. at the fourth knock a light appeared in the room above, the window was raised, and mrs. henshaw leaned out "_mr. bell!_" she said, in tones of severe surprise. "_bell?_" said her husband, in a more surprised voice still. "it's me, polly." "go away at once, sir!" said mrs. henshaw, indignantly. "how dare you call me by my christian name? i'm surprised at you!" "it's me, i tell you--george!" said her husband, desperately. "what do you mean by calling me bell?" [illustration: "he struck a match and, holding it before his face, looked up at the window."] "if you're mr. bell, as i suppose, you know well enough," said mrs. henshaw, leaning out and regarding him fixedly; "and if you're george you don't." "i'm george," said mr. henshaw, hastily. "i'm sure i don't know what to make of it," said mrs. henshaw, with a bewildered air. "ted stokes brought round a man named bell this afternoon so like you that i can't tell the difference. i don't know what to do, but i do know this--i don't let you in until i have seen you both together, so that i can tell which is which." "both together!" exclaimed the startled mr. henshaw. "here--look here!" he struck a match and, holding it before his face, looked up at the window. mrs. henshaw scrutinized him gravely. "it's no good," she said, despairingly. "i can't tell. i must see you both together." mr. henshaw ground his teeth. "but where is he?" he inquired. "he went off with ted stokes," said his wife. "if you're george you'd better go and ask him." she prepared to close the window, but mr. henshaw's voice arrested her. "and suppose he is not there?" he said. mrs. henshaw reflected. "if he is not there bring ted stokes back with you," she said at last, "and if he says you're george, i'll let you in." the window closed and the light disappeared. mr. henshaw waited for some time, but in vain, and, with a very clear idea of the reception he would meet with at the hands of mr. stokes, set off to his lodging. if anything, he had underestimated his friend's powers. mr. stokes, rudely disturbed just as he had got into bed, was the incarnation of wrath. he was violent, bitter, and insulting in a breath, but mr. henshaw was desperate, and mr. stokes, after vowing over and over again that nothing should induce him to accompany him back to his house, was at last so moved by his entreaties that he went upstairs and equipped himself for the journey. "and, mind, after this i never want to see your face again," he said, as they walked swiftly back. mr. henshaw made no reply. the events of the day had almost exhausted him, and silence was maintained until they reached the house. much to his relief he heard somebody moving about upstairs after the first knock, and in a very short time the window was gently raised and mrs. henshaw looked out. "what, you've come back?" she said, in a low, intense voice. "well, of all the impudence! how dare you carry on like this?" "it's me," said her husband. "yes, i see it is," was the reply. "it's him right enough; it's your husband," said mr. stokes. "alfred bell has gone." "how dare you stand there and tell me them falsehoods!" exclaimed mrs. henshaw. "i wonder the ground don't open and swallow you up. it's mr. bell, and if he don't go away i'll call the police." messrs. henshaw and stokes, amazed at their reception, stood blinking up at her. then they conferred in whispers. "if you can't tell 'em apart, how do you know this is mr. bell?" inquired mr. stokes, turning to the window again. "how do i know?" repeated mrs. henshaw. "how do i know? why, because my husband came home almost directly mr. bell had gone. i wonder he didn't meet him." "came home?" cried mr. henshaw, shrilly. "_came home_?" "yes; and don't make so much noise," said mrs. henshaw, tartly; "he's asleep." the two gentlemen turned and gazed at each other in stupefaction. mr. stokes was the first to recover, and, taking his dazed friend by the arm, led him gently away. at the end of the street he took a deep breath, and, after a slight pause to collect his scattered energies, summed up the situation. [illustration: "mr. stokes, taking his dazed friend by the arm, led him gently away."] "she's twigged it all along," he said, with conviction. "you'll have to come home with me tonight, and to-morrow the best thing you can do is to make a clean breast of it. it was a silly game, and, if you remember, i was against it from the first." [illustration: mixed relations] mixed relations the brig _elizabeth barstow_ came up the river as though in a hurry to taste again the joys of the metropolis. the skipper, leaning on the wheel, was in the midst of a hot discussion with the mate, who was placing before him the hygienic, economical, and moral advantages of total abstinence in language of great strength but little variety. "teetotallers eat more," said the skipper, finally. the mate choked, and his eye sought the galley. "eat more?" he spluttered. "yesterday the meat was like brick-bats; to-day it tasted like a bit o' dirty sponge. i've lived on biscuits this trip; and the only tater i ate i'm going to see a doctor about direckly i get ashore. it's a sin and a shame to spoil good food the way 'e does." "the moment i can ship another cook he goes," said the skipper. "he seems busy, judging by the noise." "i'm making him clean up everything, ready for the next," explained the mate, grimly. "and he 'ad the cheek to tell me he's improving-- improving!" "he'll go as soon as i get another," repeated the skipper, stooping and peering ahead. "i don't like being poisoned any more than you do. he told me he could cook when i shipped him; said his sister had taught him." the mate grunted and, walking away, relieved his mind by putting his head in at the galley and bidding the cook hold up each separate utensil for his inspection. a hole in the frying-pan the cook modestly attributed to elbow-grease. the river narrowed, and the brig, picking her way daintily through the traffic, sought her old berth at buller's wharf. it was occupied by a deaf sailing-barge, which, moved at last by self-interest, not unconnected with its paint, took up a less desirable position and consoled itself with adjectives. the men on the wharf had gone for the day, and the crew of the _elizabeth barstow_, after making fast, went below to prepare themselves for an evening ashore. standing before the largest saucepan- lid in the galley, the cook was putting the finishing touches to his toilet. a light, quick step on the wharf attracted the attention of the skipper as he leaned against the side smoking. it stopped just behind him, and turning round he found himself gazing into the soft brown eyes of the prettiest girl he had ever seen. "is mr. jewell on board, please?" she asked, with a smile. "jewell?" repeated the skipper. "jewell? don't know the name." "he was on board," said the girl, somewhat taken aback. "this is the _elizabeth barstow_, isn't it?" "what's his christian name?" inquired the skipper, thoughtfully. "albert," replied the girl. "bert," she added, as the other shook his head. "oh, the cook!" said the skipper. "i didn't know his name was jewell. yes, he's in the galley." he stood eyeing her and wondering in a dazed fashion what she could see in a small, white-faced, slab-sided-- the girl broke in upon his meditations. "how does he cook?" she inquired, smiling. he was about to tell her, when he suddenly remembered the cook's statement as to his instructor. "he's getting on," he said, slowly; "he's getting on. are you his sister?" the girl smiled and nodded. "ye--es," she said, slowly. "will you tell him i am waiting for him, please?" the skipper started and drew himself up; then he walked forward and put his head in at the galley. "bert," he said, in a friendly voice, "your sister wants to see you." "_who?_" inquired mr. jewell, in the accents of amazement. he put his head out at the door and nodded, and then, somewhat red in the face with the exercise, drew on his jacket and walked towards her. the skipper followed. "thank you," said the girl, with a pleasant smile. "you're quite welcome," said the skipper. mr. jewell stepped ashore and, after a moment of indecision, shook hands with his visitor. "if you're down this way again," said the skipper, as they turned away, "perhaps you'd like to see the cabin. we're in rather a pickle just now, but if you should happen to come down for bert to-morrow night--" the girl's eyes grew mirthful and her lips trembled. "thank you," she said. "some people like looking over cabins," murmured the skipper. he raised his hand to his cap and turned away. the mate, who had just come on deck, stared after the retreating couple and gave vent to a low whistle. "what a fine gal to pick up with slushy," he remarked. "it's his sister," said the skipper, somewhat sharply. "the one that taught him to cook?" said the other, hastily. "here! i'd like five minutes alone with her; i'd give 'er a piece o' my mind that 'ud do her good. i'd learn 'er. i'd tell her wot i thought of her." "that'll do," said the skipper; "that'll do. he's not so bad for a beginner; i've known worse." "not so bad?" repeated the mate. "not so bad? why"--his voice trembled-- "ain't you going to give 'im the chuck, then?" "i shall try him for another vy'ge, george," said the skipper. "it's hard lines on a youngster if he don't have a chance. i was never one to be severe. live and let live, that's my motto. do as you'd be done by." "you're turning soft-'arted in your old age," grumbled the mate. "old age!" said the other, in a startled voice. "old age! i'm not thirty-seven yet." "you're getting on," said the mate; "besides, you look old." the skipper investigated the charge in the cabin looking-glass ten minutes later. he twisted his beard in his hand and tried to imagine how he would look without it. as a compromise he went out and had it cut short and trimmed to a point. the glass smiled approval on his return; the mate smiled too, and, being caught in the act, said it made him look like his own grandson. it was late when the cook returned, but the skipper was on deck, and, stopping him for a match, entered into a little conversation. mr. jewell, surprised at first, soon became at his ease, and, the talk drifting in some unknown fashion to miss jewell, discussed her with brotherly frankness. "you spent the evening together, i s'pose?" said the skipper, carelessly. mr. jewell glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "cooking," he said, and put his hand over his mouth with some suddenness. by the time they parted the skipper had his hand in a friendly fashion on the cook's shoulder, and was displaying an interest in his welfare as unusual as it was gratifying. so unaccustomed was mr. jewell to such consideration that he was fain to pause for a moment or two to regain control of his features before plunging into the lamp-lit fo'c'sle. [illustration: "the mate smiled too."] the mate made but a poor breakfast next morning, but his superior, who saw the hand of miss jewell in the muddy coffee and the cremated bacon, ate his with relish. he was looking forward to the evening, the cook having assured him that his sister had accepted his invitation to inspect the cabin, and indeed had talked of little else. the boy was set to work house-cleaning, and, having gleaned a few particulars, cursed the sex with painstaking thoroughness. it seemed to the skipper a favorable omen that miss jewell descended the companion-ladder as though to the manner born; and her exclamations of delight at the cabin completed his satisfaction. the cook, who had followed them below with some trepidation, became reassured, and seating himself on a locker joined modestly in the conversation. "it's like a doll's-house," declared the girl, as she finished by examining the space-saving devices in the state-room. "well, i mustn't take up any more of your time." "i've got nothing to do," said the skipper, hastily. "i--i was thinking of going for a walk; but it's lonely walking about by yourself." miss jewell agreed. she lowered her eyes and looked under the lashes at the skipper. "i never had a sister," continued the latter, in melancholy accents. "i don't suppose you would want to take her out if you had," said the girl. the skipper protested. "bert takes you out," he said. "he isn't like most brothers," said miss jewell, shifting along the locker and placing her hand affectionately on the cook's shoulder. "if i had a sister," continued the skipper, in a somewhat uneven voice, "i should take her out. this evening, for instance, i should take her to a theatre." miss jewell turned upon him the innocent face of a child. "it would be nice to be your sister," she said, calmly. the skipper attempted to speak, but his voice failed him. "well, pretend you are my sister," he said, at last, "and we'll go to one." "pretend?" said miss jewell, as she turned and eyed the cook. "bert wouldn't like that," she said, decidedly. "n--no," said the cook, nervously, avoiding the skipper's eye. "it wouldn't be proper," said miss jewell, sitting upright and looking very proper indeed. "i--i meant bert to come, too," said the skipper; "of course," he added. the severity of miss jewell's expression relaxed. she stole an amused glance at the cook and, reading her instructions in his eye, began to temporize. ten minutes later the crew of the _elizabeth barstow_ in various attitudes of astonishment beheld their commander going ashore with his cook. the mate so far forgot himself as to whistle, but with great presence of mind cuffed the boy's ear as the skipper turned. for some little distance the three walked along in silence. the skipper was building castles in the air, the cook was not quite at his ease, and the girl, gazing steadily in front of her, appeared slightly embarrassed. by the time they reached aldgate and stood waiting for an omnibus miss jewell found herself assailed by doubts. she remembered that she did not want to go to a theatre, and warmly pressed the two men to go together and leave her to go home. the skipper remonstrated in vain, but the cook came to the rescue, and miss jewell, still protesting, was pushed on to a 'bus and propelled upstairs. she took a vacant seat in front, and the skipper and mr. jewell shared one behind. the three hours at the theatre passed all too soon, although the girl was so interested in the performance that she paid but slight attention to her companions. during the waits she became interested in her surroundings, and several times called the skipper's attention to smart- looking men in the stalls and boxes. at one man she stared so persistently that an opera-glass was at last levelled in return. "how rude of him," she said, smiling sweetly at the skipper. she shook her head in disapproval, but the next moment he saw her gazing steadily at the opera-glasses again. "if you don't look he'll soon get tired of it," he said, between his teeth. "yes, perhaps he will," said miss jewell, without lowering her eyes in the least. the skipper sat in torment until the lights were lowered and the curtain went up again. when it fell he began to discuss the play, but miss jewell returned such vague replies that it was evident her thoughts were far away. "i wonder who he is?" she whispered, gazing meditatingly at the box. "a waiter, i should think," snapped the skipper. the girl shook her head. "no, he is much too distinguished-looking," she said, seriously. "well, i suppose he'll know me again." the skipper felt that he wanted to get up and smash things; beginning with the man in the box. it was his first love episode for nearly ten years, and he had forgotten the pains and penalties which attach to the condition. when the performance was over he darted a threatening glance at the box, and, keeping close to miss jewell, looked carefully about him to make sure that they were not followed. "it was ripping," said the cook, as they emerged into the fresh air. "lovely," said the girl, in a voice of gentle melancholy. "i shall come and see it again, perhaps, when you are at sea." "not alone?" said the skipper, in a startled voice. "i don't mind being alone," said miss jewell, gently; "i'm used to it." the other's reply was lost in the rush for the 'bus, and for the second time that evening the skipper had to find fault with the seating arrangements. and when a vacancy by the side of miss jewell did occur, he was promptly forestalled by a young man in a check suit smoking a large cigar. they got off at aldgate, and the girl thanked him for a pleasant evening. a hesitating offer to see her home was at once negatived, and the skipper, watching her and the cook until they disappeared in the traffic, walked slowly and thoughtfully to his ship. the brig sailed the next evening at eight o'clock, and it was not until six that the cook remarked, in the most casual manner, that his sister was coming down to see him off. she arrived half an hour late, and, so far from wanting to see the cabin again, discovered an inconvenient love of fresh air. she came down at last, at the instance of the cook, and, once below, her mood changed, and she treated the skipper with a soft graciousness which raised him to the seventh heaven. "you'll be good to bert, won't you?" she inquired, with a smile at that young man. "i'll treat him like my own brother," said the skipper, fervently. "no, better than that; i'll treat him like your brother." the cook sat erect and, the skipper being occupied with miss jewell, winked solemnly at the skylight. "i know _you_ will," said the girl, very softly; "but i don't think the men--" "the men'll do as i wish," said the skipper, sternly. "i'm the master on this ship--she's half mine, too--and anybody who interferes with him interferes with me. if there's anything you don't like, bert, you tell me." mr. jewell, his small, black eyes sparkling, promised, and then, muttering something about his work, exchanged glances with the girl and went up on deck. "it is a nice cabin," said miss jewell, shifting an inch and a half nearer to the skipper. "i suppose poor bert has to have his meals in that stuffy little place at the other end of the ship, doesn't he?" "the fo'c'sle?" said the skipper, struggling between love and discipline. "yes." the girl sighed, and the mate, who was listening at the skylight above, held his breath with anxiety. miss jewell sighed again and in an absent- minded fashion increased the distance between herself and companion by six inches. "it's usual," faltered the skipper. "yes, of course," said the girl, coldly. "but if bert likes to feed here, he's welcome," said the skipper, desperately, "and he can sleep aft, too. the mate can say what he likes." the mate rose and, walking forward, raised his clenched fists to heaven and availed himself of the permission to the fullest extent of a somewhat extensive vocabulary. "do you know what i think you are?" inquired miss jewell, bending towards him with a radiant face. "no," said the other, trembling. "what?" the girl paused. "it wouldn't do to tell you," she said, in a low voice. "it might make you vain." "do you know what i think you are?" inquired the skipper in his turn. miss jewell eyed him composedly, albeit the corners of her mouth trembled. "yes," she said, unexpectedly. steps sounded above and came heavily down the companion-ladder. "tide's a'most on the turn," said the mate, gruffly, from the door. the skipper hesitated, but the mate stood aside for the girl to pass, and he followed her up on deck and assisted her to the jetty. for hours afterwards he debated with himself whether she really had allowed her hand to stay in his a second or two longer than necessary, or whether unconscious muscular action on his part was responsible for the phenomenon. he became despondent as they left london behind, but the necessity of interfering between a goggle-eyed and obtuse mate and a pallid but no less obstinate cook helped to relieve him. "he says he is going to sleep aft," choked the mate, pointing to the cook's bedding. "quite right," said the skipper. "i told him to. he's going to take his meals here, too. anything to say against it?" the mate sat down on a locker and fought for breath. the cook, still pale, felt his small, black mustache and eyed him with triumphant malice. "i told 'im they was your orders," he remarked. "and i told him i didn't believe him," said the mate. "nobody would. whoever 'eard of a cook living aft? why, they'd laugh at the idea." he laughed himself, but in a strangely mirthless fashion, and, afraid to trust himself, went up on deck and brooded savagely apart. nor did he come down to breakfast until the skipper and cook had finished. mr. jewell bore his new honors badly, and the inability to express their dissatisfaction by means of violence had a bad effect on the tempers of the crew. sarcasm they did try, but at that the cook could more than hold his own, and, although the men doubted his ability at first, he was able to prove to them by actual experiment that he could cook worse than they supposed. the brig reached her destination--creekhaven--on the fifth day, and mr. jewell found himself an honored guest at the skipper's cottage. it was a comfortable place, but, as the cook pointed out, too large for one. he also referred, incidentally, to his sister's love of a country life, and, finding himself on a subject of which the other never tired, gave full reins to a somewhat picturesque imagination. they were back at london within the fortnight, and the skipper learned to his dismay that miss jewell was absent on a visit. in these circumstances he would have clung to the cook, but that gentleman, pleading engagements, managed to elude him for two nights out of the three. on the third day miss jewell returned to london, and, making her way to the wharf, was just in time to wave farewells as the brig parted from the wharf. [illustration: "sarcasm they did try, but at that the cook could more than hold his own."] from the fact that the cook was not visible at the moment the skipper took the salutation to himself. it cheered him for the time, but the next day he was so despondent that the cook, by this time thoroughly in his confidence, offered to write when they got to creekhaven and fix up an evening. "and there's really no need for you to come, bert," said the skipper, cheering up. mr. jewell shook his head. "she wouldn't go without me," he said, gravely. "you've no idea 'ow particular she is. always was from a child." "well, we might lose you," said the skipper, reflecting. "how would that be?" "we might try it," said the cook, without enthusiasm. to his dismay the skipper, before they reached london again, had invented at least a score of ways by which he might enjoy miss jewell's company without the presence of a third person, some of them so ingenious that the cook, despite his utmost efforts, could see no way of opposing them. the skipper put his ideas into practice as soon as they reached london. between wapping and charing cross he lost the cook three times. miss jewell found him twice, and the third time she was so difficult that the skipper had to join in the treasure-hunt himself. the cook listened unmoved to a highly-colored picture of his carelessness from the lips of miss jewell, and bestowed a sympathetic glance upon the skipper as she paused for breath. "it's as bad as taking a child out," said the latter, with well-affected indignation. "worse," said the girl, tightening her lips. with a perseverance worthy of a better cause the skipper nudged the cook's arm and tried again. this time he was successful beyond his wildest dreams, and, after ten minutes' frantic search, found that he had lost them both. he wandered up and down for hours, and it was past eleven when he returned to the ship and found the cook waiting for him. "we thought something 'ad happened to you," said the cook. "kate has been in a fine way about it. five minutes after you lost me she found me, and we've been hunting 'igh and low ever since." miss jewell expressed her relief the next evening, and, stealing a glance at the face of the skipper, experienced a twinge of something which she took to be remorse. ignoring the cook's hints as to theatres, she elected to go for a long 'bus ride, and, sitting in front with the skipper, left mr. jewell to keep a chaperon's eye on them from three seats behind. conversation was for some time disjointed; then the brightness and crowded state of the streets led the skipper to sound his companion as to her avowed taste for a country life. "i should love it," said miss jewell, with a sigh. "but there's no chance of it; i've got my living to earn." "you might--might marry somebody living in the country," said the skipper, in trembling tones. miss jewell shuddered. "marry!" she said, scornfully. "most people do," said the other. "sensible people don't," said the girl. "you haven't," she added, with a smile. "i'm very thankful i haven't," retorted the skipper, with great meaning. "there you are!" said the girl, triumphantly. "i never saw anybody i liked," said the skipper, "be--before." "if ever i did marry," said miss jewell, with remarkable composure, "if ever i was foolish enough to do such a thing, i think i would marry a man a few years younger than myself." "younger?" said the dismayed skipper. miss jewell nodded. "they make the best husbands," she said, gravely. the skipper began to argue the point, and mr. jewell, at that moment taking a seat behind, joined in with some heat. a more ardent supporter could not have been found, although his repetition of the phrase "may and december" revealed a want of tact of which the skipper had not thought him capable. what had promised to be a red-letter day in his existence was spoiled, and he went to bed that night with the full conviction that he had better abandon a project so hopeless. with a fine morning his courage revived, but as voyage succeeded voyage he became more and more perplexed. the devotion of the cook was patent to all men, but miss jewell was as changeable as a weather-glass. the skipper would leave her one night convinced that he had better forget her as soon as possible, and the next her manner would be so kind, and her glances so soft, that only the presence of the ever-watchful cook prevented him from proposing on the spot. the end came one evening in october. the skipper had hurried back from the city, laden with stores, miss jewell having, after many refusals, consented to grace the tea- table that afternoon. the table, set by the boy, groaned beneath the weight of unusual luxuries, but the girl had not arrived. the cook was also missing, and the only occupant of the cabin was the mate, who, sitting at one corner, was eating with great relish. "ain't you going to get your tea?" he inquired. "no hurry," said the skipper, somewhat incensed at his haste. "it wouldn't have hurt _you_ to have waited a bit." "waited?" said the other. "what for?" "for my visitors," was the reply. the mate bit a piece off a crust and stirred his tea. "no use waiting for them," he said, with a grin. "they ain't coming." "what do you mean?" demanded the skipper. "i mean," said the mate, continuing to stir his tea with great enjoyment--"i mean that all that kind'artedness of yours was clean chucked away on that cook. he's got a berth ashore and he's gone for good. he left you 'is love; he left it with bill hemp." "berth ashore?" said the skipper, staring. "ah!" said the mate, taking a large and noisy sip from his cup. "he's been fooling you all along for what he could get out of you. sleeping aft and feeding aft, nobody to speak a word to 'im, and going out and being treated by the skipper; bill said he laughed so much when he was telling 'im that the tears was running down 'is face like rain. he said he'd never been treated so much in his life." "that'll do," said the skipper, quickly. "you ought to hear bill tell it," said the mate, regretfully. "i can't do it anything like as well as what he can. made us all roar, he did. what amused 'em most was you thinking that that gal was cookie's sister." the skipper, with a sharp exclamation, leaned forward, staring at him. "they're going to be married at christmas," said the mate, choking in his cup. the skipper sat upright again, and tried manfully to compose his features. many things he had not understood before were suddenly made clear, and he remembered now the odd way in which the girl had regarded him as she bade him good-night on the previous evening. the mate eyed him with interest, and was about to supply him with further details when his attention was attracted by footsteps descending the companion- ladder. then he put down his cup with great care, and stared in stolid amazement at the figure of miss jewell in the doorway. "i'm a bit late," she said, flushing slightly. she crossed over and shook hands with the skipper, and, in the most natural fashion in the world, took a seat and began to remove her gloves. the mate swung round and regarded her open-mouthed; the skipper, whose ideas were in a whirl, sat regarding her in silence. the mate was the first to move; he left the cabin rubbing his shin, and casting furious glances at the skipper. "you didn't expect to see me?" said the girl, reddening again. "no," was the reply. the girl looked at the tablecloth. "i came to beg your pardon," she said, in a low voice. "there's nothing to beg my pardon for," said the skipper, clearing his throat. "by rights i ought to beg yours. you did quite right to make fun of me. i can see it now." "when you asked me whether i was bert's sister i didn't like to say 'no,' continued the girl; "and at first i let you come out with me for the fun of the thing, and then bert said it would be good for him, and then--then--" "yes," said the skipper, after a long pause. the girl broke a biscuit into small pieces, and arranged them on the cloth. "then i didn't mind your coming so much," she said, in a low voice. the skipper caught his breath and tried to gaze at the averted face. the girl swept the crumbs aside and met his gaze squarely. "not quite so much," she explained. "i've been a fool," said the skipper. "i've been a fool. i've made myself a laughing-stock all round, but if i could have it all over again i would." "that can never be," said the girl, shaking her head. "bert wouldn't come." [illustration: "'good-by,' he said, slowly; 'and i wish you both every happiness.'"] "no, of course not," asserted the other. the girl bit her lip. the skipper thought that he had never seen her eyes so large and shining. there was a long silence. "good-by," said the girl at last, rising. the skipper rose to follow. "good-by," he said, slowly; "and i wish you both every happiness." "happiness?" echoed the girl, in a surprised voice. "why?" "when you are married." "i am not going to be married," said the girl. "i told bert so this afternoon. good-by." the skipper actually let her get nearly to the top of the ladder before he regained his presence of mind. then, in obedience to a powerful tug at the hem of her skirt, she came down again, and accompanied him meekly back to the cabin. [illustration: his lordship] his lordship farmer rose sat in his porch smoking an evening pipe. by his side, in a comfortable windsor chair, sat his friend the miller, also smoking, and gazing with half-closed eyes at the landscape as he listened for the thousandth time to his host's complaints about his daughter. "the long and the short of it is, cray," said the farmer, with an air of mournful pride, "she's far too good-looking." mr. cray grunted. "truth is truth, though she's my daughter," continued mr. rose, vaguely. "she's too good-looking. sometimes when i've taken her up to market i've seen the folks fair turn their backs on the cattle and stare at her instead." mr. cray sniffed; louder, perhaps, than he had intended. "beautiful that rose-bush smells," he remarked, as his friend turned and eyed him. "what is the consequence?" demanded the farmer, relaxing his gaze. "she looks in the glass and sees herself, and then she gets miserable and uppish because there ain't nobody in these parts good enough for her to marry." "it's a extraordinary thing to me where she gets them good looks from," said the miller, deliberately. "ah!" said mr. rose, and sat trying to think of a means of enlightening his friend without undue loss of modesty. "she ain't a bit like her poor mother," mused mr. cray. "no, she don't get her looks from her," assented the other. "it's one o' them things you can't account for," said mr. cray, who was very tired of the subject; "it's just like seeing a beautiful flower blooming on an old cabbage-stump." the farmer knocked his pipe out noisily and began to refill it. "people have said that she takes after me a trifle," he remarked, shortly. "you weren't fool enough to believe that, i know," said the miller. "why, she's no more like you than you're like a warming-pan--not so much." mr. rose regarded his friend fixedly. "you ain't got a very nice way o' putting things, cray," he said, mournfully. "i'm no flatterer," said the miller; "never was. and you can't please everybody. if i said your daughter took after you i don't s'pose she'd ever speak to me again." "the worst of it is," said the farmer, disregarding his remark, "she won't settle down. there's young walter lomas after her now, and she won't look at him. he's a decent young fellow is walter, and she's been and named one o' the pigs after him, and the way she mixes them up together is disgraceful." "if she was my girl she should marry young walter," said the miller, firmly. "what's wrong with him?" "she looks higher," replied the other, mysteriously; "she's always reading them romantic books full o' love tales, and she's never tired o' talking of a girl her mother used to know that went on the stage and married a baronet. she goes and sits in the best parlor every afternoon now, and calls it the drawing-room. she'll sit there till she's past the marrying age, and then she'll turn round and blame me." "she wants a lesson," said mr. cray, firmly. "she wants to be taught her position in life, not to go about turning up her nose at young men and naming pigs after them." mr. rose sighed. "what she wants to understand is that the upper classes wouldn't look at her," pursued the miller. "it would be easier to make her understand that if they didn't," said the farmer. "i mean," said mr. cray, sternly, "with a view to marriage. what you ought to do is to get somebody staying down here with you pretending to be a lord or a nobleman, and ordering her about and not noticing her good looks at all. then, while she's upset about that, in comes walter lomas to comfort her and be a contrast to the other." mr. rose withdrew his pipe and regarded him open-mouthed. "yes; but how--" he began. "and it seems to me," interrupted mr. cray, "that i know just the young fellow to do it--nephew of my wife's. he was coming to stay a fortnight with us, but you can have him with pleasure--me and him don't get on over and above well." "perhaps he wouldn't do it," objected the farmer. "he'd do it like a shot," said mr. cray, positively. "it would be fun for us and it 'ud be a lesson for her. if you like, i'll tell him to write to you for lodgings, as he wants to come for a fortnight's fresh air after the fatiguing gayeties of town." "fatiguing gayeties of town," repeated the admiring farmer. "fatiguing--" he sat back in his chair and laughed, and mr. cray, delighted at the prospect of getting rid so easily of a tiresome guest, laughed too. overhead at the open window a third person laughed, but in so quiet and well-bred a fashion that neither of them heard her. the farmer received a letter a day or two afterwards, and negotiations between jane rose on the one side and lord fairmount on the other were soon in progress; the farmer's own composition being deemed somewhat crude for such a correspondence. "i wish he didn't want it kept so secret," said miss rose, pondering over the final letter. "i should like to let the grays and one or two more people know he is staying with us. however, i suppose he must have his own way." "you must do as he wishes," said her father, using his handkerchief violently. jane sighed. "he'll be a little company for me, at any rate," she remarked. "what is the matter, father?" "bit of a cold," said the farmer, indistinctly, as he made for the door, still holding his handkerchief to his face. "been coming on some time." he put on his hat and went out, and miss rose, watching him from the window, was not without fears that the joke might prove too much for a man of his habit. she regarded him thoughtfully, and when he returned at one o'clock to dinner, and encountered instead a violent dust-storm which was raging in the house, she noted with pleasure that his sense of humor was more under control. "dinner?" she said, as he strove to squeeze past the furniture which was piled in the hall. "we've got no time to think of dinner, and if we had there's no place for you to eat it. you'd better go in the larder and cut yourself a crust of bread and cheese." her father hesitated and glared at the servant, who, with her head bound up in a duster, passed at the double with a broom. then he walked slowly into the kitchen. miss rose called out something after him. "eh?" said her father, coming back hopefully. "how is your cold, dear?" the farmer made no reply, and his daughter smiled contentedly as she heard him stamping about in the larder. he made but a poor meal, and then, refusing point-blank to assist annie in moving the piano, went and smoked a very reflective pipe in the garden. [illustration: "'she's got your eyes,' said his lordship."] lord fairmount arrived the following day on foot from the station, and after acknowledging the farmer's salute with a distant nod requested him to send a cart for his luggage. he was a tall, good-looking young man, and as he stood in the hall languidly twisting his mustache miss rose deliberately decided upon his destruction. "these your daughters?" he inquired, carelessly, as he followed his host into the parlor. "one of 'em is, my lord; the other is my servant," replied the farmer. "she's got your eyes," said his lordship, tapping the astonished annie under the chin; "your nose too, i think." "that's my servant," said the farmer, knitting his brows at him. "oh, indeed!" said his lordship, airily. he turned round and regarded jane, but, although she tried to meet him half-way by elevating her chin a little, his audacity failed him and the words died away on his tongue. a long silence followed, broken only by the ill-suppressed giggles of annie, who had retired to the kitchen. "i trust that we shall make your lordship comfortable," said miss rose. "i hope so, my good girl," was the reply. "and now will you show me my room?" miss rose led the way upstairs and threw open the door; lord fairmount, pausing on the threshold, gazed at it disparagingly. "is this the best room you have?" he inquired, stiffly. "oh, no," said miss rose, smiling; "father's room is much better than this. look here." she threw open another door and, ignoring a gesticulating figure which stood in the hall below, regarded him anxiously. "if you would prefer father's room he would be delighted for you to have it. delighted." "yes, i will have this one," said lord fairmount, entering. "bring me up some hot water, please, and clear these boots and leggings out." miss rose tripped downstairs and, bestowing a witching smile upon her sire, waved away his request for an explanation and hastened into the kitchen, whence annie shortly afterwards emerged with the water. it was with something of a shock that the farmer discovered that he had to wait for his dinner while his lordship had luncheon. that meal, under his daughter's management, took a long time, and the joint when it reached him was more than half cold. it was, moreover, quite clear that the aristocracy had not even mastered the rudiments of carving, but preferred instead to box the compass for tit-bits. he ate his meal in silence, and when it was over sought out his guest to administer a few much-needed stage-directions. owing, however, to the ubiquity of jane he wasted nearly the whole of the afternoon before he obtained an opportunity. even then the interview was short, the farmer having to compress into ten seconds instructions for lord fairmount to express a desire to take his meals with the family, and his dinner at the respectable hour of p.m. instructions as to a change of bedroom were frustrated by the reappearance of jane. his lordship went for a walk after that, and coming back with a bored air stood on the hearthrug in the living-room and watched miss rose sewing. "very dull place," he said at last, in a dissatisfied voice. "yes, my lord," said miss rose, demurely. "fearfully dull," complained his lordship, stifling a yawn. "what i'm to do to amuse myself for a fortnight i'm sure i don't know." miss rose raised her fine eyes and regarded him intently. many a lesser man would have looked no farther for amusement. "i'm afraid there is not much to do about here, my lord," she said quietly. "we are very plain folk in these parts." "yes," assented the other. an obvious compliment rose of itself to his lips, but he restrained himself, though with difficulty. miss rose bent her head over her work and stitched industriously. his lordship took up a book and, remembering his mission, read for a couple of hours without taking the slightest notice of her. miss rose glanced over in his direction once or twice, and then, with a somewhat vixenish expression on her delicate features, resumed her sewing. "wonderful eyes she's got," said the gentleman, as he sat on the edge of his bed that night and thought over the events of the day. "it's pretty to see them flash." he saw them flash several times during the next few days, and mr. rose himself, was more than satisfied with the hauteur with which his guest treated the household. "but i don't like the way you have with me," he complained. "it's all in the part," urged his lordship. "well, you can leave that part out," rejoined mr. rose, with some acerbity. "i object to being spoke to as you speak to me before that girl annie. be as proud and unpleasant as you like to my daughter, but leave me alone. mind that!" his lordship promised, and in pursuance of his host's instructions strove manfully to subdue feelings towards miss rose by no means in accordance with them. the best of us are liable to absent-mindedness, and he sometimes so far forgot himself as to address her in tones as humble as any in her somewhat large experience. "i hope that we are making you comfortable here, my lord?" she said, as they sat together one afternoon. "i have never been more comfortable in my life," was the gracious reply. miss rose shook her head. "oh, my lord," she said, in protest, "think of your mansion." his lordship thought of it. for two or three days he had been thinking of houses and furniture and other things of that nature. "i have never seen an old country seat," continued miss rose, clasping her hands and gazing at him wistfully. "i should be so grateful if your lordship would describe yours to me." his lordship shifted uneasily, and then, in face of the girl's persistence, stood for some time divided between the contending claims of hampton court palace and the tower of london. he finally decided upon the former, after first refurnishing it at maple's. "how happy you must be!" said the breathless jane, when he had finished. he shook his head gravely. "my possessions have never given me any happiness," he remarked. "i would much rather be in a humble rank of life. live where i like, and--and marry whom i like." there was no mistaking the meaning fall in his voice. miss rose sighed gently and lowered her eyes--her lashes had often excited comment. then, in a soft voice, she asked him the sort of life he would prefer. in reply, his lordship, with an eloquence which surprised himself, portrayed the joys of life in a seven-roomed house in town, with a greenhouse six feet by three, and a garden large enough to contain it. he really spoke well, and when he had finished his listener gazed at him with eyes suffused with timid admiration. "oh, my lord," she said, prettily, "now i know what you've been doing. you've been slumming." "slumming?" gasped his lordship. "you couldn't have described a place like that unless you had been," said miss rose nodding. "i hope you took the poor people some nice hot soup." his lordship tried to explain, but without success. miss rose persisted in regarding him as a missionary of food and warmth, and spoke feelingly of the people who had to live in such places. she also warned him against the risk of infection. "you don't understand," he repeated, impatiently. "these are nice houses--nice enough for anybody to live in. if you took soup to people like that, why, they'd throw it at you." "wretches!" murmured the indignant jane, who was enjoying herself amazingly. his lordship eyed her with sudden suspicion, but her face was quite grave and bore traces of strong feeling. he explained again, but without avail. "you never ought to go near such places, my lord," she concluded, solemnly, as she rose to quit the room. "even a girl of my station would draw the line at that." she bowed deeply and withdrew. his lordship sank into a chair and, thrusting his hands into his pockets, gazed gloomily at the dried grasses in the grate. during the next day or two his appetite failed, and other well-known symptoms set in. miss rose, diagnosing them all, prescribed by stealth some bitter remedies. the farmer regarded his change of manner with disapproval, and, concluding that it was due to his own complaints, sought to reassure him. he also pointed out that his daughter's opinion of the aristocracy was hardly likely to increase if the only member she knew went about the house as though he had just lost his grandmother. "you are longing for the gayeties of town, my lord," he remarked one morning at breakfast. his lordship shook his head. the gayeties comprised, amongst other things, a stool and a desk. "i don't like town," he said, with a glance at jane. "if i had my choice i would live here always. i would sooner live here in this charming spot with this charming society than anywhere." mr. rose coughed and, having caught his eye, shook his head at him and glanced significantly over at the unconscious jane. the young man ignored his action and, having got an opening, gave utterance in the course of the next ten minutes to radical heresies of so violent a type that the farmer could hardly keep his seat. social distinctions were condemned utterly, and the house of lords referred to as a human dust- bin. the farmer gazed open-mouthed at this snake he had nourished. "your lordship will alter your mind when you get to town," said jane, demurely. "never!" declared the other, impressively. the girl sighed, and gazing first with much interest at her parent, who seemed to be doing his best to ward off a fit, turned her lustrous eyes upon the guest. "we shall all miss you," she said, softly. "you've been a lesson to all of us." "lesson?" he repeated, flushing. "it has improved our behavior so, having a lord in the house," said miss rose, with painful humility. "i'm sure father hasn't been like the same man since you've been here." "what d'ye mean miss?" demanded the farmer, hotly. "don't speak like that before his lordship, father," said his daughter, hastily. "i'm not blaming you; you're no worse than the other men about here. you haven't had an opportunity of learning before, that's all. it isn't your fault." "learning?" bellowed the farmer, turning an inflamed visage upon his apprehensive guest. "have you noticed anything wrong about my behavior?" "certainly not," said his lordship, hastily. "all i know is," continued miss rose, positively, "i wish you were going to stay here another six months for father's sake." "look here--" began mr. rose, smiting the table. "and annie's," said jane, raising her voice above the din. "i don't know which has improved the most. i'm sure the way they both drink their tea now--" mr. rose pushed his chair back loudly and got up from the table. for a moment he stood struggling for words, then he turned suddenly with a growl and quitted the room, banging the door after him in a fashion which clearly indicated that he still had some lessons to learn. "you've made your father angry," said his lordship. "it's for his own good," said miss rose. "are you really sorry to leave us?" "sorry?" repeated the other. "sorry is no word for it." "you will miss father," said the girl. he sighed gently. "and annie," she continued. he sighed again, and jane took a slight glance at him cornerwise. "and me too, i hope," she said, in a low voice. "_miss_ you!" repeated his lordship, in a suffocating voice. "i should miss the sun less." "i am so glad," said jane, clasping her hands; "it is so nice to feel that one is not quite forgotten. of course, i can never forget you. you are the only nobleman i have ever met." "i hope that it is not only because of that," he said, forlornly. miss rose pondered. when she pondered her eyes increased in size and revealed unsuspected depths. "no-o," she said at length, in a hesitating voice. "suppose that i were not what i am represented to be," he said slowly. "suppose that, instead of being lord fairmount, i were merely a clerk." "a clerk?" repeated miss rose, with a very well-managed shudder. "how can i suppose such an absurd thing as that?" "but if i were?" urged his lordship, feverishly. "it's no use supposing such a thing as that," said miss rose, briskly; "your high birth is stamped on you." his lordship shook his head. "i would sooner be a laborer on this farm than a king anywhere else," he said, with feeling. miss rose drew a pattern on the floor with the toe of her shoe. "the poorest laborer on the farm can have the pleasure of looking at you every day," continued his lordship passionately. "every day of his life he can see you, and feel a better man for it." miss rose looked at him sharply. only the day before the poorest laborer had seen her--when he wasn't expecting the honor--and received an epitome of his character which had nearly stunned him. but his lordship's face was quite grave. "i go to-morrow," he said. "yes," said jane, in a hushed voice. he crossed the room gently and took a seat by her side. miss rose, still gazing at the floor, wondered indignantly why it was she was not blushing. his lordship's conversation had come to a sudden stop and the silence was most awkward. "i've been a fool, miss rose," he said at last, rising and standing over her; "and i've been taking a great liberty. i've been deceiving you for nearly a fortnight." "nonsense!" responded miss rose, briskly. "i have been deceiving you," he repeated. "i have made you believe that i am a person of title." "nonsense!" said miss rose again. the other started and eyed her uneasily. "nobody would mistake you for a lord," said miss rose, cruelly. "why, i shouldn't think that you had ever seen one. you didn't do it at all properly. why, your uncle cray would have done it better." mr. cray's nephew fell back in consternation and eyed her dumbly as she laughed. all mirth is not contagious, and he was easily able to refrain from joining in this. "i can't understand," said miss rose, as she wiped a tear-dimmed eye--"i can't understand how you could have thought i should be so stupid." "i've been a fool," said the other, bitterly, as he retreated to the door. "good-by." "good-by," said jane. she looked him full in the face, and the blushes for which she had been waiting came in force. "you needn't go, unless you want to," she said, softly. "i like fools better than lords." [illustration: "'i like fools better than lords.'"] [illustration: alf's dream] alf's dream "i've just been drinking a man's health," said the night watchman, coming slowly on to the wharf and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand; "he's come in for a matter of three 'undred and twenty pounds, and he stood me arf a pint--arf a pint!" he dragged a small empty towards him, and after planing the surface with his hand sat down and gazed scornfully across the river. "four ale," he said, with a hard laugh; "and when i asked 'im--just for the look of the thing, and to give 'im a hint--whether he'd 'ave another, he said 'yes.'" the night watchman rose and paced restlessly up and down the jetty. "money," he said, at last, resuming his wonted calm and lowering himself carefully to the box again--"money always gets left to the wrong people; some of the kindest-'arted men i've ever known 'ave never had a ha'penny left 'em, while teetotaler arter teetotaler wot i've heard of 'ave come in for fortins." it's 'ard lines though, sometimes, waiting for other people's money. i knew o' one chap that waited over forty years for 'is grandmother to die and leave 'im her money; and she died of catching cold at 'is funeral. another chap i knew, arter waiting years and years for 'is rich aunt to die, was hung because she committed suicide. it's always risky work waiting for other people to die and leave you money. sometimes they don't die; sometimes they marry agin; and sometimes they leave it to other people instead. talking of marrying agin reminds me o' something that 'appened to a young fellow i knew named alf simms. being an orphan 'e was brought up by his uncle, george hatchard, a widowed man of about sixty. alf used to go to sea off and on, but more off than on, his uncle 'aving quite a tidy bit of 'ouse property, and it being understood that alf was to have it arter he 'ad gone. his uncle used to like to 'ave him at 'ome, and alf didn't like work, so it suited both parties. i used to give alf a bit of advice sometimes, sixty being a dangerous age for a man, especially when he 'as been a widower for so long he 'as had time to forget wot being married's like; but i must do alf the credit to say it wasn't wanted. he 'ad got a very old 'ead on his shoulders, and always picked the housekeeper 'imself to save the old man the trouble. i saw two of 'em, and i dare say i could 'ave seen more, only i didn't want to. cleverness is a good thing in its way, but there's such a thing as being too clever, and the last 'ousekeeper young alf picked died of old age a week arter he 'ad gone to sea. she passed away while she was drawing george hatchard's supper beer, and he lost ten gallons o' the best bitter ale and his 'ousekeeper at the same time. it was four months arter that afore alf came 'ome, and the fust sight of the new 'ousekeeper, wot opened the door to 'im, upset 'im terrible. she was the right side o' sixty to begin with, and only ordinary plain. then she was as clean as a new pin, and dressed up as though she was going out to tea. "oh, you're alfred, i s'pose?" she ses, looking at 'im. "mr. simms is my name," ses young alf, starting and drawing hisself up. "i know you by your portrait," ses the 'ousekeeper. "come in. 'ave you 'ad a pleasant v'y'ge? wipe your boots." alfred wiped 'is boots afore he thought of wot he was doing. then he drew hisself up stiff agin and marched into the parlor. "sit down," ses the 'ousekeeper, in a kind voice. alfred sat down afore he thought wot 'e was doing agin. "i always like to see people comfortable," ses the 'ousekeeper; "it's my way. it's warm weather for the time o' year, ain't it? george is upstairs, but he'll be down in a minute." "_who?_" ses alf, hardly able to believe his ears. "george," ses the 'ousekeeper. "george? george who?" ses alfred, very severe. "why your uncle, of course," ses the 'ousekeeper. "do you think i've got a houseful of georges?" young alf sat staring at her and couldn't say a word. he noticed that the room 'ad been altered, and that there was a big photygraph of her stuck up on the mantelpiece. he sat there fidgeting with 'is feet--until the 'ousekeeper looked at them--and then 'e got up and walked upstairs. his uncle, wot was sitting on his bed when 'e went into the room and pretended that he 'adn't heard 'im come in, shook hands with 'im as though he'd never leave off. "i've got something to tell you, alf," he ses, arter they 'ad said "how d'ye do?" and he 'ad talked about the weather until alf was fair tired of it. "i've been and gone and done a foolish thing, and 'ow you'll take it i don't know." "been and asked the new 'ousekeeper to marry you, i s'pose?" ses alf, looking at 'im very hard. his uncle shook his 'ead. "i never asked 'er; i'd take my davy i didn't," he ses. "well, you ain't going to marry her, then?" ses alf, brightening up. his uncle shook his 'ead agin. "she didn't want no asking," he ses, speaking very slow and mournful. "i just 'appened to put my arm round her waist by accident one day and the thing was done." "accident? how could you do it by accident?" ses alf, firing up. "how can i tell you that?" ses george hatchard. "if i'd known 'ow, it wouldn't 'ave been an accident, would it?" "don't you want to marry her?" ses alf, at last. "you needn't marry 'er if you don't want to." george hatchard looked at 'im and sniffed. "when you know her as well as i do you won't talk so foolish," he ses. "we'd better go down now, else she'll think we've been talking about 'er." they went downstairs and 'ad tea together, and young alf soon see the truth of his uncle's remarks. mrs. pearce--that was the 'ousekeeper's name--called his uncle "dear" every time she spoke to 'im, and arter tea she sat on the sofa side by side with 'im and held his 'and. alf lay awake arf that night thinking things over and 'ow to get mrs. pearce out of the house, and he woke up next morning with it still on 'is mind. every time he got 'is uncle alone he spoke to 'im about it, and told 'im to pack mrs. pearce off with a month's wages, but george hatchard wouldn't listen to 'im. "she'd 'ave me up for breach of promise and ruin me," he ses. "she reads the paper to me every sunday arternoon, mostly breach of promise cases, and she'd 'ave me up for it as soon as look at me. she's got 'eaps and 'eaps of love-letters o' mine." "love-letters!" ses alf, staring. "love-letters when you live in the same house!" "she started it," ses his uncle; "she pushed one under my door one morning, and i 'ad to answer it. she wouldn't come down and get my breakfast till i did. i have to send her one every morning." "do you sign 'em with your own name?" ses alf, arter thinking a bit. "no," ses 'is uncle, turning red. "wot do you sign 'em, then?" ses alf. "never you mind," ses his uncle, turning redder. "it's my handwriting, and that's good enough for her. i did try writing backwards, but i only did it once. i wouldn't do it agin for fifty pounds. you ought to ha' heard 'er." "if 'er fust husband was alive she couldn't marry you," ses alf, very slow and thoughtful. "no," ses his uncle, nasty-like; "and if i was an old woman she couldn't marry me. you know as well as i do that he went down with the _evening star_ fifteen years ago." "so far as she knows," ses alf; "but there was four of them saved, so why not five? mightn't 'e have floated away on a spar or something and been picked up? can't you dream it three nights running, and tell 'er that you feel certain sure he's alive?" "if i dreamt it fifty times it wouldn't make any difference," ses george hatchard. "here! wot are you up to? 'ave you gone mad, or wot? you poke me in the ribs like that agin if you dare." "her fust 'usband's alive," ses alf, smiling at 'im. "_wot?_" ses his uncle. "he floated away on a bit o' wreckage," ses alf, nodding at 'im, "just like they do in books, and was picked up more dead than alive and took to melbourne. he's now living up-country working on a sheep station." "who's dreaming now?" ses his uncle. "it's a fact," ses alf. "i know a chap wot's met 'im and talked to 'im. she can't marry you while he's alive, can she?" "certainly _not_," ses george hatchard, trembling all over; "but are you sure you 'aven't made a mistake?" "certain sure," ses alf. "it's too good to be true," ses george hatchard. "o' course it is," ses alf, "but she won't know that. look 'ere; you write down all the things that she 'as told you about herself and give it to me, and i'll soon find the chap i spoke of wot's met 'im. he'd meet a dozen men if it was made worth his while." george hatchard couldn't understand 'im at fust, and when he did he wouldn't 'ave a hand in it because it wasn't the right thing to do, and because he felt sure that mrs. pearce would find it out. but at last 'e wrote out all about her for alf; her maiden name, and where she was born, and everything; and then he told alf that, if 'e dared to play such a trick on an unsuspecting, loving woman, he'd never forgive 'im. "i shall want a couple o' quid," ses alf. "certainly not," ses his uncle. "i won't 'ave nothing to do with it, i tell you." "only to buy chocolates with," ses alf. "oh, all right," ses george hatchard; and he went upstairs to 'is bedroom and came down with three pounds and gave 'im. "if that ain't enough," he ses, "let me know, and you can 'ave more." alf winked at 'im, but the old man drew hisself up and stared at 'im, and then 'e turned and walked away with his 'ead in the air. he 'ardly got a chance of speaking to alf next day, mrs. pearce being 'ere, there, and everywhere, as the saying is, and finding so many little odd jobs for alf to do that there was no time for talking. but the day arter he sidled up to 'im when the 'ouse-keeper was out of the room and asked 'im whether he 'ad bought the chocolates. "yes," ses alfred, taking one out of 'is pocket and eating it, "some of 'em." george hatchard coughed and fidgeted about. "when are you going to buy the others?" he ses. "as i want 'em," ses alf. "they'd spoil if i got 'em all at once." george hatchard coughed agin. "i 'ope you haven't been going on with that wicked plan you spoke to me about the other night," he ses. "certainly not," ses alf, winking to 'imself; "not arter wot you said. how could i?" "that's right," ses the old man. "i'm sorry for this marriage for your sake, alf. o' course, i was going to leave you my little bit of 'ouse property, but i suppose now it'll 'ave to be left to her. well, well, i s'pose it's best for a young man to make his own way in the world." "i s'pose so," ses alf. "mrs. pearce was asking only yesterday when you was going back to sea agin," ses his uncle, looking at 'im. "oh!" ses alf. "she's took a dislike to you, i think," ses the old man. "it's very 'ard, my fav'rite nephew, and the only one i've got. i forgot to tell you the other day that her fust 'usband, charlie pearce, 'ad a kind of a wart on 'is left ear. she's often spoke to me about it." "in--deed!" ses alf. "yes," ses his uncle, "_left_ ear, and a scar on his forehead where a friend of his kicked 'im one day." alf nodded, and then he winked at 'im agin. george hatchard didn't wink back, but he patted 'im on the shoulder and said 'ow well he was filling out, and 'ow he got more like 'is pore mother every day he lived. [illustration: "he patted 'im on the shoulder and said 'ow well he was filling out."] "i 'ad a dream last night," ses alf. "i dreamt that a man i know named bill flurry, but wot called 'imself another name in my dream, and didn't know me then, came 'ere one evening when we was all sitting down at supper, joe morgan and 'is missis being here, and said as 'ow mrs. pearce's fust husband was alive and well." "that's a very odd dream," ses his uncle; "but wot was joe morgan and his missis in it for?" "witnesses," ses alf. george hatchard fell over a footstool with surprise. "go on," he ses, rubbing his leg. "it's a queer thing, but i was going to ask the morgans 'ere to spend the evening next wednesday." "or was it tuesday?" ses alf, considering. "i said tuesday," ses his uncle, looking over alf's 'ead so that he needn't see 'im wink agin. "wot was the end of your dream, alf?" "the end of it was," ses alf, "that you and mrs. pearce was both very much upset, as o' course you couldn't marry while 'er fust was alive, and the last thing i see afore i woke up was her boxes standing at the front door waiting for a cab." george hatchard was going to ask 'im more about it, but just then mrs. pearce came in with a pair of alf's socks that he 'ad been untidy enough to leave in the middle of the floor instead of chucking 'em under the bed. she was so unpleasant about it that, if it hadn't ha' been for the thought of wot was going to 'appen on tuesday, alf couldn't ha' stood it. for the next day or two george hatchard was in such a state of nervousness and excitement that alf was afraid that the 'ousekeeper would notice it. on tuesday morning he was trembling so much that she said he'd got a chill, and she told 'im to go to bed and she'd make 'im a nice hot mustard poultice. george was afraid to say "no," but while she was in the kitchen making the poultice he slipped out for a walk and cured 'is trembling with three whiskies. alf nearly got the poultice instead, she was so angry. she was unpleasant all dinner-time, but she got better in the arternoon, and when the morgans came in the evening, and she found that mrs. morgan 'ad got a nasty sort o' red swelling on her nose, she got quite good- tempered. she talked about it nearly all supper-time, telling 'er what she ought to do to it, and about a friend of hers that 'ad one and 'ad to turn teetotaler on account of it. "my nose is good enough for me," ses mrs. morgan, at last. "it don't affect 'er appetite," ses george hatchard, trying to make things pleasant, "and that's the main thing." mrs. morgan got up to go, but arter george hatchard 'ad explained wot he didn't mean she sat down agin and began to talk to mrs. pearce about 'er dress and 'ow beautifully it was made. and she asked mrs. pearce to give 'er the pattern of it, because she should 'ave one like it herself when she was old enough. "i do like to see people dressed suitable," she ses, with a smile. "i think you ought to 'ave a much deeper color than this," ses mrs. pearce, considering. "not when i'm faded," ses mrs. morgan. mrs. pearce, wot was filling 'er glass at the time, spilt a lot of beer all over the tablecloth, and she was so cross about it that she sat like a stone statue for pretty near ten minutes. by the time supper was finished people was passing things to each other in whispers, and when a bit o' cheese went the wrong way with joe morgan he nearly suffocated 'imself for fear of making a noise. they 'ad a game o' cards arter supper, counting twenty nuts as a penny, and everybody got more cheerful. they was all laughing and talking, and joe morgan was pretending to steal mrs. pearce's nuts, when george hatchard held up his 'and. "somebody at the street door, i think," he ses. young alf got up to open it, and they 'eard a man's voice in the passage asking whether mrs. pearce lived there, and the next moment alf came into the room, followed by bill flurry. "here's a gentleman o' the name o' smith asking arter you," he ses, looking at mrs. pearce. "wot d'you want?" ses mrs. pearce rather sharp. "it is 'er," ses bill, stroking his long white beard and casting 'is eyes up at the ceiling. "you don't remember me, mrs. pearce, but i used to see you years ago, when you and poor charlie pearce was living down poplar way." "well, wot about it?" ses mrs. pearce. "i'm coming to it," ses bill flurry. "i've been two months trying to find you, so there's no need to be in a hurry for a minute or two. besides, what i've got to say ought to be broke gently, in case you faint away with joy." "rubbish!" ses mrs. pearce. "i ain't the fainting sort." "i 'ope it's nothing unpleasant," ses george hatchard, pouring 'im out a glass of whisky. "quite the opposite," ses bill. "it's the best news she's 'eard for fifteen years." "are you going to tell me wot you want, or ain't you?" ses mrs. pearce. "i'm coming to it," ses bill. "six months ago i was in melbourne, and one day i was strolling about looking in at the shop-winders, when all at once i thought i see a face i knew. it was a good bit older than when i see it last, and the whiskers was gray, but i says to myself--" "i can see wot's coming," ses mrs. morgan, turning red with excitement and pinching joe's arm. "i ses to myself," ses bill flurry, "either that's a ghost, i ses or else it's charlie--" "go on," ses george hatchard, as was sitting with 'is fists clinched on the table and 'is eyes wide open, staring at 'im. "pearce," ses bill flurry. you might 'ave heard a pin drop. they all sat staring at 'im, and then george hatchard took out 'is handkerchief and 'eld it up to 'is face. "but he was drownded in the _evening star_," ses joe morgan. bill flurry didn't answer 'im. he poured out pretty near a tumbler of whisky and offered it to mrs. pearce, but she pushed it away, and, arter looking round in a 'elpless sort of way and shaking his 'ead once or twice, he finished it up 'imself. "it couldn't 'ave been 'im," ses george hatchard, speaking through 'is handkerchief. "i can't believe it. it's too cruel." "i tell you it was 'im," ses bill. "he floated off on a spar when the ship went down, and was picked up two days arterwards by a bark and taken to new zealand. he told me all about it, and he told me if ever i saw 'is wife to give her 'is kind regards." "_kind regards_!" ses joe morgan, starting up. "why didn't he let 'is wife know 'e was alive?" "that's wot i said to 'im," ses bill flurry; "but he said he 'ad 'is reasons." "ah, to be sure," ses mrs. morgan, nodding. "why, you and her can't be married now," she ses, turning to george hatchard. "married?" ses bill flurry with a start, as george hatchard gave a groan that surprised 'imself. "good gracious! what a good job i found 'er!" "i s'pose you don't know where he is to be found now?" ses mrs. pearce, in a low voice, turning to bill. "i do not, ma'am," ses bill, "but i think you'd find 'im somewhere in australia. he keeps changing 'is name and shifting about, but i dare say you'd 'ave as good a chance of finding 'im as anybody." "it's a terrible blow to me," ses george hatchard, dabbing his eyes. "i know it is," ses mrs. pearce; "but there, you men are all alike. i dare say if this hadn't turned up you'd ha' found something else." "oh, 'ow can you talk like that?" ses george hatchard, very reproachful. "it's the only thing in the world that could 'ave prevented our getting married. i'm surprised at you." "well, that's all right, then," ses mrs. pearce, "and we'll get married after all." "but you can't," ses alf. "it's bigamy," ses joe morgan. "you'd get six months," ses his wife. "don't you worry, dear," ses mrs. pearce, nodding at george hatchard; "that man's made a mistake." "mistake!" ses bill flurry. "why, i tell you i talked to 'im. it was charlie pearce right enough; scar on 'is forehead and a wart on 'is left ear and all." "it's wonderful," ses mrs. pearce. "i can't think where you got it all from." "got it all from?" ses bill, staring at her. "why, from 'im." "oh, of course," ses mrs. pearce. "i didn't think of that; but that only makes it the more wonderful, doesn't it?--because, you see, he didn't go on the _evening star_." "_wot_?" ses george hatchard. "why you told me yourself--" "i know i did," ses mrs. pearce, "but that was only just to spare your feelings. charlie _was_ going to sea in her, but he was prevented." "prevented?" ses two or three of 'em. "yes," ses mrs. pearce; "the night afore he was to 'ave sailed there was some silly mistake over a diamond ring, and he got five years. he gave a different name at the police-station, and naturally everybody thought 'e went down with the ship. and when he died in prison i didn't undeceive 'em." she took out her 'andkerchief, and while she was busy with it bill flurry got up and went out on tiptoe. young alf got up a second or two arterwards to see where he'd gone; and the last joe morgan and his missis see of the happy couple they was sitting on one chair, and george hatchard was making desprit and 'artrending attempts to smile. [illustration: a distant relative] a distant relative mr. potter had just taken ethel spriggs into the kitchen to say good- by; in the small front room mr. spriggs, with his fingers already fumbling at the linen collar of ceremony, waited impatiently. "they get longer and longer over their good-bys," he complained. "it's only natural," said mrs. spriggs, looking up from a piece of fine sewing. "don't you remember--" "no, i don't," said her husband, doggedly. "i know that your pore father never 'ad to put on a collar for me; and, mind you, i won't wear one after they're married, not if you all went on your bended knees and asked me to." he composed his face as the door opened, and nodded good-night to the rather over-dressed young man who came through the room with his daughter. the latter opened the front-door and passing out with mr. potter, held it slightly open. a penetrating draught played upon the exasperated mr. spriggs. he coughed loudly. "your father's got a cold," said mr. potter, in a concerned voice. "no; it's only too much smoking," said the girl. "he's smoking all day long." the indignant mr. spriggs coughed again; but the young people had found a new subject of conversation. it ended some minutes later in a playful scuffle, during which the door acted the part of a ventilating fan. "it's only for another fortnight," said mrs. spriggs, hastily, as her husband rose. "after they're spliced," said the vindictive mr. spriggs, resuming his seat, "i'll go round and i'll play about with their front-door till--" he broke off abruptly as his daughter, darting into the room, closed the door with a bang that nearly extinguished the lamp, and turned the key. before her flushed and laughing face mr. spriggs held his peace. "what's the matter?" she asked, eying him. "what are you looking like that for?" "too much draught--for your mother," said mr. spriggs, feebly. "i'm afraid of her asthma agin." he fell to work on the collar once more, and, escaping at last from the clutches of that enemy, laid it on the table and unlaced his boots. an attempt to remove his coat was promptly frustrated by his daughter. "you'll get doing it when you come round to see us," she explained. mr. spriggs sighed, and lighting a short clay pipe--forbidden in the presence of his future son-in-law--fell to watching mother and daughter as they gloated over dress materials and discussed double-widths. "anybody who can't be 'appy with her," he said, half an hour later, as his daughter slapped his head by way of bidding him good-night, and retired, "don't deserve to be 'appy." "i wish it was over," whispered his wife. "she'll break her heart if anything happens, and--and gussie will be out now in a day or two." "a gal can't 'elp what her uncle does," said mr. spriggs, fiercely; "if alfred throws her over for that, he's no man." "pride is his great fault," said his wife, mournfully. "it's no good taking up troubles afore they come," observed mr. spriggs. "p'r'aps gussie won't come 'ere." "he'll come straight here," said his wife, with conviction; "he'll come straight here and try and make a fuss of me, same as he used to do when we was children and i'd got a ha'penny. i know him." "cheer up, old gal," said mr. spriggs; "if he does, we must try and get rid of 'im; and, if he won't go, we must tell alfred that he's been to australia, same as we did ethel." his wife smiled faintly. "that's the ticket," continued mr. spriggs. "for one thing, i b'leeve he'll be ashamed to show his face here; but, if he does, he's come back from australia. see? it'll make it nicer for 'im too. you don't suppose he wants to boast of where he's been?" "and suppose he comes while alfred is here?" said his wife. "then i say, 'how 'ave you left 'em all in australia?' and wink at him," said the ready mr. spriggs. "and s'pose you're not here?" objected his wife. "then you say it and wink at him," was the reply. "no; i know you can't," he added, hastily, as mrs. spriggs raised another objection; "you've been too well brought up. still, you can try." it was a slight comfort to mrs. spriggs that mr. augustus price did, after all, choose a convenient time for his reappearance. a faint knock sounded on the door two days afterwards as she sat at tea with her husband, and an anxious face with somewhat furtive eyes was thrust into the room. "emma!" said a mournful voice, as the upper part of the intruder's body followed the face. "gussie!" said mrs. spriggs, rising in disorder. mr. price drew his legs into the room, and, closing the door with extraordinary care, passed the cuff of his coat across his eyes and surveyed them tenderly. "i've come home to die," he said, slowly, and, tottering across the room, embraced his sister with much unction. "what are you going to die of?" inquired mr. spriggs, reluctantly accepting the extended hand. "broken 'art, george," replied his brother-in-law, sinking into a chair. mr. spriggs grunted, and, moving his chair a little farther away, watched the intruder as his wife handed him a plate. a troubled glance from his wife reminded him of their arrangements for the occasion, and he cleared his throat several times in vain attempts to begin. "i'm sorry that we can't ask you to stay with us, gussie, 'specially as you're so ill," he said, at last; "but p'r'aps you'll be better after picking a bit." mr. price, who was about to take a slice of bread and butter, refrained, and, closing his eyes, uttered a faint moan. "i sha'n't last the night," he muttered. "that's just it," said mr. spriggs, eagerly. "you see, ethel is going to be married in a fortnight, and if you died here that would put it off." "i might last longer if i was took care of," said the other, opening his eyes. "and, besides, ethel don't know where you've been," continued mr. spriggs. "we told 'er that you had gone to australia. she's going to marry a very partikler young chap--a grocer--and if he found it out it might be awk'ard." mr. price closed his eyes again, but the lids quivered. "it took 'im some time to get over me being a bricklayer," pursued mr. spriggs. "what he'd say to you--" "tell 'im i've come back from australia, if you like," said mr. price, faintly. "i don't mind." mr. spriggs cleared his throat again. "but, you see, we told ethel as you was doing well out there," he said, with an embarrassed laugh, "and girl-like, and alfred talking a good deal about his relations, she-- she's made the most of it." "it don't matter," said the complaisant mr. price; "you say what you like. i sha'n't interfere with you." "but, you see, you don't look as though you've been making money," said his sister, impatiently. "look at your clothes." mr. price held up his hand. "that's easy got over," he remarked; "while i'm having a bit of tea george can go out and buy me some new ones. you get what you think i should look richest in, george--a black tail-coat would be best, i should think, but i leave it to you. a bit of a fancy waistcoat, p'r'aps, lightish trousers, and a pair o' nice boots, easy sevens." he sat upright in his chair and, ignoring the look of consternation that passed between husband and wife, poured himself out a cup of tea and took a slice of cake. "have you got any money?" said mr. spriggs, after a long pause. "i left it behind me--in australia," said mr. price, with ill-timed facetiousness. "getting better, ain't you?" said his brother-in-law, sharply. "how's that broken 'art getting on?" "it'll go all right under a fancy waistcoat," was the reply; "and while you're about it, george, you'd better get me a scarf-pin, and, if you _could_ run to a gold watch and chain--" he was interrupted by a frenzied outburst from mr. spriggs; a somewhat incoherent summary of mr. price's past, coupled with unlawful and heathenish hopes for his future. "you're wasting time," said mr. price, calmly, as he paused for breath. "don't get 'em if you don't want to. i'm trying to help you, that's all. i don't mind anybody knowing where i've been. i was innercent. if you will give way to sinful pride you must pay for it." mr. spriggs, by a great effort, regained his self-control. "will you go away if i give you a quid?" he asked, quietly. "no," said mr. price, with a placid smile. "i've got a better idea of the value of money than that. besides, i want to see my dear niece, and see whether that young man's good enough for her." "two quid?" suggested his brother-in-law. mr. price shook his head. "i couldn't do it," he said, calmly. "in justice to myself i couldn't do it. you'll be feeling lonely when you lose ethel, and i'll stay and keep you company." the bricklayer nearly broke out again; but, obeying a glance from his wife, closed his lips and followed her obediently upstairs. mr. price, filling his pipe from a paper of tobacco on the mantelpiece, winked at himself encouragingly in the glass, and smiled gently as he heard the chinking of coins upstairs. "be careful about the size," he said, as mr. spriggs came down and took his hat from a nail; "about a couple of inches shorter than yourself and not near so much round the waist." mr. spriggs regarded him sternly for a few seconds, and then, closing the door with a bang, went off down the street. left alone, mr. price strolled about the room investigating, and then, drawing an easy-chair up to the fire, put his feet on the fender and relapsed into thought. two hours later he sat in the same place, a changed and resplendent being. his thin legs were hidden in light check trousers, and the companion waistcoat to joseph's coat graced the upper part of his body. a large chrysanthemum in the button-hole of his frock-coat completed the picture of an australian millionaire, as understood by mr. spriggs. "a nice watch and chain, and a little money in my pockets, and i shall be all right," murmured mr. price. "you won't get any more out o' me," said mr. spriggs, fiercely. "i've spent every farthing i've got." "except what's in the bank," said his brother-in-law. "it'll take you a day or two to get at it, i know. s'pose we say saturday for the watch and chain?" mr. spriggs looked helplessly at his wife, but she avoided his gaze. he turned and gazed in a fascinated fashion at mr. price, and received a cheerful nod in return. "i'll come with you and help choose it," said the latter. "it'll save you trouble if it don't save your pocket." he thrust his hands in his trouser-pockets and, spreading his legs wide apart, tilted his head back and blew smoke to the ceiling. he was in the same easy position when ethel arrived home accompanied by mr. potter. "it's--it's your uncle gussie," said mrs. spriggs, as the girl stood eying the visitor. "from australia," said her husband, thickly. mr. price smiled, and his niece, noticing that he removed his pipe and wiped his lips with the back of his hand, crossed over and kissed his eyebrow. mr. potter was then introduced and received a gracious reception, mr. price commenting on the extraordinary likeness he bore to a young friend of his who had just come in for forty thousand a year. "that's nearly as much as you're worth, uncle, isn't it?" inquired miss spriggs, daringly. mr. price shook his head at her and pondered. "rather more," he said, at last, "rather more." [illustration: "mr. potter was then introduced and received a gracious reception."] mr. potter caught his breath sharply; mr. spriggs, who was stooping to get a light for his pipe, nearly fell into the fire. there was an impressive silence. "money isn't everything," said mr. price, looking round and shaking his head. "it's not much good, except to give away." his eye roved round the room and came to rest finally upon mr. potter. the young man noticed with a thrill that it beamed with benevolence. "fancy coming over without saying a word to anybody, and taking us all by surprise like this!" said ethel. "i felt i must see you all once more before i died," said her uncle, simply. "just a flying visit i meant it to be, but your father and mother won't hear of my going back just yet." "of course not," said ethel, who was helping the silent mrs. spriggs to lay supper. "when i talked of going your father 'eld me down in my chair," continued the veracious mr. price. "quite right, too," said the girl. "now draw your chair up and have some supper, and tell us all about australia." mr. price drew his chair up, but, as to talking about australia, he said ungratefully that he was sick of the name of the place, and preferred instead to discuss the past and future of mr. potter. he learned, among other things, that that gentleman was of a careful and thrifty disposition, and that his savings, augmented by a lucky legacy, amounted to a hundred and ten pounds. "alfred is going to stay with palmer and mays for another year, and then we shall take a business of our own," said ethel. "quite right," said mr. price. "i like to see young people make their own way," he added meaningly. "it's good for 'em." it was plain to all that he had taken a great fancy to mr. potter. he discussed the grocery trade with the air of a rich man seeking a good investment, and threw out dark hints about returning to england after a final visit to australia and settling down in the bosom of his family. he accepted a cigar from mr. potter after supper, and, when the young man left--at an unusually late hour--walked home with him. it was the first of several pleasant evenings, and mr. price, who had bought a book dealing with australia from a second-hand bookstall, no longer denied them an account of his adventures there. a gold watch and chain, which had made a serious hole in his brother-in-law's savings bank account, lent an air of substance to his waistcoat, and a pin of excellent paste sparkled in his neck-tie. under the influence of good food and home comforts he improved every day, and the unfortunate mr. spriggs was at his wits' end to resist further encroachments. from the second day of their acquaintance he called mr. potter "alf," and the young people listened with great attention to his discourse on "money: how to make it and how to keep it." his own dealings with mr. spriggs afforded an example which he did not quote. beginning with shillings, he led up to half-crowns, and, encouraged by success, one afternoon boldly demanded a half-sovereign to buy a wedding-present with. mrs. spriggs drew her over-wrought husband into the kitchen and argued with him in whispers. "give him what he wants till they're married," she entreated; "after that alfred can't help himself, and it'll be as much to his interest to keep quiet as anybody else." mr. spriggs, who had been a careful man all his life, found the half- sovereign and a few new names, which he bestowed upon mr. price at the same time. the latter listened unmoved. in fact, a bright eye and a pleasant smile seemed to indicate that he regarded them rather in the nature of compliments than otherwise. "i telegraphed over to australia this morning," he said, as they all sat at supper that evening. [illustration: "a gold watch and chain lent an air of substance to his waistcoat."] "about my money?" said mr. potter, eagerly. mr. price frowned at him swiftly. "no; telling my head clerk to send over a wedding-present for you," he said, his face softening under the eye of mr. spriggs. "i've got just the thing for you there. i can't see anything good enough over here." the young couple were warm in their thanks. "what did you mean, about your money?" inquired mr. spriggs, turning to his future son-in-law. "nothing," said the young man, evasively. "it's a secret," said mr. price. "what about?" persisted mr. spriggs, raising his voice. "it's a little private business between me and uncle gussie," said mr. potter, somewhat stiffly. "you--you haven't been lending him money?" stammered the bricklayer. "don't be silly, father," said miss spriggs, sharply. "what good would alfred's little bit o' money be to uncle gussie? if you must know, alfred is drawing it out for uncle to invest it for him." the eyes of mr. and mrs. spriggs and mr. price engaged in a triangular duel. the latter spoke first. "i'm putting it into my business for him," he said, with a threatening glance, "in australia." "and he didn't want his generosity known," added mr. potter. the bewildered mr. spriggs looked helplessly round the table. his wife's foot pressed his, and like a mechanical toy his lips snapped together. "i didn't know you had got your money handy," said mrs. spriggs, in trembling tones. "i made special application, and i'm to have it on friday," said mr. potter, with a smile. "you don't get a chance like that every day." he filled uncle gussie's glass for him, and that gentleman at once raised it and proposed the health of the young couple. "if anything was to 'appen to break it off now," he said, with a swift glance at his sister, "they'd be miserable for life, i can see that." "miserable for ever," assented mr. potter, in a sepulchral voice, as he squeezed the hand of miss spriggs under the table. "it's the only thing worth 'aving--love," continued mr. price, watching his brother-in-law out of the corner of his eye. "money is nothing." mr. spriggs emptied his glass and, knitting his brows, drew patterns on the cloth with the back of his knife. his wife's foot was still pressing on his, and he waited for instructions. for once, however, mrs. spriggs had none to give. even when mr. potter had gone and ethel had retired upstairs she was still voiceless. she sat for some time looking at the fire and stealing an occasional glance at uncle gussie as he smoked a cigar; then she arose and bent over her husband. "do what you think best," she said, in a weary voice. "good-night." "what about that money of young alfred's?" demanded mr. spriggs, as the door closed behind her. "i'm going to put it in my business," said uncle gussie, blandly; "my business in australia." "ho! you've got to talk to me about that first," said the other. his brother-in-law leaned back and smoked with placid enjoyment. "you do what you like," he said, easily. "of course, if you tell alfred, i sha'n't get the money, and ethel won't get 'im. besides that, he'll find out what lies you've been telling." "i wonder you can look me in the face," said the raging bricklayer. "and i should give him to understand that you were going shares in the hundred and ten pounds and then thought better of it," said the unmoved mr. price. "he's the sort o' young chap as'll believe anything. bless 'im!" mr. spriggs bounced up from his chair and stood over him with his fists clinched. mr. price glared defiance. "if you're so partikler you can make it up to him," he said, slowly. "you've been a saving man, i know, and emma 'ad a bit left her that i ought to have 'ad. when you've done play-acting i'll go to bed. so long!" he got up, yawning, and walked to the door, and mr. spriggs, after a momentary idea of breaking him in pieces and throwing him out into the street, blew out the lamp and went upstairs to discuss the matter with his wife until morning. mr. spriggs left for his work next day with the question still undecided, but a pretty strong conviction that mr. price would have to have his way. the wedding was only five days off, and the house was in a bustle of preparation. a certain gloom which he could not shake off he attributed to a raging toothache, turning a deaf ear to the various remedies suggested by uncle gussie, and the name of an excellent dentist who had broken a tooth of mr. potter's three times before extracting it. uncle gussie he treated with bare civility in public, and to blood- curdling threats in private. mr. price, ascribing the latter to the toothache, also varied his treatment to his company; prescribing whisky held in the mouth, and other agreeable remedies when there were listeners, and recommending him to fill his mouth with cold water and sit on the fire till it boiled, when they were alone. he was at his worst on thursday morning; on thursday afternoon he came home a bright and contented man. he hung his cap on the nail with a flourish, kissed his wife, and, in full view of the disapproving mr. price, executed a few clumsy steps on the hearthrug. "come in for a fortune?" inquired the latter, eying him sourly. "no; i've saved one," replied mr. spriggs, gayly. "i wonder i didn't think of it myself." "think of what?" inquired mr. price. "you'll soon know," said mr. spriggs, "and you've only got yourself to thank for it." uncle gussie sniffed suspiciously; mrs. spriggs pressed for particulars. "i've got out of the difficulty," said her husband, drawing his chair to the tea-table. "nobody'll suffer but gussie." "ho!" said that gentleman, sharply. "i took the day off," said mr. spriggs, smiling contentedly at his wife, "and went to see a friend of mine, bill white the policeman, and told him about gussie." mr. price stiffened in his chair. "acting--under--his--advice," said mr. spriggs, sipping his tea, "i wrote to scotland yard and told 'em that augustus price, ticket-of-leave man, was trying to obtain a hundred and ten pounds by false pretences." mr. price, white and breathless, rose and confronted him. "the beauty o' that is, as bill says," continued mr. spriggs, with much enjoyment, "that gussie'll 'ave to set out on his travels again. he'll have to go into hiding, because if they catch him he'll 'ave to finish his time. and bill says if he writes letters to any of us it'll only make it easier to find him. you'd better take the first train to australia, gussie." "what--what time did you post--the letter?" inquired uncle gussie, jerkily. "'bout two o'clock," said mr. spriggs, glaring at the clock. "i reckon you've just got time." mr. price stepped swiftly to the small sideboard, and, taking up his hat, clapped it on. he paused a moment at the door to glance up and down the street, and then the door closed softly behind him. mrs. spriggs looked at her husband. "called away to australia by special telegram," said the latter, winking. "bill white is a trump; that's what he is." "oh, george!" said his wife. "did you really write that letter?" mr. spriggs winked again. [illustration: the test] the test pebblesea was dull, and mr. frederick dix, mate of the ketch _starfish_, after a long and unsuccessful quest for amusement, returned to the harbor with an idea of forgetting his disappointment in sleep. the few shops in the high street were closed, and the only entertainment offered at the taverns was contained in glass and pewter. the attitude of the landlord of the "pilots' hope," where mr. dix had sought to enliven the proceedings by a song and dance, still rankled in his memory. the skipper and the hands were still ashore and the ketch looked so lonely that the mate, thinking better of his idea of retiring, thrust his hands deep in his pockets and sauntered round the harbor. it was nearly dark, and the only other man visible stood at the edge of the quay gazing at the water. he stood for so long that the mate's easily aroused curiosity awoke, and, after twice passing, he edged up to him and ventured a remark on the fineness of the night. "the night's all right," said the young man, gloomily. "you're rather near the edge," said the mate, after a pause. "i like being near the edge," was the reply. mr. dix whistled softly and, glancing up at the tall, white-faced young man before him, pushed his cap back and scratched his head. "ain't got anything on your mind, have you?" he inquired. the young man groaned and turned away, and the mate, scenting a little excitement, took him gently by the coat-sleeve and led him from the brink. sympathy begets confidence, and, within the next ten minutes, he had learned that arthur heard, rejected by emma smith, was contemplating the awful crime of self-destruction. "why, i've known 'er for seven years," said mr. heard; "seven years, and this is the end of it." the mate shook his head. "i told 'er i was coming straight away to drownd myself," pursued mr. heard. "my last words to 'er was, 'when you see my bloated corpse you'll be sorry.'" "i expect she'll cry and carry on like anything," said the mate, politely. the other turned and regarded him. "why, you don't think i'm going to, do you?" he inquired, sharply. "why, i wouldn't drownd myself for fifty blooming gells." "but what did you tell her you were going to for, then?" demanded the puzzled mate. "'cos i thought it would upset 'er and make 'er give way," said the other, bitterly; "and all it done was to make 'er laugh as though she'd 'ave a fit." "it would serve her jolly well right if you did drown yourself," said mr. dix, judiciously. "it 'ud spoil her life for her." "ah, and it wouldn't spoil mine, i s'pose?" rejoined mr. heard, with ferocious sarcasm. "how she will laugh when she sees you to-morrow," mused the mate. "is she the sort of girl that would spread it about?" mr. heard said that she was, and, forgetting for a moment his great love, referred to her partiality for gossip in the most scathing terms he could muster. the mate, averse to such a tame ending to a promising adventure, eyed him thoughtfully. "why not just go in and out again," he said, seductively, "and run to her house all dripping wet?" "that would be clever, wouldn't it?" said the ungracious mr. heard. "starting to commit suicide, and then thinking better of it. why, i should be a bigger laughing-stock than ever." "but suppose i saved you against your will?" breathed the tempter; "how would that be?" "it would be all right if i cared to run the risk," said the other, "but i don't. i should look well struggling in the water while you was diving in the wrong places for me, shouldn't i?" "i wasn't thinking of such a thing," said mr. dix, hastily; "twenty strokes is about my mark--with my clothes off. my idea was to pull you out." mr. heard glanced at the black water a dozen feet below. "how?" he inquired, shortly. "not here," said the mate. "come to the end of the quay where the ground slopes to the water. it's shallow there, and you can tell her that you jumped in off here. she won't know the difference." with an enthusiasm which mr. heard made no attempt to share, he led the way to the place indicated, and dilating upon its manifold advantages, urged him to go in at once and get it over. "you couldn't have a better night for it," he said, briskly. "why, it makes me feel like a dip myself to look at it." mr. heard gave a surly grunt, and after testing the temperature of the water with his hand, slowly and reluctantly immersed one foot. then, with sudden resolution, he waded in and, ducking his head, stood up gasping. "give yourself a good soaking while you're about it," said the delighted mate. mr. heard ducked again, and once more emerging stumbled towards the bank. "pull me out," he cried, sharply. mr. dix, smiling indulgently, extended his hands, which mr. heard seized with the proverbial grasp of a drowning man. "all right, take it easy, don't get excited," said the smiling mate, "four foot of water won't hurt anyone. if--here! let go o' me, d'ye hear? let go! if you don't let go i'll punch your head." "you couldn't save me against my will without coming in," said mr. heard. "now we can tell 'er you dived in off the quay and got me just as i was sinking for the last time. you'll be a hero." the mate's remarks about heroes were mercifully cut short. he was three stone lighter than mr. heard, and standing on shelving ground. the latter's victory was so sudden that he over-balanced, and only a commotion at the surface of the water showed where they had disappeared. mr. heard was first up and out, but almost immediately the figure of the mate, who had gone under with his mouth open, emerged from the water and crawled ashore. "you--wait--till i--get my breath back," he gasped. "there's no ill-feeling, i 'ope?" said mr. heard, anxiously. "i'll tell everybody of your bravery. don't spoil everything for the sake of a little temper." mr. dix stood up and clinched his fists, but at the spectacle of the dripping, forlorn figure before him his wrath vanished and he broke into a hearty laugh. "come on, mate," he said, clapping him on the back, "now let's go and find emma. if she don't fall in love with you now she never will. my eye! you are a picture!" he began to walk towards the town, and mr. heard, with his legs wide apart and his arms held stiffly from his body, waddled along beside him. two little streamlets followed. they walked along the quay in silence, and had nearly reached the end of it, when the figure of a man turned the corner of the houses and advanced at a shambling trot towards them. "old smith!" said mr. heard, in a hasty whisper. "now, be careful. hold me tight." the new-comer thankfully dropped into a walk as he saw them, and came to a standstill with a cry of astonishment as the light of a neighboring lamp revealed their miserable condition. "wot, arthur!" he exclaimed. "halloa," said mr. heard, drearily. "the idea o' your being so sinful," said mr. smith, severely. "emma told me wot you said, but i never thought as you'd got the pluck to go and do it. i'm surprised at you." "i ain't done it," said mr. heard, in a sullen voice; "nobody can drownd themselves in comfort with a lot of interfering people about." mr. smith turned and gazed at the mate, and a broad beam of admiration shone in his face as he grasped that gentleman's hand. "come into the 'ouse both of you and get some dry clothes," he said, warmly. he thrust his strong, thick-set figure between them, and with a hand on each coat-collar propelled them in the direction of home. the mate muttered something about going back to his ship, but mr. smith refused to listen, and stopping at the door of a neat cottage, turned the handle and thrust his dripping charges over the threshold of a comfortable sitting-room. a pleasant-faced woman of middle age and a pretty girl of twenty rose at their entrance, and a faint scream fell pleasantly upon the ears of mr. heard. "here he is," bawled mr. smith; "just saved at the last moment." "what, two of them?" exclaimed miss smith, with a faint note of gratification in her voice. her gaze fell on the mate, and she smiled approvingly. "no; this one jumped in and saved 'im," said her father. "oh, arthur!" said miss smith. "how could you be so wicked! i never dreamt you'd go and do such a thing--never! i didn't think you'd got it in you." mr. heard grinned sheepishly. "i told you i would," he muttered. "don't stand talking here," said mrs. smith, gazing at the puddle which was growing in the centre of the carpet; "they'll catch cold. take 'em upstairs and give 'em some dry clothes. and i'll bring some hot whisky and water up to 'em." "rum is best," said mr. smith, herding his charges and driving them up the small staircase. "send young joe for some. send up three glasses." they disappeared upstairs, and joe appearing at that moment from the kitchen, was hastily sent off to the "blue jay" for the rum. a couple of curious neighbors helped him to carry it back, and, standing modestly just inside the door, ventured on a few skilled directions as to its preparation. after which, with an eye on miss smith, they stood and conversed, mostly in head-shakes. stimulated by the rum and the energetic mr. smith, the men were not long in changing. preceded by their host, they came down to the sitting-room again; mr. heard with as desperate and unrepentant an air as he could assume, and mr. dix trying to conceal his uneasiness by taking great interest in a suit of clothes three sizes too large for him. "they was both as near drownded as could be," said mr. smith, looking round; "he ses arthur fought like a madman to prevent 'imself from being saved." "it was nothing, really," said the mate, in an almost inaudible voice, as he met miss smith's admiring gaze. "listen to 'im," said the delighted mr. smith; "all brave men are like that. that's wot's made us englishmen wot we are." "i don't suppose he knew who it was he was saving," said a voice from the door. "i didn't want to be saved," said mr. heard, defiantly. "well, you can easy do it again, arthur," said the same voice; "the dock won't run away." mr. heard started and eyed the speaker with same malevolence. "tell us all about it," said miss smith, gazing at the mate, with her hands clasped. "did you see him jump in?" mr. dix shook his head and looked at mr. heard for guidance. "n--not exactly," he stammered; "i was just taking a stroll round the harbor before turning in, when all of a sudden i heard a cry for help--" "no you didn't," broke in mr. heard, fiercely. "well, it sounded like it," said the mate, somewhat taken aback. "i don't care what it sounded like," said the other. "i didn't say it. it was the last thing i should 'ave called out. i didn't want to be saved." "p'r'aps he cried 'emma,'" said the voice from the door. "might ha' been that," admitted the mate. "well, when i heard it i ran to the edge and looked down at the water, and at first i couldn't see anything. then i saw what i took to be a dog, but, knowing that dogs can't cry 'help!'--" "emma," corrected mr. heard. "emma," said the mate, "i just put my hands up and dived in. when i came to the surface i struck out for him and tried to seize him from behind, but before i could do so he put his arms round my neck like--like--" "like as if it was emma's," suggested the voice by the door. miss smith rose with majestic dignity and confronted the speaker. "and who asked you in here, george harris?" she inquired, coldly. "i see the door open," stammered mr. harris--"i see the door open and i thought--" "if you look again you'll see the handle," said miss smith. mr. harris looked, and, opening the door with extreme care, melted slowly from a gaze too terrible for human endurance. "we went down like a stone," continued the mate, as miss smith resumed her seat and smiled at him. "when we came up he tried to get away again. i think we went down again a few more times, but i ain't sure. then we crawled out; leastways i did, and pulled him after me." "he might have drowned you," said miss smith, with a severe glance at her unfortunate admirer. "and it's my belief that he tumbled in after all, and when you thought he was struggling to get away he was struggling to be saved. that's more like him." "well, they're all right now," said mr. smith, as mr. heard broke in with some vehemence. "and this chap's going to 'ave the royal society's medal for it, or i'll know the reason why." "no, no," said the mate, hurriedly; "i wouldn't take it, i couldn't think of it." "take it or leave it," said mr. smith; "but i'm going to the police to try and get it for you. i know the inspector a bit." "i can't take it," said the horrified mate; "it--it--besides, don't you see, if this isn't kept quiet mr. heard will be locked up for trying to commit suicide." "so he would be," said the other man from his post by the door; "he's quite right." "and i'd sooner lose fifty medals," said mr. dix. "what's the good of me saving him for that?" a murmur of admiration at the mate's extraordinary nobility of character jarred harshly on the ears of mr. heard. most persistent of all was the voice of miss smith, and hardly able to endure things quietly, he sat and watched the tender glances which passed between her and mr. dix. miss smith, conscious at last of his regards, turned and looked at him. "you could say you tumbled in, arthur, and then he would get the medal," she said, softly. "_say!_" shouted the overwrought mr. heard. "say i tum--" words failed him. he stood swaying and regarding the company for a moment, and then, flinging open the door, closed it behind him with a bang that made the house tremble. the mate followed half an hour later, escorted to the ship by the entire smith family. fortified by the presence of miss smith, he pointed out the exact scene of the rescue without a tremor, and, when her father narrated the affair to the skipper, whom they found sitting on deck smoking a last pipe, listened undismayed to that astonished mariner's comments. news of the mate's heroic conduct became general the next day, and work on the ketch was somewhat impeded in consequence. it became a point of honor with mr. heard's fellow-townsmen to allude to the affair as an accident, but the romantic nature of the transaction was well understood, and full credit given to mr. dix for his self-denial in the matter of the medal. small boys followed him in the street, and half pebblesea knew when he paid a visit to the smith's, and discussed his chances. two nights afterwards, when he and miss smith went for a walk in the loneliest spot they could find, conversation turned almost entirely upon the over-crowded condition of the british isles. the _starfish_ was away for three weeks, but the little town no longer looked dull to the mate as she entered the harbor one evening and glided slowly towards her old berth. emma smith was waiting to see the ship come in, and his taste for all other amusements had temporarily disappeared. for two or three days the course of true love ran perfectly smooth; then, like a dark shadow, the figure of arthur heard was thrown across its path. it haunted the quay, hung about the house, and cropped up unexpectedly in the most distant solitudes. it came up behind the mate one evening just as he left the ship and walked beside him in silence. "halloa," said the mate, at last. "halloa," said mr. heard. "going to see emma?" "i'm going to see miss smith," said the mate. mr. heard laughed; a forced, mirthless laugh. "and we don't want you following us about," said mr. dix, sharply. "if it'll ease your mind, and do you any good to know, you never had a chance. she told me so." "i sha'n't follow you," said mr. heard; "it's your last evening, so you'd better make the most of it." he turned on his heel, and the mate, pondering on his last words, went thoughtfully on to the house. [illustration: "'and we don't want you following us about,' said mr. dix, sharply."] amid the distraction of pleasant society and a long walk, the matter passed from his mind, and he only remembered it at nine o'clock that evening as a knock sounded on the door and the sallow face of mr. heard was thrust into the room. "good-evening all," said the intruder. "evening, arthur," said mr. smith, affably. mr. heard with a melancholy countenance entered the room and closed the door gently behind him. then he coughed slightly and shook his head. "anything the matter, arthur?" inquired mr. smith, somewhat disturbed by these manifestations. "i've got something on my mind," said mr. heard, with a diabolical glance at the mate--"something wot's been worrying me for a long time. i've been deceiving you." "that was always your failing, arthur--deceitfulness," said mrs. smith. "i remember--" "we've both been deceiving you," interrupted mr. heard, loudly. "i didn't jump into the harbor the other night, and i didn't tumble in, and mr. fred dix didn't jump in after me; we just went to the end of the harbor and walked in and wetted ourselves." there was a moment's intense silence and all eyes turned on the mate. the latter met them boldly. "it's a habit o' mine to walk into the water and spoil my clothes for the sake of people i've never met before," he said, with a laugh. "for shame, arthur!" said mr. smith, with a huge sigh of relief. "'ow can you?" said mrs. smith. "arthur's been asleep since then," said the mate, still smiling. "all the same, the next time he jumps in he can get out by himself." mr. heard, raising his voice, entered into a minute description of the affair, but in vain. mr. smith, rising to his feet, denounced his ingratitude in language which was seldom allowed to pass unchallenged in the presence of his wife, while that lady contributed examples of deceitfulness in the past of mr. heard, which he strove in vain to refute. meanwhile, her daughter patted the mate's hand. "it's a bit too thin, arthur," said the latter, with a mocking smile; "try something better next time." "very well," said mr. heard, in quieter tones; "i dare you to come along to the harbor and jump in, just as you are, where you said you jumped in after me. they'll soon see who's telling the truth." "he'll do that," said mr. smith, with conviction. for a fraction of a second mr. dix hesitated, then, with a steady glance at miss smith, he sprang to his feet and accepted the challenge. mrs. smith besought him not to be foolish, and, with a vague idea of dissuading him, told him a slanderous anecdote concerning mr. heard's aunt. her daughter gazed at the mate with proud confidence, and, taking his arm, bade her mother to get some dry clothes ready and led the way to the harbor. the night was fine but dark, and a chill breeze blew up from the sea. twice the hapless mate thought of backing out, but a glance at miss smith's profile and the tender pressure of her arm deterred him. the tide was running out and he had a faint hope that he might keep afloat long enough to be washed ashore alive. he talked rapidly, and his laugh rang across the water. arrived at the spot they stopped, and miss smith looking down into the darkness was unable to repress a shiver. "be careful, fred," she said, laying her hand upon his arm. the mate looked at her oddly. "all right," he said, gayly, "i'll be out almost before i'm in. you run back to the house and help your mother get the dry clothes ready for me." his tones were so confident, and his laugh so buoyant, that mr. heard, who had been fully expecting him to withdraw from the affair, began to feel that he had under-rated his swimming powers. "just jumping in and swimming out again is not quite the same as saving a drownding man," he said, with a sneer. in a flash the mate saw a chance of escape. "why, there's no satisfying you," he said, slowly. "if i do go in i can see that you won't own up that you've been lying." "he'll 'ave to," said mr. smith, who, having made up his mind for a little excitement, was in no mind to lose it. "i don't believe he would," said the mate. "look here!" he said, suddenly, as he laid an affectionate arm on the old man's shoulder. "i know what we'll do." "well?" said mr. smith. "i'll save _you_," said the mate, with a smile of great relief. "save _me_?" said the puzzled mr. smith, as his daughter uttered a faint cry. "how?" "just as i saved him," said the other, nodding. "you jump in, and after you've sunk twice--same as he did--i'll dive in and save you. at any rate i'll do my best; i promise you i won't come ashore without you." mr. smith hastily flung off the encircling arm and retired a few paces inland. "'ave you--ever been--in a lunatic asylum at any time?" he inquired, as soon as he could speak. "no," said the mate, gravely. "neither 'ave i," said mr. smith; "and, what's more, i'm not going." he took a deep breath and stood simmering. miss smith came forward and, with a smothered giggle, took the mate's arm and squeezed it. "it'll have to be arthur again, then," said the latter, in a resigned voice. "_me_?" cried mr. heard, with a start. "yes, you!" said the mate, in a decided voice. "after what you said just now i'm not going in without saving somebody. it would be no good. come on, in you go." "he couldn't speak fairer than that, arthur," said mr. smith, dispassionately, as he came forward again. "but i tell you he can't swim," protested mr. heard, "not properly. he didn't swim last time; i told you so." "never mind; we know what you said," retorted the mate. "all you've got to do is to jump in and i'll follow and save you--same as i did the other night." "go on, arthur," said mr. smith, encouragingly. "it ain't cold." "i tell you he can't swim," repeated mr. heard, passionately. "i should be drownded before your eyes." [illustration: "'i tell you he can't swim,' repeated mr. heard, passionately."] "rubbish," said mr. smith. "why, i believe you're afraid." "i should be drownded, i tell you," said mr. heard. "he wouldn't come in after me." "yes, he would," said mr. smith, passing a muscular arm round the mate's waist; "'cos the moment you're overboard i'll drop 'im in. are you ready?" he stood embracing the mate and waiting, but mr. heard, with an infuriated exclamation, walked away. a parting glance showed him that the old man had released the mate, and that the latter was now embracing miss smith. [illustration: in the family] in the family the oldest inhabitant of claybury sat beneath the sign of the "cauliflower" and gazed with affectionate, but dim, old eyes in the direction of the village street. "no; claybury men ain't never been much of ones for emigrating," he said, turning to the youthful traveller who was resting in the shade with a mug of ale and a cigarette. "they know they'd 'ave to go a long way afore they'd find a place as 'ud come up to this." he finished the tablespoonful of beer in his mug and sat for so long with his head back and the inverted vessel on his face that the traveller, who at first thought it was the beginning of a conjuring trick, colored furiously, and asked permission to refill it. now and then a claybury man has gone to foreign parts, said the old man, drinking from the replenished mug, and placing it where the traveller could mark progress without undue strain; but they've, generally speaking, come back and wished as they'd never gone. the on'y man as i ever heard of that made his fortune by emigrating was henery walker's great-uncle, josiah walker by name, and he wasn't a claybury man at all. he made his fortune out o' sheep in australey, and he was so rich and well-to-do that he could never find time to answer the letters that henery walker used to send him when he was hard up. henery walker used to hear of 'im through a relation of his up in london, and tell us all about 'im and his money up at this here "cauliflower" public-house. and he used to sit and drink his beer and wonder who would 'ave the old man's money arter he was dead. when the relation in london died henery walker left off hearing about his uncle, and he got so worried over thinking that the old man might die and leave his money to strangers that he got quite thin. he talked of emigrating to australey 'imself, and then, acting on the advice of bill chambers--who said it was a cheaper thing to do--he wrote to his uncle instead, and, arter reminding 'im that 'e was an old man living in a strange country, 'e asked 'im to come to claybury and make his 'ome with 'is loving grand-nephew. it was a good letter, because more than one gave 'im a hand with it, and there was little bits o' scripture in it to make it more solemn-like. it was wrote on pink paper with pie-crust edges and put in a green envelope, and bill chambers said a man must 'ave a 'art of stone if that didn't touch it. four months arterwards henery walker got an answer to 'is letter from 'is great-uncle. it was a nice letter, and, arter thanking henery walker for all his kindness, 'is uncle said that he was getting an old man, and p'r'aps he should come and lay 'is bones in england arter all, and if he did 'e should certainly come and see his grand-nephew, henery walker. most of us thought henery walker's fortune was as good as made, but bob pretty, a nasty, low poaching chap that has done wot he could to give claybury a bad name, turned up his nose at it. "i'll believe he's coming 'ome when i see him," he ses. "it's my belief he went to australey to get out o' your way, henery." "as it 'appened he went there afore i was born," ses henery walker, firing up. "he knew your father," ses bob pretty, "and he didn't want to take no risks." they 'ad words then, and arter that every time bob pretty met 'im he asked arter his great-uncle's 'ealth, and used to pretend to think 'e was living with 'im. "you ought to get the old gentleman out a bit more, henery," he would say; "it can't be good for 'im to be shut up in the 'ouse so much-- especially your 'ouse." henery walker used to get that riled he didn't know wot to do with 'imself, and as time went on, and he began to be afraid that 'is uncle never would come back to england, he used to get quite nasty if anybody on'y so much as used the word "uncle" in 'is company. it was over six months since he 'ad had the letter from 'is uncle, and 'e was up here at the "cauliflower" with some more of us one night, when dicky weed, the tailor, turns to bob pretty and he ses, "who's the old gentleman that's staying with you, bob?" bob pretty puts down 'is beer very careful and turns round on 'im. "old gentleman?" he ses, very slow. "wot are you talking about?" "i mean the little old gentleman with white whiskers and a squeaky voice," ses dicky weed. "you've been dreaming," ses bob, taking up 'is beer ag'in. "i see 'im too, bob," ses bill chambers. "ho, you did, did you?" ses bob pretty, putting down 'is mug with a bang. "and wot d'ye mean by coming spying round my place, eh? wot d'ye mean by it?" "spying?" ses bill chambers, gaping at 'im with 'is mouth open; "i wasn't spying. anyone 'ud think you 'ad done something you was ashamed of." "you mind your business and i'll mind mine," ses bob, very fierce. "i was passing the 'ouse," ses bill chambers, looking round at us, "and i see an old man's face at the bedroom winder, and while i was wondering who 'e was a hand come and drawed 'im away. i see 'im as plain as ever i see anything in my life, and the hand, too. big and dirty it was." "and he's got a cough," ses dicky weed--"a churchyard cough--i 'eard it." "it ain't much you don't hear, dicky," ses bob pretty, turning on 'im; "the on'y thing you never did 'ear, and never will 'ear, is any good of yourself." he kicked over a chair wot was in 'is way and went off in such a temper as we'd never seen 'im in afore, and, wot was more surprising still, but i know it's true, 'cos i drunk it up myself, he'd left over arf a pint o' beer in 'is mug. "he's up to something," ses sam jones, starting arter him; "mark my words." we couldn't make head nor tail out of it, but for some days arterward you'd ha' thought that bob pretty's 'ouse was a peep-show. everybody stared at the winders as they went by, and the children played in front of the 'ouse and stared in all day long. then the old gentleman was seen one day as bold as brass sitting at the winder, and we heard that it was a pore old tramp bob pretty 'ad met on the road and given a home to, and he didn't like 'is good-'artedness to be known for fear he should be made fun of. nobody believed that, o' course, and things got more puzzling than ever. once or twice the old gentleman went out for a walk, but bob pretty or 'is missis was always with 'im, and if anybody tried to speak to him they always said 'e was deaf and took 'im off as fast as they could. then one night up at the "cauliflower" here dicky weed came rushing in with a bit o' news that took everybody's breath away. "i've just come from the post-office," he ses, "and there's a letter for bob pretty's old gentleman! wot d'ye think o' that?" "if you could tell us wot's inside it you might 'ave something to brag about," ses henery walker. "i don't want to see the inside," ses dicky weed; "the name on the outside was good enough for me. i couldn't hardly believe my own eyes, but there it was: 'mr. josiah walker,' as plain as the nose on your face." o' course, we see it all then, and wondered why we hadn't thought of it afore; and we stood quiet listening to the things that henery walker said about a man that would go and steal another man's great-uncle from 'im. three times smith, the landlord, said, "_hush!_" and the fourth time he put henery walker outside and told 'im to stay there till he 'ad lost his voice. henery walker stayed outside five minutes, and then 'e come back in ag'in to ask for advice. his idea seemed to be that, as the old gentleman was deaf, bob pretty was passing 'isself off as henery walker, and the disgrace was a'most more than 'e could bear. he began to get excited ag'in, and smith 'ad just said "_hush!_" once more when we 'eard somebody whistling outside, and in come bob pretty. he 'ad hardly got 'is face in at the door afore henery walker started on 'im, and bob pretty stood there, struck all of a heap, and staring at 'im as though he couldn't believe his ears. "'ave you gone mad, henery?" he ses, at last. "give me back my great-uncle," ses henery walker, at the top of 'is voice. bob pretty shook his 'ead at him. "i haven't got your great-uncle, henery," he ses, very gentle. "i know the name is the same, but wot of it? there's more than one josiah walker in the world. this one is no relation to you at all; he's a very respectable old gentleman." "i'll go and ask 'im," ses henery walker, getting up, "and i'll tell 'im wot sort o' man you are, bob pretty." "he's gone to bed now, henery," ses bob pretty. "i'll come in the fust thing to-morrow morning, then," ses henery walker. "not in my 'ouse, henery," ses bob pretty; "not arter the things you've been sayin' about me. i'm a pore man, but i've got my pride. besides, i tell you he ain't your uncle. he's a pore old man i'm giving a 'ome to, and i won't 'ave 'im worried." "'ow much does 'e pay you a week, bob?" ses bill chambers. bob pretty pretended not to hear 'im. "where did your wife get the money to buy that bonnet she 'ad on on sunday?" ses bill chambers. "my wife ses it's the fust new bonnet she has 'ad since she was married." "and where did the new winder curtains come from?" ses peter gubbins. bob pretty drank up 'is beer and stood looking at them very thoughtful; then he opened the door and went out without saying a word. "he's got your great-uncle a prisoner in his 'ouse, henery," ses bill chambers; "it's easy for to see that the pore old gentleman is getting past things, and i shouldn't wonder if bob pretty don't make 'im leave all 'is money to 'im." henery walker started raving ag'in, and for the next few days he tried his 'ardest to get a few words with 'is great-uncle, but bob pretty was too much for 'im. everybody in claybury said wot a shame it was, but it was all no good, and henery walker used to leave 'is work and stand outside bob pretty's for hours at a time in the 'opes of getting a word with the old man. he got 'is chance at last, in quite a unexpected way. we was up 'ere at the "cauliflower" one evening, and, as it 'appened, we was talking about henery walker's great-uncle, when the door opened, and who should walk in but the old gentleman 'imself. everybody left off talking and stared at 'im, but he walked up to the bar and ordered a glass o' gin and beer as comfortable as you please. bill chambers was the fust to get 'is presence of mind back, and he set off arter henery walker as fast as 'is legs could carry 'im, and in a wunnerful short time, considering, he came back with henery, both of 'em puffing and blowing their 'ardest. "there--he--is!" ses bill chambers, pointing to the old gentleman. henery walker gave one look, and then 'e slipped over to the old man and stood all of a tremble, smiling at 'im. "good-evening," he ses. "wot?" ses the old gentleman. "good-evening!" ses henery walker ag'in. "i'm a bit deaf," ses the old gentleman, putting his 'and to his ear. "good-evening!" ses henery walker ag'in, shouting. "i'm your grand- nephew, henery walker!" "ho, are you?" ses the old gentleman, not at all surprised. "bob pretty was telling me all about you." "i 'ope you didn't listen to 'im," ses henery walker, all of a tremble. "bob pretty'd say anything except his prayers." "he ses you're arter my money," ses the old gentleman, looking at 'im. "he's a liar, then," ses henery walker; "he's arter it 'imself. and it ain't a respectable place for you to stay at. anybody'll tell you wot a rascal bob pretty is. why, he's a byword." "everybody is arter my money," ses the old gentleman, looking round. "everybody." "i 'ope you'll know me better afore you've done with me, uncle," ses henery walker, taking a seat alongside of mm. "will you 'ave another mug o' beer?" "gin and beer," ses the old gentleman, cocking his eye up very fierce at smith, the landlord; "and mind the gin don't get out ag'in, same as it did in the last." smith asked 'im wot he meant, but 'is deafness come on ag'in. henery walker 'ad an extra dose o' gin put in, and arter he 'ad tasted it the old gentleman seemed to get more amiable-like, and 'im and henery walker sat by theirselves talking quite comfortable. "why not come and stay with me?" ses henery walker, at last. "you can do as you please and have the best of everything." "bob pretty ses you're arter my money," ses the old gentleman, shaking his 'ead. "i couldn't trust you." "he ses that to put you ag'in me," ses henery walker, pleading-like. "well, wot do you want me to come and live with you for, then?" ses old mr. walker. "because you're my great-uncle," ses henery walker, "and my 'ouse is the proper place for you. blood is thicker than water." "and you don't want my money?" ses the old man, looking at 'im very sharp. "certainly not," ses henery walker. "and 'ow much 'ave i got to pay a week?" ses old mr. walker. "that's the question?" "pay?" ses henery walker, speaking afore he 'ad time to think. "pay? why, i don't want you to pay anything." the old gentleman said as 'ow he'd think it over, and henery started to talk to 'im about his father and an old aunt named maria, but 'e stopped 'im sharp, and said he was sick and tired of the whole walker family, and didn't want to 'ear their names ag'in as long as he lived. henery walker began to talk about australey then, and asked 'im 'ow many sheep he'd got, and the words was 'ardly out of 'is mouth afore the old gentleman stood up and said he was arter his money ag'in. henery walker at once gave 'im some more gin and beer, and arter he 'ad drunk it the old gentleman said that he'd go and live with 'im for a little while to see 'ow he liked it. [illustration: "'you leave go o' my lodger,' ses bob pretty."] "but i sha'n't pay anything," he ses, very sharp; "mind that." "i wouldn't take it if you offered it to me," ses henery walker. "you'll come straight 'ome with me to-night, won't you?" afore old mr. walker could answer the door opened and in came bob pretty. he gave one look at henery walker and then he walked straight over to the old gentleman and put his 'and on his shoulder. "why, i've been looking for you everywhere, mr. walker," he ses. "i couldn't think wot had 'appened to you." "you needn't worry yourself, bob," ses henery walker; "he's coming to live with me now." "don't you believe it," ses bob pretty, taking hold of old mr. walker by the arm; "he's my lodger, and he's coming with me." he began to lead the old gentleman towards the door, but henery walker, wot was still sitting down, threw 'is arms round his legs and held 'im tight. bob pretty pulled one way and henery walker pulled the other, and both of 'em shouted to each other to leave go. the row they made was awful, but old mr. walker made more noise than the two of 'em put together. "you leave go o' my lodger," ses bob pretty. "you leave go o' my great-uncle--my dear great-uncle," ses henery walker, as the old gentleman called 'im a bad name and asked 'im whether he thought he was made of iron. i believe they'd ha' been at it till closing-time, on'y smith, the landlord, came running in from the back and told them to go outside. he 'ad to shout to make 'imself heard, and all four of 'em seemed to be trying which could make the most noise. "he's my lodger," ses bob pretty, "and he can't go without giving me proper notice; that's the lor--a week's notice." they all shouted ag'in then, and at last the old gentleman told henery walker to give bob pretty ten shillings for the week's notice and ha' done with 'im. henery walker 'ad only got four shillings with 'im, but 'e borrowed the rest from smith, and arter he 'ad told bob pretty wot he thought of 'im he took old mr. walker by the arm and led him 'ome a'most dancing for joy. mrs. walker was nearly as pleased as wot 'e was, and the fuss they made of the old gentleman was sinful a'most. he 'ad to speak about it 'imself at last, and he told 'em plain that when 'e wanted arf-a-dozen sore-eyed children to be brought down in their night-gowns to kiss 'im while he was eating sausages, he'd say so. arter that mrs. walker was afraid that 'e might object when her and her 'usband gave up their bedroom to 'im; but he didn't. he took it all as 'is right, and when henery walker, who was sleeping in the next room with three of 'is boys, fell out o' bed for the second time, he got up and rapped on the wall. bob pretty came round the next morning with a tin box that belonged to the old man, and 'e was so perlite and nice to 'im that henery walker could see that he 'ad 'opes of getting 'im back ag'in. the box was carried upstairs and put under old mr. walker's bed, and 'e was so partikler about its being locked, and about nobody being about when 'e opened it, that mrs. walker went arf out of her mind with curiosity. "i s'pose you've looked to see that bob pretty didn't take anything out of it?" ses henery walker. "he didn't 'ave the chance," ses the old gentleman. "it's always kep' locked." "it's a box that looks as though it might 'ave been made in australey," ses henery walker, who was longing to talk about them parts. "if you say another word about australey to me," ses old mr. walker, firing up, "off i go. mind that! you're arter my money, and if you're not careful you sha'n't 'ave a farthing of it." that was the last time the word "australey" passed henery walker's lips, and even when 'e saw his great-uncle writing letters there he didn't say anything. and the old man was so suspicious of mrs. walker's curiosity that all the letters that was wrote to 'im he 'ad sent to bob pretty's. he used to call there pretty near every morning to see whether any 'ad come for 'im. in three months henery walker 'adn't seen the color of 'is money once, and, wot was worse still, he took to giving henery's things away. mrs. walker 'ad been complaining for some time of 'ow bad the hens had been laying, and one morning at breakfast-time she told her 'usband that, besides missing eggs, two of 'er best hens 'ad been stolen in the night. "they wasn't stolen," ses old mr. walker, putting down 'is teacup. "i took 'em round this morning and give 'em to bob pretty." "give 'em to bob pretty?" ses henery walker, arf choking. "wot for?" "'cos he asked me for 'em," ses the old gentleman. "wot are you looking at me like that for?" henery couldn't answer 'im, and the old gentleman, looking very fierce, got up from the table and told mrs. walker to give 'im his hat. henery walker clung to 'im with tears in his eyes a'most and begged 'im not to go, and arter a lot of talk old mr. walker said he'd look over it this time, but it mustn't occur ag'in. arter that 'e did as 'e liked with henery walker's things, and henery dursen't say a word to 'im. bob pretty used to come up and flatter 'im and beg 'im to go back and lodge with 'im, and henery was so afraid he'd go that he didn't say a word when old mr. walker used to give bob pretty things to make up for 'is disappointment. he 'eard on the quiet from bill chambers, who said that the old man 'ad told it to bob pretty as a dead secret, that 'e 'ad left 'im all his money, and he was ready to put up with anything. the old man must ha' been living with henery walker for over eighteen months when one night he passed away in 'is sleep. henery knew that his 'art was wrong, because he 'ad just paid dr. green 'is bill for saying that 'e couldn't do anything for 'im, but it was a surprise to 'im all the same. he blew his nose 'ard and mrs. walker kept rubbing 'er eyes with her apron while they talked in whispers and wondered 'ow much money they 'ad come in for. in less than ten minutes the news was all over claybury, and arf the people in the place hanging round in front of the 'ouse waiting to hear 'ow much the walkers 'ad come in for. henery walker pulled the blind on one side for a moment and shook his 'ead at them to go away. some of them did go back a yard or two, and then they stood staring at bob pretty, wot come up as bold as brass and knocked at the door. "wot's this i 'ear?" he ses, when henery walker opened it. "you don't mean to tell me that the pore old gentleman has really gone? i told 'im wot would happen if 'e came to lodge with you." "you be off," ses henery walker; "he hasn't left you anything." "i know that," ses bob pretty, shaking his 'ead. "you're welcome to it, henery. if there is anything. i never bore any malice to you for taking of 'im away from us. i could see you'd took a fancy to 'im from the fust. the way you pretended 'e was your great-uncle showed me that." "wot are you talking about?" ses henery walker. "he was my great-uncle!" "have it your own way, henery," ses bob pretty; "on'y, if you asked me, i should say that he was my wife's grandfather." "_your--wife's--grandfather_?" ses henery walker, in a choking voice. he stood staring at 'im, stupid-like, for a minute or two, but he couldn't get out another word. in a flash 'e saw 'ow he'd been done, and how bob pretty 'ad been deceiving 'im all along, and the idea that he 'ad arf ruined himself keeping mrs. pretty's grandfather for 'em pretty near sent 'im out of his mind. [illustration: "he slammed the door in bob pretty's face."] "but how is it 'is name was josiah walker, same as henery's great- uncle?" ses bill chambers, who 'ad been crowding round with the others. "tell me that!" "he 'ad a fancy for it," ses bob pretty, "and being a 'armless amusement we let him 'ave his own way. i told henery walker over and over ag'in that it wasn't his uncle, but he wouldn't believe me. i've got witnesses to it. wot did you say, henery?" henery walker drew 'imself up as tall as he could and stared at him. twice he opened 'is mouth to speak but couldn't, and then he made a odd sort o' choking noise in his throat, and slammed the door in bob pretty's face. [illustration: a love-knot] a love-knot mr. nathaniel clark and mrs. bowman had just finished their third game of draughts. it had been a difficult game for mr. clark, the lady's mind having been so occupied with other matters that he had had great difficulty in losing. indeed, it was only by pushing an occasional piece of his own off the board that he had succeeded. "a penny for your thoughts, amelia," he said, at last. mrs. bowman smiled faintly. "they were far away," she confessed. mr. clark assumed an expression of great solemnity; allusions of this kind to the late mr. bowman were only too frequent. he was fortunate when they did not grow into reminiscences of a career too blameless for successful imitation. "i suppose," said the widow, slowly--"i suppose i ought to tell you: i've had a letter." mr. clark's face relaxed. "it took me back to the old scenes," continued mrs. bowman, dreamily. "i have never kept anything back from you, nathaniel. i told you all about the first man i ever thought anything of--charlie tucker?" mr. clark cleared his throat. "you did," he said, a trifle hoarsely. "more than once." "i've just had a letter from him," said mrs. bowman, simpering. "fancy, after all these years! poor fellow, he has only just heard of my husband's death, and, by the way he writes--" she broke off and drummed nervously on the table. "he hasn't heard about me, you mean," said mr. clark, after waiting to give her time to finish. "how should he?" said the widow. "if he heard one thing, he might have heard the other," retorted mr. clark. "better write and tell him. tell him that in six weeks' time you'll be mrs. clark. then, perhaps, he won't write again." mrs. bowman sighed. "i thought, after all these years, that he must be dead," she said, slowly, "or else married. but he says in his letter that he has kept single for my sake all these years." "well, he'll be able to go on doing it," said mr. clark; "it'll come easy to him after so much practice." "he--he says in his letter that he is coming to see me," said the widow, in a low voice, "to--to--this evening." "coming to see you?" repeated mr. clark, sharply. "what for?" "to talk over old times, he says," was the reply. "i expect he has altered a great deal; he was a fine-looking fellow--and so dashing. after i gave him up he didn't care what he did. the last i heard of him he had gone abroad." mr. clark muttered something under his breath, and, in a mechanical fashion, began to build little castles with the draughts. he was just about to add to an already swaying structure when a thundering rat-tat- tat at the door dispersed the draughts to the four corners of the room. the servant opened the door, and the next moment ushered in mrs. bowman's visitor. a tall, good-looking man in a frock-coat, with a huge spray of mignonette in his button-hole, met the critical gaze of mr. clark. he paused at the door and, striking an attitude, pronounced in tones of great amazement the christian name of the lady of the house. "mr. tucker!" said the widow, blushing. "the same girl," said the visitor, looking round wildly, "the same as the day she left me. not a bit changed; not a hair different." he took her extended hand and, bending over it, kissed it respectfully. "it's--it's very strange to see you again, mr. tucker," said mrs. bowman, withdrawing her hand in some confusion. "mr. tucker!" said that gentleman, reproachfully; "it used to be charlie." mrs. bowman blushed again, and, with a side glance at the frowning mr. clark, called her visitor's attention to him and introduced them. the gentlemen shook hands stiffly. "any friend of yours is a friend of mine," said mr. tucker, with a patronizing air. "how are you, sir?" mr. clark replied that he was well, and, after some hesitation, said that he hoped he was the same. mr. tucker took a chair and, leaning back, stroked his huge mustache and devoured the widow with his eyes. "fancy seeing you again!" said the latter, in some embarrassment. "how did you find me out?" "it's a long story," replied the visitor, "but i always had the idea that we should meet again. your photograph has been with me all over the world. in the backwoods of canada, in the bush of australia, it has been my one comfort and guiding star. if ever i was tempted to do wrong, i used to take your photograph out and look at it." "i s'pose you took it out pretty often?" said mr. clark, restlessly. "to look at, i mean," he added, hastily, as mrs. bowman gave him an indignant glance. "every day," said the visitor, solemnly. "once when i injured myself out hunting, and was five days without food or drink, it was the only thing that kept me alive." mr. clark's gibe as to the size of the photograph was lost in mrs. bowman's exclamations of pity. "_i_ once lived on two ounces of gruel and a cup of milk a day for ten days," he said, trying to catch the widow's eye. "after the ten days--" "when the indians found me i was delirious," continued mr. tucker, in a hushed voice, "and when i came to my senses i found that they were calling me 'amelia.'" mr. clark attempted to relieve the situation by a jocose inquiry as to whether he was wearing a mustache at the time, but mrs. bowman frowned him down. he began to whistle under his breath, and mrs. bowman promptly said, "_h'sh_!" "but how did you discover me?" she inquired, turning again to the visitor. "wandering over the world," continued mr. tucker, "here to-day and there to-morrow, and unable to settle down anywhere, i returned to northtown about two years ago. three days since, in a tramcar, i heard your name mentioned. i pricked up my ears and listened; when i heard that you were free i could hardly contain myself. i got into conversation with the lady and obtained your address, and after travelling fourteen hours here i am." "how very extraordinary!" said the widow. "i wonder who it could have been? did she mention her name?" mr. tucker shook his head. inquiries as to the lady's appearance, age, and dress were alike fruitless. "there was a mist before my eyes," he explained. "i couldn't realize it. i couldn't believe in my good fortune." "i can't think--" began mrs. bowman. "what does it matter?" inquired mr. tucker, softly. "here we are together again, with life all before us and the misunderstandings of long ago all forgotten." mr. clark cleared his throat preparatory to speech, but a peremptory glance from mrs. bowman restrained him. "i thought you were dead," she said, turning to the smiling mr. tucker. "i never dreamed of seeing you again." "nobody would," chimed in mr. clark. "when do you go back?" "back?" said the visitor. "where?" "australia," replied mr. clark, with a glance of defiance at the widow. "you must ha' been missed a great deal all this time." mr. tucker regarded him with a haughty stare. then he bent towards mrs. bowman. "do you wish me to go back?" he asked, impressively, "we don't wish either one way or the other," said mr. clark, before the widow could speak. "it don't matter to us." "we?" said mr. tucker, knitting his brows and gazing anxiously at mrs. bowman. "_we_?" "we are going to be married in six weeks' time," said mr. clark. mr. tucker looked from one to the other in silent misery; then, shielding his eyes with his hand, he averted his head. mrs. bowman, with her hands folded in her lap, regarded him with anxious solicitude. "i thought perhaps you ought to know," said mr. clark. mr. tucker sat bolt upright and gazed at him fixedly. "i wish you joy," he said, in a hollow voice. "thankee," said mr. clark; "we expect to be pretty happy." he smiled at mrs. bowman, but she made no response. her looks wandered from one to the other--from the good-looking, interesting companion of her youth to the short, prosaic little man who was exulting only too plainly in his discomfiture. mr. tucker rose with a sigh. "good-by," he said, extending his hand. "you are not going--yet?" said the widow. mr. tucker's low-breathed "i must" was just audible. the widow renewed her expostulations. "perhaps he has got a train to catch," said the thoughtful mr. clark. "no, sir," said mr. tucker. "as a matter of fact, i had taken a room at the george hotel for a week, but i suppose i had better get back home again." "no; why should you?" said mrs. bowman, with a rebellious glance at mr. clark. "stay, and come in and see me sometimes and talk over old times. and mr. clark will be glad to see you, i'm sure. won't you nath--mr. clark?" "i shall be--delighted," said mr. clark, staring hard at the mantelpiece. "de-lighted." [illustration: "on the third morning he took mrs. bowman out for a walk."] mr. tucker thanked them both, and after groping for some time for the hand of mr. clark, who was still intent upon the mantelpiece, pressed it warmly and withdrew. mrs. bowman saw him to the door, and a low-voiced colloquy, in which mr. clark caught the word "afternoon," ensued. by the time the widow returned to the room he was busy building with the draughts again. mr. tucker came the next day at three o'clock, and the day after at two. on the third morning he took mrs. bowman out for a walk, airily explaining to mr. clark, who met them on the way, that they had come out to call for him. the day after, when mr. clark met them returning from a walk, he was assured that his silence of the day before was understood to indicate a distaste for exercise. "and, you see, i like a long walk," said mrs. bowman, "and you are not what i should call a good walker." "you never used to complain," said mr. clark; "in fact, it was generally you that used to suggest turning back." "she wants to be amused as well," remarked mr. tucker; "then she doesn't feel the fatigue." mr. clark glared at him, and then, shortly declining mrs. bowman's invitation to accompany them home, on the ground that he required exercise, proceeded on his way. he carried himself so stiffly, and his manner was so fierce, that a well-meaning neighbor who had crossed the road to join him, and offer a little sympathy if occasion offered, talked of the weather for five minutes and inconsequently faded away at a corner. trimington as a whole watched the affair with amusement, although mr. clark's friends adopted an inflection of voice in speaking to him which reminded him strongly of funerals. mr. tucker's week was up, but the landlord of the george was responsible for the statement that he had postponed his departure indefinitely. matters being in this state, mr. clark went round to the widow's one evening with the air of a man who has made up his mind to decisive action. he entered the room with a bounce and, hardly deigning to notice the greeting of mr. tucker, planted himself in a chair and surveyed him grimly. "i thought i should find you here," he remarked. "well, i always am here, ain't i?" retorted mr. tucker, removing his cigar and regarding him with mild surprise. "mr. tucker is my friend," interposed mrs. bowman. "i am the only friend he has got in trimington. it's natural he should be here." mr. clark quailed at her glance. "people are beginning to talk," he muttered, feebly. "talk?" said the widow, with an air of mystification belied by her color. "what about?" mr. clark quailed again. "about--about our wedding," he stammered. mr. tucker and the widow exchanged glances. then the former took his cigar from his mouth and, with a hopeless gesture threw it into the grate. "plenty of time to talk about that," said mrs. bowman, after a pause. "time is going," remarked mr. clark. "i was thinking, if it was agreeable to you, of putting up the banns to-morrow." "there--there's no hurry," was the reply. "'marry in haste, repent at leisure,'" quoted mr. tucker, gravely. "don't you want me to put 'em up?" demanded mr. clark, turning to mrs. bowman. "there's no hurry," said mrs. bowman again. "i--i want time to think." mr. clark rose and stood over her, and after a vain attempt to meet his gaze she looked down at the carpet. "i understand," he said, loftily. "i am not blind." "it isn't my fault," murmured the widow, drawing patterns with her toe on the carpet. "one can't help their feelings." mr. clark gave a short, hard laugh. "what about my feelings?" he said, severely. "what about the life you have spoiled? i couldn't have believed it of you." "i'm sure i'm very sorry," murmured mrs. bowman, "and anything that i can do i will. i never expected to see charles again. and it was so sudden; it took me unawares. i hope we shall still be friends." "friends!" exclaimed mr. clark, with extraordinary vigor. "with _him?_" he folded his arms and regarded the pair with a bitter smile; mrs. bowman, quite unable to meet his eyes, still gazed intently at the floor. "you have made me the laughing-stock of trimington," pursued mr. clark. "you have wounded me in my tenderest feelings; you have destroyed my faith in women. i shall never be the same man again. i hope that you will never find out what a terrible mistake you've made." mrs. bowman made a noise half-way between a sniff and a sob; mr. tucker's sniff was unmistakable. "i will return your presents to-morrow," said mr. clark, rising. "good- by, forever!" he paused at the door, but mrs. bowman did not look up. a second later the front door closed and she heard him walk rapidly away. for some time after his departure she preserved a silence which mr. tucker endeavored in vain to break. he took a chair by her side, and at the third attempt managed to gain possession of her hand. "i deserved all he said," she cried, at last. "poor fellow, i hope he will do nothing desperate." "no, no," said mr. tucker, soothingly. "his eyes were quite wild," continued the widow. "if anything happens to him i shall never forgive myself. i have spoilt his life." mr. tucker pressed her hand and spoke of the well-known refining influence a hopeless passion for a good woman had on a man. he cited his own case as an example. "disappointment spoilt my life so far as worldly success goes," he said, softly, "but no doubt the discipline was good for me." mrs. bowman smiled faintly, and began to be a little comforted. conversation shifted from the future of mr. clark to the past of mr. tucker; the widow's curiosity as to the extent of the latter's worldly success remaining unanswered by reason of mr. tucker's sudden remembrance of a bear-fight. their future was discussed after supper, and the advisability of leaving trimington considered at some length. the towns and villages of england were at their disposal; mr. tucker's business, it appeared, being independent of place. he drew a picture of life in a bungalow with modern improvements at some seaside town, and, the cloth having been removed, took out his pocket-book and, extracting an old envelope, drew plans on the back. it was a delightful pastime and made mrs. bowman feel that she was twenty and beginning life again. she toyed with the pocket-book and complimented mr. tucker on his skill as a draughtsman. a letter or two fell out and she replaced them. then a small newspaper cutting, which had fluttered out with them, met her eye. "a little veranda with roses climbing up it," murmured mr. tucker, still drawing, "and a couple of--" his pencil was arrested by an odd, gasping noise from the window. he looked up and saw her sitting stiffly in her chair. her face seemed to have swollen and to be colored in patches; her eyes were round and amazed. "aren't you well?" he inquired, rising in disorder. mrs. bowman opened her lips, but no sound came from them. then she gave a long, shivering sigh. "heat of the room too much for you?" inquired the other, anxiously. mrs. bowman took another long, shivering breath. still incapable of speech, she took the slip of paper in her trembling fingers and an involuntary exclamation of dismay broke from mr. tucker. she dabbed fiercely at her burning eyes with her handkerchief and read it again. "tucker.--_if this should meet the eye of charles tucker, who knew amelia wyborn twenty-five years ago, he will hear of something greatly to his advantage by communicating with n. c., royal hotel, northtown._" mrs. bowman found speech at last. "n. c.--nathaniel clark," she said, in broken tones. "so that is where he went last month. oh, what a fool i've been! oh, what a simple fool!" mr. tucker gave a deprecatory cough. "i--i had forgotten it was there," he said, nervously. "yes," breathed the widow, "i can quite believe that." "i was going to show you later on," declared the other, regarding her carefully. "i was, really. i couldn't bear the idea of keeping a secret from you long." [illustration: "'i had forgotten it was there,' he said, nervously."] mrs. bowman smiled--a terrible smile. "the audacity of the man," she broke out, "to stand there and lecture me on my behavior. to talk about his spoilt life, and all the time--" she got up and walked about the room, angrily brushing aside the proffered attentions of mr. tucker. "laughing-stock of trimington, is he?" she stormed. "he shall be more than that before i have done with him. the wickedness of the man; the artfulness!" "that's what i thought," said mr. tucker, shaking his head. "i said to him--" "you're as bad," said the widow, turning on him fiercely. "all the time you two men were talking at each other you were laughing in your sleeves at me. and i sat there like a child taking it all in. i've no doubt you met every night and arranged what you were to do next day." mr. tucker's lips twitched. "i would do more than that to win you, amelia," he said, humbly. "you'll have to," was the grim reply. "now i want to hear all about this from the beginning. and don't keep anything from me, or it'll be the worse for you." she sat down again and motioned him to proceed. "when i saw the advertisement in the _northtown chronicle_," began mr. tucker, in husky voice, "i danced with--" "never mind about that," interrupted the widow, dryly. "i went to the hotel and saw mr. clark," resumed mr. tucker, somewhat crestfallen. "when i heard that you were a widow, all the old times came back to me again. the years fell from me like a mantle. once again i saw myself walking with you over the footpath to cooper's farm; once again i felt your hand in mine. your voice sounded in my ears--" "you saw mr. clark," the widow reminded him. "he had heard all about our early love from you," said mr. tucker, "and as a last desperate chance for freedom he had come down to try and hunt me up, and induce me to take you off his hands." mrs. bowman uttered a smothered exclamation. "he tempted me for two days," said mr. tucker, gravely. "the temptation was too great and i fell. besides that, i wanted to rescue you from the clutches of such a man." "why didn't he tell me himself?" inquired the widow. "just what i asked him," said the other, "but he said that you were much too fond of him to give him up. he is not worthy of you, amelia; he is fickle. he has got his eye on another lady." "what?" said the widow, with sudden loudness. mr. tucker nodded mournfully. "miss hackbutt," he said, slowly. "i saw her the other day, and what he can see in her i can't think." "miss hackbutt?" repeated the widow in a smothered voice. "miss--" she got up and began to pace the room again. "he must be blind," said mr. tucker, positively. mrs. bowman stopped suddenly and stood regarding him. there was a light in her eye which made him feel anything but comfortable. he was glad when she transferred her gaze to the clock. she looked at it so long that he murmured something about going. "good-by," she said. mr. tucker began to repeat his excuses, but she interrupted him. "not now," she said, decidedly. "i'm tired. good-night." mr. tucker pressed her hand. "good-night," he said, tenderly. "i am afraid the excitement has been too much for you. may i come round at the usual time to-morrow?" "yes," said the widow. she took the advertisement from the table and, folding it carefully, placed it in her purse. mr. tucker withdrew as she looked up. he walked back to the "george" deep in thought, and over a couple of pipes in bed thought over the events of the evening. he fell asleep at last and dreamed that he and miss hackbutt were being united in the bonds of holy matrimony by the rev. nathaniel clark. the vague misgivings of the previous night disappeared in the morning sunshine. he shaved carefully and spent some time in the selection of a tie. over an excellent breakfast he arranged further explanations and excuses for the appeasement of mrs. bowman. he was still engaged on the task when he started to call on her. half- way to the house he arrived at the conclusion that he was looking too cheerful. his face took on an expression of deep seriousness, only to give way the next moment to one of the blankest amazement. in front of him, and approaching with faltering steps, was mr. clark, and leaning trustfully on his arm the comfortable figure of mrs. bowman. her brow was unruffled and her lips smiling. "beautiful morning," she said, pleasantly, as they met. "lovely!" murmured the wondering mr. tucker, trying, but in vain, to catch the eye of mr. clark. "i have been paying an early visit," said the widow, still smiling. "i surprised you, didn't i, nathaniel?" "you did," said mr. clark, in an unearthly voice. "we got talking about last night," continued the widow, "and nathaniel started pleading with me to give him another chance. i suppose that i am softhearted, but he was so miserable--you were never so miserable in your life before, were you, nathaniel?" "never," said mr. clark, in the same strange voice. "he was so wretched that at last i gave way," said mrs. bowman, with a simper. "poor fellow, it was such a shock to him that he hasn't got back his cheerfulness yet." mr. tucker said, "indeed!" "he'll be all right soon," said mrs. bowman, in confidential tones. "we are on the way to put our banns up, and once that is done he will feel safe. you are not really afraid of losing me again, are you, nathaniel?" mr. clark shook his head, and, meeting the eye of mr. tucker in the process, favored him with a glance of such utter venom that the latter was almost startled. "good-by, mr. tucker," said the widow, holding out her hand. "nathaniel did think of inviting you to come to my wedding, but perhaps it is best not. however, if i alter my mind, i will get him to advertise for you again. good-by." she placed her arm in mr. clark's again, and led him slowly away. mr. tucker stood watching them for some time, and then, with a glance in the direction of the "george," where he had left a very small portmanteau, he did a hasty sum in comparative values and made his way to the railway-station. [illustration: her uncle] her uncle mr. wragg sat in a high-backed windsor chair at the door of his house, smoking. before him the road descended steeply to the harbor, a small blue patch of which was visible from his door. children over five were at school: children under that age, and suspiciously large for their years, played about in careless disregard of the remarks which mr. wragg occasionally launched at them. twice a ball had whizzed past him; and a small but select party, with a tip-cat of huge dimensions and awesome points, played just out of reach. mr. wragg, snapping his eyes nervously, threatened in vain. "morning, old crusty-patch," said a cheerful voice at his elbow. mr. wragg glanced up at the young fisherman towering above him, and eyed him disdainfully. "why don't you leave 'em alone?" inquired the young man. "be cheerful and smile at 'em. you'd soon be able to smile with a little practice." "you mind your business, george gale, and i'll mind mine," said mr. wragg, fiercely; "i've 'ad enough of your impudence, and i'm not going to have any more. and don't lean up agin my house, 'cos i won't 'ave it." mr. gale laughed. "got out o' bed the wrong side again, haven't you?" he inquired. "why don't you put that side up against the wall?" mr. wragg puffed on in silence and became absorbed in a fishing-boat gliding past at the bottom of the hill. "i hear you've got a niece coming to live with you?" pursued the young man. mr. wragg smoked on. "poor thing!" said the other, with a sigh. "does she take after you--in looks, i mean?" "if i was twenty years younger nor what i am," said mr. wragg, sententiously, "i'd give you a hiding, george gale." "it's what i want," agreed mr. gale, placidly. "well, so long, mr. wragg. i can't stand talking to you all day." he was about to move off, after pretending to pinch the ear of the infuriated mr. wragg, when he noticed a station-fly, with a big trunk on the box-seat, crawling slowly up the hill towards them. "good riddance," said mr. wragg, suggestively. the other paid no heed. the vehicle came nearer, and a girl, who plainly owed none of her looks to mr. wragg's side of the family, came into view behind the trunk. she waved her hand, and mr. wragg, removing his pipe from his mouth, waved it in return. mr. gale edged away about eighteen inches, and, with an air of assumed carelessness, gazed idly about him. he saluted the driver as the fly stopped and gazed hard at the apparition that descended. then he caught his breath as the girl, approaching her uncle, kissed him affectionately. mr. wragg, looking up fiercely at mr. gale, was surprised at the expression on that gentleman's face. "isn't it lovely here?" said the girl, looking about her; "and isn't the air nice?" she followed mr. wragg inside, and the driver, a small man and elderly, began tugging at the huge trunk. mr. gale's moment had arrived. "stand away, joe," he said, stepping forward. "i'll take that in for you." he hoisted the trunk on his shoulders, and, rather glad of his lowered face, advanced slowly into the house. uncle and niece had just vanished at the head of the stairs, and mr. gale, after a moment's hesitation, followed. "in 'ere," said mr. wragg, throwing open a door. "halloa! what are you doing in my house? put it down. put it down at once; d'ye hear?" mr. gale caught the girl's surprised glance and, somewhat flustered, swung round so suddenly that the corner of the trunk took the gesticulating mr. wragg by the side of the head and bumped it against the wall. deaf to his outcries, mr. gale entered the room and placed the box on the floor. "where shall i put it?" he inquired of the girl, respectfully. "you go out of my house," stormed mr. wragg, entering with his hand to his head. "go on. out you go." the young man surveyed him with solicitude. "i'm very sorry if i hurt you, mr. wragg--" he began. "out you go," repeated the other. "it was a pure accident," pleaded mr. gale. "and don't you set foot in my 'ouse agin," said the vengeful mr. wragg. "you made yourself officious bringing that box in a-purpose to give me a clump o' the side of the head with it." mr. gale denied the charge so eagerly, and withal so politely, that the elder man regarded him in amazement. then his glance fell on his niece, and he smiled with sudden malice as mr. gale slowly and humbly descended the stairs. [illustration: "the corner of the trunk took the gesticulating mr. wragg by the side of the head."] "one o' the worst chaps about here, my dear," he said, loudly. "mate o' one o' the fishing-boats, and as impudent as they make 'em. many's the time i've clouted his head for 'im." the girl regarded his small figure with surprised respect. "when he was a boy, i mean," continued mr. wragg. "now, there's your room, and when you've put things to rights, come down and i'll show you over the house." he glanced at his niece several times during the day, trying hard to trace a likeness, first to his dead sister and then to himself. several times he scrutinized himself in the small glass on the mantelpiece, but in vain. even when he twisted his thin beard in his hand and tried to ignore his mustache, the likeness still eluded him. his opinion of miss miller's looks was more than shared by the young men of waterside. it was a busy youth who could not spare five minutes to chat with an uncle so fortunate, and in less than a couple of weeks mr. wragg was astonished at his popularity, and the deference accorded to his opinions. the most humble of them all was mr. gale, and, with a pertinacity which was almost proof against insult, he strove to force his company upon the indignant mr. wragg. debarred from that, he took to haunting the road, on one occasion passing the house no fewer than fifty-seven times in one afternoon. his infatuation was plain to be seen of all men. wise men closed their eyes to it; others had theirs closed for them, mr. gale being naturally incensed to think that there was anything in his behavior that attracted attention. his father was at sea, and, to the dismay of the old woman who kept house for him, he began to neglect his food. a melancholy but not unpleasing idea that he was slowly fading occurred to him when he found that he could eat only two herrings for breakfast instead of four. his particular friend, joe harris, to whom he confided the fact, remonstrated hotly. "there's plenty of other girls," he suggested. "not like her," said mr. gale. "you're getting to be a by-word in the place," complained his friend. mr. gale flushed. "i'd do more than that for her sake," he said, softly. "it ain't the way," said mr. harris, impatiently. "girls like a man o' spirit; not a chap who hangs about without speaking, and looks as though he has been caught stealing the cat's milk. why don't you go round and see her one afternoon when old wragg is out?" mr. gale shivered. "i dursen't," he confessed. mr. harris pondered. "she was going to be a hospital nurse afore she came down here," he said, slowly. "p'r'aps if you was to break your leg or something she'd come and nurse you. she's wonderful fond of it, i understand." "but then, you see, i haven't broken it," said the other, impatiently. "you've got a bicycle," said mr. harris. "you--wait a minute--" he half-closed his eyes and waved aside a remark of his friend's. "suppose you 'ad an accident and fell off it, just in front of the house?" "i never fall off," said mr. gale, simply. "old wragg is out, and me and charlie brown carry you into the house," continued mr. harris, closing his eyes entirely. "when you come to your senses, she's bending over you and crying." he opened his eyes suddenly and then, closing one, gazed hard at the bewildered gale. "to-morrow afternoon at two," he said, briskly, "me and charlie'll be there waiting." "suppose old wragg ain't out?" objected mr. gale, after ten minutes' explanation. "he's at the 'lobster pot' five days out of six at that time," was the reply; "if he ain't there tomorrow, it can't be helped." mr. gale spent the evening practising falls in a quiet lane, and by the time night came had attained to such proficiency that on the way home he fell off without intending it. it seemed an easier thing than he had imagined, and next day at two o'clock punctually he put his lessons into practice. by a slight error in judgment his head came into contact with mr. wragg's doorstep, and, half-stunned, he was about to rise, when mr. harris rushed up and forced him down again. mr. brown, who was also in attendance, helped to restore his faculties by a well-placed kick. "he's lost his senses," said mr. harris, looking up at miss miller, as she came to the door. "you could ha' heard him fall arf a mile away," added mr. brown. miss miller stooped and examined the victim carefully. there was a nasty cut on the side of his head, and a general limpness of body which was alarming. she went indoors for some water, and by the time she returned the enterprising mr. harris had got the patient in the passage. "i'm afraid he's going," he said, in answer to the girl's glance. "run for the doctor," she said, hastily. "quick!" "we don't like to leave 'im, miss," said mr. harris, tenderly. "i s'pose it would be too much to ask you to go?" miss miller, with a parting glance at the prostrate man, departed at once. "what did you do that for?" demanded mr. gale, sitting up. "i don't want the doctor; he'll spoil everything. why didn't you go away and leave us?" "i sent 'er for the doctor," said mr. harris, slowly. "i sent 'er for the doctor so as we can get you to bed afore she comes back." "_bed_?" exclaimed mr. gale. "up you go," said mr. harris, briefly. "we'll tell _her_ we carried you up. now, don't waste time." pushed by his friends, and stopping to expostulate at every step, mr. gale was thrust at last into mr. wragg's bedroom. "off with your clothes," said the leading spirit. "what's the matter with you, charlie brown?" "don't mind me; i'll be all right in a minute," said that gentleman, wiping his eyes. "i'm thinking of old wragg." [illustration: "'what did you do that for?' demanded mr. gale, sitting up."] before mr. gale had made up his mind his coat and waistcoat were off, and mr. brown was at work on his boots. in five minutes' time he was tucked up in mr. wragg's bed; his clothes were in a neat little pile on a chair, and messrs. harris and brown were indulging in a congratulatory double-shuffle by the window. "don't come to your senses yet awhile," said the former; "and when you do, tell the doctor you can't move your limbs." "if they try to pull you out o' bed," said mr. brown, "scream as though you're being killed. _h'sh_! here they are." voices sounded below; miss miller and the doctor had met at the door with mr. wragg, and a violent outburst on that gentleman's part died away as he saw that the intruders had disappeared. he was still grumbling when mr. harris, putting his head over the balusters, asked him to make a little less noise. mr. wragg came upstairs in three bounds, and his mien was so terrible that messrs. harris and brown huddled together for protection. then his gaze fell on the bed and he strove in vain for speech. "we done it for the best," faltered mr. harris. mr. wragg made a gurgling noise in his throat, and, as the doctor entered the room, pointed with a trembling finger at the bed. the other two gentlemen edged toward the door. "take him away; take him away at once," vociferated mr. wragg. the doctor motioned him to silence, and joe harris and mr. brown held their breaths nervously as he made an examination. for ten minutes he prodded and puzzled over the insensible form in the bed; then he turned to the couple at the door. "how did it happen?" he inquired. mr. harris told him. he also added that he thought it was best to put him to bed at once before he came round. "quite right," said the doctor, nodding. "it's a very serious case." "well, i can't 'ave him 'ere," broke in mr. wragg. "it won't be for long," said the doctor, shaking his head. "i can't 'ave him 'ere at all, and, what's more, i won't. let him go to his own bed," said mr. wragg, quivering with excitement. "he is not to be moved," said the doctor, decidedly. "if he comes to his senses and gets out of bed you must coax him back again." "_coax_?" stuttered mr. wragg. "_coax?_ what's he got to do with me? this house isn't a 'orsepittle. put his clothes on and take 'im away." "do nothing of the kind," was the stern reply. "in fact, his clothes had better be taken out of the room, in case he comes round and tries to dress." mr. harris skipped across to the clothes and tucked them gleefully under his arm; mr. brown secured the boots. "when he will come out of this stupor i can't say," continued the doctor. "keep him perfectly quiet and don't let him see a soul." "look 'ere--" began mr. wragg, in a broken voice. "as to diet--water," said the doctor, looking round. "water?" said miss miller, who had come quietly into the room. "water," repeated the doctor; "as much as he likes to take, of course. let me see: to-day is tuesday. i'll look in on friday, or saturday at latest; but till then he must have nothing but clear cold water." mr. harris shot a horrified glance at the bed, which happened just then to creak. "but s'pose he asks for food, sir?" he said, respectfully. "he mustn't have it," said the other, sharply. "if he is very insistent," he added, turning to the sullen mr. wragg, "tell him that he has just had food. he won't know any better, and he will be quite satisfied." he motioned them out of the room, and then, lowering the blinds, followed downstairs on tiptoe. a murmur of voices, followed by the closing of the front door, sounded from below; and mr. gale, getting cautiously out of bed, saw messrs. harris and brown walk up the street talking earnestly. he stole back on tiptoe to the door, and strove in vain to catch the purport of the low-voiced discussion below. mr. wragg's voice was raised, but indistinct. then he fancied that he heard a laugh. he waited until the door closed behind the doctor, and then went back to bed, to try and think out a situation which was fast becoming mysterious. he lay in the darkened room until a cheerful clatter of crockery below heralded the approach of tea-time. he heard miss miller call her uncle in from the garden, and with some satisfaction heard her pleasant voice engaged in brisk talk. at intervals mr. wragg laughed loud and long. tea was cleared away, and the long evening dragged along in silence. uncle and niece were apparently sitting in the garden, but they came in to supper, and later on the fumes of mr. wragg's pipe pervaded the house. at ten o'clock he heard footsteps ascending the stairs, and through half-closed eyes saw mr. wragg enter the bedroom with a candle. "time the pore feller had 'is water," he said to his niece, who remained outside. "unless he is still insensible," was the reply. mr. gale, who was feeling both thirsty and hungry, slowly opened his eyes, and fixed them in a vacant stare on mr. wragg. "where am i?" he inquired, in a faint voice. "buckingham pallis," replied mr. wragg, promptly. mr. gale ground his teeth. "how did i come here?" he said, at last. "the fairies brought you," said mr. wragg. the young man rubbed his eyes and blinked at the candle. "i seem to remember falling," he said, slowly; "has anything happened?" "one o' the fairies dropped you," said mr. wragg, with great readiness; "fortunately, you fell on your head." a sound suspiciously like a giggle came from the landing and fell heavily on gale's ears. he closed his eyes and tried to think. "how did i get into your bedroom, mr. wragg?" he inquired, after a long pause. "light-'eaded," confided mr. wragg to the landing, and significantly tapping his forehead. "this ain't my bedroom," he said, turning to the invalid. "it's the king's. his majesty gave up 'is bed at once, direckly he 'eard you was 'urt." "and he's going to sleep on three chairs in the front parlor--if he can," said a low voice from the landing. the humor faded from mr. wragg's face and was succeeded by an expression of great sourness. "where is the pore feller's supper?" he inquired. "i don't suppose he can eat anything, but he might try." he went to the door and a low-voiced colloquy ensued. the rival merits of cold chicken versus steak-pie as an invalid diet were discussed at some length. finally the voice of miss miller insisted on chicken, and a glass of port-wine. "i'll tell 'im it's chicken and port-wine then," said mr. wragg, reappearing with a bedroom jug and a tumbler, which he placed on a small table by the bedside. "don't let him eat too much, mind," said the voice from the landing, anxiously. mr. wragg said that he would be careful, and addressing mr. gale implored him not to overeat himself. the young man stared at him offensively, and, pretty certain now of the true state of affairs, thought only of escape. "i feel better," he said, slowly. "i think i will go home." "yes, yes," said the other, soothingly. "if you will fetch my clothes," continued mr. gale, "i will go now." "_clothes_!" said mr. wragg, in an astonished voice. "why, you didn't 'ave any." mr. gale sat up suddenly in bed and shook his fist at him. "look here--" he began, in a choking voice. "the fairies brought you as you was," continued mr. wragg, grinning furiously; "and of all the perfect picturs--" a series of gasping sobs sounded from the landing, the stairs creaked, and a door slammed violently below. in spite of this precaution the sounds of a maiden in dire distress were distinctly audible. "you give me my clothes," shouted the now furious mr. gale, springing out of bed. mr. wragg drew back. "i'll go and fetch 'em," he said, hastily. he ran lightly downstairs, and the young man, sitting on the edge of the bed, waited. ten minutes passed, and he heard mr. wragg returning, followed by his niece. he slipped back into bed again. "it's a pore brain again," he heard, in the unctuous tones which mr. wragg appeared to keep for this emergency. "it's clothes he wants now; by and by i suppose it'll be something else. well, the doctor said we'd got to humor him." "poor fellow!" sighed miss miller, with a break in her voice. "see 'ow his face'll light up when he sees them," said her uncle. he pushed the door open, and after surveying the patient with a benevolent smile triumphantly held up a collar and tie for his inspection and threw them on the bed. then he disappeared hastily and, closing the door, turned the key in the lock. "if you want any more chicken or anything," he cried through the door, "ring the bell." the horrified prisoner heard them pass downstairs again, and, after a glass of water, sat down by the window and tried to think. he got up and tried the door, but it opened inwards, and after a severe onslaught the handle came off in his hand. tired out at last he went to bed again, and slept fitfully until morning. mr. wragg visited him again after breakfast, but with great foresight only put his head in at the door, while miss miller remained outside in case of need. in these circumstances mr. gale met his anxious inquiries with a sullen silence, and the other, tired at last of baiting him, turned to go. "i'll be back soon," he said, with a grin. "i'm just going out to tell folks 'ow you're getting on. there's a lot of 'em anxious." he was as good as his word, and mr. gale, peeping from the window, raged helplessly as little knots of neighbors stood smiling up at the house. unable to endure it any longer he returned to bed, resolving to wait until night came, and then drop from the window and run home in a blanket. the smell of dinner was almost painful, but he made no sign. mr. wragg in high good humor smoked a pipe after his meal, and then went out again. the house was silent except for the occasional movements of the girl below. then there was a sudden tap at his door. "well?" said mr. gale. the door opened and, hardly able to believe his eyes, he saw his clothes thrown into the room. hunger was forgotten, and he almost smiled as he hastily dressed himself. the smile vanished as he thought of the people in the streets, and in a thoughtful fashion he made his way slowly downstairs. the bright face of miss miller appeared at the parlor door. "better?" she smiled. mr. gale reddened and, drawing himself up stiffly, made no reply. "that's polite," said the girl, indignantly. "after giving you your clothes, too. what do you think my uncle will say to me? he was going to keep you here till friday." mr. gale muttered an apology. "i've made a fool of myself," he added. miss miller nodded cheerfully. "are you hungry?" she inquired. the other drew himself up again. "because there is some nice cold beef left," said the girl, glancing into the room. mr. gale started and, hardly able to believe in his good fortune, followed her inside. in a very short time the cold beef was a thing of the past, and the young man, toying with his beer-glass, sat listening to a lecture on his behavior couched in the severest terms his hostess could devise. "you'll be the laughing-stock of the place," she concluded. "i shall go away," he said, gloomily. "i shouldn't do that," said the girl, with a judicial air; "live it down." "i shall go away," repeated mr. gale, decidedly. "i shall ship for a deep-sea voyage." miss miller sighed. "it's too bad," she said, slowly; "perhaps you wouldn't look so foolish if--" "if what?" inquired the other, after a long pause. "if," said miss miller, looking down, "if--if--" mr. gale started and trembled violently, as a wild idea, born of her blushes, occurred to him. "if," he said, in quivering tones, "if--if--" "go on," said the girl, softly. "why, i got as far as that: and you are a man." mr. gale's voice became almost inaudible. "if we got married, do you mean?" he said, at last. "married!" exclaimed miss miller, starting back a full two inches. "good gracious! the man is mad after all." the bitter and loudly expressed opinion of mr. wragg when he returned an hour later was that they were both mad. [illustration: the dreamer] the dreamer dreams and warnings are things i don't believe in, said the night watchman. the only dream i ever 'ad that come anything like true was once when i dreamt i came in for a fortune, and next morning i found half a crown in the street, which i sold to a man for fourpence. and once, two days arter my missis 'ad dreamt she 'ad spilt a cup of tea down the front of 'er sunday dress, she spoilt a pot o' paint of mine by sitting in it. the only other dream i know of that come true happened to the cook of a bark i was aboard of once, called the _southern belle_. he was a silly, pasty-faced sort o' chap, always giving hisself airs about eddication to sailormen who didn't believe in it, and one night, when we was homeward-bound from sydney, he suddenly sat up in 'is bunk and laughed so loud that he woke us all up. "wot's wrong, cookie?" ses one o' the chaps. "i was dreaming," ses the cook, "such a funny dream. i dreamt old bill foster fell out o' the foretop and broke 'is leg." "well, wot is there to laugh at in that?" ses old bill, very sharp. "it was funny in my dream," ses the cook. "you looked so comic with your leg doubled up under you, you can't think. it would ha' made a cat laugh." bill foster said he'd make 'im laugh the other side of his face if he wasn't careful, and then we went off to sleep agin and forgot all about it. if you'll believe me, on'y three days arterwards pore bill did fall out o' the foretop and break his leg. he was surprised, but i never see a man so surprised as the cook was. his eyes was nearly starting out of 'is head, but by the time the other chaps 'ad picked bill up and asked 'im whether he was hurt, cook 'ad pulled 'imself together agin and was giving himself such airs it was perfectly sickening. "my dreams always come true," he ses. "it's a kind o' second sight with me. it's a gift, and, being tender-'arted, it worries me terrible sometimes." he was going on like that, taking credit for a pure accident, when the second officer came up and told 'em to carry bill below. he was in agony, of course, but he kept 'is presence of mind, and as they passed the cook he gave 'im such a clip on the side of the 'ead as nearly broke it. "that's for dreaming about me," he ses. the skipper and the fust officer and most of the hands set 'is leg between them, and arter the skipper 'ad made him wot he called comfortable, but wot bill called something that i won't soil my ears by repeating, the officers went off and the cook came and sat down by the side o' bill and talked about his gift. "i don't talk about it as a rule," he ses, "'cos it frightens people." "it's a wonderful gift, cookie," ses charlie epps. all of 'em thought the same, not knowing wot a fust-class liar the cook was, and he sat there and lied to 'em till he couldn't 'ardly speak, he was so 'oarse. "my grandmother was a gypsy," he ses, "and it's in the family. things that are going to 'appen to people i know come to me in dreams, same as pore bill's did. it's curious to me sometimes when i look round at you chaps, seeing you going about 'appy and comfortable, and knowing all the time 'orrible things that is going to 'appen to you. sometimes it gives me the fair shivers." "horrible things to us, slushy?" ses charlie, staring. "yes," ses the cook, nodding. "i never was on a ship afore with such a lot of unfortunit men aboard. never. there's two pore fellers wot'll be dead corpses inside o' six months, sitting 'ere laughing and talking as if they was going to live to ninety. thank your stars you don't 'ave such dreams." "who--who are the two, cookie?" ses charlie, arter a bit. "never mind, charlie," ses the cook, in a sad voice; "it would do no good if i was to tell you. nothing can alter it." "give us a hint," ses charlie. "well, i'll tell you this much," ses the cook, arter sitting with his 'ead in his 'ands, thinking; "one of 'em is nearly the ugliest man in the fo'c's'le and the other ain't." o' course, that didn't 'elp 'em much, but it caused a lot of argufying, and the ugliest man aboard, instead o' being grateful, behaved more like a wild beast than a christian when it was pointed out to him that he was safe. arter that dream about bill, there was no keeping the cook in his place. he 'ad dreams pretty near every night, and talked little bits of 'em in his sleep. little bits that you couldn't make head nor tail of, and when we asked 'im next morning he'd always shake his 'ead and say, "never mind." sometimes he'd mention a chap's name in 'is sleep and make 'im nervous for days. it was an unlucky v'y'ge that, for some of 'em. about a week arter pore bill's accident ted jones started playing catch-ball with another chap and a empty beer-bottle, and about the fifth chuck ted caught it with his face. we thought 'e was killed at fust--he made such a noise; but they got 'im down below, and, arter they 'ad picked out as much broken glass as ted would let 'em, the second officer did 'im up in sticking- plaster and told 'im to keep quiet for an hour or two. ted was very proud of 'is looks, and the way he went on was alarming. fust of all he found fault with the chap 'e was playing with, and then he turned on the cook. "it's a pity you didn't see that in a dream," he ses, tryin' to sneer, on'y the sticking-plaster was too strong for 'im. "but i did see it," ses the cook, drawin' 'imself up. "_wot_?" ses ted, starting. "i dreamt it night afore last, just exactly as it 'appened," ses the cook, in a offhand way. "why didn't you tell me, then?" ses ted choking. "it 'ud ha' been no good," ses the cook, smiling and shaking his 'ead. "wot i see must 'appen. i on'y see the future, and that must be." "but you stood there watching me chucking the bottle about," ses ted, getting out of 'is bunk. "why didn't you stop me?" "you don't understand," ses the cook. "if you'd 'ad more eddication--" he didn't 'ave time to say any more afore ted was on him, and cookie, being no fighter, 'ad to cook with one eye for the next two or three days. he kept quiet about 'is dreams for some time arter that, but it was no good, because george hall, wot was a firm believer, gave 'im a licking for not warning 'im of a sprained ankle he got skylarking, and bob law took it out of 'im for not telling 'im that he was going to lose 'is suit of shore-going togs at cards. [illustration: "'why didn't you tell me, then?' ses ted."] the only chap that seemed to show any good feeling for the cook was a young feller named joseph meek, a steady young chap wot was goin' to be married to old bill foster's niece as soon as we got 'ome. nobody else knew it, but he told the cook all about it on the quiet. he said she was too good for 'im, but, do all he could, he couldn't get her to see it. "my feelings 'ave changed," he ses. "p'r'aps they'll change agin," ses the cook, trying to comfort 'im. joseph shook his 'ead. "no, i've made up my mind," he ses, very slow. "i'm young yet, and, besides, i can't afford it; but 'ow to get out of it i don't know. couldn't you 'ave a dream agin it for me?" "wot d'ye mean?" ses the cook, firing up. "do you think i make my dreams up?" "no, no; cert'inly not," ses joseph, patting 'im on the shoulder; "but couldn't you do it just for once? 'ave a dream that me and emily are killed a few days arter the wedding. don't say in wot way, 'cos she might think we could avoid it; just dream we are killed. bill's always been a superstitious man, and since you dreamt about his leg he'd believe anything; and he's that fond of emily i believe he'd 'ave the wedding put off, at any rate--if i put him up to it." it took 'im three days and a silver watch-chain to persuade the cook, but he did at last; and one arternoon, when old bill, who was getting on fust-class, was resting 'is leg in 'is bunk, the cook went below and turned in for a quiet sleep. for ten minutes he was as peaceful as a lamb, and old bill, who 'ad been laying in 'is bunk with an eye open watching 'im, was just dropping off 'imself, when the cook began to talk in 'is sleep, and the very fust words made bill sit up as though something 'ad bit 'im. "there they go," ses the cook, "emily foster and joseph meek--and there's old bill, good old bill, going to give the bride away. how 'appy they all look, especially joseph!" old bill put his 'and to his ear and leaned out of his bunk. "there they go," ses the cook agin; "but wot is that 'orrible black thing with claws that's 'anging over bill?" pore bill nearly fell out of 'is bunk, but he saved 'imself at the last moment and lay there as pale as death, listening. "it must be meant for bill," ses the cook. "well, pore bill; he won't know of it, that's one thing. let's 'ope it'll be sudden." he lay quiet for some time and then he began again. "no," he ses, "it isn't bill; it's joseph and emily, stark and stiff, and they've on'y been married a week. 'ow awful they look! pore things. oh! oh! o-oh!" he woke up with a shiver and began to groan and then 'e sat up in his bunk and saw old bill leaning out and staring at 'im. "you've been dreaming, cook," ses bill, in a trembling voice. "'ave i?" ses the cook. "how do you know?" "about me and my niece," ses bill; "you was talking in your sleep." "you oughtn't to 'ave listened," ses the cook, getting out of 'is bunk and going over to 'im. "i 'ope you didn't 'ear all i dreamt. 'ow much did you hear?" bill told 'im, and the cook sat there, shaking his 'ead. "thank goodness, you didn't 'ear the worst of it," he ses. "_worst_!" ses bill. "wot, was there any more of it?" "lot's more," ses the cook. "but promise me you won't tell joseph, bill. let 'im be happy while he can; it would on'y make 'im miserable, and it wouldn't do any good." "i don't know so much about that," ses bill, thinking about the arguments some of them had 'ad with ted about the bottle. "was it arter they was married, cookie, that it 'appened? are you sure?" "certain sure. it was a week arter," ses the cook. "very well, then," ses bill, slapping 'is bad leg by mistake; "if they didn't marry, it couldn't 'appen, could it?" "don't talk foolish," ses the cook; "they must marry. i saw it in my dream." "well, we'll see," ses bill. "i'm going to 'ave a quiet talk with joseph about it, and see wot he ses. i ain't a-going to 'ave my pore gal murdered just to please you and make your dreams come true." he 'ad a quiet talk with joseph, but joseph wouldn't 'ear of it at fust. he said it was all the cook's nonsense, though 'e owned up that it was funny that the cook should know about the wedding and emily's name, and at last he said that they would put it afore emily and let her decide. that was about the last dream the cook had that v'y'ge, although he told old bill one day that he had 'ad the same dream about joseph and emily agin, so that he was quite certain they 'ad got to be married and killed. he wouldn't tell bill 'ow they was to be killed, because 'e said it would make 'im an old man afore his time; but, of course, he 'ad to say that _if_ they wasn't married the other part couldn't come true. he said that as he 'ad never told 'is dreams before--except in the case of bill's leg--he couldn't say for certain that they couldn't be prevented by taking care, but p'r'aps, they could; and bill pointed out to 'im wot a useful man he would be if he could dream and warn people in time. by the time we got into the london river old bill's leg was getting on fust-rate, and he got along splendid on a pair of crutches the carpenter 'ad made for him. him and joseph and the cook had 'ad a good many talks about the dream, and the old man 'ad invited the cook to come along 'ome with 'em, to be referred to when he told the tale. "i shall take my opportunity," he ses, "and break it to 'er gentle like. when i speak to you, you chip in, and not afore. d'ye understand?" we went into the east india docks that v'y'ge, and got there early on a lovely summer's evening. everybody was 'arf crazy at the idea o' going ashore agin, and working as cheerful and as willing as if they liked it. there was a few people standing on the pier-head as we went in, and among 'em several very nice-looking young wimmen. "my eye, joseph," ses the cook, who 'ad been staring hard at one of 'em, "there's a fine gal--lively, too. look 'ere!" [illustration: "'i shall take my opportunity,' he ses, 'and break it to 'er gentle like.'"] he kissed 'is dirty paw--which is more than i should 'ave liked to 'ave done it if it 'ad been mine--and waved it, and the gal turned round and shook her 'ead at 'im. "here, that'll do," ses joseph, very cross. "that's my gal; that's my emily." "eh?" says the cook. "well, 'ow was i to know? besides, you're a-giving of her up." joseph didn't answer 'im. he was staring at emily, and the more he stared the better-looking she seemed to grow. she really was an uncommon nice-looking gal, and more than the cook was struck with her. "who's that chap standing alongside of her?" ses the cook. "it's one o' bill's sister's lodgers," ses joseph, who was looking very bad-tempered. "i should like to know wot right he 'as to come 'ere to welcome me 'ome. i don't want 'im." "p'r'aps he's fond of 'er," ses the cook. "i could be, very easy." "i'll chuck 'im in the dock if he ain't careful," ses joseph, turning red in the face. he waved his 'and to emily, who didn't 'appen to be looking at the moment, but the lodger waved back in a careless sort of way and then spoke to emily, and they both waved to old bill who was standing on his crutches further aft. by the time the ship was berthed and everything snug it was quite dark, and old bill didn't know whether to take the cook 'ome with 'im and break the news that night, or wait a bit. he made up his mind at last to get it over and done with, and arter waiting till the cook 'ad cleaned 'imself they got a cab and drove off. bert simmons, the lodger, 'ad to ride on the box, and bill took up so much room with 'is bad leg that emily found it more comfortable to sit on joseph's knee; and by the time they got to the 'ouse he began to see wot a silly mistake he was making. "keep that dream o' yours to yourself till i make up my mind," he ses to the cook, while bill and the cabman were calling each other names. "bill's going to speak fust," whispers the cook. the lodger and emily 'ad gone inside, and joseph stood there, fidgeting, while the cabman asked bill, as a friend, why he 'adn't paid twopence more for his face, and bill was wasting his time trying to think of something to say to 'urt the cabman's feelings. then he took bill by the arm as the cab drove off and told 'im not to say nothing about the dream, because he was going to risk it. "stuff and nonsense," ses bill. "i'm going to tell emily. it's my dooty. wot's the good o' being married if you're going to be killed?" he stumped in on his crutches afore joseph could say any more, and, arter letting his sister kiss 'im, went into the front room and sat down. there was cold beef and pickles on the table and two jugs o' beer, and arter just telling his sister 'ow he fell and broke 'is leg, they all sat down to supper. bert simmons sat on one side of emily and joseph the other, and the cook couldn't 'elp feeling sorry for 'er, seeing as he did that sometimes she was 'aving both hands squeezed at once under the table and could 'ardly get a bite in edgeways. old bill lit his pipe arter supper, and then, taking another glass o' beer, he told 'em about the cook dreaming of his accident three days afore it happened. they couldn't 'ardly believe it at fust, but when he went on to tell 'em the other things the cook 'ad dreamt, and that everything 'ad 'appened just as he dreamt it, they all edged away from the cook and sat staring at him with their mouths open. "and that ain't the worst of it," ses bill. "that's enough for one night, bill," ses joseph, who was staring at bert simmons as though he could eat him. "besides, i believe it was on'y chance. when cook told you 'is dream it made you nervous, and that's why you fell." "nervous be blowed!" ses bill; and then he told 'em about the dream he 'ad heard while he was laying in 'is bunk. bill's sister gave a scream when he 'ad finished, and emily, wot was sitting next to joseph, got up with a shiver and went and sat next to bert simmons and squeezed his coat-sleeve. "it's all nonsense!" ses joseph, starting up. "and if it wasn't, true love would run the risk. i ain't afraid!" "it's too much to ask a gal," ses bert simmons, shaking his 'ead. "i couldn't dream of it," ses emily. "wot's the use of being married for a week? look at uncle's leg--that's enough for me!" they all talked at once then, and joseph tried all he could to persuade emily to prove to the cook that 'is dreams didn't always come true; but it was no good. emily said she wouldn't marry 'im if he 'ad a million a year, and her aunt and uncle backed her up in it--to say nothing of bert simmons. "i'll go up and get your presents, joseph," she ses; and she ran upstairs afore anybody could stop her. joseph sat there as if he was dazed, while everybody gave 'im good advice, and said 'ow thankful he ought to be that the cook 'ad saved him by 'is dreaming. and by and by emily came downstairs agin with the presents he 'ad given 'er and put them on the table in front of 'im. "there's everything there but that little silver brooch you gave me, joseph," she ses, "and i lost that the other evening when i was out with--with--for a walk." joseph tried to speak, but couldn't. "it was six-and-six, 'cos i was with you when you bought it," ses emily; "and as i've lost it, it's on'y fair i should pay for it." she put down 'arf a sovereign with the presents, and joseph sat staring at it as if he 'ad never seen one afore. "and you needn't mind about the change, joseph," ses emily; "that'll 'elp to make up for your disappointment." old bill tried to turn things off with a bit of a laugh. "why, you're made o' money, emily," he ses. "ah! i haven't told you yet," ses emily, smiling at him; "that's a little surprise i was keeping for you. aunt emma--pore aunt emma, i should say--died while you was away and left me all 'er furniture and two hundred pounds." joseph made a choking noise in his throat and then 'e got up, leaving the presents and the 'arf-sovereign on the table, and stood by the door, staring at them. "good-night all," he ses. then he went to the front door and opened it, and arter standing there a moment came back as though he 'ad forgotten something. "are you coming along now?" he ses to the cook. "not just yet," ses the cook, very quick. "i'll wait outside for you, then," ses joseph, grinding his teeth. "don't be long." [illustration: angels' visits] angels' visits mr. william jobling leaned against his door-post, smoking. the evening air, pleasant in its coolness after the heat of the day, caressed his shirt-sleeved arms. children played noisily in the long, dreary street, and an organ sounded faintly in the distance. to mr. jobling, who had just consumed three herrings and a pint and a half of strong tea, the scene was delightful. he blew a little cloud of smoke in the air, and with half-closed eyes corrected his first impression as to the tune being played round the corner. "bill!" cried the voice of mrs. jobling, who was washing-up in the tiny scullery. "'ullo!" responded mr. jobling, gruffly. "you've been putting your wet teaspoon in the sugar-basin, and--well, i declare, if you haven't done it again." "done what?" inquired her husband, hunching his shoulders. "putting your herringy knife in the butter. well, you can eat it now; i won't. a lot of good me slaving from morning to night and buying good food when you go and spoil it like that." mr. jobling removed the pipe from his mouth. "not so much of it," he commanded. "i like butter with a little flavor to it. as for your slaving all day, you ought to come to the works for a week; you'd know what slavery was then." mrs. jobling permitted herself a thin, derisive cackle, drowned hurriedly in a clatter of tea-cups as her husband turned and looked angrily up the little passage. "nag! nag! nag!" said mr. jobling. he paused expectantly. "nag! nag! nag! from morning till night," he resumed. "it begins in the morning and it goes on till bedtime." "it's a pity--" began mrs. jobling. "hold your tongue," said her husband, sternly; "i don't want any of your back answers. it goes on all day long up to bedtime, and last night i laid awake for two hours listening to you nagging in your sleep." he paused again. "nagging in your sleep," he repeated. there was no reply. "two hours!" he said, invitingly; "two whole hours, without a stop." "i 'ope it done you good," retorted his wife. "i noticed you did wipe one foot when you come in to-night." mr. jobling denied the charge hotly, and, by way of emphasizing his denial, raised his foot and sent the mat flying along the passage. honor satisfied, he returned to the door-post and, looking idly out on the street again, exchanged a few desultory remarks with mr. joe brown, who, with his hands in his pockets, was balancing himself with great skill on the edge of the curb opposite. his gaze wandered from mr. brown to a young and rather stylishly-dressed woman who was approaching--a tall, good-looking girl with a slight limp, whose hat encountered unspoken feminine criticism at every step. their eyes met as she came up, and recognition flashed suddenly into both faces. "fancy seeing you here!" said the girl. "well, this is a pleasant surprise." she held out her hand, and mr. jobling, with a fierce glance at mr. brown, who was not behaving, shook it respectfully. "i'm so glad to see you again," said the girl; "i know i didn't thank you half enough the other night, but i was too upset." "don't mention it," said mr. jobling, in a voice the humility of which was in strong contrast to the expression with which he was regarding the antics of mr. brown, as that gentleman wafted kisses to the four winds of heaven. there was a pause, broken by a short, dry cough from the parlor window. the girl, who was almost touching the sill, started nervously. "it's only my missis," said mr. jobling. the girl turned and gazed in at the window. mr. jobling, with the stem of his pipe, performed a brief ceremony of introduction. "good-evening," said mrs. jobling, in a thin voice. "i don't know who you are, but i s'pose my 'usband does." "i met him the other night," said the girl, with a bright smile; "i slipped on a piece of peel or something and fell, and he was passing and helped me up." mrs. jobling coughed again. "first i've heard of it," she remarked. "i forgot to tell you," said mr. jobling, carelessly. "i hope you wasn't hurt much, miss?" "i twisted my ankle a bit, that's all," said the girl; "it's painful when i walk." "painful now?" inquired mr. jobling, in concern. the girl nodded. "a little; not very." mr. jobling hesitated; the contortions of mr. brown's face as he strove to make a wink carry across the road would have given pause to a bolder man; and twice his wife's husky little cough had sounded from the window. "i s'pose you wouldn't like to step inside and rest for five minutes?" he said, slowly. "oh, thank you," said the girl, gratefully; "i should like to. it--it really is very painful. i ought not to have walked so far." she limped in behind mr. jobling, and after bowing to mrs. jobling sank into the easy-chair with a sigh of relief and looked keenly round the room. mr. jobling disappeared, and his wife flushed darkly as he came back with his coat on and his hair wet from combing. an awkward silence ensued. "how strong your husband is!" said the girl, clasping her hands impulsively. "is he?" said mrs. jobling. "he lifted me up as though i had been a feather," responded the girl. "he just put his arm round my waist and had me on my feet before i knew where i was." "round your waist?" repeated mrs. jobling. "where else should i put it?" broke in her husband, with sudden violence. his wife made no reply, but sat gazing in a hostile fashion at the bold, dark eyes and stylish hat of the visitor. "i should like to be strong," said the latter, smiling agreeably over at mr. jobling. "when i was younger," said that gratified man, "i can assure you i didn't know my own strength, as the saying is. i used to hurt people just in play like, without knowing it. i used to have a hug like a bear." "fancy being hugged like that!" said the girl. "how awful!" she added, hastily, as she caught the eye of the speechless mrs. jobling. "like a bear," repeated mr. jobling, highly pleased at the impression he had made. "i'm pretty strong now; there ain't many as i'm afraid of." he bent his arm and thoughtfully felt his biceps, and mrs. jobling almost persuaded herself that she must be dreaming, as she saw the girl lean forward and pinch mr. jobling's arm. mr. jobling was surprised too, but he had the presence of mind to bend the other. "enormous!" said the girl, "and as hard as iron. what a prize-fighter you'd have made!" "he don't want to do no prize-fighting," said mrs. jobling, recovering her speech; "he's a respectable married man." mr. jobling shook his head over lost opportunities. "i'm too old," he remarked. "he's forty-seven," said his wife. "best age for a man, in my opinion," said the girl; "just entering his prime. and a man is as old as he feels, you know." mr. jobling nodded acquiescence and observed that he always felt about twenty-two; a state of affairs which he ascribed to regular habits, and a great partiality for the company of young people. "i was just twenty-two when i married," he mused, "and my missis was just six months--" "you leave my age alone," interrupted his wife, trembling with passion. "i'm not so fond of telling my age to strangers." "you told mine," retorted mr. jobling, "and nobody asked you to do that. very free you was in coming out with mine." "i ain't the only one that's free," breathed the quivering mrs. jobling. "i 'ope your ankle is better?" she added, turning to the visitor. "much better, thank you," was the reply. "got far to go?" queried mrs. jobling. the girl nodded. "but i shall take a tram at the end of the street," she said, rising. mr. jobling rose too, and all that he had ever heard or read about etiquette came crowding into his mind. a weekly journal patronized by his wife had three columns regularly, but he taxed his memory in vain for any instructions concerning brown-eyed strangers with sprained ankles. he felt that the path of duty led to the tram-lines. in a somewhat blundering fashion he proffered his services; the girl accepted them as a matter of course. mrs. jobling, with lips tightly compressed, watched them from the door. the girl, limping slightly, walked along with the utmost composure, but the bearing of her escort betokened a mind fully conscious of the scrutiny of the street. he returned in about half an hour, and having this time to run the gauntlet of the street alone, entered with a mien which caused his wife's complaints to remain unspoken. the cough of mr. brown, a particularly contagious one, still rang in his ears, and he sat for some time in fierce silence. "i see her on the tram," he said, at last "her name's robinson--miss robinson." "in-deed!" said his wife. "seems a nice sort o' girl," said mr. jobling, carelessly. "she's took quite a fancy to you." "i'm sure i'm much obliged to her," retorted his wife. [illustration: "he astonished mrs. jobling next day by the gift of a geranium."] "so i--so i asked her to give you a look in now and then," continued mr. jobling, filling his pipe with great care, "and she said she would. it'll cheer you up a bit." mrs. jobling bit her lip and, although she had never felt more fluent in her life, said nothing. her husband lit his pipe, and after a rapid glance in her direction took up an old newspaper and began to read. he astonished mrs. jobling next day by the gift of a geranium in full bloom. surprise impeded her utterance, but she thanked him at last with some warmth, and after a little deliberation decided to put it in the bedroom. mr. jobling looked like a man who has suddenly discovered a flaw in his calculations. "i was thinking of the front parlor winder," he said, at last. "it'll get more sun upstairs," said his wife. she took the pot in her arms, and disappeared. her surprise when she came down again and found mr. jobling rearranging the furniture, and even adding a choice ornament or two from the kitchen, was too elaborate to escape his notice. "been going to do it for some time," he remarked. mrs. jobling left the room and strove with herself in the scullery. she came back pale of face and with a gleam in her eye which her husband was too busy to notice. "it'll never look much till we get a new hearthrug," she said, shaking her head. "they've got one at jackson's that would be just the thing; and they've got a couple of tall pink vases that would brighten up the fireplace wonderful. they're going for next to nothing, too." mr. jobling's reply took the form of uncouth and disagreeable growlings. after that phase had passed he sat for some time with his hand placed protectingly in his trouser-pocket. finally, in a fierce voice, he inquired the cost. ten minutes later, in a state fairly evenly divided between pleasure and fury, mrs. jobling departed with the money. wild yearnings for courage that would enable her to spend the money differently, and confront the dismayed mr. jobling in a new hat and jacket, possessed her on the way; but they were only yearnings, twenty-five years' experience of her husband's temper being a sufficient safeguard. miss robinson came in the day after as they were sitting down to tea. mr. jobling, who was in his shirt-sleeves, just had time to disappear as the girl passed the window. his wife let her in, and after five remarks about the weather sat listening in grim pleasure to the efforts of mr. jobling to find his coat. he found it at last, under a chair cushion, and, somewhat red of face, entered the room and greeted the visitor. conversation was at first rather awkward. the girl's eyes wandered round the room and paused in astonishment on the pink vases; the beauty of the rug also called for notice. "yes, they're pretty good," said mr. jobling, much gratified by her approval. "beautiful," murmured the girl. "what a thing it is to have money!" she said, wistfully. "i could do with some," said mr. jobling, with jocularity. he helped himself to bread and butter and began to discuss money and how to spend it. his ideas favored retirement and a nice little place in the country. "i wonder you don't do it," said the girl, softly. mr. jobling laughed. "gingell and watson don't pay on those lines," he said. "we do the work and they take the money." "it's always the way," said the girl, indignantly; "they have all the luxuries, and the men who make the money for them all the hardships. i seem to know the name gingell and watson. i wonder where i've seen it?" "in the paper, p'r'aps," said mr. jobling. "advertising?" asked the girl. mr. jobling shook his head. "robbery," he replied, seriously. "it was in last week's paper. somebody got to the safe and got away with nine hundred pounds in gold and bank-notes." "i remember now," said the girl, nodding. "did they catch them?" "no, and not likely to," was the reply. miss robinson opened her big eyes and looked round with an air of pretty defiance. "i am glad of it," she said. "glad?" said mrs. jobling, involuntarily breaking a self-imposed vow of silence. "glad?" the girl nodded. "i like pluck," she said, with a glance in the direction of mr. jobling; "and, besides, whoever took it had as much right to it as gingell and watson; they didn't earn it." mrs. jobling, appalled at such ideas, glanced at her husband to see how he received them. "the man's a thief," she said, with great energy, "and he won't enjoy his gains." "i dare say--i dare say he'll enjoy it right enough," said mr. jobling, "if he ain't caught, that is." "i believe he is the sort of man i should like," declared miss robinson, obstinately. "i dare say," said mrs. jobling; "and i've no doubt he'd like you. birds of a--" "that'll do," said her husband, peremptorily; "that's enough about it. the guv'nors can afford to lose it; that's one comfort." he leaned over as the girl asked for more sugar and dropped a spoonful in her cup, expressing surprise that she should like her tea so sweet. miss robinson, denying the sweetness, proffered her cup in proof, and mrs. jobling sat watching with blazing eyes the antics of her husband as he sipped at it. "sweets to the sweet," he said, gallantly, as he handed it back. miss robinson pouted, and, raising the cup to her lips, gazed ardently at him over the rim. mr. jobling, who certainly felt not more than twenty-two that evening, stole her cake and received in return a rap from a teaspoon. mr. jobling retaliated, and mrs. jobling, unable to eat, sat looking on in helpless fury at little arts of fascination which she had discarded--at mr. jobling's earnest request--soon after their marriage. [illustration: "they offered mrs. jobling her choice of at least a hundred plans for bringing him to his senses."] by dint of considerable self-control, aided by an occasional glance from her husband, she managed to preserve her calm until he returned from seeing the visitor to her tram. then her pent-up feelings found vent. quietly scornful at first, she soon waxed hysterical over his age and figure. tears followed as she bade him remember what a good wife she had been to him, loudly claiming that any other woman would have poisoned him long ago. speedily finding that tears were of no avail, and that mr. jobling seemed to regard them rather as a tribute to his worth than otherwise, she gave way to fury, and, in a fine, but unpunctuated passage, told him her exact opinion of miss robinson. "it's no good carrying on like that," said mr. jobling, magisterially, "and, what's more, i won't have it." "walking into my house and making eyes at my 'usband," stormed his wife. "so long as i don't make eyes at her there's no harm done," retorted mr. jobling. "i can't help her taking a fancy to me, poor thing." "i'd poor thing her," said his wife. "she's to be pitied," said mr. jobling, sternly. "i know how she feels. she can't help herself, but she'll get over it in time. i don't suppose she thinks for a moment we have noticed her--her--her liking for me, and i'm not going to have her feelings hurt." "what about my feelings?" demanded his wife. "_you_ have got me," mr. jobling reminded her. the nine points of the law was mrs. jobling's only consolation for the next few days. neighboring matrons, exchanging sympathy for information, wished, strangely enough, that mr. jobling was their husband. failing that they offered mrs. jobling her choice of at least a hundred plans for bringing him to his senses. mr. jobling, who was a proud man, met their hostile glances as he passed to and from his work with scorn, until a day came when the hostility vanished and gave place to smiles. never so many people in the street, he thought, as he returned from work; certainly never so many smiles. people came hurriedly from their back premises to smile at him, and, as he reached his door, mr. joe brown opposite had all the appearance of a human sunbeam. tired of smiling faces, he yearned for that of his wife. she came out of the kitchen and met him with a look of sly content. the perplexed mr. jobling eyed her morosely. "what are you laughing at me for?" he demanded. "i wasn't laughing at you," said his wife. she went back into the kitchen and sang blithely as she bustled over the preparations for tea. her voice was feeble, but there was a triumphant effectiveness about the high notes which perplexed the listener sorely. he seated himself in the new easy-chair--procured to satisfy the supposed aesthetic tastes of miss robinson--and stared at the window. "you seem very happy all of a sudden," he growled, as his wife came in with the tray. "well, why shouldn't i be?" inquired mrs. jobling. "i've got everything to make me so." mr. jobling looked at her in undisguised amazement. "new easy-chair, new vases, and a new hearthrug," explained his wife, looking round the room. "did you order that little table you said you would?" "yes," growled mr. jobling. "pay for it?" inquired his wife, with a trace of anxiety. "yes," said mr. jobling again. mrs. jobling's face relaxed. "i shouldn't like to lose it at the last moment," she said. "you 'ave been good to me lately, bill; buying all these nice things. there's not many women have got such a thoughtful husband as what i have." "have you gone dotty? or what?" inquired her bewildered husband. "it's no wonder people like you," pursued mrs. jobling, ignoring the question, and smiling again as she placed three chairs at the table. "i'll wait a minute or two before i soak the tea; i expect miss robinson won't be long, and she likes it fresh." mr. jobling, to conceal his amazement and to obtain a little fresh air walked out of the room and opened the front door. "cheer oh!" said the watchful mr. brown, with a benignant smile. mr. jobling scowled at him. "it's all right," said mr. brown. "you go in and set down; i'm watching for her." he nodded reassuringly, and, not having curiosity enough to accept the other's offer and step across the road and see what he would get, shaded his eyes with his hand and looked with exaggerated anxiety up the road. mr. jobling, heavy of brow, returned to the parlor and looked hard at his wife. "she's late," said mrs. jobling, glancing at the clock. "i do hope she's all right, but i should feel anxious about her if she was my gal. it's a dangerous life." "dangerous life!" said mr. jobling, roughly. "what's a dangerous life?" "why, hers," replied his wife, with a nervous smile. "joe brown told me. he followed her 'ome last night, and this morning he found out all about her." the mention of mr. brown's name caused mr. jobling at first to assume an air of indifference; but curiosity overpowered him. "what lies has he been telling?" he demanded. "i don't think it's a lie, bill," said his wife, mildly. "putting two and two--" "what did he say?" cried mr. jobling, raising his voice. "he said, 'she--she's a lady detective,'" stammered mrs. jobling, putting her handkerchief to her unruly mouth. "a tec!" repeated her husband. "a lady tec?" mrs. jobling nodded. "yes, bill. she--she--she--" "well?" said mr. jobling, in exasperation. "she's being employed by gingell and watson," said his wife. mr. jobling sprang to his feet, and with scarlet face and clinched fists strove to assimilate the information and all its meaning. "what--what did she come here for? do you mean to tell me she thinks _i_ took the money?" he said, huskily, after a long pause. mrs. jobling bent before the storm. "i think she took a fancy to you, bill," she said, timidly. mr. jobling appeared to swallow something; then he took a step nearer to her. "you let me see you laugh again, that's all," he said, fiercely. "as for that jezzybill--" "there she is," said his wife, as a knock sounded at the door. "don't say anything to hurt her feelings, bill. you said she was to be pitied. and it must be a hard life to 'ave to go round and flatter old married men. i shouldn't like it." mr. jobling, past speech, stood and glared at her. then, with an inarticulate cry, he rushed to the front door and flung it open. miss robinson, fresh and bright, stood smiling outside. within easy distance a little group of neighbors were making conversation, while opposite mr. brown awaited events. "what d'you want?" demanded mr. jobling, harshly. miss robinson, who had put out her hand, drew it back and gave him a swift glance. his red face and knitted brows told their own story. "oh!" she said, with a winning smile, "will you please tell mrs. jobling that i can't come to tea with her this evening?" "isn't there anything else you'd like to say?" inquired mr. jobling, disdainfully, as she turned away. the girl paused and appeared to reflect. "you can say that i am sorry to miss an amusing evening," she said, regarding him steadily. "good-by." mr. jobling slammed the door. [illustration: a circular tour] a circular tour illness? said the night watchman, slowly. yes, sailormen get ill sometimes, but not 'aving the time for it that other people have, and there being no doctors at sea, they soon pick up agin. ashore, if a man's ill he goes to a horse-pittle and 'as a nice nurse to wait on 'im; at sea the mate comes down and tells 'im that there is nothing the matter with 'im, and asks 'im if he ain't ashamed of 'imself. the only mate i ever knew that showed any feeling was one who 'ad been a doctor and 'ad gone to sea to better 'imself. he didn't believe in medicine; his idea was to cut things out, and he was so kind and tender, and so fond of 'is little box of knives and saws, that you wouldn't ha' thought anybody could 'ave had the 'art to say "no" to him. but they did. i remember 'im getting up at four o'clock one morning to cut a man's leg off, and at ha'-past three the chap was sitting up aloft with four pairs o' trousers on and a belaying-pin in his 'and. one chap i knew, joe summers by name, got so sick o' work one v'y'ge that he went mad. not dangerous mad, mind you. just silly. one thing he did was to pretend that the skipper was 'is little boy, and foller 'im up unbeknown and pat his 'ead. at last, to pacify him, the old man pretended that he was 'is little boy, and a precious handful of a boy he was too, i can tell you. fust of all he showed 'is father 'ow they wrestled at school, and arter that he showed 'im 'ow he 'arf killed another boy in fifteen rounds. leastways he was going to, but arter seven rounds joe's madness left 'im all of a sudden and he was as right as ever he was. sailormen are more frequent ill ashore than at sea; they've got more time for it, i s'pose. old sam small, a man you may remember by name as a pal o' mine, got ill once, and, like most 'ealthy men who get a little something the matter with 'em, he made sure 'e was dying. he was sharing a bedroom with ginger dick and peter russet at the time, and early one morning he woke up groaning with a chill or something which he couldn't account for, but which ginger thought might ha' been partly caused through 'im sleeping in the fireplace. "is that you, sam?" ses ginger, waking up with the noise and rubbing his eyes. "wot's the matter?" "i'm dying," ses sam, with another awful groan. "good-by, ginger." "goo'-by," ses ginger, turning over and falling fast asleep agin. old sam picked 'imself up arter two or three tries, and then he staggered over to peter russet's bed and sat on the foot of it, groaning, until peter woke up very cross and tried to push 'im off with his feet. "i'm dying, peter," ses sam, and 'e rolled over and buried his face in the bed-clo'es and kicked. peter russet, who was a bit scared, sat up in bed and called for ginger, and arter he 'ad called pretty near a dozen times ginger 'arf woke up and asked 'im wot was the matter. "poor old sam's dying," ses peter. "i know," ses ginger, laying down and cuddling into the piller agin. "he told me just now. i've bid 'im good-by." peter russet asked 'im where his 'art was, but ginger was asleep agin. then peter sat up in bed and tried to comfort sam, and listened while 'e told 'im wot it felt like to die. how 'e was 'ot and cold all over, burning and shivering, with pains in his inside that he couldn't describe if 'e tried. "it'll soon be over, sam," ses peter, kindly, "and all your troubles will be at an end. while me and ginger are knocking about at sea trying to earn a crust o' bread to keep ourselves alive, you'll be quiet and at peace." sam groaned. "i don't like being too quiet," he ses. "i was always one for a bit o' fun--innercent fun." peter coughed. "you and ginger 'av been good pals," ses sam; "it's hard to go and leave you." "we've all got to go some time or other, sam," ses peter, soothing-like. "it's a wonder to me, with your habits, that you've lasted as long as you 'ave." "my _habits_?" ses sam, sitting up all of a sudden. "why, you monkey-faced son of a sea-cook, for two pins i'd chuck you out of the winder." "don't talk like that on your death-bed," ses peter, very shocked. sam was going to answer 'im sharp agin, but just then 'e got a pain which made 'im roll about on the bed and groan to such an extent that ginger woke up agin and got out o' bed. "pore old sam!" he ses, walking across the room and looking at 'im. "'ave you got any pain anywhere?" "_pain_?" ses sam. "pain? i'm a mask o' pains all over." ginger and peter looked at 'im and shook their 'eds, and then they went a little way off and talked about 'im in whispers. "he looks 'arf dead now," ses peter, coming back and staring at 'im. "let's take 'is clothes off, ginger; it's more decent to die with 'em off." "i think i'll 'ave a doctor," ses sam, in a faint voice. "you're past doctors, sam," ses ginger, in a kind voice. "better 'ave your last moments in peace," ses peter, "and keep your money in your trouser-pockets." "you go and fetch a doctor, you murderers," ses sam, groaning, as peter started to undress 'im. "go on, else i'll haunt you with my ghost." ginger tried to talk to 'im about the sin o' wasting money, but it was all no good, and arter telling peter wot to do in case sam died afore he come back, he went off. he was gone about 'arf an hour, and then he come back with a sandy-'aired young man with red eyelids and a black bag. "am i dying, sir?" ses sam, arter the doctor 'ad listened to his lungs and his 'art and prodded 'im all over. "we're all dying," ses the doctor, "only some of us'll go sooner than others." "will he last the day, sir?" ses ginger. the doctor looked at sam agin, and sam held 'is breath while 'e waited for him to answer. "yes," ses the doctor at last, "if he does just wot i tell him and takes the medicine i send 'im." he wasn't in the room 'arf an hour altogether, and he charged pore sam a shilling; but wot 'urt sam even more than that was to hear 'im go off downstairs whistling as cheerful as if there wasn't a dying man within a 'undred miles. peter and ginger dick took turns to be with sam that morning, but in the arternoon the landlady's mother, an old lady who was almost as fat as sam 'imself, came up to look arter 'im a bit. she sat on a chair by the side of 'is bed and tried to amuse 'im by telling 'im of all the death- beds she'd been at, and partikler of one man, the living image of sam, who passed away in his sleep. it was past ten o'clock when peter and ginger came 'ome, but they found pore sam still awake and sitting up in bed holding 'is eyes open with his fingers. [illustration: "she asked 'im whether 'e'd got a fancy for any partikler spot to be buried in."] sam had another shilling's-worth the next day, and 'is medicine was changed for the worse. if anything he seemed a trifle better, but the landlady's mother, wot came up to nurse 'im agin, said it was a bad sign, and that people often brightened up just afore the end. she asked 'im whether 'e'd got a fancy for any partikler spot to be buried in, and, talking about wot a lot o' people 'ad been buried alive, said she'd ask the doctor to cut sam's 'ead off to prevent mistakes. she got quite annoyed with sam for saying, supposing there _was_ a mistake and he came round in the middle of it, how'd he feel? and said there was no satisfying some people, do wot you would. at the end o' six days sam was still alive and losing a shilling a day, to say nothing of buying 'is own beef-tea and such-like. ginger said it was fair highway robbery, and tried to persuade sam to go to a 'orsepittle, where he'd 'ave lovely nurses to wait on 'im hand and foot, and wouldn't keep 'is best friends awake of a night making 'orrible noises. sam didn't take kindly to the idea at fust, but as the doctor forbid 'im to get up, although he felt much better, and his money was wasting away, he gave way at last, and at seven o'clock one evening he sent ginger off to fetch a cab to take 'im to the london horsepittle. sam said something about putting 'is clothes on, but peter russet said the horsepittle would be more likely to take him in if he went in the blanket and counterpane, and at last sam gave way. ginger and peter helped 'im downstairs, and the cabman laid hold o' one end o' the blanket as they got to the street-door, under the idea that he was helping, and very near gave sam another chill. "keep your hair on," he ses, as sam started on 'im. "it'll be three-and- six for the fare, and i'll take the money now." "you'll 'ave it when you get there," ses ginger. "i'll 'ave it now," ses the cabman. "i 'ad a fare die on the way once afore." ginger--who was minding sam's money for 'im because there wasn't a pocket in the counterpane--paid 'im, and the cab started. it jolted and rattled over the stones, but sam said the air was doing 'im good. he kept 'is pluck up until they got close to the horsepittle, and then 'e got nervous. and 'e got more nervous when the cabman got down off 'is box and put his 'ed in at the winder and spoke to 'im. "'ave you got any partikler fancy for the london horsepittle?" he ses. "no," ses sam. "why?" "well, i s'pose it don't matter, if wot your mate ses is true--that you're dying," ses the cabman. "wot d'ye mean?" says sam. "nothing," ses the cabman; "only, fust and last, i s'pose i've driven five 'undred people to that 'orsepittle, and only one ever came out agin--and he was smuggled out in a bread-basket." sam's flesh began to creep all over. "it's a pity they don't 'ave the same rules as charing cross horsepittle," ses the cabman. "the doctors 'ave five pounds apiece for every patient that gets well there, and the consequence is they ain't 'ad the blinds down for over five months." "drive me there," ses sam. "it's a long way," ses the cabman, shaking his 'ed, "and it 'ud cost you another 'arf dollar. s'pose you give the london a try?" "you drive to charing cross," ses sam, telling ginger to give 'im the 'arf-dollar. "and look sharp; these things ain't as warm as they might be." the cabman turned his 'orse round and set off agin, singing. the cab stopped once or twice for a little while, and then it stopped for quite a long time, and the cabman climbed down off 'is box and came to the winder agin. "i'm sorry, mate," he ses, "but did you see me speak to that party just now?" "the one you flicked with your whip?" ses ginger. "no; he was speaking to me," ses the cabman. "the last one, i mean." "wot about it?" ses peter. "he's the under-porter at the horsepittle," ses the cabman, spitting; "and he tells me that every bed is bung full, and two patients apiece in some of 'em." "i don't mind sleeping two in a bed," ses sam, who was very tired and cold. "no," ses the cabman, looking at 'im; "but wot about the other one?" "well, what's to be done?" ses peter. "you might go to guy's," ses the cabman; "that's as good as charing cross." "i b'lieve you're telling a pack o' lies," ses ginger. "come out o' my cab," ses the cabman, very fierce. "come on, all of you. out you get." ginger and peter was for getting out, but sam wouldn't 'ear of it. it was bad enough being wrapped up in a blanket in a cab, without being turned out in 'is bare feet on the pavement, and at last ginger apologized to the cabman by saying 'e supposed if he was a liar he couldn't 'elp it. the cabman collected three shillings more to go to guy's 'orsepittle, and, arter a few words with ginger, climbed up on 'is box and drove off agin. they were all rather tired of the cab by this time, and, going over waterloo bridge, ginger began to feel uncommon thirsty, and, leaning out of the winder, he told the cabman to pull up for a drink. he was so long about it that ginger began to think he was bearing malice, but just as he was going to tell 'im agin, the cab pulled up in a quiet little street opposite a small pub. ginger dick and peter went in and 'ad something and brought one out for sam. they 'ad another arter that, and ginger, getting 'is good temper back agin, asked the cabman to 'ave one. "look lively about it, ginger," ses sam, very sharp. "you forget 'ow ill i am." ginger said they wouldn't be two seconds, and, the cabman calling a boy to mind his 'orse, they went inside. it was a quiet little place, but very cosey, and sam, peeping out of the winder, could see all three of 'em leaning against the bar and making themselves comfortable. twice he made the boy go in to hurry them up, and all the notice they took was to go on at the boy for leaving the horse. pore old sam sat there hugging 'imself in the bed-clo'es, and getting wilder and wilder. he couldn't get out of the cab, and 'e couldn't call to them for fear of people coming up and staring at 'im. ginger, smiling all over with 'appiness, had got a big cigar on and was pretending to pinch the barmaid's flowers, and peter and the cabman was talking to some other chaps there. the only change sam 'ad was when the boy walked the 'orse up and down the road. he sat there for an hour and then 'e sent the boy in agin. this time the cabman lost 'is temper, and, arter chasing the boy up the road, gave a young feller twopence to take 'is place and promised 'im another twopence when he came out. sam tried to get a word with 'im as 'e passed, but he wouldn't listen, and it was pretty near 'arf an hour later afore they all came out, talking and laughing. "now for the 'orsepittle," ses ginger, opening the door. "come on, peter; don't keep pore old sam waiting all night." "'arf a tic," ses the cabman, "'arf a tic; there's five shillings for waiting, fust." "_wot_?" ses ginger, staring at 'im. "arter giving you all them drinks?" "five shillings," ses the cabman; "two hours' waiting at half a crown an hour. that's the proper charge." ginger thought 'e was joking at fust, and when he found 'e wasn't he called 'im all the names he could think of, while peter russet stood by smiling and trying to think where 'e was and wot it was all about. "pay 'im the five bob, ginger, and 'ave done with it," ses pore sam, at last. "i shall never get to the horsepittle at this rate." "cert'inly not," ses ginger, "not if we stay 'ere all night." "pay 'im the five bob," ses sam, raising 'is voice; "it's my money." "you keep quiet," ses ginger, "and speak when your spoke to. get inside, peter." peter, wot was standing by blinking and smiling, misunderstood 'im, and went back inside the pub. ginger went arter 'im to fetch 'im back, and hearing a noise turned round and saw the cabman pulling sam out o' the cab. he was just in time to shove 'im back agin, and for the next two or three minutes 'im and the cabman was 'ard at it. sam was too busy holding 'is clothes on to do much, and twice the cabman got 'im 'arf out, and twice ginger got him back agin and bumped 'im back in 'is seat and shut the door. then they both stopped and took breath. "we'll see which gets tired fust," ses ginger. "hold the door inside, sam." the cabman looked at 'im, and then 'e climbed up on to 'is seat and, just as ginger ran back for peter russet, drove off at full speed. pore sam leaned back in 'is seat panting and trying to wrap 'imself up better in the counterpane, which 'ad got torn in the struggle. they went through street arter street, and 'e was just thinking of a nice warm bed and a kind nurse listening to all 'is troubles when 'e found they was going over london bridge. "you've passed it," he ses, putting his 'ead out of the winder. the cabman took no notice, and afore sam could think wot to make of it they was in the whitechapel road, and arter that, although sam kept putting his 'ead out of the winder and asking 'im questions, they kept going through a lot o' little back streets until 'e began to think the cabman 'ad lost 'is way. they stopped at last in a dark little road, in front of a brick wall, and then the cabman got down and opened a door and led his 'orse and cab into a yard. "do you call this guy's horsepittle?" ses sam. "hullo!" ses the cabman. "why, i thought i put you out o' my cab once." "i'll give you five minutes to drive me to the 'orsepittle," ses sam. "arter that i shall go for the police." "all right," ses the cabman, taking his 'orse out and leading it into a stable. "mind you don't catch cold." he lighted a lantern and began to look arter the 'orse, and pore sam sat there getting colder and colder and wondering wot 'e was going to do. "i shall give you in charge for kidnapping me," he calls out very loud. "kidnapping?" ses the cabman. "who do you think wants to kidnap you? the gate's open, and you can go as soon as you like." sam climbed out of the cab, and holding up the counterpane walked across the yard in 'is bare feet to the stable. "well, will you drive me 'ome?" he ses. "cert'inly not," ses the cabman; "i'm going 'ome myself now. it's time you went, 'cos i'm going to lock up." "'ow can i go like this?" ses sam, bursting with passion. "ain't you got any sense?" "well, wot are you going to do?" ses the cabman, picking 'is teeth with a bit o' straw. "wot would you do if you was me?" ses sam, calming down a bit and trying to speak civil. [illustration: "'all right,' ses the cabman, taking his 'orse out and leading it into a stable. 'mind you don't catch cold.'"] "well, if i was you," said the cabman, speaking very slow, "i should be more perlite to begin with; you accused me just now--me, a 'ard-working man--o' kidnapping you." "it was only my fun," ses sam, very quick. "i ain't kidnapping you, am i?" ses the cabman. "cert'inly not," ses sam. "well, then," ses the cabman, "if i was you i should pay 'arf a crown for a night's lodging in this nice warm stable, and in the morning i should ask the man it belongs to--that's me--to go up to my lodging with a letter, asking for a suit o' clothes and eleven-and-six." "eleven-and-six?" ses sam, staring. "five bob for two hours' wait," ses the cabman, "four shillings for the drive here, and 'arf a crown for the stable. that's fair, ain't it?" sam said it was--as soon as he was able to speak--and then the cabman gave 'im a truss of straw to lay on and a rug to cover 'im up with. and then, calling 'imself a fool for being so tender-'earted, he left sam the lantern, and locked the stable-door and went off. it seemed like a 'orrid dream to sam, and the only thing that comforted 'im was the fact that he felt much better. his illness seemed to 'ave gone, and arter hunting round the stable to see whether 'e could find anything to eat, 'e pulled the rug over him and went to sleep. he was woke up at six o'clock in the morning by the cabman opening the door. there was a lovely smell o' hot tea from a tin he 'ad in one 'and, and a lovelier smell still from a plate o' bread and butter and bloaters in the other. sam sniffed so 'ard that at last the cabman noticed it, and asked 'im whether he 'ad got a cold. when sam explained he seemed to think a minute or two, and then 'e said that it was 'is breakfast, but sam could 'ave it if 'e liked to make up the money to a pound. "take it or leave it," he ses, as sam began to grumble. poor sam was so 'ungry he took it, and it done him good. by the time he 'ad eaten it he felt as right as ninepence, and 'e took such a dislike to the cabman 'e could hardly be civil to 'im. and when the cabman spoke about the letter to ginger dick he spoke up and tried to bate 'im down to seven-and-six. "you write that letter for a pound," ses the cabman, looking at 'im very fierce, "or else you can walk 'ome in your counterpane, with 'arf the boys in london follering you and trying to pull it off." sam rose 'im to seventeen-and-six, but it was all no good, and at last 'e wrote a letter to ginger dick, telling 'im to give the cabman a suit of clothes and a pound. "and look sharp about it," he ses. "i shall expect 'em in 'arf an hour." "you'll 'ave 'em, if you're lucky, when i come back to change 'orses at four o'clock," ses the cabman. "d'ye think i've got nothing to do but fuss about arter you?" "why not drive me back in the cab?" ses sam. "'cos i wasn't born yesterday," ses the cabman. he winked at sam, and then, whistling very cheerful, took his 'orse out and put it in the cab. he was so good-tempered that 'e got quite playful, and sam 'ad to tell him that when 'e wanted to 'ave his legs tickled with a straw he'd let 'im know. some people can't take a 'int, and, as the cabman wouldn't be'ave 'imself, sam walked into a shed that was handy and pulled the door to, and he stayed there until he 'eard 'im go back to the stable for 'is rug. it was only a yard or two from the shed to the cab, and, 'ardly thinking wot he was doing, sam nipped out and got into it and sat huddled up on the floor. he sat there holding 'is breath and not daring to move until the cabman 'ad shut the gate and was driving off up the road, and then 'e got up on the seat and lolled back out of sight. the shops were just opening, the sun was shining, and sam felt so well that 'e was thankful that 'e hadn't got to the horsepittle arter all. the cab was going very slow, and two or three times the cabman 'arf pulled up and waved his whip at people wot he thought wanted a cab, but at last an old lady and gentleman, standing on the edge of the curb with a big bag, held up their 'ands to 'im. the cab pulled in to the curb, and the old gentleman 'ad just got hold of the door and was trying to open it when he caught sight of sam. "why, you've got a fare," he ses. "no, sir," ses the cabman. "but i say you 'ave," ses the old gentleman. the cabman climbed down off 'is box and looked in at the winder, and for over two minutes he couldn't speak a word. he just stood there looking at sam and getting purpler and purpler about the face. "drive on, cabby," ses sam, "wot are you stopping for?" the cabman tried to tell 'im, but just then a policeman came walking up to see wot was the matter, and 'e got on the box agin and drove off. cabmen love policemen just about as much as cats love dogs, and he drove down two streets afore he stopped and got down agin to finish 'is remarks. "not so much talk, cabman," ses sam, who was beginning to enjoy 'imself, "else i shall call the police." "are you coming out o' my cab?" ses the cabman, "or 'ave i got to put you out?" "you put me out!" ses sam, who 'ad tied 'is clothes up with string while 'e was in the stable, and 'ad got his arms free. the cabman looked at 'im 'elpless for a moment, and then he got up and drove off agin. at fust sam thought 'e was going to drive back to the stable, and he clinched 'is teeth and made up 'is mind to 'ave a fight for it. then he saw that 'e was really being driven 'ome, and at last the cab pulled up in the next street to 'is lodgings, and the cabman, asking a man to give an eye to his 'orse, walked on with the letter. he was back agin in a few minutes, and sam could see by 'is face that something had 'appened. "they ain't been 'ome all night," he ses, sulky-like. "well, i shall 'ave to send the money on to you," ses sam, in a off-hand way. "unless you like to call for it." [illustration: "so long."] "i'll call for it, matey," ses the cabman, with a kind smile, as he took 'old of his 'orse and led it up to sam's lodgings. "i know i can trust you, but it'll save you trouble. but s'pose he's been on the drink and lost the money?" sam got out and made a dash for the door, which 'appened to be open. "it won't make no difference," he ses. "no difference?" ses the cabman, staring. "not to you, i mean," ses sam, shutting the door very slow. "so long." transcriber's note: italic text has been marked with _underscores_. please see the end of this book for further notes. old times on the upper mississippi [illustration: mouth of the wisconsin river. the ancient highway between the great lakes and the mississippi. this scene gives some idea of the multitude of islands which diversify both the wisconsin and the mississippi rivers.] old times on the upper mississippi the recollections of a steamboat pilot from to by george byron merrick [illustration] cleveland, ohio the arthur h. clark company copyright george byron merrick all rights reserved dedicated to the memory of my chiefs william h. hamilton, engineer, charles g. hargus, clerk, thomas burns, pilot, masters in their several professions. from each of them i learned something that has made life better worth living, the sum of which makes possible these reminiscences of a "cub" pilot. contents prelude chapter i early impressions chapter ii indians, dugouts, and wolves chapter iii on the levee at prescott chapter iv in the engine-room chapter v the engineer chapter vi the "mud" clerk--comparative honors chapter vii wooding up chapter viii the mate chapter ix the "old man" chapter x the pilots and their work chapter xi knowing the river chapter xii the art of steering chapter xiii an initiation chapter xiv early pilots chapter xv incidents of river life chapter xvi mississippi menus chapter xvii bars and barkeepers chapter xviii gamblers and gambling chapter xix steamboat racing chapter xx music and art chapter xxi steamboat bonanzas chapter xxii wild-cat money and town-sites chapter xxiii a pioneer steamboatman chapter xxiv a versatile commander; a wreck chapter xxv a stray nobleman chapter xxvi in war time chapter xxvii at fort ridgeley chapter xxviii improving the river chapter xxix killing steamboats chapter xxx living it over again appendix a. list of steamboats on the upper mississippi river, - b. opening of navigation at st. paul, - c. table of distances from st. louis d. improvement of the upper mississippi, - e. indian nomenclature and legends index illustrations mouth of the wisconsin river. the ancient highway between the great lakes and the mississippi. this scene gives some idea of the multitude of islands which diversify both the wisconsin and the mississippi rivers frontispiece prescott levee in . showing steamer "centennial" and the little hastings ferry, "plough boy." the double warehouse, showing five windows in the second story and four in the third, was the building in which the author lived when a boy prescott levee in . but one business building, one of the old merrick warehouses, left intact. dunbar's hall gutted by fire recently. the large steamboat warehouse next to it destroyed some years ago. all the shipping business gone to the railroad, which runs just back of the buildings shown alma, wisconsin. a typical river town in the fifties above trempealeau, wisconsin. in the middle foreground, at the head of the slough, is the site of the winter camp of nicolas perrot, in the winter of - , as identified in by hon. b. f. heuston and dr. reuben gold thwaites of the wisconsin state historical society daniel smith harris. steamboat captain, - captain thomas burns. pilot on the upper mississippi river from to . inspector of steamboats under president cleveland and president mckinley charles g. hargus. chief clerk on the "royal arch," "golden state," "fanny harris," "kate cassell" and many other fine steamers on the upper mississippi george b. merrick. "cub" pilot, typical portion of the upper mississippi. map of the river between cassville, wis., and guttenberg, iowa, showing the characteristic winding of the stream steamer "war eagle," ; tons steamer "milwaukee," ; tons winona, minnesota. the levee in the levee at st. paul, . showing the steamer "grey eagle" ( ; tons), capt. daniel smith harris, the fastest and best boat on the upper river, together with the "jeanette roberts" ( ; tons), and the "time and tide" ( ; tons), two minnesota river boats belonging to captain jean robert, an eccentric frenchman and successful steamboatman. (reproduced from an old negative in possession of mr. edward bromley of minneapolis, minn.) steamer "key city," ; tons steamer "northern light," ; tons facsimiles of early tickets and business card mcgregor, iowa. looking north, up the river alton, illinois. looking down the river _facing p._ red wing, minnesota. showing barn bluff in the background, with a glimpse of the river on the left bad axe (now genoa), wisconsin. scene of the last battle between the united states forces and the indians under chief black hawk, august , . the steamer "warrior," captain joseph throckmorton, with soldiers and artillery from fort crawford, prairie du chien, took an active and important part in this battle reed's landing, minnesota. at the foot of lake pepin. during the ice blockade in the lake, in the spring of each year before the advent of railroads to st. paul; all freight was unloaded at reed's landing, hauled by team to wacouta, at the head of the lake, where it was reloaded upon another steamboat for transportation to st. paul and other ports above the lake steamer "mary morton," ; tons. lying at the levee, la crosse, wisconsin. (from a negative made in .) steamer "arkansas," ; tons. with tow of four barges, capable of transporting , sacks-- , bushels of wheat per trip. the usual manner of carrying wheat in the early days, before the river traffic was destroyed by railroad competition map of the mississippi between st. louis and st. paul _facing p._ prelude the majesty and glory of the great river have departed; its glamour remains, fresh and undying, in the memories of those who, with mind's eye, still can see it as it was a half-century ago. its majesty was apparent in the mighty flood which then flowed throughout the season, scarcely diminished by the summer heat; its glory, in the great commerce which floated upon its bosom, the beginnings of mighty commonwealths yet to be. its glamour is that indefinable witchery with which memory clothes the commonplace of long ago, transfiguring the labors, cares, responsibilities, and dangers of steamboat life as it really was, into a midsummer night's dream of care-free, exhilarating experiences, and glorified achievement. of the river itself it may be said, that like the wild tribes which peopled its banks sixty years ago, civilization has been its undoing. the primeval forests which spread for hundreds of miles on either side, then caught and held the melting snows and falling rains of spring within spongy mosses which carpeted the earth; slowly, throughout the summer, were distilled the waters from myriad springs, and these, filling brooks and smaller rivers, feeders of the great river, maintained a mighty volume of water the season through. upon the disappearance of the forests, the melting snows and early rains having no holding grounds, are carried quickly to the river, which as quickly rises to an abnormal stage in the early part of the season, to be followed by a dearth which later reduces the mississippi to the dimensions of a second-rate stream, whereon navigation is impossible for great steamers, and arduous, disheartening and unprofitable for boats of any class. to most men of our day, the life of those who manned the steamers of that once mighty fleet is legendary, almost mythical. its story is unwritten. to the few participants who yet remain, it is but a memory. the boats themselves have disappeared, leaving no token. the masters and the mates, the pilots and the clerks, the engineers and the men of humbler station have likewise gone. of the thousands who contributed to give life and direction to the vessels themselves, a meager score of short biographies is all that history vouchsafes. the aim of the present volume is to tell something of these men, and of the boats that they made sentient by their knowledge and power; to relate something of the incidents of river life as seen by a boy during eight years of residence by the riverside, or in active service on the river itself. while it may not literally be claimed, "all of which i saw," it is with satisfaction, not unmixed with pride, that the writer can truthfully assert, "a part of which i was." g. b. m. the several quotations from "mark twain" which herein appear are from _life on the mississippi_ (copyright, ), by samuel l. clemens, permission for the use of which is kindly granted for the present purpose by the publishers, messrs. harper & brothers, new york. chapter i _early impressions_ descent from an ancestry whose members built and sailed ships from salem, newburyport, and nantucket two hundred years ago, and even down to the early days of the nineteenth century, ought to give an hereditary bias toward a sailor's life, on waters either salt or fresh. a score-and-a-half of men of my name have "died with their boots on" at sea, from the port of nantucket alone. they went for whales, and the whales got them. perhaps their fate should have discouraged the sea-going instinct, but perversely it had the opposite effect. a hundred men are lost out of gloucester every year, yet their boys are on the "banks" before they are fairly weaned. i was born at niles, michigan, on the historic st. joseph river, which in those days was of considerable importance commercially. scores of keel boats plied between south bend and the mouth of the river at st. joseph, on lake michigan. keel boats drifted down the river, and after unloading were towed back by little steamboats, about eighty feet long by eighteen feet beam. these were propelled by side wheels attached to a single shaft, driven by a horizontal engine of indifferent power. these steamers towed four "keels" upstream at the rate of five or six miles an hour. the former had no upper cabin answering to the "boiler deck" of the mississippi river boats--only a roof covering the main deck, with the passenger cabin aft, and the quarters of the crew forward of the boiler and engine. it was, i suppose, a quarter of a mile from my birthplace to the river bank where we boys of the neighborhood went to see the steamboats pass. in the opposite direction, around a sharp bend and across the low-lying, alluvial land, which comprised the home farm, the river was discernible a mile away. when a boat was seen coming up river, the alarm was given, and we little shavers of the neighborhood raced for the nearest point of view, a high bank of blue clay, rising probably seventy-five feet above the river. we used to think it was as many hundreds of feet; and what i now know as the quarter mile, then stretched away into interminable distances as it was measured by the stubby yet sturdy little legs of six-year-old runners. on the edge of this blue-clay bank, i received my first impressions in river piloting. my teacher in these matters was a man whom i greatly envied. kimball lyon lived in a house three times as large as that in which i was born. his father had left a big farm and a bank account of fabulous dimensions. we knew it was large, because "kim" never worked as other young men of twenty-five or thirty years did in those days. his mother always kept a "hired man", while kim toiled not; but he spun. it was not his riches, however, nor his immunity from toil, that common lot of other men, which excited the envy of the six-year-olds. he could, and did, play on the accordion. lying on his back in the shade and resting one corner of his instrument upon his bosom, with irresistible power and pathos he sang and played "a life on the ocean wave, a home on the rolling deep." it appealed to all the natural impulses of our being, and the dormant instincts inherited from generations of whale-hunting ancestors were aroused by the power of music, reinforced by the suggestive words of the song itself; and then and there we vowed that when we were men like kimball lyon, we too would own and play upon accordions, and do all else that he had done; for marvelous tales he told, of his experiences in great storms at sea and of deeds of aquatic prowess. we learned in after years that "kim" once sailed from st. joseph to chicago in a sawed-off lumber hooker, when the wind was west nor'west, down the lake, and that he did actually lie on the deck, but not on his back, and that it was not music which he emitted, and that the sailors railed at him, and that he came back from chicago by stage coach to niles. but we didn't know this when he was awakening our viking instincts, as we lay on the banks of the old st. joe in the sunny summer days of long ago. "kim" lyon knew all about steamboats, as well as about deep sea ships, and when we asked questions he could answer out of the fullness of his knowledge. we wondered what made the wheels go 'round, and he told us. i have forgotten _what_ made them go 'round, but my recollection is that it was a peculiar mechanical process of which i have never seen the like in any other service on river, lake or ocean. his answer to the query as to "what is the man in the little house on top of the boat doing?" i have never forgotten, as it afterward came more in my line of business. the man was twisting the wheel as all pilots before and since that time twist it, a spoke or two to port, a half dozen to starboard, hard up and hard down, there being a shallow piece of river just there, beset with big boulders and reefs of gravel, through which he was cautiously worming his boat and its kite-tail of keels. "that man," said kimball, "is drawing water from a well in the bottom of the boat and emptying it into the boiler, just as your father draws water from his well with a rope, a bucket and a crank. if he should stop for a minute the boiler would burst for want of water, the boat would blow up, and we should all be killed by the explosion." this definition at once gave us a personal interest in the work of the man at the wheel; we all felt that our lives depended upon this man's devotion to his duty. had he struck a piece of "easy water" at that time, and centred his wheel, there is no doubt that we would have scurried for home before the inevitable explosion should occur. that was my first lesson in piloting. perhaps this childish concern that the man "drawing water for the boilers" should faithfully perform his duty, was but a prefigurement of the interest with which the writer, and hundreds of others, in later years, have watched the pilot work his boat through a tangled piece of river, knowing that the safety of all depended upon the knowledge and faithfulness of the "man at the wheel." the steamboats plying on the st. joe were crude little affairs, and there were but four or five of them, all alike. i remember the name of but one, the "algoma"; the others are quite forgotten. doubtless they were commonplace, and did not appeal to the poetic side of the boy. but "algoma"! the word has a rhythmical measure, and conjures up visions of wigwams, council fires, dusky maidens, and painted braves. an indian name would stick when all the saints in the calendar were forgotten. the "algoma" and her consorts have gone the way of all steamboats. the railroad came and killed their business, just as a few years later, it did on the great river. a few years later i saw the mississippi river for the first time, at rock island, illinois; and through the kindness of another well-posted bystander to whom the then twelve-year-old boy appealed, i received my first impressions of a stern-wheel boat. there were two steamboats lying at the levee--the "minnesota belle", a side-wheeler, upon which we had taken passage, while just above lay the "luella", a stern-wheeler. i knew about the former variety from observation on the st. joe, but i had never seen even a picture of one of the latter sort, so it was a novelty. i wasn't certain that it was a steamboat at all, and after referring the matter to my stranger friend, i learned definitely that it wasn't. the "luella's" wheel was slowly turning over as she lay at the levee, and as i did not comprehend the mechanical details of that kind of craft i began asking questions. my mentor assured me that the "luella" was not a steamboat at all, but a water power sawmill. the big wheel then moving was driven by the current, and it in turn operated the sawmill machinery on the inside of the boat. as i could not figure any other use for a wheel out in the open, at the end of the boat, instead of on the side where it ought to be, and as i had no reason to doubt the statement of my informant, i readily accepted the sawmill explanation, and hastened to confide my newly-acquired knowledge to my brother and other members of the family. a few hours later both boats pulled out for st. paul. after she had rounded the first point, ahead of us, we saw nothing more of the "luella" until we met her coming down the river on her return trip. she was a heavily-powered boat, and showed her heels to the larger and slower "minnesota belle". the sight of the "luella" kicking her way upstream at the rate of two miles to our one, not only dissipated the sawmill impression, but taught me not to accept at face value all information communicated by glib-tongued and plausible strangers. that steamboat trip from rock island to prescott was one long holiday excursion for us two small and lively boys from michigan. there was so much to see and in so many different directions at once, that it was impossible to grasp it all, although we scampered over the deck to get differing view points. we met dozens of boats, going back to st. louis or galena after further loads of immigrants and freight; and there were other boats which came up behind us, gaining slowly but surely, and finally passing the deeply-laden "belle". there were landings to be made, and freight and passengers to be disembarked. there were strange indians to be seen--we were familiar enough with michigan tribesmen, having been born within a mile or two of old pokagon's tribal village. there were boys with fish for sale, fish larger than any inhabiting the waters of michigan streams, sturgeons only excepted, and this promised well for the fun in store when we should reach our journey's end. finally, on a bright june day in the year , the writer, then a boy of twelve, with his brother, three years younger, were fully transplanted from their michigan birthplace to the row of stores and warehouses which fronted on the "levee" at prescott, wisconsin, where the waters of st. croix river and lake join the mississippi. the town was then a typical frontier settlement. two hundred white people were planted among five hundred chippewa indians; with as many more sioux, of the red wing band, across the river in minnesota, a few miles lower down the river. the not infrequent outbreaks of the hereditary enmity existing between these ancient foes, would expend itself on the streets of the town in war whoops, gunpowder, and scalping knives, enlivening the experience of the average citizen as he dodged behind the nearest cover to avoid stray bullets; while the city marshal was given an opportunity to earn his salary, by driving out both bands of hostiles at the point of his revolver. chapter ii _indians, dugouts, and wolves_ in that early day when my acquaintance with the mississippi began, indians were numerous. their dugouts lay at the levee by the dozen, the hunters retailing the ducks and geese, or venison and bear meat, which had fallen to their guns, while the squaws peddled catfish and pickerel that had been ensnared on the hooks and lines of the women and children of the party. situated as prescott was at the junction of the st. croix with the mississippi, its citizens were favored with visits both from the chippewa, who hunted and fished along the former stream and its tributaries in wisconsin, and the sioux, who made the bottom lands on the minnesota side of the river, between hastings and red wing, their home and hunting ground. this was the boundary line which had existed for a hundred years or more; although the sioux (or dakota) laid claim to many thousand square miles of hunting grounds in wisconsin, for which they actually received a million and a half dollars when they quit-claimed it to the united states. their claim to any lands on the east side of the river had been disputed by the chippewa from time out of mind; and these rival claims had occasionally been, as we have seen, referred to the only court of arbitration which the indians recognized--that of the tomahawk and scalping knife. as a boy i have spent many an hour searching in the sands at the foot of the bluffs below prescott, for arrowheads, rusted remnants of knives and hatchets, and for the well-preserved brass nails with which the stocks and butts of old-time trade muskets were plentifully ornamented. just how many years ago that battle had been fought, does not appear to be a matter of historical record. that it was fiercely contested, is abundantly proven by the great amount of wreckage of the fight which the white lads of prescott recovered to be sold to tourists on the steamboats which touched at our levee. the indians themselves had a tradition that it was a bloody fight. taking the word of a chippewa narrator, one was easily convinced that hundreds of sioux bit the sand on that eventful day. if the narrator happened to belong across the river, one felt assured, after listening to his version, that the chippewa met their marathon on this battle plain. in any case the treasure trove indicated a very pretty fight, whichever party won the field. charlevoix, the french historian, relates that in le seuer established a fortified trading post on the west side of the mississippi, about eight miles below the present site of hastings. in speaking of this fort, he says: "the island has a beautiful prairie, and the french of canada have made it a centre of commerce for the western parts, and many pass the winter here, because it is a good country for hunting." as a boy i have many a time visited the site of this ancient stronghold, and hobnobbed with the indians then occupying the ground, descendants of those with whom the french fraternized two hundred years ago. at this point the islands are about four miles across from the main channel of the river; the islands being formed by vermillion slough, which heads at hastings, reëntering the river about two and a half miles above red wing. trudell slough, which heads in the river about four miles below prescott, joins vermillion at the point at which was probably located le seuer's post. at the juncture of the two sloughs there was a beautiful little prairie of several acres. on the west, the bluffs rose several hundred feet to the level prairie which constitutes the upper bench. just at this point there are three mounds rising fifty to seventy-five feet above the level of the prairie, and serving as a landmark for miles around. whether they are of geological origin or the work of the indians in their mound-building epoch, had not been determined in my day. there are other prominences of like character everywhere about, and it would seem that they were erected by the hand of man. on the north, east, and south the islands afforded good hunting grounds for the french and their allies. in and later (i think even yet), the site of this ancient fort was occupied by a band of sioux indians of red wing's tribe, under the sub-chieftaincy of a french half-breed named antoine mouseau (mo'-sho). in neill's history of the settlement of st. paul he mentions louis mouseau as one of the first settlers occupying, in , a claim lying at the lower end of dayton bluff, about two miles down the river from the levee. this antoine mouseau, a man about forty in , was probably a son of the st. paul pioneer and of a squaw of red wing's band. in the days when the white boys of prescott made adventurous trips "down to mo-sho's", the islands were still remarkably rich in game--deer, bear, wolves, 'coons, mink, muskrats, and other fur-bearing animals; and in spring and fall the extensive rice swamps literally swarmed with wild fowl. two or three of the adventures which served to add spice to such visits as we made with the little red men of mouseau's tribe, will serve to illustrate the sort of life which was led by all prescott boys in those early days. they seemed to be a part of the life of the border, and were taken as a matter of course. looking back from this distance, and from the civilization of to-day, it seems miraculous to me that all of those boys were not drowned or otherwise summarily disposed of. as a matter of fact none of them were drowned, and to the best of my knowledge none of them have as yet been hanged. most of them went into the union army in the war of secession, and some of them are sleeping where the laurel and magnolia bend over their last resting places. the water craft with which the white boys and indian boys alike traversed the river, rough or smooth, and explored every creek, bayou, and slough for miles around, were "dug-outs"--canoes hollowed out of white pine tree trunks. some canoes were large and long, and would carry four or five grown persons. those owned and used by the boys were from six to eight feet long, and just wide enough to take in a not too-well-developed lad; but then, all the boys were lean and wiry. it thus happened that the blaisdells, the boughtons, the fifields, the millers, the merricks, the schasers, the smiths, and the whipples, and several other pairs and trios ranging from fourteen years down to seven, were pretty generally abroad from the opening of the river in the spring until its closing in the fall, hunting, fishing and exploring, going miles away, up or down the river or lake, and camping out at night, often without previous notice to their mothers. with a "hunk" of bread in their pockets, some matches to kindle a fire, a gun and fishlines, they never were in danger of starvation, although always hungry. one of the incidents referred to, i accept more on the evidence of my brother than of my own consciousness of the situation when it occurred. he was eleven at the time, and i fourteen. we each had a little pine "dug-out", just large enough to carry one boy sitting in the stern, and a reasonable cargo of ducks, fish or fruit. with such a load the gunwales of the craft were possibly three or four inches above the water line. the canoe itself was round on the bottom, and could be rolled over and over by a boy lying flat along the edges, with his arms around it, as we often did for the amusement of passengers on the boats--rolling down under water and coming up on the other side, all the time holding fast to the little hollowed-out log. such a craft did not appear to be very seaworthy, nor well calculated to ride over rough water. indeed, under the management of a novice they would not stay right side up in the calmest water. for the boys who manned them, however, whether whites or indians, they were as seaworthy as noah's ark, and much easier to handle. a show piece much in vogue, was to stand on the edge of one of these little round logs (not over eight feet long), and with a long-handled paddle propel the thing across the river. this was not always, nor usually, accomplished without a ducking; but it often was accomplished by white boys without the ducking, and that even when there was some wind and little waves. the indian lads would not try it in public. for one thing, it was not consonant with indian dignity; for another, an indian, big or little, dislikes being laughed at, and a ducking always brought a laugh when there were any spectators. i cannot, after all these years, get over an itching to try this experiment again. i believe that i could balance myself all right; but the difference between sixty pounds and a hundred and sixty might spoil the game. some boys, more fortunate than others, were from time to time possessed of birch-bark canoes--small ones. of all the craft that ever floated, the birch-bark comes nearer being the ideal boat than any other. so light is it, that it may be carried on the head and shoulders for miles without great fatigue; and it sits on the water like a whiff of foam--a veritable fairy craft. it was the custom of the boys who owned these little "birches" to shove them off the sand with a run, and when they were clear of the land to jump over the end, and standing erect, paddle away like the wind. this was another show piece, and was usually enacted for the benefit of admiring crowds of eastern passengers on the steamboats. on one such occasion, a young man from the east who professed to be a canoeist, and who possibly was an expert with an ordinary canoe, came off the boat, and after crossing the palm of the birch-bark's owner with a silver piece, proposed to take a little paddle by himself. the boy was an honest boy, as boys averaged then and there, and although not averse to having a little fun at the expense of the stranger, in his capacity of lessor he deemed it his duty to caution his patron that a birch-bark was about as uncertain and tricky a proposition as any one would wish to tackle--especially such a little one as his own was. he proposed to hold it until his passenger had stepped in and sat down and was ready to be shoved off. this was the usual procedure, and it had its good points for the average tourist. but this one had seen the boys shoving the same canoe off the sand and jumping over the stern, and he proposed to do the same thing, because he was used to canoes himself. against the cautions of the owner he _did_ shove off and jump, but he did not alight in the canoe. that elfish little piece of indian deviltry was not there when he arrived; it slipped out from under him, sidewise, and with a spring which jumped it almost clear of the water it sailed away before the wind, while the canoeist went headfirst into six or eight feet of water, silk hat, good clothes and all, amid the howls of delight from the passengers on the steamer who had been watching him. he was game, however, and admitted that he had never imagined just how light and ticklish a birch-bark was; nor how much science it required to jump _squarely_ over the stern of such a fragile creation and maintain one's balance. woodmen and canoeists familiar with "birches" will understand just how small a deviation is required to bring discomfiture. a little carelessness on the part of an old hand is often just as fatal as a little ignorance on the part of the tenderfoot. but i digress. on the trip concerning which i started to tell, my brother and i had been down to the indian village and were on our way home. when we emerged from trudell slough we found a gale blowing from the south, against the current of the river, and great combing waves were running, through which it seemed impossible to ride in our little boats. however, we had to cross the river in order to get home, and we did not long debate the question. being the oldest i took the lead, sam following. he was but eleven years old, and had a boat all by himself to manage in that sea. but he could paddle a canoe as well as any indian boy. i also could paddle, and being older, nearly fourteen, was supposed to have the wisdom of the ages in the matter of judgment in meeting and riding combers. under these conditions, i started out to make the crossing. my brother has told me since that he never thought of any danger to himself; but he figured, a dozen times, that i was gone--in fact he lost three or four good bets that i would not come up again after going down out of sight. my canoe would go down into the trough of the sea at the same time that his did, thus he would lose track of me. he had to keep his eyes on the "combers" and meet them at just the right angle, or he himself would have been the "goner". sometimes he would not locate me until he had met three or four big ones. then he would rise over the tops of the waves at the same time and would be able to reassure himself that i was still right side up and paddling for life, and that he was out another bet. i do not know that i thought of the danger at all, as i simply had my canoe to look out for. had sam been in front i would have realized, as he did, that we were taking lots of chances, and would have learned from the diving of his craft just how great the danger really was, as he did. we shipped a good deal of water--that is, a good deal for the amount we could afford to take in and maintain any margin between the gunwales of our canoes and the water outside. before we got across we were sitting in several inches of water, but a little baling cleared this out as soon as we reached the wisconsin side, and we proceeded up the river, hugging the shore and keeping in the eddies and under the points, without further adventures. i do not think we mentioned the crossing as anything to brag of, as under the circumstances any of the boys would have done the same thing in the same way. one other incident in which the little canoe figured, involved the closest call to drowning i ever had as a boy. again i was out with my brother, some ten miles down the river, near diamond bluff, fishing and scouting about in the customary manner. sam was ahead of me, and had landed on a pile of driftwood lodged against a giant cottonwood which had been undermined by the eating away of the river bank. in falling, one or more of its branches had been so deeply driven into the bottom of the river that it held at right angles with the current, extending out fifty feet or more into the channel. against this obstruction all sorts of logs, lumber, and other drift had lodged, forming a large raft. my brother had run in under the lower side of this and climbed out, preparatory to dropping his line for fish. i, doubtless carelessly, drifted down toward the upper side. one of the limbs which did not quite reach the surface so as to be seen, caught my little vessel and in an instant i was in the water, and under the raft. i thought i was surely gone, for i supposed that the driftwood was deep enough to catch and hold me. i had presence of mind enough left, however, to do the only thing which was left--dive as deeply as possible, and with open eyes steer clear of the many branches through which i had to find my way toward the open water on the lee side of the raft. sam ran to the lower side to catch me if i came up--an expectation which he had little hope of realizing, thinking as i did that i would be caught like a rat in a trap, and never come up until dug out. fortunately the drift was not deep, and the limbs not very close together, and i popped up as i cleared the last log, but with so little breath left that another ten feet would have drowned me. sam caught me by the hand and "yanked" me out on the drift, where i lay and took in air for some minutes to fill out my collapsed lungs. in another ten minutes we were fishing as if nothing had happened. in these upsets which we were almost daily experiencing, our costumes played an important though passive part. the entire uniform of the average river lad of those days consisted of a pair of blue jean trousers, a calico shirt, a home-made straw hat, and sometimes a pair of "galluses". the last named item indicated an extravagant expenditure; one "gallus" was ample for all practical purposes; the second represented luxury and wanton extravagance. with such a costume a boy in the water was practically unhampered, and could and did swim with all the freedom of an unclothed cupid. one of the customary relaxations of the prescott boys was to run down orange street when school "let out", in single file, dressed as above described, hats and all, and dive from the ledge of rocks fifteen feet high into water forty feet deep. it was on one of these excursions that i had the only real scare of my life. this may sound like braggadocio, but it is a fact. i have been in places since that time, where i thought death imminent, and knew that it was possible, if not probable, at any moment; but in such situations i have more or less successfully been able to conceal the fact of fear. in the case in question i did not attempt to conceal from myself the fact that i was sincerely alarmed. we had, late in the autumn, landed at a desolate _coulee_ several miles below prescott. i had gone back about half a mile from the river, on to the prairie, leaving my brother at the canoe. suddenly i heard the long-drawn hunting cry of a wolf. looking in the direction of the sound i saw a big grey timber wolf loping toward me with the speed of a race horse. his cries were answered from a distance, and then i saw six other big wolves bounding over the prairie after me. i looked around for some place of safety and saw at some distance--a good deal less than a quarter of a mile, as i know it now, but it looked all of that at the time--a small burr oak, the only tree near enough to be available in this crisis. i knew enough about the big timber wolves to know that i would instantly be in ribbons after they were upon me. one alone might be kept off; but seven would have the courage of numbers, and would make short work of a single boy. then i was scared. i could actually feel every hair upon my head standing straight on end, as stiff as hamlet's "quills upon the fretful porcupine". it has been worth all that it cost, this hair-raising experience, as an interpretation of the much-quoted expression from the immortal bard of avon. a good runner, i had a full half mile the start of the leading wolf. i did not wait for him greatly to diminish the lead, but "lit out" for the little burr oak. i covered the ground in the shortest time i had ever devoted to a like distance, and although very nearly winded jumped for the lower limbs and pulled myself up just in time to escape the teeth of the forward beast. in another minute there were seven of them, leaping to within a few feet of my legs as i stood on a branch of the small tree, as high up as i dared to go. my brother had heard the cries of the wolves, and running to the top of the bank had watched the race with great interest. when the tree was safely reached he shouted to me to hold on and he would go for help, and he at once started for prescott, four miles away, against the current. for some reason which i have never been able to explain, the wolves, after yelping and leaping for an hour or so, suddenly started off across the prairie, and when they had gone a mile away i climbed down and ran for home. in the meantime my hair had resumed its normal position, and never since, under any circumstances, have i experienced a like sensation. i presume that the thought of being torn to pieces by the wolves, a contingency which seemingly was quite probable, added a horror to the imminence of death which was not present at a time when there was an equal chance of being drowned. it was not because i did not know all about wolves, for i did. their cries were familiar sounds in that wild country, and their ferocity had been proven time and again; but i had never heard nor seen them when it meant quite so much to me, nor when the chances seemed so slim. chapter iii _on the levee at prescott_ when we first knew it, prescott was in many respects a typical river town. but in one, it differed from all others with the possible exception of wacouta and reed's landing. "towing through" had not then been inaugurated. the great rafts of logs and lumber from stillwater and the upper st. croix, were pushed to prescott by towboats from stillwater, at the head of the lake. from there to lake pepin they drifted. they were again pushed through that lake by other boats, and from reed's landing, at the foot of the lake, drifted to their destination at winona, la crosse, clinton, le claire, or hannibal. the necessary preparation for the trip down river was made at prescott. stores of pork, beans, flour, molasses, and whiskey were laid in. the hundreds of rough men who handled the great steering oars on these rafts spent their money in the saloons which lined the river front and adjacent streets, filling themselves with noxious liquors, and often ending their "sprees" with a free fight between rival crews. a hundred men would join in the fray, the city marshal sitting on a "snubbing post", revolver in hand, watching the affair with the enlightened eye of an expert and the enjoyment of a connoisseur. prescott was also a transfer point for freight consigned to afton, lakeland, hudson, stillwater, osceola, and st. croix falls. the large boats, unless they were heavily freighted for stillwater and hudson, did not make the run of thirty miles up the lake. the freight was put ashore at prescott, and reshipped on the smaller boats plying between prescott and st. croix river points. this made necessary large warehouses in which to store the transshipped goods. my father, l. h. merrick, engaged in this business of storing and transshipping, as well as dealing in boat-stores and groceries. buying one warehouse on the levee, he started a store in the basement, which opened directly on to the levee. moving his family into the two upper stories, he began at once the erection of a second and larger warehouse. these being insufficient for his business, he bought, in , a third warehouse. these were filled, in summer, with goods in transit, and in winter with wheat awaiting the opening of navigation for shipment to eastern markets, via dunleith, illinois, at that time the nearest railroad connection on the river. the name of this one-time prosperous city has, however, disappeared from the map, to be replaced by east dubuque. from until the firm of l. h. merrick & co. (the company being william r. gates, my brother-in-law) did all the transfer and storage business for the regular packets belonging to the galena, dubuque, dunleith & st. paul packet company, commonly shortened to minnesota packet company, and also for such "wild" boats as did not make the run up the lake. the business was very profitable. much of the freight consisted of pork and beef in barrels, whiskey, sugar in hogsheads (refined sugar was then scarcely known on the upper river), rice, soap, etc., which, if there was no boat ready to receive it, could be covered with tarpaulins on the levee, thus saving the cost of putting it in the warehouses. the perishable freight and household goods were of course stored under cover. a man was always on duty to meet incoming boats at night, and to watch the freight piled on the levee. sometimes, when there was a large amount of such freight left outside, we boys spent the night skylarking about the piles, keeping our eyes open to see that the ubiquitous raftsmen did not surreptitiously transfer some of the packages to the everpresent rafts. the transfer agents paid the freight on the goods from the lower river points to prescott, and charged a commission of from five to twenty-five per cent for such advance. in addition, a charge was made for storage, whether the freight was actually placed in the warehouse or simply covered and watched on the levee. if the goods were from pittsburg or st. louis, the freight bills were usually large, and a five per cent commission would produce a quite respectable income. if the cargo were divided into small lots, so much the better. no package, however small, escaped for less than a quarter ("two bits", as money was then reckoned); and in addition to the commission on the money advanced, there was an additional charge for storage, graduated, as i have before stated, upon the value and perishability of the freight handled. altogether it was a very profitable occupation until the year , when there appeared a new bidder for the business, knocking down the rates of commission and storage, as well as cutting the business in two by getting the agency of many of the boats, heretofore served by the old firm. my brother and myself "bunked" in the garret of the warehouse in which we had made our temporary home. there were two windows fronting the river, and i feel sure that at night no steamboat ever landed at the levee without having at least two spectators, carefully noting its distinguishing characteristics. was she a side-wheel or stern-wheel? was she large or small? had she trimmings on her smokestack, or about the pilot house, and if so of what description? had she a "texas", or no "texas"? were the outside blinds painted white, red, or green? what was the sound of her whistle and bell? all of these points, and many others, were taken in, and indelibly impressed upon our memories, so that if the whistle or bell were again heard, perhaps months afterward, the name of the boat could be given with almost unfailing accuracy. it was a part of the education of the "levee rats", as the boys were called. a boy that could not distinguish by ear alone a majority of the boats landing at the levee from year to year, was considered as deficient in his education. of course every boy in town could tell what craft was coming as soon as she whistled, if she was one of the regular "packets". every boat had a whistle toned and tuned so that it might be distinguished from that of any other boat of the same line. the bells, which were always struck as the boat came into the landing, also differed widely in tone. there was one, the music of which will live in my memory so long as life lasts. the tone of the "ocean wave's" bell was deep, rich, sonorous, and when heard at a distance on a still, clear night, was concentrated sweetness. were i rich i would, were it a possibility, find that bell and hang it in some bell-less steeple where i might hear again its splendid tones, calling not alone to worship, but summoning for me from the misty past pictures indelibly printed upon boyish senses. a picturesque and animated scene, was one of these night landings; the discharge and taking on of freight, the shouting of orders, the escaping of steam, and all the sights and sounds which for the time transformed the levee from its usual quietude and darkness, broken only by the faint glimmer of the watchman's lantern and the ripple of the water upon the beach, into life, light, and activity. the advent of the electric search-light has driven from the river one of the most picturesque of all the accessories to such scenes as we boys looked down upon, night after night, during the busy times of and , before i myself became part and parcel of it all. the torch, by the light of which the work went on by night, was within an iron basket, about a foot in diameter and eighteen inches deep, swung loosely between the prongs of a forked iron bar or standard, which could be set in holes in the forward deck, leaning far out over the water, so as to allow live coals from the burning wood to fall into the river, and not upon deck. when a landing was to be made at a woodyard or a town, the watchman filled one or perhaps two of these torch baskets with split "light-wood", or "fat-wood"--southern pine full of resinous sap, which would burn fiercely, making a bright light, illuminating the deck of the boat and the levee for hundreds of feet around. as the boat neared the landing the pine splinters were lighted at the furnace door, the torch being carried to place and firmly fixed in its socket. then came out the attending demon who fed the burning, smoking "jack" with more pine fatwood, and from time to time with a ladle of pulverized rosin. the rosin would flare up with a fierce flame, followed by thick clouds of black smoke, the melted tar falling in drops upon the water, to float away, burning and smoking until consumed. this addition to the other sights and sounds served more than any other thing to give this night work a wild and weird setting. we boys decided, on many a night, that we would "go on the river" and feed powdered rosin and pine kindlings to torches all night long, as the coal-black and greasy, but greatly envied white lamp-boy did, night after night, in front of our attic windows on the levee at prescott. the cleaner and brighter, but very commonplace electric light has driven the torch from the river; and if one is to be found at all in these degenerate days it will be as a curiosity in some historical museum. and thus we grew into the very life of the river as we grew in years. i finally attained an age when my services were worth something in the economy of a steamboat's crew. my first venture was made in company with one who afterward attained rank and honor in the civil service of the state--the honorable sam. s. fifield, lieutenant-governor of wisconsin. i have a letter written by mr. fifield since i began writing these sketches, in which he says that he recollects the writer as a "white-haired boy, full of all sorts of pranks". i presume this description of how i looked and what i did is correct; but forty years ago to have applied to him any such personal description of his thatch would have been a _casus belli_ for which nothing but blood could atone. it is white, now; at that time it was a subdued brindle, with leanings toward straw, and a subject not lightly to be discussed in the presence of its owner. the stern-wheel steamer "kate cassell" wintered above the lake--that is, above lake pepin--i think at diamond bluff, where at the close of navigation she was caught in the ice. in the spring her captain appeared, with an engineer, a pilot, a steward, and possibly some other officers, and picked up the remainder of officers and crew 'longshore. i remember that one of my schoolmates, nat. blaisdell, went as assistant engineer, russ. ruley as mate, and a number of longshoremen from prescott as deck hands, while sam fifield and i were pantry boys. sam got enough of it in a few trips between st. paul and rock island. i stayed through the season. we both were printers. sam went back to the case at once; i went to mine again in the fall, after the close of navigation, and stuck type during the winter, as i also did each returning season while on the river. the next spring i engaged with "billy" hamilton, as a "cub" engineer. prior to starting out on the season's run the machinery of the boat ("fanny harris") had to be put in order. there was a regular blacksmith's forge on board. all river engineers were, perforce, good blacksmiths, able to make anything pertaining to the machinery which it was possible to make from wrought iron bars with an ordinary forge and anvil, with a twelve-pound striking hammer and a two-pound shaper. we made scores of extra "stirrups"--the double bolts, with nuts, that clamp the "buckets" to the wheel-arms. we made hog-chains and chimney guys, and, as needed, bent them into place. the boilers, engines, and "doctor"--the steam pump for feeding water to the boilers, pumping out the steamer, etc.--were all overhauled and put in perfect order. the engines were leveled and "lined up"; the eccentrics were carefully adjusted and securely fastened; the "nigger" hoisting engine, for handling freight and warping the boat over sand-bars was fitted up, and a hundred other minor but important matters were attended to, so that when steam was raised and turned on, the wheel would "turn over", and the boat go. some wheels did not at first turn over, and it was not to the credit of the man who had lined the engines and set the eccentrics. billy hamilton's wheel, however, turned over the first trial. had i followed up this line of activity under billy's tutelage, no doubt i would have become a capable engineer, for i liked the work and took a genuine delight in handling machinery, a liking which i have not yet outgrown. but there were decided drawbacks. the reversing gear of a mississippi river steamboat, in old times, was like nothing else of its kind, anywhere under the sun. the engines were of the lever and poppet-valve order, and the reversing gear was heavy. the connecting-rod (cam-rod, we called it) weighed at least fifty pounds, even though it was attached to the "rock-shaft" at one end. in reversing, the end of the connecting-rod was lifted off its hook at the bottom, the lever thrown over, in which operation two heavy valve-levers were raised, the rod lifted about three feet, and dropped on to the upper hook. it was all right when you did this once or twice in making a landing; but in a piece of "crooked river", the boat dodging about among reefs and bars, with the bells coming faster than you could answer them, it was another matter, and became pretty trying work for a stripling boy; his arms could not keep the pace. another drawback in the life of a "cub" engineer was the fact that when in port there was no let-up to the work. in fact, the worst part of it came then. as soon as the steamer reached her destination at galena, the pilots were at liberty until the hour of sailing; not so with the engineers. we usually reached galena thursday evening or night, and left for up river friday evening. as soon as the boat was made fast the "mud-valves" were opened, the fires drawn, the water let out of the boilers, and the process of cleaning began. being a slim lad, one of my duties was to creep into the boilers through the manhole, which was just large enough to let me through; and with a hammer and a sharp-linked chain i must "scale" the boilers by pounding on the two large flues and the sides with the hammer, and sawing the chain around the flues until all the accumulated mud and sediment was loosened. it was then washed out by streams from the deck-hose, the force-pump being manned by the firemen, of whom there were eight on our four-boiler boat. scaling boilers was what decided me not to persevere in the engineering line. to lie flat on one's stomach on the top of a twelve-inch flue, studded with rivet heads, with a space of only fifteen inches above one's head, and in this position haul a chain back and forth without any leverage whatever, simply by the muscles of the arm, with the thermometer ° in the shade, was a practice well calculated to disillusionize any one not wholly given over to mechanics. while i liked mechanics i knew when i had enough, and therefore reached out for something one deck higher. the unexpected disability of our "mud clerk", as the second clerk is called on the river, opened the way for an ascent, and i promptly availed myself of it. [illustration: prescott levee in . showing steamer "centennial" and the little hastings ferry, "plough boy." the double warehouse, showing five windows in the second story and four in the third was the building in which the author lived when a boy.] [illustration: prescott levee in . but one business building--one of the old merrick warehouses, left intact. dunbar's hall gutted by fire recently. the large steamboat warehouse next to it destroyed some years ago. all the shipping business gone to the railroad, which runs just back of the buildings shown.] chapter iv _in the engine-room_ before leaving the main deck, with its savory scents of scorching oil, escaping steam, and soft-coal gas, let me describe some of the sights, sounds, and activities which impressed themselves upon the memory of the young "cub" during his brief career as an embryo engineer. the engine-room crew of a mississippi steamer varies as the boat is a side-wheeler or a stern-wheeler. in my day, a stern-wheeler carried two engineers, a "first" and a "second". the former was chosen for his age and experience, to him being confided the responsibility of the boat's machinery. his knowledge, care, and oversight were depended upon to keep the engines, boilers, etc., in good repair, and in serviceable condition. the second engineer received less wages, and his responsibility ended in standing his watch, handling the engines, and in keeping enough water in the boilers to prevent the flues from burning, as well as to avoid an explosion. if a rival boat happened to be a little ahead or a little behind, or alongside, and the "second" was on watch, the margin of water between safety and danger in the boilers was usually kept nearer the minimum than it would have been were the "chief" in command. it is very much easier to get hot steam with little water than with much; and hot steam is a prime necessity when another boat is in sight, going the same direction as your own. on the "fanny harris", the pilots always depended upon billy hamilton when in a race, as he would put on the "blowers"--the forced draft, as it is called in polite, though less expressive language--and never let the water get above the second gauge, and never below the first, if he could help it. sometimes it was a matter of doubt where the water really was, the steam coming pretty dry when tried by the "gauge-stick"--a broom handle, which, pushed against the gauges, of which there were three in the end of the boiler (three inches apart, vertically, the lower one situated just above the water-line over the top of the flues), opened the valve and permitted the steam and water to escape into a short tin trough beneath. if a stream of water ran from the first and second gauges when so tried, but not from the third, there was a normal and healthy supply of water in the boilers. if the water came from the first, but not from the second, the "doctor" was started and the supply increased. when it reached the third gauge the supply was cut off. if, as i have seen it, there was, when tried, none in the first or lower gauge, there followed a guessing match as to just how far below the minimum the water really was, and what would be the result of throwing in a supply of cold water. the supply was always thrown in, and that quickly, as time counts in such cases. the pilot at the wheel, directly over the boilers, is in blissful ignorance of the vital question agitating the engineer. he may at times have his suspicions, as the escape pipes talk in a language which tells something of the conditions existing below decks; but if the paddle wheels are turning over with speed, he seldom worries over the possibilities which lie beneath him. his answer to the question, whether the water is below the safety point, comes as he feels the deck lifting beneath his feet, and he sails away to leeward amid the debris of a wrecked steamboat. probably four-fifths of the boiler explosions which have taken place on the mississippi river during the last eighty years--and there have been hundreds of such--were the result of these conditions: low water in the boilers, exposing the plates until red-hot, then throwing in water and "jumping" the steam pressure faster than the engines or safety-valve could release it, followed by the inevitable giving away of the whole fabric of the boiler, wrecking the steamer, and usually killing and scalding many of the passengers and crew. on a side-wheel boat the make-up of the engine crew is different. in addition to the first and second engineers there are two "cubs", or "strikers". the stern-wheeler has two engines, but they are both coupled to the same shaft, by a crank at each end. the throttle wheel is in the centre of the boat. one man operates the two engines, and assists at landings, but in a bad piece of river is helped by one of the firemen, who is called aft by a little bell controlled by a cord from the engine-room. this man "ships up" on the port side, while the engineer "ships up" on the starboard. "shipping up" was the term used to describe the act of shifting the cam-rod from the lower pin on the reversing lever to the upper, or _vice versa_. if done at a sudden call, the engineer ran to one side and "shipped up", then across the deck to the other, and then back to the centre to "give her steam". that is all changed now by the adoption of an improved reversing gear, similar to that on a railway locomotive, the throwing of a lever at the centre of the boat operating the reversing gears on both engines at once. instead of the old-time "short-link", or "cut-off hook", the equivalent of the "hooking-back" on a locomotive when under way is performed by the engineer at the centre of the boat by hooking back the reversing lever one, two, or three notches, exactly as on the locomotive. fifty years ago this simple device had not been adopted on the river. on the side-wheel boat, to get back to my subject, the engines are independent--one engine to each wheel. one may be coming ahead while the other is backing, or they may both be reversing at the same time. a man is therefore required to operate each engine, hence the necessity for a "striker", or "cub", to take one engine while the engineer on watch takes the other. the engineer on duty, be he chief or assistant, takes the starboard engine and controls the running of the machinery and the feeding of the boilers during his watch; the "cub" takes the port engine and works under the direction of his superior on watch. as i have stated at the beginning of this chapter, the handling of these powerful engines was hard work, even for a grown man, when the river was low and the pilot was feeling his way over a crossing in a dark night, with both leads going, and the wheels doing much of the work of keeping the boat in the intricate channel between the reefs. then it was that the bells came thick and fast--to stop, to back, to come ahead again, to slow, to come ahead full steam, and again to stop and back and come ahead. then the cut-off hook was pulled up by a rope attached to the deck beams overhead, and the heavy cam-rod was lifted from the lower hook to the upper by main strength, or dropped from the upper to the lower with scant regard for the finish on the bright work, to be lifted again at the call of the next bell from the pilot, and all this a dozen times, or even more, in making one crossing. and all the time the "cub" was in deadly fear of getting his engine caught on the centre, a calamity in both material and moral sense, as a "centre" might mean the disablement of an engine at a critical moment, throwing the steamer out of the channel, and hanging her up for hours, or even for days, on a sand-bar. it might even have a more calamitous sequence, by running her on the rocks or snags and sinking her. hence, for pressing reasons, the most acute alertness was necessary on the part of the "striker". the moral obloquy of "centring" an engine was so great among river men, especially among engineers, that no "cub" ever again held his head high after suffering such a mischance; and it was a proud boast among the embryo engineers if they could honestly claim that they had never "centred" their engine. on general principles they always boasted of it as a fact, until some one appeared who could testify to the contrary. i enter that claim here and now without fear of successful contradiction. all my confederates in that business are now out of commission. one of the beauties of the puppet-valve engine, with its long stroke[a] and consequent "purchase" on the shaft-crank, was that by the aid of a billet of wood, about two and a half inches square, with a handle whittled off on one end, and with a loop of cord to hang it up by, or to hang it on one's wrist (where it was usually found when the boat was navigating a crooked piece of river), an increase of fifty per cent of steam could be let into the cylinder by the simple device of inserting the club between the rocker-arm and the lever which lifted the inlet valve, as graphically described in the paper by mr. holloway, quoted in this chapter. if the valve were normally lifted four inches by the rocker-arm, the insertion of the club would increase the lift by its thickness. this additional power fed to the cylinder at the right moment would drive the wheel over the centre when reversed with the boat going upstream at a speed of eight or ten miles an hour, against a four-mile current, with almost absolute certainty. with a ten-foot wheel, and three buckets in the water, one submerged to its full width of three feet, and the other two perhaps two feet, it can readily be understood by an engineer that to turn such a wheel back against the current required a great expenditure of power at just the right time. the "club" of the western steamboat engineer solved the question of additional power at the critical moment. no short-stroke engine would respond to such a call. while this service tried the cylinders to their utmost--many times a little beyond their utmost, with a consequent loss of a cylinder head, and worse yet, a scalded engineer--the use of the club was justified by experience; and results which, with finer and more perfect machinery would have been impossible, were, day after day, made possible by reason of the crudeness and roughness of this usage. [a] the "stroke" of an engine is the distance traveled by the cross-head of the piston in making a complete revolution of the wheel--equal to twice the length of the crank on the water-wheel shaft. if the crank is three feet long, the stroke will be six feet. the stroke of the "grey eagle" of the minnesota packet company was seven feet; that of the "j. m. white", lower river boat, was eleven feet. the cylinders of course equaled the full stroke in length. the longer the crank the greater the purchase, but at a consequent loss in the number of revolutions of the wheel per minute. the great steamers plying on long island sound attain a speed of twenty miles an hour, or even more. it is said that when under full speed it is possible to turn the wheels back over the centre within half a mile after steam has been shut off. under ordinary conditions it is not necessary that they should be handled any faster. but think of the conditions under which a mississippi river steamboat must stop and back, or suffer shipwreck. and imagine, if you can, the remarks a river pilot would make if the wheel were not turning back within thirty seconds after the bell was rung. i think five seconds would be nearer the limit for reversing and giving steam. in fact, on all side-wheel boats, the levers controlling the steam valves are attached to small tackles, and these are controlled by one lever, by which the steam levers may be raised in an instant, without closing the throttle at all, and the steam allowed to pass out through the escape pipes while the engine remains passive. two ends are attained by this device: steam can instantly be shut off, or as quickly given to the cylinders, thus making a saving in time over the usual opening and closing of the steam ports by the throttle wheel. another advantage is, that this device acts as a safety-valve; for, were the steam to be entirely shut off, and the safety-valve fail to work, an explosion would certainly follow. by opening all the valves at once, and permitting as much steam to escape through the exhaust pipes as when the engine is in motion, the danger of an explosion is minimized. at the call of the pilot the levers can instantly be dropped and full steam ahead or reversed given at once--of course at the expense of a good deal of a "jolt" to the engines and cylinders. but the river engines were built to be "jolted", hence their practical adaptation to the service in which they were used. j. f. holloway, of st. louis, who, in his own words, "was raised on the river, having filled every position from roustabout to master", in a paper read before the american society of mechanical engineers at st. louis in may, , contributes the following description of a steamboat race as seen and heard in the engine-room--a point of view somewhat lacking, perhaps, in picturesqueness to the ordinary observer, but nevertheless very essential in winning a race. the writer is evidently as thoroughly at home in the engine-room as he is upon the roof: "the reason which induced the builders of engines for these western river boats to adopt such peculiar construction could hardly be made clear without a careful description of the hull of the boats, and of the varying conditions to which both engines and hulls are subjected, and under which they must operate. the steam cylinders are placed on foundations as unstable as would be a raft, and the alignment is varied by the addition or removal of every ton of freight which the boats carry when afloat, and they are further distorted when aground, or when the boats are being dragged over sand bars having several inches less of water on them than is required to float the hull. while the calm study of the machinery of a western river steamboat while at rest would be an interesting object lesson to any one at all interested in such matters, it can only be seen at its best at a time when some rival boat is striving with it for "the broom," and close behind is slowly gaining, with roaring furnaces, and chimneys belching out vast volumes of thick black smoke; when all on board, from the pilot above to the fireman below are worked up to the highest pitch of enthusiasm, and when engines, boilers, engineers and all concerned in the management of the boat, are called upon to show the stuff which is in them. i know of no more exciting scene than was often to be witnessed in the days of the old famous ohio river ports, when a "ten-boiler" boat was trying to make a record, or take a wharf-boat landing away from some close-following rival steamer. to stand on the boiler deck at such a time on a big side-wheel boat, when in order to get ahead the pilot had made up his mind to close-shave a "tow-head," or take the dangerous chances of a new channel or a new "cut-off," and when all on board knew the risk he was taking, and standing by to help him through, or help _themselves_ if he failed, was exciting to a degree. then it was that the two most skilful and daring engineers were called on watch, and took their stands alongside their respective engines, stripped like gladiators for the tussle which soon came as the clanging starboard bell rang out to "slow down," and as the hasty ringing of the "jingler" over the port engine meant "crack it to her." then as the bow of the big boat swung, all too slow to suit the emergency or the impatience of the pilot, a stopping starboard bell would ring, quick followed by a backing one which would set the engineer to wrestling with his "hooks," one of which he hangs up with a cord, and the other he picks up seemingly from somewhere on the platform. as the suddenly stopped and quivering wheel in the swift-flowing current hangs for a moment poised on the centre, the engineer, grasping his ever-at-hand club of wood, quickly thrusts it between the uprising rocker-arm and the lever that lifts the inlet puppet valve, to which widened opening of the steam-valve port the engine responds with a noise of escaping steam not unlike the roar of an enraged elephant when prodded with the iron hook of his keeper. the battle of the bells thus begun, waxes more fierce as the excitement increases. there are bells to the right, and bells to the left, and amid their discordant jangle the engineers are working like mad as they clutch the throttle, open or close "the bleeder," hook her on "ahead," or stop and back, in such rapid succession as that soon neither they, nor any one else, can tell how far behind the bells of the pilot they are. then soon amid the wild roar of the pent-up steam as it rushes out of the safety-valve pipes, the exploding exhausts of the engines which at the end of each stroke sound as if the cylinder-head had blown off, and to which is added the shrill noise of the warning bell which calls to the firemen to "throw open the furnace doors," there comes from out the huge trumpet shaped pipe above the head of the engineers, and which leads down from the pilot-house, a hoarse shout, heard above all else, partaking alike of command, entreaty, and adjectives, urging something or other to be done, and done quick, else the boat and all on board of her, in a brief time will land in a place which by reason of the reputed entire absence of water could not well be called a "port" (and certainly is no port mentioned in the boat's manifests). this battle of the bells and irons goes on until, if in a race, the rival boat is passed or crowded to the bank, or the narrow channel widens out into the broad river, when the discordant jangle of the bells ceases, the tired engineer drops on the quiet "cut-off hook," lays by his emergency wooden club, and wiping the sweat from his heated brow, comes down from the foot-board to catch a breath of the cool air which sweeps over the guards, and to formulate in his mind the story which he will have to tell of the race just over, or the perils just past. but the old-time flyers which before the war tore their way up and down through the muddy waters of these western rivers are all gone, and the marvelously skilled pilots of those days have gone too; the men who, through the darkest hours of the darkest nights, knew to within a few feet just where their boats were, and what was on the right or on the left, or beneath them, which was to be shunned. the engineers too, who with a courage born and nurtured amid the vicissitudes of a backwoods life, and with an experience and skill the outgrowth of trials and dangers gone through, have also passed away, and to the generation of the present are unhonored and unknown, as are the men who designed and built the hulls, and the workmen who, with crude and scant tools, built for them the machinery which they so well planned and handled. who they were, and where they lie, is known to but few, if any. did i but know their final resting-place, i would, like "old mortality," wish to carve anew, and deep, the fading records of their life and death, which time has so nearly obliterated, and to herald abroad the praise and honor due them as the designers, builders, and engineers, of the old-time western river steamboats." chapter v _the engineer_ it would be impossible to pick out any one man who handled an engine on the river fifty years ago, and in describing his habits and peculiarities claim him as a type of all river engineers of his time. the legendary engineer, such as colonel hay has given us, standing at the throttle of his engine on the ill-fated "prairie belle", waiting for signals from the pilot house, his boat a roaring furnace of fire, and whose spirit finally ascended with the smoke of his steamer, was a true type of one class, and possibly a large class, of old-time river engineers. reckless, profane, combative; yet courageous, proud of their calling, and to be depended upon to do their duty under any and all circumstances; giving, if need be, their lives for the safety of the passengers and crew of the boat--such was one class. another was composed of men equally courageous, equally to be depended upon in time of danger, but sober, quiet, religious, family men, who never used a profane word, never went on sprees ashore, never supported one wife at home and another at "natchez under the hill." on the boat upon which i gained the greater part of my river experience, we had the two types: george mcdonald, chief, and billy hamilton, assistant. either would have died at his post, the one with a prayer upon his lips, and the other with a jest; both alike alert, cool, efficient. mcdonald was a scotch presbyterian, and might have been an elder in the church at home--perhaps he was. he was a religious man on board his boat, where religion was at a discount. he was a capable engineer; he could make anything that it was possible to make, on the portable forge in the steamer's smithy. he was always cool, deliberate, ready, and as chief was the captain's right-hand man in the engine-room. billy hamilton was his opposite in everything, save in professional qualifications. in these he was the equal of his chief, except in length of service, and consequent experience. the son of a maryland slave owner, he was a "wild one" on shore, and a terror to the captain when on board and on duty. in a race with a rival boat his recklessness in carrying steam was always counted upon by the pilot on watch, to make up for any inherent difference in speed that might handicap our boat. he would put on the blower (forced draft) until solid chunks of live wood coals would be blown from the smokestacks. he would keep the water at the first gauge, or under it. he had a line rigged from the safety-valve lever, running aft to the engine-room. in times of peace the line was rove over a pulley fixed under the deck, above the safety-valve. a pull on the line in this position would raise the valve and allow the steam to escape. when another boat was in sight, going our way, the slack of the rope was hauled forward and the bight carried under a pulley fixed in a stanchion alongside the boiler, below the safety-valve, running thence up and over the upper pulley as before--but with all the difference in the world, for with the fifty-pound anvil hanging to the end of the line thus reversed in its leverage, the boilers might have blown up a hundred times before the safety-valve would have acted. i have often heard the signal which billy had agreed upon with his fireman on the port side, and have seen the darky slip the line under the lower pulley, and then keep one eye on the boiler-deck companionway, watching for the captain. should he be seen coming below, the line was as quickly slipped off the lower pulley and restored to its normal position; sometimes with a concurrent "blowing off" through the safety-valve, which was evidence enough for the captain, although he might not catch billy in the act. it is no more than just to say that the visits of the captain below decks were not frequent. he was a new orleans man, of french extraction, with a fine sense of honor which forbade any espionage of this nature, unless there seemed to be an especially flagrant case of steam-carrying on the part of his junior engineer. billy had another device which greatly galled the captain, and later it was the cause of a serious affair. the captain had a private servitor, a colored man who cared for his rooms in the "texas", served his lunches there, and ran errands about the boat as required. the captain used to send him down to the engine-room when he suspected hamilton was carrying more steam than was nominated in the license, to look at the gauge and take readings. it was not long before hamilton became aware of this surreptitious reading, and set himself to work to defeat it without the necessity of ordering the captain's man out of the engine-room. to this end he made a cap of sheet lead which covered the face of the dial, leaving only about two inches in the centre, showing the pivot and a small portion of the pointer. this balked the colored messenger completely, as he could not see the figures, and he was not well enough acquainted with the instrument to read it from the centre. on his last visit to the engine-room, hamilton saw him coming. pretending that he was going forward to try the water, but keeping his eye on the messenger, he saw him reach up and take off the cap. in an instant hamilton turned and threw his shaping hammer, which he had in his hand, with such true aim that it struck the poor darky in the head and knocked him senseless. as he dropped to the deck hamilton called one of his firemen, telling him to give his compliments to captain faucette and tell him to send some men and take away his (profanely described) nigger, as he had no use for him. the darky pulled through all right, i think. he was put ashore at the first landing and placed under the care of a doctor, and hamilton paid his bills. his successor never came into the engine-room, and the cap on the steam gauge was laid aside as unnecessary. whenever the mate had a "shindy" with the crew, which was composed of forty irishmen, all the other officers of the boat were bound to "stand by" for trouble. hamilton was always ready, if not anxious, for such occasions, and he and billy wilson, the mate, always supported each other so effectively that many an incipient mutiny was quickly quelled, the two jumping into a crowd and hitting every head in sight with whatever weapon happened to be at hand until order was restored. usually, however, it was with bare hands, and the show which authority always makes in face of insubordination. at times, billy's vagaries were of a grisly and gruesome character. i recall that at point douglass, on one of our trips, we found a "floater" (body of a drowned man) that had been in the water until it was impossible to handle it. to get it on shore it was necessary to slide a board beneath, and draw out board and body together. it was a malodorous and ghastly undertaking. something said to this effect, hamilton laughed at as being altogether too finicky for steamboatmen. to demonstrate that it need not affect either one's sensibilities or stomach, he stepped into the cook's galley for a sandwich, and sitting down on the end of the board, alongside the corpse, ate his lunch without a qualm. another and rather more amusing incident took place while the "fanny harris" was in winter quarters at prescott. the night before st. patrick's day, billy made up an effigy, which he hung between the smokestacks. as the manikin had a clay pipe in its mouth and a string of potatoes about its neck, it might have reference to the patron saint of the old sod. the loyal irishmen of the town so interpreted it at least, and billy had to stand off the crowd for several hours with a shot gun, and finally get the town marshal to guard the boat while he climbed up and removed the obnoxious image. he had a little iron cannon which he fired on all holidays, and sometimes when there was no holiday; in the latter case, at about three o'clock in the morning, just to remind people living in the vicinity of the levee that he was still "on watch". in retaliation for the effigy affair, his irish friends slipped aboard the boat one evening while he was away and spiked his cannon by driving a rat-tail file into the vent; this was after he had carefully loaded it for a demonstration intended to come off the next morning. he discovered the trick when he attempted to fire the gun, and offered pertinent and forcible remarks, but unprintable in this narration. he lost no time in vain regrets, however. lighting up his forge he made a screw and drew out the load. then with the help of several chums he moved his forge to the bow of the boat (the foc'sle), rigged a crane so that he could swing his little cannon in a chain sling, from the capstan to the forge, and back again. when the time came for firing the salute he had his gun heated red-hot on the forge; it was then swung back on to the capstan-head, where it was lashed with a chain. a bucket of water was then thrown into the gun, and instantly a hardwood plug, made to fit, was driven home with his heavy striking hammer. in a minute the steam generated by this process caused an explosion that threw the plug almost across the river, fully a quarter of a mile, with a reasonably fair result in the way of noise. it was a risky piece of work, but "billy" was in his element when there was a spice of risk mixed with his sports. billy's humor was broad, but never malicious. he never missed an opportunity to play a practical joke on any one, save, perhaps, the captain himself. the deck hands who "soldiered" by sitting on the side of their bunks when they ought to be at work toting freight, were sometimes lifted several feet in the air by the insertion of two inches of a darning needle ingeniously attached to the under side of the board bench upon which they took their seat. it was operated from the engine-room by a fine wire and a stiff spring, the whole boxed in so securely by the carpenter that there was no possibility of its discovery by the enraged victim. he was one of the most open-handed and liberal of men in his givings, and in spite of his escapades a valuable officer. in he left the boat, as did all the crew, to enlist under the call for three hundred thousand troops, made in july of that year. in all discussions of the war he had asserted his determination to keep away from any place where there was shooting, as he was afraid of bullets of any size from an ounce up. as he was a southern man, son of a slaveholder, we thought that this badinage was to cover his determination not to take any part in the war on the union side; we never questioned his courage. he went into the navy as an acting assistant engineer, and was assigned to one of the "tin-clads" that commodore porter had improvised for service on the mississippi and tributaries, and that did such heroic service in opening and keeping open the great river. within a few months after his entry into the service, his old friends saw with pleasure, but not surprise, his name mentioned in general orders for gallantry in action. he had stood by his engine on the gunboat after a pipe had been cut by a shell from a confederate shore battery, a number of men being killed and wounded, and the engine-room filled with escaping steam. binding his coat over his face and mouth to prevent inhalation of the steam he handled his engines at the risk of his life, in response to the pilot's bells, until his boat was withdrawn from danger. it was in keeping with his known character; and his talk of being "afraid of guns" was only a part of the levity with which he treated all situations, grave or gay. i do not know billy's ultimate fate. when he left the "fanny harris" for gunboat service, i also left to enlist in the infantry. after three years in the army i was mustered out in washington, and soon went to new york where i remained for ten years or more. in the interim between and , when i returned to the west, i completely lost sight of all my old river acquaintances. when, later, i made inquiries of those whom i did find, they either did not enlighten me as to his fate, or, if they did, i made so little note of it that it has escaped my memory. chapter vi _the "mud" clerk_[b]--_comparative honors_ [b] "mud" clerk: second clerk, whose duty it was to go out in all weathers, upon the unpaved levees and deliver or receive freight. as the levees were usually muddy in rainy weather, the name became descriptive of the work and condition of the second clerk. the transition from the "main deck" to the "boiler deck" marked an era in my experience. it opened a new chapter in my river life, and one from which i have greatly profited. when i went upon the river i was about as bashful a boy as could be found; that had been my failing from infancy. as pantry boy i had little intercourse with the passengers, the duties of that department of river industry requiring only the washing, wiping, and general care of dishes and silverware. a "cub" engineer slipped up to his stateroom, and donned presentable clothing in which to eat his meals in the forward cabin, at the officers' table, where all save the captain and chief clerk took their meals. after that, his principal business was to keep out of sight as much as possible until it was time to "turn in". he was not an officer, and passengers were not striving for his acquaintance. as second clerk all these conditions were changed. in the absence of the chief clerk, his assistant took charge of the office, answered all questions of passengers, issued tickets for passage and staterooms, showed people about the boat, and in a hundred ways made himself agreeable, and so far as possible ministered to their comfort and happiness while on board. the reputation of a passenger boat depended greatly upon the esteem in which the captain, clerks, and pilots were held by the travelling public. the fame of such a crew was passed along from one tourist to another, until the gentle accomplishments of a boat's _personnel_ were as well known as their official qualifications. captain william faucette was, as i have said, of french creole stock, from new orleans. in addition to being a good and capable officer on the roof, he was also highly endowed with the graces that commended him to the ladies and gentlemen who took passage with him. polite in his address, a fine dancer, a good story-teller and conversationist, his personality went far toward attracting the public who travelled for pleasure--and that was the best-paying traffic, for which every first-class packet was bidding. charles hargus, chief clerk, was not far behind his chief in winning qualities. an educated man, he was also possessed of the address and the other personal qualities which were necessary to equip one for becoming a successful officer on a mississippi passenger steamer. such was the atmosphere into which the oily "cub" from the engine-room was ushered, when drafted into this service because of the serious illness of the second clerk. it was too late to get a man from the city, and the necessities of the case required an immediate filling of the vacancy. i was invited, or rather commanded, to go into the office for the trip, and do what i could to help out with the work until the return to galena, where a man or boy could be found to fill the office until the sick officer returned. the boat was guard-deep with freight, and at night the cabin was carpeted with passengers sleeping on mattresses spread on the floor. the chief clerk simply had to have somebody to help out. on my part, it was the chance of my life. without much prior business experience, what little i had was right in line. i had checked freight on the levee for the firm of l. h. merrick & co., was a good penman, fairly good at figures, and had made out freight bills in the transfer of freight at prescott, which fact was known to the chief clerk. it is needless to add that i required no second order. while second clerks were not likely to get any shore leave at either end of the route, nor at any intermediate ports, it required no brilliancy of intellect to see that checking freight was comparatively cleaner than, and superlatively preferable to, boiler-scaling. regarding my success in this new field, suffice it to say that the trip to st. paul and return was made, and the freight checked out with surprisingly few errors for a beginner. the cargo of wheat, potatoes, etc., was correctly counted in, properly entered in the books, and correctly checked out at prairie du chien and dunleith. the sick clerk did not rejoin the boat. the temporary appointment by the captain and chief clerk was made permanent by the secretary of the company at dunleith, mr. blanchard, on the recommendation of mr. hargus, my chief. we ran into galena on our regular thursday afternoon time, and instead of creeping into a steaming, muddy boiler, i walked out on to the levee and was introduced to the great wholesalers who at that time made galena their headquarters, as "mr. merrick, our new second clerk", and the work of loading for a new trip was taken up. while the office of second clerk was a decided promotion from my point of view, it was not so esteemed on the river. leaving the engine-room was leaving the opportunity to learn the profession of engineering. once learned, it was then assumed that the person so equipped was guaranteed employment so long as he willed, with a minimum amount of competition. later developments revealed the fallacy of this conception. within ten years thereafter, steamboating was practically dead on the upper mississippi. the completion of one or more railroads into st. paul, ended the river monopoly. thereafter a dozen steamboats did the business formerly requiring a hundred. the wages of engineers and pilots dropped to a figure undreamed of in the flush times between and ; there were twenty men competing for every berth upon the river. my new berth was not silk-lined, however. there was an aristocracy in the official family above decks. the captain and the chief clerk represented the first class, and the mate and the second clerk the other. the line between these was represented by the watches into which all officers on the boat were divided for rounds of duty. the captain and his mate, and the chief clerk and his second stood watch and watch during the twenty-four hours (that is, six hours on and six hours off) all the season. the pilots and engineers interposed a "dog watch", to break the monotony. the captain and the chief clerk went on watch after breakfast, at seven in the morning, and stood until noon. at twelve o'clock they were relieved by the mate and the second clerk, who ran the steamboat and the business until six o'clock in the evening, when they were relieved. after supper, they turned in until midnight, when they were called and relieved the captain and the chief clerk, who retired and slept until morning. while each class of officers was on duty the same number of hours each day, the difference lay in the fact that the junior officers were compelled by this arrangement to turn out at midnight throughout the season. it was this turning out at midnight that made the mate's watch (the port watch) very undesirable so far as personal ease and comfort was concerned. a man can knock about until midnight very agreeably, after a short nap in the afternoon, provided he can have a sound sleep during the "dead hours" from midnight until six o'clock in the morning. to turn out at midnight every night and work until six is an entirely different matter. the pilots and engineers on our boat--and so far as my experience went, on all boats--stood a "dog-watch" from four in the morning until seven, thus making five watches during the twenty-four hours, bringing the men of the two watches on duty alternately at midnight, and shortening the "dead hours" from midnight to four o'clock, and from four until seven, so that one did not get so "dead" tired and sleepy as he would in standing a watch beginning every night at midnight. it was believed on the river that more people die between midnight and morning than during any other six hours in the twenty-four. i think that i have heard physicians confirm this. my own experience in going on watch at midnight continuously during six months is, that there is less vitality and ambition available in that period than in any other. in fact, i have no distinct recollection that there was any ambition at all mixed up in the process of writing up delivery books, checking out freight, measuring wood, and performing the hundred other duties that fell to the lot of the officer on watch, when done in the depressing atmosphere of early morning. it was a matter of duty, unmixed with higher motives. it was not only the turning out at unholy hours, that differentiated between first and second clerk. the second clerk must have his delivery book written up for all the landings to be made during his off-watch. the chief clerk then made the delivery from the book, upon which the receipts were taken. if, during the second clerk's off-watch, there was a particularly large manifest for any landing, the assistant was called to attend to the delivery, after which he could turn in again, if he chose. of course it took a river man but a moment to go to sleep after touching his bunk; but his rest was broken, and in the course of the season this began to tell on every one. under the stress of it, men became hollow-eyed and lost flesh and strength. when on watch, the second clerk not only attended to his own particular duties, but he also assumed for the time those of the chief clerk. he collected fares from passengers coming aboard during his watch; assigned rooms, provided there were any left to assign, or a mattress on the cabin floor if there chanced to be any space left on the floor, whereon to place another mattress; collected freight bills, paid for wood or coal, and performed any other duties ordinarily performed by the chief clerk when on watch. it was not considered good form to call the chief clerk during his off-watch; in fact, to do so would be a confession of ignorance or inability, which no self-respecting second clerk cared to exhibit, and but rarely did. many the close conference with the chief mate, his companion as well as superior during the long night watches; and many the smiles evoked in after days when recalling the well-meant but somewhat impracticable advice tendered upon some such occasions by the good-hearted autocrat of the "roof" and fo' castle. [illustration: alma, wisconsin. a typical river town in the fifties.] chapter vii _wooding up_ as second clerk, i was early taught to hold my own with the pirates who conducted the woodyards scattered along the river, from which the greater part of the fuel used on old-time river boats was purchased. there was a great variety of wood offered for sale, and a greater diversity in the manner of piling it. it was usually ranked eight feet high, with a "cob-house" at each end of the rank. it was the rule on the river to measure but one of the end piles, if the whole rank was taken, or one-half of one end pile if but a part of the rank was bought. for convenience, the woodmen usually put twenty cords in a rank, and allowed enough to cover the shortage caused by cross-piling at the ends. being piled eight feet high, ten lengths of the measuring stick (eight feet long) equalled twenty cords, if it were fairly piled. woodmen who cared for their reputation and avoided a "scrap" with the clerks, captains, and mates of steamboats, usually made their twenty-cord ranks eighty-four feet long and eight feet high. such dealers also piled their sticks parallel to each other in the ranks; they also threw out the rotten and very crooked ones. when the clerk looked over such a tier, after having run his stick over it, he simply invited the owner aboard and paid him his fifty or sixty dollars, according to the quality of the wood, took him across the cabin to the bar, and invited him to "have one on the boat", shook hands, and bade him good night. it took the "pirates" to start the music, however. when only scant eighty feet were found in the rank, with rotten and green wood sandwiched in, all through the tiers, and crooked limbs and crossed sticks in all directions, it became the duty of the clerk to estimate his discount. after running his rod over it, he would announce, before the first stick was taken off by the deck hands, the amount of wood in the rank--nineteen and a half cords, nineteen cords, eighteen and a half cords, or in extreme cases only eighteen. when the mate could stand behind the rank and see, through a cross-piled hole, more than half the length of the steamboat, it was deemed a rather acute case, calling for the eighteen-cord decision. when this decision was made and announced, it was, on our boat at least, always adhered to. we always took wood some time before our visible supply was exhausted, in order to meet just such emergencies. the owner might, and usually did, damn everybody and everything connected with the craft in the most lurid terms. but the one question he had to answer, and answer quickly, was: "will you take it?" if "no", the bell was struck and the boat backed off, while the woodman and roustabouts exchanged a blue-streaked volley of vituperation. if, on the other hand, a sale was made, the owner usually took his money and the inevitable drink at the bar, and then went down to the main deck and had it out with the mate, who was always a match, and more than a match, for any merely local and provincial orator. his vocabulary was enriched with contributions from all ports between st. louis and st. paul, while that of the squatter was lacking in the elements of diversity necessary to give depth and breadth to the discussion. it would be unjust to class all woodyard men with squatters like the foregoing specimens, of whom there were hundreds scattered along the islands and lowlands bordering the river, cutting wood on government land, and moving along whenever the federal officers got on their trail. on the mainland were many settlers, opening up farms along the river, and the chance to realize ready money from the sale of wood was not to be neglected. in many places chutes had been built of heavy planks, descending from the top of the bluff, from one to two hundred feet above the river. the upland oak, cut into four-foot lengths, was shot down to the water's edge, where a level space was found to rank it up. these men were honest, almost without exception, and their wood always measured true. the upland wood was vastly superior to the lowland growth; steamboat captains not only paid the highest price for it, but further endeavored to contract for all the wood at certain yards. i remember one, run by a mr. smith, between prescott and diamond bluff, and another near clayton, iowa, that always furnished the best dry oak wood, and gave full measure. it was at the latter place that i nearly lost my berth, through a difference with the "old man"--the captain. i had measured the rank and announced the amount of wood as twenty cords. the captain was on deck at the time, and watching the measurement. when the announcement was made he ordered the wood remeasured. i went over it carefully, measuring from the centre of the cross-pile at one end to the centre of the cross-pile at the other end of the rank, and again reported "twenty cords". captain faucette called down to "measure it again", with an inflection plainly intimating that i was to discount it, adding, "you measured both ends." the rank was full height, closely piled, and the best of split white oak, and i had already taken out one of the ends; further, i had already twice reported twenty cords in the hearing of all the crew and many passengers, who were now giving their undivided attention to this affair. i therefore did not feel like stultifying myself for the sake of stealing a cord or two of wood, and replied that i had already measured it twice, and that i had not measured both ends of the rank. the "old man" flew into a rage and ordered me to go to the office and get my money, and he would find a man who knew how to measure wood. there being nothing for it but to obey an order of this kind, i went aboard, hung up my measuring stick in its beckets, and reported at the office for my money. mr. hargus, my chief, was astonished, and asked for an explanation, which i gave him. he rushed out to the woodpile with the rod, ran over it in a flash, and reported to the captain on the roof, "twenty cords, sir!" and came back to the office. he told me to go on with my work and say nothing, which i was ready enough to do. in the meantime, the crew were toting the wood aboard. when the boat backed off, the captain sent for mr. hargus to meet him in his private room in the "texas", where they had it out in approved style. hargus only replied to captain faucette that if merrick was discharged he would also take his pay and go ashore with him. faucette was a new man in the line, from the far south, and a comparative stranger, while hargus was a veteran with the company, a stockholder in the line, and backed by all the dubuque stockholders, as well as by the officers and directors of the company; so the captain thought better of it and dropped the whole matter, never deigning to speak to the second clerk, either in way of apology, which was not expected, or of caution "not to let it occur again", which would have been an insult. the affair was "dropped overboard", as hargus said, and the wood-measuring was thereafter left to the proper officer, without comment or interference. with a crew of forty men looking on and hearing the whole colloquy, a change in the amount of wood reported at the suggestion of the captain, would have simply wiped out any respect they may have had for the authority of the boy officer; and his usefulness on that boat, if not on the river, would have ended then and there. it was one of the unwritten rules of the service that the officers were to stand by each other in every way; there was to be no interference while on duty, and each was held responsible for such duty. if there was cause for reprimand it was to be administered in the privacy of the captain's office, and not in the presence of the whole crew. it was not desirable to have either office or officer held in contempt. as the steamboat business developed, and as immigration into the new territory of minnesota increased, there was necessity for getting as many trips into a season as possible. this led to the adoption of every device that might lessen the running time of steamers between the lower ports and st. paul. not the least of these innovations was the use of the wood-boat for the more ready transfer of fuel from the bank to the deck of the steamer. flatboats, or scows, capable of carrying twenty cords of wood, and even forty, were loaded at the woodyards in readiness for the expected steamer. as the wood was worth more loaded in the scow, a higher price was given by steamboatmen, and contracts were made ahead; the date of arrival of the boat was determined, and the wood-boat was in readiness, day or night, with two men on board. it was the work of a few minutes only to run alongside, make fast the towlines, and while the steamer was on her way up river, thirty or forty men pitched or carried the wood aboard. ordinarily, the wood-boat was not in tow more than half an hour, which would take her five or six miles up river. when the wood was out, the towlines were cast off, a large sweep or steering oar was shipped up at each end of the scow, and it drifted back to be reloaded for the next customer. the steamboat, meanwhile, had lost practically no time in wooding, as the tow was so light as but slightly to impede her speed. the greatest danger in the transaction was that the great packet might swamp the scow by running at too great speed, towing her under by the head, as sometimes occurred. to avoid this contingency the wood was always taken first from the bow of the flatboat. as it was only the fast packets that patronized the wood-boats, this danger of towing under was always present, and the pilots were always very careful in the handling of their boats at such times. flats were seldom towed downstream, for the reason that there was no way of getting them back, except to pay for a tow. and again, the packets were not in so much of a hurry when going down river, for then they had but few passengers to feed, and no fast freight. chapter viii _the mate_ in writing of life on the main deck of a mississippi river steamboat fifty years ago, a prefatory note may be in order. the reader must bear in mind that times have changed; and men, in the mass, have changed, and that for the better, in the years that have elapsed between and . slavery then held sway on the west bank of the river, from the iowa line to the gulf. on the east side in the state of illinois even, the slavery idea predominated; and on the river there was no "other side" to the question. slavery was an "institution", as much to be observed and venerated as any institution of the country. a black man was a "nigger", and nothing more. if he were the personal property of a white man in st. louis, or below, he was worth from eight hundred to fifteen hundred dollars, and was therefore too valuable to be utilized in the make-up of a boat's crew running north. the inclemency of the weather, or the strenuousness of the mate, might result in serious physical deterioration that would greatly depreciate him as a chattel, to say nothing of the opportunities offered him by the northern trip to escape to canada, and thus prove a total loss. of free negroes there were not enough to man the hundreds of steamboats plying on the upper river. thus it came about that the cabin crews on some boats, and the firemen on others, were colored, while the deck crews (roustabouts and stevedores) were white. so marked was this division of labor that it came to pass that no "nigger" was permitted by the white rousters to handle any freight, on any boat. the modern unions take no greater exception to a non-union workman than the white deck hands then expressed for a "nigger" as a freight handler. another class distinction was, that nine-tenths of the deck crew were irishmen. in that day the poorer sort of that nationality were the burden-bearers of this country. they dug the ditches, built the railroad embankments, and toted the freight on the river. since that time they have wonderfully developed; in the present day, very few even of the emigrants handle pick and shovel, and none handle freight as river deck hands. they are the trainmen and policemen of the country, and their sons are our mayors and aldermen, our judges and law-makers. the dirt-handling on the railroads is passed on to the italians and the huns, while the river freight-handling, what little there is of it, is done by the lower class of negroes. the abolition of slavery has prodigiously increased their numbers, as well as amazingly cheapening them in value. all this has relevancy in describing an old-time mate and his work. there was a fellow feeling between the chief mate and the second clerk. for one thing, they were both in the second rank, officially, although that did not count for a great deal, i think, as neither of them thought of it in just that way. my recollection is, that both of them thought of it from the other point of view--they were over so many men, and in command of so many things and situations, rather than under the captain and the chief clerk. you will observe at once that this put an entirely different construction upon the question; and this was, after all, the only reasonable and practical view to take of it, and the one that came nearest to meeting all the conditions. in fact, no other view of the situation could be taken. when the captain and the chief clerk were off duty and asleep in their staterooms, or even off duty and awake, loitering about the boat, the responsibility was immediately shifted to their subordinates. even though the captain might be sitting in the door of his room in the forward end of the "texas", while the mate stood at the bell to make a landing, the amenities and traditions of river life put him out of the game as completely as though he were asleep in his berth. the same also was true of the chief clerk and his subordinate. the chief might be smoking his after-dinner cigar within ten feet of the office, or he might walk out on the levee and talk with the agent; but until asked, he never took any part in the distinctive business transactions of his subordinate, or in any way interfered with his manner of transacting the business. he might, later, if necessary, make suggestions looking to the betterment of the methods of his second; but that would be a purely personal, rather than an official, utterance. it followed, therefore, that my acquaintance with billy wilson was much closer than with the captain; and standing watch with him day after day and night after night during a long season's run, i came to know him intimately. he was born in pennsylvania, the son of a "pennsylvania dutchman." beginning his professional life on the allegheny river, he worked down the ohio, and when the great boom in upper mississippi traffic began in , engaged in that trade. a smooth-shaven, red-faced man, about five feet eight inches in height, he weighed probably a hundred and sixty pounds. occasionally he took a drink of whiskey, as did all river men, but it was seldom. he was well read, and ordinarily, a very quiet man, therefore all the more to be feared and respected. he would hardly fill the bill as a traditional mississippi river steamboat mate; and were his prototype shown on the stage it would be voted slow, uninteresting, and untrue to type. in the beginning of this chapter i endeavored to indicate what manner of men composed our deck crew. ours numbered forty men. almost without exception they were irishmen of the lowest class, picked up alongshore at st. louis, galena, dubuque, and st. paul, from the riffraff of the levee. they would get drunk whenever they could get whiskey; and as the boat carried hundreds of barrels of this liquor each trip, it required eternal vigilance on the part of the mates and watchmen to prevent the crew broaching a barrel and getting fighting drunk and mutinous. when this happened, as now and then it did in spite of all precautions, billy wilson was turned in an instant from a quiet pennsylvania dutchman into a dangerous, if not devilish, driver. he carried, on most occasions, a paddle made from a pork barrel stave. this had a handle at one end, and the other, shaped something like a canoe paddle, was bored full of quarter-inch holes. when the case was one of mere sluggishness on the part of one of the hands, a light tap with the flat part of this instrument was enough to inspire activity. when the case was one of moroseness or incipient mutiny, the same flat side, applied by his powerful muscles, with a quick, sharp stroke, would leave a blood-blister for every hole in the paddle; and when a drunken riot was to be dealt with, the sharp edge of the paddle on a man's head left nothing more to be done with that man until he "came to." with a revolver in his left hand and his paddle in his right, he would jump into the middle of a gang of drunken, mutinous men, and striking right and left would intimidate or disable the crowd in less time than it takes to tell it. he never used his pistol, and to my knowledge never called for assistance, although that was ready if required, for all officers were usually at hand and ready in case of necessity. in a row that took place at prairie du chien one night, when the men had sent up town and smuggled in a jug of whiskey, one man who was hit on the head by the paddle went overboard on the upstream side of the boat. he was instantly sucked under by the swift current, and was never seen again. the coroner's jury in the case brought in a verdict of "accidental death", and wilson came back to work after a week's sojourn with the sheriff, having won an added prestige that rendered less necessary the use of the paddle. ordinarily his commands were given in a low tone of voice, unaccompanied with the profanity which legend and story considered due from the man and his office. when things went wrong, however, the wide range and profundity of his language was a revelation to the passengers who might chance to be within ear-shot. i recall an outbreak, one april morning at about four o'clock, at a woodyard, between trempealeau and winona. he had called, "all hands, wood up!" it was a cold and rainy night, and many of the men had crawled in under the boilers to dry their clothes and seek sleep. after the first round or two, he found that ten or fifteen men were missing--they were "soldiering." he went aft and ransacked the bunks without finding the truants. he then dove under the boilers with his paddle, striking in the dark, and feeling for some one to hit, at the same time pouring out a torrent of profanity that in ordinary walks of life, would be called monumental, but which in the more exacting conditions of river life, probably was not above medium grade. the next count found every man in line, toting his share of the wood. it may be and was asked by eastern people, unused to river life, "why do the men submit to such treatment? why do they not throw the mate into the river?" the answer is, caste. they were used to being driven, and expected nothing else, and nothing better, and they would not work under any other form of authority. as i stated at the beginning, they were of the very lowest class. no self-respecting man would ship as a deck hand under the then existing conditions. one might now travel long and look in vain for a white crew driven as these men then were. their places have been taken by the freed negro; he to-day is being driven as his white predecessors were then. there is this distinction, however; now, most of the drivers are irishmen--the mates and watchmen on the river steamers. then an irishman was of little service as a mate. those officers were, as a rule, yankees or southerners or pennsylvania dutchmen. we had for a time a second mate, con shovelin, an irishman, as you might suspect from his name. he was six feet high, and big in every way, including his voice. he roared and swore at the crew all the time, but put very little spirit into them. a look out of the corner of wilson's eye, and a politely worded request that they "get a hump, now!" was worth a volume of shovelin's exordiums. at that time an irishman could not handle an irish crew; now, he can handle a crew of free negroes with the expenditure of one-half the wind and oratory. if you wish to see for yourself, take a trip on the river to st. louis and return, and see the celt driving the ethiopian, even as the saxon drove the celt, fifty years ago. [illustration: above trempealeau, wisconsin. in the middle foreground, at the head of the slough, is the site of the winter camp of nicolas perrot, in the winter of - , as identified in by hon. b. f. heuston and dr. reuben gold thwaites of the wisconsin state historical society.] chapter ix _the "old man"_ it would be interesting to trace the origin of this term, which is universally applied to the captain in nautical circles, either on shipboard, among deep-sea sailors, on the great lakes, or on the inland waters. he may not be half as old as the speaker; still, in speaking of him, not to him, he is the "old man." it is used in no disrespectful sense; indeed, it is rather an endearing term. in speaking to him, however, it is always captain, or sir. but in detailing what the captain has said or done the narrator says that the "old man" says so, or is about to do so, and his auditors, if river men, know of but one "old man" aboard the boat, although the steamer may be freighted with octogenarians. the captain usually reaches the "roof" from one of two directions, either going up from mate, or coming down from the pilot house. occasionally he emerges from the clerk's office, or from the engine-room; but the line of promotion is usually drawn from mate or pilot to captain, these being also the normal lines of education for that post. perhaps the greater number of captains serving on the river in the early days, down to , began their careers on the river as pilots, very often combining the two offices in one person. the captain's official requirements are not altogether ornate. it is true that he must have sufficient polish to commend himself to his passengers. that is essential in popularizing his boat; but in addition he must thoroughly know a steamboat, from stem to stern, and know what is essential to its safety, the comfort of his passengers, and the financial satisfaction of its owners. nearly every old-time captain on the river could, in case of necessity, pilot his boat from st. paul to galena. every captain could, and of necessity did, handle the deck crew, with the second mate as go-between, during the captain's watch on deck. some few might have gone into the engine-room and taken charge of the machinery, but these were exceptional cases. all were supposed to know enough about the business of the office to enable them to determine between profit and loss in the running of the steamer. after leaving port, the captain on the river was as autocratic as his compeer on the ocean. he might without notice discharge and order ashore any officer or man on board, and he could fill vacancies en route to any extent; but these appointments were subject to the approval of the owner or manager on arrival at the home port. many, if not most, of the captains owned interests in the boats which they commanded. many were sole owners, in which case they were amenable to no one for their actions, except to the civil authorities in case of legal technicalities, or to the unwritten laws of the service, which custom had made binding upon all. such, for instance, was the rule that the captain was not to interfere with the pilots in the running of his boat, even if he might know, or think he knew, better than they the proper course to take in certain cases, or under certain conditions; even though he might himself have a pilot's license hanging in his stateroom. neither was it considered good form to interfere with the duties of his mate, or the engineers, or the chief clerk, in the way of countermanding their orders when given in the line of duty. he might call them to account in his office, and not only caution, but command them not to repeat the error. only in cases where such interference was necessary for the safety of the boat was it deemed permissible; and a captain who so far forgot himself as to interfere, lost caste among all classes of rivermen, high and low. nevertheless, the "old man" had supreme power, and had the authority to interpose his veto on any command or any action, by any of his officers or men. this supremacy threw the burden of responsibility upon his shoulders, and set him apart as a man by himself. the seat of power was in the forward part of the "texas", where a commodious and handsomely-furnished cabin served as office, audience-room, sitting-room, and whenever he so willed, as dining-room. connected with it was a sleeping apartment, larger and better furnished than the ordinary staterooms in the passenger cabin. from the windows on the front and on two sides of his sitting-room he could look out ahead, or on either side, and see everything that was going on. it was here that he entertained favored guests when in relaxation, or hetcheled contumacious officers when in tenser moods. from his berth, directly under the pilot house, he could read the sounds of shuffling feet as the man on watch danced from side to side of his wheel; he could note the sounds of the bell-pulls, as signals were rung in the engine-room; and he could tell very nearly where the boat was at such times, and judge very cleverly as to the luck the pilot was having in running an ugly piece of river, or working out a crooked crossing. he could look out and see if his mate was asleep alongside the big bell, in the drowsy hours of the morning watch, if he cared to confirm a shrewd bet that the mate was asleep. he could tell by the roar of the forced draft in the tall chimneys in front of him, that there was another boat in sight, either ahead or behind, and that billy hamilton had the "blowers" on in response to a suggestion from tommy cushing, at the wheel, that an excess of steam was desirable, and that at once. this last was a perennial, or nocturnal, source of annoyance to our "old man", and one that wrung from him more protests than any other shortcoming under his command. it burned out more wood than was justified by the end attained; but what was of more serious import, it suggested the carrying of a greater head of steam than was consonant with perfect safety. at a time when boiler explosions were not infrequent on the western rivers, any suggestion of extra steam-carrying was sufficient to put the "old man" on the alert; and this led to more interference with his officers than any other cause that came under my observation during my brief experience on the river. a scantily-clad apparition would appear on deck forward of the "texas", and a request, "mr. cushing, please ask mr. hamilton to cut off the blowers", would be passed down the speaking tube to the engine-room. while it always came in the form of request, it carried with it the force of command--until it was concluded that the "old man" was again asleep, when the blowers were cautiously and gradually reopened. while it was not always expected that the captain should take the place of the engineer or pilot, it was required that he should be thoroughly acquainted with the handling of a steamboat under all circumstances. he must be a man possessed of nerve and courage, quick to see what was required, and as quick to give the necessary commands to his crew. as on deeper water, the code of honor on the river held that the captain must be the last to leave his sinking or burning boat; and many a brave commander has gone down to honorable death while upholding this code. in case of fire he must, with the pilot, instantly decide where lay the greatest chances of safety in beaching his boat. in case of snagging, or being cut down by ice, it is his first duty to save his boat, if possible, by stopping the break, at the same time providing for the safety of his passengers by beaching her on the nearest sand-bar. in case of grounding--"getting stuck on a sand-bar", as it is popularly known--all his knowledge of every expedient to extricate his vessel known to river men is called in play at once. an hour's time, or even a few minutes, lost in trying cheap experiments, is sufficient to pile up the shifting sands about the hull to such an extent as sometimes to consume days, or even weeks, in getting free. our own boat, the "fanny harris", drifted upon a submerged bank on the lower side of the cut-off between fevre river and harris slough, with a falling river. she did not get off that day, and within three days had less than a foot of water under some parts of her hull. her freight had to be lightered, and then it took two steamboats, pulling on quadruple tackles, "luffed" together, to pull her into deep water. the power applied would have pulled her in two, had it come from opposite directions. "sparring off" was a science in itself. just how to place your spars; in what direction to shove the bow of the boat; or whether to "walk her over" by setting the spars at a "fore and aft" angle, one on each side, and thus push the boat straight ahead--these were questions to be answered as soon as reports were received from the pilot who was sent out in the yawl to sound the whole bar. to a landsman, the use to which were to be put the great sticks of straight-grained, flawless yellow (or norway) pine, standing on either side of the gangway, was quite unknown until the boat brought up on the sandy bottom of the river. then, if it was the first time these timbers had been called into play that season, the lashings were cut away with a sharp axe; the detail from the crew sent to the roof eased away on the falls, until the derricks leaned forward at an angle of forty-five degrees. the crew on the forecastle overhauled the great four-by-five, or five-by-six ply falls, and hooked the lower block into the iron ring under the steamer's quarter, just above the load-line. this ring was attached to the hull by massive bolts, extending through several feet of timbers on the inside of the sheathing--the timbers running back the length of the hull, in well-built boats, so that with sufficiently solid footing for the spars, and with sufficient power, the steamer might be lifted bodily off the bar, without "hogging" the boat--the technical term for bending or breaking the hull out of shape. when it was decided by a conference of the captain, the pilots, and the mate, or by the captain's judgment alone, in what direction the bow of the boat was to be thrown, the foot of the spar was shoved clear of the guards and lowered away by the derrick-fall until its foot was firmly fixed, and the spar at the proper angle, and in the proper direction. the hauling part of the tackle (or fall, as it is called) was then passed through a snatch-block and carried to the capstan, around the barrel of which six or seven turns were taken, and the best man in the crew given charge of the free end. if the case was a very bad one--if the boat was on hard--the double-purchase gear was put on the capstan, to give additional power, and steam was turned on the hoisting engine, (or "donkey") which also operated the capstan by a clutch gear. ordinarily the boat quickly responded to all this application of power, was slowly pushed off the reef and headed for the channel, and the wheel was soon able to drive her ahead and away from the bar. this taking care of the free end of the tackle as it came from the capstan, was a work of more importance than might appear to the novice. the barrel of the capstan is concave; the line feeds on to it at the thickest part, either at the top or the bottom of the capstan. after it reaches a certain point all the turns must slip down to the narrowest part, and the work of winding upward begin over. the man who is handling the free end of the line must often slack a little--just enough to start the slipping--and then hold hard, so that it may go down easily, without giving any further slack. it looks easy, but it isn't. i have seen a careless man give so much slack to his line, when there was a very heavy strain upon it--in fact when the whole weight of the forward end of the steamer was pendant upon the spar--that the recoil of the tackle, though not over an inch or two, would let the hull drop with a force that would almost shake the chimneys out of her, and could be felt the length of the boat. it was also a post of some danger, as i have heard of instances in which the recoil snapped the tackle, and severely injured the men under and about the spar and capstan. the spars are shod with heavy iron points about a foot in length, which would grip the solid clay or gravel underlying the superficial layers of sand forming the bar. when there was "no bottom" to the sand, and the applied power, instead of lifting the steamer only shoved the spar into the quicksand, another footing was used--a block built of two three-inch sections of oak about eighteen inches in diameter, bound and crossed with iron, and having a hole in the centre through which the iron point of the spar was passed until the shoulder rested on the block. this block could not be driven deeply into the sand, and usually gave a secure footing. a rope attached to a ring in the block served to haul it out of the sand after the spar was hoisted aboard. the spectacle afforded by the "sparring off" process was always one of great interest to the passengers, and of excitement to the officers and crew. there were drawbacks to this interest, however, when the passengers were in a hurry, and the boat lay for hours, sometimes for days, before being released, the crew working day and night without sleep, and with little time even to eat. we once lay three days on beef slough bar; and the "war eagle" was eight days on the same bar, having been caught on a falling river, being only released after passengers and freight were transferred to other and lighter boats. for the officers and crew, there was no halo about an incident of this kind. in low water, it was to some boats of almost daily occurrence, somewhere on the river, even with the most skilful pilots. the fact was, that there were places where there was not enough water in the channel for a boat to pass without striking; and if one got out of the channel by ever so little, it was of course still worse. there were several places where it was to be expected that the boat must be hauled over the reef by taking out an anchor ahead, or by hauling on a line attached to a tree on the bank, if the channel ran near enough to render the latter expedient possible. i have injected this description of sparring off into the chapter devoted to the "old man", not because the process necessarily devolved upon him alone; but because as captain his will was law in any disputed point, and because upon him rested the responsibility of navigating his boat. he naturally took an active interest in the work, and was always on hand when it was done. but quite often the mate knew more of the _finesse_ of poling a boat off a bar, than did the captain; and some captains were shrewd enough to give the mate practically full control, only standing on the roof for appearance sake, while the latter did the work. it was, however, every man's work, and if any one had a practical idea, or a practical suggestion, whether pilot, engineer, mate, or carpenter, it was quickly put to the test. the main thing was to get off the bar, and to get off "quick." chapter x _the pilots and their work_ we come now to the consideration of that part of river life of which i was an interested observer, rather than an active participant. had not the great war burst upon the country, and the fever of railroad construction run so high, it is possible that i might have had my name enrolled in the list containing such masters of the profession as william fisher, john king, ed. west, thomas burns, thomas cushing, and a hundred others whose names were synonyms for courage, precision, coolness in danger, exact knowledge, ready resource, and all else necessary in the man who stood at the wheel and safely guided a great steamer through hundreds of miles of unlighted and uncharted river. compared with those days, the piloting of to-day, while still a marvel to the uninitiated, is but a primer compared to the knowledge absolutely necessary to carry a steamboat safely through and around the reefs, bars, snags, and sunken wrecks which in the olden time beset the navigator from new orleans to st. paul. the pilot of that day was absolutely dependent upon his knowledge of and familiarity with the natural landmarks on either bank of the river, for guidance in working his way through and over the innumerable sand-bars and crossings. no lights on shore guided him by night, and no "diamond boards" gave him assurance by day. no ready search-light revealed the "marks" along the shore. only a perspective of bluffs, sometimes miles away, showing dimly outlined against a leaden sky, guided the pilot in picking his way over a dangerous crossing, where there was often less than forty feet to spare on either side of the boat's hull, between safety and destruction. to "know the river" under those conditions meant to know absolutely the outline of every range of bluffs and hills, as well as every isolated knob or even tree-top. it meant that the man at the wheel must know these outlines absolutely, under the constantly changing point of view of the moving steamer; so that he might confidently point his steamer at a solid wall of blackness, and guided only by the shapes of distant hills, and by the mental picture which he had of them, know the exact moment at which to put his wheel over and sheer his boat away from an impending bank. to-day a thousand beacons are kindled every night to mark the dangerous or intricate crossings; by day, great white "diamond boards" spot the banks. at night the pilot has only to jingle a bell in the engine-room, the dynamo is started, and by pulling a line at either hand the search-light turns night into day, the big white board stands out in high relief against the leafy background, and the pilot heads for it, serene in the confidence that it is placed in line with the best water; for he knows that the government engineers have sounded every foot of the crossing within a date so recent as to make them cognizant of any change in its area or contour. constantly patrolling the river, a dozen steamboats, fully equipped for sounding, measuring, and marking the channel, are in commission during the months of navigation, each being in charge of officers graduated from the most exacting military and technical school in the world, and having under them crews composed of men educated by practice to meet any emergency likely to arise. if a snag lodges in the channel it is reported at the nearest station, or to the first government steamer met, and within a few hours it is removed. dams and shear-dykes direct the water in permanent, unshifting channels. riprap holds dissolving banks, and overhanging trees are cut away. millions of dollars have been spent in the work, and its preservation costs hundreds of thousands annually. all this outlay is to-day for the benefit of a scant score of steamboats between st. louis and st. paul. forty years ago two hundred men, on a hundred boats, groped their way in darkness, amid known and unknown terrors, up and down the windings of the great river, without having for their guidance a single token of man's helpful invention. there are men now living who may see all this vast expenditure utilized, as it is not now. the building of the inter-oceanic canal across the isthmus is certain to give new direction to the commerce of the world. it is fair to presume that the mississippi may again assert itself as one of the greatest arteries of commerce in the world, and that the products of the minnesota and dakota farms will find their way down the river to new orleans, instead of across the continent to new york, boston, philadelphia, and baltimore tidewater. if this effect does follow the building of the canal, as many clear-headed students of economic problems predict, the mississippi will again assume its old-time standing and influence as a great highway of commerce. the hope is at least father to this thought. as already stated, my personal experience as a pilot was limited. it was confined to a few seasons' study of the river under one of the best men who ever turned a wheel upon it--thomas burns. by an agreement with him, i was to retain my clerkship, but was to spend as much as possible of my time in the pilot house, while on watch or off, either with himself or his partner, thomas cushing, steering for them in turn, and receiving instruction from both. later i was to give all of my time, and after becoming proficient was to receive their recommendation for a license. i was then to pay to captain burns five hundred dollars from my first earnings, after getting a berth as a full-fledged pilot. under these terms i received instruction from both men, and as opportunity offered acted as their wheelsman relieving them of much hard work. this arrangement was ended by the breaking out of the war of secession and the enlistment of captain burns in the army. he raised a company for the forty-sixth illinois infantry, at galena, taking about thirty men from the "fanny harris" alone. that was in august, . thomas cushing then went down the river to try his fortune. two new pilots came aboard, jim black and harry tripp, and i was left out of the pilot house. later in the season the "fanny harris" was left so high on the bank of the cut-off between fevre river and harris slough that the whole crew were discharged. it was necessary to build ways under the boat and launch her, in order to get her back into the water--a labor of weeks. after a short time spent on the "golden era" i went up river and engaged with charley jewell, on the "h. s. allen", captain s. e. gray, running between prescott and st. croix falls. after a few trips i graduated as a pilot for that run, and conditionally for the galena and st. paul run. when the call for three hundred thousand additional troops came in august, , i decided that it was my duty to go to the front and "put down the rebellion", as the "boys" of that time put it. acting upon this commendable resolve, i dropped off at hudson, where i was well acquainted, and where several companies were organizing for the three years' service. i enlisted in a company intended for the twenty-fifth wisconsin infantry, of which jeremiah rusk was lieutenant-colonel; but when we came to be mustered in we were assigned to the thirtieth wisconsin infantry, as company a. my idea was, that if i survived i would return and take up my work on the river where i left it. that was the boy idea. it was not realized. after three years of service i was mustered out in washington, d. c. i married in the east, and entered the employ of a steamship company in new york as agent and superintendent, remaining there until . returning to wisconsin in i found a half dozen railroads centring in st. paul, and these were doing the business of the hundred steamboats that i had left running in . a dozen boats, confined to two lines, were handling all the river business between st. louis and st. paul, and the profession of piloting was at an end. of the hundred boats that i had known fourteen years before, not one remained. the average life of a river steamboat was but five years. curiously enough, i had by this time lost all interest in river life, except the interest of a trained observer. i enjoyed watching the few boats that chanced to come under my observation, and could appreciate fully the dexterity of the men who were holding their wheels in the pilot houses; but all my ambitions to again be one of them appeared to have evaporated, for other lines of work had engrossed my attention. engaging in the newspaper business, and later on adding the responsibility of the agency of a railroad company, i had enough to think about without pining for lost opportunities on the river. the work accomplished by the old-time mississippi pilot while guiding his steamer through hundreds of miles of water beset by snags, wrecks, and reefs, has been so fully described by "mark twain" in his _life on the mississippi_, that it would be temerity in any one else to attempt to add to what he has so humorously, and yet so graphically delineated. it rarely occurs that a man combines a perfect knowledge of a profession so far removed from the world of letters as is that of piloting a steamboat with the literary skill to describe its details. it will probably never again happen that a great master in literature and humor will graduate from a pilot house. the experiences of a pilot were the same, however, whether he turned a wheel on the lower river, as described by "mark twain", or on the upper river. it will not be plagiarizing, therefore, to tell something of the acquirements necessary in a pilot, even though the narrative coincides very closely with what he has recorded of similar experiences on the lower reaches. thomas burns[c] had the reputation of being one of the most reliable pilots on the upper waters. he was a scotchman, in middle life, without vices or failings of any kind, unless smoking may be a vice. it certainly wasn't so considered on the river, and for the sake of this story we will not consider it so here. he was conservative, and would not take any chances, even in a race, preferring to follow the deep water with safety, rather than cut corners involving risk to the boat and its cargo, even though a rival boat did pass him, or he was losing an opportunity to show off some fancy piloting. it was said of him that he was the only man who could and did steer a stern-wheel steamboat of four hundred tons through coon slough, downstream, without slowing or stopping the wheel--something requiring nerve and fine judgment. a side-wheel boat usually went around the sharp bend with one paddle wheel backing and the other going ahead. a stern-wheel boat was often compelled to "flank" around the elbow, by backing against the point and letting the current swing the bow around the bend. [c] captain thomas w. burns was born in boston, massachusetts, in . he removed with his parents to galena, illinois, in , where he received his education in the public schools. after leaving school he went on the river as a "cub" pilot, and upon reaching the age of years received his certificate as first-class pilot between st. louis and st. paul, in which capacity he served on many of the best boats of the minnesota packet company, including the "war eagle," "key city," "itasca," "fanny harris," "kate cassell," and others. in he recruited a company of steamboatmen at galena, and was assigned to the th illinois infantry. he remained with his company until after the capture of fort henry, when he was discharged for disability. upon his return to galena he took up the work of piloting again, continuing until , when he was appointed by president cleveland to the office of united states local inspector of steamboats, with headquarters at galena. his long years of experience on the river, and his high sense of duty made him an excellent official, and upon the advent of a republican administration he was reappointed to the office, in which he was serving at the time of his death, march , . by the old reckoning, the distance from st. louis to st. paul, was eight hundred miles; from rock island to st. paul, four hundred and fifty. the later survey, after straightening the channel by wing-dams and dikes, makes the distance seven hundred and twenty-nine miles from st. louis, and three hundred and ninety-eight from rock island to st. paul. it is safe to estimate a "crossing" in each and every mile of that river. some miles may have missed their share, but others had a dozen, so the average was fully maintained. that was fifty years ago. there are less crossings now, but more dams and dikes--two hundred and fifty-one dams, dikes, and pieces of dikes in the little stretch of river between st. paul and prescott, a matter of thirty-six miles. if a pilot attempted to make a crossing now, where he made it fifty years ago, he would in five hundred different places butt his head into a dike instead of a reef. tom burns, and scores of others like him, knew every rod of this river better than the average man knows any one mile of sidewalk between his home and his office. he knew it by day and by night. he knew it upstream and downstream--and this amounted literally to knowing two rivers eight hundred miles long, for the instant you turn your boat's prow down river you have entered an entirely new country. every mark is different; the bold outlines of bluffs with which you are familiar as you go up the river, are as strangers when viewed from the reverse side. you have to learn the stream over again, and worse yet, you have to learn to handle your boat differently. a novice in the business might take a steamer from st. louis to st. paul with very fair success, while the same man would hang his boat up effectually on the first bar he came to, if in going down river he handled his wheel in the same manner. coming upstream he might feel of a reef with the bow of his boat, and if he did not strike the best water the first time he could back off and try again; but going downstream he must hit the channel the first time or he is gone. the current is all the time irresistibly pushing his boat down the river, and if he strikes he is immediately, with the most disastrous consequences, swung broadside on to the reef. tom burns knew his river so well that he could jump from his berth on the darkest night and before he reached the pilot house door could tell what part of the river the boat was in; the instant his eye caught the jack staff he knew to a certainty what crossing the steamer was making, and on what part of the crossing she was at the moment. this was what every first-class pilot must, and did know. i use burns only as an illustration. it was courtesy for the relieved pilot to state the position of the boat as he relinquished the wheel to his partner: "good morning, mr. cushing! a nasty night. she drags a little, to-night. just making the upper cassville crossing. should have been farther up. hope you'll have better luck." this was only a matter of form and politeness, and not at all necessary. mr. cushing or mr. burns knew at a glance that it was the upper cassville crossing, and as he took the wheel from the hands of his retiring partner he did, the next instant, just what the other would have done had he continued. he saw the "swing" of the jack staff and met it; he felt the boat edging away from the reef, and coaxed her back, daintily but firmly, a spoke at a time, or possibly half a spoke. the continuity was not broken. the exact knowledge of the retiring pilot was simply carried along by the pilot coming on watch. in all the hundreds of miles of river traversed by the boat in its voyage up or down, there could be no other combination of marks just like the one which met the pilot's eye as he grasped the wheel. the problem for the "cub" was to learn the combination. in the day time it was not customary for the retiring partner to mention where the boat was at the time. that would have been stretching the point of courtesy too far. all this, however, was between equals. when the wheel was turned over to the "cub", it was generally a prime necessity that he be advised as to the exact position of the boat. thus primed, if he was reasonably advanced, he could take the wheel and with the clue given the river would shape itself in his mind, and he would pass from one set of marks to the next with some degree of certitude. without the clue, however, it was possible to imagine one's self in a hundred probable or improbable places. "all bluffs look alike to me", might under such circumstances be set to music and sung with feeling and expression by the learner. what the pilot must know to enable him to run the river at night, is strikingly suggested in the conversation between young "mark twain" and his chief, mr. bixby. when the boy had begun to take on airs as a pilot, his chief suddenly fired the question: "what is the shape of walnut bend?" of course he did not know, and did not know that he must know. mr. bixby: "my boy, you've got to know the shape of the river, perfectly. it is all there is left to steer by on a very dark night. everything else is blotted out and gone. but mind you, it hasn't the same shape in the night that it has in the daytime." "how on earth am i going to learn it, then?" "how do you follow a hall at home in the dark? because you know the shape of it. you can't see it." "do you mean to say i've got to know all the million trifling variations of the shape of the banks of this interminable river as well as i know the shape of the front hall at home?" "on my honor you've got to know them _better_ than any man ever did know the shapes of the halls in his own house... you see, this has got to be learned; there is no getting around it. a clear starlight night throws such heavy shadows that if you didn't know the shape of the shore perfectly, you would claw away from every bunch of timber, because you would take the black shadow of it for a solid cape; and you see you would be getting scared to death every fifteen minutes by the watch. you would be fifty yards from shore all the time when you ought to be within fifty feet of it. you can't see a snag in one of those shadows, but you know exactly where it is, and the shape of the river tells you when you are coming to it. then there's your pitch-dark night; the river is a very different shape on a pitch-dark night from what it is on a starlight night. all shores seem straight lines then, and mighty dim ones, too; you'd run them for straight lines, only you know better. you boldly drive your boat into what seems to be a solid straight wall (you knowing very well that there is a curve there), and that wall falls back and makes way for you. then there's your gray mist. you take a night when there's one of those grizzly gray mists, and then there isn't _any_ particular shape to a shore. a gray mist would tangle the head of the oldest man that ever lived. well, then, different kinds of _moonlight_ change the shape of the river in different ways. you see--" but the cub had wilted. when he came to his chief reassured him somewhat by replying to his objections: "no! you only learn _the_ shape of the river; and you learn it with such absolute certainty that you can always steer by the shape. that's in your head, and never mind the one that's before your eyes." and that was approximately the case. the details of the river, once learned, were so indellibly printed on the mind of the pilot that it seemed as though eyes were almost superfluous. of course mr. bixby stated the extreme case. while the pilot was running a bend "out of his head" in darkness that might be felt, there were always well-known landmarks to be seen--shapes of bluffs so indistinct as to seem but parts of the universal blackness. but these indistinct outlines were enough to confirm the judgment of the man at the wheel in the course he was steering. the man in the hall, in mr. bixby's illustration, could not see anything, and didn't know what hall he was in. he might just as well have been blind; and i never heard of a blind man running a steamboat, day or night. in the short experience that i had in the pilot house, i did not reach this perfection; but i have stood on one side of the wheel, mechanically following the orders of my chief, and listening to the churning of the wheel reëchoed from the banks not fifty feet away, when i could scarcely see the jack staff, and could not distinguish between the black of the woods and the all-pervading black of the night. mr. burns or mr. cushing would translate the situation, as the boat plowed along under a full head of steam, somewhat like this: "now we're going down into the bend. now we're opposite the big cottonwood. now we must pull out a little, to avoid that nest of snags. now we will let her begin to come out; the water begins to shoal here; we'll keep away from the point a little, and cross over into the west bend, and follow that down in the opposite direction." this in the way of instruction; and so far as my observation went he was drawing on his imagination for his facts, as i saw no big cottonwood, nor nest of snags, nor any point. the only thing that i could share with him in common was the fact that we were nearing the point and getting into shoaler water--the boat told me that. the floor under my feet seemed to hang back and drag; the motion of the paddle wheel was perceptibly retarded; the escape was hoarser from the pipes. i knew that there was shoal water on the point at the foot of the bend, and the boat herself told me when we had reached the point; but i had not seen it, either with my eyes, or in my head. mr. burns had it all in his head, and did not require to see it with his eyes. he simply ran the bend as he knew it to be; and he ran a hundred others in the same way. what might happen to any one who ran by sight, and not by faith, was illustrated in the case of a young pilot on the "key city", of our line. he had his papers, and was standing watch alone in the pilot house. he was going downstream. in going into lansing, iowa, one runs a long bend on the left-hand shore. at lansing the river turns sharply to the south, from a nearly westerly course. just at the turn, and fronting the river toward the east, is a solid limestone bluff four hundred feet high. on a starlit night the shadow of this bluff is thrown out upon the river so far as totally to obliterate the water, and for several minutes one must point his boat straight into an apparently solid bluff before he "opens out" the turn to the left. on the night in question the young man forgot to run by what he knew to be the shape of the river, and trusted to what his eyes showed him. he lost his head completely, and instead of stopping both wheels and backing away from the impending doom, he put his wheel hard over and plumped the "key city" into the alluvial bank of the island opposite, with such force as to snatch both chimneys out of her, and very nearly to make a wreck of the steamer. i have myself been tempted to run away from the same bluff; and but for confidence inspired by the presence of one of the pilots, might have done so. mr. burns drilled his "cubs" upon one point, however, which made for the safety of the boat: "when in doubt, ring the stopping bell and set her back." there was no place of safety to run to in a panic on the mississippi, and a boat standing still was less likely to hurt herself or any one else than one in motion. in no other particular, perhaps, has the art of piloting been so revolutionized as in the adoption of the electric search-light for night running. time and again have i heard the question asked by people new to the river: "why don't you hang up two or three lanterns at the front end of the boat, so that you can see to steer?" it is easy to answer such a question convincingly. go out into the woods on a very dark night with an ordinary lantern. how far can you see by such a light? perhaps thirty feet; twenty feet would probably be nearer the mark. until a light was discovered that could project its rays a half mile or more, and so concentrated as clearly to reveal landmarks at that distance, the other extreme, no light at all, was not only desirable, but positively necessary if the boat was to be kept going. after long usage, a pilot's eyes came to possess powers common to the cat family and other night prowlers. he could literally "see in the dark"; but he could not see in any half light, or any light artificial and close at hand. for this reason it was necessary to cover every light on the boat while running on a very dark night, save the red and green sidelights at the chimney-tops. to accomplish this, heavy canvas "shrouds" or "mufflers" were provided, which fitted snugly around the forward part of the boat, in front of the furnaces on the main deck; another set were placed around the boiler deck, in front of the cabin; and still another set to muffle the transom sky-lights on the hurricane deck. when these were properly fitted and triced up, there was not a ray of light projected forward, to break the dead blackness ahead. so delicate was this sense of night sight, that no one was permitted to smoke a pipe or cigar in the pilot house at such times, and even the mate, sitting by the bell down on the roof below, had to forego his midnight pipe. as for the pilot himself, a cigar in front of his nose would have shut off his sight as effectively as though he were blindfolded. of course, were the pilot looking only ten feet, or even forty feet, ahead of his boat, the lights on board might not have interfered greatly, although they would not have assisted him in the slightest. you can not steer a boat by landmarks ten feet ahead of her. the pilot searches for landmarks a mile away, and must be able to distinguish between two kinds of blackness--the blackness of the night below, and the blackness of the sky above, and from the dividing line between the two must read his marks and determine his course. he does not see the woods on either side of him, and often close at hand. the least ray of artificial light would blind the pilot to the things which he must see under such conditions, hence the shrouding of the boat was a necessity, were she to be run at all on such a night. the coming of the electric search-light, and the transfer of the marks from distant bluffs to big white diamond boards planted low down on the banks where the light can be flashed upon them from a distance of half a mile or more, has greatly simplified the work of the pilot, and rendered obsolete the curtains which once so completely darkened the mississippi steamboat on the blackest of nights. [illustration: . daniel smith harris. steamboat captain, - . . captain thomas burns. pilot on the upper mississippi river from to . inspector of steamboats under president cleveland and president mckinley. . charles g. hargus. chief clerk on the "royal arch," "golden state," "fanny harris," "kate cassell" and many other fine steamers on the upper mississippi. . george b. merrick. "cub" pilot, .] chapter xi _knowing the river_ to "know the river" fully, the pilot must not only know everything which may be seen by the eye, but he must also feel for a great deal of information of the first importance which is not revealed to the eye alone. where the water warrants it, he reaches for this information with a lead line; as on the lower river, where the water is deeper, and the draft of boats correspondingly great. on the upper river, a twelve-foot pole answers instead. the performance is always one of great interest to the passengers; the results are often of greater interest to the man at the wheel. the manner in which the reports of the leadsman are received and digested by the pilot, is not usually known to or comprehended by the uninitiated. the proceeding is picturesque, and adds one more "feature" to the novelties of the trip. it is always watched with the greatest interest by the tourist, and is apparently always enjoyed by them, whatever the effect upon the pilot; whether he enjoys it or not depends on the circumstances. soundings are not always necessarily for the immediate and present purpose of working the boat over any particular bar, at the particular time at which they are taken, although they may be taken for that purpose and no other. in general, during the season of low water, the leads are kept going in all difficult places as much for the purpose of comparison as for the immediate purpose of feeling one's way over the especial reef or bar where the soundings are taken. if it is suspected that a reef is "making down", the pilot wants to satisfy himself on that point, so that he may readjust his marks to meet the changed outlines. if a reef is "dissolving", he also wants to know that, and readjust his marks accordingly--only in the first place, his marks will be set lower down the river; in case of a dissolving reef, his marks will be set farther upstream, to follow the deep water which is always found close under the reef--that is, on the downstream side. the shallowest water is always on the crest of the reef, and it "tapers" back, upstream, very gradually, for rods--sometimes for half a mile or even more, until another reef is reached, with deep water under it, and another system of shallows above. this is where the perfection of the pilot's memory machine is demonstrated along another line. he has acquainted himself with every bluff, hill, rock, tree, stump, house, woodpile, and whatever else is to be noted along the banks of the river. he has further added to this fund of information a photographic negative in his mind, showing the shape of all the curves, bends, capes, and points of the river's banks, so that he may shut his eyes, yet see it all, and with such certainty that he can, on a night so perfectly black that the shore line is blotted out, run his boat within fifty feet of the shore and dodge snags, wrecks, overhanging trees, and all other obstacles by running the shape of the river as he knows it to be--not as he can see it. in sounding, he is mentally charting the bottom of the river as he has already charted the surface and its surroundings. as he approaches the crossing which he wishes to verify, he pulls the rope attached to the tongue of the big bell on the roof, and sounds one stroke, and an instant later two strokes. the captain or mate on watch sings out: "starboard lead!" "larboard lead!" and the men detailed for the duty are at their stations in a minute or less after the order is given. then the cry, first from starboard and then from port, long-drawn and often musical: "no-o-o bottom; no-o-o bottom!" rises from the fo'c'sle, and is repeated by the captain or mate to the pilot. "mar-r-k twain, mar-r-r-k twain!" indicates soundings the depth of the sounding pole--twelve feet, or two fathoms. this is of no interest to the pilot, for he knew there was "no bottom" and "two fathoms" before the soundings were taken. it is of the highest interest to the passengers, however, to whom the cry of "no bottom" seems a paradox, when the boat has been rubbing the bottom most of the way from rock island up. they have not yet been taught that this simply means no bottom with a twelve-foot pole, and does not indicate that the mississippi is a bottomless stream at this or any other point. on the upper river, the cry of "ten feet, eight and a half", or even "six feet", does not strike any sensitive spot in the pilot's mental machinery, for upper river men are used to running "where there is a heavy dew". on such occasions he might listen to the latest story, detailed by a visiting comrade, and even take part in the conversation, apparently indifferent to the monotonous cries from the lower deck. but all the time his brain is fitting the leadsman's cries to the marks in which the cries have found his boat--not consciously, perhaps, but nevertheless surely. he has not only fitted the cry into the marks, but has mentally compared the present with the depth of water cried at the same spot last trip, and the trip before that, and noted the change, if any has taken place. say the leadsman has sung "six feet", "six feet", "six feet", "six feet", "six feet", until you would think there was no other depth but six feet in the river; then in the same tone he sings "five-and-a-half", "six feet", "six feet", "six feet". the pilot is still talking with his visitor, watching his marks and turning his wheel; but he has picked out that "five-and-a-half" and stored it away for future reference, together with all the surroundings of his boat at the instant the call reached his ear--the marks ahead, astern, and on either side. the next trip, as the leadsman sings "six feet", "six feet", "six feet", he will be shocked and grievously disappointed if he does not find his "five-and-a-half" at just that point. and he will not be counting the "six feet" cries, nor, possibly, will he be aware that he is looking for the "five-and-a-half". when he drops into the marks where the "five-and-a-half" found him last week, if he hears only the "six feet", he will be in a similar frame of mind to the man who, coming into town, misses a prominent tree or house, and asks: "where is that big tree that stood on the corner, when i was here last time"? the pilot does all this without realizing that he is making any mental effort. when he begins this sort of drill as a "cub", he realizes it fully; and if he is half sharp he will open an account with every shoal place between rock island and st. paul, and set down in writing the soundings on the lowest place on each reef, and try to supply the marks in which his steamer lay when the cry was heard. as he grows in his studies he will rely less on his notebook and more upon his memory, until the mental picture of the bottom of the river becomes as vivid as that of the surface. then, when his chief asks suddenly: "how much water was there on the middle crossing at beef slough last trip"? he can answer promptly: "four feet on starboard, four feet scant on port". "how much trip before last?" "four feet large, both sides." "right, my boy; you're doing well." if that "cub" doesn't grow an inch in a minute, under these circumstances, he isn't the right kind of boy to have around. naturally the boys studied the "nightmares", first of all. if they could get over cassville, brownsville, trempealeau, rolling-stone, beef slough, prescott, grey cloud, and pig's eye, they could manage all the rest of the river. but the leads were kept going in fifty other places which, while not so bad, had enough possibilities to warrant the closest watching. the chiefs were making mental notes of all these places, and could tell you the soundings on every crossing where a lead had been cast, as readily as the "cubs" could recite the capital letter readings of beef slough and pig's eye. the miracle of it was, how they could do this without giving any apparent attention to the matter at the time. they struck the bell, the leadsman sang, the mate or captain repeated the cries mechanically, while the pilot appeared to pay little or no attention to the matter. when he had enough of the music he tapped the bell to lay in the leads, and nothing was said as to the results. yet if asked at st. paul by a brother pilot how much water he found on any one of a hundred crossings of average depth, he could tell, without hesitation, just where he found the lowest cast of the lead. in my experience as a printer i have stood at the case and set up an editorial out of my head (how "able" i will not pretend to say), at the same time keeping up a spirited argument on politics or religion with a visitor. the thinking appeared to be all devoted to the argument; it was probably the talking only. to set the type required no thought at all; that was purely mechanical; and to compose the editorial was the unconscious operation of the mind, accustomed to doing just this sort of thing, until the framing of words into sentences became more or less mechanical. certainly the mental drill of a river pilot along a very few lines, developed a memory for the things pertaining to his profession which was wonderful, when you sit down and attempt to analyze it. to the men themselves it was not a wonder--it was the merest commonplace. it was among the things which you must acquire before you could pilot a steamboat; and for a consideration they would covenant to teach any boy of average mental ability and common sense all these things, provided always that he had the physical ability to handle a wheel, and provided also, that he demonstrated in time of trial that he had the "nerve" necessary for the business. a timid, cowardly, or doubting person had no business in the pilot house. if it were possible for him to acquire all the rest, and he lacked the nerve to steady him in time of danger, he was promptly dropped out of the business. i saw this illustrated in the case of a rapids pilot between st. paul and st. anthony. we always made this trip when a cargo of flour was offered by the one mill which in that early day represented all there was of that great interest which now dominates the business of minneapolis. while our pilots were both capable of taking the boat to st. anthony and back, the underwriters required that we should take a special pilot for the trip--one who made a specialty of that run. on the occasion in point we had taken an unusually heavy cargo, as the river was at a good stage. at that time the channel was very crooked, winding about between reefs of solid rock, with an eight to ten mile current. it required skilful manipulation of the wheel to keep the stern of the boat off the rocks. in going downstream it is comparatively easy to get the bow of a steamer around a crooked place; it is not easy to keep the stern from swinging into danger. in this case the stern of the steamer struck a rock reef with such force as to tear one of the wing rudders out by the roots, in doing which enough noise was made to warrant the belief that half the boat was gone. the special pilot was satisfied that such was the case, and exclaimed: "she is gone!" at the same time letting go the wheel and jumping for the pilot house door. she would have been smashed into kindlings in a minute if she had been left to herself, or had the engines been stopped even for an instant. fortunately the rapids pilot was so scared by the noise of rending timbers and wheel-buckets that he did not have nerve enough left to ring a bell, and the engineer on watch was not going to stop until a bell was rung, as he knew that the drift of a minute in that white water, would pile us up on the next reef below. fortunately for the "fanny harris", tom cushing was in the pilot house, as well as myself. when the other man dropped the wheel cushing jumped for it, and fired an order to me to get hold of the other side of the wheel, and for the next six miles he turned and twisted among the reefs, under a full head of steam, which was necessary to give us steerageway in such a current. we never stopped until we reached st. paul, where we ran over to the west shore, it being shallow, and beached the boat. when she struck land the captain took the special pilot by the collar and kicked him ashore, at the same time giving him the benefit of the strongest language in use on the river at that time. beyond the loss of a rudder and some buckets from the wheel, the boat was not seriously damaged, and we continued the voyage to galena as we were. had tom cushing not been in the pilot house at the time, she would have been a wreck in the rapids a mile or so below st. anthony falls. the rapids pilot lost his certificate. [illustration: typical portion of the upper mississippi. map of the river between cassville, wis., and guttenberg, iowa, showing the characteristic winding of the stream.] chapter xii _the art of steering_ every pilot must of necessity be a steersman; but not every steersman is of necessity a pilot. he may be studying to become a pilot, and not yet out of the steersman stage. "cubs" begin their studies by steering for their chiefs. many boys become quite expert in handling a boat, under the eyes of their chiefs, before they are sufficiently acquainted with the river to be trusted alone at the wheel for any length of time. at first thought, one might imagine a number of favorable conditions as prerequisite to the ideal in steering: a straight piece of river, plenty of water, and an average steamboat. these would indeed guarantee leaving a straight wake; but under such conditions a roustabout might accomplish this. the artistic quality is developed in the handling of a boat under the usual conditions--in making the multitudinous crossings, where the jack staff is continually swinging from side to side as the boat is dodging reefs and hunting the best water. in doing this, one man puts his wheel so hard down, and holds it so long, that he finds it necessary to put the wheel to the very opposite to check the swing of the boat and head it back to its proper course, in which evolution he has twice placed his rudder almost squarely across the stern of his boat. if this athletic procedure is persevered in at every change of course, it will materially retard the speed of the steamer and leave a wake full of acute angles, besides giving the steersman an unnecessary amount of work. the skilled steersman, combining his art with his exact knowledge of the bottom of the river, will give his boat only enough wheel to lay her into her "marks", closely shaving the points of the reefs and bars, and will "meet her" so gradually and so soon as to check the swing of the jack staff at the exact moment when the "marks" are reached. there is then no putting the wheel over to bring the boat back, after having overreached her marks, and the rudders have at no time been more than a quarter out of line with the hull of the boat. it is this delicate handling of the wheel, which differentiates between the artist and the athlete. steamboats have their individuality, the same as pilots and steersmen. there are boats (or have been), that would almost steer themselves, while there are others so perverse and tricky that no one could feel sure of keeping them in the river for any consecutive two miles. the "ocean wave" was, perhaps, the most unreliable and tricky of all the craft on the upper river--or any river. in low water no one man ever thought of standing a watch alone at the wheel, and at times she would run away with two men at the wheel. she was short, "stubby", and narrow; and when she smelt a reef she would, unless very carefully handled, under a slow bell, run away from it, often with one paddle wheel backing while the other was coming ahead, and the rudder standing squarely across the stern. many times she has plumped into the bank under these conditions, and nothing less than the bank would stop her. the "city belle", the "favorite", and the "frank steele" were built much like the "ocean wave", but were not quite so unreliable in steering. she was in a class by herself. on the other hand, the "key city", one of the largest, longest, and finest of the up-river packets, was so well-balanced, and her hull so finely moulded, that it was a delight to handle her, even under otherwise unfavorable conditions, such as low water, or high winds. a stern-wheel boat going downstream when the wind was blowing up the river, was about as helpless a craft to handle as could well be imagined. after she was once "straightened down" she was all right; but in attempting to get her nose pointed down river, after having made a landing, there were more profane possibilities than the uninitiated ever dreamed of. the current, acting on the stern of the boat and the partially-submerged wheel, was all the time pulling that end of the boat downstream; while the wind, acting upon the tall chimneys and the pilot house and "texas", was at the same time pushing the bow of the boat upstream; and the pilot was all the while endeavoring to reverse this position, and get the bow of his boat pointed in the direction in which he wished to go. it sometimes took hours to accomplish this, particularly if caught in places where the river was narrow and correspondingly swift, and the wind strong and contrary. the only way to swing a stern-wheel boat was, to put the steering wheel hard over, throwing the four rudders as far to one side as possible, and then back strongly against them. under this leverage if there was no wind, the boat would swing easily and promptly, until her head was pointed downstream; and then by coming ahead and gaining steerageway, the boat was under perfect control. but when the wind was blowing upstream, it was often found impracticable to back fast and far enough to gain the necessary momentum to swing her in a narrow place; the engines would have to be stopped before the boat was swung to more than a right angle with the river, and then, before steerageway was gained after coming ahead, the bow of the boat would again be pointing upstream, and the same performance would have to be gone through with--sometimes a dozen or twenty times, before the boat would get under way in the proper direction. in i saw henry link, after having made a landing at newport, back the "mary morton", of the diamond jo line, more than five miles down the river, she having swung stern-down at that place. he see-sawed back and forth across the stream, first in one direction and then in another, and failed at last to swing his boat against the strong south wind which was blowing. he finally gave it up and ran ashore, and getting out a line to a big tree, backed his craft around until her bow was pointed downstream, and then made a start from a broadside position against the bank. i happened to be a passenger on the boat at the time. his remarks on that occasion were unprintable. a side-wheel boat, under the same conditions, would have backed out into the river, come ahead on one wheel while backing on the other, and in two or three minutes would have been going full speed ahead on the desired course. that is the beauty of the independent side-wheel system. it is a great saving of labor and morality for the steersman, and a great saving of time for the owners. it would seem that if you could get the bow of your boat clear of the bank, or of an overhanging tree, after pointing in pretty close, that the rest of the boat would follow the bow and likewise come out, without any undue intimacy with the trees or bank. it takes only one trial to disabuse a beginner of this notion. the balance of the boat does not follow the bow out of such a position; and while every pilot knows the immutable laws of physics which operate upon his boat under such circumstances, most of them, sooner or later, get caught, either through carelessness or recklessness, just as the green cub does through ignorance. in running downstream, when you point into the bank, and shave it closely, you pull the bow of the boat away, and then there are two forces over which you have no control with your steering wheel: the impetus of the after half of your boat is still in the direction of the bank, after the forward half has begun to swing away; which would also be the case in a perfectly dead lake. in the river, you have the second force in the current which is pressing against the whole of the hull, but more particularly against the after part, and this is pushing the boat in toward the bank after you have pulled her bow away from it. the result is, that while you may clear the bank with the bow of the boat, the stern swings in and gets the punishment. because of these two laws of physics, it was almost impossible to run a stern-wheel boat around the sharp bend in coon slough, a feat which "tom" burns performed several times without stopping a wheel. "jack" harris tried it with the big side-wheeler, the "northern light", late in the fall, when the anchor ice was running. her bow got around all right; but her stern swung into the ice which had lodged in the bend, with the result that the whole stern was torn away, and she sank in twenty feet of water. "ned" west tried a similar experiment at dayton bluff, just below st. paul, with the "key city". he ran in very close to the rocky shore, under full headway. he got her head out in good shape, but the stern struck the rocks, tearing out the rudder and smashing the deadwood. he worked her back to st. paul with the wheels alone, and there the damage was repaired. i doubt if he was even reprimanded, for he was the "fastest" pilot on the upper river, as well as one of the best, and getting eight hundred dollars a month for his services. he could get a boat over the course from st. louis to st. paul, in less time than any other pilot could take the same boat, and that of course carried with it the supposition that he knew the river as well as any man. i learned the lesson myself through inattention. i was well acquainted with the principle through precept, and had been very careful not to run too near the bank. coming down from st. croix falls with the "h. s. allen", on reaching the mouth of the apple river, i saw a school of black bass lying on the white sandy bottom where the apple river empties into the st. croix. the inflow from apple river sets almost squarely across the st. croix, and when the former is in flood the current sets nearly across the channel. to meet it, it is necessary to point toward the incoming current, to prevent being thrown against the opposite bank. being an ardent fisherman i was deeply interested in the scores of fine fish plainly distinguishable from the height of the pilot house. the result was inevitable. i neglected to point the bow of the boat sufficiently against the inflow, and she took a sheer for the opposite bank the instant she struck the cross current. i pulled the wheel hard over in an instant, and got the bow clear of the overhanging timber, but the stern went under, and when it came out the "h. s. allen" lacked two escape pipes and half of the washroom and laundry. the stewardess herself was short about half her senses, and all her temper. the captain had seen the same trick performed by older and better pilots than myself, and was not unduly distressed. it took about one hundred dollars to make the boat presentable. i did not tell about the black bass for some time after the incident occurred--long enough after so that there would be no obvious connection between the fish and the missing laundry. the man who has once mastered the art of steering a steamboat on western waters, never loses his love for it. whatever may have been his occupation after leaving the river, his hands instinctively reach out for the wheel if fortune so favors him as to place the opportunity within his reach. i mean, of course, the man who sees and feels more than the mere turning of the wheel so many hours a day, for so much money to be paid at the completion of his task. it may be work, and hard work, for the enthusiast as well as for the hireling; but with the man who puts his spirit into the task, it is work ennobled by painstaking devotion, and glorified by the realization of work artistically and lovingly done. to such a man there is an exhilaration about the handling of a big steamboat in the crooked channels of the great river, akin to that felt by the accomplished horseman when guiding a spirited team of roadsters, or that of the engineer, holding the throttle of a great locomotive rushing over the rails at a speed of sixty miles an hour. however long the hands of the horseman or the engineer may have been divorced from reins or throttle, there is the same longing to grasp the one or the other when the opportunity offers. it is a wholly natural craving of the inner being; and however inexplicable it may be, it is there. for forty years, since leaving the river for other pursuits, often harassing and full of care, i have dreamed, time and again, of holding a wheel on one of the old-time boats on which i served as a boy. in my sleep i have felt again the satisfaction in work well done, the mortification of failure, and have felt again the cares and responsibilities that weighed so heavily when beset with difficulties and dangers. it is all as real as though i again stood at the wheel, doing real work, and achieving real victories over besetting difficulties and dangers. mere work, as a means of earning a living, would not take such hold upon one's nature. it is the soul of the artist incarnate in the pilot. chapter xiii _an initiation_ i have said that in addition to "knowing the river", and knowing that he knows it, the young pilot must also be fortified with a large measure of self-reliance, or all else will go for nothing. the time of trial comes to every one, sooner or later, and the manner in which it is met usually determines the standing of the young novitiate in the estimation of river men. the reputation of every man on the river is common property the length of his run, from st. louis to st. paul. it was proverbial that river men "talked shop" more than any others, in those early days, probably because they were more interested in their own business than they were in that of other men. possibly because, as one government engineer stated it, they didn't know anything else. however, the doings of all the river men were pretty thoroughly discussed sooner or later, from the latest dare-devil exhibition of fancy piloting by "ned" west, to the mistakes and mishaps of the youngest "cub". sooner or later, each and all were served up at the casual meetings of river men, at whatever port they might foregather. my own "baptism"--not of "fire", but of water and lightning--came on the very first trip i made alone on a steamboat. i had been running with charley jewell on the "h. s. allen", from prescott to st. croix falls. mr. jewell fell sick and was laid off at prescott. on the levee, the day he went home, was a steamboat load of rope, rigging, boats, and camp-equipage, together with a couple of hundred raftsmen landed from a down-river packet that did not care to make the run up the lake. the disembarked men were anxious to reach stillwater with their cargo, that night. our regular starting time, as a united states mail boat, was at o'clock in the morning. they offered extra compensation if we would take them up that night, and the proposition was accepted by captain gray. all hands were set to work loading the stuff. i felt quite elated at the prospect, as it was a bright evening, and i felt sure of finding my way, for there were only three or four close places to run in the thirty miles of lake navigation between prescott and stillwater. we got everything aboard, and i backed her out and started up the lake. there had been some lightning in the north, where there was a bank of low-lying clouds. so far away were they, apparently, that no one thought of a storm, certainly not a serious one. we were running toward it, however, and as we soon discovered, it was coming to meet us at a rattling pace. we met when about six miles above prescott. first a terrific wind out of the north, followed by torrents of rain, and incessant lightning, which took on the appearance of chain-mail as it shimmered and glittered on the falling rain drops. i put up the breast-board, and let down the head-board as far as i could and still leave room between to look out ahead; but the fierce wind drove the rain in sheets into the pilot house, and in a minute's time i was completely soaked. the lightning and thunder were terrifying in brilliancy and in sharpness of sound, the flash and the report coming so closely together as to leave no doubt that the bolts were getting seriously close to the smokestacks. the pilot house was not the place i would have chosen from which to enjoy these effects, had i my choice. the place i really longed for was somewhere down below, where i would have felt less conspicuous as a target. i managed to work my way around the kinnickinnic bar, and made the run up to the afton (or "catfish") bar, around which the channel was quite narrow and wofully crooked. thus far, the high banks had sheltered us somewhat from the wind. here, however, the low-lying prairie came down to the water's edge. the sweep of the wind was terrific, while the downpour of rain was such that at times it was impossible to see any landmarks a hundred feet away. captain gray, wrapped in his storm clothes, who had, since the tempest broke, staid on the roof, one eye on the banks, when he could see them, and the other on the young man at the wheel, finally called up and wanted to know if i did not think we had better feel our way ashore and tie up until the storm abated, even at the risk of being late in getting back to prescott to take up our regular trip in the morning. i was shivering so that my teeth chattered, and the captain would have been fully justified in assuming that i was shaking as much from fear as from cold. i had a deal of pride in those days, however, and a fair allowance of inherited courage, with perhaps a dash of pig-headedness. i did not wish to have it bulletined from one end of the river to the other that the first time i was left in charge of a steamboat, i had hunted a tree to tie up to because it happened to thunder and rain a little. that would have been the popular version of the incident, in any case. i replied, therefore, that if captain gray would send his waiter up with a glass of brandy, i would take the steamer to hudson levee before taking out a line, and from there to stillwater and back to prescott in time for our morning run. the captain said nothing, then or thereafter, but sent his "boy" up with the brandy. this was applied inwardly, and served to take the chill off. thus fortified--temperance people will please not be horrified at this depravity of a nineteen-year-old novice, under such extraordinary provocation--i worked around "catfish" and followed along the west shore as far as lakeland. from lakeland across the lake to the hudson levee, is about three-quarters of a mile. it was still blowing a gale, and the rain came down in torrents, so that the opposite shore could not be seen--in fact one could not distinguish an object ten rods ahead. i had felt my way along, sometimes under the "slow bell", until the present. i must now cut loose from the west shore, and make the crossing to hudson. there was plenty of water everywhere; but i could not see any landmarks on the opposite side of the lake. i got a stern bearing, however, and headed across. in a minute's time i could see nothing, either ahead or astern, and having no compass i had to rely on the "feel" of the rudders to tell me which way she was swinging. as it turned out, this was of little value, owing to the strength of the wind. for five minutes i ran under full head, and then slowed, trying to get a glimpse of the east bank, and "find myself". when i did, the "h. s. allen" was headed squarely down the lake, and fully a mile below the hudson landing. the force of the wind on the chimneys had turned her bow down-wind and downstream. as the rain began to slacken and i could see my marks, it took but a few minutes to straighten her up and make the run to the landing. on leaving hudson there were two ways of running the big bar opposite and below the mouth of willow river. one, the longest, was to cross back to lakeland and then run up the west shore--all of it straight work. the other, was to run squarely out into the middle of the lake, turn north and run half a mile, then quartering west-north-west across the lake to the opposite shore. this crossing saved a mile or more of steaming over the other course; but it was crooked and narrow, and the possibility of hanging up was much greater. captain gray asked me, when backing out, which crossing i would make. i replied that i was going to take the upper to save time. he said nothing, but again took his place by the bell. he made no suggestion, nor offered any opinion as to my decision. that was a part of the river etiquette, which he adhered to even in the case of a boy; for which i sincerely thanked him in my inner being, while accepting it outwardly quite as a matter of course--which it would have been, with an older and more experienced man at the wheel. i made the crossing without calling for leads, or touching bottom, and the rest of the way was easy. when we made stillwater the stars were out, and the storm-clouds hung low on the southern horizon. i went below and got into dry clothes, and had a few hours sleep while the freight was being put ashore. along about two o'clock in the morning i started back, with the mate on the roof. in confidence he confided to me the gratifying news that the "old man says you're all right. he says that you've got nerve enough to last you through". as "nerve" was one of the things needed in the business, i was certainly proud that my night's work, alone on a heavily-loaded boat, in one of the worst of storms, had given me a standing with the "old man"; and i felt reasonably certain that his report would carry weight among the river men who might chance to discuss the merits of the young "cub", and his equipment for serious work. i may, i hope, be pardoned for dwelling at such length upon an incident of such common occurrence on the river as to attract little or no attention when the man at the wheel was an old and experienced pilot. but this was my "trying-out" time, which made a difference. even if no one else ever gave the incident a second thought, i should have felt the shame of it to this day, had i "craw-fished" on that first trial. i have never seen or heard anything to compare with the storms we used to have on the river. the river men had a theory of their own--not very scientific, and probably without foundation in fact--that the vapors from the lowlands and islands formed clouds which were more than ordinarily charged with electricity. _why_ they should be more highly charged than vapors arising from lowlands or islands elsewhere, they did not attempt to explain, and could not had they attempted. the fact remains, that our thunder storms were something out of the ordinary, and were so regarded by people from the east who experienced them for the first time. many steamboats were struck by lightning, but few were burned, the electrical bolt being diffused through the iron of the boilers and machinery, and finding ready escape through the water-wheel shafts into the river. i have heard it stated that engineers have often received serious shocks from bolts thus passing from the chimneys to the water, by way of the machinery, but i never heard of one being killed. i do know that when these pyrotechnics were going on, the engineers kept their hands off the throttle-wheel, except in cases of dire necessity. the pilot was seemingly in more, but really less danger than the engineers. however, under such circumstances, a man had to hang on to his nerve as well as his wheel; and i doubt if many pilots ever became so hardened as not to feel "creepy" when the storm was on. chapter xiv _early pilots_ "how did the first steamboats find their way up the hundreds of miles of water heretofore unbroken by steam-driven wheel?" no voice out of the past will give an answer to this query. the imagination of the trained pilot, however, needs no written page to solve the problem of how it might have been done; and he can picture to himself the satisfaction, akin to joy, of the man at the wheel, picking his way amid the thousand islands and snag-infested channels innumerable, guided only by his power to read the face of the water, and his knowledge of the basic principles that govern the flow of all great rivers. standing thus at his wheel, with new vistas of stream and wood and bluff opening to him as he rounded each successive bend, choosing on the instant the path as yet uncharted; unhampered by time-honored "landmarks", with "all the world to choose from", none might be so envied as he. but we will never know who had this pleasure all his own. in thus picturing the passage of pioneer steamboats up the mississippi, there is danger that we may inject into the scene the image of the modern floating palace, with her three decks, her tall chimneys, her massive side-wheels, her "texas", and her pilot house, fully equipped with spars, gang planks, jack staff, and all the paraphernalia of the beautiful and speedy "packets" of our day. upon no such craft, however, did the early navigators pick their way into the solitudes of the upper river. their boats were little better than the keel boats which they superseded--in fact they were keel boats operated by steam. the cargo-box afforded shelter for passengers, merchandise, and machinery. there was no pilot house in which to stand, fifty feet above the water, from that height to study the river bottom. the steersman stood at the stern, and manipulated his tiller by main strength and awkwardness, while the captain stood at the bow and studied the river, and gave his orders to "port" or "starboard", as the case required. as the boat drew less than three feet of water, the necessity for fine judgment in choosing the channel was not as necessary as in guiding a craft drawing twice as much. nevertheless, it did call for judgment and decision; and these qualities were inherent in the men who made the navigation of western waters their occupation in the early decades of the nineteenth century. long years before the advent of steam, the fur-traders of the upper river were running their heavily-laden canoes, bateaux, and mackinac boats from st. anthony falls to prairie du chien, and thence up the wisconsin and down the fox to green bay and mackinac; or, farther down the mississippi to st. louis. to guide these boats, with their valuable cargoes of peltries, pilots were as necessary as on the larger craft that later were to supersede them. a man standing in the stern, with ready paddle in hand, was the forerunner of the pilot of civilization. in his veins the blood of sunny france mingled with that of a tawny mother from huron, chippewa, or dakota wigwams. his eye was quick to read the dimpling waters, and his arm strong to turn the prow of his craft aside from threatening snag or sand-bar. the transition from bateaux paddle and sweep to the steamboat wheel was not great, and it followed that the names of the earliest recorded members of the profession are such as to leave no room for doubt as to nationality or pedigree. louis demarah heads the list of upper mississippi river pilots who handled steamboats prior to . there were steamers running between st. louis and fort snelling from the year , with more or less regularity. the "virginia" (captain crawford) was the first steamboat to reach fort snelling, may , . while we have the name of the captain, we have no mention of her pilots and engineers. it is probable that the master did his own piloting. nearly all historical references to the early navigation of the upper mississippi or missouri rivers speak of the master as also the pilot of his craft. occasionally, however, we read of a pilot, but do not learn his name, his office being his only individuality. lumbering operations had already begun on the black, chippewa, and st. croix rivers prior to , and pilots were in demand to run the timber rafts down the river. no doubt demarah began his professional life in this trade, if not in the earlier life of the _voyageur_. he is mentioned as being an old man in , his home being then in prairie du chien, where, in the census of crawford county, in the new territory of wisconsin, he is listed with a family of eight--probably a chippewa wife and seven "breeds" of varying attenuations. with the phonetic freedom exercised by our forefathers, his name appears as louis "demerer". in connection with demarah's name there is associated in the earliest annals of the river that of louis moro (or morrow), evidently a corruption of moreau, a name not appearing on the census roll of crawford county. evidently a _protégé_ of demarah's, he probably was taught the science of piloting by the elder man, as the names are nearly always spoken of in connection. evidently they were partners, so far as that was possible in the days when steamboats took but one pilot, running only by day, and lying at the bank at night. captain russell blakeley, who began life on the river in the early ' 's, speaks of these men as the first who engaged in steamboat piloting as a business. it may only be an accidental coincidence of names, and yet it is more than possible that louis moreau, of prairie du chien in , was a descendant of the pierre moreau, the noted _courier du bois_, and adventurous trader who befriended father marquette, patron saint of wisconsin, as he lay sick, slowly dying, in his squalid hut on the portage between the chicago river and the des plaines, one hundred and fifty years earlier, as recorded in the pages of parkman's _la salle and the discovery of the great west_. another of the earliest pilots was pleasant cormack, also a frenchman with possibly a slight dash of indian blood in his composition. he is in the records as an intelligent, trustworthy pilot, and held the wheels of many of the largest and finest of upper river boats during the flush times between and . demarah and moreau were so far ahead of my generation on the river, that i never saw either of them. my own acquaintance with the half-breed pilot of tradition, was confined to the person of joe guardapie, a st. croix and mississippi river raftsman. he filled the bill completely, however, and having seen and known him the type was fully identified. a lithe savage, about five feet ten inches in height, and a hundred and sixty-five or seventy pounds in weight, his color exhibited more of the traits of his chippewa mother than of his french father. in facial expression, however, the mercurial disposition of his father's kindred supplanted the stolidity of his indian forbears. as quick as a panther, and as strong in nerve and sinew, he could whip any member of his crew, single-handed. in case of necessity he could put to rout a dozen of them--else he could not have run a raft to st. louis; in fact, had it been otherwise he could not have started a raft from the landing at prescott. several times he made the return trip from below on our boat, taking cabin passage while his crew went "deck passage". he loafed in the pilot house most of the time on the up trip, as was the custom of the craft, and occasionally took a trick at the wheel to relieve the regular pilots. i never heard of his doing regular steamboat work, however, his tastes and education tying him to rafting. it was interesting to listen to his broken english, freely mingled with borderland french, the whole seasoned with unmistakable anglo-saxon profanity. it is curious to note that the untutored indian has no profanity at all; and that of the frenchman is of such mild-mannered texture as to be quite innocuous. any one acquainted with modern polite literature must have observed that the french brand of profanity is used to flavor popular novels treating of life in high society, and the _mon dieus_ and _sacres_ are not considered at all harmful reading, even for boarding school misses. it follows that the frenchman who wishes to lay any emphasis upon his orders to a mixed crew of all nationalities--english, irish, dutch, yankee, and norwegian, with a sprinkling of french and indian, must resort to anglo-saxon for effective expressions. and even this must often be backed with a ready fist or a heavy boot, properly to impress the fellow to whom it is directed. joe guardapie had the whole arsenal with him, all the time, largely accounting, i fancy, for his success as a raft pilot. another old-time raftsman was sandy mcphail. he piloted log and lumber rafts from the chippewa to prairie du chien, and further down, in the days when jefferson davis, as a lieutenant in the regular army, was a member of the garrison at fort crawford. whether "sandy" was the name conferred upon him at the baptismal font, or gratuitously bestowed by an appreciative following on account of the color of his hair and beard, which were unmistakably red, will never be known. he certainly had no other name on the river. he was a good pilot, and a great handler of men, as well, which made him a model raftsman. he never took to the milder lines of steamboat piloting, so far as there is any record to be found. still another was charles lapointe, who ran rafts from the chippewa to lower river ports prior to --how much earlier, it is now impossible to learn. he also was of the typical french half-breed _voyageur_ pioneers of the west, and handed down a record as a competent navigator of rafts on the river when it was almost unknown and entirely undeveloped. when i was pantry boy on the "kate cassell", my first venture aboard, we had a pilot picked up "above the lake", when we started out in the spring, a raftsman named mccoy--j. b., i think he signed himself. he was from stillwater, and made but few trips on the steamer before taking up his regular work in rafting. a scotchman, very quiet and reserved, so far as his deportment went while on the "kate cassell", he had, nevertheless, the reputation of being exceedingly handy with his fists when on his native sawlogs. this reputation led to an impromptu prize fight, which was "pulled off" at a woodyard near hastings, minnesota. a st. louis bruiser named parker, who had fought several battles on bloody island, opposite that city, was on board. having heard of mccoy's reputation as a fighter, he lost no opportunity to banter and insult him, especially when he (parker) was in liquor, which was most of the time. this lasted for several days, from galena to hastings, where it reached a climax. mccoy told him he would settle it with him at the next woodpile, so that they might not go into st. paul with the question in doubt. when the woodpile was reached the officers of the boat, with most of the passengers, and as many of the crew as could abandon their posts, adjourned to the woods a few rods from the landing. a ring was roped off, seconds were chosen, and bottle-holders and sponge-bearers detailed. the men stripped to their trousers and went in. there was not as much science exhibited, probably, as in some of our modern professional "mills", but there was plenty of good, honest slugging. both men were well punished, especially about the head and face. so equally were they matched, that neither suffered a knock-out, and when the bell struck for starting they had to quit without either getting the decision. this happened in the days when the heenan-sayre international bout was one of the prime topics of public interest, and it was noticeable that any number of our men were well enough posted in the rules of the p. r. to serve as officials in all departments. mccoy lost no caste among crew or passengers on account of this incident. there were neither kid gloves nor silk stockings among the pioneers who were pushing into minnesota in , and an incident of this sort was diverting rather than deplorable. other pilots whose names appear very early in the annals of steamboating on the upper river, and whose fame as masters of the art will ever remain green among members of the craft so long as pilots turn a wheel on the river, were william white, sam harlow, rufus williams, george nichols, alex. gody, and hugh white, all of whom appear to have been in service in or before. these were followed by john arnold, joseph armstrong, john king, rufus williams, edward a. west, e. v. holcomb, hiram beadle, william cupp, jerome smith, william fisher, stephen dalton, jackson harris, henry gilpatrick, james black, thomas burns, t. g. dreming, harry tripp, william tibbles, seth moore, stephen hanks, charley manning, thomas cushing, peter hall, and fifty others equally as good. all of those named, served in the minnesota packet company in the days of its prosperity, some of them for many years. all were experts in their profession, and some of them, as "ned" west and john king, were entitled to the highest encomium known on the river--that of being "lightning pilots". chapter xv _incidents of river life_ captain william fisher, of galena, illinois, is probably the oldest living pilot of the upper mississippi. at the time of this writing ( ), he is spending the closing years of his life in quiet comfort in a spot where he can look down upon the waters of "fevre" river, once alive with steamboats, in the pilot houses of which he spent over thirty years in hard and perilous service. as a young man captain fisher had served five years on the great lakes on a "square rigger", at a time when full-rigged ships sailed the inland waters. coming to galena just as the great boom in steamboating commenced, and following the opening of minnesota territory to settlement, he naturally gravitated toward the life of a steamboatman, taking his first lessons in piloting in , on the "ben campbell", under the tutelage of captain m. w. lodwick. the next season ( ), he worked on the "war eagle", under william white and john king, two of the best pilots on the upper river. under their teaching he soon obtained his license, and henceforth for thirty years he piloted many of the finest boats running between st. louis and st. paul. his crowning achievement was the taking of the "city of quincy" from st. louis to st. paul, captain brock being his partner for the trip. the "city of quincy" was a new orleans packet, that had been chartered to take an excursion the length of the river. of sixteen hundred tons burden, with a length of three hundred feet and fifty feet beam, she was the largest boat ever making the trip above keokuk rapids. two or three incidents of his river life, among the many which he relates, are of interest as showing the dangers of that life. one, which he believes was an omen prophetic of the war of secession, he relates as follows: "i'm going to tell you this just as it happened. i don't know whether you will believe me or not. i don't say that i would believe it if i had not seen it with my own eyes. if some one else had told it to me, i might have set it down as a 'yarn'. if they have never had any experiences on the river, some men would make yarns to order; it is a mighty sight easier to make them than it is to live them--and safer. "when this thing happened to me, i was entirely sober, and i was not asleep. if you will take my word for it, i have never been anything else but sober. if i had been otherwise, i would not be here now, telling you this, and eighty-two years old.[d] [d] this was told in . "whiskey always gets 'em before they see the eighty mark. and you know that a man can't run a steamboat while asleep--that is, very long. of course he can for a little while, but when she hits the bank it wakes him up. "this story ought to interest you, because i was on your favorite boat when it happened. the "fanny harris" was sold in , in may or june, to go south. she came back right away, not going below st. louis, after all. i took her down to that port. joseph jones of galena had just bought the bar for the season when she was sold, and lost thirty dollars in money by the boat being sold.[e] [e] observe the minuteness with which the captain remembers the small and insignificant details of this trip. it is a guarantee that his memory is not playing any tricks in his narrative of the more important happenings. "captain w. h. gabbert was in command, and i was pilot. we left galena in the evening. it was between changes of the moon, and a beautiful starlight night--as fine as i ever saw. by the time we got down to bellevue, the stars had all disappeared, and it had become daylight, not twilight, but broad daylight, so bright that you couldn't see even the brightest star, and from : to : , a full hour, it was as bright as any day you ever saw when the sun was under a cloud. at midnight i was right opposite savanna. up to this time captain gabbert had been asleep in the cabin, although he was on watch. we were carrying neither passengers nor freight, for we were just taking the boat down to deliver her to her new owners. he woke up, or was called, and when he saw the broad daylight, yet saw by his watch that it was just midnight, he was surprised, and maybe scared, just as every one else was. he ran up on to the roof and called out: 'mr. fisher, land the boat, the world is coming to an end'! "i told him that if the world were coming to an end we might as well go in the middle of the river as at the bank, and i kept her going. it took just as long to get dark again as it took to get light--about half an hour. it began to get light at half-past eleven, and at twelve (midnight) it was broad daylight; then in another half hour it was all gone, and the stars had come out one by one, just as you see them at sunset--the big, bright ones first, and then the whole field of little ones. i looked for all the stars i knew by sight, and as they came back, one by one, i began to feel more confidence in the reality of things. i couldn't tell at all where the light came from; but it grew absolutely broad daylight. that one hour's experience had more to do with turning my hair white than anything that ever occurred to me, for it certainly did seem a strange phenomenon." "was it worse than going into battle?" i asked. "yes, a hundred times worse, because it was different. when you go into battle you know just what the danger is, and you nerve yourself up to meet it. it is just the same as bracing up to meet any known danger in your work--wind, lightning, storm. you know what to expect, and if you have any nerve you just hold yourself in and let it come. this was different. you didn't know what was coming next; but i guess we all thought just as the captain did, that it was the end of the world. "i confess that i was scared, but i had the boat to look out for, and until the world really did come to an end i was responsible for her, and so stood by, and you know that helps to keep your nerves where they belong. i just hung on to the wheel and kept her in the river, but i kept one eye on the eastern sky to see what was coming next. i hope when my time comes i shall not be scared to death, and i don't believe i shall be. it will come in a natural way, and there won't be anything to scare a man. it is the unknown and the mysterious that shakes him, and this midnight marvel was too much for any of us. we had a great many signs before the war came, and i believe this marvel on the night in question, was one of them, only we didn't know how to read it." "how about the narrow escapes, captain?" "well, i have had a number of them. in i was running a towboat with coal barges. twelve miles below rock island, we were struck by a cyclone. it took the cabin clean off the boat, and of course the pilot house went with it. my partner was with me in the pilot house, having seen the storm coming up, with heavy wind, so he came up to help me keep her in the river. at this time we were pushing a lumber raft downstream. both of us were blown into the river. my partner got hold of the raft and pulled himself out, but i went under it. i thought that it was the end of piloting; but providence was with me. i came up through an aperture where four cribs of lumber cornered--a little hole not over three feet square. my partner saw me and ran and pulled me out, and we both got back on the dismantled hull of our boat. i could not have helped myself, as i was too near strangled. the force of the cyclone must have stopped the current of the river for the time or i would never have come up where i did. the shock and the wetting laid me up for six weeks. "when i was able to resume work, dan rice happened to come along with his circus boat. he wanted a pilot to take his craft not only up the great river, but also, so far as possible, up such tributaries as were navigable, he wishing to give exhibitions at all the towns alongshore. i shipped with him for $ a month and had an easy time during the rest of the season, running nights, mostly, and laying up daytimes while the show was exhibiting. "the next year i was engaged on the "alex. mitchell." we had left st. paul at o'clock in the forenoon, on saturday, may , . i am particular about this day and date, for the point of this story hinges on the day of the week (sunday). in trying to run the hastings bridge we were struck by a squall that threw us against the abutment, tearing off a portion of our starboard guard. we arrived at la crosse, sunday morning, and took on two hundred excursionists for lansing. they wanted to dance, but it being sunday captain laughton hesitated for some time about giving them permission, as it was contrary to the known wishes, if not the rules, of commodore davidson to have dancing or games on board of his boats on sunday. the passengers were persistent, however, and at last captain laughton yielded, saying that he couldn't help it! of course he might have helped it. what is a captain for, if not to run his boat, no matter if everybody else is against him? that was where he was weak. he finally yielded, however, and they danced all the way to lansing. when we arrived there it was raining, and the excursionists chartered the boat for a run back to victory, about ten miles, and they were dancing all the time. "leaving them at victory we proceeded on our way down the river. when about twelve miles above dubuque, a little below wells's landing, at three o'clock monday morning, we were struck by a cyclone. we lost both chimneys, the pilot house was unroofed, and part of the hurricane deck on the port side was blown off. mr. trudell, the mate, was on watch, and standing on the roof by the big bell. he was blown off, and landed on shore a quarter of a mile away, but sustained no serious injuries. the port lifeboat was blown a mile and a half into the country. following so soon after the sunday dancing, i have always felt that there was some connection between the two." captain fisher is a very conscientious man--a religious man, and he believes in observing sunday--that is, keeping it as nearly as is possible on a steamboat running seven days in the week. the dancing was wholly unnecessary, if not in itself immoral, and its permission by captain laughton was in direct contravention of the known wishes if not orders of the owners. hence the conclusion that providence took a hand in the matter and meted out swift punishment for the misdoing. i did not argue the matter with the captain; but i could not reconcile the unroofing of commodore davidson's steamboat, or the blowing away of mr. trudell, who had no voice in granting license to the ungodly dancers, with the ordinary conception of the eternal fitness of things. if it had blown captain laughton a mile and a half into the country, as it did the port lifeboat, or even a quarter of a mile, as it did mr. trudell, and had left commodore davidson's steamboat intact, the hand of providence would have appeared more plainly in the case. as it was, captain laughton slept serenely in his berth while mr. trudell and the lifeboat were sailing into space, and he did not get out until all was over. it is pleasant to be able to relate that although providence appears to have miscarried in dealing out retribution, commodore davidson did not. captain davis was put in charge of the "alex. mitchell" as soon as she struck the levee at st. louis. william f. davidson--"commodore", from the fact that he was at the head of the greatest of upper river packet lines--had been converted after many years of strenuous river life. he was as strong a man, affirmatively, after he began living religiously, as he had been negatively before that time. he abolished all bars from his steamboats, at great pecuniary loss to himself and the other stockholders; forbade sunday dancing and other forms of sunday desecration; stopped all gambling, and instituted other reforms which tended to make his steamboats as clean and reputable as the most refined ladies or gentlemen could wish. the promptitude with which he cashiered captain laughton, on account of the foregoing incident, was in keeping with his character as a man and as a manager. it was an evidence that he meant all that he said or ordered in the ethical conduct of his steamboats. the commodore had a brother, payton s. davidson, who had the well-earned reputation of being one of the best steamboatmen on the mississippi. superintendent of the northwestern line, he prided himself upon the regularity with which his boats arrived at or departed from landings on schedule time. he was a driver, and the captains and pilots who could not "make time" under any and all conditions of navigation, were _persona non grata_ to "pate", and when they reached this stage they went ashore with scant notice. in other ways he was equally efficient. one of the northwestern line, the "centennial", was caught in the great ice gorge at st. louis, in . she was a new boat, costing $ , , just off the ways, and a beauty. she was stove and sank, as did a dozen other boats at the same time. all the others were turned over to the underwriters as they lay, and were a total loss. not so the "centennial". superintendent payton s. davidson was on hand and declared that the beautiful new boat could and should be raised. putting on a force of men--divers, wreckers, and other experts--under his personal supervision and direction, he did get her afloat, although in a badly damaged condition, and that at a cost of only $ , . twice she sank, after being brought to the surface; but the indomitable energy of davidson, who worked night and day, sometimes in the water up to his middle, and in floating ice, finally saved the steamer. she was one of the finest boats that ever plied the upper river. payton s. was famous for his pugnacity as well as his pertinacity, and there is no record of his repentance or conversion. he lived and died a typical steamboat captain of the olden time. [illustration: steamer "war eagle," ; tons.] [illustration: steamer "milwaukee," ; tons.] chapter xvi _mississippi menus_ it was a saying on the river that if you wished to save the meals a passenger was entitled to on his trip, you took him through the kitchen the first thing when he came aboard. the inference was, that after seeing the food in course of preparation he would give it a wide berth when it came on the table. it would be unfair to the memory of the average river steward to aver that this assertion was grounded upon facts; but it would be stretching the truth to assert that it was without foundation. things must be done in a hurry when three meals a day are to be prepared and served to three or four hundred people; and all the work had to be accomplished in two kitchens, each ten by twenty-feet in area--one for meats and vegetables, and the other for pastry and desserts. the responsibility of providing for meals at stated times, with a good variety, cooked and served in a satisfactory manner, devolved upon the steward. under him were two assistants, with meat cooks, vegetable cooks, pastry cooks, and bread makers, and a force of waiters and pantrymen conditioned upon the boat's capacity for passengers. while the steward was in the thought of outsiders rated as an officer of the second class, he was as a matter of fact in the first class. when the pay of the captain was three hundred dollars per month, and that of the mate two hundred, the average steward of any reputation also commanded two hundred, while a man with a large reputation commanded three hundred, the same as the captain, and his services were sought by the owners of a dozen boats. likewise, he earned every cent of his salary, whatever it might be. unlike the other officers he had no regular watch to stand, after which he might lay aside his responsibility and let the members of the other watch carry the load while he laid off and watched them sweat. he was on duty all the time, and when and how he slept is to this day a mystery to me. he might have slept in the morning, when the cooks were preparing breakfast, had he felt quite confident that the cooks were not likewise sleeping, instead of broiling beefsteaks and making waffles. this being a matter of some doubt, and of great concern, he was usually up as soon as the cooks, and quietly poking about to see that breakfast reached the table promptly at seven o'clock. if the floor of the cabin was covered with sleepers, it was the steward who must awaken them, and, without giving offense, induce them to vacate the premises that the tables might be set. this was a delicate piece of business. to send a "nigger" to perform that duty, would be to incur the risk of losing the "nigger". the steward also saw that the assistant in charge of the waiters was on hand with all his crew, to put the cabin to rights, set the tables, and prepare to serve breakfast, while the cabin steward and the stewardess, with their crews, were making up the berths, sweeping, dusting, and "tidying up". as soon as breakfast was out of the way, the menu for dinner was prepared and handed to the chief cook. shortages in provisions were remedied at the first landing reached, and stocks of fish, game, fresh eggs, and fresh vegetables were bought as offered at the various towns. while there was a cold-storage room on all first-class packets, its capacity was limited, and with a passenger list of two hundred and fifty or three hundred in the cabin, it was often found necessary to lay in additional stocks of fresh meats between galena and st. paul. often, a dozen lambs could be picked up, or a dozen "roaster" pigs, and these were killed and dressed on the boat by one of the assistant cooks. live poultry was always carried in coops, and killed as wanted. perhaps the poultry killing, if witnessed by the passenger, would come as near curing him of the dinner habit as anything else he might see about the cook's galley. a barrel of scalding hot water, drawn from the boiler, stands on the guard. a coop of chickens is placed near the master of ceremonies, and two or three assistants surround the barrel. the head dresser grasps a chicken by the head, gives it a swing from the coop to the barrel, bringing the chicken's neck on to the iron rim of the barrel. the body goes into hot water and the head goes overboard. before the chicken is dead he is stripped of everything except a few pin feathers--with one sweep of the hand on each side of the body and a dozen pulls at the wing feathers. the yet jerking, featherless bodies are thrown to the pin-feather man, who picks out the thickest of the feathers, singes the fowls over a charcoal grate-fire and tosses them to one of the under-cooks who cuts them open, cuts them up, and pots them, all inside of two minutes from the coop. a team of three or four expert darkies will dispose of one hundred and fifty chickens in an hour. are they clean? i never stopped to inquire. if they were _dead_ enough to stay on the platter when they got to the table that was all any reasonable steamboatman could ask. however, the live chicken business is about the worst feature of the cook-house operations. of course the darkies are not the cleanest-appearing people aboard the boat, but if the steward is up in his business he sees to it that a reasonable degree of cleanliness is maintained, even in the starboard galley. on the opposite side of the steamer is the pastry-cook's domain, and that is usually the show place of the boat. most stewards are shrewd enough to employ pastry cooks who are masters of their profession, men who take a pride not only in the excellence of their bread, biscuit, and pie crust, but also in the spotlessness of their workshops. they are proud to receive visits from the lady passengers, who can appreciate not only the output but the appearance of the galley. it is a good advertisement for a boat, and the steward himself encourages such visits, while discouraging like calls at the opposite side. in old, flush times in the steamboat business, pastry cooks generally planned to give a surprise to the passengers on each up trip of the steamer. i remember one such, when no less than thirteen different desserts were placed in front of each passenger as he finished the hearty preliminary meal. six of these were served in tall and slender glass goblets--vases, would more nearly describe them--and consisted of custards, jellies, and creams of various shades and flavors; while the other seven were pies, puddings, and ice creams. the passenger was not given a menu card and asked to pick out those that he thought he would like, but the whole were brought on and arranged in a circle about his plate, leaving him to dip into each as he fancied, and leave such as did not meet his approval. it was necessary to carry an extra outfit of glass and china in order to serve this bewildering exhibition of the pastry cook's art, and it was seldom used more than once on each trip. serving such a variety of delicacies, of which but a small portion was eaten by any person at the table, would seem like an inexcusable waste; but the waste on river steamers was really not as great in those days as it is in any great hotel of our day. each steamer carried forty or more deck hands and "rousters". for them, the broken meat was piled into pans, all sorts in each pan, the broken bread and cake into other pans, and jellies and custards into still others--just three assortments, and this, with plenty of boiled potatoes, constituted the fare of the crew below decks. one minute after the cry of "grub-pile"! one might witness the spectacle of forty men sitting on the bare deck, clawing into the various pans to get hold of the fragments of meat or cake which each man's taste particularly fancied. it certainly wasn't an appetizing spectacle. only familiarity with it enabled an onlooker fully to appreciate its grotesqueness without allowing the equilibrium of his stomach to be disturbed. it usually had but one effect upon such lady passengers as had the hardihood to follow the cry of "grub-pile"! and ascertain what the thing really was. altogether the duties of the steward were arduous and tormenting. the passengers expected much; and after getting the best, if any slip occurred they were sure to enter complaint--a complaint so worded as to convey the impression that they never had anything fit to eat while on the boat, nor any service that white men were justified in tolerating. the fact was, that most of the passengers so served had never in all their lives lived so well as they did on the trip from galena to st. paul on one of the regular boats of the minnesota packet company. certainly, after reaching their destination in the territory of minnesota, the chances were that it would be many long years, in that era of beginnings, before they would again be so well fed and so assiduously cared for, even in the very best hotels of st. paul. this chapter on mississippi menus would be incomplete without some reference to the drinkables served on the steamboat tables. these were coffee, tea, and river water. mark twain has described the ordinary beverage used on the river, as it is found on the missouri, or on the mississippi below the mouth of the "big muddy": "when i went up to my room, i found there the young man called rogers, crying. rogers was not his name; neither was jones, brown, baxter, ferguson, bascom, nor thompson; but he answered to either of them that a body found handy in an emergency; or to any other name, in fact, if he perceived that you meant him. he said: "'what is a person to do here when he wants a drink of water? drink this slush?' "'can't you drink it?' "'i would if i had some other water to wash it with.' "here was a thing which had not changed; a score of years had not affected this water's mulatto complexion in the least; a score of centuries would succeed no better, perhaps. it comes out of the turbulent bank-caving missouri, and every tumblerful of it holds nearly an acre of land in solution. i got this fact from the bishop of the diocese. if you will let your glass stand half an hour, you can separate the land from the water as easy as genesis; and then you will find them both good; the one good to eat, the other good to drink. the land is very nourishing, the water is thoroughly wholesome. the one appeases hunger, the other, thirst. but the natives do not take them separately, but together, as nature mixed them. when they find an inch of mud in the bottom of the glass, they stir it up, and then take the draught as they would gruel. it is difficult for a stranger to get used to this batter, but once used to it he will prefer it to water. this is really the case. it is good for steamboating, and good to drink; but it is worthless for all other purposes, except baptizing." the above sketch had not been written in , as mark twain was himself piloting on the lower river at that time. it could not, therefore, have been this description which prejudiced many eastern people against mississippi river water as a beverage. but that prejudice did exist, away back in the fifties, and the fame of the yellow tipple had reached even to the fastnesses of the vermont hills at that early day. many emigrants from the old new england states provided themselves with kegs, jugs or "demijohns", and before embarking at rock island or dunleith for the river trip, would fill these receptacles with water from the nearest well, or even cistern, and drink such stuff, warm, and sometimes putrid, rather than drink the life-giving elixir which had welled up from springs nestled in the shadows of the everlasting hills, or had been distilled by the sun from the snowbanks and ice fields of the unspoiled prairies and azure lakes of the great northwest. one old yankee would pin his faith to nothing less than the water from his own spring or well at home, away back in old vermont, and brought, at infinite pains and labor, a five-gallon demijohn all the way from his native state, drinking it on the cars en route, and on the boat after reaching the river. it wasn't as bad as that. the river water was as pure and healthful as any water on the footstool--_then_. it may not be so now--it _isn't, now_. then there were no great cities on the river banks, pouring thousands of gallons of sewage and all manner of corruption into the stream, daily. there was very little land under cultivation even, and few farmyards, the drainage from which might contaminate the feeders of the great river. it was good, clean, healthful, spring and snow water. above the mouth of the missouri, in any ordinary stage of water, especially with a falling river, the water was but slightly discolored with the yellow sediment with which the river itself is always tinged; and this sediment was so fine that there was no suspicion of grit about it. when properly stirred up and evenly mixed, as those to the manner born always took it, it was an invigorating potion, and like good old bohea, it would cheer but not inebriate. since the advent of sewage in the river and with it the popular superstition that everything, liquid or solid, is permeated with pernicious microbes, it is possible that it has lost something of its pristine purity, and it is certain that it has lost something of its reputation; but river men still drink it from preference, and passengers, unless they revert to the yankee method, must drink it perforce, or go dry. chapter xvii _bars and barkeepers_ in the old days on the river, whiskey was not classed as one of the luxuries. it was regarded as one of the necessities, if not the prime necessity, of life. to say that everybody drank would not be putting much strain upon the truth, for the exceptions were so few as scarcely to be worth counting. it was a saying on the river that if a man owned a bar on a popular packet, it was better than possessing a gold mine. the income was ample and certain, and the risk and labor slight. men who owned life leases of steamboat bars willed the same to their sons, as their richest legacies. ingenious and far-seeing men set about accumulating bars as other men invested in two, three, or four banks, or factories. "billy" henderson of st. louis was the first financier to become a trust magnate in bars. he owned the one on the "excelsior", on which boat he ran between st. louis and st. paul. later, he bought the lease of the bar on the "metropolitan", and still later, when the northern line was organized, he bought the bars on all the boats, putting trusty "bar-keeps" aboard each, he himself keeping a general oversight of the whole, and rigorously exacting a mean average of returns from each, based upon the number of passengers carried. this system of averages included men, women, and children, and "indians not taxed", presupposing that a certain percentage of the passengers' money would find its way into his tills, regardless of age, sex, or color. what his judgment would have been had one of the craft been chartered to carry a sunday school picnic from st. louis to st. paul, will never be known. such an exigency never confronted him, in those days. the judgment rendered was, that he was not far off in his conclusions as to the average income from the average class of passengers carried. ordinarily, the bartenders were young men "of parts". none of them, so far as i know, were college graduates; but then college graduates were then mighty few in the west in any calling--and there were bars in plenty. it was required by their employers that they be pleasant and agreeable fellows, well dressed, and well mannered. they must know how to concoct a few of the more commonplace fancy drinks affected by the small number of travellers who wished such beverage--whiskey cocktails for the eastern trade, and mint juleps for the southern. the plain, everyday western man took his whiskey straight, four fingers deep, and seldom spoiled the effect of his drink by pouring water on top of it. the "chaser" had not, at that early day, become fashionable, and in times of extreme low water it was not permitted that water should be wasted in that manner when all was required for purposes of navigation. the barkeeper was also supposed to know how to manufacture a choice brand of french brandy, by the judicious admixture of burnt peach stones, nitric acid, and cod-liver oil, superimposed upon a foundation of kentucky whiskey three weeks from the still. he did it, too; but judicious drinkers again took theirs straight, and lived the longest. i flatter myself that i can recall the name of but one bartender with whom i sailed. while i had no very strong scruples about drinking or selling liquor, i seldom patronized the bar beyond the purchase of cigars and an occasional soft drink. i remember one dispenser, however, from his short but exceedingly stormy experience on the "fanny harris". he was an irish lad, about twenty or twenty-one years of age, and not very large. he was sent on board by the lessee of the bar, who lived in dubuque. charley hargus, our chief clerk, did not like the irish. he had personal reasons for disliking some member of that nationality, and this dislike he handed on to all its other members with whom he came in contact. there were no irishmen among the officers of the "fanny harris", and when donnelly came aboard to take charge of the bar hargus strongly objected, but without avail. he then set himself about the task of making life so uncomfortable for the lad that he would be sure to transfer to some other boat, or quit altogether, an end accomplished within three months. the process afforded rare amusement to such witnesses as happened to see the fun, but there was no fun in it for donnelly; and in later years, when i came to think it over, my sympathy went out to the poor fellow, who suffered numberless indignities at the hands of his tireless persecutor. if donnelly--who was not at all a bad fellow, was earning his living honestly, and never did anything to injure hargus--had had the spirit common to most river men in those days, he would have shot the chief clerk and few could have blamed him. bars are not looked upon with the same favor in our day, as in the past. it is claimed that upon some of the boats plying upon the upper river there are now no bars at all. if a person thinks he must have liquor on the trip, he must take it with his baggage. it is further credibly asserted that many of the officers handling the steamers are teetotalers; further, that there is no more profit in the bar business, and that investors in that kind of property are becoming scarce. modern business conditions are responsible for much of the change that has taken place, especially in the transportation business, within the last twenty-five years. railroad and steamboat managers do not care to intrust their property to the care of drinking men, and it is becoming more and more difficult for such to secure positions of responsibility. as the display of liquor in an open bar might be a temptation to some men, otherwise competent and trusty officers, the owners are adopting the only consistent course, and are banishing the bar from their boats. this does not apply in all cases, however. a few years ago i took a trip from st. paul to st. louis on one of the boats of the diamond jo line. there was a bar on the boat, but it seemed to depend for its patronage upon the colored deck crew. they were pretty constant patrons, although their drinking was systematically regulated. a side window, opening out upon the boiler deck promenade, was devoted to the deck traffic. if a rouster wanted a drink he must apply to one of the mates, who issued a brass check, good for a glass of whiskey, which the deck hand presented at the bar, and got his drink. when pay day came, the barkeeper in his turn presented his bundle of checks and took in the cash. how many checks were issued to each man on the trip from st. louis to st. paul and return, i do not know; but it is safe to say that the sum total was not permitted to exceed the amount of wages due the rouster. some of the "niggers" probably had coming to them more checks than cash, at the close of the voyage. the regulation was effective in preventing excess, which would demoralize the men and render them less valuable in "humping" freight. the bartender always poured out the whiskey for the "coons", and for the latter it was not a big drink. it was, likewise, not a good drink for a white man, being a pretty tough article of made-up stuff, that would burn a hole in a sheet-iron stove. if it had been less fiery the rousters would have thought they were being cheated. while on this trip, i never saw an officer of the boat take a drink at the bar, or anywhere else, and but few of the passengers patronized it. it accentuated as much as any other one thing the fact that the "good old times" on the river were gone, and that a higher civilization had arisen. but peddling cheap whiskey to "niggers"! what would an old-time bartender have thought of that? the bare insinuation would have thrown him into a fit. but we are all on an equality now, black and white--before the bar. [illustration: winona, minnesota. the levee in .] chapter xviii _gamblers and gambling_ volumes have been written, first and last, on the subject of gambling on the mississippi. in them a small fraction of truth is diluted with a deal of fiction. the scene is invariably laid upon a steamboat on the lower mississippi. the infatuated planter, who always does duty as the plucked goose, invariably stakes his faithful body servant, or a beautiful quadroon girl, against the gambler's pile of gold, and as invariably loses his stake. possibly that may occasionally have happened on the lower river in ante-bellum days. i never travelled the lower river, and cannot therefore speak from actual observation. on the upper river, in early times, there were no nabobs travelling with body servants and pretty quadroons. most of the travellers had broad belts around their waists, filled with good honest twenty-dollar gold pieces. it was these belts which the professional gamblers sought to lighten. occasionally they did strike a fool who thought he knew more about cards than the man who made the game, and who would, after a generous baiting with mixed drinks, "set in" and try his fortune. there was, of course, but one result--the belt was lightened, more or less, according to the temper and judgment of the victim. so far as i know, gambling was permitted on all boats. on some, there was a cautionary sign displayed, stating that gentlemen who played cards for money did so at their own risk. the professionals who travelled the river for the purpose of "skinning suckers" were usually the "gentlemen" who displayed the greatest concern in regard to the meaning of this caution, and who freely expressed themselves in the hearing of all to the effect that they seldom played cards at all, still less for money; but if they did feel inclined to have a little social game it was not the business of the boat to question their right to do so, and if they lost their money they certainly would not call on the boat to restore it. after the expression of such manly sentiments, it was surprising if they did not soon find others who shared with them this independence. in order to convey a merited reproof to "the boat", for its unwarranted interference with the pleasure or habits of its patrons, they bought a pack of cards at the bar and "set in" to a "friendly game". in the posting of this inconspicuous little placard, "the boat" no doubt absolved itself from all responsibility in what might, and surely did follow in the "friendly games" sooner or later started in the forward cabin. whether the placard likewise absolved the officers of the boat from all responsibility in the matter, is a question for the logicians. i cannot recollect that i had a conscience in those days; and if a "sucker" chose to invest his money in draw poker rather than in corner lots, it was none of my business. in that respect, indeed, there was little choice between "bill" mallen on the boat with his marked cards, and ingenuous doemly at nininger, with his city lots on paper selling at a thousand dollars each, which to-day, after half a century, are possibly worth twenty-five dollars an acre as farming land. ordinarily, the play was not high on the upper river. the passengers were not great planters, with sacks of money, and "niggers" on the side to fall back upon in case of a bluff. the operators, also, were not so greedy as their real or fictitious fellows of the lower river. if they could pick up two or three hundred dollars a week by honest endeavor they were satisfied, and gave thanks accordingly. probably by some understanding among themselves, the fraternity divided themselves among the different boats running regularly in the passenger trade, and only upon agreement did they change their boats; nor did they intrude upon the particular hunting ground of others. the "fanny harris" was favored with the presence, more or less intermittently, of "bill" mallen, "bill" and "sam" dove, and "boney" trader. "boney" was short for napoleon bonaparte. these worthies usually travelled in pairs, the two dove brothers faithfully and fraternally standing by each other, while mallen and "boney" campaigned in partnership. these men were consummate actors. they never came aboard the boat together, and they never recognized each other until introduced--generally through the good offices of their intended victims. in the preliminary stages of the game, they cheerfully lost large sums of money to each other; and after the hunt was up, one usually went ashore at prescott, hastings, or stillwater, while the other continued on to st. paul. at different times they represented all sorts and conditions of men--settlers, prospectors, indian agents, merchants, lumbermen, and even lumber-jacks; and they always dressed their part, and talked it, too. to do this required some education, keen powers of observation, and an all-around knowledge of men and things. they were gentlemanly at all times--courteous to men and chivalrous to women. while pretending to drink large quantities of very strong liquors, they did in fact make away with many pint measures of quite innocent river water, tinted with the mildest liquid distillation of burned peaches. a clear head and steady nerves were prerequisites to success; and when engaged in business, these men knew that neither one nor the other came by way of "patsey" donnelly's "choice wines and liquors". they kept their private bottles of colored water on tap in the bar, and with the uninitiated passed for heavy drinkers. the play was generally for light stakes, but it sometimes ran high. five dollars ante, and no limit, afforded ample scope for big play, provided the players had the money and the nerve. the tables were always surrounded by a crowd of lookers-on, most of whom knew enough of the game to follow it understandingly. it is possible that some of the bystanders may have had a good understanding with the professionals, and have materially assisted them by signs and signals. the chief reliance of the gamblers, however, lay in the marked cards with which they played. no pack of cards left the bar until it had passed through the hands of the gambler who patronized the particular boat that he "worked". the marking was called "stripping". this was done by placing the high cards--ace, king, queen, jack, and ten-spot--between two thin sheets of metal, the edges of which were very slightly concaved. both edges of the cards were trimmed to these edges with a razor; the cards so "stripped" were thus a shade narrower in the middle than those not operated upon; they were left full width at each end. the acutely sensitive fingers of the gamblers could distinguish between the marked and the unmarked cards, while the other players could detect nothing out of the way in them. "bill" mallen would take a gross of cards from the bar to his stateroom and spend hours in thus trimming them, after which they were returned to the original wrappers, which were carefully folded and sealed, and replaced in the bar for sale. a "new pack" was often called for by the victim when "luck" ran against him; and mallen himself would ostentatiously demand a fresh pack if he lost a hand or two, as he always did at the beginning of the play. i never saw any shooting over a game, and but once saw pistols drawn. that was when the two doves were holding up a "tenderfoot". there was a big pile of gold on the table--several hundred dollars in ten and twenty dollar pieces. the losers raised a row and would have smashed the two operators but for the soothing influence of a cocked derringer in the hands of one of them. the table was upset and the money rolled in all directions. the outsiders decided where the money justly belonged, in their opinion, by promptly pocketing all they could reach while the principals were fighting. i found a twenty myself the next morning. i saw "bill" mallen for the last time under rather peculiar and unlooked-for circumstances. it was down in virginia, in the early spring of . there was a review of troops near petersburg, preparatory to the advance on lee's lines. general o. b. wilcox and general sam. harriman had sent for their wives to come down to the front and witness the display. i was an orderly at headquarters of the first brigade, first division, ninth army corps, and was detailed to accompany the ladies, who had an ambulance placed at their disposal. i was mounted, and coming alongside the vehicle began to instruct the driver where to go to get the best view of the parade. the fellow, who was quite under the influence of liquor, identified himself as mallen, and sought to renew acquaintance with me. it went against the grain to go back on an old messmate, but the situation demanded prompt action. "bill" was ordered to attend closely to his driving or he would get into the guardhouse, with the displeasure of the division commander hanging over him, which would not be a pleasant experience. he knew enough about usages at the front, at that time, to understand this, and finished his drive in moody silence. after the review was over he went back to the corral with his team, and i to headquarters. i never saw or heard of him again, the stirring incidents of the latter days of march, , eclipsing everything else. i presume he was following the army, nominally as a mule driver, while he "skinned" the boys at poker as a matter of business. the whiskey had him down for the time being, however, otherwise i would have been glad to talk over former times on the river. chapter xix _steamboat racing_ it is popularly supposed that there was a great deal of racing on western rivers in the olden time--in fact, that it was the main business of steamboat captains and owners, and that the more prosaic object, that of earning dividends, was secondary. there is a deal of error in such a supposition. at the risk of detracting somewhat from the picturesqueness of life on the upper mississippi as it is sometimes delineated, it must in truth be said that little real racing was indulged in, as compared with the lower river, or even with the preconceived notion of what transpired on the upper reaches. while there were many so-called steamboat races, these were, for the most part, desultory and unpremeditated. on the upper river, there never was such a race as that between the "robert e. lee" and the "natchez", where both boats were stripped and tuned for the trial, and where neither passengers nor freight were taken on board to hinder or encumber in the long twelve hundred miles between new orleans and st. louis, which constituted the running track. it is true, however, that whenever two boats happened to come together, going in the same direction, there was always a spurt that developed the best speed of both boats, with the result that the speediest boat quickly passed her slower rival, and out-footed her so rapidly as soon to leave her out of sight behind some point, not to be seen again, unless a long delay at some landing or woodyard enabled her to catch up. these little spurts were in no sense races, such as the historic runs on the lower waters. they were in most cases a business venture, rather than a sporting event, as the first boat at a landing usually secured the passengers and freight in waiting. another boat, following so soon after, would find nothing to add to the profits of the voyage. racing, as racing, was an expensive if not a risky business. unless the boats were owned by their commanders, and thus absolutely under their control, there was little chance that permission would be obtained for racing on such a magnificent and spectacular scale as that usually depicted in fiction. the one contest that has been cited by every writer on upper river topics, that has ever come under my observation, was the one between the "grey eagle" (captain d. smith harris), and the "itasca" (captain david whitten); and that was not a race at all. it is manifestly unfair to so denominate it, when one of the captains did not know that he was supposed to be racing with another boat until he saw the other steamer round a point just behind him. recognizing his rival as following him far ahead of her regular time, he realized that she was doing something out of the ordinary. he came to the conclusion that captain harris was attempting to beat him into st. paul, in order to be the first to deliver certain important news of which he also was the bearer. when this revelation was made, both boats were within a few miles of their destination, st. paul. here are the details. in , the first telegraphic message was flashed under the sea by the atlantic cable--a greeting from queen victoria to president buchanan. captain d. smith harris had, the year before, brought out the "grey eagle", which had been built at cincinnati at a cost of $ , . he had built this boat with his own money, or at least a controlling interest was in his name. he had intended her to be the fastest boat on the upper river, and she was easily that. as her captain and practically her owner, he was at liberty to gratify any whim that might come into his head. in this case it occurred to him that he would like to deliver in st. paul the queen's message to the president ahead of any one else. there was at that time no telegraph line into st. paul. lines ran to dunleith, where the "grey eagle" was taking in cargo for st. paul, and also to prairie du chien, where the "itasca" was loading. both boats were to leave at six o'clock in the evening. captain harris had sixty-one miles farther to run than had captain whitten. but harris knew that he was racing, and whitten did not, which made all the difference in the world. whitten soldiered along at his usual gait, stopping at every landing, putting off all cargo at each place, and taking on all that offered, and probably delayed to pass the compliments of the day with agents and other friends, as well as discuss the great message that he was bearing. the "grey eagle", on the contrary, stopped at only a few of the principal landings, and took on no freight after leaving dunleith. she did not even put off freight that she was carrying, but took it through to st. paul and delivered it on her return trip. she carried the mail, but in delivering it a man stood on the end of one of the long stages run out from the bow, from which he threw the sacks ashore, the boat in the meantime running along parallel with the levee, and not stopping completely at any landing. running far ahead of her time, there were no mail sacks ready for her, and there was no reason for stopping. the "grey eagle" had the best of soft coal, reinforced by sundry barrels of pitch, from which the fires were fed whenever they showed any signs of failing. with all these points in her favor, in addition to the prime fact that she was by far the swiftest steamboat that ever turned a wheel on the upper river, it was possible for her to overtake the slower and totally unconcerned "itasca", when only a few miles from st. paul. the race proper began when whitten sighted the "gray eagle" and realized that harris was trying to beat him into st. paul in order to be the first to deliver the queen's message. then the "itasca" did all that was in her to do, and was beaten by less than a length, harris throwing the message ashore from the roof, attached to a piece of coal, and thus winning the race by a handbreadth. the time of the "grey eagle" from dunleith, was eighteen hours; the distance, two hundred and ninety miles; speed per hour, / miles. the "itasca", ran from prairie du chien to st. paul in eighteen hours; distance, two hundred and twenty-nine miles; speed, / miles per hour. the "itasca" was far from being a slow boat, and had whitten known that harris was "racing" with him, the "grey eagle" would not have come within several hours of catching her. as a race against time, however, the run of the "grey eagle" was really something remarkable. a sustained speed of over sixteen miles an hour for a distance of three hundred miles, upstream, is a wonderful record for an inland steamboat anywhere, upper river or lower river; and the pride which captain harris had in his beautiful boat was fully justified. a few years later, she struck the rock island bridge and sank in less than five minutes, a total loss. it was pitiful to see the old captain leaving the wreck, a broken-hearted man, weeping over the loss of his darling, and returning to his galena home, never again to command a steamboat. he had, during his eventful life on the upper river, built, owned, or commanded scores of steamboats; and this was the end. the "northerner", of the st. louis line, was a fast boat, and an active contestant for the "broom". the boat that could, and did run away from, or pass under way, all other boats, signalized her championship by carrying a big broom on her pilot house. when a better boat passed her under way, the ethics of the river demanded that she pull the broom down and retire into seclusion until she in turn should pass the champion and thus regain her title. the struggle on the upper river lay between the "northerner" and the "key city". the "grey eagle" was in a class by herself, and none other disputed her claims, while actively disputing those of all others of the minnesota packet company, of which the "key city" was the champion and defender. the two rivals got together at hudson, twenty miles up lake st. croix--whether by accident or agreement it is impossible to say, but probably by agreement. they had twenty miles of deep water, two miles wide, with only four close places to run. it was a fair field for a race, and they ran a fair and a fine one. for miles they were side by side. sometimes a spurt would put one a little ahead; and again the other would get a trifle the most steam and the deepest water, and so creep ahead a little. when they came into prescott, at the foot of the lake, the "key city" was a clear length ahead, her engineers having saved a barrel or two of resin for the home stretch. with this lead she had the right of way to turn the point and head up the river. ned west was at the wheel, with an assistant to "pull her down" for him, and he made a beautiful turn with his long and narrow craft; while the "northerner" had to slow down and wait a minute or two before making the turn. in the meantime the "key city's" whistles were blowing, her bell ringing, and her passengers and crew cheering, while a man climbed to the roof of the pilot house and lashed the broom to the finial at the top, the crown of laurels for the victor. the lower river stern-wheel steamer "messenger" was also a very fast boat. on one occasion she came very near wresting the broom from the "key city", in a race through lake pepin, where also there was plenty of water and sea room. the "key city" had a barge in tow and thus was handicapped. the "messenger" seemed, therefore, likely to win the race, as she had passed the former under way. within four miles of the head of the lake, captain worden of the "key city" ordered the barge cast adrift, having placed a few men on board of it, with an anchor and cable to use in case of necessity. thus freed from the encumbrance, he put on steam and passed his rival before reaching wacouta, in spite of the most strenuous efforts on the part of the latter to retain her lead. running far enough ahead of the "messenger" to render the maneuver safe, worden crossed her bow, and circling around her ran back and picked up his barge. in this race, it was said by passengers who were on board the two boats, that the flames actually blazed from the tops of the tall chimneys on both craft; and on both, men were stationed on the roof playing streams of water from lines of hose on the chimney breechings, to prevent the decks from igniting. under such conditions it is easy to see how a boat might catch fire and burn. and yet the passengers liked it. had they been the owners of casks of hams, as legend relates of a passenger on a lower river boat under like circumstances, there is no doubt they would have made an oblation of them to the gods of heat and steam, rather than have the other boat win. the earliest recorded race run on the upper river was that between the "nominee", owned and commanded by captain orren smith, and the "west newton" (captain daniel smith harris), in . in this event but one boat actually ran, for harris had no confidence in the ability of his boat to win, and not possessing the temper that would brook defeat, he declined to start. the "nominee" completed the run from galena to st. paul and return, a distance of seven hundred miles, making all landings and handling all freight and passengers, in fifty-five hours and forty-nine minutes, an average rate of speed of - / miles an hour, half of it against and half with the current. this was good running, for the boats of that time. as there was no other boat to compete for the honor, the "nominee" carried the broom until she sank at britt's landing, below la crosse, in . bunnell, in his very interesting _history of winona_, says: "captain orren smith was a very devout man; and while he might indulge in racing, for the honor of his boat, he believed in keeping the sabbath; and as long as he owned the boats which he commanded he would not run a minute after twelve o'clock saturday night, but would tie his boat to the bank, wherever it might be, and remain at rest until the night following at twelve o'clock, when he would resume the onward course of his trip. if a landing could be made near a village or settlement where religious services could be held, the people were invited on board on sunday, and if no minister of the gospel was at hand, the zealous captain would lead in such service as suited his ideas of duty. but the captain's reverence and caution did not save his boat, and she sank below la crosse in the autumn of ." two of the boats on which i served, the "kate cassell" and the "fanny harris", while not of the slow class, yet were not ranked among the fast ones; consequently we had many opportunities to pass opposition boats under way, and to run away from boats that attempted to so humiliate us. there was a great difference in boats. some were built for towing, and these were fitted with engines powerful enough, if driven to their full capacity, to run the boat under, when the boat had no barges in tow. other boats had not enough power to pull a shad off a gridiron. it was the power that cost money. a boat intended solely for freighting, and which consequently could take all the time there was, in which to make the trip, did not require the boilers and engines of a passenger packet in which speed was a prime factor in gaining patronage. there is great satisfaction in knowing that the boat you are steering is just a little faster than the one ahead or behind you. there is still more satisfaction in feeling, if you honestly can, that you are just a little faster as a pilot than the man who is running the other boat. the two combined guarantee, absolutely, a proper ending to any trial of speed in which you may be engaged. either one of them alone may decide the race, as a fast pilot is able to take his boat over a long course at a better rate of speed than a man not so well up in his business. if both men are equally qualified, then it is certain that the speediest boat will win. what conditions determine the speed of two boats, all observable terms being equal? nobody knows. the "key city" and the "itasca" were built for twins. their lines, length, breadth, and depth of hold were the same; they had the same number and size boilers, and the parts of their engines were interchangeable; yet the "key city" was from one to three miles an hour the faster boat, with the same pilots at the wheel. it was a fruitful topic for discussion on the river; but experts never reached a more enlightening conclusion than, "well, i don't know". they didn't. the boats of the old minnesota packet company averaged better than those of a later era. in the run from prairie du chien to st. paul, as noted above, the "itasca" averaged twelve miles an hour, upstream, handling all her freight and passengers. the schedule for the diamond jo line boats, in , allowed eight miles an hour upstream, and eleven downstream, handling freight and passengers. [illustration: the levee at st. paul, . showing the steamer "grey eagle" ( ; tons), capt. daniel smith harris, the fastest and best boat on the upper river, together with the "jeanette roberts" ( ; tons), and the "time and tide" ( ; tons), two minnesota river boats belonging to captain jean robert, an eccentric frenchman and successful steamboatman. (reproduced from an old negative in possession of mr. edward bromley of minneapolis, minn.)] chapter xx _music and art_ in the middle of the nineteenth century, many an artist whose canvases found no market in the older cities, found ready bidders for his brush, to decorate the thirty-foot paddle-boxes of the big side-wheelers with figures of heroic size; or, with finer touch, to embellish the cabins of western steamboats with oil paintings in every degree of merit and demerit. the boat carrying my father and his family from rock island to prescott, upon my first appearance on the father of waters, was the "minnesota belle". her paddle-boxes were decorated with pictures the same on each side, representing a beautiful girl, modestly and becomingly clothed, and carrying in her arms a bundle of wheat ten or twelve feet long, which she apparently had just reaped from some minnesota field. in her right hand she carried the reaping-hook with which it was cut. all the "eagles" were adorned with greater than life-size portraits of that noble bird. apparently all were drawn from the same model, whether the boat be a grey-, black-, golden-, war-, or spread-eagle. the "northern belle", also had a very good looking young woman upon her paddle-boxes. evidently she exhibited herself out of pure self-satisfaction, for she had no sheaf of wheat, or any other evidence of occupation. she was pretty, and she knew it. the "general brooke" showed the face and bust, in full regimentals, of the doughty old virginian for whom it was named. later, the "phil sheridan" boasted an heroic figure of little phil, riding in a hurry from winchester to the front, the hoofs of his charger beating time to the double bass of the guns at cedar creek, twenty miles away. the "minnesota" reproduced the coat-of-arms of the state whose name she bore--the ploughman, the indian, and the motto "l'étoile du nord". but the majority of the side-wheel boats boasted only a sunburst on the paddle-boxes, outside of which, on the perimeter of the wheel-house circle, was the legend showing to what line or company the boat belonged. the sunburst afforded opportunity for the artist to spread on colors, and usually the effect was pleasing and harmonious. it was the inside work wherein the artists in oil showed their skill. certainly there were many panels that showed the true artistic touch. the "northern light", i remember, had in her forward cabin representations of dayton bluff, st. anthony falls, lover's leap, or maiden rock, drawn from nature, for which the artist was said to have been paid a thousand dollars. they were in truth fine paintings, being so adjudged by people who claimed to be competent critics. on the other hand there were hundreds of panels--thousands, perhaps, in the myriad of boats that first and last plied on the river--that were the veriest daubs. these were the handiwork of the house painters who thought they had a talent for higher things, and who had been given free hand in the cabin to put their ambitions on record. there was one case, however, which appealed to the humorous side of every one who was fortunate enough to see it. it was not intended that it should strike just this note. the artist who put it on the broad panel over the office window of the little stern-wheel "dinkey" from the wabash, intended to convey a solemn note of warning to all who might look upon it to flee temptation. as the painting very nearly faced the bar, it required no very great stretch of imagination to read into the picture the warning to beware of the tempter, strong drink, particularly the brand served out on a hoosier packet hailing from the wabash. in the centre was a vividly-green apple tree, bearing big red fruit. our beloved mother eve, attired in a white cotton skirt that extended from waist to knee, was delicately holding a red scarf over her left shoulder and bosom. confronting her was a wofully weak-minded adam, dressed in the conventional habit of a wealthy first century hebrew. the satanic snake, wearing a knowing grin on his face, balanced himself on the tip of his tail. thirty years or more after the little boat from the wabash introduced this artistic gem to travellers on the upper river, i saw a copper-plate engraving two centuries old, from which the hoosier artist had painted his panel. it was all there, except the colors--the tree, the apples, eve in her scarf and skirt, adam as a respectable hebrew gentleman, and satan balanced on the turn of his tail and leering with a devilish grin at the young woman who wanted to know it all, and at the lily-livered adam who then and there surrendered his captaincy and has been running as mate ever since. in the flush times on the river all sorts of inducements were offered passengers to board the several boats for the up-river voyage. first of all, perhaps, the speed of the boat was dwelt upon. it was always past my comprehension why any one who paid one fare for the trip, including board and lodging as long as he should be on the boat, and who had three good, if not "elegant", meals served each day without extra charge, should have been in such a hurry to get past the most beautiful scenery to be found anywhere under the sun. i would like nothing better than to take passage on the veriest plug that ever made three miles an hour, and having full passage paid, dawdle along for a week, and thus be enabled to enjoy in a leisurely manner, all the beauties of river, bluff, and island. after speed came elegance--"fast and elegant steamer"--was a favorite phrase in the advertisement. an opportunity to study eve and her apple, instead of the wealth of beauty which the almighty has strewn broadcast over the mississippi valley, was an inducement carrying weight with some. it was a matter of taste. after elegance came music, and this spoke for itself. the styles affected by river steamers ranged from a calliope on the roof to a stringed orchestra in the cabin. my recollection is, that most of us thought the name "calliope" was derived from some mechanical appliance in connection with music, with which we were as yet unfamiliar, the fame of jupiter's daughter not yet having extended to the headwaters of the mississippi. the question as to what relation this barbaric collection of steam whistles bears to the epic muse, that it should have appropriated her name, is still an open question. the "excelsior", captain ward, was the first to introduce the "steam piano" to a long-suffering passenger list. plenty of people took passage on the "excelsior" in order to hear the calliope perform; many of them, long before they reached st. paul, wished they had not come aboard, particularly if they were light sleepers. the river men did not mind it much, as they were used to noises of all kinds, and when they "turned in" made a business of sleeping. it was different with most passengers, and a steam piano solo at three o'clock in the morning was a little too much music for the money. after its introduction on the "excelsior", several other boats armed themselves with this persuader of custom; but as none of them ever caught the same passenger the second time, the machine went out of fashion. other boats tried brass bands; but while these attracted some custom they were expensive, and came to be dropped as unprofitable. the cabin orchestra was the cheapest and most enduring, as well as the most popular drawing card. a band of six or eight colored men who could play the violin, banjo, and guitar, and in addition sing well, was always a good investment. these men were paid to do the work of waiters, barbers, and baggagemen, and in addition were given the privilege of passing the hat occasionally, and keeping all they caught. they made good wages by this combination, and it also pleased the passengers, who had no suspicion that the entire orchestra was hired with the understanding that they were to play as ordered by the captain or chief clerk, and that it was a strictly business engagement. they also played for dances in the cabin, and at landings sat on the guards and played to attract custom. it soon became advertised abroad which boats carried the best orchestras, and such lost nothing in the way of patronage. some of the older generation yet living, may have heard ned kendall play the cornet. if not, they may have heard of him, for his fame was at this time world-wide, as the greatest of all masters on his favorite instrument. like many another genius, strong drink mastered him, and instead of holding vast audiences spell-bound in eastern theatres, as he had done, he sold his art to influence custom on an alton line boat. it was my good fortune to have heard him two or three times, and his music appeals to me yet, through all the years that lie between. the witchery and the pathos of "home, sweet home", "annie laurie", the "white squall", and selections from operas of which i had then never even heard the names, cast such a spell that the boat on which he travelled was crowded every trip. pity 'tis that one so gifted should fall into a slavery from which there was no redemption. he died in st. louis, poor and neglected, a wreck infinitely more pitiable than that of the finest steamboat ever cast away on the great river. one of the boats on which i served employed a sextet of negro firemen, whose duty, in addition to firing, was to sing to attract custom at the landings. this was not only a unique performance, but it was likewise good music--that is, good of its kind. there was nothing classic about it, but it was naturally artistic. they sang plantation melodies--real negro melodies; not the witless and unmusical inanities which under the name of "coon songs" pass with the present generation for negro minstrelsy. of course these darkies were picked for their musical ability, and were paid extra wages for singing. the leader, sam marshall, received more than the others, because he was an artist. this term does not do him justice. in addition to a voice of rare sweetness and power, sam was a born _improvisatore_. it was his part of the entertainment to stand on the capstan-head, with his chorus gathered about him, as the boat neared the landing. if at night, the torch fed with fatwood and resin threw a red glow upon his shining black face, as he lifted up his strong, melodious voice, and lined out his improvised songs, which recited the speed and elegance of this particular boat, the suavity and skill of its captain, the dexterity of its pilots, the manfulness of its mate, and the loveliness of chloe, its black chambermaid. this latter reference always "brought down the house", as chloe usually placed herself in a conspicuous place on the guards to hear the music, and incidentally the flatteries of her coal-black lover. as each line was sung by the leader the chorus would take up the refrain: de captain stands on de upper deck; (ah ha-a-a-ah! oh ho-o-o-o-ho!) you nebber see 'nudder such gentlehem, _i_ 'spec; (ah ha-a-a-ah, oh ho-o-o-ho.) and then would follow, as an interlude, the refrain of some old plantation melody in the same key and meter, the six darkies singing their parts in perfect time and accord, and with a melody that cannot be bettered in all the world of music. de pilot he twisses he big roun' wheel; (ah ha-a-a-ah, oh ho-o-o-oh.) he sings, and he whissels, and he dance virginia reel, (ah ha-a-a-ah, oh ho-o-o-ho),-- an undoubted reference to tom cushing, who, before his promotion to the pilot house was said to have been a tenor in grand opera in new york. he was a beautiful singer at any rate; could whistle like a new york newsboy, and dance like a coryphée. the "old man" would have been willing to take his oath that cushing could and did do all three at the same time, in the most untimely hours of the morning watch, at the same time steering his steamboat in the most approved fashion. the next stanza was: "'gineer in the engin' room listenn' fo' de bell; he boun' to beat dat oder boat or bus' 'em up to--_heb'n_," was accepted as a distinct reference to billy hamilton, as the manner of stating his intention to win out in a race was peculiar to the junior engineer, and the proposition was accepted without debate. "de debbel he come in the middle of de night; sam, dere, he scairt so he tuhn _mos'_ white--jes like dat white man out dere on de lebbee", pointing at some one whom he deemed it safe to poke fun at, and of course raising a laugh at the expense of the individual so honored. "des _look_ at dem white fokses standin' on de sho'; dey la-a-aff, and dey la-a-aff, till dey cain't laff no mo'--ha-ha-ha-ha-ha", and sam would throw back his head and laugh a regular contagion into the whole crowd--on the boat and "on de sho", opening a mouth which one of the darkies asserted was "de biggest mouf dis nigger ebber saw on any human bein' 'cept a aligator"; or, as the mate expressed it: "it was like the opening of navigation." "dish yer nigger he fire at the middle do'; shake 'em up libely for to make de boat go", was a somewhat ornate description of mr. marshall's own duties on board the boat. as a matter of fact he did very little firing, personally, although when a race was on he could shovel coal or pitch four-foot wood into the middle door with the best of them, at the same time, singing at the top of his voice. upon ordinary occasions he let the other darkies pitch the cord wood while he exercised a general supervision over them, as became an acknowledged leader. to hear these darkies sing the real slave music, which was older than the singers, older than the plantation, as old as africa itself, wherein the ancestors of some of them at least, might have been kings and princes as well as freemen, was better than the fo'c'sle comedies enacted for the amusement of the passengers. these minor chords carried a strain of heartbreak, as in the lines: "de night is dark, de day is long and we are far fum home, weep, my brudders, weep!" and the closing lines: "de night is past, de long day done, an' we are going home, shout, my brudders, shout!" were a prophecy of that day of freedom and rest, after centuries of toil and bondage, the dawn of which was even then discernible to those who, like abraham lincoln, were wise to read in the political heavens the signs of its coming. [illustration: steamer "key city," ; tons.] [illustration: steamer "northern light," ; tons.] chapter xxi _steamboat bonanzas_ how it was possible to derive any profit from an investment of from $ , to $ , , the principal of which had an average tenure of life of but five years, has puzzled a great many conservative business men from "down east", where "plants" lasted a lifetime, and the profits from which may have been sure, but were certain to be small. a man educated in such an atmosphere would hesitate long, before investing $ , in a steamboat that was foreordained to the scrap pile at the end of five summers; or where one out of every two was as certainly predestined to go up in smoke or down into the mud of the river bottom at the end of four years--these periods representing the ordinary life of a mississippi river steamboat. from to the shipyards of the ohio, where nine out of ten western boats were built, could not keep up with the orders. every available shipwright was employed, and on some boats gangs worked at night by the light of torches at double wages, so great was the demand. every iron foundry was likewise driven to the limit to turn out engines, boilers, and other machinery with which to give life to the hulls that were growing as if by magic in every shipyard. if there had not been profit in the business, the captains and other river men who gave orders for these craft would not have given them. by far the greater number of boats were built for individual owners--practical river men who navigated the boats, and who knew just what they were about. many of the orders were given to replace vessels that had been snagged or burned within the past twenty-four hours--for time was money, and a man could not afford to be without a steamboat many weeks, when twenty weeks or less represented a new boat in net earnings. these men knew from actual experience that if they could keep their craft afloat for two years they could build a new boat from the profits made with her, even if she sank or burned at the end of that time. if she kept afloat for four years, they could buy or build two or three new ones from the profits, even without the aid of insurance. as a matter of fact the boats carrying insurance in those days were the exceptions. it came high, and owners preferred to take their own chances rather than indulge to any great extent in that luxury. how such profits were earned and such results obtained, it will be the object of this chapter to disclose. in those days every boat made money. a big and fast one made a great deal; those small and slow made little as compared with their larger rivals, but plenty as compared with their own cost. perhaps most vessel owners began on a small scale. a little boat might cost $ , . she would run on some tributary of the great river, and in the absence of any railroads might control all the traffic she was capable of handling, and at her own rates. in the course of two or three years her owner was able to build a bigger and a better boat. by combining with some other river man, the two might build one costing $ , , and carrying from a hundred and fifty to two hundred tons of freight, and passengers in proportion. with such an equipment there was a fortune in sight at any time between and , provided always that the boat was not snagged or burned on her first trip. the doctrine (or science) of averages, is peculiar. in order to get an average of four years for a steamboat's life, it is necessary to keep some of them afloat for nine or ten; while on the other hand you are certain to "kill" a lot of them within a year after they touch water. when the latter happens, the investment is lost and the owner is probably ruined. for purposes of illustration we will take as a sample one from the best class of money-makers on the upper river, in the flush times of . minnesota was organized as a territory in , and admitted as a state in . from to there were not boats enough to carry the people who were flocking into this newly-opened farmers' and lumbermen's paradise. there were over a hundred and twenty-five different steamboats registered at st. paul in the latter year. the boats carrying good cargoes all through the season were the money-makers. some of the larger ones were unable to get over the sand-bars after the midsummer droughts began. the stern-wheel boat of two hundred to three hundred tons was the one that could handle a good cargo on little water, and represented the highest type of profit-earning craft. such a boat would be about feet long, feet beam, and five feet depth of hold. she would have three large iron boilers (steel not having entered largely into boiler construction at that time), and fairly large engines, giving her good speed without an excessive expenditure for fuel. she would cost from $ , to $ , , and accommodate two hundred cabin passengers comfortably, with a hundred second-class people on deck. with such a boat furnished and ready for business, it is the duty of the captain to go out and hire his crew, and fit her out for a month's work. such an investment in , on the upper river, would approximate the following figures: _per month_ captain $ . chief clerk . second clerk . chief mate . second mate . pilots ( at $ . ) , . chief engineer . second engineer . firemen ( at $ . ) . steward . carpenter . watchman . deck hands ( at $ . ) , . cabin crew . food supplies ($ . per day, days) , . wood ( cords per day, days, at $ . ) , . sundries , . --------- $ , . with this wage-list and expense-account before them, the captain and his chief clerk, who may also be a part owner in the boat, are face to face with the problem of meeting such expenses from passenger and cargo lists, and at the same time providing a sinking fund with which to build another craft within four years. to the uninitiated this would seem a somewhat appalling problem; with these old hands, the question would no doubt resolve itself down to the number of round trips that they would have to make to pay for their boat. the question of years never enters their heads. in there were three principal points of departure on the upper river, above st. louis. at that time st. louis itself was the great wholesale centre, but it was not so important as an initial point for passengers for the upper mississippi. the flood of immigration from st. louis was for many reasons up the missouri: furs and gold could be found in the mountains; there was a possible slave state in the farming regions below the mountains. the people who settled minnesota and northern wisconsin came from the east, and reached the river at three points--rock island, dunleith (or galena), and prairie du chien. taking the point with which i am most familiar, we will start the new boat from galena. at that time galena was, next to st. louis, the principal wholesale _entrepôt_ in the west. it was a poor trip for the boat which i have taken as a model, when she did not get a hundred tons of freight at galena from the wholesale houses there. the balance was found at dunleith, the terminus of what is now the illinois central railway (then the galena & western union); at dubuque, which was also a big wholesale town; and at prairie du chien, the terminus of the milwaukee & mississippi railway. the freight rates on the river ran from cents per hundred for short distances, to $ . per hundred from galena to stillwater, or st. paul. no package was taken at less than cents, however small it was, or how short the distance. in order not to overstate, we will take fifty cents per hundred as the average, and three hundred tons of cargo as the capacity of the two hundred-ton boat.[f] this is relatively the capacity of a vessel of that tonnage after deducting for passengers and fuel, and the space occupied by deck passengers. this latter item did not seriously count, for the freight was usually taken first and the deck passengers were then piled on top of it. their comfort or convenience was never taken into consideration. [f] a boat _measuring_ tons would carry from to tons weight in cargo. the tonnage of all boats is given by measurement, while the cargo is always in hundredweights. the boat can carry two hundred cabin passengers, and a hundred on deck. we will assume that there is another boat competing for this trip, and we do not fill up to the capacity. the clerk studies the rate sheets in vogue in , and finds the following: up-stream rates miles or under (no charge less than c) c per mile to miles c per mile over miles c per mile galena or dunleith to-- miles cabin passage deck passage cassville $ . $ . prairie du chien . . la crosse . . red wing . . stillwater and st. paul . . galena or dunleith to st. paul $ . $ . prairie du chien to st. paul . . la crosse to st. paul . . in , the cabin passage on the diamond jo line boats from dunleith to st. paul, was $ . ; from prairie du chien, $ . ; from la crosse, $ . . this is in competition with six railroads practically paralleling the river. in there was no railroad competition, and practically none from steamboats. every boat attained a full passenger list, and was at liberty to charge whatever the conscience of the captain dictated--assuming a conscience. i have known a boat to fill up at dunleith at the rate of $ . to st. paul, and contract that all the men should sleep on the cabin floor, leaving staterooms for the women. and the passengers were glad enough to accept such conditions, for a detention of two days at dunleith would cost a far greater sum than the overcharge exacted by the steamboat officers. in the foregoing table i have included la crosse, which, however, was not an active factor in river rates until . before then, hundreds of passengers were landed there from rock island, dunleith, and prairie du chien; but as the railroad had not yet reached the river at that point, there were but few passengers from la crosse for landings farther up the river. when our boat leaves prairie du chien, then, the following business is in sight: passengers from dunleith or galena, at an average of $ . $ , . deck passengers at an average of $ . . tons freight, , cwts. at an average of c , . -------- $ , . a boat leaving galena on friday evening usually arrived at st. paul in time to have her cargo all ashore and ready to start on the return trip sometime on tuesday--usually about noon. at that time we shall find the chief clerk studying the downstream rate sheets. these differ somewhat from the upstream and are like this, a few principal points being taken to illustrate: down-stream rates miles or under (no charge less than c.) c per mile to miles c per mile over miles c per mile st. paul or stillwater to-- miles cabin passage deck passage hastings $ . $ . red wing . . winona . . la crosse . . prairie du chien . . dunleith or galena . . downstream rates are somewhat less than the upstream, because, for one reason, it costs less to get a boat downstream. there is a four-mile current pushing the boat along, in addition to the applied power. going upstream the boat had had this current to overcome before she gained an inch. a four-mile current is one-third of an average steamboat's progress. again, the passengers do not get a chance to eat as much, and very often they were not served as well, on the down trip. then, there were fewer people who wished to go down river, with the result that there were many boats bidding for the patronage of those who did make the trip. all these elements, with possibly others, entered into the cutting of the rates by about one-third on the down trip. the only item besides passengers to be depended upon on the return trip, was wheat. there may have been some potatoes or barley, or, if fortune favored, some tons of furs and buffalo robes from the "red river train", or some flour from the one mill at st. anthony (now minneapolis), or perhaps woodenware from the same point. there was always a more or less assorted cargo, but the mainstay was wheat. we will assume, in order to simplify this illustration, that there was nothing but wheat in sight at the time. there was no question about getting it. every boat got all the wheat it could carry, and the shippers begged, almost on bended knees, for a chance to ship five hundred sacks, or a hundred, or fifty--any amount would be considered a great favor. wheat was shipped at that time in two-bushel sacks, each weighing a hundred and twenty pounds. three hundred tons, dead weight, is a pretty good cargo for a two-hundred ton boat. wheat is dead weight, and a boat goes down into the water fast, when that is the sole cargo. we get five thousand sacks, all of which is unloaded at prairie du chien. the down trip foots up somewhat like this: passengers at $ . $ . , sacks of wheat at c . -------- $ , . arriving in galena friday morning, the clerk figures up his receipts with the following result: up trip $ , . down trip , . -------- $ , . the boat makes four trips during the month, leaving out the extra two or three days, which may have been spent on some sand-bar. at the end of the month the clerk again does some figuring, with this result: income from four trips, at $ , . $ , . less wages, fuel, provisions, etc. , . --------- net profit for month $ , . a stern-wheel, light-draught boat such as we have taken for this illustration, was quite certain to get five months' service--between the middle of april and the middle of october. in order not to put too great tension upon the credulity of modern readers, we will assume that she gets only five months of navigation. at the close of the season the captain and his clerk figure up the receipts and expenses, and strike a balance like this: receipts, months, at $ , . $ , . expenses, months, at $ , . , . ---------- net earnings for the season $ , . this is enough to buy a new boat, and have something over for pin money. no one knows better than the writer the elusiveness, not to say the mendacity, of figures. he has often figured out greater profits than this in the nebulous schemes which have from time to time seduced him from the straight and narrow path of six per cent investment--and had them come out the other way. in steamboating in the fifties, this occurred very often. the most careful captain, employing the highest-priced pilots and engineers, would often lose his boat the first season; a snag or a lighted match, or a little too much steam, dissipating the best-laid plans in a few minutes of time. but the figures given above are conservative--made so purposely. the truth lies at the opposite extreme. if the books of some of the boats of the old minnesota packet company could be resurrected, they would show earnings and profits far greater than i have ventured to claim in my illustration. the "fanny harris", for instance, was a boat of tons. her wage-list and expense-account have been taken as a basis of the illustration above given, partly from recollection, and partly from figures which i made when i was second clerk, and which i have had before me in writing this chapter. we used to tow one barge all the time--most of the time two barges, and both boat and barges loaded to the water line, both ways, nearly every trip. of course we sometimes missed it. we landed ten thousand sacks of wheat at prairie du chien on one trip. instead of a hundred and fifty cabin passengers, she often carried three hundred, "sleeping them" on the cabin floor three deep--at stateroom rates; and under such conditions the fortunate winners of such a chance to get into the promised land have risen up and called the whole outfit blessed, when in fact it was the other thing. i have heard of other boats claiming that they had to tow an extra barge to carry the money which they took in on the trip. i have always thought that these men were slightly overstating the case--but maybe not. an item in one of the st. paul papers of the time, states that the "excelsior" arrived from st. louis november , , with two hundred and fifty cabin passengers, one hundred and fifty deck passengers, and three hundred tons of freight. for which freight she received "one dollar per hundred for any distance"; and the net profits of the up trip on freight alone were over $ , . for two hundred and fifty cabin passengers she would receive $ each, or $ , ; for the deck passengers, $ each, or $ , . these sums added to the $ , received for freight, would aggregate $ , . the "excelsior" cost not to exceed $ , --probably not over $ , . two trips like this would build a better boat. as this was the last trip of the season, she probably did not get such another. under that freight rate--"one dollar per hundred for any distance"--a shipment of a hundred pounds from prescott to point douglass, one mile, would cost the shipper a dollar. there were possibilities in such conditions. another item, also from a st. paul paper, states that the "lady franklin" arrived may , , from galena, with five hundred passengers. she would accommodate a hundred and fifty cabin people, ordinarily. figure this trip down to the probabilities, and the net result would be about as follows: cabin passengers at $ $ , deck passengers at $ , ------ $ , or, reversing it: cabin passengers at $ $ , deck passengers at $ , ------ $ , the "lady franklin" cost about $ , . two months' work at this rate would buy a new and better boat. if i remember aright, the "lady franklin" was sunk in or , but not until she had earned money enough to buy two new boats, each costing twice as much as she did. at the time she carried five hundred passengers she undoubtedly carried a full cargo of freight, worth at least two thousand dollars more to the boat. an item in a st. louis paper of that date, announces the departure of the side-wheel steamer "tishomingo" (jenks, master), for st. paul on april , , with cabin passengers, deck passengers and tons of assorted freight. this trip would figure somewhat like this: cabin passengers at an average of $ $ , . deck passengers at an average of $ . tons freight at c per hundred , . --------- $ , . these rates are estimated at a very low figure. the regular cabin rate at that time, st. louis to st. paul, was, for cabin, $ ; deck, $ ; freight, $ . per hundredweight. it is not necessary to amplify at all. the "tishomingo" had been bought in the spring of , within a month, for $ , . she paid one-half her purchase price on her first trip that season. i would not have it understood that all boats made these phenomenal earnings; but many boats did, and all those of the minnesota packet company were in this favored class. there were several conditions precedent, which made these results possible with the boats of this line. it controlled, absolutely, the freighting from the galena and dubuque jobbing houses; it controlled, absolutely, the freight business of the dunleith and prairie du chien railroads, and practically all the passenger business of the two roads, as steamboat tickets were sold on the train, good only on the boats of the minnesota packet company. these conditions insured a full cargo for every boat, and a full passenger list every trip. outside boats did not have such a "cinch", but each had a source of revenue of its own, equally satisfactory. even the "wild" boats had no difficulty in getting cargoes, and every vessel in that busy era had all the business it could handle. the term "company" was something of a misnomer. it was not at first a stock company, in the modern sense of the word. each boat was owned by its captain, or a number of persons acting individually. in organizing the company, instead of capitalizing it with a certain amount of stock, the controlling parties simply put in their steamboats and pooled their earnings. each boat had an equal chance with all the others for a cargo; and when the dividends were declared each one shared according to the earnings of his boat. a big boat could earn more than a smaller or slower one, and such a boat got a larger percentage than the latter. the particular advantage, in fact the only advantage, in pooling lay in securing a monopoly of the railroad and jobbing business. in order to do this it was necessary to have boats enough to handle the business at all times, and to have a general manager who would place the craft so as to give the most effective service. one of the beauties of the pooling system was, that if a captain or owner became dissatisfied and desired to pull out, he could take his boat and the share of profits due him, and leave at any time. a few years later the company was reorganized as a joint stock company. after that, if one wished to get out he was lucky if he could get clear with the clothes on his back. the financiers who controlled fifty-one per cent of the stock retained all the steamboats and all the profits. [illustration: facsimiles of early tickets and business card.] chapter xxii _wild-cat money and town-sites_ both of these specimens of natural history were bred, nurtured, and let loose in countless numbers to prey upon the people in the early days that witnessed the opening of the northwestern territories to settlement. the wild-cat dollars waxed fat upon the blood and brawn of the settlers who had already arrived; wild-cat town-sites found ready victims in the thousands of eastern people who desired to better their fortunes, and who lent ready ears to the golden tales of unscrupulous promoters, that told of wonderful cities in the west, whose only reality was that blazoned in the prospectuses scattered broadcast through the east. the younger generation, whose only acquaintance with the circulating symbols of wealth that we call "money", is confined to the decades since the close of the war of secession, can have no idea of the laxity of banking laws of the fifties, in the northwestern states and territories, nor of the instability of the so-called "money" that comprised nine-tenths of the medium of exchange then in use in the west. nowadays, a bank bill stands for its face value in gold, if it be a national bank issue. if a state bank--and bills of this sort are comparatively few in these days--they are also guaranteed, in a measure, by the laws of the state in which the bank is situated. in the days of which i am writing, and especially in the unsettled and troublesome times just before the war (from to ), the money that was handled on the river in the prosecution of business, except of course the small proportion of gold that was still in circulation, had little or no backing, either by federal or state enactments. a man went into an embryo city, consisting in that day of two or three thousand town lots, and from fifty to a hundred inhabitants, with an iron box costing twenty-five dollars. in this box he had ten, twenty, or thirty thousand "dollars" in new bank bills purporting to have been issued from two, three, or four banks doing business in other equally large, populous, and growing cities, situated elsewhere in wisconsin, or preferably in illinois, indiana, or michigan. how did he become possessed of all this wealth? was it the savings of years? the iron box was, perhaps; perhaps he got trusted for that. the money was not usually the savings of any time at all; it was simply printed to order. five or six persons desirous of benefitting their fellow men by assisting them in opening their farms and "moving their crops", would get together in chicago, cincinnati, or st. louis, wherever there was an establishment capable of engraving and printing bank bills--and not very elegant or artistic printing was required, or desired. these men propose to start as many banks, in as many "cities" in the west. they have money enough, each of them, to buy a safe, an iron box into which any carpenter could bore with an ordinary brace and bit, and enough over to pay for the printing of twenty thousand dollars' worth of bills in denominations of one, two, five and ten dollars. the printing finished, each man would sign his own bills as president, and one of the others would add the final touch of authenticity by signing a fictitious name to the same bills as cashier. then it was "money". but it would have been overloading the credulity of even the most gullible denizens of his adopted city to ask them to accept his own bills as legal tender; so a swap was made all around, and when the requisite amount of shuffling was completed, each man had his twenty thousand dollars in bills on four or five banks, but none of his own issue. there was a double incentive in this transaction: first, it inspired the utmost confidence in the minds of the men who were to borrow this money. how could this banker who had come among them for their good, have acquired this money by any other than legitimate transactions? if it were bills on his own bank that he proposed to put into circulation, there might be some question as to their guaranty; but he could not get this money by merely going to the printing office and ordering it, as he might in case of bills on his own institution. it certainly must be good money. secondly, by distributing his bills in as many different localities as possible, the chances of its never being presented for redemption were greatly multiplied; it might be burned, or lost overboard, or worn out, in which case he would be just so much ahead, and no questions asked. the foregoing may be a somewhat fanciful statement of the way in which the bankers proceeded, but in essence it is a true picture. they may not have all met in chicago, or anywhere else, to perfect these arrangements, but the arrangements were all perfected practically as stated: "you put my bills into circulation, and i will put out yours; and in each case the exchange will greatly assist each and all of us in hoodwinking our victims into the belief that it is money, and not merely printed paper which we are offering them". equipped with these goods, and with a charter from the state in which he proposed to operate--a charter granted for the asking, and no questions raised--the banker transports himself and his box of money to his chosen field of operations. the newspaper which has already been located in the new city heralds the coming of mr. rothschild, our new banker, more or less definitely hinting at the great wealth lying behind the coming financier. a bank building is rented, a sign hung out, and he begins to loan his money at five per cent per month on the partially-improved farms of his neighbors, or the house and lot of his "city" friends. he is a liberal man, and if it is not convenient for you to pay the interest as it accrues, he will let it stand--but he does not forget to compound it every month. the result is inevitable. the debt mounts up with a rapidity that paralyzes the borrower, and in the end a foreclosure adds farm and improvements to the growing assets of the banker. within a very few years he is the owner of eight or ten of the best farms in the county, and perhaps half a dozen houses and lots in the village, and all with the investment of less than a hundred dollars invested in printing, and an iron box, and without the expenditure of an ounce of energy or a legitimate day's work. and the victims break up and start anew for the still farther west, to take new farms, to be engulfed in the maws of other sharks. one may not greatly pity the men themselves, for men are born to work and suffer; but the women! god pity them. worn, tired, broken-hearted, they must leave that which is dearest to them in all the world, their homes, and fare forth again into the wilderness, to toil and suffer, and at last, blessed release, to die. and the bankers? they were counted honest. if by any chance one of their bills came to hand and was presented for payment at the home counter, it was promptly redeemed, sometimes in gold or silver, but oftener with another bill on some other bank belonging to the syndicate. i personally knew some of these bankers. some of them were freebooters without conscience and without shame. under color of law, they robbed the settlers of their lands and improvements, and defied public opinion. others put on a cloak of righteousness; they were leaders in the love-feasts and pillars in the church; and they also had their neighbors' lands and improvements. their descendants are rich and respected to-day in the communities where their fathers plied their iniquitous trade; and these rule where their fathers robbed. as a clerk on the river, i had some experience in handling the wild-cat money. at dunleith, before starting on the up-river trip, we were handed by the secretary of the company, a _thompson's bank note detector_, and with it a list of the bills that we might accept in payment for freight or passage. we were also given a list of those that we might not accept at all; and still another list upon which we might speculate, at values running from twenty-five to seventy-five per cent of their face denominations. thus equipped we started upstream, and the trouble started with us. at mcgregor we put off a lot of freight, and were tendered money. we consulted our lists and cast into outer darkness that which had upon it the anathema of mr. jones, the secretary. we accepted all on the list of the elect, and compromised upon enough more to balance our freight account. the agent at mcgregor had a list of his own which partly coincided with ours but in general disagreed. in the meantime another boat of our line had arrived from up river, and we get from her clerk fifteen or twenty lists of bills which would be taken or rejected at as many landings above. this helps somewhat, as we see our way clear to get rid of some of our twenty-five per cent stuff at par in exchange for cord wood or stores on the upper river, and we sort our stock out into packages which are reported current at each landing. we also see an opportunity to swap at dunleith some bills which are not current there at all, but which are taken at par at prescott or stillwater, for other bills which they do not want but which will be taken at the company's office at dunleith in settlement of our trip. it required a long head to figure it out. mine was long enough, but unfortunately it had the same dimensions both ways, and was not to be depended upon in these finer transactions. mr. hargus labored with the problem, studying lists until he came nigh to the point of insanity, with the result that when we "cashed in" on our return it was usually found that we had from five hundred to a thousand dollars that was not acceptable. this we kept, and the boat was debited with the amount on the company's books. on the next trip we would usually be able to work off some of this stuff. at the end of one season i recollect that we had some two thousand dollars, face estimate, of this paper on hand, which the treasurer would not accept, for the banks on which the bills were drawn had gone out of existence. the town-site industry was on the same plane of deception and robbery as the banking frauds, but it found its victims "back east", instead of close at hand. being easterners, who had been educated to suppose that integrity and honesty were the basis of all business confidence, and themselves practiced these old-fashioned virtues, they all too readily accepted the assurances of the land-sharks, and invested their money without seeing the property which was so glowingly described in the prospectuses sent out by the western promoters. the result was, that they were "taken in and done for" by the hundreds of town-site sharks who were operating all along the river, between dunleith and st. paul. i shall refer to but one of which i had personal knowledge, and to another described to me by captain russell blakeley. the city of nininger, as delineated on the large and beautifully-engraved and printed maps issued by ingenuous doemly, was a well-built metropolis capable of containing ten thousand people. as delineated, it had a magnificent court house, this city being the county seat of dakota county, minnesota. four or five church spires sprang a hundred feet each into the atmosphere. it had stores and warehouses, crowded with merchandise, and scores of drays and draymen were working with feverish energy to keep the levee clear of the freight being landed from half a dozen well-known steamboats belonging to the minnesota packet company or the st. louis & st. paul packet company. an imposing brick structure with cut stone trimmings, four stories high, housed the plant of the nininger _daily bugle_. this last-mentioned feature of the prospectus was the only one that had the remotest semblance of foundation in fact. there certainly was a _daily bugle_, issued once a week, or once in two or three weeks, depending upon the energy of the printer and his "devil", who jointly set the type, and the assiduity of the editors who furnished them with copy. this paper was printed upon the first power press that ever threw off a printed sheet in the territory of minnesota. it was a good press, and the paper printed upon it was a monument to the shrewdness and ingenuity of the honorable proprietor of the nininger town-site. the sheet was filled with a wealth of local advertising--drygoods, groceries, hardware, millinery, shoe stores, blacksmith shops--every class of business found in a large and prosperous city, was represented in those columns. but every name and every business was fictitious, coined in the fertile brain of this chief of all promoters. it was enough to deceive the very elect--and it did. when the eastern man read that there were six or eight lots, lying just west of smith & jones's drygoods store, on west prairie street, that could be had at a thousand dollars per lot if taken quickly, and that they were well worth twice that money on account of the advantageous situation, they were snapped up as a toad snaps flies on a summer day. the paper was filled with local reading matter, describing the rush at the opening of the latest emporium; that brown had gone east to purchase his spring stock; that mrs. newbody entertained at her beautiful new residence on park avenue, and gave the names of fifty of her guests. the whole thing was the plan of a napoleonic mind, being carried out to the minutest detail with painstaking care by a staff of able workers, with the result that the whole prairie for two miles back from the river was sold out at the rate of ten thousand dollars an acre or upwards, and that before the proprietor had himself perfected his legal rights to the land which he was thus retailing. henry lindergreen, the printer who did the mechanical work on the nininger paper, was a chum of mine, we having set type in the same "alley" elsewhere, and that winter i went up to nininger to help him out. the four-story brick block of the wood-cuts shrunk into a little frame building, the sides of which were made of inch boards set up on end and battened on the outside. inside, it was further reinforced with tarred paper; and while i was there a pail of water ten feet from a red-hot stove, froze solid in a night, and the three printers had all they could do to feed the fire fast enough to keep themselves from freezing also, with the mercury down to forty degrees below zero. the editor who, in the absence of the promoter himself, in the east disposing of lots, was hired to improvise facts for the columns of this veracious sheet, lived in st. paul, and sent his copy down to hastings, as there was no postoffice at nininger. if the editor or the proprietor had been found at nininger in the following spring when the dupes began to appear, one or two of the jack oaks with which the city lots were plentifully clothed, would have borne a larger fruit than acorns. even the printer who set the type, was forced to flee for his life. one of the boldest-faced swindles i ever heard of, was the so-called rolling stone colony. in the spring of , some three or four hundred people, chiefly from new york city, came to seek their purchased lands in rolling stone. they brought with them beautiful maps and bird's-eye views of the place, showing a large greenhouse, lecture hall, and library. each colonist was to have a house lot in town and a farm in the neighboring country. the colony had been formed by one william haddock, and none of the members had the faintest shadow of experience in farming. boarding steamers at galena, they expected to be put off at the rolling stone levee, for the views represented large houses, a hotel, a big warehouse, and a fine dock. but the steamboat officers had never heard of such a place. careful questioning, however, seemed to locate the site three miles above wabasha prairie, on land then belonging to the sioux indians. as they insisted on landing, they were put off at the log cabin of one john johnson, the only white man within ten miles. they made sod houses for themselves, or dug shelter burrows in the river banks; sickness came; many died during the summer and autumn; and when winter set in the place was abandoned. the people suffered severely, and the story of rolling stone makes a sad chapter in the early history of minnesota. while the craze was on, some made fortunes, while thousands of trusting men and women lost the savings of years. after the fever of speculation had burned itself out, the actual builders of the commonwealth came in and subdued the land. nininger and rolling stone are still on the map, and that is about all there is of them--a name. la crosse, winona, st. paul and minneapolis have superseded them, and the population, wealth, and commerce of these are greater in reality than were the airy figments of the brain which they have supplanted. [illustration: mcgregor, iowa. looking north, up the river.] chapter xxiii _a pioneer steamboatman_ the same year and the same month in the year that witnessed the advent of the first steamboat on the upper mississippi, likewise witnessed the arrival in galena of one who was destined to become the best known of all the upper river steamboatmen. in april, , james harris[g] accompanied by his son, daniel smith harris, a lad of fifteen, left cincinnati on the keel boat "colonel bumford", for the le fevre lead mines (now galena), where they arrived june , , after a laborious voyage down the ohio and up the mississippi. [g] captain daniel smith harris was born in the state of ohio in . he came with his parents to galena, ill., in , where he attended the frontier schools, and worked in the lead mines until , when he commenced his career as a steamboatman, which was developed until he should become known as the greatest of all the upper river steamboat owners and captains. in the year , in company with his brother, r. scribe harris, who was a practical engineer, he built the steamer "frontier," which he commanded that season. in the two brothers brought out the "smelter," which was commanded by daniel smith harris, scribe harris running as chief engineer. in they built the "pre-emption," which was also run by the two brothers. in they built the "relief," and in the "sutler," both of which he commanded. in they brought out the "otter," which captain harris commanded until , when the two brothers built the "war eagle" (first), which he commanded until . in he commanded the "senator"; in the "dr. franklin no. "; in and the "nominee"; in the "luella," "new st. paul" and "west newton"; in the "west newton"; , and the "war eagle" (second), which he built. (see picture of "war eagle" on page .) in captain harris built the "grey eagle," the largest, fastest and finest boat on the upper river up to that time, costing $ , . he commanded the "grey eagle" until , when she was lost by striking the rock island bridge, sinking in five minutes. captain harris then retired from the river, living in galena until his death in -. as a young man he took part, as a lieutenant of volunteers, in the battle of bad axe, with the indians under chief black hawk. a word in passing, regarding the keel boat. few of the men now living know from actual observation what manner of craft is suggested by the mere mention of the name. none of this generation have seen it. a canal boat comes as near it in model and build as any craft now afloat; and yet it was not a canal boat. in its day and generation it was the clipper of the western river to which it was indigenous. any sort of craft might go downstream; rafts, arks, broadhorns, and scows were all reliable downstream sailers, dependent only upon the flow of the current, which was eternally setting toward the sea. all of this sort of craft did go down, with every rise in the ohio, in the early days of the nineteenth century, from every port and landing between pittsburg and cairo, to new orleans. they were laden with adventurers, with pioneers, with settlers, or with produce of the farms already opened along the ohio and its tributaries; corn, wheat, apples, live-stock--"hoop-poles and punkins", in the slang of the day--in fact anything of value to trade for the merchandise of civilization which found its _entrepôt_ at new orleans from europe or the indies. the craft carrying this produce was itself a part of the stock in trade, and when unloaded was broken up and sold as lumber for the building of the city, or for export to cuba or other west indian ports. the problem was to get back to the ohio with the cargo of merchandise bought with the produce carried as cargo on the down trip. the broad horns and arks were an impossibility as upstream craft, and thus it came about in the evolution of things required for specific purposes, that the keel boat came into being. this boat was built to go upstream as well as down. it was a well-modelled craft, sixty to eighty feet long, and fifteen to eighteen feet wide, sharp at both ends, and often with fine lines--clipper-built for passenger traffic. it had usually about four feet depth of hold. its cargo box, as it was called, was about four feet higher, sometimes covered with a light curved deck; sometimes open, with a "gallows-frame" running the length of the hold, over which tarpaulins were drawn and fastened to the sides of the boat for the protection of the freight and passengers in stormy weather. at either end of the craft was a deck for eight or ten feet, the forward or forecastle deck having a windlass or capstan for pulling the boat off bars, or warping through swift water or over rapids. along each side of the cargo box ran a narrow walk, about eighteen inches in width, with cleats nailed to the deck twenty-eight or thirty inches apart, to prevent the feet of the crew from slipping when poling upstream. of the motive power of these boats, captain h. m. chittenden, u. s. a., in a recent work on the navigation of the missouri river in early days, says: "for the purposes of propulsion the boat was equipped with nearly all the power appliances known to navigation, except steam. the cordelle was the main reliance. this consists of a line nearly a thousand feet long, fastened to the top of a mast which rose from the centre of the boat to the height of nearly thirty feet. the boat was pulled along with this line by men on shore. in order to hold the boat from swinging around the mast, the line was connected with the bow of the boat by means of a "bridle", a short auxiliary line fastened to a loop in the bow, and to a ring through which the cordelle was passed. the bridle prevented the boat from swinging under force of wind or current when the speed was not great enough to accomplish this purpose by means of the rudder. the object in having so long a line was to lessen the tendency to draw the boat toward the shore; and the object in having it fastened to the top of the mast was to keep it from dragging, and to enable it to clear the brush along the bank. it took from twenty to forty men to cordelle the keel boat along average stretches of the river [the missouri], and the work was always one of great difficulty." for poling the men were provided with tough ash poles, eighteen or twenty feet long, with a wooden or iron shoe or socket to rest on the bottom of the river, and a crutch or knob for the shoulder. in propelling the boat, ten or a dozen men on each side thrust the foot of their poles into the bottom of the river, and with the other end against their shoulders, walked toward the stern of the boat, pushing it upstream at the same rate of speed with which they walked toward the stern. as each pair--one on each side of the boat--reached the stern, they quickly recovered their poles, leaped to the roof of the cargo box, and running forward jumped to the deck and replanted their poles for a new turn of duty. by this means an even speed was maintained, as in a crew of twenty there were always sixteen men applying motive power, while four others were returning to the bow for a new start. the writer, in his childhood, has stood for hours on the banks of the st. joseph river, in niles, michigan, watching the crews of keel boats thus laboriously pushing their craft up the river from st. joseph, on the lake, to niles, south bend, and mishawaka. they were afterward to float back, laden with flour in barrels, potatoes and apples in sacks, and all the miscellaneous merchandise of the farm, destined for detroit, buffalo, and the east, by way of the great lakes. in addition to cordelling, as described above, the long line was also used in warping the boat around difficult places where the men could not follow the bank. this was accomplished by carrying the line out ahead in the skiff as far as possible or convenient, and making it fast to trees or rocks. the men on the boat then hauled on the line, pulling the boat up until it reached the object to which the line was attached. the boat was then moored to the bank, or held with the poles until the line was again carried ahead and made fast, when the process was repeated. in this manner the greatest of up-river steamboatmen, captain daniel smith harris, prosecuted his first voyage from cincinnati to galena, in the year . it probably required no more than four or five days to run down the ohio, on the spring flood, to cairo; from cairo to galena required two months of cordelling, poling, and warping. about the time the keel boat "colonel bumford" was passing st. louis, the steamer "virginia" departed for the upper river with a load of supplies for the united states military post at fort snelling. she had among her passengers major john biddle and captain joseph p. russell, u. s. a., and laurence talliaferro, united states indian agent for the territory of minnesota. the "virginia" arrived at fort snelling may , , the first boat propelled by steam to breast the waters of the upper mississippi. she was received with a salute of cannon from the fort, and carried fear and consternation to the indians, who watched the smoke rolling from her chimney, the exhaust steam shooting from her escape pipe with a noise that terrified them. the "virginia" was scarcely longer than the largest keel boat, being about a hundred and twenty feet long, and twenty-two feet beam. she had no upper cabin, the accommodations for the passengers being in the hold, in the stern of the boat, with the cargo-box covering so common to the keel boats of which she herself was but an evolution. what did the young steamboatman see on his voyage from cairo to galena in ? in his later years, in speaking of this trip, he said that where cairo now stands there was but one log building, a warehouse for the accommodation of keel-boat navigators of the ohio and mississippi rivers. cape girardeau, st. genevieve, and herculaneum were small settlements averaging a dozen families each. st. louis, which was built almost entirely of frame buildings, had a population of about five thousand. the levee was a ledge of rocks, with scarcely a fit landing place on the whole frontage. alton, clarksville, and louisiana were minor settlements. what is now quincy consisted of one log cabin only, which was built and occupied by john woods, who afterwards became lieutenant-governor of the state of illinois, and acting governor. this intrepid pioneer was "batching it", being industriously engaged in clearing a piece of land for farming purposes. the only settler at hannibal was one john s. miller, a blacksmith, who removed to galena in the autumn of . in later years, hannibal was to claim the honor of being the birthplace of "mark twain", the historian of the lower mississippi pilot clans. the last farm house between st. genevieve and galena was located at cottonwood prairie (now canton), and was occupied by one captain white, who was prominently identified with the early development of the northwest. there was a government garrison at keokuk, which was then known as fort edwards, and another at fort armstrong, now rock island. the settlement at galena consisted of about a dozen log cabins, a few frame shanties, and a smelting furnace. if he were looking only for the evidence of an advancing civilization, the above probably covers about all he saw on his trip. other things he saw, however. the great river, flowing in its pristine glory, "unvexed to the sea"; islands, set like emeralds in the tawny flood, the trees and bushes taking on their summer dress of green in the warm may sunshine; prairies stretching away in boundless beauty, limited only by his powers of vision. later, as his craft stemmed the flood and advanced up the river, he saw the hills beginning to encroach upon the valley of the river, narrowing his view; later, the crags and bastions of the bluffs of the upper river, beetling over the very channel itself, and lending an added grandeur to the simple beauty of the banks already passed. his unaccustomed eyes saw the wickyups and tepees of the indians scattered among the islands and on the lowlands, the hunters of the tribe exchanging the firelock for the spear and net as they sought to reap the water for its harvest of returning fish. it was all new to the young traveller, who was later to become the best known steamboatman of the upper river, the commander of a greater number of different steamboats than any of his compeers, and who was to know the river, in all its meanderings and in all its moods, better than any other who ever sailed it--daniel smith harris, of galena, illinois. [illustration: alton, illinois. looking down the river.] chapter xxiv _a versatile commander; wreck of the "equator"_ while some men were to be found on the mississippi in the sixties who did not hesitate to avow themselves religious, and whose lives bore witness that they were indeed christians, the combination of a methodist preacher and a steamboat captain was one so incongruous that it was unique, and so far as i know, without a parallel on the river. there appeared to be no great incompatibility between the two callings, however, as they were represented in the person of captain asa b. green. he was a good commander, as i had personal opportunity of observing at the time of the incident described in this chapter; and a few years later, when the great drama of the civil war was on, i again had an opportunity to observe captain green in his alternate rôle of minister of the gospel, he having been appointed chaplain of the thirtieth wisconsin infantry in which i served as a private soldier. in this capacity he showed rare good sense and practical wisdom. he preached to the boys when a favorable opportunity offered on a sunday, when there was not too much else going on; but his sermons were short, and as practical as was the man himself. of his conversion, or early life, on the river as a missionary, little seemed to be known by any one whom i ever met. he ran the chippewa in the early days, during the summer months, and in the winter did missionary work among the lumbermen, following them to their camps in the woods, preaching and ministering to them; not as an alien, and in an academic fashion, but as one "to the manner born". it is likely that his young manhood was passed on the river and in the lumber camps, and when he was converted his thoughts turned naturally to the needs of these particular classes, for none knew better than he just how great their needs were. of how or where he was ordained to preach i know nothing; but as he was in good standing with the methodist conference there is no question as to the regularity of his commission. his master's certificate authorizing him to command a steamboat certified to his standing as a river man. probably he divided his time between commanding a steamboat and preaching the gospel, two callings so dissimilar, because the river work was quite remunerative, financially, while the other was quite the reverse. it probably took all the money he earned during the summer to support himself and his philanthropies during the winter. if his expenditures among the boys in the lumber camps were as free-handed as were his gifts to poor, sick, wounded, and homesick soldiers during his service with the thirtieth wisconsin during the war, it would easily require the seven months' pay of a river captain to sustain the other five months' liberality of the quondam preacher. certain it is, that after three years' service as chaplain he came out as poor as he went in--in money. if the respect and high regard of his brother officers were worth anything; or better yet, if the love and gratitude of hundreds of plain boys in blue, privates in the ranks, might be counted as wealth, then captain green was rich indeed. and that was what he did count as real wealth. to be hugged by one of his "boys" at a grand army reunion, one whom he had nursed back to life in an army hospital by his optimistic cheerfulness and christian hope and comfort--was to him better than gold or silver. he has gone to his reward; and whether he now is telling the "old, old story" to other men in other spheres, or pacing the deck of a spectre steamboat on the river of life--whichever may be his work--beyond a peradventure he is doing that work well. in the spring of , in april, in his capacity as captain, asa b. green was commanding the steamer "equator". she was a stern-wheel boat of about a hundred and twenty tons, plying on the st. croix between prescott and st. croix falls. the lake opened early that season, but the opening was followed by cold and stormy weather, with high winds. there was some sort of celebration at stillwater, and as was customary in those days an excursion was organized at hastings and prescott to attend the "blow-out". about three hundred people crowded the little steamer, men, women, and children. she started off up the lake in the morning, fighting her way against a high wind right out of the north. charley jewell was pilot, the writer was "cub", john lay was chief engineer. i have forgotten the name of the mate, but whatever may have been his name or nationality, he was the man for the place. he was every inch a man, as was the captain on the roof, and so in fact was every officer on the boat. everything went well until we had cleared catfish bar, at afton. from there to stillwater is about twelve miles, due north. the wind had full sweep the whole length of this reach. the lake is two and a half miles wide just above catfish bar. the sweep of the wind had raised a great sea, and the heavily-laden boat crawled ahead into the teeth of the blizzard--for it began to snow as well as blow. we had progressed very slowly, under an extra head of steam, for about three miles above the bar, when the port "rock-shaft", or eccentric rod, broke with a snap, and the wheel stopped instantly; in fact, john lay had his hand on the throttle wheel when the rod broke, and in an instant had shut off steam to save his cylinders. as soon as the wheel stopped the boat fell off into the trough of the sea. the first surge caught her on the quarter, before she had fully exposed her broadside, but it rolled her lee guards under water, and made every joint in her upper works creak and groan. the second wave struck her full broadside on. the tables had just been set for dinner. as the boat rolled down, under stress of wind and wave, the tables were thrown to leeward with a crash of broken glass and china that seemed to be the end of all things with the "equator". women and children screamed, and many women fainted. men turned white, and some went wild, scrambling and fighting for life preservers. several persons--they could hardly be called men--had two, and even three, strapped about their bodies, utterly ignoring the women and children in their abjectly selfish panic. the occasion brought out all the human nature there was in the crowd, and some that was somewhat baser than human. as a whole, however, the men behaved well, and set about doing what they could to insure the safety of the helpless ones before providing for their own safety. it has always been a satisfaction to me that i had this opportunity, while a boy, to witness and take part in an accident which, while it did not result in the loss of a single life, had every element of great danger, and the imminent probability of the loss of hundreds of lives. it was an object lesson in what constituted manhood, self-reliant courage, official faithfulness, and the prompt application of ready expedients for the salvation of the boat. when the crash came, mr. lay called up through the speaking-tube, stating the nature and extent of the accident. mr. jewell reported it to captain green, who ordered him to go to the cabin and attempt to allay the fright of the passengers, and to prevent a panic. as he started, jewell ordered me to remain in the pilot house and listen for calls from the engine-room. in the meantime the deck hands, or many of them, were in a panic, some of them on their knees on the forecastle, making strong vows of religious reformation should they come safe to land. this was a commendable attitude, both of body and spirit, had there been nothing else to do. in this particular province it would seem that much might have been expected from a captain who was also a preacher. on the contrary his manner of meeting the exigency was decidedly and profoundly out of drawing with preconceived notions of what might be expected from such a combination. an old man from prescott, the richest man in town, and also one of the meanest, nearly seventy years old, crept up the companion way to the upper deck, and clasping captain green about the legs cried: "save me! for god's sake save me! and i will give you a thousand dollars"! "get away you d----d cowardly old cur. let go of me and get down below or i will throw you overboard", was captain green's exhortation as he yanked him to his feet by his collar and kicked him to the stairway. both the language and the action were uncanonical in the extreme; but then, he was acting for the time in his capacity as captain, and not as preacher. i didn't laugh at the time, for i was doing some thinking on my own hook about the salvation business; and my estimate of the chances for getting to the shore, two miles away, in that wind and sea, was not flattering. i have laughed many times since, however, and wondered what the old miser thought of the orthodoxy of chaplain green when he answered his prayer. the deck hands also met with a surprise from the mate, and that in less than a minute. men think fast in such an emergency, especially those schooled amid dangers and quickened in mind and body by recurring calls for prompt action. a dozen seas had not struck the "equator" before the mate was on the forecastle, driving the panic-stricken deck hands to work. dropping the two long spars to the deck, with the assistance of the carpenter and such men as had gathered their wits together, he lashed them firmly together at each end. then bending on a strong piece of line extending from end to end, and doubled, he made fast the main hawser, or snubbing line, to the middle, or bight of the rope attached to the spars, and then launched the whole overboard, making a "sea-anchor" that soon brought the bow of the vessel head to sea, and eased the racking roll of the hull, steadying the craft so that there was little further danger of her sinking. in the ten or fifteen minutes that it had taken to get the drag built and overboard, the waves had swept over the lower deck and into the hold, until there was a foot of water weighing her down, which the bilge pumps operated by the "doctor" were unable to throw out as fast as it came in. had it continued to gain for fifteen minutes longer, the boat would have gone to the bottom with all on board. the drag saved the vessel; the coolness and quickness of the mate and carpenter were the salvation of the steamer and its great load of people. in the meantime other incidents were occurring, that made a lasting impression upon my mind. i did not witness them myself, but i learned of them afterwards. all this time i stood at the side of the useless wheel in the pilot house, listening for sounds from the engine-room. mr. lay was doing all that was possible to remedy the break. he cut off the steam from the useless cylinder, and with his assistant and the firemen, was at work disconnecting the pitman, with the intent to try to work the wheel with one cylinder, which would have been an impossibility in that sea. in fact it would have been impossible under any circumstances, for the large wheel of a stern-wheel boat is built to be operated by two engines; there is not power enough in either one alone to more than turn it over, let alone driving the steamboat. when the crash came, engineer lay's wife, who was on board as a passenger, ran immediately to the engine-room to be with her husband when the worst should come. he kissed her as she came, and said: "there's a dear, brave, little woman. run back to the cabin and encourage the other women. i must work. good-bye". and the "little woman"--for she was a little woman, and a brave little woman, also--without another word gave her husband a good-bye kiss, and wiping away the tears, went back to the cabin and did more than all the others to reassure the frightened, fainting women and little children--the very antithesis of the craven old usurer who had crept on his knees begging for a little longer lease of a worthless life. it took an hour or more to drift slowly, stern first, diagonally across and down the lake to the shore above glenmont, on the wisconsin side, where she struck and swung broadside onto the beach. the men carried the women ashore through four feet of water, and in another hour the cabin was blown entirely off the sunken hull, and the boat was a total wreck. her bones are there to-day, a striking attestation of the power of wind and wave, even upon so small a body of water as lake st. croix. big fires were built from the wreckage to warm the wet and benumbed people. runners were sent to nearby farm houses for teams, as well as to hudson, seven or eight miles way. many of the men walked home to prescott and hastings. captain green, who owned the boat, stayed with his crew to save what he could from the wreck, in which he lost his all; but he had only words of thanksgiving that not a life had been lost while under his charge. through it he was cool and cheerful, devoting himself to reassuring his passengers, as soon as the drag was in place, and giving orders for getting the women and children ashore as soon as the boat should strike. his only deviation from perfect equipoise was exhibited in his treatment of the old man, a notoriously mean, and exacting money-lender, with whom he had no sympathy at any time, and no patience at a time like this. chapter xxv _a stray nobleman_ of the many men whom it was my good fortune to meet while on the river as a boy, or as a young man, there was none who came nearer to filling the bill as a nobleman than robert c. eden, whose memory suggests the title of this chapter. just what constitutes a nobleman in the college of heraldry, i am not qualified to assert. "bob" eden, as his friends fondly called him--captain eden, as he was known on the river, or major eden as he was better known in the closing days of the war of secession--was the son of an english baronet. there were several other sons who had had the luck to be born ahead of "bob", and his chance for attaining to the rank and title of baronet was therefore extremely slim. however, his father was able to send him to oxford, from which ancient seat of learning he was graduated with honors. as a younger son he was set apart for the ministry, where he finally landed after sowing his wild oats, which he did in a gentlemanly and temperate manner that comported well with the profession for which he was destined, all his studies having been along theological lines. the _wanderlust_ was in his blood, however, and he declined taking holy orders until he had seen something of the unholy world outside. accordingly he took the portion due him, or which his father gave him, and departed for canada. not finding things just to his taste in that british appanage, possibly not rapid enough for a divinity student, he promptly crossed the line and began making himself into a yankee, in all except citizenship. in his wanderings he finally reached oshkosh, attracted no doubt by the euphony of the name, which has made the little "saw dust city of the fox" one of the best known towns, by title, in the world. if there was any one place more than another calculated to educate and instruct an embryo clergyman in the ways of the world, and a particularly wicked world at that, it was oshkosh before the war. that he saw some of the "fun" which the boys enjoyed in those days was evidenced by the fund of stories relating to that place and that era, which he had in stock in later years. i do not know how long he remained there on his first visit. when i made his acquaintance he was journeying up the river by easy stages on a little side-wheel steamer, having both wheels on a single shaft--a type of steamboat which i had known on the st. joseph river in michigan, but which was not common on the mississippi. this class was used on the fox and wolf rivers, and on lake winnebago. captain eden had bought this little steamboat, of perhaps eighty tons burden, for the purpose of exploring at his leisure the upper mississippi and its tributaries. he had sailed up the fox river to portage, through the canal to the wisconsin, and down that stream to the mississippi, and had reached prescott, where i met him. he wanted to go up the st. croix to the falls, stopping at all the towns, and at places where there were no towns, at his own sweet will. first-class pilots were getting six hundred dollars a month wages in those days. eden's boat was not worth two months' pay of such a pilot, and he was on the lookout for a cheaper man when he found me. his crew consisted of himself, acting in the capacity of captain and first and second mates; an engineer and fireman in one person; a deck hand, and a cook. the cook is named last, but he was by no means the least personage aboard the "enterprise". as this was a sort of holiday excursion, the cook was about the most important official about the boat. he was fully up in his business, and could cook all kinds of game and fish to perfection, as well as the ordinary viands of civilization. it was a privilege to be catered to by this master of his art. the captain had under him, therefore, three men, in addition to the pilot for temporary service from time to time as he journeyed up the river. the "enterprise" was not a speedy boat. she could make four or five miles an hour upstream if the current was not too strong, and double that downstream if the current was strong enough. she had no upper cabin answering to the "boiler deck" of the river boats--only a little box of a pilot house on the roof, big enough to contain a little wheel and the man who turned it. this wheel was only about a third the diameter of a real steamboat wheel, and instead of wheel-ropes it had chains, large enough for a man-of-war. when the wheel was put hard up or hard down, the chains responded with a series of groans and squeaks not unmusical, but new and novel to one used only to the noiseless operation of the well-oiled wheel-ropes of the river steamers. the chains were part of the fire-proof outfit required by regulations on the great lakes. the "enterprise" was from winnebago. to pull the little three-foot wheel hard down, and hold the stumpy little steamer up to a reef from which she wanted to run away, required the expenditure of as much muscle as was demanded to cramp a four-hundred ton steamer over the same bar by the use of the larger wheel and easier-running wheel-ropes. the cabin of the "enterprise" was all aft of the paddle-boxes. it was so divided as to afford sleeping quarters for the crew at the forward part, next the engine, while captain eden occupied the after part, which was fitted up as a boudoir, with a little side niche, in which he slept. his pointer dog and his retriever also slept in the same niche. there was a fine library in the cabin--not a great number of books, but the best books, some english, some french, some german, and several greek and latin, for captain eden was a polyglot in his reading. there was also a gun rack with several rifles, three or four shot guns of big and little calibre, and a pair of duelling pistols. likewise there were rods, reels, landing nets, and fly-hooks without number, rubber boots and mackintoshes for rough weather, and all the paraphernalia of a gentleman sportsman. it was evident at a glance that captain eden was not in financial straits, and it was equally evident that he was not steamboating for profit. as i knew the st. croix river well enough to navigate it with a far larger boat than captain eden's, and in addition knew also a great deal more about the haunts of bear, deer, prairie chickens, brook trout, and indeed all species of fish inhabiting the waters of the mississippi river and its tributaries; and further, had a speaking and dining acquaintance with sundry red men, both sioux and chippewa, with whom captain eden also wished to become acquainted for purposes of original investigation and study, i was deemed a valuable acquisition. on my side a reasonable salary as pilot, with a free run of the guns, fishing tackle, and books was an attractive presentation of the case, and it took but a short time to arrange the details of an engagement. a day's work on this model craft consisted in steering the boat five or six miles up or down the river or lake to the most inviting hunting or fishing grounds, or to the vicinity of an indian camp, finding a sheltered place in which to tie up, and then taking a tramp of ten or a dozen miles after deer, bear, or prairie chickens, or a walk of three or four miles up some favorite trout stream, and fishing back to the boat. in that day bear and deer abounded within a very few miles of prescott, hudson, or other points. indeed, as late as bears were quite common about river falls, one or two having come right into the village to pick up young pigs and lambs; and deer were also numerous within a few miles of the same place. this in itself was an ideal occupation. but added to it was the privilege of an intimate association with, and the conversation of, a man from across the ocean, whose father was a baronet, who had himself been schooled in oxford, who had lived in london, and paris, and berlin, and had seen men and things of whom and which i had read in books, but which were all very far removed from the backwoods farm of michigan where i was born, and from the still wilder surroundings of the upper mississippi in the middle fifties. i had been a persistent reader from the time i had learned my letters, and was now seventeen years old. the volumes to which i had had access were principally school books, with here and there a history or biography, and an occasional novel. at one period only, while working in the printing office, had i the run of a well-chosen library belonging to the lawyer-editor. here, however, was something better than books. i could question this man on points that the books might have passed over, and he could answer. his mind was quick, his powers of observation trained, his brain well stored with the lore of books--history, poetry, eloquence, and in addition he had seen much of the world which lay so far beyond and outside the life of a western-bred country lad. it was better than any school i had ever attended, and he was a rare teacher. he didn't realize that he was teaching, but i did. it was not a case of absorption alone on my part, however. in my own field i had much to communicate--the lore of woods and streams, the ways of the red men, the moods and legends of the great river, matters which seemed of little value to me, but which this stranger from an older civilization was as solicitous to hear about as i was to listen to the stories of his larger life. while i deemed myself fortunate indeed in making the acquaintance of this cosmopolitan man of the world, i was pleased to know that there were some things that i knew better than my more widely-travelled employer. one of these things, insignificant in itself, was the fact that the pilot could catch ten trout to the captain's one, after giving him all possible advantages of first chances at good "holes", and likely riffles, and the first chance in wading ahead down the stream. this was for a long time one of the mysteries to the captain--why a trout would not bite at one man's hook just as readily as at another's, when they were exactly alike as to lures, whether natural or artificial. the fact remains that there is a difference in the manner in which you approach them with the temptation; until you get the "hang of the thing" you will not catch the trout that the more astute disciple of the good walton catches out of the same stream, in the same hour. thrown together as we both were on board the boat and on these excursions, the relation of employer and servant was soon forgotten, and the closer and more intimate relation of friend to friend was established, a relation which lasted as long as captain eden remained in america. two months were passed in idling along the st. croix, in hunting, fishing, exploring, studying the beautiful, if not grand, rock formations of the dalles, and in visiting the indians in their haunts around wood lake and the upper st. croix. then captain eden turned the prow of his little steamboat toward home, descending the river to prairie du chien, ascending the wisconsin, portaging through the canal to the fox, and thence steaming down to oshkosh. disposing of his steamboat there, he entered the office of the _northwestern_ newspaper, first as a reporter and later as an editorial writer. not many suburban newspapers fifty years ago could boast of an oxonian among their editorial writers. but very few people outside of his immediate friends ever knew that the quiet man who represented the _northwestern_ was either an oxonian or the son of an english baronet. in the autumn of the men of the north were gathering themselves together for the mightiest struggle of modern times--the battle summer of . in wisconsin, the thirty-seventh regiment of infantry was in process of enrollment, and the whilom englishman was one of those engaged in recruiting for this regiment, putting his money as well as his time into the work. captain eden was so successful in enlisting men for the service, that when the regiment was organized he was commissioned as major. in the strenuous days immediately following the battle of cold harbor the writer again met his old employer. the difference in rank between the enlisted man and the commissioned officer was no bar to the recognition of the former friendship existing between the steamboat captain and his pilot--friendship broadened and strengthened by companionship in woods and along streams by mutual interest and respect. major robert c. eden, or "bob" eden, as he was called at the front, was a model officer. his family had for generations been furnishing officers for the british army, and the fighting blood ran in his veins. his regiment was in the hottest of the fight at the petersburg mine disaster, and he was at the head of his men. through all the long siege following the first repulse, from june, , until april, , constantly under fire, he proved the metal that was in his composition. when he left england to seek his fortune, he was engaged to a scotch lassie from one of the old families of the borderland. after a summer's experience of yankee warfare, pitted against the "johnnies" under lee, longstreet, gordon, and wise--men of equal courage, tenacity, and fighting ability--"bob" concluded that another summer of the same sort as the last might prove too much for him, and that he might lose the number of his mess, as hundreds of his comrades had in the summer just closed. if he hoped or wished to leave a widow when he was called, he had better clinch the contract at once. and so he did. his fiancée, who also came of fighting stock, promptly responded to the challenge and came overseas to meet her hero. they were married across a stump in the rear of fort haskell (fort hell, the boys called it, as opposed to fort damnation, immediately opposite, in the confederate line of works). chaplain hawes read the full church of england service for the occasion, the regiment formed in hollow square about them, and the brigade band played the wedding march, while an occasional shell from the confederate works sang overhead. major-general o. b. wilcox, commanding the division, gave away the bride, and all went merry despite the warlike surroundings. after the war, major eden returned to oshkosh and resumed his editorial labors, in which he persisted for several years. finally the home hunger came upon him, or perhaps more strongly upon his wife. the wild western society of the swiftest town of its size in the state was not so much to her liking as that of the slower but more refined surroundings of the land of her birth. severing all ties, business and otherwise, they returned to england. once there the influence of english kin and early associations was too strong to permit of his return to yankee land, and major "bob" assumed the canonical robes which had so long awaited his broad shoulders. "and now, instead of mounting barbéd steeds to fright the souls of fearful adversaries", he ministers at the altar of the prince of peace, the calling toward which his early education tended. his excursion into the wilds of the northwest, his steamboat trip up the great river, his experience as the editor of a frontier newspaper, and his service in an alien army--all must have had an influence in broadening his view and enriching his preaching. one incident which occurred in our rambles was somewhat amusing. we had tied up in the mouth of the kinnickinnic river, and had walked up the stream some eight or ten miles to the little village of river falls, where i was very well acquainted, and where the trout fishing was excellent. it had been eden's request that i should introduce him simply as captain eden, without going into any particulars of parentage, education, or nationality. as he wore a suit of scotch tweeds somewhat the worse for wear from numerous excursions after deer, prairie chickens, and trout, there was nothing suggestive of the oxonian about him. in river falls lived the only really educated man of that locality--a graduate from yale, both in law and divinity. we called upon him and while discussing the country, its beauty, its game, and its fishing, captain eden was toying with a book of greek tragedies, that lay open on the table. his apparent interest in the strange characters in which the book was printed tempted the scholar to remark, possibly with a slightly ironical inflection: "i presume you read greek on the river, captain?" "oh, yes", was captain eden's response, "i am very fond of the greek tragedies, and i have read a good deal to keep in practice. i like this passage that you were reading when we came in." taking the book, captain eden read in a beautifully modulated voice, and with probably a perfect accent, the passage which the scholar had marked, and which he had been reading when we called. i say, "probably perfect accent". i had never seen a printed page of greek before, much less had i ever heard it read as fluently as i could read english. the _amende_ which the scholar instantly made, and the praises which he bestowed on the marine prodigy who captained a little steamboat on the river, wore rough clothes, and read greek like a native, convinced me that his ministerial preparation had been laid upon solid foundations, and that his accent was above criticism, out in that country at least. it was during this visit to river falls that captain eden made the acquaintance of ellsworth burnett, another nobleman, born among the hills of vermont, at whose farm we were guests while loading our baskets with trout from the south fork of the kinnickinnic, which flowed through his farm and past his door. the friendship thus begun undoubtedly led to eden's going into the army, for burnett was largely instrumental in raising one of the companies of the regiment in which major eden was commissioned, himself going out as a captain, and returning at the close of the war as major. [illustration: red wing, minnesota. showing barn bluff in the background, with a glimpse of the river on the left.] chapter xxvi _in war time_ in the early spring of the "fanny harris" was chartered by the united states government to go to fort ridgeley, up the minnesota river, and bring down the battery of light artillery stationed at that post, known as the sherman battery, major t. w. sherman having been in command long enough to have conferred his name upon the organization, and by that it was known at the time of which i write. it is three hundred miles from st. paul to fort ridgeley by the river; as a crow flies, the distance is about half of that. a little more than one year after our visit there was business at and near the fort for many crows--the gruesome occupation of picking the bones of a thousand white people (men, women, and children) murdered by the crafty sioux, who saw in the withdrawal of the troops an opportunity to avenge all their wrongs, real or imaginary, and to regain the lands which had been sold under treaty, or which had been stolen from them by the fast encroaching white population of the state. the minnesota river is the worst twisted water course in the west. no other affluent of the mississippi can show as many bends to the mile throughout its course. it is a series of curves from start to finish, the river squirming its way through an alluvial prairie from beaver falls, the head of navigation, to mendota at its mouth. up this crooked stream it was the problem to force the largest boat that had ever navigated it, and a stern-wheeler at that. at the time the trip was made, there was a nineteen-foot rise in the river, resulting from the melting of the snow after an exceptionally hard winter. this precluded any danger of touching bottom anywhere, but it added ten fold to the difficulties of navigating a two hundred-foot steamboat around the short bends for the reason that the water did not follow the regular channel, but cut right across bends and points, so that most of the time the current was setting squarely across the river, catching the steamer broadside on, and driving her into the woods, and when there holding her as in a vise. being a stern-wheeler it was impossible, by going ahead on one wheel and backing on the other, as would have been done by a side-wheeler, to keep her head clear of the bank. all this work had to be done by the men at the wheel, and they very soon found their work cut out for them, in handling the boat by the steering wheel and rudders alone. we had a minnesota river pilot on board to assist our men in steering; it was an impossibility to lose one's self, so that his services were confined almost exclusively to steering, and not to piloting, in its true sense. we also had an army officer from fort snelling on board, to see that all possible speed was made. his orders were to "push her through" at whatever cost, regardless of damage. the boat was coaled at st. paul for the round trip, for the woodyards were all under water, and the cord wood was adrift on its way to st. louis, derelict. from the time we entered the river at fort snelling, two men were at the wheel all the time. i was sent to the engine-room, my experience as a "cub" engineer rendering my services there of more importance for the time being than in the pilot house. i stood at one engine all day, while one of the firemen detailed for the purpose stood at the other, to "ship up", to back, or come ahead. there were no unnecessary bells rung. if we were going ahead and the stopping bell rang, followed by the backing bell we threw the rods on to their "hooks", and the engineer gave her full steam astern. this was usually followed by a crash forward, as the boat was thrown broadside, with almost full speed ahead, into the woods, after having struck one of the cross currents either unguardedly, or else one which was too strong in any case for the wheelsmen to meet and overcome by the rudder alone. if it chanced that the bank was overhung by trees, the forward cabin lost an additional portion of its ornamentation. in nearly every such instance it was necessary to get the yawl overboard, and with four men at the oars and a steersman sculling astern, pull to the opposite side of the river and get a line fast to a tree. the line was then taken to the steam capstan and the boat would be hauled out of a position from which it would have been impossible to release her by the engines and wheel alone. this work was kept up from daylight until dark, and when the four men came down from the pilot house they were apt to be so exhausted that they could scarcely stand. the boat tied up where night overtook her. in the engine-room, as soon as the day's run was ended, all hands set to work--engineers, "strikers" and firemen--to replace the lost and broken wheel-arms and buckets. this was a hard and dangerous job, for the water ran a raging torrent, six or eight miles an hour, and the nights were dark and rainy. it was precarious business, this getting out on the fantails, with only the dim light of half a dozen lanterns, unscrewing refractory nuts and bolts with a big monkey-wrench, and in the meantime holding on by one's legs only, over such a mill tail. everybody engaged in this work understood fully that if he ever fell into the water it was the end of all things to him, for he would have been swept away in the darkness and drowned in a minute. there was no dry land for him to reach in any direction, the river sweeping across the country five or ten feet deep in every direction. it was usually far past midnight when the temporary and necessary repairs were completed, and then the engine-room force "turned in" to get three or four hours sleep before beginning another day as full of work and danger as the preceding. all this time the army man either stood on the roof with the captain, dodging falling spars, chimneys, or limbs of trees, or at the wheel with the pilots, or paced the engine-room, and urged speed, speed, speed. "the united states will put a new cabin on your boat. never mind that. keep your wheel turning and your machinery in working order. we must have troops in washington at once, or there will be no united states." it is fair to say that every man on the boat worked as though his life depended upon his exertions. whatever may have been their political sympathies, there was nothing on the surface to indicate other than the determination to get that battery to la crosse in the shortest possible time. that army officer was the epitome of concentrated energy. he was a captain and quartermaster, and representing the united states, was practically supreme on board. he had his limitations as a steamboatman, but thanks to the splendid equipment which his government had given him at west point, coupled with the experience he had gained during many years' service in the west in moving troops, indians, and supplies by steamboat, he had a pretty good idea of what needed to be done, and could judge very clearly whether the men in charge were competent, and were doing things in the right way and to the best advantage. under ordinary circumstances such a close censorship of the officers and crew would not have been maintained, nor would it have been tolerated if suggested. but at this time everything was at white heat. fort sumter had fallen. men were stirred as never before in this country, and officers of the regular army particularly, who knew better than any others the gravity of the impending conflict, were keyed up to the highest tension by the responsibility placed upon them. on the other hand the officers of our boat were likewise burdened with the responsibility of safely taking a big vessel hundreds of miles up a narrow and crooked river, just now covered with floating drift of every description, with undermined trees falling at every mile. they were spurred on by the thought that the difference of a day, or even of a few hours, might determine the loss of the nation's capital. under these circumstances the insistence of the army man was passed by as a matter of course. near belle plaine a council was called to decide whether an attempt should be made to force a passage through the thin strip of timber that fringed the river bank. if successful, this would permit of sailing the boat a straight course for ten miles across a submerged prairie, thus cutting off twenty miles of crooked and arduous navigation. the minnesota river pilot was sure that we would meet with no obstacles after passing the fringe of timber--not a house, barn, or haystack, as all that somewhat unusual class of obstructions to a steamboat had been carried away by the great flood. after discussing the plan in all its bearings, it was decided to try it as soon as a narrow and weak place could be found in the timber belt. such a place, where the willows and cottonwoods were the thinnest and smallest in diameter, was chosen for the attempt. the boat, by reason of its length, could not be pointed straight at the "hurdle", as the pilots facetiously dubbed it, but a quartering cut was decided upon. the jack staff had long ago been carried away; the spars and derricks were housed below, and a large portion of the forward roof was already missing. it was decided, therefore, that a little more banging would count for nothing. everybody was cautioned to stand clear of the guards, and look out for himself. a big head of steam was accumulated, and then with two men at the wheel and everybody hanging on, the "fanny harris" was pointed at the opposite shore, with its lining of woods, and the throttle thrown wide open. she jumped across the river in a minute and dove into the young timber, crushing trees six inches in diameter flat on either side; the water-soaked, friable soil affording no secure holding ground for the roots, which added greatly to our chances of success. the boat plunged through all right, with little damage, until the wheel came in over the bank. then there was music. many of the trees were only bent out of perpendicular, and when the hull passed clear these trees rebounded to more or less perpendicular positions--enough so as to get into the wheel and very nearly strip it of its buckets, together with a dozen of the wheel-arms. the pilots heard the crash and rang to stop. the engineers knew more about the damage than the pilots, but would not have stopped the engine of their own accord had the whole stern of the boat gone with it. it wasn't their business to stop without orders, and they knew their business. when the wheel stopped turning, the boat stopped. the problem then was, to get the boat through the remaining hundred feet or more. this was done by carrying the big anchor ahead, and taking the cable to the steam capstan. the boat was dragged "out of the woods", and all hands turned to replace the smashed buckets. as soon as they were in place we steamed gaily up the current, over the prairie, clean-swept of fences, stacks, and barns, only a few isolated houses, built on the higher knolls, having escaped the flood. at the upper end of the prairie a weak place was found, and with a clear start in the open water the boat was driven through the fringe of timber, clear into the open channel, without stopping, and this time with but little injury to the wheel. couriers had been sent ahead from fort snelling, by pony express, to the commanding officer of the fort, to have his battery ready to embark as soon as the boat should arrive. it had taken us four days to run the three hundred miles, and it was a dilapidated steamboat that at last made fast at the landing place at the foot of the bluff, under the shadow of fort ridgeley. the fort was ideally situated for defense against indian attacks, for which, of course, it was alone built. it would appear, however, that its builders had little idea that it would ever be put to the test--such a test as it was subjected to a little more than a year after our visit. it was located on a sort of promontory formed by the bluff on the side next the river, and a deep ravine on the other. on the third side of the triangle lay the open prairie, stretching away for miles, with only a slight sprinkling of scrub oaks to obstruct the view. the barracks, stables, and storehouse (frame structures) were built up solidly on two sides of this triangle, next the ravines, the windowless backs of the buildings forming the walls of the fort. toward the prairie, the most vulnerable face, the buildings did not fully cover the front, there being two or three wide openings between those that formed that side of the defenses. these openings were covered by cannon of the battery which garrisoned the fort. when the battery embarked for the east there were left only two or three small howitzers in charge of a sergeant of artillery, and it was these little pieces that saved the garrison from massacre in august, , when the fort was for many days beleaguered by eight hundred sioux indians under the chief, little crow, leader of the uprising in minnesota in that year. undoubtedly the respect that indians have for any sort of cannon had as much to do with their repulse as did the actual punishment inflicted by the howitzers, however well-served they may have been. i have a letter somewhere, written by a distant cousin who was a colonel in the confederate army, relating that they had several thousand indians in the confederate army upon going into the battle of prairie grove, and from them they expected great things. when the "yanks" opened with their artillery the sound alone brought the indian contingent to a stand. when the gunners got the range and began to drop shells among them, the red men remembered that they had pressing business in the indian territory, and it is colonel merrick's opinion that they did not stop running until they reached their tepees. it is his opinion also that as soldiers, for use in war where anglo-saxons are debating grave questions of state with twelve pounders, they are not worth a red copper. chapter xxvii _at fort ridgeley_ the officer in command of the battery when it left fort ridgeley was captain and brevet major john c. pemberton, u. s. a. he had won his brevet by gallant services in action at monterey and molino del rey. he accompanied the battery as far as washington, where he resigned (april , ), and tendered his sword to the confederacy. he was rapidly promoted until he reached a major-generalcy in that army, and had the distinguished honor to surrender his army of thirty thousand men at vicksburg to major general ulysses s. grant, july , . pemberton was born in pennsylvania, being appointed to the army from that state, so that he had not even the flimsy excuse of serving his state in thus betraying his country. the battery was known as the buena vista battery, or still better as sherman's. but major sherman, although long its commander, was not with it at the time we transferred it down the river. major sherman rendered distinguished service during the war, and retired (december , ) with the rank of major-general. two other officers were with the battery--first lieutenant romeyn ayres, and second lieutenant beekman du barry. the battery was known in the army of the potomac as ayres's battery, and under that name won a wide reputation for efficiency. ayres himself was a major general of volunteers before the close of the war, and lieutenant du barry was (may, ) brevetted lieutenant-colonel for distinguished services. at the time of our visit there was a large number of indians encamped on the prairie in front of the fort--estimated at seven or eight hundred by those best versed in their manners and customs. they had come down from the lower sioux agency, sixteen miles farther up the river. they were alive to the situation, and on the alert to learn all they could of the "white man's war", which they had already heard of as being fought in some far-away place, the location of which was not clear to them, and for which they cared nothing so long as it promised to be a contest that was likely to draw away soldiers from the fort, and especially the "big guns", which they feared more than they did the "dough boys". one of the best posted of the frontiersmen, a "squaw man", who had the ear of the tribal council, told our officers that there would be trouble when the battery was withdrawn, for they felt themselves able successfully to fight and exterminate the few companies of infantry left to garrison the fort. how true this prediction was, the uprising of august, , and the indian war in minnesota, with its massacre at new ulm and outlying regions, abundantly verified. as soon as we were made fast, the work was begun of loading cannon, caissons, battery wagons, ammunition, and stores, as well as horses and men. by the light of torches, lanterns, and huge bonfires built on the bank, the work was rushed all night long, while the engineers labored to put the engines and particularly the wheel, in the best possible condition; and the carpenter, aided by artisans from the fort, put on new guards forward, and strengthened the weak places for the inevitable pounding that we knew must attend the downstream trip. with the raging river pressing on the stern of the boat as she descended, there was ample reason for anticipating much trouble in handling the steamer. the teamsters, with their six-mule teams, hurried the stores and ammunition down the narrow roadway cut in the side of the bluff, running perhaps half a mile along the side in making the perpendicular descent of two hundred feet. whatever time we had from our duties on the boat was spent either in the fort, out in the indian village, or on the side hill watching the teams come down the bluff, one after the other. not being able to pass on the hill, they went down together, and all went back empty at the same time. the two hind wheels of the big army wagon were chained, so that they slid along the ground, instead of revolving. then the three riders, one on each "near" mule, started the outfit down the hill, the off mules being next the bluff, while the legs of the drivers hung out over space on the other side. in places the wagons would go so fast, in spite of the drag, that the mules would have to trot to keep out of the way. this was exciting and interesting to the spectators, who were expecting to see a team go over the precipice. the drivers did not seem to care anything about the matter, and were no doubt well pleased to become the centre of attraction. those of the spectators who had time and patience to continue the watch were finally rewarded for their persistence, and justified in their predictions by seeing one of these teams, with its load of fixed ammunition, roll for a hundred feet down the bluff--men, mules, and ammunition in one wild mix-up, rolling and racing for the bottom. the fringe of timber alone saved the cortege from plunging into the river. those who saw the trip made, were betting that neither a man nor a mule would come out alive. they all came out alive. some of the mules were badly scratched and banged, but not a leg was broken among the six. the men were also badly bruised, but they also brought all their bones out whole. one mule had his neck wound around the wagon-tongue, his own tongue hanging out about the length of that of the wagon, and all hands were certain of one dead mule, at least. but when the troopers ran in and cut away the harness the mule jumped to his feet, took in a few long breaths to make good for the five minutes' strangulation, and then started up the roadway, dodging the down-coming teams by a hair's-breadth, and never stopping until he reached his corral, where he began munching hay as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. the next morning everything was stowed aboard. with a salute from the little howitzers in the fort, and the cheers of the "dough boys", who wanted to go but could not, the "fanny harris" backed into the stream, "straightened up", and began her downstream trip. i shall not attempt to follow her down, in all her situations. with the heavy load, and the stream behind her, it was possible to check her speed in a measure at the bends, but totally impossible to stop her and back her up against the current. the result was, that she "flanked" around points that raked her whole length, and then plunged into timber, bows on, on the opposite side of the river, ripping the ginger-bread work, and even the guards, so that it would seem as though the boat were going to destruction. some of the artillerymen were sure of it, and all of them would sooner have risked a battle than the chance of drowning that at times seemed so imminent. we made good time, however, and ran the three hundred miles in two running days of daylight, laying up nights, and repairing damages as far as possible against the next day's run. when we rounded to at fort snelling landing we had one chimney about ten feet high above deck; the other was three feet--just one joint left above the breeching. both escape pipes and the jack staff were gone--we lost the latter the first day, going up. the stanchions on both sides of the boiler deck were swept clean away, together with liberal portions of the roof itself. the boat looked like a wreck, but her hull was sound. the officers and crew were game to the last. many of them had been hurt more or less, and all had been working until they were scarcely able to move. it was war time, however. fort sumter had fallen, and the president had called for seventy-five thousand men. we were doing our part with a will, in hastening forward a battery that was to give a good account of itself from bull run to appomattox. at fort snelling we lost two of our firemen and a number of our deck crew, who deserted while we were lying at that place, taking on additional stores and men. we thought it a cowardly thing to do, under the circumstances. a few weeks later, however, we saw the two firemen going to the front with a volunteer company from prescott, afterwards company "b", th wisconsin infantry, in which "whiskey jim", the irishman, and louis ludloff, the "dutchman", distinguished themselves for valor in battle. richardson gave his life for his country at the wilderness, while ludloff fought all the way through, rising from private to corporal, sergeant, and first sergeant, and being wounded at antietam and the wilderness. in talking with ludloff in later years, i learned that the reason they deserted the steamer, leaving behind their accrued wages and even their clothes, was because they feared that they would not be able to get in among the seventy-five thousand if they lost any time in formalities and details. there were others, higher up in the world than the humble firemen, who also miscalculated the length of the impending war--by four years. distinguished editors and statesmen, and even soldiers, made this error. and there were a good many who failed to "get in" even then. we ran to la crosse with our pieces of chimneys, which the artisans at the fort had helped our engineers to piece together so that the smoke would clear the pilot house. it did not give the best of draught; but we were going downstream on a flood, and we might have drifted five miles an hour without any steam at all. we delivered the battery at la crosse, and immediately went into dry dock, where a hundred men made short work of the repairs. the united states paid our owners, the minnesota packet company, eight thousand dollars for the week's work. the officers and crew who earned the money for the company were not invited to assist in its division. it was the hardest week's work that most of us had ever known--certainly the hardest i had ever experienced up to that time. a year or so later i got into work fully as hard, and it lacked the pleasant accessories of good food and a soft bed, that accompanied the strenuous days and nights spent on the fort ridgeley excursion. an incident remotely connected with this trip, offers an excellent opportunity to philosophize on the smallness of the planet we inhabit, and the impossibility of escaping from, or avoiding people whom we may once have met. at a meeting of congregationalists held in a city far removed from the fort that stood guard on the bluffs overhanging the minnesota river in , the writer was introduced to mr. henry standing bear, secretary of the young men's christian association of pine ridge, south dakota. standing bear is a graduate of carlisle college, an educated and intelligent and a full-blood sioux indian. in conversation with him it transpired that he was one of the children who stared open-eyed at the steamboat lying at the landing place below the fort in , and that he was an interested spectator of the embarkation of sherman's battery. he there listened to the talk of the braves who were already planning what they would do when the soldiers should all be withdrawn to fight the "white man's war" in the south. standing bear's own father took part in the "massacre", as we called it. standing bear says they themselves called it a war. indians may go about their killings with somewhat more of ferocity and cruelty than do we whites, but it is their way of making war. in either case it is "hell", as "old tecump" said, and the distinctions that we draw after all make little difference in the results. we do not have to seek very far through the pages of history to find instances where white men have massacred helpless indian women and children. a talk with henry standing bear, or any other educated indian born amid surroundings such as his, will throw new light and new coloring upon the indian situation as it existed in . they saw the whites steadily encroaching upon their hunting grounds, appropriating the best to their own use, ravishing their women, killing their men, and poisoning whole tribes with their "fire-water". against their wills they were driven from their ancient homes--"removed", was the word--after having been tricked into signing treaties that they did not understand, couched in legal terms that they could not comprehend, receiving in exchange for their lands a lot of worthless bric-a-brac that vanished in a week.[h] if they protested or resisted, they were shot down like so many wolves, and with as little mercy. what man is there among the whites who would not fight under such circumstances? our forefathers fought under less provocation and their cause has been adjudged a righteous cause. [h] this is a pretty wild statement on the part of standing bear, probably made through ignorance of the facts in the case rather than a wilful misrepresentation. in the treaty made with the sioux indians at traverse des sioux, july - , , the united states covenanted to pay $ , , for such rights and title as were claimed by the sisseton and wahpeton tribes or bands in lands lying in iowa and minnesota. in another treaty, made with the m'day-wa-kon-ton and wak-pay-koo-tay bands, also of the sioux nation, the united states agreed to pay the further sum of $ , , for the rights of these two bands in lands lying in iowa and minnesota. in addition the sioux had already been paid a large sum for their rights in lands lying on the east side of the mississippi, in wisconsin--lands in which they really had no right of title at all, as they had gained whatever rights they claimed simply by driving back the chippewa from the country which they had occupied for generations. the sioux themselves did not, and could not, avail themselves of the rights so gained, and the territory was a debatable land for years--a fighting ground for the rival nations of the sioux and chippewa. this is the indian's view-point as stated by a civilized tribesman. his fathers fought, and are dead. he was adopted by the nation, educated, and started upon a higher plane of living, as he is free to confess; but it is doubtful if he can be started upon a higher plane of thinking than that upon which his blanketed forbears lived, in spite of the cruelties to which they were born and educated. while i am no sentimentalist on the indian question, when i fall into the hands of a standing bear i am almost persuaded that the indian, within his lights, is as much of a patriot as many of his bleached brethren. as to his manhood there is no question. in the long struggle that has taken place between himself and the white invaders, he has always backed his convictions with his life, if need be; and such men, if white, we call "patriots." [illustration: bad axe (now genoa), wisconsin. scene of the last battle between the united states forces and the indians under chief black hawk, august , . the steamer "warrior," captain joseph throckmorton, with soldiers and artillery from fort crawford, prairie du chien, took an active and important part in this battle.] chapter xxviii _improving the river_ it was not until commerce on the upper river was practically a thing of the past, that any effort was made to improve the channel for purposes of navigation. a number of interests united to bring about this good work when it did come--some meritorious, others purely selfish. the steamboatmen, what was left of them, entertained the fallacious idea that if the river were straightened, deepened, lighted, and freed from snags and other hindrances to navigation, there would still be some profit in running their boats, despite the railroad competition that had so nearly ruined their business. this was a mistaken supposition, and they were disabused of the idea only by experience. the mill owners of the upper river and its tributaries, who had by this time begun to "tow through"--that is, push their rafts of logs and lumber with a steamboat from stillwater to st. louis, instead of drifting--were assured of quicker trips and greater safety if the river was dressed up somewhat, insuring greater profits upon their investments. both of these parties in interest were engaged in legitimate trade, and while there was no intention of dividing the profits that might inure to them from an investment of several millions of dollars of other people's money, precedent had legitimatized the expenditure in other localities and upon other rivers. they were well within the bounds of reason, in asking that their own particular business might be made more profitable through the aid of government. a greater influence than any arguments drawn from commercial necessities was found in the political interest involved. for years, members of congress elected from districts in which there was a harbor or a river which by any fiction might be legislated into a "navigable stream", had been drawing from the federal treasury great sums of money for the improvement of these streams and harbors; yet some of these never floated anything larger than the government yawls in which the engineers who did the work reached the scene of their duties. at the same time, country members from the interior of the great west drew nothing. the rapid settlement of the northwestern territories, in the year immediately following the close of the civil war, had an effect that was felt in the enhanced influence exerted by members of congress representing the new commonwealths. it followed that when the biennial distribution of "pork", as it is expressively but inelegantly called nowadays, came up, these members were in a position to demand their share, and get it, or defeat the distribution _in toto_. the war was over. the union soldiers who had fought in it were either dead, or if alive were hustling for a living. hundreds of thousands of them were found in iowa, minnesota, kansas, and nebraska, opening up farms and developing the country. the contractors who had fattened on their blood were hanging like leeches to every department of the national government, clamoring for more contracts to further inflate their already plethoric bank accounts. the river improvement appealed strongly to this class of men. the influences that they could bring to bear, backed by the legitimate demands of steamboatmen and mill owners, convinced the most conscientious congressmen that their duty lay in getting as large an appropriation as possible for the work of river regeneration. the result was, that the river which had given employment to three or four hundred steamboats, manned by fifteen thousand men, without having a dollar expended in ameliorating its conditions, suddenly became the centre of the greatest concern to congress--and to the contractors--and all for the benefit of a dozen steamboats in regular traffic, and perhaps a hundred boats used in towing the output of a score of mills owned by millionaire operators. from to there was spent on the river between the mouth of the missouri and st. paul, a distance of miles, the sum of $ , , . that was for the ten years at the rate of $ , for each mile of the river improved. it cost at that rate $ . per mile per year during the decade quoted. it is doubtful if the few steamboats engaged in traffic during that time were able to show aggregate gross earnings of $ . per mile per annum. it seems a pity that the benefit resulting from this expenditure could not have been participated in by the great flotilla that covered the river in the preceding decade, from to . in this expenditure we find $ , charged to the eleven miles of river between st. paul and st. anthony falls. it is doubtful if a dozen trips a year were made to st. anthony falls during the time noted. it was a hard trip to make against the rapid current below the falls, and a dangerous trip to make downstream. it would seem, however, that with the expenditure of $ , per year for ten years, over only eleven miles of river, every rock (and it is all rocks) might have been pulled ashore, and a perfect canal built up. possibly that is the result of all this work; i haven't been over that piece of river since the work was completed--for one reason, among others, that no steamboats ever go to st. anthony falls, now that the river is put in order. from st. paul to prescott, thirty-two miles, there was expended $ , in ten years. i can readily understand why so much money was planted in that stretch of river. beginning at prescott and going toward st. paul, there were to be found five or six of the worst bars there are anywhere on the river; and between the accentuated bars--bars of sufficient importance to merit names of their own--the rest of the river was bad enough to merit at least some of the language expended upon it by pilots who navigated it before the improvements came. at prescott, at the head of puitt's island (now prescott island) or point douglass bar, at nininger, at boulanger's island, at grey cloud, at pig's eye, and at frenchman's, were bars that were the terror of all pilots and the dread of all owners and stockholders. i will eliminate the "terror" as expressing the feelings of the pilots. "resignation" would perhaps be the better word. they all knew pretty well where to go to find the best water on any or all of the bars named; but they also knew that when they found the best water it would be too thin to float any boat drawing over three and a half feet. with a four-foot load line it simply meant that the steamboat must be hauled through six inches of sand by main strength and awkwardness, and that meant delay, big wood bills, bigger wage-lists, wear and tear of material, and decreased earnings. a big packet not loaded below the four-foot line, was not laden to the money-making point. after the work of regeneration began, it was a constant fight on the part of the engineers to maintain a four and a half foot channel on either one of the bars named. the expenditure of the great sums of money placed in this district is therefore easily accounted for. the work of improvement was, and still is carried on under the direction of competent engineers, detailed for the service by the chief of engineers of the united states army. no more highly trained men in their profession can be found in the world than these choice graduates of the most perfect institution of instruction in the world--west point military academy. their scientific, perhaps academic, knowledge of the laws governing the flow of water and the shifting of sands, the erosion of banks and the silting up into islands and continents, which are among the vagaries of the great river, is supplemented by the practical, if unscientific, knowledge of men who have gained their acquaintance with the river from years of service as pilots or masters of river steamboats. the government is shrewd enough to secure the services of such men to complement the science of its chosen representatives. these two classes, in pairs or by companies, have made an exhaustive study of conditions surrounding each of the more difficult and troublesome bars, as well as all others of lesser note, in order to decide what was needed, what kind of work, and how to be placed to lead, or drive the water into the most favorable channels, and there retain it under varying conditions of flood or drought, ice jams, or any and all the conditions contributing to the changes forever going on in the river. these points determined, an estimate is made of the cost of the necessary improvements, details of construction are drawn, specifications submitted, and bids on the proposed work invited. there were, and are, plenty of contractors, provided with boats, tackle, stone quarries, and all else required in the prosecution of the work. it would not be safe, however, to assume that the government always reaped the benefit of so much competition as might be assumed from the number of men engaged in the business. it would be unsafe to assume that such competition has always been free from collusion, although possibly it has been. on the other hand, each contractor has his "beat", from which all other bidders have religiously kept off. not in an ostentatious manner, however, for that might invite suspicion; but in a business-like and gentlemanly manner, by putting in a bid just a few cents per cubic foot higher than the man upon whose territory the work was to be done, and whose figures have been secretly consulted before the bids were submitted. there have been suspicions that such has been the case, more than once, and that the work sometimes cost the government more than a fair estimate had provided for. the contracts have been let, however, and within the thirty years last past there have been built along the river between prescott and st. paul two hundred and fifty-one dikes, dams, revetments, and other works for controlling the flow of water within that short stretch of thirty-two miles. some of these dams are long, strong, and expensive; others are embryonic, a mere suggestion of a dam or dyke, a few feet in length, for the protection of a particular small portion of the bank, or for the diverting of the current. all these works, great and small, are intended as suggestions to the mighty river that in future it must behave itself in a seemly manner. generally the river does take the hint, and behaves well in these particular cases. at other times it asserts itself after the old fashion, and wipes out a ten thousand dollar curb in a night, and chooses for itself a new and different channel, just as it did in the days of its savagery, fifty years earlier. a peculiar feature attending this work for the betterment of the river was, that in its incipient stages it met with little or no encouragement from any of the men personally engaged in navigating steamboats on the river. some deemed the proposition visionary and impracticable, while others, fearing its success, and magnifying the results to be obtained, threw every obstacle possible in the way of the engineers who had the work in charge. they even went so far as to petition congress to abandon the work, and recall the engineers who had been detailed to prosecute it. this opposition was particularly true of work on the lower rapids, where the great ship canal now offers a ready and safe passage around rapids always difficult to navigate. sometimes, when the water had reached an unusually low stage, they were positively impracticable for large boats. captain charles j. allen, corps of engineers, u. s. a., who was in charge of the preliminary work on the lower rapids, calls attention, in his report, to this hostility, and incidentally records his opinion of river pilots in general, and rapids pilots in particular, in the following far from flattering terms: "most of the river pilots are possessed of but little knowledge beyond that required in turning the wheel; and their obstinacy in refusing to recognize and take advantage of good channels cut for them has been the experience of more than one engineer engaged in improving rivers. the rapids pilots in particular, who may lose employment, seemed to be the most hostile." the last-named class were certainly sound in their conclusions that the deepening, straightening and lighting of the rapids would take away their business. there is, therefore, little wonder that they were not enthusiastic in their support of the proposed improvements, which were, if successful, to deprive them of the means of livelihood. perhaps the gentlemen of the engineer corps would not be enthusiastic over a proposition to disband the united states army, and muster out all its officers. the results justified the fears of the rapids pilots. any pilot could take his boat over, after the improvements were completed, and rapids piloting, as a distinctive business, was very nearly wiped out. the slur of the west pointer loses its point, however, with any one who has known many mississippi river pilots. they knew a great many things besides "turning the wheel." even had they known only that, they carried around under their hats special knowledge not to be sneezed at, even by a west pointer. later, all the men on the river came to recognize the benefits accruing from the work of the mississippi river commission, and none more heartily testified to the success of the work than the pilots and masters of the river craft. there were, indeed, none so well qualified to judge of results as they. the work once begun was prosecuted with vigor. the voice of the great northwest was potent in washington, and in the ten years from to more than five millions of dollars were expended between minneapolis and the mouth of the missouri.[i] [i] see appendix d. the first thought of the government engineers to whom was entrusted the duty of improving the river, was naturally in the direction of securing and maintaining a greater depth of water. this was to be accomplished by so curbing and controlling the flow that it would follow the channel decided upon, at all times and under all conditions. the dikes and wing dams, which were built by the hundred, served this purpose in a degree, and the flow of water was controlled to a fairly satisfactory extent. then the menaces to navigation were considered, and measures taken for their elimination. of the two hundred and ninety-five recorded steamboat wrecks on the missouri river between and , a hundred and ninety-three, or about two-thirds of all, were by snagging. i presume this proportion would be maintained on the upper mississippi, if a similar compilation were at hand to decide the point. the problem was to get rid of this greatest of all dangers to steamboats. there was but one way, and that was to pull them out and carry them away, or cut them up and so dispose of them that the same snag would not have to be pulled out at each recurring rise of water, from other parts of the river. having no steamboats fitted for the business in that early day ( ), the contract system was resorted to. this was found to be costly and unsatisfactory. contractors agreed to remove snags at so much per snag, within certain lengths and estimated weights, they furnishing the steamboats and machinery necessary for the work. in order to make the business pay, they had to find snags, somewhere. when they were not to be found in or near the channel, they were obtained in any place--chutes, bayous, and sloughs where no steamboat ever ran, or ever would run. after a trip or two up and down the river, there were not enough snags left to make the pulling profitable, and of course the work was given over. but the first rise brought down a new supply of snags to lodge in the channel of the falling river, and pilots set to dodging them, just as they had done before the pulling began. to be of the highest efficiency, the work must be continuous. this was deemed impossible under the contract system, and the engineers in charge recommended the purchase of two suitable steamboats for the upper river, to be fitted with improved machinery for lifting and disposing of the snags fished out of the river. these boats were to be manned and officered by the government, and placed in charge of an engineer detailed by the war department. they were continuously to patrol the river during the season of navigation, removing every snag as soon as located, assisting steamboats in distress, cutting overhanging trees, placing guide-boards and crossing lights where needed, maintaining the same after being established, and giving their whole time and attention to the work of river improvement. this suggestion was carried into effect, and two steamboats purchased and fitted for the work. in colonel dodge, of the corps of engineers, who had had large experience in the work of river improvement, realizing the necessity for dredging the shoalest places, in addition to directing the water by dikes and dams, invented a dredge to be attached to a steamboat, and operated by steam machinery, for the purpose of plowing out and scraping away the sand as it accumulated on the worst bars and reefs. two or three experimental machines were built by a st. paul mechanic upon the order of the united states officials, and under their supervision. these were attached to derricks, placed on the bows of the steamboats secured for the work, suspended by stout chains, and operated by steam. the boat, headed up river, was run to the head of the reef; the dredge was then lowered, and the boat backed downstream in the line of the channel. the dredge, twenty feet wide, stirred up the sand, and the scraper attachment drew it down to the foot of the reef, where the dredge was hoisted up and the current carried away the released sand into deep water. the boat was again run to the head of the reef and the operation repeated, each "scrape" being about the width of the dredge, the pilot so placing his boat each time as exactly to match the last preceding draft, without going over the same ground a second time. the machine was found to work to perfection, and to be of even greater practical utility in keeping open a navigable channel than the dikes and wing dams, as there is a constant filling in of sand at the foot of every channel artificially formed by contracting the flow of water. the dredge hauls this sand away as it accumulates, and by deepening the water in the channel does much toward attracting the steady flow of water to the particular lines so dredged. chapter xxix _killing steamboats_ the upper mississippi has always been, comparatively, a remarkably healthy stream for steamboats. a great proportion of the craft ending their days there, have died of old age, and have been decorously consigned to the scrap pile instead of meeting the tragic end usually assigned them by writers. in many cases where it is supposed or known that a steamboat of a certain name met destruction by fire or snag, the historian who attempts to verify such statement will have great difficulty in deciding just which boat bearing the name was the victim of that particular casualty. the fact is, that the same name was conferred, time after time, on boats built to take the place of those sunk, burned, or otherwise put out of commission. as early as there was the "pike no. " on the lower river, indicating that there had been a procession of "pikes." there was also, at the same time, the "ben franklin no. ." boats thus named were called simply "pike" or "ben franklin", the number not appearing on the wheelhouses, save in rare cases. all the other "pikes" having gone to the bottom, there was but one "pike" afloat. when reference was ordinarily made to the boat by that name, the auditors knew at once that the speaker referred to the boat then in commission. but should you mention that "when the "pike" or the "ben franklin" was snagged, or burned, or blew up", in order fully to be understood you must designate the particular "pike", and add such other details, as would leave no room for doubt which boat by that name you referred to, thus: "pike no. snagged at such a tow-head, or on such a bend; or burned in the year at hannibal." steamboat owners and captains seem to have had no superstitious objections to thus naming or commanding a successor to the unfortunate one gone before. before the first was comfortably settled in the mud of the mississippi, an order had gone on to the shipyard, and in less than a week the keel was on the stocks for its successor. if the first was a "galena", or a "war eagle", the second also was a "galena" or a "war eagle". this was before the fashion came into vogue of naming boats after persons, instead of impersonal objects. there were not names enough to go around, and thus it came about that the "warriors", "post boys", "telegraphs", and "war eagles" were worked overtime, to the great confusion of any one attempting to localize a disaster that had happened to one of that name in times past. it was possible to read to-day of the total loss of the "war eagle", for instance; yet a month or more hence you might hear of the arrival of the "war eagle" at st. paul with a full cargo and passenger list. the boats might go to the bottom, but the names went on forever. "post boy" was another favorite name handed down from boat to boat, until seven or eight "post boys" had been launched, run their appointed courses, and met their fate, all within the span of less than forty years--an average of about five years to the boat--which was a good average for old-time steamers. on the upper river there were, among others, three "burlingtons", two "chippewas", two "danubes", two "denmarks", two "dr. franklins", three "dubuques", two "galenas", three "st. pauls", three "war eagles", and many others, doublets and triplets. all of which tends much to confuse one who is attempting to run down and locate the history and final disposition of boats bearing those names. so far as i can learn, there is no reliable record of all the losses on the upper river, giving the name of the boat, where, when, and how lost. it is possible that the final disposition of boats lost above st. louis, is as fully covered in the list appended to the end of this book, as anywhere else extant. such a record has been made for the missouri river by captain m. h. chittenden, of the united states engineers--a very complete and historically valuable statement of the losses on that stream. other records are too comprehensive, attempting to give all the losses through the entire length of the river, from new orleans to st. paul. while covering so much more, territorially, they lack in the detail that makes the compilation of real worth. most writers attach particular stress to boiler explosions, probably from the fact that they are more spectacular, and the consequent loss of life usually greater. when a boat is snagged, it is generally possible to run her ashore in time to save the passengers and crew, although the vessel itself may prove a total loss. when a boiler explodes, the boat becomes immediately helpless, so that it cannot be run ashore, which occasions the considerable loss of life. in cases of explosion, also, the boat almost invariably burns in the middle of the river, and there is little chance for escape; for it is next to impossible to reach the lifeboats carried on the roof, and if reached it is seldom found possible to launch them. before considering the reported losses on all the western waters it will be interesting to locate, as far as possible, the casualties on the mississippi between st. louis and st. paul, the division or section of the river usually denominated as "upper". in my list of upper-river boats,[j] there are noted all losses of which i have found any record. the list comprises about three hundred and sixty steamers that have made one or more trips above rock island. the boats plying above st. louis, but not going above the upper rapids, have not been included in this list, thus excluding all the alton line vessels, and the illinois river craft. of the three hundred and sixty boats so listed, there are to be found records of seventy-three losses between st. louis and st. paul, including the port of st. louis, which has been a veritable graveyard for steamboats. about a dozen other boats were lost after going into the missouri river trade, but these are not included in the number stated. the record extends over the period between and , inclusive. an analysis of the causes of such losses shows that thirty-two boats were snagged and sunk (total losses only are included; those raised, are not counted as losses); sixteen were burned; ten were sunk by ice; five were stove in by hitting rocks, and sank; three sank by striking bridges; three were sunk by confederate batteries during the war; two were lost from boiler explosions; one was torn to pieces by a tornado, and one struck a wreck of another boat and sank on top of the first wreck. [j] see appendix: "upper mississippi river steamboats, - ." what became of the other boats included in the list, i am unable to learn. the united states government appears never to have printed a report (or reports) showing the fate of the hundreds of steamboats over which it maintained an official watch-care while they were in active service. it would seem to have paid more attention to boiler explosions than to any other cause of disaster; for the reason, possibly, that it is supposed to have held itself, through its inspectors, more or less responsible for the condition of steam boilers. still, as it also, through another set of inspectors, looks after the hulls of all steamboats, there would seem to be no reason why the loss of boats by snagging, or other similar causes affecting the hulls, should not also have been reported. it will be observed that nearly one-half the known losses on the upper river between and were the result of snagging. captain chittenden, in his report on steamboat losses on the missouri from to , gives the snags credit for catching boats out of a total loss of , or two-thirds of all known losses. owing to its alluvial banks, and the consequent eating away of wooded points and islands by the ever changing current of that most erratic of rivers, the bed of the stream was literally sown with snags. the wonder of it is, that a pilot was able ever to take a boat up and back a thousand miles, without hitting a snag and losing his boat. they did it, however, although the record of losses from that cause serves to show how imminent the danger was at all times, and how many came to grief, however sharp the eyes of the pilot, or however skilled in reading the surface of the water and locating the danger. the upper mississippi has more miles of rock bluffs--in fact, is lined with such bluffs from keokuk to st. paul; thus the wear and tear of its banks is not so great as on the missouri. still, the great number of islands, heavily wooded, furnish many sunken trees, and one-half of the steamboat loss on this river is also directly traceable to snags. next to the snags, which are forever reaching out their gnarled arms to impale the unfortunate, fire is the greatest enemy of steamboat property on western waters. built of the lightest and most combustible pine, soaked with oil paint, the upper works are like tinder when once alight, and danger of this is ever present in a hundred different forms. a little explosion in the furnaces, throwing live coals over the deck; over-heated smokestacks, communicating a blaze to the roof; careless passengers or crew, throwing half-burned matches on deck or into inflammable merchandise in the freight; or the mass of sparks, cinders, and live coals continuously falling from the stacks, especially when burning wood in the furnaces: all these are a constant menace, and with a blaze once started the chances are a hundred to one that the boat is lost. a lighted match thrown into a haymow can scarcely bring quicker results than a little blaze in the upper works of a steamboat. it flashes up in an instant, and the draft generated by the progress of the boat instantly carries it the length of the cabin. in fifteen minutes the upper works are gone. sixteen mississippi boats out of seventy were burned; twenty-five of , on the missouri. as in losses from ice, so also by fire, st. louis has been the storm centre, and for the same reason namely, the great number of boats there, both summer and winter. several visitations from this most dreaded and dreadful enemy of steamboats are recorded in the history of river navigation, in which two or more boats were lost while at the st. louis landing. but the one which is known far and wide on western waters was of such magnitude, and the property loss so great, as to earn for it the title of the "great fire". this, the most disastrous of all calamities which ever occurred in the history of navigation in the west, commenced at about o'clock in the evening of may , , and continued until o'clock the next morning. captain chittenden, the historian of the missouri river, says, in describing this catastrophe: "fire alarms had been heard several times early in the evening, but nothing had come of them, until about the hour above-mentioned, when it was found that fire had broken out in earnest on the steamer "white cloud", which lay at the wharf between wash and cherry streets. the "endors" lay just above her and the "edward bates" below. both caught fire. at this time a well-intended but ill-considered, effort to stop the progress of the fire was made by some parties, who cut the "edward bates's" moorings and turned her into the stream. the boat was soon caught by the current and carried down the river; but a strong northeast wind bore it constantly in shore, and every time it touched it ignited another boat. an effort was now made to turn other boats loose before the "edward bates" could reach them, but a fatality seemed to attend every effort. the burning boat outsped them all, and by frequent contacts set fire to many more. these in turn ignited the rest, until in a short time the river presented the spectacle of a vast fleet of burning vessels, drifting slowly along the shore. the fire next spread to the buildings, and before it could be arrested had destroyed the main business portion of the city. it was the most appalling calamity that had ever visited st. louis; and followed as it was by the great cholera scourge of , it was a terrible disaster. at the levee there were destroyed twenty-three steamboats, three barges, and one small boat. the total valuation of boats and cargoes was estimated at about $ , , and the insurance was but $ , ; but this was not all paid, for the fire broke up several of the insurance companies." ice also plays an important part in the game of steamboat killing. the season on the upper river is short at best. an early start in the spring, before the railroads had yet reached st. paul, brought the greatest financial returns to the daring and successful captains who, bringing their boats through all the dangers, arrived safely in harbor at the head of navigation. great chances were taken in the fifties, in trying to get through lake pepin before it was clear of ice. the river above and below was usually clear two weeks before the ice was out of the lake sufficiently to enable a boat to force its way through. during the last week of such embargo, boats were constantly butting the ice at either end of the lake, trying to get up or down, or were perilously coasting along the shore, where, from the shallowness of the water and the inflow from the banks, the ice had rotted more than in the centre of the lake. a change of wind, or a sudden freshening, catching a boat thus coasting along the shore, would shove her on to the rocks or sand, and crush her hull as though it were an eggshell. the "falls city" was thus caught and smashed. i myself saw the "fire canoe" crushed flat, in the middle of the lake, a little below wacouta, minn., she having run down a mile or more in the channel which we had broken with the "fanny harris". we had just backed out, for captain anderson had seen signs of a rising wind out of the west, that would shut the ice into our track. this result did follow after the other boat had gone in, despite the well-meant warnings of anderson, who hailed the other boat and warned them of the rising wind and the danger to be apprehended. this caution was ignored by the "fire canoe's" captain, who ran his boat down into the channel that we had broken. the ice did move as predicted, slowly, so slowly as to be imperceptible unless you sighted by some stationary object. but it was as irresistible as fate, and it crushed the timbers of the "fire canoe" as though they were inch boards instead of five-inch planks. the rending of her timbers was plainly heard two miles away. the upper works were left on the ice, and later we ran down and picked the crew and passengers off the wreck. when the wind changed and blew the other way, the cabin was turned over and ground to splinters amid the moving cakes. in the "galena" was the first boat through the lake (april th). there were twelve other boats in sight at one time, all butting the ice in the attempt to force a passage and be the first to reach st. paul. of the boats lost on the missouri river between and , twenty-six were lost from ice; on the upper mississippi, up to , ten boats succumbed to the same destroyer. not only in lake pepin, in the early spring, was this danger to be apprehended; but in autumn also, in the closing days of navigation, when the young "anchor ice" was forming, and drifting with the current, before it had become attached to the banks, and formed the winter bridge over the river. this was a most insidious danger. the new ice, just forming under the stress of zero weather, cut like a knife; and while the boat might feel no jar from meeting ice fields and solitary floating cakes, all the time the ice was eating its way through the firm oak planking, and unless closely watched the bow of the boat would be ground down so thin that an extra heavy ice floe, striking fairly on the worn planking, would stave the whole bow in, and the boat would go to the bottom in spite of all attempts to stop the leak. the "fanny harris" was thus cut down by floating ice and sank in twenty feet of water, opposite point douglass, being a total loss. ordinarily, boats intending to make a late trip to the north were strengthened by spiking on an extra armor sheathing of four-inch oak plank at the bow, and extending back twenty or thirty feet. it is a singular fact that the greatest damage from ice was not experienced at the far north of the upper river, but at the southern extremity of the run; although many other boats were lost on the upper reaches, at wide intervals of time and place. st. louis was a veritable killing place for steamboats, from the ice movements. this may be accounted for from the reason that so many boats wintered at st. louis. when a break-up of extraordinary magnitude or unseasonableness did occur, it had a large number of boats to work upon. again, the season of cold, while long and severe on the upper river, was distinctly marked as to duration. there was no thawing and freezing again. when the river closed in november, it stayed closed until the latter end of march, or the early days of april. then, when the ice went out, that ended the embargo; there was no further danger to be feared. boats did not usually leave their snug-harbors until the ice had run out; and when they did start, they had only lake pepin to battle with. at st. louis, on the contrary, the most disastrous break-ups came unseasonably and unexpectedly, with the result that the great fleet of boats wintering there were caught unprepared to meet such an emergency, and many were lost. two such disastrous movements of the ice were experienced at st. louis, the first in , the other in . the former "break-up" occurred february , and resulted in the destruction of a score of the finest boats in the st. louis trade, and the partial wrecking of as many more. it put out of commission in a few hours nearly forty boats, a catastrophe unequalled in magnitude, either before or since, in the annals of the river. the disaster was not caused in the usual way, by the thawing of the ice. in that case it would not have been so disastrous, if indeed to be feared at all, that being the usual and normal manner of clearing the river in the spring. the winter had been very cold, the ice was two or three feet thick, and the water very low. in this case the movement of the ice was caused by a sudden rise in the river from above, which caused the ice to move before it was much, if any, disintegrated. it was an appalling and terrible exhibition of the power of the great river when restrained in its course. the following account is from a st. louis paper, printed at the time: "the ice at first moved very slowly and without any perceptible shock. the boats lying above chestnut street were merely shoved ashore. messrs. eads & nelson's submarine boat no. , which had just finished work on the wreck of the "parthenia", was almost immediately capsized, and became herself a hopeless wreck. here the destruction commenced. the "federal arch" parted her fastenings and became at once a total wreck. lying below her were the steamers "australia", "adriatic", "brunette", "paul jones", "falls city", "altoona", "a. b. chambers", and the "challenge", all of which were torn away from shore as easily as if they had been mere skiffs, and floated down with the immense fields of ice. the shock and the crashing of these boats can better be imagined than described. all their ample fastenings were as nothing against the enormous flood of ice, and they were carried down apparently fastened and wedged together. the first obstacles with which they came in contact were a large fleet of wood-boats, flats, and canal boats. these small fry were either broken to pieces, or were forced out on to the levee in a very damaged condition. there must have been at least fifty of these smaller water craft destroyed, pierced by the ice, or crushed by the pressure of each against the other. "in the meantime some of the boats lying above chestnut street fared badly. the "f. x. aubrey" was forced into the bank and was considerably damaged. the noble "nebraska", which was thought to be in a most perilous position, escaped with the loss of her larboard wheel and some other small injuries. a number of the upper river boats lying above chestnut street, were more or less damaged. both the alton wharf-boats were sunk and broken in pieces. the old "shenandoah" and the "sam cloon" were forced away from the shore and floated down together, lodging against the steamer "clara", where they were soon torn to pieces and sunk by a collision with one of the ferry-boats floating down upon them. the keokuk wharf-boat maintained its position against the flood and saved three boats, the "polar star", "pringle", and "forest rose", none of which were injured. "after running about an hour the character of the ice changed and it came down in a frothy, crumbled condition, with an occasional solid piece. at the end of two hours it ran very slowly, and finally stopped at half past five o'clock, p. m. just before the ice stopped and commenced to gorge, huge piles, twenty and thirty feet in height were forced up by the current on every hand, both on the shore and at the lower dike, where so many boats had come to a halt. in fact these boats seemed to be literally buried in ice. "the levee on the morning after the day of the disaster presented a dreary and desolate spectacle, looking more like a scene in the polar regions than in the fertile and beautiful mississippi valley. the mississippi, awakened from her long sleep, was pitching along at a wild and rapid rate of speed, as if to make up for lost time. the ice-coat of mail was torn into shreds, which lay strewn along the levee, and was in some places heaped up to a height of twenty feet above the level of the water. where the boats had lain in crowds only a few hours before, nothing was to be seen save this high bulwark of ice, which seemed as if it had been left there purposely to complete the picture of bleak desolation. the whole business portion of the levee was clear of boats, except the two wrecked alton wharf-boats, which were almost shattered to pieces, and cast like toys upon the shore in the midst of the ridge of ice. there was not a single boat at the levee which entirely escaped injury by the memorable breaking up of the ice on february , ." [illustration: reed's landing, minnesota. at the foot of lake pepin. during the ice blockade in the lake, in the spring of each year before the advent of railroads to st. paul, all freight was unloaded at reed's landing, hauled by team to wacouta, at the head of the lake, where it was reloaded upon another steamboat for transportation to st. paul and other ports above the lake.] chapter xxx _living it over again_ one day in the spring of , after having finished the business that had called me to st. paul from my home in river falls, wisconsin (where i was a railway agent and newspaper proprietor combined), i was loafing about the grand central station, killing time until my train should be ready to start. the big whistle of a big boat drew me to the adjacent wharf of the diamond jo line. the craft proved to be the "mary morton". as soon as the lines were fast, the stages in position, and the first rush of passengers ashore, i walked aboard and up to the office. a small man, past middle life, his hair somewhat gray, was writing in a big book which i recognized as the passenger journal. by the same token i realized that i was in the presence of the chief clerk, even if i had not already seen the "mud" clerk hard at work on the levee, checking out freight. i spoke to the occupant of the office, and after a few questions and counter questions i learned that he was charley mathers, who had been on the river before as chief clerk, and he in turn learned my name and former standing on the river. from him i learned that the chief pilot of the steamer was thomas burns. it did not take a great while to get up to the pilot house. i would not have known my old chief had i not been posted in advance by mr. mathers. this man was grey instead of brown, and had big whiskers, which the old tom did not have. he was sitting on the bench, smoking his pipe and reading a book. he looked up as i entered, and questioned with his eyes what the intrusion might mean, but waited until i should state my business. it took some minutes to establish my identity; but when i did i received a cordial welcome. and then we talked of old times and new, and war times too--for he had gone out as captain in an illinois regiment at the same time that i went out as a wisconsin soldier. from a pilot's view point the old times were simply marvelous as compared with the present. a hundred and fifty dollars a month, now, as against six hundred then; and a "wild" pilot, picking up seventeen hundred dollars in one month as was done by one man in . now he couldn't catch a wild boat if he waited the season through--there are none. we went over the river, the steamboats, and the men as we knew them in ; and then we went down below and hunted up george mcdonald, the good old scotchman, who never swore at you through the speaking tube, no matter how many bells you gave him in a minute, and who never got rattled, however fast you might send them; who never carried more steam than the license called for, and who never missed a day's duty. the same banter had to be gone through with, with the same result--he had forgotten the slim youth who "shipped up" for him twenty years ago, but whom he promptly recalled when given a clue. and then, it being train time, we all walked across to the station and burns invited me to take a trip with him, next time, down to st. louis and back, and work my way at the wheel. i knew that i had not yet been weaned from the spokes, and doubted if i ever should be. i said that i would try, and i did. i filed an application for the first leave of absence i had ever asked for from the railroad company, and it was granted. i found a man to assist the "devil" in getting out my paper, he doing the editing for pure love of editing, if not from love of the editor. we set our house in order, packed our trunk and grips, and when the specified fortnight was ended, we (my wife, my daughter, and myself) were comfortably bestowed in adjoining staterooms in the ladies' cabin of the "mary morton", and i was fidgeting about the boat, watching men "do things" as i had been taught, or had seen others do, twenty years ago or more. the big irish mate bullied his crew of forty "niggers", driving them with familiar oaths, to redoubled efforts in getting in the "last" packages of freight, which never reached the last. among the rest, in that half hour, i saw barrels of mess pork--a whole car load of it, which the "nigger" engine was striking down into the hold. shades of abraham! pork _out_ of st. paul! twenty years before, i had checked out a whole barge load (three hundred barrels) through from cincinnati, by way of cairo. cincinnati was the great porkopolis of the world, while chicago was yet keeping its pigs in each back yard, and every freeholder "made" his own winter's supply of pork for himself. the steward in charge of the baggage was always in the way with a big trunk on the gangway, just as of old. the engineers were trying their steam, and slowly turning the wheel over, with the waste cocks open, to clear the cylinders of water. the firemen were coaxing the beds of coal into fiercer heats. the chief clerk compared the tickets which were presented by hurrying passengers, with the reservation sheet, and assigned rooms, all "the best", to others who had no reservations. the "mud" clerk checked his barrels and boxes, and scribbled his name fiercely and with many flourishes to last receipts. the pilot on watch, mr. burns, sat on the window ledge in the pilot house, and waited. the captain stood by the big bell, and listened for the "all ready, sir!" of the mate. as the words were spoken, the great bell boomed out one stroke, the lines slacked away and were thrown off the snubbing posts. a wave of the captain's hand, a pull at one of the knobs on the wheel-frame, the jingle of a bell far below, the shiver of the boat as the great wheel began its work, and the bow of the "mary morton" swung to the south; a couple of pulls at the bell-ropes, and the wheel was revolving ahead; in a minute more the escape pipes told us that she was "hooked up", and with full steam ahead we were on our way to st. louis. and i was again in the pilot house with my old chief, who bade me "show us what sort of an education you had when a youngster". despite my forty years i was a boy again, and tom burns was the critical chief, sitting back on the bench with his pipe alight, a comical smile oozing out of the corners of mouth and eyes, for all the world like the teacher of old. the very first minute i met the swing of the gang-plank derrick (there is no jack staff on the modern steamboat, more's the pity), with two or three spokes when one would have been a plenty, yawing the boat round "like a toad in a hailstorm", as i was advised. i could feel the hot blood rushing to my cheeks, just as it did twenty years before under similar provocation, when the eye of the master was upon me. i turned around and found that mr. burns had taken it in, and we both laughed like boys--as i fancy both of us were for the time. but i got used to it very soon, getting the "feel of it", and as the "mary morton" steered like a daisy i lined out a very respectable wake; although tom tried to puzzle me a good deal with questions as to the landmarks, most of which i had forgotten save in a general way. when eight bells struck, mr. link, mr. burns's partner, came into the pilot house; that let me out, and after an introduction by mr. burns, mr. link took the wheel. he was a young man, of perhaps thirty years of age. we lingered a few minutes to watch him skilfully run pig's eye, and then went down to dinner, and had introductions all around--to captain boland, mr. mathers, mr. mcdonald, and other officers. i took the wheel again, later in the afternoon. it was easy steering, and there was no way of getting out of the channel, for a time; and later i found that some things were taking on a familiar look--that i had not forgotten all of the river, and things were shaping themselves, as each new point or bend was reached, so that very little prompting was necessary. i had the wheel from pine bend to hastings, where i was given permission to step on the end of a board lever fixed in the floor of the pilot house, on one side of the wheel, and give the signal of the diamond jo line for the landing--two long blasts, followed by three short ones. here was another innovation. in old times you had to hold your wheel with one hand while you pulled a rope to blow for a landing, which was sometimes a little awkward. this was a very little thing, but it went with the landing-stage derrick, the electric search-light, and a score of other improvements that had come aboard since i walked ashore two decades before. a mile or two below hastings i saw the "break" on the surface of the water which marked the resting-place of the "fanny harris", on which i had spent so many months of hard work, but which, looked back upon through the haze of twenty years, now seemed to have been nothing but holiday excursions. at prescott i looked on the familiar water front, and into the attic windows where with my brother i had so often in the night watches studied the characteristics of boats landing at the levee. going ashore i met many old-time friends, among whom was charles barnes, agent of the diamond jo line, who had occupied the same office on the levee since , and had met every steamboat touching the landing during all those years. he was the nestor of the profession, and was one of the very few agents still doing business on the water front who had begun such work prior to . since then, within a few years past, he also has gone, and that by an accident, while still in the performance of duties connected with the steamboat business. dropping rapidly down the river, we passed diamond bluff without stopping, but rounded to at red wing for passengers and freight, and afterward headed into a big sea on lake pepin, kicked up by the high south wind that was still blowing. we landed under the lee of the sand-spit at lake city, and after getting away spent the better part of an hour in picking up a barge load of wheat, that was anchored out in the lake. by a wise provision of the rules for the government of pilots, adopted since i left the river, no one is permitted in the pilot house except the pilot on watch, or his partner, after the sidelights have been put up. for this reason i could not occupy my chosen place at the wheel after sunset; but i found enough to occupy my time down below in the engine-room, watching the great pitman walk out and in, to and from the crank-shaft, listening to the rush of the water alongside as it broke into a great wave on either side, and to the churning of the wheel, and all the while discussing old times with george mcdonald. as the wind was still high and the water rough, i had an opportunity to see mr. mcdonald answer bells, which came thick and furious for a good while before we were well fast to the levee at reed's landing. there was no excitement, however, and no rushing from side to side as in the old days, to "ship up". he stood amidship, his hand on the reversing bar, just as a locomotive engineer sits with his hand on the bar of his engine. when the bell rang to set her back, he pulled his lever full back, and then opened his throttle without moving a step. after getting started, and under full way, he simply "hooked her back" three or four notches, and the old-time "short link" operation had been performed without taking a step. a great advance in twenty years! but why wasn't it thought of fifty years ago? i don't know. the same principle had been in use on locomotives from the start. it is simple enough now, on steamboat engines. perhaps none of the old-timers thought of it. i turned in at an early hour, and lay in the upper berth, listening to the cinders skating over the roof a couple of feet above my face, and translating the familiar sounds that reached me from engine-room and roof--the call for the draw at the railroad bridge, below the landing; the signal for landing at wabasha; the slow bell, the stopping-bell, the backing-bell, and a dozen or twenty unclassified bells, before the landing was fully accomplished; the engineer trying the water in the boilers; the rattle of the slice-bars on the sides of the furnace doors as the firemen trimmed their fires; and one new and unfamiliar sound from the engine-room--the rapid exhaust of the little engine driving the electric generator, the only intruder among the otherwise familiar noises, all of which came to my sleepy senses as a lullaby. i listened for anything which might indicate the passage of the once dreaded beef slough bar, but beyond the labored breathing of the engines, that at times indicated shoaling water, there was nothing by which to identify our old-time enemy. so listening, i fell asleep. "breakfast is ready, sah", was the pleasant proclamation following a gentle rapping on the stateroom door. very refreshing, this, compared with the sharp manifesto of the olden-days watchman: "twelve o'clock; turn out"! the "morton" was ploughing along between victory and de soto. by the time justice had been done to the well-cooked and well-served meal, the boat had touched at the latter port and taken on a few sacks of barley (potential budweiser), consigned to one of the big st. louis breweries. mr. link was at the wheel, and as a good understanding had been reached the day before, there was no question as to who was going to do the steering. mr. link took the bench and talked river as only a lover could talk, while i picked out the course by the aid of diamond boards and ancient landmarks, without asking many questions. a suggestion now and then: "let her come in a little closer". "now you may cross over". "look out for the snag in the next bend", and like cautions were all that was necessary. and the pleasure of it! the beautiful morning in june, the woods alive with songbirds; the bluffs and islands a perfect green; the river dimpling under the caresses of a gentle breeze, and blushing rosy under the ardent gaze of the morning sun--a picture of loveliness not to be outdone anywhere in the wide world. and then the sense of power that comes to one who has learned to handle a steamboat with a touch of the wheel, in taking a long bend, a mile or more in length, without moving the wheel an inch, the rudders so slightly angled as to guide the boat along the arc of a circle which would be ten miles in diameter, could it be extended to completion, and leaving a wake as true as if drawn by a pair of dividers! we did not go into prairie du chien, but with the glasses the old french town could be discerned across the island and the slough; it claims to be two hundred years old, and it looked its age. time was when prairie du chien, the terminus of the railroad nearest to st. paul and the upper river, gave promise of being a big city, the outlet and _entrepôt_ for the trade of a great territory. her people believed in her, and in her great future. a dozen steamboats might be seen, on many occasions, loading merchandise from the railroad, or unloading grain and produce, in sacks and packages, destined to milwaukee and chicago. when i was second clerk i once checked out twenty thousand sacks of wheat in something over thirty-six hours, the cargo of boat and two barges. the wheat now goes through in bulk, in box cars loaded in iowa and minnesota, and they do not even change engines at prairie du chien, the roundhouse and division terminal being located at mcgregor, on the west side of the mississippi. at mcgregor i saw joseph reynolds, at that time owner of five fine steamers, and manager of the diamond jo line. captain burns pointed out a man dressed in a dark business suit, sitting on a snubbing post, lazily and apparently indifferently watching the crew handling freight, or looking over the steamer as if it were an unusual and curious sight. he did not speak to any of the officers while we were watching him, and mr. burns thought it very unlikely that he would. he did not come on board the boat at all, but sat and whittled the head of the post until we backed out and left him out of sight behind. mr. burns allowed that "jo" was doing a heap of thinking all the time we were watching him, and that he probably did not think of the boat, as a present object of interest, at all. joseph reynolds began his river experience in with one small boat, carrying his own wheat, and towing a barge when the steamer could not carry it all. when we saw him holding down a snubbing post at mcgregor he owned and operated, under the title of the "diamond jo line", the "mary morton", "libbie conger", "diamond jo", "josephine", and "josie", all well equipped and handsome steamers. later, he added the "sidney", the "pittsburg", the "st. paul", and the "quincy", still larger and better boats. that night i witnessed for the first time the operation of the electric search-light as an aid to navigation. the night came on dark and stormy, a thunder shower breaking over the river as we were running the devious and dangerous guttenburg channel, about five or six miles below the town by that name. instead of straining his eyes out of his head, hunting doubtful landmarks miles away, as we used to do, mr. link tooted his little whistle down in the engine-room, and instantly the light was switched on to the lantern at the bow of the boat. lines running from the pilot house gave perfect control of the light, and it was flashed ahead until it lighted up the diamond boards and other shore-marks by which the crossings were marked and the best water indicated to the pilot. under a slow bell he worked his way down the ugly piece of river without touching. he had the leads two or three times, just to assure himself, but apparently he could have made it just as well without them. a mile and a half above the mouth of turkey river, in the very worst place of all, we found a big log raft in trouble, hung up on the sand, with a steamboat at each end working at it. they occupied so much of the river that it took mr. link over an hour to get past the obstruction, the search-light in the meantime turning night into day, and enabling him to look down on the timber and see just where the edge of the raft was. by backing and flanking he finally squeezed past, but not without scraping the sand and taking big chances of getting hung up himself. coming back, we did hang up for an hour or more in the same place, a mile above the foot of cassville slough. without the aid of the search-light it would have been impossible to have worked the steamer past the raft until daylight came. it is a wonderful aid to navigation, and it is as easy to run crooked places by night as by day, with its assistance. in st. louis, after seeing shaw's garden and tasting the old french market, the best thing you can do is to go back to the levee and watch the river, the big eads bridge, the boats, and the darkies. there may be no boats other than the one you came on and are going back upon, but you will not miss seeing the bridge, and you must not miss seeing the darkies. they are worth studying--much better than even imported shrubbery. there was an anchor line boat moored just below us the day we were there, a big side-wheeler, in the new orleans trade, sixteen hundred tons. the "mary morton" was four hundred and fifty, and had shrunk perceptibly since the big liner came alongside. there were two or three other boats, little ones, ferries and traders, sprinkled along the three miles of levee. in i have seen boats lying two deep, in places, and one deep in every place where it was possible to stick the nose of a steamboat into the levee--boats from new orleans, from pittsburg, from the upper mississippi, from the missouri, from the tennessee and the cumberland, the red river and the illinois, loaded with every conceivable description of freight, and the levee itself piled for miles with incoming or outgoing cargoes. now, it was enough to make one sick at heart. it seemed as if the city had gone to decay. the passage of a train over the bridge every five minutes or less, each way, reassured one on that point, however, and indicated that there was still plenty of traffic, and that it was only the river that was dead, and not the city. in old times the steamboat crews were comprised principally of white men--that is, deck hands and roustabouts (or stevedores). the firemen may have been darkies, and the cabin crews were more than likely to have been, but the deck crews were generally white. now, the deck crews are all colored men. they are a happy-go-lucky set, given to strong drink and craps, not to mention some other forms of vice. in old times the crews were hired by the month. the members of a modern deck crew never make two trips consecutively on the same boat. the boat does not lay long enough in st. louis to give them time to spend ten days' wages, and then get sober enough, or hungry enough, to reship for another trip. therefore, as soon as the last package of freight is landed, the crew marches to the window of the clerk's office opening out onto the guards, and gets what money is coming to each individual after the barkeeper's checks have been deducted. with this wealth in hand the fellow makes a straight wake for one of the two or three score dives, rum-holes, and bagnios that line the levee. he seldom leaves his favorite inn until his money is gone and he is thrown out by the professional "bouncer" attached to each of these places of entertainment. the boat does not remain without a crew, however. while one of the clerks is paying off the old crew, another has gone out on the levee with a handful of pasteboard tickets, one for each man he desires to ship for the next round trip to st. paul. mounting the tallest snubbing post at hand, he is instantly surrounded by a shouting, laughing, pushing, and sometimes fighting mass of negroes, with an occasional alleged white man. this mob of men are clothed in every conceivable style of rags and tatters, and all are trying to get near the man on the post. after a minute's delay the clerk cries out: "all set! stand by"! and gives his handful of tickets a whirl around his head, loosening them a few at a time, and casting them to every point of the compass so as to give all a fair chance to draw a prize. the crowd of would-be "rousters" jump, grab, wrestle, and fight for the coveted tickets, and the man who secures one and fights his way victoriously to the gang plank is at once recorded in the mate's book as one of the crew. the victorious darky comes up the gang plank showing every tooth in his head. it is the best show to be seen in st. louis. "why do they not go out and pick out the best men and hire them in a business-like and christian-like manner?" inquires the unacclimated tourist. "because this is a better and very much quicker way", says the mate, who knows whereof he speaks. "the nigger that can get a ticket, and keep it until he gets to the gang plank, is the nigger for me. he is the 'best man'; if he wasn't he wouldn't get here at all. some of 'em don't get here--they carry 'em off to the hospital to patch 'em up; sometimes they carry 'em off and plant 'em. there wasn't much of a rush to-day. you ought to see 'em in the early spring, when they are pretty hungry after a winter's freezing and fasting, and they want to get close to a steamboat boiler to get warm. there was not more'n three hundred niggers out there to-day. last april there was a thousand, and they everlastingly scrapped for a chance to get close to the post. some of 'em got their 'razzers', and sort of hewed their way in. the clerk got a little shaky himself. he was afraid they might down him and take the whole pack." "i shouldn't think that you would care to ship the men with 'razzers' as you call them." "oh, i don't mind that if they can tote well. anyway, they all have 'em. they don't use them much on white men, anyhow. and then we look out for them. after we back out from here they will get enough to do to keep them busy. they don't carry any life insurance, and they don't want to fool with white folks, much." having watched the mates handling the crew on the down trip one could form a pretty clear judgment why the "niggers" were not solicitous to "fool with" the white men with whom they were in contact while on the river. that night we steamed across to east st. louis and took on three thousand kegs of nails for different ports on the upper river. these were carried on the shoulders of the newly-hired deck crew a distance of at least two hundred feet from the railroad freight house to the boat; every one of the forty men "toting" seventy-five kegs, each weighing a hundred and seven pounds. at the conclusion of this exercise it is safe to say that they were glad enough to creep under the boilers so soon as the boat pulled out from the landing. the next morning we were well on our way up the river. i steered most of the daylight watches for mr. link all the way upstream. he had a terrible cough, and was very weak, but had the hopefulness which always seems to accompany that dread disease (consumption), that he "would soon get over it". i was glad to relieve him of some hard work, and i was also greatly pleased again to have an opportunity to handle a big boat. poor fellow, his hopefulness was of no avail. he died at his home in quincy within two years of that time. we arrived at st. paul on schedule time, with no mishaps to speak of, and i parted with regret from old and new friends on the boat, none of whom i have ever seen since that parting twenty-five years ago. thomas burns, henry link, george mcdonald, and captain boland are all dead. charles mathers, the chief clerk, was living a few years ago at cairo, an old man, long retired from active service. as we started to leave the boat, we were arrested by an outcry, a pistol shot, and the shouting of the colored deck hands, followed by the rush of the mate and the fall of one of the men, whom he had struck with a club or billet. still another colored man lay groaning on the wharf, and a white man was binding up an ugly gash in his neck made by the slash of a razor. in a few minutes the clang of the patrol wagon gong was heard, as it responded to the telephone call, and two darkies were carried off, one to the hospital and the other to the jail. the slightly-interrupted work of toting nail kegs was then resumed. thus the last sights and sounds were fit illustrations of river life as it is to-day, and as it was a half a century ago--strenuous and rough, indeed, but possessing a wonderful fascination to one who has once fallen under the influence of its spell. [illustration: steamer "mary morton," ; tons. lying at the levee, la crosse, wisconsin. (from a negative made in .)] [illustration: steamer "arkansas," ; tons. with tow of four barges, capable of transporting , sacks-- , bushels of wheat per trip. the usual manner of carrying wheat in the early days, before the river traffic was destroyed by railroad competition.] appendix appendix a _list of steamboats on the upper mississippi river, - _ in the following compilation i have endeavored to give as complete a history as possible of every boat making one or more trips on the upper mississippi river--that is to say, above the upper rapids--prior to , not counting boats engaged exclusively in the rafting business. owing to the repetition of names as applied to different steamers, which were built, ran their course, and were destroyed, only to be followed by others bearing the same name, it is altogether likely that some have escaped notice. others that may have made the trip have left no sign. in nearly every case the record is made either at st. paul or at galena. whenever possible, the names of the master and clerk are given. where boats were running regularly in the trade but one notation is made: "st. paul, ; ; etc.", which might include twenty trips during the season. the record covers the period from , when the first steamer, the "virginia", arrived at st. peters from st. louis, with government stores for fort snelling, up to , one year after the writer left the river. adelia--stern-wheel; built at california, pa., ; tons; st. paul, ; ; --capt. bates, clerk worsham. admiral--side-wheel; built at mckeesport, pa., ; tons; feet long, feet beam; in st. paul trade --capt. john brooks; went into missouri river trade; was snagged and sunk october, , at head of weston island, in shallow water; had very little cargo at time; was raised and ran for many years thereafter in missouri river trade. adriatic--side-wheel; built at shousetown, pa., ; tons; was in great ice jam at st. louis, february, . adventure--in galena trade --capt. van houten. a. g. mason--stern-wheel; built at west brownsville, pa., ; tons; in st. paul trade ; ; --captain barry, clerk pearman. albany--very small boat; in minnesota river trade . alex. hamilton--galena and st. paul trade --captain w. h. hooper. alhambra--stern-wheel; built at mckeesport, pa., ; tons; minnesota packet company, st. paul trade --captain mcguire; --captain w. h. gabbert; --captain mcguire; same trade ; ; ; ; , in dunleith line, captain william faucette. alice--stern-wheel; built at california, pa., ; tons; at st. paul . alphia--galena and st. louis trade . altoona--stern-wheel; built at brownsville, pa., ; tons; was in great ice jam at st. louis, february, ; at st. paul ; sunk at montgomery tow-head . amaranth--(first)--galena trade --captain g. w. atchinson; sunk at head of amaranth island . amaranth--(second)--at galena, from st. louis, april , . america--sunk , opposite madison, iowa. american eagle--cossen, master, burned at st. louis, may , ; loss $ , . americus--stern-wheel; at st. paul . amulet--at galena, from st. louis, april , . angler--st. paul . annie--at galena, on her way to st. peters, april , . anson northrup--minnesota river boat; was taken to pieces and transported to moorhead in , where she was put together again and run on the red river of the north by captain edwin bell for j. c. burbank & co., proprietors of the great northwestern stage lines. antelope--minnesota river packet ; ; ; . one hundred and ninety-eight tons burden. anthony wayne--side-wheel; built ; in galena & st. louis trade , , and --captain morrison first, later captain dan able; --captain able; went up to the falls of st. anthony , first boat to make the trip; made a trip up the minnesota river into the indian country, as far as traverse des sioux with a large excursion party from st. paul in ; went into missouri river trade and sank march , , three miles above liberty landing, mo., being a total loss. archer--at galena, from st. louis, sept. , ; sunk by collision with steamer "di vernon", in chute between islands and , five miles above mouth of illinois river, nov. , ; was cut in two, and sunk in three minutes, with a loss of forty-one lives. arcola--st. croix river boat, at st. paul ; sunk in lake pepin , cut down by ice. argo--galena and st. peters trade, --captain kennedy lodwick; --captain m. w. lodwick, clerk russell blakeley; regular packet between galena and st. paul, including stillwater and fort snelling; at galena from st. croix falls , with passengers; sunk fall of at foot of argo island, above winona, minn. ariel--(first)--at fort snelling and st. peters june , ; august , ; sept. , , from galena; --captain lyon, at fort snelling april ; made three other trips to fort snelling that season. she was built by captain thurston. ariel--(second)--built at cincinnati, ohio, ; tons; minnesota river packet . arizona--stern-wheel--captain herdman, from pittsburg, at st. paul, . asia--stern-wheel; st. paul trade ; made twelve trips between st. louis and st. paul during season. atlanta--at st. paul, from st. louis, captain woodruff, ; again . atlantic--at st. paul --captain isaac m. mason. atlas--side-wheel; new at galena, --captain robert a. riley; at st. peters, from galena, ; sunk near head of atlas island. audubon--stern-wheel; built at murraysville, pa., ; tons; st. paul trade ; captain william fisher made his initial trip as an independent pilot on this boat. aunt letty--side-wheel; built at elizabeth, pa., ; tons; in northern line, st. louis and st. paul, --captain c. g. morrison; , same. badger state--built at california, pa., ; tons; st. paul trade and ; sunk at head of montgomery tow-head . baltimore--sunk, , at montgomery tow-head; hit wreck of "badger state" and stove. wreck of "baltimore" lies on top of wreck of "badger state". bangor--st. paul ; . banjo--show boat--first of the kind in the river; was at st. paul in ; with a "nigger show". was seated for an audience, and stopped at all landings along the river, giving entertainments. captain william fisher was pilot on her part of one season. belfast--at st. paul ; . belle golden--stern-wheel; built at brownsville, pa., ; tons; at st. paul --captain i. m. mason. belmont--at galena, from st. louis, april , ; again may , . ben bolt--side-wheel; built at california, pa., ; tons; at st. paul, from st. louis, --captain boyd; at st. paul, ; . ben campbell--side-wheel; built at shousetown, pa., ; tons; in galena & minnesota packet co., --captain m. w. lodwick; rather slow, and too deep in water for upper river; at st. paul --capt. m. w. lodwick; at st. paul . ben coursin--stern-wheel; built at cincinnati, ohio, ; tons; at st. paul ; ; sunk above mouth of black river, near la crosse, fall of . ben west--side-wheel; at st. paul, from st. louis, spring ; went into missouri river trade; struck bridge and sank near washington, mo., august, . berlin--at st. paul ; ; . bertrand--rogers, master, at galena ; regular st. louis packet; advertised for pleasure trip to st. peters june , . blackhawk--captain m. w. lodwick, ; bought that year by the galena packet co., for a low water boat; ten trips to st. paul ; captain r. m. spencer, opening season , later o. h. maxwell; , minnesota river packet, capt. o. h. maxwell; at st. paul . black rover--eleventh steamboat to arrive at fort snelling, prior to . bon accord--at galena, from st. louis, captain hiram bersie, august , ; in galena and upper river trade, same captain, ; in st. louis and galena trade , same captain. brazil--(first)--captain orren smith, at galena april , ; at fort snelling june , ; advertised for pleasure excursion from galena to fort snelling, july , ; advertised for pleasure excursion from galena to fort snelling, ; sunk in upper rapids, rock island, , and total loss. brazil--(second)--captain orren smith, new, arrived at galena sept. , ; feet long, feet beam; arrived at galena from st. peters, minn., june , . brazil--(third)--stern-wheel; built at mckeesport, pa., ; tons; at st. paul ; --captain hight, from st. louis; at st. paul . bridgewater--at galena, from st. louis, april , . brownsville--snagged and sunk in brownsville chute, . burlington--(first)--at galena, from st. peters, june , ; at fort snelling, captain joseph throckmorton, may , , and again june , ; third trip that season, arrived at the fort june , , with soldiers from prairie du chien, for the fort. burlington--(second)--sunk at wabasha, prior to ; in northern line; built . burlington--(third)--large side-wheel, in northern line, ; st. louis and st. paul packet. caleb cope--galena & st. paul packet company; in st. paul . caledonia--in galena trade, . cambridge--at st. paul . canada--side-wheel, with double rudders; northern line packet co., captain james ward, ; ; , as st. louis and st. paul packet; captain j. w. parker, , , same trade; , same trade. carrie--stern-wheel; tons; went into missouri river trade and was snagged two miles above indian mission, august , ; boat and cargo total loss; boat valued at $ , . carrier--side-wheel; feet long, feet beam; tons; at st. paul ; snagged at head of penn's bend, missouri river, oct. , ; sank in five feet of water; boat valued at $ , ; was total loss. castle garden--at st. paul . cavalier--at galena april , , for st. louis; in galena trade . cazenovia--at st. paul . cecilia--capt. jos. throckmorton, at st. peters . bought by the captain for galena & st. peters trade. same trade , regular. ceylon--stern-wheel; at st. paul . challenge--built at shousetown, pa., ; tons; at st. paul . chart--at st. paul . chas. wilson--at st. paul . chippewa--(first)--capt. griffith, in galena trade ; arrived at galena from st. peters may , . chippewa--(second)--capt. greenlee, from pittsburg, at st. paul, ; in northwestern line, capt. w. h. crapeta, st. louis and st. paul trade ; ; burned fifteen miles below poplar river, on the missouri, in may, ; fire discovered at supper time on a sunday evening; passengers put on shore and boat turned adrift, she having a large amount of powder on board; boat drifted across the river and there blew up; fire caused by deck hands going into hold with lighted candle to steal whiskey. she was a stern-wheel, feet long, feet beam. chippewa falls--captain l. fulton, in chippewa river trade, ; stern-wheel. city belle--side-wheel; built at murraysville, pa., ; tons; minnesota packet co., galena & st. paul trade --captain kennedy lodwick; --captain a. t. champlin, for part of the season; ; burned on the red river in , while in government service; was a very short boat and very hard to steer, especially in low water. clara--stern-wheel, of st. louis; tons burden, horse-power engines; at st. paul . clarima--at st. paul . clarion--(first)--went to missouri river, where she was burned, at guyandotte, may , . clarion--(second)--stern-wheel; built at monongahela, pa., ; tons; made trips up minnesota river from st. paul, ; same trade ; --captain hoffman; ; ; had a very big whistle, in keeping with her name--so large that it made her top heavy. col. morgan--at st. paul ; . commerce--at st. paul, from st. louis, --captain rowley. conestoga--st. louis and st. paul trade --captain james ward, who was also the owner. conewago--stern-wheel; built at brownsville, pa., ; tons; st. louis and st. paul packet co., ; ; --capt. james ward; ; . confidence--at galena, from st. louis, nov. , ; same april , ; same march , . convoy--stern-wheel; built at freedom, pa., ; tons; at st. paul . cora--side-wheel; single engine; two boilers; hull built by captain jos. throckmorton at rock island; feet long, feet beam, five feet hold; engine inches by feet stroke, built at st. louis. at galena, on first trip, sept. , , captain jos. throckmorton, in galena and st. peters trade; first boat at fort snelling , captain throckmorton; galena and st. peters trade , same captain, also running to st. croix falls. sold to go into missouri river trade fall of ; snagged and sunk below council bluffs, may , , drowning fifteen people. cornelia--sunk, , in chain of rocks, lower rapids; hit rock and stove. courier--built at parkersburg, va., ; tons; owned by w. e. hunt; in st. paul trade . cremona--stern-wheel; built at new albany, ind., ; tons; in minnesota river trade --captain martin. cumberland valley--at galena august , ; broke shaft three miles above burlington, aug. , . daisy--small stern-wheel; st. paul . damsel--stern-wheel; tons; in st. paul trade ; , farley, clerk; chartered as a circus boat, charles davis, pilot; snagged at head of onawa bend, missouri river, ; had on board the circus company, which was taken off by captain joseph la barge, in the steamer "john m. chambers"; no lives lost; boat total loss. dan converse--stern-wheel; built at mckeesport, pa., ; tons; at st. paul , and at other times; went into missouri river trade and was snagged nov. , , ten miles above st. joseph, mo.; total loss. daniel hillman--at galena may , , from st. louis. danube--(first)--sunk, , below campbell's chain, rock island rapids; hit rock and stove. danube--(second)--stern-wheel; at st. paul . davenport--side-wheel; built ; in northern line; sunk by breaking of ice gorge at st. louis, dec. , , but raised at a loss of $ , . denmark--(first)--sunk, , at head of atlas island, by striking sunken log. denmark--(second)--side-wheel, double-rudder boat; captain r. c. gray, in northern line, st. louis & st. paul, , , , ; , same line, captain john robinson; , same line. des moines valley--st. paul . dew drop--stern-wheel; tons; at st. paul ; ; capt. w. n. parker, , in northern line; went into missouri river trade and was burned at mouth of osage river, june, . diomed--st. paul . di vernon--(second)--built at st. louis, mo., ; cost $ , ; at st. paul june , ; in collision with steamer "archer" nov. , , five miles above mouth of illinois river. (see "archer".) dr. franklin--(first)--first boat of the galena & minnesota packet co.; bought ; owned by campbell & smith, henry l. corwith, h. l. dousman, brisbois & rice; m. w. lodwick, captain, russell blakeley, clerk, wm. meyers, engineer; first boat to have steam whistle on upper river; captain lodwick ; ; in galena and st. paul trade; capt. lodwick in ; took a large party on pleasure excursion from galena to the indian treaty grounds at traverse des sioux, minnesota river; , captain russell blakeley, clerk geo. r. melville; out of commission ; sunk at the foot of moquoketa chute ; total loss. dr. franklin--(second)--called "no. "; bought of capt. john mcclure, at cincinnati, in the winter of , by harris brothers--d. smith, scribe and meeker--to run in opposition to "dr. franklin no. "; smith harris, captain; scribe harris, engineer; went up to st. anthony falls; in was the last boat to leave st. paul, nov. ; the st. croix was closed and heavy ice was running in the river; capt. smith harris ; made trips to st. paul in ; capt. preston lodwick, . dubuque--(first)--at galena april , , for st. louis, captain smoker; lost, ; exploded boiler at muscatine bar, eight miles below bloomington. dubuque--(second)--at galena april , , captain edward h. beebe; feet long, feet beam, feet hold; on her first trip; regular st. louis, galena and dubuque trade; same ; at galena july , , captain edward h. beebe, loading for fort snelling; sunk above mundy's landing . dubuque--(third)--side-wheel, tons; in northern line, st. louis & st. paul . earlia--at st. paul . eclipse--eighth steamboat to arrive at fort snelling prior to . editor--side-wheel; built at brownsville, pa., ; tons; very fast; st. louis & st. paul --capt. smith; same trade --capt. j. f. smith; ; --captain brady, clerks r. m. robbins and charles furman. effie afton--at st. paul ; small stern-wheel; hit rock island bridge and sank, ; total loss. effie deans--st. paul ; captain joseph la barge; burnt at st. louis . elbe--in galena trade . eliza stewart--at galena may , , from st. louis, with tons freight. left for st. louis, with tons freight from galena. emerald--in galena trade ; sunk or burned . emilie--(first)--side-wheel, capt. joseph la barge, american fur company, at st. peters, ; snagged, , in emilie bend, missouri river. endeavor--stern-wheel; built at freedom, pa., ; tons; at st. paul . enterprise--(first)--small stern-wheel; twelfth boat to arrive at fort snelling, prior to ; again at the fort june , ; sunk at head of enterprise island, . enterprise--(second)--small side-wheel boat from lake winnebago; owned and captained by robert c. eden, son of an english baronet, on an exploring and hunting expedition; geo. b. merrick piloted for him for two months on the upper river and the st. croix. enterprise--(third)--built in , above the falls of st. anthony, to run between st. anthony and sauk rapids. work superintended by capt. augustus r. young. before the work was completed the boat was sold to thomas moulton, and when finished she was run above the falls during , , and . she was officered by four brothers--augustus r. young, captain and pilot; jesse b. young, mate; josiah young, first engineer, and leonard young, second engineer. thomas moulton and i. n. moulton took turns in running as clerk. in she was sold to w. f. and p. s. davidson, who moved her around st. anthony falls on skids, and launched her in the river below. she ran as freight boat in the davidson line between la crosse and st. paul for several years, and was then sold to go south. she was a stern-wheel boat, feet long, and feet beam. the youngs are dead, with the exception of leonard. captain i. n. moulton is living ( ) at la crosse, where he is engaged in the coal business. envoy--(first)--in galena trade . envoy--(second)--stern-wheel; built at west elizabeth, pa., ; tons; at st. paul --capt. martin, clerk e. carlton; at st. paul . eolian--stern-wheel; built at brownsville, pa., ; tons; in minnesota river trade --captain troy; same trade ; . equator--stern-wheel; built at beaver, pa., ; tons; in st. paul trade , ; minnesota river --captain sencerbox; wrecked in great storm on lake st. croix april --captain asa b. green, pilots charles jewell, geo. b. merrick; engineer john lay; mate russel ruley. excelsior--side-wheel; built at brownsville, pa., ; tons; st. louis & st. paul trade ; captain james ward, owner and captain; same ; arrived at st. paul nov. , , with tons of freight, taken at $ . per hundredweight for any distance; over $ , in the trip. in made round trips from st. louis to st. paul; "billy" henderson owned the bar on this boat and sold oranges and lemons, wholesale, along the river; , captain owen; , capt. james ward; , capt. kingman; , capt. conway, in st. paul trade. express--one of the first boats to reach fort snelling prior to . falcon--capt. legrand morehouse, st. louis, galena, dubuque & potosi regular packet ; same ; in august, in galena and st. peters trade, reports very low water at st. peters; , capt. morehouse, st. louis and galena regular packet. falls city--stern-wheel; built , at wellsville, ohio, by st. anthony falls merchants, who ran her to the foot of the falls in order to show that the river was navigable to that point; feet long, feet beam, boilers; captain gilbert, ; in st. louis trade , and got caught in great ice jam at st. louis that year; capt. jackins, ; wintered above the lake and was sunk by ice in lake pepin in april, . tons. fairy queen--at st. paul . fanny harris--stern-wheel; tons; built at cincinnati, and owned by dubuque merchants; put into st. paul trade in , from dubuque and dunleith, capt. jones worden, clerk charles hargus; same ; , capt. anderson, clerk chas. hargus, second clerk geo. b. merrick, in galena, dunleith & st. paul packet co.; same , ; capt. w. h. gabbert ; wintered at prescott; , capt. william faucette, clerks hargus and merrick, engineers mcdonald and william hamilton, pilots james mccoy, harry tripp, james black, thomas burns and thomas cushing, mate "billy" wilson; went up minnesota river in april, three hundred miles to bring down sherman's battery; thos. burns raised a company for the th illinois in ; capt. faucette in command ; merrick left her for the war in august, ; she was sunk by the ice at point douglass in ; charles hargus died at dubuque, august , . fanny lewis--of st. louis, at st. paul. favorite--side-wheel; minnesota river packet ; same , capt. p. s. davidson; transferred to la crosse trade in ; capt. p. s. davidson, , in la crosse trade; minnesota river trade ; tons burden. fayette--at fort snelling may , ; reported at st. croix falls may , . fire canoe--stern-wheel; built at lawrence, ohio, ; tons; at st. paul may, --captain baldwin; ; --captain spencer; in minnesota river trade ; sunk by ice in lake pepin, three miles below wacouta, april, ; passengers and crew were taken off by "fanny harris", which was near her when she sank. fleetwood--at st. paul june , . flora--stern-wheel; built at california, pa., ; tons; st. paul trade ; dubuque and st. paul , in dubuque and st. paul packet co. forest rose--built at california, pa., ; tons; at st. paul . fortune--bought by captain pierce atchison in april, , at cincinnati at a cost of $ , , for st. louis & galena trade; same trade ; same ; sunk, sept., , on upper rapids. frank steele--small side-wheel; length feet; beam feet; capt. w. f. davidson, in minnesota river trade ; same ; same trade, capt. j. r. hatcher, , and spring of ; transferred to la crosse & st. paul trade , in davidson's line; same ; minnesota river . fred lorenz--stern-wheel; built at belle vernon, pa., ; tons; capt. parker, st. louis & st. paul line, , , ; in northern line packet co., st. louis & st. paul, captain i. n. mason, , . freighter--in minnesota river trade , ; captain john farmer, . she was sold, , to captain john b. davis, who took a cargo for the red river of the north, and attempted to run her via lake traverse and big stone lake, and over the portage to red river. his attempt was made too late in the season, on a falling river, with the result that the "freighter" was caught about ten miles from big stone lake and was a total loss. her timbers remained for many years a witness to captain davis's lack of caution. frontier--new ; built by d. s. and r. s. harris, of galena; captain d. smith harris, engineer r. scribe harris, arrived at fort snelling may , . fulton--tenth steamboat to arrive at fort snelling prior to ; at galena, advertised for st. peters, june, . g. b. knapp--small stern-wheel; tons, built and commanded by geo. b. knapp, of osceola, wisconsin; ran in the st. croix river trade most of the time. g. h. wilson--small stern-wheel; built for towboat, and powerfully engined; tons; at st. paul first ; afterward in northern line as low water boat; sunk opposite dakota, minnesota, . g. w. sparhawk--side-wheel; built at wheeling, va., ; tons; in st. paul trade ; sunk one mile below nininger, minnesota. galena--(first)--built at cincinnati for captain david g. bates; scribe harris went from galena to cincinnati and brought her out as engineer, david g. bates, captain; at galena , , , . galena--(second)--captain p. connolly, at galena, in galena & st. peters trade; nearly wrecked in great wind storm on lake pepin in june, ; j. w. dinan, clerk, august , ; at dubuque nov. , , at which time she reports upper river clear of ice, although fever river is frozen so that boats cannot make that port; , captain goll, clerk john stephens. galena--(third)--side-wheel; tons; built at cincinnati for galena & minnesota packet company; in st. paul trade, d. b. morehouse, ; captain russell blakeley ; captain kennedy lodwick, ; captain w. h. laughton, ; first boat through lake , arriving at st. paul at a. m., may ; passed "golden state" and "war eagle" under way between lake pepin and st. paul; there were twelve boats in sight when she got through; burned and sunk at red wing in , the result of carelessness, a deck passenger having dropped a lighted match into some combustible freight; several lives lost; had staterooms. galenian--at galena march , . general brooke--side-wheel; built ; captain joseph throckmorton, at galena, from st. peters, may , ; seven trips galena to st. peters, ; at galena ; sold to captain joseph la barge, of st. louis, in , for $ , , to run on the missouri; continued in that trade until , when she was burned at st. louis levee. general pike--side-wheel; built at cincinnati, ohio, ; tons; at st. paul ; . gipsey--(first)--in galena trade, ; at galena, for st. peters, ; at fort snelling with treaty goods for chippewa indians, oct. , ; captain gray, at fort snelling, may , . gipsey--(second)--stern-wheel; built at california, pa., ; tons; at st. paul, ; . glaucus--captain g. w. atchison, in galena trade, ; at fort snelling, may , , and again june , . glenwood--at st. paul . globe--captain haycock, in minnesota river trade, , , . golden eagle--at st. paul . golden era--side-wheel; built at wheeling, va., ; tons; in minnesota packet company; captain hiram bersie, ; captain pierce atchison, at st. paul, from galena, may, ; later in season captain j. w. parker, dawley, clerk; captain parker, ; captain sam harlow and captain scott in , in galena, dunleith & st. paul line; same line ; captain laughton, in la crosse & st. paul line ; captain laughton, in dunleith line ; captain w. h. gabbert, in dunleith line . golden state--side-wheel; built at mckeesport, pa., ; tons; --captain n. f. webb, chas. hargus, clerk; , captain scott, clerk frank ward, in galena, dunleith & st. paul line; at st. paul . goody friends--at st. paul . gossamer--at st. paul . gov. briggs--at galena july , , and , , in galena & potosi run. gov. ramsey--built by captain john rawlins, above the falls of st. anthony, to run between st. anthony and sauk rapids; machinery built in bangor, maine, and brought by way of new orleans and up the mississippi river. grace darling--at st. paul . grand prairie--side-wheel; built at gallipolis, ohio, ; tons; made three trips from st. louis to st. paul ; in st. paul trade . granite state--side-wheel; built at west elizabeth, pa., ; tons; in minnesota packet company, --captain j. y. hurd; --captain w. h. gabbert, galena, dunleith & st. paul line. greek slave--side-wheel; captain louis robert, ; made trips rock island to st. paul in ; st. paul trade ; captain wood ; st. paul trade . grey cloud--side-wheel; built at elizabeth, ky., ; tons; st. louis & st. paul trade ; . grey eagle--large side-wheel; built at cincinnati, ohio, by captain d. smith harris, for the minnesota packet company; cost $ , ; length feet; beam feet; hold feet; four boilers, inches diameter, feet long; cylinders inches diameter, feet stroke; wheels feet diameter, feet buckets, feet dip; tons burden; launched spring of ; captain d. smith harris, clerks john s. pim and f. m. gleim; engineers hiram hunt and william briggs; in galena, dunleith & st. paul trade , and ; in st. louis and st. paul trade , ; sunk by striking rock island bridge, may , , at o'clock in the evening going downstream. captain harris was in the pilot house with the rapids pilot when a sudden gust of wind veered her from her course and threw her against the abutment; she sank in less than five minutes, with the loss of seven lives. captain harris sold out all his interest in the packet company and retired from the river, broken-hearted over the loss of his beautiful steamer, which was the fastest boat ever in the upper river. she had made the run from galena to st. paul at an average speed of - / miles per hour, delivering her mail at all landings during the run. h. s. allen--small stern-wheel; minnesota river boat , , , ; after went into st. croix river trade as regular packet between prescott and st. croix falls, captain william gray, pilots chas. jewell, geo. b. merrick. h. t. yeatman--stern-wheel; built at freedom, pa., ; tons; wintered above lake, at point douglass, - ; left st. paul for head of lake, april , , and was sunk at hastings by heading into rocks at levee, staving hole in bow; drifted down and lodged on bar one-half mile below landing; in minnesota river trade , . h. m. rice--minnesota river packet . hamburg--large side-wheel; captain j. b. estes, clerk frederick k. stanton, dubuque and st. paul packet, ; captain rowe, st. louis & st. paul trade , ; at st. paul . hannibal city--sunk, , at foot of broken chute. harmonia--stern-wheel; captain allen, at st. paul, from fulton city, iowa, . hastings--at st. paul . hawkeye state--large side-wheel; in northern line; at st. paul ; same trade, captain r. c. gray, , , st. louis & st. paul; same line ; tons; made trips st. louis to st. paul . hazel dell--at st. paul . heilman--sunk , half way between missouri point and second ravine below grafton, mo. helen--at galena april , , from st. louis. henrietta--stern-wheel; built at california, pa., ; tons; trips to st. paul, ; --captain c. b. goll; st. paul trade , , , . henry clay--new ; in northern line; captain campbell ; captain chas. stephenson ; at st. paul ; captain chas. stephenson ; captain c. b. goll ; sunk by confederate batteries at vicksburg . henry graff--stern-wheel; built at belle vernon, pa., ; tons; st. paul ; --captain mcclintock, clerk stewart, at st. paul from st. louis. herald--at galena july , , from st. louis. hermione--captain d. smith harris, at galena, prior to . heroine--in galena trade ; sunk or burned same year. hibernian--at galena, for st. peters, ; same , captain miller, clerk hopkins. highlander--in upper river trade, burnt at the levee, at st. louis, may , ; valued at $ , . highland mary--(first)--sunk, , at foot of thomas chute. highland mary--(second)--galena & st. paul trade , captain joseph atchison; arrived at st. paul april , , together with the "nominee", first arrivals of the season, captain atchison in command; she was sold to captain joseph la barge to run on the missouri in ; was greatly damaged by fire at st. louis july , . (captain jos. atchison died of cholera, which was very prevalent on the river in , and his boat was temporarily withdrawn from service.) hindoo--two trips to st. paul, from st. louis, in . hudson--(first)--upper river trade about , at which time she was at fort snelling; sunk one mile below guttenburg landing, iowa. hudson--(second)--stern-wheel; tons; still running, . humboldt--eleven trips to st. paul ; in st. paul trade . huntress--in galena trade . huntsville--at galena may and may , , from st. louis; clerk hopkins. ida may--st. paul . illinois--captain mcallister, in galena trade . imperial--large side-wheel; burned at the levee at st. louis in by rebel emissary, as is supposed. indiana--fifth steamboat at fort snelling prior to ; captain fay, at galena, . indian queen--captain saltmarsh, at galena . iola--made five trips to st. paul ; in st. paul trade , . ione--in galena trade ; made pleasure trip galena to st. peters, ; captain leroy dodge, in galena trade , also . (captain james ward, afterward one of the most successful steamboatmen from st. louis, was carpenter on this boat.) iowa--captain legrand morehouse, clerk hopkins, in galena trade ; same captain, in galena and st. peters trade , . she was a side-wheel steamboat of tons burden, and cost her captain $ , to build. snagged and sunk at iowa island sept. , , in her third year; total loss. irene--at galena, for st. peters, june, . iron city--at galena nov. , , from pittsburg; at galena oct. , ; last boat out of galena nov. , , at which date fevre river closed; at galena april , , from st. louis, captain j. c. ainsworth; same trade and same captain , ; crushed and sunk by ice at st. louis, dec. , , killing the cook and steward. isaac shelby--at st. paul nov. , ; in minnesota river trade , . itasca--side-wheel; new ; sister boat to "key city"; feet long, feet beam; tons; cylinders -inch, seven feet stroke; wheels feet diameter, feet buckets; captain david whitten, clerks chas. horton and w. s. lewis, ; prairie du chien and st. paul , , , captain whitten; st. louis & st. paul, captain whitten, ; dunleith & st. paul , , captain j. y. hurd; burned at la crosse nov. , . j. bissel--captain bissell, from pittsburg, ; in minnesota river trade , . j. b. gordon--minnesota river boat . j. m. mason--stern-wheel; sunk , above duck creek chain, rock island rapids; hit rock and stove. jacob poe--st. paul . jacob traber--large stern-wheel; had double wheels, operated by independent engines; very slow; at st. paul , , . james lyon--stern-wheel; built at belle vernon, pa., ; tons; at st. paul, from st. louis, , ; --captain blake; ; went into missouri river trade, and was snagged and sunk at miami bend, missouri river, ; total loss. jasper--made seven trips galena to st. peters, minn., . james raymond--stern-wheel; built at cincinnati, ohio, ; tons; show boat; at st. paul ; william fisher piloted her for one season. jeanette roberts--small stern-wheel; captain louis robert , , in minnesota river trade; captain f. aymond , same trade; same trade , , ; tons. jennie whipple--small stern-wheel boat, built for chippewa river trade; at st. paul . jenny lind--stern-wheel; built at zanesville, ohio, ; tons; one trip to st. paul ; at st. paul . jo daviess--captain d. smith harris, in galena and st. peters trade prior to . john hardin--built at pittsburg , for st. louis, galena and upper river trade. john p. luce--at st. paul . john rumsey--stern-wheel; captain nathaniel harris, chippewa river boat . josephine--(first)--ninth steamboat to reach fort snelling; arrived there ; at galena , capt. j. clark; in galena & st. louis trade , captain j. clark. josephine--(second)--stern-wheel; st. paul trade , , . julia--(first)--side-wheel; snagged in bellefontaine bend, missouri river, about . julia--(second)--in upper river trade . julia dean--small stern-wheel, at st. paul , . kate cassell--stern-wheel; built at california, pa., ; tons; at st. paul ; wintered above the lake; --captain sam. harlow, clerk chas. hargus; geo. b. merrick and sam. fifield made their first appearance on the river as pantry boys on this boat this season; russell ruley mate, nat. blaisdell, engineer; at st. paul . kate french--captain french, at st. paul , from st. louis. kentucky--side-wheel; captain w. h. atchison, at galena april , , from st. louis; in sept. same year, captain montgomery, running from galena to the rapids, and connecting there with the "anthony wayne" and "lucy bertram" for st. louis, not being able to run the rapids on account of low water. kentucky no. --side-wheel; built at evansville, ind., ; tons; at st. paul ; owned by captain rissue, of prescott; at st. paul ; sunk on bar at foot of puitt's island, one mile below prescott, . keokuk--side-wheel; st. paul trade , ; captain e. v. holcomb, in minnesota packet company, la crosse & st. paul, , ; davidson's line, la crosse & st. paul, ; first boat at winona, april , , captain j. r. hatcher; tons. key city--side-wheel; new ; built for the minnesota packet co.; sister boat to "itasca"; length feet, beam feet, tons burden; very fast; captain jones worden, clerk george s. pierce, , galena, dunleith & st. paul run; same , ; same captain, in st. louis & st. paul run, , ; same captain, in dunleith & st. paul run, . "ned" west was pilot of the "key city" every season, i think, from to . he was one of the very best pilots on the upper river. he died at st. paul in . key stone--side-wheel; built at brownsville, pa., ; tons. key west--at st. paul . knickerbocker--at fort snelling june , . laclede--(first)--built at st. louis in , for the keokuk packet co.; burned at st. louis august , . laclede--(second)--stern-wheel; built at california, pa., ; tons; at st. paul , , --captain vorhies at st. paul from st. louis; st. paul . la crosse--at st. paul, from pittsburg, --captain brickle; again . lady franklin--side-wheel; built at wheeling, va., ; tons; at st. paul june , , for first time; in minnesota packet company; at st. paul, from st. louis, may , , with passengers--captain j. w. malin, clerks ed. w. halliday, orren smith; --captain m. e. lucas, at st. paul; sunk at foot of coon slough fall of --snagged. lady marshall--in st. louis & galena trade . lady washington--captain shellcross, at galena, loading for fort snelling, . lake city--stern-wheel; built at pittsburg ; captain sloan, at st. paul ; in st. paul trade , ; burned by guerrillas at carson's landing, mo., . lake of the woods--at galena, from st. louis, june , . lamartine--first trip to st. paul ; went up to falls of st. anthony ; at st. paul june , . lasalle--at galena from st. louis, april , . latrobe--stern-wheel; built at brownsville, pa., ; tons; at st. paul from st. louis, . lawrence--sixth steamboat to reach fort snelling; arrived there in . lewis f. lynn--captain s. m. kennett, at st. peters, from galena, . light foot--in company with "time and tide" took excursion from st. louis to fort snelling in ; captain m. k. harris, first boat at galena from st. louis april , ; at galena sept. , . linn--at galena, for st. anthony falls, may, . (possibly intended for "lewis f. lynn".) little dove--captain h. hoskins, regular galena & st. peters packet, season . lloyd hanna--advertised for a pleasure excursion from galena to st. peters, summer of . lucie may--stern-wheel; built at west brownsville, pa., ; tons; in st. louis & st. paul trade , ; --captain j. b. rhodes, same trade; , northwestern line, st. louis & st. paul; sunk five miles below lagrange, mo., . lucy bertram--running from st. louis to the foot of rapids, summer of , in connection with "kentucky", running above rapids, forming a low water line from st. louis to galena. luella--stern-wheel; built at nashville, tenn., ; tons; first trip to st. paul fall of --captain d. smith harris; seven trips to st. paul , , --captain sam. harlow, galena & st. paul run; ; had boilers and engines of a much larger boat which had been sunk, and was consequently very fast; dismantled at dunleith. lynx--at galena from st. louis, , captain w. h. hooper; captain john atchison, galena & st. peters trade , mr. barger, clerk; captain atchison, in galena & st. peters trade , ; sunk at head of atlas island ; first through lake . maid of iowa--at galena june , ; running to fort winnebago (now portage, wis.) on wisconsin river, in connection with steamer "enterprise" on fox river, the two forming a line from green bay to galena; captain peter hotelling master and owner. malta--side-wheel; captain joseph throckmorton, at fort snelling july , ; advertised at galena in summer of for pleasure trip to st. peters; went into missouri river trade, where she was snagged in malta bend, august, , and sank in feet of water, in little more than a minute after striking a snag; boat and cargo total loss; no lives lost; captain throckmorton was in command at the time and owned nearly all or quite all of the boat. mandan--side-wheel; fourth boat to arrive at fort snelling prior to ; snagged at mouth of gasconade river, on the missouri, sometime in the forties; captain phil hanna, master at the time. mansfield--stern-wheel; built at belle vernon, pa., ; tons; st. paul , --captain owens; clerk bryant. martha no. --built at shousetown, pa., ; tons; at st. paul april , , from st. louis; . mary blane--captain j. c. smith, regular st. louis and galena packet, . mary c--at st. paul . mattie wayne--side-wheel; built at cincinnati, ohio, ; tons; at st. paul ; greatly damaged by fire at st. louis . medora--owned in st. paul by william constans, ; captain ed. mclagan, in minnesota river trade . mendota--captain robert a. reilly, at st. peters, from galena, ; same captain, in st. louis & galena trade ; captain starnes, in st. louis & galena trade ; snagged opposite cat island october, , but raised. mermaid--side-wheel; in collision with steamer "st. croix", near quincy, april , ; larboard wheel and cook's galley knocked off. messenger--large stern-wheel; built at pittsburg, pa., ; tons; very fast, in st. paul trade in opposition to minnesota packet company, , from st. louis; raced with "key city" for championship of upper river and was defeated. metropolitan--very large side-wheel; st. louis & st. paul trade ; captain thos. b. rhodes, same trade ; northwestern line, same captain, , ; captain j. b. jenks ; captain thos. b. buford ; sunk at st. louis by breaking of ice jams, dec. , ; valued at $ , . milwaukee--large side-wheel; one of the crack boats of the minnesota packet company, built at cincinnati winter of ; feet long, feet beam; tons burden; captain stephen hewitt, in prairie du chien & st. paul run , , ; captain john cochrane, in dunleith & st. paul run , ; captain e. v. holcombe, in dunleith run . minnesota--(first)--stern-wheel; built at elizabethtown, ky., ; at st. paul, from galena, --captain r. a. riley; at st. paul june , ; , , captain hay, in minnesota river trade. minnesota belle--side-wheel; built at belle vernon, pa., ; tons; , , --captain humbertson, in st. louis & st. paul trade; --captain thos. b. hill, same trade; , in northern line, st. louis & st. paul, captain hill. minnesota valley--at st. paul . missouri fulton--captain culver, first part ; at galena for st. peters, captain clark later in ; arrived at fort snelling may , , captain orren smith; same captain, in galena & st. peters trade . mohawk--sunk , at head of clarkesville island. mondiana--at galena, from st. louis, june , . monitor--small stern-wheel, tons, from pittsburg, at st. paul, . monona--at galena from st. louis march , , captain nick wall; sunk opposite little washington, missouri river, oct. , ; raised; in galena & st. peters trade, captain e. h. gleim, ; at galena, from st. louis, april , , captain ludlow chambers. montauk--(first)--at galena oct. , , from st. louis; at galena, from st. louis , captain john lee; regular packet. montauk--(second)--stern-wheel; built at california, pa., ; tons; at st. paul from st. louis, ; --captain parker, from st. louis; --captain burke, clerks mullen and ditto, from st. louis. montello--small stern-wheel from fox river, wis., in minnesota river trade ; built over hull of barge--no boiler deck. moses mclellan--side-wheel; built at cincinnati, ohio, ; tons; captain martin, in davidson line, la crosse & st. paul, . mount deming--at st. paul . mungo park--at galena from st. louis april , ; regular packet. muscoda--captain j. h. lusk, in galena trade . navigator--large stern-wheel; captain a. t. champlin, in st. louis & st. paul trade ; same trade ; tons; built at pittsburg, by william dean. neiville--second steamboat to arrive at fort snelling prior to . nellie kent--small stern-wheel, built at osceola, wis., by captain kent, to run between prescott and st. croix falls. new haven--at galena, for st. louis, nov. , ; regular st. louis, galena, dubuque & potosi packet, , captain geo. l. king; at galena june , . new st. paul--side-wheel; built at new albany, ind., ; tons; captain james bissell; went into missouri river trade, and was snagged and sunk at st. albert's island, aug. , ; boat and cargo total loss; boat cost $ , . new york--at st. paul . nimrod--at galena from st. louis, june , ; american fur company boat; went into missouri river trade. nominee--side-wheel; built at shousetown, pa., ; tons; captain d. smith harris, arrived at st. paul, april , , in company with "highland mary", first boats through lake; in minnesota packet co.; captain orren smith, at st. paul april , , p. m., first boat through lake; captain russell blakeley, trips galena to st. paul, ; captain russell blakeley, first boat at st. paul april , ; sunk below britt's landing, ; mr. maitland was clerk in . northerner--side-wheel; built at cincinnati, ohio, ; tons; very fast; contested with "key city" for championship of upper river, but was beaten; in northern line, st. louis & st. paul; captain pliny a. alford, commanded her , , , , ; burned at st. louis prior to . northern belle--side-wheel; tons; built at cincinnati, under supervision of captain preston lodwick in , for minnesota packet co.; feet long, feet beam, light draft and very handsomely finished, outside and in; galena & st. paul line , captain preston lodwick; captain j. y. hurd, dunleith line, ; same captain, in la crosse line ; same captain, in dunleith line, ; in la crosse line, captain w. h. laughton, ; took five companies of the first minnesota infantry volunteers from st. paul to la crosse, june , ; captain w. h. laughton, in davidson's la crosse line, . northern light--large side-wheel; built at cincinnati for minnesota packet co., winter of ; length feet, beam feet, hold feet; tons; cylinders inches, seven feet stroke; boilers, inches diameter, feet long; wheels feet diameter, feet buckets, inches dip; came out in the spring of with captain preston lodwick, clerks j. d. dubois and k. c. cooley; engineers james kinestone and geo. radebaugh; mate james morrison; had oil paintings of st. anthony falls, dayton bluffs and maiden rock in panels in the cabin; paddle boxes had paintings of _aurora borealis_; captain p. lodwick, in galena, dunleith & st. paul line , , ; same captain, in st. louis & st. paul line ; captain john b. davis, st. louis line ; captain gabbert, in dunleith line ; sunk in first bend below head of coon slough, by jackson harris, pilot, who swung stern of boat into solid shore ice in making fast turn of the bend, tearing out the stern of the boat and sinking her in feet of water in a few minutes. north star--built above the falls of st. anthony by captain john rawlins in ; running from st. anthony to sauk rapids until . nugget--stern-wheel; snagged april , , abreast dacota city, nebr., on missouri river; boat and cargo total loss; boat valued at $ , . oakland--stern-wheel; built at california, pa., ; tons; captain c. s. morrison, at st. paul, ; at st. paul from st. louis , , . ocean wave--side-wheel; built at elizabeth, ky., ; tons; very short boat and very hard to steer; cost $ , ; in minnesota packet company, captain e. h. gleim ; , captain andrews in spring, and captain james in fall, in galena & st. paul line; , --captain scott, in prairie du chien line; , captain n. f. webb, in dunleith line; , captain webb, in la crosse line. odd fellow--cline, master, at galena . ohio--captain mark atchison, in galena trade ; at galena for st. louis, nov. , . olive branch--captain strother, at galena, for st. louis, april , . omega--at galena for st. peters, minnesota, spring of , captain joseph sire, pilot joseph la barge; owned by american fur co.; went into the missouri river trade. orb--stern-wheel; built at wheeling, va., ; tons; at st. paul from st. louis, , captain spencer. osceola--small stern-wheel boat, built for st. croix river trade; at st. paul . osprey--in st. louis & galena trade , captain n. w. parker; same trade , . oswego--at st. paul nov. , . otter--built and owned by harris brothers; d. smith harris, captain; r. scribe harris, engineer; in galena and st. peters trade , ; trips to st. peters in ; captain scribe harris, in same trade , ; arrived at galena from st. peters, april , , having passed through lake on up trip; in same trade , ; harris bros, sold her in ; her engines were taken out and placed in the "tiger" prior to . palmyra--captain cole, arrived at fort snelling june , , with a pleasure excursion consisting of some ladies and gentlemen from galena; in galena & st. peters trade , captain middleton; arrived at fort snelling july , , bringing the official notice of the sioux treaty, opening of st. croix valley to settlers; also brought machinery for sawmill to be built on st. croix, and mr. calvin tuttle, millwright, with a number of workers to erect the mill. panola--at st. paul . parthenia--stern-wheel; built at california, pa., ; tons; in st. paul trade , . pavilion--captain lafferty, at galena for st. peters, june , . pearl--at galena for st. louis, march , ; same october, , montgomery, master; regular galena & st. peters trade ; also for st. croix falls. pembina--side-wheel; in northwestern line and northern line; captain thos. h. griffith, st. louis & st. paul , , ; captain john b. hill, same trade , . pennsylvania--captain stone, at st. paul june , . pike--at galena, on her way up the river, sept. , ; arrived at fort snelling with troops sept. , ; arrived again sept. , ; in same trade . pilot--at galena from st. louis, sept. , . pizarro--at galena, new ; built by captain r. scribe harris; feet long, feet beam, tons burden; in galena trade . planet--at galena from st. louis may , . plow boy--side-wheel; tons; snagged above providence, mo., on missouri river, . pomeroy--minnesota river boat, captain bell . potosi--collapsed flue at quincy, ill., october , , killing two passengers; at galena, ill., from st. louis, april , . prairie bird--captain nick wall, in galena, st. louis & st. peters trade ; at galena april , ; at galena, april , , captain nick wall, same trade; tons burden; cost $ , ; sunk above keithsburg, iowa, . prairie rose--stern-wheel; built at brownsville, pa., ; tons; in st. louis and st. paul trade, , captain maratta. prairie state--(first)--one of the early boats on the upper river; exploded boilers at pekin, ill., april , , killing of the deck passengers and crew. prairie state--(second)--stern-wheel; tons; horse power; captain truett, st. louis & st. paul packet, . pre-emption--built by harris bros., of galena; captain d. smith harris, some time prior to . progress--stern-wheel; built at shousetown, pa., ; tons; captain goodell, at st. paul, loading for st. louis, . quincy--in galena trade . raritan--captain rogers, at galena . rebus--st. paul trade . red rover--captain throckmorton, in galena trade , , . red wing--(first)--side-wheel; feet beam; new ; captain berger, in st. louis & st. peters regular trade, ; at galena april, ; clerk green; captain berger, st. louis & st. peters, , . red wing--(second)--side-wheel; at st. paul ; captain woodburn, at st. paul ; captain ward, latter part ; captain ward, at st. paul . red wing--(third)--in northwestern line, - ; side-wheel, tons burden. regulator--stern-wheel; built at shousetown, pa., ; tons; in st. louis & st. paul trade . relief--captain d. smith harris, prior to . rescue--stern-wheel; built at shousetown, pa., ; tons; built for towboat; very fast; captain irvine, at st. paul from pittsburg, . reserve--at st. paul . resolute--stern-wheel (towboat); very powerful engines; tons; owned by capt. r. c. gray, of pittsburg tow-boat line. reveille--small stern-wheel; wintered above the lake ; st. paul trade , , . reveille--at galena, from st. louis, april , ; regular packet in that trade; (do not know whether it is the same as above). revenue--captain turner, in galena trade ; burned on illinois river, may , . revenue cutter--captain mcmahan and oliver harris, owners, mcmahan, master, at galena, from st. louis, may , ; in galena & st. peters trade; bought to take place of steamer "cora" sold to go into missouri river trade. robert fulton--at st. paul july , . rochester--built at belle vernon, pa., ; tons; at st. paul . rocket--at st. paul from st. louis, . rock river--small boat, owned and commanded by augustin havaszthy, count de castro, an hungarian exile; in galena and upper river trade ; made trips between galena & st. peters once in two weeks during season of ; in same trade , ; laid up for winter at wacouta, head of lake, in fall of , her cook and several others of the crew walking on the ice to la crosse; the captain and two or three others remained on board all winter, and in the spring, as soon as the ice was out of the lake, went south with the boat, which ran on some lower river tributary, and the count was lost sight of. rolla--at galena for st. peters, june , ; had on board major tallaferro, u. s. a., with a party of indians; arrived at fort snelling nov. , , bringing delegations of chiefs who had been to washington to make a treaty whereby the st. croix valley was opened to settlers; collapsed a flue and burned near rock island, ill., november, , killing one fireman and severely scalding the engineer on watch. rosalie--(first)--in galena and st. louis trade . rosalie--(second)--stern-wheel; built at brownsville, pa., ; tons; captain rounds, from pittsburg, with stoves and hardware, sunk below st. paul ; was raised and continued in st. paul trade, , . royal arch--side-wheel; built at west elizabeth, pa., ; tons; captain e. h. gleim, in minnesota packet co., ; ; , same line; sunk opposite nine mile island . rufus putnam--third steamboat to reach fort snelling; arrived there in . rumsey--small minnesota river boat; sunk on mud flat opposite levee at st. paul. sam gaty--large side-wheel; built at st. louis, mo., ; tons, horse-power engines; captain vickers, at st. paul ; went into missouri river trade; struck a bluff bank at point opposite arrow rock, mo., knocked her boilers down and set fire to boat, burned and sank, june , . she had been a money-maker for many years, both on the mississippi and on the missouri. sam kirkman--at st. paul . sam. young--built at shousetown, pa., ; tons; at st. paul ; captain reno, from pittsburg, at st. paul . sangamon--stern-wheel; built at new albany, ind., ; tons; captain r. m. spencer, at st. paul . saracen--new ; built at new albany, ind., captain h. b. stran, clerk casey, at st. paul . sarah ann--captain lafferty, in galena trade ; sunk, , at head of island ; raised; regular st. louis & galena packet. saxon--at st. paul . science--running between st. louis and fort winnebago, on the wisconsin (now portage); made three trips to the fort in with troops and government supplies. sciota--seventeenth steamboat to arrive at fort snelling prior to . senator--at galena, from st. louis, april , , first; captain e. m. mccoy; in galena and upper river trade ; bought by harris brothers ; captain d. smith harris, in galena & st. peters trade ; arrived at galena, from st. peters april , reporting heavy ice in lake pepin, but was able to get through; captain orren smith, , , in galena & st. paul trade. she was the second boat owned by the minnesota packet company, the "dr. franklin" being the first. shenandoah--made five trips to st. paul, from st. louis, in ; same trade ; was in great ice gorge at st. louis, february, . silver wave--stern-wheel; built at glasgow, ohio, ; tons; in upper river trade . skipper--at st. paul . smelter--captain d. smith harris, engineer scribe harris, galena & st. peters trade ; was one of the first boats on the upper river to be built with a cabin answering to the "boiler deck" of modern steamboats. snow drop--at st. paul . statesman--built at brownsville, pa., ; tons; at st. paul . stella whipple--stern-wheel; captain haycock, minnesota river trade, ; built for the chippewa river. st. anthony--side-wheel; feet long, feet beam, feet hold; staterooms; small boat, but highly finished and furnished for that time; hull built by s. speer, of belle vernon, pa., engines by stackhouse & nelson, of pittsburg, modeled by mr. king; captain a. g. montford, in galena & st. peters trade , regularly. st. croix--side-wheel; built by hiram bersie, william cupps, james ryan and james ward; captain hiram bersie, mate james ward, , in st. louis, galena & st. peters trade; in collision with "mermaid", near quincy, april , , losing her barge; damaged by fire may , ; in upper river trade , , , captain bersie, master. st. louis--stern-wheel; built at brownsville, pa., ; tons; at st. paul , . st. louis oak--side-wheel; captain coones, st. louis, galena & dubuque trade ; snagged and lost at head of howard's bend, missouri river, , captain dozier in command. st. paul--side-wheel; built at wheeling, va., , for harris bros., galena, ill.; , captain m. k. harris, in galena & st. paul trade; was very slow, and drew too much water for upper river trade; , captain bissell, at st. paul for st. louis; at st. paul . st. peters--(first)--captain joseph throckmorton, at st. peters and fort snelling july , ; brought as one of her passengers nicollet, who came to explore the northwest territory. st. peters--(second)--built and owned by captain james ward (formerly mate of the "st. croix"), who commanded her; burned at st. louis may , ; valued at $ , . sucker state--side-wheel; in northern line; captain thos. b. rhodes, in st. louis & st. paul line, , , ; captain james ward, in same line, ; was burned at alton slough, together with three or four other boats, while lying in winter quarters. sutler--captain d. smith harris, prior to . tempest--(first)--regular st. louis, galena, dubuque & potosi packet; at galena april , , captain john smith. tempest--(second)--side-wheel; went into missouri river trade and was snagged and lost about , at upper bonhomme island. thos. scott--large side-wheel; at st. paul, from st. louis, . tiger--had engines of old "otter"; captain maxwell, in st. paul trade ; same captain, in minnesota river trade , ; tons, horse power; very slow. tigress--large stern-wheel; tons; ohio river towboat; powerful engines and very fast; at st. paul ; sunk by confederate batteries at vicksburg . time--at galena may , ; regular st. louis & galena packet; at galena april , , from st. louis, captain wm. h. hooker, in regular trade; snagged and sunk one-half mile below pontoosuc, ia., august, . time and tide--(first)--captain d. smith harris, keeler harris, engineer, brought excursion party to fort snelling, in company with steamer "light foot", in ; at galena april , , e. w. gould, master, in regular st. louis, galena & st. peters trade. time and tide--(second)--stern-wheel; built at freedom, pa., ; tons; captain louis robert, at st. paul , ; same captain, in minnesota river trade , ; captain nelson robert, same trade . tishomingo--side-wheel; built at new albany, ind., ; tons; very fast boat; bought by one johnson, of winona, minn., from lower river parties, to run in opposition to minnesota packet company; was in st. paul trade , but lost money and was sold for debt at galena in winter of ; bought for $ , by captain sargent; reported as having left st. louis april , , jenks, master, for st. paul with cabin passengers and deck passengers, besides a full cargo of freight, worth to the boat about $ , . tunis--at st. paul . twin city--side-wheel; built at california, pa., ; tons; in st. paul trade ; burned at st. louis dec. , . uncle toby--captain geo. b. cole, at st. peters, from st. louis, ; at galena april , , from st. louis captain geo. b. cole; regular st. louis, galena & dubuque packet for season; , captain henry r. day, regular st. louis & st. peters packet; in same trade ; arrived at point douglass, minn., nov. , , and there unloaded and had freight hauled by team to st. paul on account of floating ice; put back from point douglass to st. louis. u. s. mail--at st. paul . valley forge--advertised a pleasure trip from galena to st. peters, . versailles--arrived at fort snelling may , , from galena. vienna--stern-wheel; built at monongahela, pa., ; tons; in st. louis & st. paul trade , . violet--at st. paul . virginia--at st. louis april, , with government stores for fort snelling, john shellcross, master; arrived at fort may , ; built at pittsburg; feet long, feet beam, tons. vixen--stern-wheel; built at st. paul; from pittsburg, , , . volant--thirteenth steamboat to arrive at fort snelling, prior to . w. g. woodside--built at moundsville, va., ; tons; at st. paul . w. h. denny--side-wheel; built at california, pa., ; tons; captain lyons, at st. paul from st. louis, ; sunk opposite head of fabius island . wm. l. ewing--large side-wheel; captain smith, st. louis & st. paul, ; in northwestern line, captain green, ; same ; northern line , , captain j. h. rhodes, st. louis & st. paul. w. s. nelson--captain jameson, at st. paul ; at st. paul . war eagle--(first)--built by harris brothers for galena & st. peters trade in ; tons burden; commanded by captain d. smith harris, scribe harris, engineer; in galena & st. peters trade , , ; st. louis & st. peters ; in harris bros. sold her and bought the "senator", in order to get a faster boat. war eagle--(second)--built at cincinnati, winter of - ; side-wheel; feet long, feet beam, tons; had staterooms; boilers, feet long; in minnesota packet company, captain d. smith harris, galena & st. paul, , , ; made the run from galena to st. paul, , in hours, handling all way freight; , captain kingman, clerks coffin and ball, in dunleith & st. paul line; captain w. h. gabbert, , same line; la crosse line ; captain j. b. davis, , in la crosse line; spring of started out from la crosse with following roster of officers: captain a. mitchell, clerk sam cook, second clerk e. a. johnson, pilots jackson harris, and william fisher; engineers troxell and wright; steward frank norris; later in the season captain mitchell was succeeded by captain chas. l. stephenson and ran in dunleith line; june , , left st. paul with five companies of the first minnesota infantry volunteers, the "northern belle" having the other five companies, which were landed at la crosse and transferred to the railroad for transportation to washington; , in dunleith line, captain n. f. webb; in st. paul trade , ; thomas cushing, master in latter year; burnt, la crosse (year not learned). warrior--built in by captain joseph throckmorton, for upper river trade; took part in the battle of bad axe, where the indians under blackhawk were defeated and dispersed, captain throckmorton in command of boat, e. h. gleim, clerk, william white, pilot; arrived at fort snelling on first trip of the season, june , , having among her passengers general geo. w. jones, u. s. a., captain day and lieut. beech, u. s. a., and catlin, the artist, on his way to study the indians of the northwest; at fort again july , ; at galena advertised for pittsburg, nov. , ; in galena & st. peters trade . wave--small stern-wheel; captain maxwell, in minnesota river trade, , . at galena, from st. louis, . (possibly another boat.) wenona--stern-wheel; built at belle vernon, pa., ; tons; captain l. brown, in minnesota river trade; also in st. croix river trade for a time; at st. paul . west newton--captain d. smith harris, , in galena & st. paul trade; first boat at st. paul , captain harris; made trips between galena and st. paul ; sunk at foot of west newton chute, below alma, in sept., . white bluff--at st. paul . white cloud--(first)--burnt at st. louis may , . white cloud--(second)--side-wheel; very fast; had double rudders; captain alford, from st. louis at st. paul, ; sunk at st. louis, feb. , , by ice; total loss. winnebago--built , by captain george w. atchison and captain joseph throckmorton; in galena & st. louis trade, jos. throckmorton, master; also visited fort snelling with government stores. winona--side-wheel; captain j. r. hatcher, davidson line, la crosse & st. paul, . wiota--new ; built and owned by captain r. a. reilly, corwith bros., and wm. hempstead, of galena; side-wheel, feet long, feet beam, feet hold; double engines, inch diameter, feet stroke, boilers, wheels feet diameter, feet buckets; gangway to boiler deck in front, instead of on the side as had been customary; in st. louis & galena trade, r. a. reilly, master. wisconsin--captain flaherty, at galena, for st. louis, april , . wyandotte--captain pierce, dubuque & st. paul line, . wyoming--in galena & st. louis trade . yankee--stern-wheel, feet long, tons burden, at st. paul sept. , ; august , , started on trip of miles up the minnesota river with a party of ladies and gentlemen, on an exploring expedition; captain m. k. harris, clerk g. r. girdon, pilot j. s. armstrong, engineers g. w. scott and g. l. sargent; reached a point many miles further up the river than had heretofore been reached by steamboats; at st. paul june , , captain orren smith. york state--side-wheel; built at brownsville, pa., ; tons; captain griffiths, in st. louis & st. paul trade ; at st. paul --captain james ward, who also owned her. appendix b _opening of navigation at st. paul, - _ =====+===============+==========+==============+===========+=====+========= | | | |length of | no. | total | | | |season (no.| of | no. of year | first boat | date | river closed |of days) |boats| arrivals -----+---------------+----------+--------------+-----------+-----+--------- | otter | april | november | | | | otter | april | november | | | | lynx | march | december | | | | cora | april | november | | | | senator | april | december | | | | highland mary | april | december | | | | highland mary | april | december | | | | nominee | april | november | | | | nominee | april | november | | | | west newton | april | november | | | | nominee | april | november | | | | war eagle | april | november | | | | lady franklin | april | november | | | | galena | may | november | | | | grey eagle | march | november | | | | key city | march | november | | | | milwaukee | march | november | | | | ocean wave | march | november | | | | keokuk | march | november | | | -----+---------------+----------+--------------+-----------+-----+--------- appendix c _table of distances from st. louis_ =========================+==========+=========+========== | |distance |government landing |estimated,|between |survey, | |ports | -------------------------+----------+---------+---------- alton, ill. | | -- | grafton, ill. | -- | | cap au gris, mo. | | | hamburg, ill. | -- | | clarkesville, mo. | | | louisiana, mo. | | | hannibal, mo. | | | quincy, ill. | | | la grange, mo. | | | canton, mo. | | | alexandria, mo. | | | warsaw, ill. | | -- | keokuk, iowa | | | montrose, iowa | | | nauvoo, ill. | | | fort madison, iowa | | | pontoosuc, ill. | | | dallas, ill. | | | burlington, iowa | | | oquawaka, ill. | | | keithsburg, ill. | | | new boston, ill. | | | port louisa, iowa | | | muscatine, iowa | | | buffalo, iowa | -- | | rock island, ill. | | | davenport, iowa | | | hampton, ill. | -- | | -------------------------+----------+---------+---------- =========================+==========+=========+========== | |distance |government landing |estimated,|between |survey, | |ports | -------------------------+----------+---------+---------- le claire, iowa | | | port byron, ill. | | -- | princeton, iowa | | | cordova, ill. | | | camanche, iowa | | | albany, ill. | | | clinton, iowa | | | fulton, ill. | | | lyons, iowa | | | sabula, ill. | | | savanna, ill. | | | bellevue, iowa | | | galena, ill. | | | dubuque, iowa | | | dunleith, ill. | | | wells' landing, iowa | | | cassville, wis. | | | guttenberg, iowa | | | glen haven, wis. | -- | | clayton, iowa | | | wisconsin river, wis. | -- | | mcgregor, iowa | | | prairie du chien, wis. | | | lynxville, wis. | | | lansing, iowa | | | de soto, wis. | | | victory, wis. | | | bad axe, wis. | | | warner's landing, wis. | -- | | brownsville, minn. | | | la crosse, wis. | | | dresbach, minn. | | | trempealeau, wis. | | | winona, minn. | | | fountain city, wis. | | | mount vernon, minn. | | | minneiska, minn. | | | buffalo city, wis. | | -- | -- alma, wis. | | | -------------------------+----------+---------+---------- =========================+==========+=========+========== | |distance |government landing |estimated,|between |survey, | |ports | -------------------------+----------+---------+---------- wabasha, minn. | | | reed's landing, minn. | | | north pepin, wis. | | | lake city, minn. | | | florence, minn. | | -- | -- frontenac, minn. | | -- | -- maiden rock, wis. | -- | | wacouta, minn. | | -- | -- stockholm, wis. | -- | | red wing, minn. | | | trenton, wis. | -- | | diamond bluff, wis. | | | prescott, wis. | | | point douglass, minn. | | | hastings, minn. | | | nininger, minn. | | | pine bend, minn. | | -- | -- newport, minn. | | | st. paul, minn. | | | st. anthony falls, minn. | | | -------------------------+----------+---------+---------- appendix d _improvement of the upper mississippi, - _ the following table gives in detail the different divisions into which the river was divided for convenience in letting contracts, and prosecuting the work of improvement, the number of miles covered in each division, and the amount expended in each in the ten years from to : ============================================+=======+============== division | miles | amt. expended --------------------------------------------+-------+-------------- st. anthony falls to st. paul | | $ , . st. paul to prescott | | , . prescott to head lake pepin | | , . harbor at lake city | -- | , . foot lake pepin to alma | | , . alma to winona | | , . winona to la crosse | | , . la crosse to mcgregor | | , . mcgregor to dubuque | | , . dubuque to clinton | | , . clinton to rock island | | , . rock island to keithsburg | | , . keithsburg to des moines rapids | | , . keokuk to quincy | | , . quincy to clarksville | | , . clarksville to cap au gris | | , . cap au gris to illinois river | | , . illinois river to mouth of missouri river | | , . miscellaneous, maintenance of snag-boats, | | dredges, wages, provisions, etc. | | , . | --- | ------------- | | $ , , . --------------------------------------------+-------+-------------- appendix e _indian nomenclature and legends_ the name mississippi is an amelioration of the harsher syllables of the indian tongue from which it sprang. dr. lafayette h. bunnell, late of winona, minnesota, a personal friend and old army comrade, is my authority for the names and spelling given below, as gleaned by him during many years' residence among the chippewa of wisconsin and the sioux (or dakota) of minnesota. dr. bunnell spoke both languages fluently, and in addition made a scholarly study of indian tongues for literary purposes. his evidence is conclusive, that so far as the northern tribes were concerned the mississippi was in the chippewa language, from which the name is derived: _mee-zee_ (great), _see'-bee_ (river)--great river. the dakota called it _wat-pah-tah'-ka_ (big river). the sauk, foxes, and potawatomi, related tribes, all called it: _mee-chaw-see'-poo_ (big river). the winnebago called it: _ne-scas-hut'-ta-ra_ (the bluff-walled river). thus six out of seven tribes peopling its banks united in terming it the "great river". dr. bunnell disposes of the romantic fiction that the indians called it the "great father of waters", by saying that in chippewa this would be: _miche-nu-say'-be-gong_--a term that he never heard used in speaking of the stream; and old wah-pa-sha, chief of the dakota living at winona, assured the doctor that he had never heard an indian use it. the chippewa did, however, have a superlative form of the name: _miche-gah'-see-bee_ (great, endless river), descriptive of its (to them) illimitable length. dr. bunnell suggests the derivation of the name michigan, as applied to the lake and state. the chippewa term for any great body of water, like lakes michigan, superior, or huron, is: _miche-gah'-be-gong_ (great, boundless waters). it was very easy for the white men who first heard this general term as applied to the lake, to accept it as a proper name, and to translate the indian term into michigan, as we have it to-day. it is a source of gratification that the names applied to the great river by the jesuit fathers who first plied their birch-bark canoes upon its surface, did not stick. they were wonderful men, those old missionaries, devoted and self-sacrificing beyond belief; but when it came to naming the new-found lands and rivers, there was a monotony of religious nomenclature. rivière st. louis and rivière de la conception are neither of them particularly descriptive of the great river. in this connection it must be said, however, that there was something providential in the zeal of the good missionaries in christening as they did, the ports at either end of the upper river run. the mention of st. louis and st. paul lent the only devotional tinge to steamboat conversation in the fifties. without this there would have been nothing religious about that eight hundred miles of western water. even as it was, skepticism crept in with its doubts and questionings. we all know who st. paul was, and his manner of life; but it is difficult to recall just what particular lines of holiness were followed by louis xiv to entitle him to canonization. trempealeau mountain, as it is called, situated two miles above trempealeau landing, wisconsin, is another marvel of nature that attracted the attention of the indians. it is an island of limestone, capped with sandstone, rising four hundred feet above the level of the river. between the island and the mainland is a slough several hundred feet wide, which heads some five or six miles above. the winnebago gave it a descriptive name: _hay-me-ah'-shan_ (soaking mountain). in dakota it was _min-nay-chon'-ka-hah_ (pronounced minneshon'ka), meaning bluff in the water. this was translated by the early french voyageurs into: _trempe à l'eau_--the mountain that bathes its feet in the water. there is no other island of rock in the mississippi above the upper rapids; none rising more than a few feet above the water. it is but natural that the indians who for centuries have peopled the banks of the mississippi, should have many legends attaching to prominent or unusual features of the river scenery. where the indians may have failed, imaginative palefaces have abundantly supplied such deficiencies. there is one legend, however, that seems to have had its foundation in fact--that of the tragedy at maiden rock, or lover's leap, the bold headland jutting out into lake pepin on the wisconsin side, some six or eight miles below the head of the lake. dr. bunnell devoted much study to this legend, and his conclusion is that it is an historic fact. divested of the multiplicity of words and metaphor with which the indian story-teller, the historian of his tribe, clothes his narrative, the incident was this: in the days of wah-pa-sha the first, chief of the dakota band of that name, there was, in the village of keoxa, near the site of the present minnesota city of winona, in the latter part of the eighteenth century, a maiden whose name was winona (_wi-no-na_: first-born daughter). she had formed an attachment for a young hunter of the tribe, which was fully reciprocated by the young man. they had met often, and agreed to a union, on which all their hopes of happiness centered. but on applying to her family, the young suitor was curtly dismissed with the information that the girl had been promised to a warrior of distinction who had sued for her hand. winona, however, persisted in her preference for the hunter; whereupon the father took measures to drive him out of the village, and the family began to use harsh measures to coerce the maiden into a union with the warrior whom they had chosen for her husband. she was finally assured that she was, with or without her consent, to be the bride of the man of their choice. about this time a party was formed to go to lake pepin to lay in a store of blue clay, which they used as a pigment. winona, with her family, was of the party. arriving at their destination the question of her marriage with the warrior again came up, and she was told that she would be given to him that very day. upon hearing this final and irrevocable decree the girl withdrew, and while the family were preparing for the wedding festival she sought the top of the bluff now known as maiden rock. from this eminence she called down to her family and friends, telling them that she preferred death to a union with one she did not love, and began singing her death song. many of the swiftest runners of the tribe, with the warrior to whom she had been sold, immediately ran for the summit of the cliff in order to restrain her; but before they reached her she jumped headlong from the height, and was dashed to pieces on the jagged rocks a hundred and fifty feet below. this story was in related to major long, of the united states army, by a member of wahpasha's tribe, wa-ze-co-to, who claimed to have been an eyewitness of the tragedy. wazecoto was an old man at the time, and his evident feeling as he related the tale went far toward convincing major long that the narrator was reciting the tale of an actual occurrence. maiden rock itself is a bluff about four hundred feet in height. one hundred and fifty feet of it is a sheer precipice; the other two hundred and fifty is a steep bluff covered with loose rocks, and grown up to straggling scrub oaks. some versions of the legend state that winona in her grief leaped from the bluff into the waters of the lake and was drowned. on my only visit to the top of the leap, in company with mr. wilson, the mate, we found it somewhat difficult to throw a stone into the water from the top of the bluff. if winona made it in one jump she must have been pretty lithe, even for an indian. i hope that i may not be dubbed an iconoclast, in calling attention to the fact that indian stories similar to this have been localized all over our country. lovers' leaps can be counted by the score, being a part of the stock in trade of most summer resorts. another difficulty with the tale is, that the action of the young pair does not comport with the known marriage customs of indians. [illustration: map of the mississippi between st. louis and st. paul.] index index a. b. chambers: steamboat, . able, capt. dan: . accordion: . adriatic: steamboat, . africa: . afton (catfish) bar: . agents, transfer: . ainsworth, capt. j. c.: . alex. mitchell: steamboat, , . alford, capt. pliny a.: , . algoma: steamboat, . allegheny river: . allen, capt. charles j.: , , . alma, wis.: . alton, ill.: , . alton line. _see_ steamboats. alton slough: . altoona: steamboat, . amaranth island: . american fur co.: , , . american society of mechanical engineers: . anchor line. _see_ steamboats. anderson, capt. ----: , . andrews, capt. ----: . anglo-saxons: , , . anthony wayne: steamboat, . antietam: battle of, . appendices: - . apple river: . appomattox ct. house: battle of, . archer: steamboat, . argo island: . armstrong, joseph: pilot, , . army: , , , , , , , , - , , - , , , , , , , . arnold, john: pilot, . arrowheads: . arrow rock, mo.: . art and artists: , , , . assault: . atchinson, capt. g. w.: , , , . atchison, capt. john: . atchison, capt. joseph: . atchison, capt. mark: . atchison, capt. pierce: , . atlas island: , , . australia: steamboat, . aymond, capt. f.: . ayres, lieut. romeyn, u. s. a.: . badger state: steamboat, . baldwin, capt. ----: . ball, ----: clerk, . baltimore, md.: . bangor, maine: . banks (newfoundland): . banks, bankers, and banking: - . barbers: . barger, ----: clerk, . barkeepers: , . barley: , . barnes, charles: . barry, capt. ----: . bass, black: . bateaux. _see_ ships. bates, capt. ----: . bates, david g.: . battles: , (indian), , , , , , . bayous: , . beadle, hiram: pilot, . beans: . bears: . beaver, pa.: . beaver falls: . beebe, capt. edward h.: . beech, lieut. ----, u. s. a.: . beef slough: , , . bell, capt. edwin: , . bellefontaine bend: . belle plaine, minn.: . belle vernon, pa.: , , , , , , . bellevue, iowa: . ben campbell: steamboat, . ben franklin: name for steamboats, . berger, capt. ----: . berlin, ger.: . bersie, capt. hiram: , . biddle, maj. john: . big stone lake: . bissell, capt. james: , , . black, james (jim): pilot, , , . black hawk: indian chief, , . black river: , . blacksmiths: , . blaisdell: family in prescott, . blaisdell, nathaniel: , (engineer). blake, capt. ----: . blakeley, capt. russell: , , , , , . blanchard, mr. ----: . bloody island: . bloomington, iowa: . boats. _see_ ships. boilers: ; how cleaned, . _see also_ engines. boland, capt. ----: , . books: . boston, mass.: , . boughton: family in prescott, . boulanger's island: . boyd, capt. ----: . brady, capt. ----: . brandy: , . brickie, capt. ----: . bridges: , , , , , . briggs, william: engineer, . brisbois & rice: . britt's landing, tenn.: , . brock, capt. ----: pilot, . broken chute: . brooks, capt. john: . brown, capt. l.: . brownsville, pa.: , , , , , , , , , , , . brownsville chute: . brunette: steamboat, . bryant, ----: clerk, . buchanan, pres. james: . buffalo, n. y.: . buford, capt. thomas b.: . bull run: battle of, . bunnell, dr. lafayette: _hist. of winona_, cited, , , . burbank & co., j. c.: . burke, capt. ----: . burlington, iowa: . burlington: name for steamboats, . burnett, ellsworth: . burns, thomas (tom): pilot, , - , , , - , , , , , . cables: . cairo, ill.: , , , , . california, pa.: ships built at, , , , , , , , , , , , . campbell, capt. ----: . campbell & smith (steamboat co.): . campbell's chain: . canada: , , . canals: , , , . canoes. _see_ ships. cape girardeau, mo.: . captains (of steamboats): , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . cards, playing: - . carlisle college: . carlton, e.: clerk, . carpenters: , , , , , . carson's landing, mo.: . casey, ----: clerk, . cassville, wis.: . cassville crossing: , . cassville slough: . casualties: , , , , , , , - , , , , , , - , - . catfish bar (reef): , , . _see also_ afton. cat island: . catlin, george: artist, . cedar creek, va.: . celts: . _see also_ irish. centennial: steamboat, . chain of rocks: . challenge: steamboat, . chambers, capt. ludlow: . champlin, capt. a. t.: , . channels: in river, how kept, . charlevoix, pierre françois xavier de, s. j.: _hist._, cited, . charters, bank: . chicago, ill.: , , , , . chicago river: . chickens: , . chippewa: name for steamboats, . _see also_ indians. chippewa river: - , , , , . chittenden, capt. h. m., u. s. a.: cited, , , , . cholera: . cincinnati, ohio: , , , , , , , , - , , - , . city belle: steamboat, . city of quincy: steamboat, . clara: steamboat, . clark, capt. j.: , . clarkesville, ind.: . clarkesville island: . clayton, iowa: . clerks (on steamboats): , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , - ; first or chief, , - , , , , , , , , , ; second or "mud," , , , , , , , , , , . cleveland, pres. grover: . cline, ----: . clinton, iowa: . clothing: . cochrane, capt. john: . coffin, ----: clerk, . cold harbor, va.: . cole, capt. george b.: , . colonel bumford: steamboat, , . commerce: large on mississippi, ; on st. joseph river, ; trading posts, ; lines of, , (_see also_ steamboats); mississippi may regain, ; lessens on mississippi, . commissions, shipping: . confederates: , , , , , . congregationalists: . congress: , , . connolly, capt. p.: . constans, william: . contractors: - , . conway, capt. ----: . cook, samuel: clerk, . cooks: , , . cooley, k. c.: clerk, . coones, capt. ----: . coon slough: , , , . cora: steamboat, . cormack, pleasant: pilot, . corwith bros.: . corwith, henry l.: . cossen, ----: . cottonwood prairie (_now_ canton): . council bluffs, iowa: . _coureur du bois_: . crawford, capt. ----: . crawford county: . creeks: . crows: . cuba: . culver, capt. ----: . cumberland river: . cupp, william: pilot, . cupps, william: . cushing, thomas (tommy, tom): pilot, , , , , , , , , , . dacota city, nebr.: . daily bugle: newspaper, , . dakota, territory: . dakota, minn.: . dakota co., minn.: . dalles, wis.: . dalton, stephen: pilot, . dams: , , , . danube: name for steamboats, . davidson, payton s.: , , , . davidson, com. william f.: - , , . davidson line. _see_ steamboats. davis, capt. ----: . davis, charles: pilot, . davis, jefferson: . davis, capt. john b.: , , . dawley, ----: clerk, . day, capt. ----, u. s. a.: . day, capt. henry r.: . dayton bluff: , , . dean, william: . deck hands: , , , , , . deer: . demarah (demerer--corruption), louis: earliest steamboat pilot of upper mississippi, , . demerer, louis. _see_ demarah. denmark: name for steamboats, . de soto, hernando: . des plaines river: . detroit, mich.: . diamond bluff: , , , . diamond jo line. _see_ steamboats. dikes: , , , , . dinan, j. w.: clerk, . ditto, ----: clerk, . di vernon: steamboat, . divers: . dr. franklin: name for steamboats, , , . dodge, col. ----: u. s. engineer, . doemly, ingenuous: , . dogs: . donnelly, patsey: barkeeper, , , . dousman, h. l.: . dove, bill: gambler, , . dove, sam: gambler, , . dozier, capt. ----: . dredges: . dreming, t. g.: pilot, . du barry, lieut. beekman: . dubois, j. d.: clerk, . dubuque, iowa: , , , , , , , , , , . dubuque: name for steamboats, . dubuque & st. paul packet co. _see_ steamboats. duck creek chain: . ducks: . dunleith, ill. (_now_ e. dubuque): , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . dutch: ; pennsylvania, , . dynamos: . eads & nelson: . east dubuque, ill.: its former name, . eden, capt. and maj. robert (bob) c.: son of english baronet, - , . editors: , . edward bates: steamboat, . electricity: , , , , . elizabeth, ky.: , . elizabeth, pa.: . elizabethtown, ky.: . emigrants: . emilie bend: . endors: steamboat, . engineers (generally of steamboats, although at times army and civil): , , , , , , , (govt.), , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ; assistant or "cub," , , ; two types, ; description and duties, - , - . engine-room, of ship: - , , , . engines (of steamboats): , , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , , ; described, , , , ; of stern-wheelers, (two); on side-wheelers, - ; poppet-valve, , ; repaired, ; danger of centering, ; stroke, defined, ; how power of, increased, , . england: , . english: . enterprise: steamboat, , , . enterprise island: . equator: steamboat, , . estes, capt. j. b.: . ethiopians: . _see also_ negroes. europe: . excelsior: steamboat, , , , . explosions (on steamboats): , , - , , ; cause, , , , . falls city: steamboat, , . fanny harris: steamboat, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . farley, ----: clerk, . farmer, capt. john: . farms: , , , , , , . father of waters: . _see_ mississippi river. faucette, capt. william: , , , , . favorite: steamboat, . fay, capt. ----: . federal arch: steamboat, . fevre river: , , , , . fifield: family in prescott, . fifield, hon. samuel s.: lieut.-gov. of wis., , . firearms: , , , , , . fire canoe: steamboat, . firemen: , , , , , , , , , , . fires: - , , , . fish: , , , , . fisher, capt. william: pilot, , , , , , , , . fishing tackle: . flaherty, capt. ----: . floods: , - , , . flour: , , . forest rose: steamboat, . forges: . fort armstrong: . fort crawford: , . fort edwards, ill.: . fort haskell: . fort henry: . fort ridgeley, minn.: , - . fort snelling, minn.: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , , - , . fort sterling: . fort sumter, s. c.: , . fort winnebago (_now_ portage, _q. v._), wis.: , . foundries: . fowl, wild: . fox river: , , , , , . france: . frank steele: steamboat, . frauds: bank and land, - . freedom, pa.: , , . freight: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , - , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . french: , , , . frenchman's: sand bar, . frontier: steamboat, . fruit: . fuel: on river boats, - . fulton, capt. l.: . fulton city, iowa: . furman, charles: clerk, . furs: , , . fur-traders: . f. x. aubrey: steamboat, . gabbert, capt. w. h.: , , , , , , . galena, ill.: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , - , , - . galena: name for steamboats, . galena, etc., packet co. _see_ steamboats. gallipolis, o.: . gambling: , - . game: , , . gasconade river: . gates, william r., brother-in-law of g. b. merrick: . gauge, steam: . general brooke: steamboat, . gilbert, capt. ----: . gilpatrick, henry: pilot, . girdon, g. r.: clerk, . glasgow, o.: . gleim, capt. e. h.: , , , . gleim, f. m.: clerk, . glenmont, wis.: . gloucester, mass.: . gody, alex.: pilot, . gold: in mountains near missouri river, . golden era: steamboat, . golden state: steamboat, . goll, capt. c. b.: , . goodell, capt. ----: . gordon, gen. ----: . grafton, mo.: . grant, maj.-gen. ulysses s.: . gray, capt. ----: , , , . gray, capt. r. c.: , , . gray, capt. s. e.: . gray, capt. william: . great northwestern stage lines: . great river: appellation of mississippi (_q. v._), . green, ----: clerk, . green, capt. asa b.: - , , . green bay, wis.: , . greenlee, capt. ----: . grey cloud: sand bar, , . grey eagle: steamboat, , , , , , . griffith, capt. thomas h.: , . griffiths, capt. ----: . guardapie, joe: pilot, , . guttenburg channel: . guttenburg landing, iowa: . guyandotte: . haddock, william: . half-breeds: , , . _see also_ indians. hall, peter: pilot, . halliday, edward w.: clerk, . hamilton, william ("billy"): engineer, , , - , , , . hanks, stephen: pilot, . hanna, capt. phil: . hannibal, mo.: , , . hardman, capt. ----: . hargus, charles (charley): clerk, , , , , , , , , . harlow, capt. ----: . harlow, samuel (sam): pilot, , , . harriman, gen. samuel: . harris bros.: . harris, capt. daniel smith: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , . harris, jackson (jack): pilot, , , , . harris, james: . harris, keeler: engineer, . harris, meeker k.: , , , . harris, capt. nathaniel: . harris, oliver: . harris, r. scribe: , , , , , , . harris slough: , . hastings, minn.: , , , , , , , , , . hatcher, capt. j. r.: , , . havaszthy, augustin: count de castro, . hawes, chaplain ----: officiates at wedding, . hay, capt. ----: . hay, col. john: cited, . haycock, capt. ----: , . hempstead, william: . henderson, billy: , . herculaneum, mo.: . hewitt, capt. stephen: . highland mary: steamboat, . hight, capt. ----: . hill, capt. john b.: . hill, capt. thomas b.: . hoffman, capt. ----: . holcomb, e. v.: pilot, , , . holloway, j. f.: describes steamboat race, , - . hooper, capt. william h.: , , . hopkins, ----: clerk, . horton, charles: clerk, . hoskins, capt. h.: . hotelling, capt. peter: . howard's bend: . h. s. allen: steamboat, , , , . hudson, wis.: , , , , , , . humbertson, capt. ----: . hungarians: . hunt, hiram: engineer, . hunt, w. e.: . hunters: . hurd, capt. j. y.: , . huron, lake: . ice: steamboats crushed in, , , , , , . illinois, state: , , , , , , . illinois river: , , , . immigrants and immigration: , . improvements: cost of, , , ; on upper mississippi ( - ), . indiana, state: . indian mission: . indians: , - , , , , , , , , , - , , , , ; numerous about mississippi river, ; chiefs, , ; squaws, ; characteristics, ; nomenclature and legends, - . various tribes-- chippewa, , , , - , , , , ; dakota (dakotah), , , - (_see also below_ sioux); hurons, ; sioux, , , , (red wing band), , , , , , (agency), , (various bands), ; winnebago, . indian territory: . indies: . industries: , , , , . insurance: , . intoxication: , , , , . iowa, state: , , , . iowa island: . irish: , , , , , , , , , . iron and steel: . irvine, capt. ----: . islands: , , , , , , , , , , - . italians: . itasca: steamboat, , , , , . jackins, capt. ----: . james, capt. ----: . jameson, capt. ----: . jenks, ----: , . jenks, capt. j. b.: . jesuits: . jewell, charles (charley): pilot, , , , , , . j. m. white: steamboat, . john m. chambers: steamboat, . johnson, ----: . johnson, e. a.: clerk, . johnson, john: . jones, gen. george w., u. s. a.: . jones, joseph: . josephine: steamboat, . josie: steamboat, . kansas, state: . kate cassell: steamboat, , , , . keithsburg, iowa: . kendall, ned: musician, . kennett, capt. s. m.: . kent, capt. ----: . kentucky: steamboat, . keokuk, iowa: , , . _see also_ steamboats. keokuk rapids: . keoxa: indian village, . key city: steamboat, , , , , , , , , , , . kinestone, james: engineer, . king, ----: . king, capt. george l.: . king, john: pilot, , . kingman, capt. ----: , . kinnickinnic bar: . kinnickinnic river: , . knapp, geo. b.: . la barge, capt. joseph: , , , , . la crosse, wis.: , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , , , . lady franklin: steamboat, . lafferty, capt. ----: , . lagrange, mo.: . lake city, minn.: . lakeland, minn.: , . lakes: , ; great, , , , . lambs: . land: government, ; frauds, - . lansing, iowa: , , . la pointe, charles: pilot, . laughton, capt. w. h.: - , , , . lawrence, o.: . laws, banking: . lay, john: engineer, , , , , . leadlines: , . le claire, iowa: . lee, capt. john: . lee, gen. robert e.: , . le fevre (_now_ galena, _q. v._), ill.: . le seuer, pierre charles: french explorer and trader, . lewis, w. s.: clerk, . libbie conger: steamboat, . liberty landing, mo.: . limestone: . lincoln, abraham: , . lindergreen, henry: printer, . link, henry: pilot, , , , , . liquors: , , - , . little crow: sioux chief, . little washington, on missouri river: . locomotives: reversing gear of, . _see also_ railroads. lodwick, capt. kennedy: , , . lodwick, capt. m. w.: , , , . lodwick, capt. preston: , , . london, eng.: . long, maj. ----, u. s. a.: . long island sound: . longstreet, gen. james: . louis xiv: king of france, . louisiana, mo.: , . lover's leap: , (legend). _see also_ maiden rock. lucas, capt. m. e.: . lucy bertram: steamboat, . ludloff, louis: . luella: steamboat, , . lumber and lumbering: , , , , , , , . lusk, capt. j. h.: . lynn, lewis f.: . lyon, capt. ----: . lyon, kimball (kim): , . lyons, capt. ----: . mcallister, capt. ----: . mcclintock, capt. ----: . mcclure, capt. john: . mccoy, capt. e. m.: . mccoy, james b.: pilot, , , . mcdonald, george: engineer, , , , , , . mcgregor, iowa: , , . mcguire, capt. ----: . mckeesport, pa.: , , , , . mclagan, capt. ed.: . mcmahan, capt. ----: , . mcphail, sandy: raftsman, , . machinery: , , , , , , , . mackinac, mich.: . madison, iowa: . maiden rock (near winona): , , , . mail: . maitland, ----: clerk, . malin, capt. j. w.: . mallen, bill: , . malta bend: . manning, charley: pilot, . maratta, capt. ----: . marquette, jacques, s. j.: . marshall, sam: musician, , . martin, capt. ----: , , . maryland, state: . mary morton: steamboat, , - , , , , . mason, capt. isaac m.: , , . massacres, indian: , . mates (on steamboats): - , , , , , , , , , , ; first, ; second, , , . mathers, charles (charley): clerk, , , . maxwell, capt. o. h.: , , . melville, geo. r.: clerk, . mendota, minn.: . mermaid: steamboat, . merrick: family in prescott, . merrick, col. ----: . merrick, george b. (author): ancestry, ; birthplace, ; early impressions, - ; first glance of mississippi river, ; escapes from drowning, ; chased by wolves, , ; enters river service, ; becomes ship pantry boy, , ; printer, , ; second or "mud" clerk, , - , ; second engineer, - ; never centered his engine, ; bashful, ; appointment as clerk becomes permanent, ; threatened with loss of position, ; pilot, , , , ; his initiation as pilot, - ; on "golden era," ; on "equator," ; accident to his boat, ; engaged by eden, ; his experience with wild-cat money, ; knows game haunts, ; great reader, ; visits maiden rock, ; enlists and serves during civil war, , , , ; marries, ; agent and superintendent of n. y. steamship co., ; railroad agent, , ; newspaper man, ; his trip on "mary morton," - . merrick, l. h., father of g. b. m.: , . merrick & co., l. h.: - , . merrick, samuel, brother of g. b. m.: , . messenger: steamboat, . methodists: , . metropolitan: steamboat, . mexico, gulf of: . miami bend: . michigan, state: , , , , , ; possible etymology of, , . michigan, lake: , . middleton, capt. ----: . miller: family in prescott, . miller, capt. ----: . miller, john s.: . mills: , , , , . milwaukee, wis.: . mines, lead: . minks: . minneapolis, minn.: , , , . _see also_ st. anthony. minnesota, territory and state: , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , . minnesota packet co. _see_ steamboats. minnesota river: , , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , , , - , , . minnesota: steamboat, . minnesota belle, steamboat: , , . mishawaka, mich.: . missionaries: , . mississippi river: its former glory, ; navigation impaired, , ; diminished in size, ; boats of, compared to others, ; railroads lessen traffic on, , ; traffic of, dead, , ; great traffic on, ; tributaries to, , , , ; indians numerous near, , , ; islands in, , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , ; sloughs in, , , ; description of banks and valley, , , , , , , ; trading posts and towns on, , , ; storms on, , , , , , ; saloons along, ; warehouses on, , ; sand bars and reefs in, , , , , , , , , ; steamboats of, described, , ; explosions on, frequent, ; channels, ; com. porter opens, ; requirements necessary for offices on ships of, ; woodyards along, ; farms along, ; slavery on west bank of, ; beginning of its trade boom, ; change in character of crews on, , ; code of honor of, ; accidents during low water, , ; obstructions in, ; piloting and navigation on (difficulties, etc.), - , - , - , , ; improvements on, , - , ; may regain prestige in commerce, , ; boats aground in, ; twain's _life on the miss._, cited, ; numerous turns in, ; dams and dikes in, , ; difficulties of paddling on, - ; pilots must know, - ; "knowing" it, - ; official etiquette on, ; pioneer steamboats of, , , , ; modern boats, ; fur-traders on, ; raftsmen on, , ; incidents of river life on, - ; steamboatmen on, ; morals on, , ; menus of boats on, - ; water of, used as beverage, - ; contaminated by sewage, ; gambling on, - ; life of steamboats on, ; duration of navigation, ; keel boats on, ; legends of, ; floods on, , , ; mills along, , ; commission, ; wrecks on, ; snags removed from, ; dredging in, ; losses of steamboats on, - ; reliving old days on, - ; steamboats on upper, before , - ; rapids in, ; origin and etymology of name, ; its french names, . missouri point: . missouri river: , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , - , , , , , - , - . mitchell, capt. a.: . molasses: . molino del rey, mex.: battle of, . money: wild-cat, - . monongahela, pa.: , . monopolies: , . monterey, mex.: battle of, . montford, capt. a. g.: . montgomery, capt. ----: , . montgomery, mo. (?): , . moore, seth: pilot, . moorhead, minn.: . moquoketa chute: . morals: along mississippi, , , . moreau, louis: . _see also_ moro. morehouse, d. b.: . morehouse, capt. legrand: . moro (morrow, moreau), louis: pilot, . morrison, capt. ----: , . morrison, capt. c. s.: . morrison, capt. g. g.: . morrison, james: mate, . moulton, i. n.: . moulton, thomas: , . mounds: near mississippi, . moundsville, va.: . mountains: . mouseau (mo'-sho), antoine: half-breed indian chief, . mouseau, louis: pioneer of st. paul, . mules: , . mullen, ----: clerk, . mundy's landing: . murraysville, pa.: , . muscatine bar: . music: . _see also_ steamboats. musicians: . muskrats: . mutinies: on ships, , , . nantucket, r. i.: . nashville, tenn.: . natchez: steamboat, . navigation: lessened on mississippi, ; difficulties of, , ; improvements in, - ; greatest disaster in western, , ; opening at st. paul ( - ), . nebraska, state: . nebraska: steamboat, . negroes (darkies): , , , , , , , , - , , - , . new albany, ind.: , , , . newburyport, mass.: . new england: , . new orleans, la.: , , , , , , , , . newport, minn.: . new st. paul: steamboat, . newspapers: , , . new ulm, minn.: . new york city: , , , , . nichols, george: . nicollet, ----: explorer, . niles, mich.: , , , . nine mile island: . nininger, minn.: land frauds at, , - , , . nobleman, stray: - . nominee: steamboat, , , , . norris, frank: steward, . northern belle: steamboat, , . northerner: steamboat, . northern light: steamboat, , . northern line. _see_ steamboats. northwestern line. _see_ steamboats. northwestern: newspaper, . northwest territories: , , . norwegian: . oak: , , , . ocean wave: steamboat, , . ohio river: , , , , , , . ohio, state: . onawa bend: . orchestras: . osage river: . osceola, wis.: , , . oshkosh, wis.: , , , . otter: steamboat, . oxford univ.: , . owen, capt. ----: . owens, capt. ----: . panama, isthmus of: . pantry boy: , . paris, france: . parker, ----: , . parker, capt. ----: , . parker, capt. j. w.: , . parker, capt. n. w.: . parker, capt. w. n.: . parkersburg, va.: . parkman, francis: _la salle and disc. of gt. west_, cited, . parthenia: steamboat, . paul jones: steamboat, . pearman, ----: clerk, . pekin, ill.: . peltries: . _see also_ furs. pemberton, capt. john c.: . penn's bend: . pennsylvania, state: , . pepin, lake: , , , , , , , , - , , . petersburg, va.: , . philadelphia, pa.: . phil sheridan: steamboat, . physicians: . pictures. _see_ steamboats. pierce, george s.: clerk, . pigs: . pig's eye: bad crossing on mississippi, , , . pike: name for steamboats, . pilots: , , , , - , - , , , , , , , - , , , , , , , - , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , - , , , , , , , , , , ; duties and responsibilities, - ; early, - ; oldest of upper mississippi, . pim, john s.: clerk, . pine bend: . pine ridge, s. dak.: . pine trees and wood: , , , . pioneers: , . pitch: . pittsburg, pa.: , , , , , , , , - , - , , . pittsburg: steamboat, . planters: . point douglass: , , , , , . pokagon: indian chief, . polar star: steamboat, . pontoosuc, ill.: , . poplar river: . population: , . pork: , , . portage, wis.: , , . portages: . porter, com. ----: . post boy: name for steamboat, . potatoes: , . potosi, wis.: , , . prairie belle: steamboat, . prairie du chien, wis.: , , - , , , , , - , , , , , , , , . prairie grove: battle of, . prairies: , , , , , - . preachers: , . pre-emption: steamboat, . presbyterians: . prescott, wis.: , , , , - , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ; typical river town, ; transfer and shipping point, , . prescott island: . prices and values: , , , , , , , , , - , - , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - . pringle: steamboat, . printers: , , , . prize fights: , . profits: - . providence, mo.: . provisions: , , , , , , . puitt's island: , . pumps: . quincy, ill.: , , , , . quincy: steamboat, . quicksand: . raccoons: . radebaugh, george: engineer, . rafts: , , , , , , ; men, , , , . _see also_ ships. railroads: , , , , , , , , , , , , ; kill traffic on rivers, ; various lines--dunleith, ; galena & western union, ; illinois central, ; milwaukee & mississippi, ; prairie du chien, . rapids: , , , , , , , , , . rawlins, capt. john: , . red river of the north: , , , . red wing, minn.: - , - , , . red wing: sioux chief, - . reed's landing, minn.: , . reefs, , , - , , , , , . _see also_ sand bars. reilly (riley), capt. robert a.: , , , . relief: steamboat, . reno, capt. ----: . resin: . reynolds, joseph: , . rhodes, capt. j. b.: . rhodes, capt. j. h.: . rhodes, capt. thomas b.: , . rice: ; wild, . rice, dan: circus man, . richardson, ----: deserts ship to join army, . riley, capt. robert a. _see_ reilly. rissue, capt. ----: . river falls, wis.: , , , . rivers: , ; improvements on, - . rivière de la conception: appellation of mississippi, . rivière st. louis: appellation of mississippi, . robbins, r. m.: clerk, . robert e. lee: steamboat, . robert, capt. louis: , , . robert, capt. nelson: . robinson, capt. john: . rock island, ill.: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ; rapids, . _see also_ bridges. rogers, ----: . rogers, capt. ----: . rolling stone, minn.: , , . rosin: . rounds, capt. ----: . roustabouts. _see_ deck hands. rowe, capt. ----: . rowley, capt. ----: . ruley, russel: mate, , , . rusk, jeremiah (gov. of wis.): . russell, capt. joseph, u. s. a.: . ryan, capt. ----: . st. albert's island: . st. anthony, minn.: , , . _see also_ minneapolis (with which it is incorporated). st. anthony falls, minn.: , , , , , , , , , . st. croix, minn.: ; falls, , , , , , , , , , , , , ; lake, , , , , , , ; river, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ; valley, , ; steamboat, , . st. genevieve, mo.: . st. joseph, mich.: , , ; river (st. joe), , , , , . st. louis, mo.: , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , - , ; table of distances from, - . st. paul, minn.: , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , - , , , , - , ; opening of navigation at ( - ), . st. paul: name for steamboats, , . st. peters, minn.: - , , , , , , - , - , - , , . salem, mass.: . saloons: . _see also_ intoxication; _and_ liquors. saltmarsh, capt. ----: . sam cloon: steamboat, . sand bars: - , , , , , , , , , , , ; danger of, . _see also_ reefs. sargent, capt. ----: . sargent, g. l.: engineer, . sauk rapids: , , . savanna, ill.: . schaser: family in prescott, . schools: , . scotchman: , . scott, capt. ----: , . scott, g. w.: engineer, . search-lights: , , , . senator: steamboat, , . sencerbox, capt. ----: . settlers: , , , , . shaw botanical garden: in st. louis, . shellcross, capt. john: , . shenandoah: steamboat, . sherman, tecumseh w.: , , , , . ships and water craft: shipyards and shipbuilding, , , ; captains (masters), , , , , , - ; crews, , , , ; watches on, , ; caste on, , ; shipping methods, , , ; cargoes carried by, (_see also_ freight); competition in shipping, ; "shipping up" defined, . various kinds of water craft: arks, . barges, , , , , , . bateaux, . broadhorns, . canal-boats, , . canoes, - , , . circus-boat, . dugouts, , . flatboats, , . gunboats, . keel boats, , - . lifeboats, , . lumber hooker, . mackinac boats, . packets (_see below_ steamboats). sailing, . scows, , , . steamboats-- - , , , ; stern-wheelers, , , , , , , - , , , , , , , , , - ; side-wheelers, , , - , , , , , , , - ; night landings, , ; merrick enters service of, ; close of navigation for, ; machinery on, , ; described, , , , , - ; duties of engineers on, - ; engine-room, - , , ; rate of speed, ; racing, - , - ; become fewer on mississippi, , ; wooding up, , , ; official etiquette on, ; captain must know thoroughly, , , ; captains own interest in, ; cabins, ; how handled in accidents, - ; sparring off, - ; hogging, ; spars, - ; how hauled over bars, , ; patrol mississippi, ; forced out by railroads, ; lights covered at night, ; art of steering, - ; early, , , , ; list of, on upper mississippi (before ), - ; early pilots on, - ; size, , , , , , , , , - ; bars (abolished) and beverages on, , - ; cost, (_see also_ prices); kitchen, ; menus on, - ; "grub-pile," ; gambling on, - ; music and art on, - ; bonanzas, - ; few insured, ; passenger accommodations, , ; passenger rates, - ; pioneer steamboatmen, - ; wrecks and accidents, - , - , - ; desertions from, ; logs towed by, ; u. s. govt. procures, , ; dredges worked by, ; many with same name, , ; u. s. inspection of, ; improvements on, - , , ; where built, - . steamship lines (some same company under various names)--alton, , , ; anchor, ; davidson, , , , , , ; diamond jo, , , , , , , , ; dubuque & st. paul packet co., ; galena, dubuque, dunleith & st. paul packet co. (galena and minn. packet co.), , , , , - (_see also below_ minn. packet co.); keokuk packet co., ; minnesota packet co., , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , ; n. y. steamship co., ; northern line, , - , - , , , , , , , , ; northwestern line, , , , , ; st. louis & st. paul packet co., , , , , ; st. louis line, . towboats, . submarine boats, . "wild" boats, . woodboats, , . yawls, , , . shousetown, pa.: , , , , , , . shovelin, con: second mate, . sidney: steamboat, . sire, capt. joseph: . slaves and slavery: , , , , . _see also_ negroes. sloughs: , , , , . smelter: steamboat, . smith: family in prescott, . smith, mr. ----: owns woodyard, . smith, capt. ----: , . smith, capt. j. c.: . smith, capt. j. f.: . smith, jerome: pilot, . smith, capt. john: . smith, capt. orren: , , , , , , , . smoker, capt. ----: . soap: . soldiers: , , , . south bend, mich.: , . speer, s.: . spencer, capt. r. m.: , , , . stackhouse & nelson: . standing bear, henry (sioux): , , . stanton, frederick k.: clerk, . starnes, capt. ----: . statistics: of casualties to steamboats, , . steamboats. _see_ ships. stephens, john: clerk, . stephenson, capt. charles l.: , . stewards (on steamboats): , - , , . stewart, ----: clerk, . stillwater, minn.: , - , , , , , , , , , , . stone, capt. ----: . storms: - , , , , , , , . stran, capt. h. b.: . strother, capt. ----: . sturgeons, fish: . sugar: in cargo, . superior, lake: . sutler: steamboat, . swamp, wild rice: . talliaferro, laurence: indian agent, . talliaferro, maj. ----, u. s. a.: . telegraph: name for steamboat, . tennessee river: . thomas, chute: . thompson's _bank note detector_: . throckmorton, capt. joseph: , , , , , , , . thurston, capt. ----: . tibbles, henry: pilot, . tiger: steamboat, . time and tide: steamboat, . tishomingo: steamboat, . tools: , , . torches: . trader, boney (napoleon bonaparte): gambler, . transportation. _see_ railroads; _and_ ships. traverse, lake: . traverse des sioux, dakota: , , . treaties: indian, , , , . trees: , , , , . trempealeau, wis.: , ; landing, ; mountain, . tripp, harry: pilot, , , . trout: , . troxell, ----: engineer, . troy, capt. ----: . trudell, ----: mate, . trudell slough: , . truett, capt. ----: . turkey river: . turner, capt. ----: . tuttle, calvin: millwright, . twain, mark (s. l. clemens): _life on lower miss._, cited, , , , , . unions: . united states: , , ; federal officers, ; inspects steamboats, , , ; danger to govt., ; charters vessel, ; war dept., . upper bonhomme island: . van houten, capt. ----: . vermillion slough: . vermont, state: . vickers, capt. ----: . vicksburg, miss.: , , . victoria, queen: , . victory, wis.: , . virginia, state: . virginia: steamboat, , , . vorhies, capt. ----: . voyageurs: , , . wabasha: , ; prairie, . wabash river: . wacouta, minn.: , , , , . wages: , , , , , , , , , , , , , . wah-pa-sha: dakota chief, , , . waiters: on boats, . wall, capt. nick: , . ward, frank: clerk, . ward, capt. james: , , , , , , , , . war eagle: steamboat, , , , , . warehouses: , , , , , . warrior: name for steamboats, . wars: civil (secession), , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , ; indian, , ; mexican, . washington, d. c.: , , , , , . washington, mo.: . wa-ze-co-to: dakota indian, . webb, capt. n. f.: , , . wells's landing: . wellsville, o.: . west, edward (ed., ned) a.: pilot, , , , , , . west brownsville, pa.: , . west elizabeth, pa.: , , . west newton: steamboat, , . west newton chute: . weston island: . west point mil. acad.: , , , . whales and whalers: , . wheat: , , , , , , , . wheeling, va. (_now_ w. va.): , , , , . whipple: family in prescott, . whiskey: , , , . "whiskey jim:" appellation of deck hand, . white, capt. ----: . white, hugh: pilot, . white, william: pilot, , . white cloud: steamboat, . whitten, capt. david: , , . wilcox, gen. o. b.: , . wilderness: battle of, . williams, rufus: pilot, . willow river: . wilson, billy, mate: , - , , . winnebago, wis.: ; lake, , . winona: indian maiden, , . winona, minn.: , , , , , , , , . wisconsin: river, , , , , ; territory and state, , , , , , , , , , , , , . wise, gen. ----: . wolf river: . wolves: , . wood and woodyards: , - , , , , , . wood lake: . woodburn, capt. ----: . woodruff, capt. ----: . woods, john: . worden, capt. jones: , , . worsham, ----: clerk, . wrecks: , , , - , . wright, ----: engineer, . yale university: . yankees: , , , , . young, capt. augustus r.: , . young, jesse b.: mate, . young, josiah: engineer, . young, leonard: engineer, . young men's christian association: . zanesville, o.: . transcriber's notes italic text has been marked with _underscores_. words changed: - rythmical to rhythmical (chapter i) "... "algoma"! the word has a rythmical measure, and ..." - francois to françois (index) "... charlevoix, pierre francois xavier de,..." - appendix e refers to louis xiv; the city of st. louis was in fact named after louis ix. the lady of the barge and other stories by w. w. jacobs the lady of the barge the master of the barge arabella sat in the stern of his craft with his right arm leaning on the tiller. a desultory conversation with the mate of a schooner, who was hanging over the side of his craft a few yards off, had come to a conclusion owing to a difference of opinion on the subject of religion. the skipper had argued so warmly that he almost fancied he must have inherited the tenets of the seventh-day baptists from his mother while the mate had surprised himself by the warmth of his advocacy of a form of wesleyanism which would have made the members of that sect open their eyes with horror. he had, moreover, confirmed the skipper in the error of his ways by calling him a bargee, the ranks of the baptists receiving a defender if not a recruit from that hour. with the influence of the religious argument still upon him, the skipper, as the long summer's day gave place to night, fell to wondering where his own mate, who was also his brother-in-law, had got to. lights which had been struggling with the twilight now burnt bright and strong, and the skipper, moving from the shadow to where a band of light fell across the deck, took out a worn silver watch and saw that it was ten o'clock. almost at the same moment a dark figure appeared on the jetty above and began to descend the ladder, and a strongly built young man of twenty-two sprang nimbly to the deck. "ten o'clock, ted," said the skipper, slowly. "it 'll be eleven in an hour's time," said the mate, calmly. "that 'll do," said the skipper, in a somewhat loud voice, as he noticed that his late adversary still occupied his favourite strained position, and a fortuitous expression of his mother's occurred to him: "don't talk to me; i've been arguing with a son of belial for the last half-hour." "bargee," said the son of belial, in a dispassionate voice. "don't take no notice of him, ted," said the skipper, pityingly. "he wasn't talking to me," said ted. "but never mind about him; i want to speak to you in private." "fire away, my lad," said the other, in a patronizing voice. "speak up," said the voice from the schooner, encouragingly. "i'm listening." there was no reply from the bargee. the master led the way to the cabin, and lighting a lamp, which appealed to more senses than one, took a seat on a locker, and again requested the other to fire away. "well, you see, it's this way," began the mate, with a preliminary wriggle: "there's a certain young woman--" "a certain young what?" shouted the master of the arabella. "woman," repeated the mate, snappishly; "you've heard of a woman afore, haven't you? well, there's a certain young woman i'm walking out with i--" "walking out?" gasped the skipper. "why, i never 'eard o' such a thing." "you would ha' done if you'd been better looking, p'raps," retorted the other. "well, i've offered this young woman to come for a trip with us." "oh, you have, 'ave you!" said the skipper, sharply. "and what do you think louisa will say to it?" "that's your look out," said louisa's brother, cheerfully. "i'll make her up a bed for'ard, and we'll all be as happy as you please." he started suddenly. the mate of the schooner was indulging in a series of whistles of the most amatory description. "there she is," he said. "i told her to wait outside." he ran upon deck, and his perturbed brother-in-law, following at his leisure, was just in time to see him descending the ladder with a young woman and a small handbag. "this is my brother-in-law, cap'n gibbs," said ted, introducing the new arrival; "smartest man at a barge on the river." the girl extended a neatly gloved hand, shook the skipper's affably, and looked wonderingly about her. "it's very close to the water, ted," she said, dubiously. the skipper coughed. "we don't take passengers as a rule," he said, awkwardly; "we 'ain't got much convenience for them." "never mind," said the girl, kindly; "i sha'nt expect too much." she turned away, and following the mate down to the cabin, went into ecstasies over the space-saving contrivances she found there. the drawers fitted in the skipper's bunk were a source of particular interest, and the owner watched with strong disapprobation through the skylight her efforts to make him an apple-pie bed with the limited means at her disposal. he went down below at once as a wet blanket. "i was just shaking your bed up a bit," said miss harris, reddening. "i see you was," said the skipper, briefly. he tried to pluck up courage to tell her that he couldn't take her, but only succeeded in giving vent to an inhospitable cough. "i'll get the supper," said the mate, suddenly; "you sit down, old man, and talk to lucy." in honour of the visitor he spread a small cloth, and then proceeded to produce cold beef, pickles, and accessories in a manner which reminded miss harris of white rabbits from a conjurer's hat. captain gibbs, accepting the inevitable, ate his supper in silence and left them to their glances. "we must make you up a bed, for'ard, lucy," said the mate, when they had finished. miss harris started. "where's that?" she inquired. "other end o' the boat," replied the mate, gathering up some bedding under his arm. "you might bring a lantern, john." the skipper, who was feeling more sociable after a couple of glasses of beer, complied, and accompanied the couple to the tiny forecastle. a smell compounded of bilge, tar, paint, and other healthy disinfectants emerged as the scuttle was pushed back. the skipper dangled the lantern down and almost smiled. "i can't sleep there," said the girl, with decision. "i shall die o' fright." "you'll get used to it," said ted, encouragingly, as he helped her down; "it's quite dry and comfortable." he put his arm round her waist and squeezed her hand, and aided by this moral support, miss harris not only consented to remain, but found various advantages in the forecastle over the cabin, which had escaped the notice of previous voyagers. "i'll leave you the lantern," said the mate, making it fast, "and we shall be on deck most o' the night. we get under way at two." he quitted the forecastle, followed by the skipper, after a polite but futile attempt to give him precedence, and made his way to the cabin for two or three hours' sleep. "there'll be a row at the other end, ted," said the skipper, nervously, as he got into his bunk. "louisa's sure to blame me for letting you keep company with a gal like this. we was talking about you only the other day, and she said if you was married five years from now, it 'ud be quite soon enough." "let loo mind her own business," said the mate, sharply; "she's not going to nag me. she's not my wife, thank goodness!" he turned over and fell fast asleep, waking up fresh and bright three hours later, to commence what he fondly thought would be the pleasantest voyage of his life. the arabella dropped slowly down with the tide, the wind being so light that she was becalmed by every tall warehouse on the way. off greenwich, however, the breeze freshened somewhat, and a little later miss harris, looking somewhat pale as to complexion and untidy as to hair, came slowly on deck. "where's the looking-glass?" she asked, as ted hastened to greet her. "how does my hair look?" "all wavy," said the infatuated young man; "all little curls and squiggles. come down in the cabin; there's a glass there." miss harris, with a light nod to the skipper as he sat at the tiller, followed the mate below, and giving vent to a little cry of indignation as she saw herself in the glass, waved the amorous ted on deck, and started work on her disarranged hair. at breakfast-time a little friction was caused by what the mate bitterly termed the narrow-minded, old-fashioned ways of the skipper. he had arranged that the skipper should steer while he and miss harris breakfasted, but the coffee was no sooner on the table than the skipper called him, and relinquishing the helm in his favour, went below to do the honours. the mate protested. "it's not proper," said the skipper. "me and 'er will 'ave our meals together, and then you must have yours. she's under my care." miss harris assented blithely, and talk and laughter greeted the ears of the indignant mate as he steered. he went down at last to cold coffee and lukewarm herrings, returning to the deck after a hurried meal to find the skipper narrating some of his choicest experiences to an audience which hung on his lightest word. the disregard they showed for his feelings was maddening, and for the first time in his life he became a prey to jealousy in its worst form. it was quite clear to him that the girl had become desperately enamoured of the skipper, and he racked his brain in a wild effort to discover the reason. with an idea of reminding his brother-in-law of his position, he alluded two or three times in a casual fashion to his wife. the skipper hardly listened to him, and patting miss harris's cheek in a fatherly manner, regaled her with an anecdote of the mate's boyhood which the latter had spent a goodly portion of his life in denying. he denied it again, hotly, and miss harris, conquering for a time her laughter, reprimanded him severely for contradicting. by the time dinner was ready he was in a state of sullen apathy, and when the meal was over and the couple came on deck again, so far forgot himself as to compliment miss harris upon her appetite. "i'm ashamed of you, ted," said the skipper, with severity. "i'm glad you know what shame is," retorted the mate. "if you can't be'ave yourself, you'd better keep a bit for'ard till you get in a better temper," continued the skipper. "i'll be pleased to," said the smarting mate. "i wish the barge was longer." "it couldn't be too long for me," said miss harris, tossing her head. "be'aving like a schoolboy," murmured the skipper. "i know how to behave _my_-self," said the mate, as he disappeared below. his head suddenly appeared again over the companion. "if some people don't," he added, and disappeared again. he was pleased to notice as he ate his dinner that the giddy prattle above had ceased, and with his back turned toward the couple when he appeared on deck again, he lounged slowly forward until the skipper called him back again. "wot was them words you said just now, ted?" he inquired. the mate repeated them with gusto. "very good," said the skipper, sharply; "very good." "don't you ever speak to me again," said miss harris, with a stately air, "because i won't answer you if you do." the mate displayed more of his schoolboy nature. "wait till you're spoken to," he said, rudely. "this is your gratefulness, i suppose?" "gratefulness?" said miss harris, with her chin in the air. "what for?" "for bringing you for a trip," replied the mate, sternly. "you bringing me for a trip!" said miss harris, scornfully. "captain gibbs is the master here, i suppose. he is giving me the trip. you're only the mate." "just so," said the mate, with a grin at his brother-in-law, which made that worthy shift uneasily. "i wonder what loo will say when she sees you with a lady aboard?" "she came to please you," said captain gibbs, with haste. "ho! she did, did she?" jeered the mate. "prove it; only don't look to me to back you, that's all." the other eyed him in consternation, and his manner changed. "don't play the fool, ted," he said, not unkindly; "you know what loo is." "well, i'm reckoning on that," said the mate, deliberately. "i'm going for'ard; don't let me interrupt you two. so long." he went slowly forward, and lighting his pipe, sprawled carelessly on the deck, and renounced the entire sex forthwith. at teatime the skipper attempted to reverse the procedure at the other meals; but as miss harris steadfastly declined to sit at the same table as the mate, his good intentions came to naught. he made an appeal to what he termed the mate's better nature, after miss harris had retired to the seclusion of her bed-chamber, but in vain. "she's nothing to do with me," declared the mate, majestically. "i wash my hands of her. she's a flirt. i'm like louisa, i can't bear flirts." the skipper said no more, but his face was so worn that miss harris, when she came on deck in the early morning and found the barge gliding gently between the grassy banks of a river, attributed it to the difficulty of navigating so large a craft on so small and winding a stream. "we shall be alongside in 'arf an hour," said the skipper, eyeing her. miss harris expressed her gratification. "p'raps you wouldn't mind going down the fo'c'sle and staying there till we've made fast," said the other. "i'd take it as a favour. my owners don't like me to carry passengers." miss harris, who understood perfectly, said, "certainly," and with a cold stare at the mate, who was at no pains to conceal his amusement, went below at once, thoughtfully closing the scuttle after her. "there's no call to make mischief, ted," said the skipper, somewhat anxiously, as they swept round the last bend and came into view of coalsham. the mate said nothing, but stood by to take in sail as they ran swiftly toward the little quay. the pace slackened, and the arabella, as though conscious of the contraband in her forecastle, crept slowly to where a stout, middle-aged woman, who bore a strong likeness to the mate, stood upon the quay. "there's poor loo," said the mate, with a sigh. the skipper made no reply to this infernal insinuation. the barge ran alongside the quay and made fast. "i thought you'd be up," said mrs. gibbs to her husband. "now come along to breakfast; ted 'll follow on." captain gibbs, dived down below for his coat, and slipping ashore, thankfully prepared to move off with his wife. "come on as soon as you can, ted," said the latter. "why, what on earth is he making that face for?" she turned in amazement as her brother, making a pretence of catching her husband's eye, screwed his face up into a note of interrogation and gave a slight jerk with his thumb. "come along," said captain gibbs, taking her arm with much affection. "but what's ted looking like that for?" demanded his wife, as she easily intercepted another choice facial expression of the mate's. "oh, it's his fun," replied her husband, walking on. "fun?" repeated mrs. gibbs, sharply. "what's the matter, ted." "nothing," replied the mate. "touch o' toothache," said the skipper. "come along, loo; i can just do with one o' your breakfasts." mrs. gibbs suffered herself to be led on, and had got at least five yards on the way home, when she turned and looked back. the mate had still got the toothache, and was at that moment in all the agonies of a phenomenal twinge. "there's something wrong here," said mrs. gibbs as she retraced her steps. "ted, what are you making that face for?" "it's my own face," said the mate, evasively. mrs. gibbs conceded the point, and added bitterly that it couldn't be helped. all the same she wanted to know what he meant by it. "ask john," said the vindictive mate. mrs. gibbs asked. her husband said he didn't know, and added that ted had been like it before, but he had not told her for fear of frightening her. then he tried to induce her to go with him to the chemist's to get something for it. mrs. gibbs shook her head firmly, and boarding the barge, took a seat on the hatch and proceeded to catechise her brother as to his symptoms. he denied that there was anything the matter with him, while his eyes openly sought those of captain gibbs as though asking for instruction. "you come home, ted," she said at length. "i can't," said the mate. "i can't leave the ship." "why not?" demanded his sister. "ask john," said the mate again. at this mrs. gibbs's temper, which had been rising, gave way altogether, and she stamped fiercely upon the deck. a stamp of the foot has been for all time a rough-and-ready means of signalling; the fore-scuttle was drawn back, and the face of a young and pretty girl appeared framed in the opening. the mate raised his eyebrows with a helpless gesture, and as for the unfortunate skipper, any jury would have found him guilty without leaving the box. the wife of his bosom, with a flaming visage, turned and regarded him. [illustration: "you villain!" she, said, in a choking voice] "you villain!" she said, in a choking voice. captain gibbs caught his breath and looked appealingly at the mate. "it's a little surprise for you, my dear," he faltered, "it's ted's young lady." "nothing of the kind," said the mate, sharply. "it's not? how dare you say such a thing?" demanded miss harris, stepping on to the deck. "well, you brought her aboard, ted, you know you did," pleaded the unhappy skipper. the mate did not deny it, but his face was so full of grief and surprise that the other's heart sank within him. "all right," said the mate at last; "have it your own way." "hold your tongue, ted," shouted mrs. gibbs; "you're trying to shield him." "i tell you ted brought her aboard, and they had a lover's quarrel," said her unhappy spouse. "it's nothing to do with me at all." "and that's why you told me ted had got the toothache, and tried to get me off to the chemist's, i s'pose," retorted his wife, with virulence. "do you think i'm a fool? how dare you ask a young woman on this barge? how dare you?" "i didn't ask her," said her husband. "i s'pose she came without being asked," sneered his wife, turning her regards to the passenger; "she looks the sort that might. you brazen- faced girl!" "here, go easy, loo," interrupted the mate, flushing as he saw the girl's pale face. "mind your own business," said his sister, violently. "it is my business," said the repentant mate. "i brought her aboard, and then we quarrelled." "i've no doubt," said his sister, bitterly; "it's very pretty, but it won't do." "i swear it's the truth," said the mate. "why did john keep it so quiet and hide her for, then?" demanded his sister. "i came down for the trip," said miss harris; "that is all about it. there is nothing to make a fuss about. how much is it, captain gibbs?" she produced a little purse from her pocket, but before the embarrassed skipper could reply, his infuriated wife struck it out of her hand. the mate sprang instinctively forward, but too late, and the purse fell with a splash into the water. the girl gave a faint cry and clasped her hands. "how am i to get back?" she gasped. "i'll see to that, lucy," said the mate. "i'm very sorry--i've been a brute." "you?" said the indignant girl. "i would sooner drown myself than be beholden to you." "i'm very sorry," repeated the mate, humbly. "there's enough of this play-acting," interposed mrs. gibbs. "get off this barge." "you stay where you are," said the mate, authoritatively. "send that girl off this barge," screamed mrs. gibbs to her husband. captain gibbs smiled in a silly fashion and scratched his head. "where is she to go?" he asked feebly. "wh'at does it matter to you where she goes?" cried his wife, fiercely. "send her off." the girl eyed her haughtily, and repulsing the mate as he strove to detain her, stepped to the side. then she paused as he suddenly threw off his coat, and sitting down on the hatch, hastily removed his boots. the skipper, divining his intentions, seized him by the arm. "don't be a fool, ted," he gasped; "you'll get under the barge." the mate shook him off, and went in with a splash which half drowned his adviser. miss harris, clasping her hands, ran to the side and gazed fearfully at the spot where he had disappeared, while his sister in a terrible voice seized the opportunity to point out to her husband the probably fatal results of his ill-doing. there was an anxious interval, and then the mate's head appeared above the water, and after a breathing- space disappeared again. the skipper, watching uneasily, stood by with a lifebelt. "come out, ted," screamed his sister as he came up for breath again. the mate disappeared once more, but coming up for the third time, hung on to the side of the barge to recover a bit. a clothed man in the water savours of disaster and looks alarming. miss harris began to cry. "you'll be drowned," she whimpered. "come out," said mrs. gibbs, in a raspy voice. she knelt on the deck and twined her fingers in his hair. the mate addressed her in terms rendered brotherly by pain. "never mind about the purse," sobbed miss harris; "it doesn't matter." "will you make it up if i come out, then," demanded the diver. "no; i'll never speak to you again as long as i live," said the girl, passionately. the mate disappeared again. this time he was out of sight longer than usual, and when he came up merely tossed his arms weakly and went down again. there was a scream from the women, and a mighty splash as the skipper went overboard with a life-belt. the mate's head, black and shining, showed for a moment; the skipper grabbed him by the hair and towed him to the barge's side, and in the midst of a considerable hubbub both men were drawn from the water. the skipper shook himself like a dog, but the mate lay on the deck inert in a puddle of water. mrs. gibbs frantically slapped his hands; and miss harris, bending over him, rendered first aid by kissing him wildly. captain gibbs pushed her away. "he won't come round while you're a-kissing of him," he cried, roughly. to his indignant surprise the drowned man opened one eye and winked acquiescence. the skipper dropped his arms by his side and stared at him stupidly. "i saw his eyelid twitch," cried mrs. gibbs, joyfully. "he's all right," said her indignant husband; "'e ain't born to be drowned, 'e ain't. i've spoilt a good suit of clothes for nothing." to his wife's amazement, he actually walked away from the insensible man, and with a boathook reached for his hat, which was floating by. mrs. gibbs, still gazing in blank astonishment, caught a seraphic smile on the face of her brother as miss harris continued her ministrations, and in a pardonable fit of temper the overwrought woman gave him a box on the ear, which brought him round at once. "where am i?" he inquired, artlessly. mrs. gibbs told him. she also told him her opinion of him, and without plagiarizing her husband's words, came to the same conclusion as to his ultimate fate. "you come along home with me," she said, turning in a friendly fashion to the bewildered girl. "they deserve what they've got--both of 'em. i only hope that they'll both get such awful colds that they won't find their voices for a twelvemonth." she took the girl by the arm and helped her ashore. they turned their heads once in the direction of the barge, and saw the justly incensed skipper keeping the mate's explanations and apologies at bay with a boat- hook. then they went in to breakfast. the lady of the barge and other stories by w. w. jacobs an adulteration act dr. frank carson had been dreaming tantalizing dreams of cooling, effervescent beverages. over and over again in his dreams he had risen from his bed, and tripping lightly down to the surgery in his pajamas, mixed himself something long and cool and fizzy, without being able to bring the dream to a satisfactory termination. with a sudden start he awoke. the thirst was still upon him; the materials for quenching it, just down one flight of stairs. he would have smacked his lips at the prospect if they had been moist enough to smack; as it was, he pushed down the bedclothes, and throwing one leg out of bed-became firmly convinced that he was still dreaming. for the atmosphere was stifling and odorous, and the ceiling descended in an odd bulging curve to within a couple of feet of his head. still half asleep, he raised his fist and prodded at it in astonishment--a feeling which gave way to one of stupefaction as the ceiling took another shape and swore distinctly. "i must be dreaming," mused the doctor; "even the ceiling seems alive." he prodded it again-regarding it closely this time. the ceiling at once rose to greater altitudes, and at the same moment an old face with bushy whiskers crawled under the edge of it, and asked him profanely what he meant by it. it also asked him whether he wanted something for himself, because, if so, he was going the right way to work. "where am i?" demanded the bewildered doctor. "mary! mary!" he started up in bed, and brought his head in sudden violent contact with the ceiling. then, before the indignant ceiling could carry out its threat of a moment before, he slipped out of bed and stood on a floor which was in its place one moment and somewhere else the next. in the smell of bilge-water, tar, and the foetid atmosphere generally his clouded brain awoke to the fact that he was on board ship, but resolutely declined to inform him how he got there. he looked down in disgust at the ragged clothes which he had on in lieu of the usual pajamas; and then, as events slowly pieced themselves together in his mind, remembered, as the last thing that he could remember, that he had warned his friend harry thomson, solicitor, that if he had any more to drink it would not be good for him. he wondered dimly as he stood whether thomson was there too, and walking unsteadily round the forecastle, roused the sleepers, one by one, and asked them whether they were harry thomson, all answering with much fluency in the negative, until he came to one man who for some time made no answer at all. the doctor shook him first and then punched him. then he shook him again and gave him little scientific slaps, until at length harry thomson, in a far-away voice, said that he was all right. "well, i'm glad i'm not alone," said the doctor, selfishly. "_harry! harry! wake up!_" "all ri'!" said the sleeper; "i'm all ri'!" the doctor shook him again, and then rolled him backward and forward in his bunk. under this gentle treatment the solicitor's faculties were somewhat brightened, and, half opening his eyes, he punched viciously at the disturber of his peace, until threatening voices from the gloom promised to murder both of them. "where are we?" demanded the doctor, of a deep voice from the other side of the forecastle which had been particularly threatening. "barque _stella,_ o' course," was the reply. "where'd you think you was?" the doctor gripped the edge of his friend's bunk and tried to think; then, a feeling of nausea overcoming all others, he clambered hurriedly up the forecastle ladder and lurched to the side of the vessel. he leaned there for some time without moving, a light breeze cooling his fevered brow, and a small schooner some little distance from them playing seesaw, as he closed his eyes to the heaving blue sea. land was conspicuous by its absence, and with a groan he turned and looked about him--at the white scrubbed deck, the snowy canvas towering aloft on lazily creaking spars, and the steersman leaning against the wheel regarding the officer who stood near by. dr. carson, feeling a little better, walked sternly aft, the officer turning round and glancing in surprise at his rags as he approached. "i beg your pardon," began the doctor, in superior tones. "and what the devil do you want?" demanded the second officer; "who told you to come along here?" "i want to know what this means," said the doctor, fiercely. "how dare you kidnap us on your beastly bilge-tank?" "man's mad," murmured the astonished second officer. "insufferable outrage!" continued the doctor. "take us back to melbourne at once." "you get for'ard," said the other sharply; "get for'ard, and don't let me have any more of your lip." "i want to see the captain of this ship," cried the doctor; "go and fetch him at once." the second officer gazed at him, limp with astonishment, and then turned to the steersman, as though unable to believe his ears. the steersman pointed in front of him, and the other gave a cry of surprise and rage as he saw another tatterdemalion coming with uncertain steps toward him. "carson," said the new arrival, feebly; and coming closer to his friend, clung to him miserably. "i'm just having it out with 'em, thomson," said the doctor, energetically. "my friend here is a solicitor. tell him what 'll happen if they don't take us back, harry." "you seem to be unaware, my good fellow," said the solicitor, covering a large hole in the leg of his trousers with his hand, "of the very dangerous situation in which you have placed yourselves. we have no desire to be harsh with you--" "not at all," acquiesced the doctor, nodding at the second officer. "at the same time," continued mr. thomson--"at the--" he let go his friend's arm and staggered away; the doctor gazed after him sympathetically. [illustration: he saw another tatterdemalion coming towards him.] "his digestion is not all it should be," he said to the second officer, confidentially. "if you don't get for'ard in two twos," said that gentleman, explosively, "i'll knock your heads off." the doctor gazed at him in haughty disdain, and taking the limp thomson by the arm, led him slowly away. "how did we get here?" asked mr. harry thomson, feebly. the doctor shook his head. "how did we get these disgusting clothes on?" continued his friend. the doctor shook his head again. "the last thing i can remember, harry," he said, slowly, "was imploring you not to drink any more." "i didn't hear you," said the solicitor, crustily; "your speech was very indistinct last night." "seemed so to you, i dare say," said the other. mr. thomson shook his arm off, and clinging to the mainmast, leaned his cheek against it and closed his eyes. he opened them again at the sound of voices, and drew himself up as he saw the second officer coming along with a stern-visaged man of about fifty. "are you the master of this vessel?" inquired the doctor, stepping to his friend's side. "what the blazes has that got to do with you?" demanded the skipper. "look here, my lads; don't you play any of your little games on me, because they won't do. you're both of you as drunk as owls." "defamation of character," said the solicitor, feebly, to his friend. "allow me," said the doctor, with his best manner, "to inquire what all this means. i am dr. frank carson, of melbourne; this gentleman is my friend mr. thomson, of the same place, solicitor." "what?" roared the skipper, the veins in his forehead standing out. "doctor! solicitor! why, you damned rascals, you shipped with me as cook and a. b." "there's some mistake," said the doctor. "i'm afraid i shall have to ask you to take us back. i hope you haven't come far." "take those scarecrows away," cried the skipper, hoarsely; "take them away before i do them a mischief. i'll have the law of somebody for shipping two useless lubbers as seamen. look to me like pickpockets." "you shall answer for this," said carson, foaming; "we're professional men, and we're not going to be abused by a bargee." "let him talk," said mr. thomson, hurriedly drawing his friend away from the irate skipper. "let him talk." "i'll put you both in quod when we get to hong-kong," said the skipper. "meantime, no work, no food; d'ye hear? start and cook the breakfast, mr. doctor; and you. mr. lawyer, turn to and ask the boy to teach you an a. b's duties." he walked back to the cabin; and the new cook was slowly pushed toward the galley by the second officer, the new a. b., under the same gentle guidance, being conducted back to the forecastle. fortunately for the new seamen the weather continued fine, but the heat of the galley was declared by the new cook to be insupportable. from the other hands they learned that they had been shipped with several others by a resourceful boarding-house master. the other hands, being men of plain speech, also said that they were brought aboard in a state of beastly and enviable intoxication, and chaffed crudely when the doctor attributed their apparent state of intoxication to drugs. "you say you're a doctor?" said the oldest seaman. "i am," said carson, fiercely. "wot sort of a doctor are you, if you don't know when your licker's been played with, then?" asked the old man, as a grin passed slowly from mouth to mouth. "i suppose it is because i drink so seldom," said the doctor, loftily. "i hardly know the taste of liquor myself, while as for my friend mr. thomson, you might almost call him a teetotaler. "next door to one," said the solicitor, who was sewing a patch on his trousers, as he looked up approvingly. "you might call 'im a sailor, if you liked," said another seaman, "but that wouldn't make him one. all i can say is i never 'ad enough time or money to get in the state you was both in when you come aboard." if the forecastle was incredulous, the cabin was worse. the officers at first took but little notice of them, but feeling their torn and tattered appearance was against them, they put on so many airs and graces to counteract this that flesh and blood could not endure it quietly. the cook would allude to his friend as mr. thomson, while the a. b. would persist in referring, with a most affected utterance, to dr. carson. "cook!" bawled the skipper one day when they were about a week out. dr. carson, who was peeling potatoes, stepped slowly out of the galley and went toward him. "you say 'sir,' when you're spoken to," said the skipper, fiercely. the doctor sneered. "my --- if you sneer at me, i'll knock your head off!" said the other, with a wicked look. "when you get back to melbourne," said the doctor, quietly, "you'll hear more of this." "you're a couple of pickpockets aping the gentleman," said the skipper, and he turned to the mate. "mr. mackenzie, what do these two ragamuffins look like?" "pickpockets," said the mate, dutifully. "it's a very handy thing," said the old man, jeeringly, "to have a doctor aboard. first time i've carried a surgeon." mr. mackenzie guffawed loudly. "and a solicitor," said the skipper, gazing darkly at the hapless harry thomson, who was cleaning brasswork. "handy in case of disputes. he's a real sea lawyer. _cook!_" "sir?" said the doctor, quietly. "go down and tidy my cabin, and see you do it well." the doctor went below without a word, and worked like a housemaid. when he came on deck again, his face wore a smile almost of happiness, and his hand caressed one trousers pocket as though it concealed a hidden weapon. for the following three or four days the two unfortunates were worked unceasingly. mr. thomson complained bitterly, but the cook wore a sphinx-like smile and tried to comfort him. "it won't be for long, harry," he said, consolingly. the solicitor sniffed. "i could write tract after tract on temperance," he said, bitterly. "i wonder what our poor wives are thinking? i expect they have put us down as dead." "crying their eyes out," said the doctor, wistfully; "but they'll dry them precious quick when we get back, and ask all sorts of questions. what are you going to say, harry?" "the truth," said the solicitor, virtuously. "so am i," said his friend; "but mind, we must both tell the same tale, whatever it is. halloa! what's the matter?" "it's the skipper," said the boy, who had just run up; "he wants to see you at once. he's dying." he caught hold of the doctor by the sleeve; but carson, in his most professional manner, declined to be hurried. he went leisurely down the companion-ladder, and met with a careless glance the concerned faces of the mate and second officer. "come to the skipper at once," said the mate. "does he want to see me?" said the doctor, languidly, as he entered the cabin. the skipper was lying doubled up in his bunk, his face twisted with pain. "doctor," he panted, "give me something quick. there's the medicine- chest." "do you want some food, sir?" inquired the other, respectfully. "food be damned!" said the sufferer. "i want physic. there's the medicine-chest." the doctor took it up and held it out to him. "i don't want the lot," moaned the skipper. "i want you to give me something for red-hot corkscrews in the inside." "i beg your pardon," said the doctor, humbly; "i'm only the cook." "if you--don't--prescribe for me at once," said the skipper, "i'll put you in irons." the doctor shook his head. "i shipped as cook," he said, slowly. "give me something, for heaven's sake!" said the skipper, humbly. "i'm dying." the doctor pondered. "if you dinna treat him at once, i'll break your skull," said the mate, persuasively. the doctor regarded him scornfully, and turned to the writhing skipper. "my fee is half a guinea a visit," he said, softly; "five shillings if you come to me." "i'll have half a guinea's worth," said the agonized skipper. the doctor took his wrist, and calmly drew the second officer's watch from its owner's pocket. then he inspected the sick man's tongue, and shaking his head, selected a powder from the chest. "you mustn't mind its being nasty," he said. "where's a spoon?" he looked round for one, but the skipper took the powder from his hand, and licked it from the paper as though it had been sherbet. "for mercy's sake don't say it's cholera," he gasped. "i won't say anything," said the doctor. "where did you say the money was?" the skipper pointed to his trousers, and mr. mackenzie, his national spirit rising in hot rage, took out the agreed amount and handed it to the physician. "am i in danger?" said the skipper. "there's always danger," said the doctor, in his best bedside manner. "have you made your will?" the other, turning pale, shook his head. "perhaps you'd like to see a solicitor?" said carson, in winning tones. "i'm not bad enough for that," said the skipper, stoutly. "you must stay here and nurse the skipper, mr. mackenzie," said carson, turning to the mate; "and be good enough not to make that snuffling noise; it's worrying to an invalid." "snuffling noise?" repeated the horror-struck mate. "yes; you've got an unpleasant habit of snuffling," said the doctor; "it worries me sometimes, i meant to speak to you about it before. you mustn't do it here. if you want to snuffle, go and snuffle on deck." the frenzied outburst of the mate was interrupted by the skipper. "don't make that noise in my cabin, mr. mackenzie," he said, severely. both mates withdrew in dudgeon, and carson, after arranging the sufferer's bedclothes, quitted the cabin and sought his friend. mr. thomson was at first incredulous, but his eyes glistened brightly at the sight of the half-sovereign. "better hide it," he said, apprehensively; "the skipper 'll have it back when he gets well; it's the only coin we've got." "he won't get well," said dr. carson, easily; "not till we get to hong- kong, that is." "what's the matter with him?" whispered the solicitor. the doctor, evading his eye, pulled a long face and shook his head. "it may be the cooking," he said, slowly. "i'm not a good cook, i admit. it might be something got into the food from the medicine-chest. i shouldn't be at all surprised if the mates are taken bad too." and indeed at that very moment the boy came rushing to the galley again, bawling out that mr. mackenzie was lying flat on his stomach in his bunk, punching the air with his fists and rending it with his language. the second officer appeared on deck as he finished his tale, and glancing forward, called out loudly for the cook. "you're wanted, frank," said the solicitor. "when he calls me doctor, i'll go," said the other, stiffly. "_cook!_" bawled the second officer. "_cook!_ cook!" he came running forward, his face red and angry, and his fist doubled. "didn't you hear me calling you?" he demanded, fiercely. "i've been promoted," said carson, sweetly. "i'm ship's surgeon now." "come down below at once, or i'll take you there by the scruff of your neck," vociferated the other. "you're not big enough, little man," said the doctor, still smiling. "well, well, lead the way, and we'll see what we can do." he followed the speechless second officer below, and found the boy's description of the first officer's state as moonlight unto sunlight, as water unto wine. even the second officer was appalled at the spectacle, and ventured a protest. "gie me something at once," yelled mr. mackenzie. "do you wish me to undertake your case?" inquired the doctor, suavely. mr. mackenzie said that he did, in seven long, abusive, and wicked sentences. "my fee is half a guinea," said the doctor, softly, poor people who cannot afford more, mates and the like, i sometimes treat for less." "i'll die first," howled the mate; "you won't get any money out of me." "very good," said the doctor, and rose to depart. "bring him back, rogers," yelled the mate; "don't let him go." but the second officer, with a strange awesome look in his eyes, was leaning back in his seat, tightly gripping the edge of the table in both hands. "come, come," said the doctor, cheerily--"what's this? you mustn't be ill, rogers. i want you to nurse these other two." the other rose slowly to his feet and eyed him with lack-lustre eyes. "tell the third officer to take charge," he said, slowly; "and if he's to he nurse as well, he's got his hands full." the doctor sent the boy to apprise the third officer of his responsibilities, and then stood watching the extraordinary and snakelike convolutions of mr. mackenzie. "how much--did--ye say?" hissed the latter. "poor people," repeated the doctor, with relish, "five shillings a visit; very poor people, half a crown." "i'll have half a crown's worth," moaned the miserable mate. "mr. mackenzie," said a faint voice from the skipper's cabin. "sir?" yelled the mate, who was in torment. "don't answer me like that, sir," said the skipper, sharply. "will you please to remember that i'm ill, and can't bear that horrible noise you're making?" "i'm--ill--too," gasped the mate. "ill? nonsense!" said the skipper, severely. "we can't both be ill. how about the ship?" there was no reply, but from another cabin the voice of mr. rogers was heard calling wildly for medical aid, and offering impossible sums in exchange for it. the doctor went from cabin to cabin, and, first collecting his fees, administered sundry potions to the sufferers; and then, in his capacity of cook, went forward and made an unsavory mess he called gruel, which he insisted upon their eating. thanks to his skill, the invalids were freed from the more violent of their pains, but this freedom was followed by a weakness so alarming that they could hardly raise their heads from their pillows--a state of things which excited the intense envy of the third officer, who, owing to his responsibilities, might just as well have been without one. in this state of weakness, and with the fear of impending dissolution before his eyes, the skipper sent for mr. harry thomson, and after some comparisons between lawyers and sharks, in which stress was laid upon certain redeeming features of the latter, paid a guinea and made his will. his example, save in the amount of the fee, was followed by the mate; but mr. rogers, being approached tentatively by the doctor in his friend's behalf, shook his head and thanked his stars he had nothing to leave. he had enjoyed his money, he said. they mended slowly as they approached hong-kong, though a fit of temper on mr. mackenzie's part, during which he threw out ominous hints about having his money back, led to a regrettable relapse in his case. he was still in bed when they came to anchor in the harbour; but the skipper and his second officer were able to go above and exchange congratulations from adjoining deck-chairs. "you are sure it wasn't cholera?" asked the harbour-master's deputy, who had boarded them in his launch, after he had heard the story. "positive," said carson. "very fortunate thing they had you on board," said the deputy--"very fortunate." the doctor bowed. "seems so odd, the three of them being down with it," said the other; "looks as though it's infectious, doesn't it?" "i don't think so," said the doctor, accepting with alacrity an offer to go ashore in the launch and change into some decent clothes. "i think i know what it was." the captain of the _stella_ pricked up his ears, and the second officer leaned forward with parted lips. carson, accompanied by the deputy and the solicitor, walked toward the launch. "what was it?" cried the skipper, anxiously. [illustration: the second officer leaned forward] "i think that you ate something that disagreed with you," replied the doctor, grinning meaningly. "good-by, captain." the master of the _stella_ made no reply, but rising feebly, tottered to the side, and shook his fist at the launch as it headed for the shore. doctor carson, who had had a pious upbringing, kissed his hand in return. the lady of the barge and other stories by w. w. jacobs captain rogers a man came slowly over the old stone bridge, and averting his gaze from the dark river with its silent craft, looked with some satisfaction toward the feeble lights of the small town on the other side. he walked with the painful, forced step of one who has already trudged far. his worsted hose, where they were not darned, were in holes, and his coat and knee-breeches were rusty with much wear, but he straightened himself as he reached the end of the bridge and stepped out bravely to the taverns which stood in a row facing the quay. he passed the "queen anne"--a mere beershop--without pausing, and after a glance apiece at the "royal george" and the "trusty anchor," kept on his way to where the "golden key" hung out a gilded emblem. it was the best house in riverstone, and patronized by the gentry, but he adjusted his faded coat, and with a swaggering air entered and walked boldly into the coffee-room. the room was empty, but a bright fire afforded a pleasant change to the chill october air outside. he drew up a chair, and placing his feet on the fender, exposed his tattered soles to the blaze, as a waiter who had just seen him enter the room came and stood aggressively inside the door. "brandy and water," said the stranger; "hot." "the coffee-room is for gentlemen staying in the house," said the waiter. the stranger took his feet from the fender, and rising slowly, walked toward him. he was a short man and thin, but there was something so menacing in his attitude, and something so fearsome in his stony brown eyes, that the other, despite his disgust for ill-dressed people, moved back uneasily. "brandy and water, hot," repeated the stranger; "and plenty of it. d'ye hear?" the man turned slowly to depart. "stop!" said the other, imperiously. "what's the name of the landlord here?" "mullet," said the fellow, sulkily. "send him to me," said the other, resuming his seat; "and hark you, my friend, more civility, or 'twill be the worse for you." he stirred the log on the fire with his foot until a shower of sparks whirled up the chimney. the door opened, and the landlord, with the waiter behind him, entered the room, but he still gazed placidly at the glowing embers. "what do you want?" demanded the landlord, in a deep voice. the stranger turned a little weazened yellow face and grinned at him familiarly. "send that fat rascal of yours away," he said, slowly. the landlord started at his voice and eyed him closely; then he signed to the man to withdraw, and closing the door behind him, stood silently watching his visitor. "you didn't expect to see me, rogers," said the latter. "my name's mullet," said the other, sternly. "what do you want?" "oh, mullet?" said the other, in surprise. "i'm afraid i've made a mistake, then. i thought you were my old shipmate, captain rogers. it's a foolish mistake of mine, as i've no doubt rogers was hanged years ago. you never had a brother named rogers, did you?" "i say again, what do you want?" demanded the other, advancing upon him. "since you're so good," said the other. "i want new clothes, food, and lodging of the best, and my pockets filled with money." "you had better go and look for all those things, then," said mullet. "you won't find them here." "ay!" said the other, rising. "well, well--there was a hundred guineas on the head of my old shipmate rogers some fifteen years ago. i'll see whether it has been earned yet." "if i gave you a hundred guineas," said the innkeeper, repressing his passion by a mighty effort, "you would not be satisfied." "reads like a book," said the stranger, in tones of pretended delight. "what a man it is!" he fell back as he spoke, and thrusting his hand into his pocket, drew forth a long pistol as the innkeeper, a man of huge frame, edged toward him. "keep your distance," he said, in a sharp, quick voice. the innkeeper, in no wise disturbed at the pistol, turned away calmly, and ringing the bell, ordered some spirits. then taking a chair, he motioned to the other to do the same, and they sat in silence until the staring waiter had left the room again. the stranger raised his glass. "my old friend captain rogers," he said, solemnly, "and may he never get his deserts!" "from what jail have you come?" inquired mullet, sternly. "'pon my soul," said the other, "i have been in so many--looking for captain rogers--that i almost forget the last, but i have just tramped from london, two hundred and eighty odd miles, for the pleasure of seeing your damned ugly figure-head again; and now i've found it, i'm going to stay. give me some money." the innkeeper, without a word, drew a little gold and silver from his pocket, and placing it on the table, pushed it toward him. "enough to go on with," said the other, pocketing it; "in future it is halves. d'ye hear me? halves! and i'll stay here and see i get it." he sat back in his chair, and meeting the other's hatred with a gaze as steady as his own, replaced his pistol. "a nice snug harbor after our many voyages," he continued. "shipmates we were, shipmates we'll be; while nick gunn is alive you shall never want for company. lord! do you remember the dutch brig, and the fat frightened mate?" "i have forgotten it," said the other, still eyeing him steadfastly. "i have forgotten many things. for fifteen years i have lived a decent, honest life. pray god for your own sinful soul, that the devil in me does not wake again." "fifteen years is a long nap," said gunn, carelessly; "what a godsend it 'll be for you to have me by you to remind you of old times! why, you're looking smug, man; the honest innkeeper to the life! gad! who's the girl?" [illustration: gunn placed a hand, which lacked two fingers on his breast and bowed again.] he rose and made a clumsy bow as a girl of eighteen, after a moment's hesitation at the door, crossed over to the innkeeper. "i'm busy, my dear," said the latter, somewhat sternly. "our business," said gunn, with another bow, "is finished. is this your daughter, rog-- mullet?" "my stepdaughter," was the reply. gunn placed a hand, which lacked two fingers, on his breast, and bowed again. "one of your father's oldest friends," he said smoothly; "and fallen on evil days; i'm sure your gentle heart will be pleased to hear that your good father has requested me--for a time--to make his house my home." "any friend of my father's is welcome to me, sir," said the girl, coldly. she looked from the innkeeper to his odd-looking guest, and conscious of something strained in the air, gave him a little bow and quitted the room. "you insist upon staying, then?" said mullet, after a pause. "more than ever," replied gunn, with a leer toward the door. "why, you don't think i'm _afraid,_ captain? you should know me better than that." "life is sweet," said the other. "ay," assented gunn, "so sweet that you will share things with me to keep it." "no," said the other, with great calm. "i am man enough to have a better reason." "no psalm singing," said gunn, coarsely. "and look cheerful, you old buccaneer. look as a man should look who has just met an old friend never to lose him again." he eyed his man expectantly and put his hand to his pocket again, but the innkeeper's face was troubled, and he gazed stolidly at the fire. "see what fifteen years' honest, decent life does for us," grinned the intruder. the other made no reply, but rising slowly, walked to the door without a word. "landlord," cried gunn, bringing his maimed hand sharply down on the table. the innkeeper turned and regarded him. "send me in some supper," said gunn; "the best you have, and plenty of it, and have a room prepared. the best." the door closed silently, and was opened a little later by the dubious george coming in to set a bountiful repast. gunn, after cursing him for his slowness and awkwardness, drew his chair to the table and made the meal of one seldom able to satisfy his hunger. he finished at last, and after sitting for some time smoking, with his legs sprawled on the fender, rang for a candle and demanded to be shown to his room. his proceedings when he entered it were but a poor compliment to his host. not until he had poked and pried into every corner did he close the door. then, not content with locking it, he tilted a chair beneath the handle, and placing his pistol beneath his pillow, fell fast asleep. despite his fatigue he was early astir next morning. breakfast was laid for him in the coffee-room, and his brow darkened. he walked into the hall, and after trying various doors entered a small sitting-room, where his host and daughter sat at breakfast, and with an easy assurance drew a chair to the table. the innkeeper helped him without a word, but the girl's hand shook under his gaze as she passed him some coffee. "as soft a bed as ever i slept in," he remarked. "i hope that you slept well," said the girl, civilly. "like a child," said gunn, gravely; "an easy conscience. eh, mullet?" the innkeeper nodded and went on eating. the other, after another remark or two, followed his example, glancing occasionally with warm approval at the beauty of the girl who sat at the head of the table. "a sweet girl," he remarked, as she withdrew at the end of the meal; "and no mother, i presume?" "no mother," repeated the other. gunn sighed and shook his head. "a sad case, truly," he murmured. "no mother and such a guardian. poor soul, if she but knew! well, we must find her a husband." he looked down as he spoke, and catching sight of his rusty clothes and broken shoes, clapped his hand to his pocket; and with a glance at his host, sallied out to renew his wardrobe. the innkeeper, with an inscrutable face, watched him down the quay, then with bent head he returned to the house and fell to work on his accounts. in this work gunn, returning an hour later, clad from head to foot in new apparel, offered to assist him. mullett hesitated, but made no demur; neither did he join in the ecstasies which his new partner displayed at the sight of the profits. gunn put some more gold into his new pockets, and throwing himself back in a chair, called loudly to george to bring him some drink. in less than a month the intruder was the virtual master of the "golden key." resistance on the part of the legitimate owner became more and more feeble, the slightest objection on his part drawing from the truculent gunn dark allusions to his past and threats against his future, which for the sake of his daughter he could not ignore. his health began to fail, and joan watched with perplexed terror the growth of a situation which was in a fair way of becoming unbearable. the arrogance of gunn knew no bounds. the maids learned to tremble at his polite grin, or his worse freedom, and the men shrank appalled from his profane wrath. george, after ten years' service, was brutally dismissed, and refusing to accept dismissal from his hands, appealed to his master. the innkeeper confirmed it, and with lack-lustre eyes fenced feebly when his daughter, regardless of gunn's presence, indignantly appealed to him. "the man was rude to my friend, my dear," he said dispiritedly "if he was rude, it was because mr. gunn deserved it," said joan, hotly. gunn laughed uproariously. "gad, my dear, i like you!" he cried, slapping his leg. "you're a girl of spirit. now i will make you a fair offer. if you ask for george to stay, stay he shall, as a favour to your sweet self." the girl trembled. "who is master here?" she demanded, turning a full eye on her father. mullet laughed uneasily. "this is business," he said, trying to speak lightly, "and women can't understand it. gunn is--is valuable to me, and george must go." "unless you plead for him, sweet one?" said gunn. the girl looked at her father again, but he turned his head away and tapped on the floor with his foot. then in perplexity, akin to tears, she walked from the room, carefully drawing her dress aside as gunn held the door for her. "a fine girl," said gunn, his thin lips working; "a fine spirit. 'twill be pleasant to break it; but she does not know who is master here." "she is young yet," said the other, hurriedly. "i will soon age her if she looks like that at me again," said gunn. "by ---, i'll turn out the whole crew into the street, and her with them, an' i wish it. i'll lie in my bed warm o' nights and think of her huddled on a doorstep." his voice rose and his fists clenched, but he kept his distance and watched the other warily. the innkeeper's face was contorted and his brow grew wet. for one moment something peeped out of his eyes; the next he sat down in his chair again and nervously fingered his chin. "i have but to speak," said gunn, regarding him with much satisfaction, "and you will hang, and your money go to the crown. what will become of her then, think you?" the other laughed nervously. "'twould be stopping the golden eggs," he ventured. "don't think too much of that," said gunn, in a hard voice. "i was never one to be baulked, as you know." "come, come. let us be friends," said mullet; "the girl is young, and has had her way." he looked almost pleadingly at the other, and his voice trembled. gunn drew himself up, and regarding him with a satisfied sneer, quitted the room without a word. affairs at the "golden key" grew steadily worse and worse. gunn dominated the place, and his vile personality hung over it like a shadow. appeals to the innkeeper were in vain; his health was breaking fast, and he moodily declined to interfere. gunn appointed servants of his own choosing-brazen maids and foul-mouthed men. the old patrons ceased to frequent the "golden key," and its bedrooms stood empty. the maids scarcely deigned to take an order from joan, and the men spoke to her familiarly. in the midst of all this the innkeeper, who had complained once or twice of vertigo, was seized with a fit. joan, flying to him for protection against the brutal advances of gunn, found him lying in a heap behind the door of his small office, and in her fear called loudly for assistance. a little knot of servants collected, and stood regarding him stupidly. one made a brutal jest. gunn, pressing through the throng, turned the senseless body over with his foot, and cursing vilely, ordered them to carry it upstairs. until the surgeon came, joan, kneeling by the bed, held on to the senseless hand as her only protection against the evil faces of gunn and his proteges. gunn himself was taken aback, the innkeeper's death at that time by no means suiting his aims. the surgeon was a man of few words and fewer attainments, but under his ministrations the innkeeper, after a long interval, rallied. the half- closed eyes opened, and he looked in a dazed fashion at his surroundings. gunn drove the servants away and questioned the man of medicine. the answers were vague and interspersed with latin. freedom from noise and troubles of all kinds was insisted upon and joan was installed as nurse, with a promise of speedy assistance. the assistance arrived late in the day in the shape of an elderly woman, whose spartan treatment of her patients had helped many along the silent road. she commenced her reign by punching the sick man's pillows, and having shaken him into consciousness by this means, gave him a dose of physic, after first tasting it herself from the bottle. after the first rally the innkeeper began to fail slowly. it was seldom that he understood what was said to him, and pitiful to the beholder to see in his intervals of consciousness his timid anxiety to earn the good- will of the all-powerful gunn. his strength declined until assistance was needed to turn him in the bed, and his great sinewy hands were forever trembling and fidgeting on the coverlet. joan, pale with grief and fear, tended him assiduously. her stepfather's strength had been a proverb in the town, and many a hasty citizen had felt the strength of his arm. the increasing lawlessness of the house filled her with dismay, and the coarse attentions of gunn became more persistent than ever. she took her meals in the sick-room, and divided her time between that and her own. gunn himself was in a dilemma. with mullet dead, his power was at an end and his visions of wealth dissipated. he resolved to feather his nest immediately, and interviewed the surgeon. the surgeon was ominously reticent, the nurse cheerfully ghoulish. "four days i give him," she said, calmly; "four blessed days, not but what he might slip away at any moment." gunn let one day of the four pass, and then, choosing a time when joan was from the room, entered it for a little quiet conversation. the innkeeper's eyes were open, and, what was more to the purpose, intelligent. "you're cheating the hangman, after all," snarled gunn. "i'm off to swear an information." the other, by a great effort, turned his heavy head and fixed his wistful eyes on him. "mercy!" he whispered. "for her sake--give me--a little time!" "to slip your cable, i suppose," quoth gunn. "where's your money? where's your hoard, you miser?" mullet closed his eyes. he opened them again slowly and strove to think, while gunn watched him narrowly. when he spoke, his utterance was thick and labored. "come to-night," he muttered, slowly. "give me--time--i will make your --your fortune. but the nurse-watches." "i'll see to her," said gunn, with a grin. "but tell me now, lest you die first." "you will--let joan--have a share?" panted the innkeeper. "yes, yes," said gunn, hastily. the innkeeper strove to raise himself in the bed, and then fell back again exhausted as joan's step was heard on the stairs. gunn gave a savage glance of warning at him, and barring the progress of the girl at the door, attempted to salute her. joan came in pale and trembling, and falling on her knees by the bedside, took her father's hand in hers and wept over it. the innkeeper gave a faint groan and a shiver ran through his body. it was nearly an hour after midnight that nick gunn, kicking off his shoes, went stealthily out onto the landing. a little light came from the partly open door of the sick-room, but all else was in blackness. he moved along and peered in. the nurse was siting in a high-backed oak chair by the fire. she had slipped down in the seat, and her untidy head hung on her bosom. a glass stood on the small oak table by her side, and a solitary candle on the high mantel-piece diffused a sickly light. gunn entered the room, and finding that the sick man was dozing, shook him roughly. the innkeeper opened his eyes and gazed at him blankly. "wake, you fool," said gunn, shaking him again. the other roused and muttered something incoherently. then he stirred slightly. "the nurse," he whispered. "she's safe enow," said gunn. "i've seen to that." he crossed the room lightly, and standing before the unconscious woman, inspected her closely and raised her in the chair. her head fell limply over the arm. "dead?" inquired mullet, in a fearful whisper. "drugged," said gunn, shortly. "now speak up, and be lively." the innkeeper's eyes again travelled in the direction of the nurse. "the men," he whispered; "the servants." "dead drunk and asleep," said gunn, biting the words. "the last day would hardly rouse them. now will you speak, damn you!" "i must--take care--of joan," said the father. gunn shook his clenched hand at him. "my money--is--is--" said the other. "promise me on--your oath--joan." "ay, ay," growled gunn; "how many more times? i'll marry her, and she shall have what i choose to give her. speak up, you fool! it's not for you to make terms. where is it?" he bent over, but mullet, exhausted with his efforts, had closed his eyes again, and half turned his head. "where is it, damn you?" said gunn, from between his teeth. mullet opened his eyes again, glanced fearfully round the room, and whispered. gunn, with a stifled oath, bent his ear almost to his mouth, and the next moment his neck was in the grip of the strongest man in riverstone, and an arm like a bar of iron over his back pinned him down across the bed. "you dog!" hissed a fierce voice in his ear. "i've got you--captain rogers at your service, and now you may tell his name to all you can. shout it, you spawn of hell. shout it!" he rose in bed, and with a sudden movement flung the other over on his back. gunn's eyes were starting from his head, and he writhed convulsively. "i thought you were a sharper man, gunn," said rogers, still in the same hot whisper, as he relaxed his grip a little; "you are too simple, you hound! when you first threatened me i resolved to kill you. then you threatened my daughter. i wish that you had nine lives, that i might take them all. keep still!" he gave a half-glance over his shoulder at the silent figure of the nurse, and put his weight on the twisting figure on the bed. "you drugged the hag, good gunn," he continued. "to-morrow morning, gunn, they will find you in your room dead, and if one of the scum you brought into my house be charged with the murder, so much the better. when i am well they will go. i am already feeling a little bit stronger, gunn, as you see, and in a month i hope to be about again." he averted his face, and for a time gazed sternly and watchfully at the door. then he rose slowly to his feet, and taking the dead man in his arms, bore him slowly and carefully to his room, and laid him a huddled heap on the floor. swiftly and noiselessly he put the dead man's shoes on and turned his pockets inside out, kicked a rug out of place, and put a guinea on the floor. then he stole cautiously down stairs and set a small door at the back open. a dog barked frantically, and he hurried back to his room. the nurse still slumbered by the fire. she awoke in the morning shivering with the cold, and being jealous of her reputation, rekindled the fire, and measuring out the dose which the invalid should have taken, threw it away. on these unconscious preparations for an alibi captain rogers gazed through half-closed lids, and then turning his grim face to the wall, waited for the inevitable alarm. the lady of the barge and other stories by w. w. jacobs three at table the talk in the coffee-room had been of ghosts and apparitions, and nearly everybody present had contributed his mite to the stock of information upon a hazy and somewhat thread-bare subject. opinions ranged from rank incredulity to childlike faith, one believer going so far as to denounce unbelief as impious, with a reference to the witch of endor, which was somewhat marred by being complicated in an inexplicable fashion with the story of jonah. "talking of jonah," he said solemnly, with a happy disregard of the fact that he had declined to answer several eager questions put to him on the subject, "look at the strange tales sailors tell us." "i wouldn't advise you to believe all those," said a bluff, clean-shaven man, who had been listening without speaking much. "you see when a sailor gets ashore he's expected to have something to tell, and his friends would be rather disappointed if he had not." "it's a well-known fact," interrupted the first speaker firmly, "that sailors are very prone to see visions." "they are," said the other dryly, "they generally see them in pairs, and the shock to the nervous system frequently causes headache next morning." "you never saw anything yourself?" suggested an unbeliever. "man and boy," said the other, "i've been at sea thirty years, and the only unpleasant incident of that kind occurred in a quiet english countryside." "and that?" said another man. "i was a young man at the time," said the narrator, drawing at his pipe and glancing good-humouredly at the company. "i had just come back from china, and my own people being away i went down into the country to invite myself to stay with an uncle. when i got down to the place i found it closed and the family in the south of france; but as they were due back in a couple of days i decided to put up at the royal george, a very decent inn, and await their return. "the first day i passed well enough; but in the evening the dulness of the rambling old place, in which i was the only visitor, began to weigh upon my spirits, and the next morning after a late breakfast i set out with the intention of having a brisk day's walk. "i started off in excellent spirits, for the day was bright and frosty, with a powdering of snow on the iron-bound roads and nipped hedges, and the country had to me all the charm of novelty. it was certainly flat, but there was plenty of timber, and the villages through which i passed were old and picturesque. "i lunched luxuriously on bread and cheese and beer in the bar of a small inn, and resolved to go a little further before turning back. when at length i found i had gone far enough, i turned up a lane at right angles to the road i was passing, and resolved to find my way back by another route. it is a long lane that has no turning, but this had several, each of which had turnings of its own, which generally led, as i found by trying two or three of them, into the open marshes. then, tired of lanes, i resolved to rely upon the small compass which hung from my watch chain and go across country home. "i had got well into the marshes when a white fog, which had been for some time hovering round the edge of the ditches, began gradually to spread. there was no escaping it, but by aid of my compass i was saved from making a circular tour and fell instead into frozen ditches or stumbled over roots in the grass. i kept my course, however, until at four o'clock, when night was coming rapidly up to lend a hand to the fog, i was fain to confess myself lost. "the compass was now no good to me, and i wandered about miserably, occasionally giving a shout on the chance of being heard by some passing shepherd or farmhand. at length by great good luck i found my feet on a rough road driven through the marshes, and by walking slowly and tapping with my stick managed to keep to it. i had followed it for some distance when i heard footsteps approaching me. "we stopped as we met, and the new arrival, a sturdy-looking countryman, hearing of my plight, walked back with me for nearly a mile, and putting me on to a road gave me minute instructions how to reach a village some three miles distant. "i was so tired that three miles sounded like ten, and besides that, a little way off from the road i saw dimly a lighted window. i pointed it out, but my companion shuddered and looked round him uneasily. "'you won't get no good there,' he said, hastily. "'why not?' i asked. "'there's a something there, sir,' he replied, 'what 'tis i dunno, but the little 'un belonging to a gamekeeper as used to live in these parts see it, and it was never much good afterward. some say as it's a poor mad thing, others says as it's a kind of animal; but whatever it is, it ain't good to see.' "'well, i'll keep on, then,' i said. 'goodnight.' "he went back whistling cheerily until his footsteps died away in the distance, and i followed the road he had indicated until it divided into three, any one of which to a stranger might be said to lead straight on. i was now cold and tired, and having half made up my mind walked slowly back toward the house. "at first all i could see of it was the little patch of light at the window. i made for that until it disappeared suddenly, and i found myself walking into a tall hedge. i felt my way round this until i came to a small gate, and opening it cautiously, walked, not without some little nervousness, up a long path which led to the door. there was no light and no sound from within. half repenting of my temerity i shortened my stick and knocked lightly upon the door. "i waited a couple of minutes and then knocked again, and my stick was still beating the door when it opened suddenly and a tall bony old woman, holding a candle, confronted me. "'what do you want?' she demanded gruffly. "'i've lost my way,' i said, civilly; 'i want to get to ashville.' "'don't know it,' said the old woman. "she was about to close the door when a man emerged from a room at the side of the hall and came toward us. an old man of great height and breadth of shoulder. "'ashville is fifteen miles distant,' he said slowly. "'if you will direct me to the nearest village, i shall be grateful,' i remarked. "he made no reply, but exchanged a quick, furtive glance with the woman. she made a gesture of dissent. "'the nearest place is three miles off,' he said, turning to me and apparently trying to soften a naturally harsh voice; 'if you will give me the pleasure of your company, i will make you as comfortable as i can.' "i hesitated. they were certainly a queer-looking couple, and the gloomy hall with the shadows thrown by the candle looked hardly more inviting than the darkness outside. "'you are very kind,' i murmured, irresolutely, 'but--' "'come in,' he said quickly; 'shut the door, anne.' "almost before i knew it i was standing inside and the old woman, muttering to herself, had closed the door behind me. with a queer sensation of being trapped i followed my host into the room, and taking the proffered chair warmed my frozen fingers at the fire. "'dinner will soon be ready,' said the old man, regarding me closely. 'if you will excuse me.' "i bowed and he left the room. a minute afterward i heard voices; his and the old woman's, and, i fancied, a third. before i had finished my inspection of the room he returned, and regarded me with the same strange look i had noticed before. "'there will be three of us at dinner,' he said, at length. 'we two and my son.' "i bowed again, and secretly hoped that that look didn't run in the family. "'i suppose you don't mind dining in the dark,' he said, abruptly. "'not at all,' i replied, hiding my surprise as well as i could, 'but really i'm afraid i'm intruding. if you'll allow me--' "he waved his huge gaunt hands. 'we're not going to lose you now we've got you,' he said, with a dry laugh. 'it's seldom we have company, and now we've got you we'll keep you. my son's eyes are bad, and he can't stand the light. ah, here is anne.' "as he spoke the old woman entered, and, eyeing me stealthily, began to lay the cloth, while my host, taking a chair the other side of the hearth, sat looking silently into the fire. the table set, the old woman brought in a pair of fowls ready carved in a dish, and placing three chairs, left the room. the old man hesitated a moment, and then, rising from his chair, placed a large screen in front of the fire and slowly extinguished the candles. "'blind man's holiday,' he said, with clumsy jocosity, and groping his way to the door opened it. somebody came back into the room with him, and in a slow, uncertain fashion took a seat at the table, and the strangest voice i have ever heard broke a silence which was fast becoming oppressive. "'a cold night,' it said slowly. "i replied in the affirmative, and light or no light, fell to with an appetite which had only been sharpened by the snack in the middle of the day. it was somewhat difficult eating in the dark, and it was evident from the behaviour of my invisible companions that they were as unused to dining under such circumstances as i was. we ate in silence until the old woman blundered into the room with some sweets and put them with a crash upon the table. "'are you a stranger about here?' inquired the curious voice again. "i replied in the affirmative, and murmured something about my luck in stumbling upon such a good dinner. "'stumbling is a very good word for it,' said the voice grimly. 'you have forgotten the port, father.' "'so i have,' said the old man, rising. 'it's a bottle of the "celebrated" to-day; i will get it myself.' "he felt his way to the door, and closing it behind him, left me alone with my unseen neighbour. there was something so strange about the whole business that i must confess to more than a slight feeling of uneasiness. "my host seemed to be absent a long time. i heard the man opposite lay down his fork and spoon, and half fancied i could see a pair of wild eyes shining through the gloom like a cat's. "with a growing sense of uneasiness i pushed my chair back. it caught the hearthrug, and in my efforts to disentangle it the screen fell over with a crash and in the flickering light of the fire i saw the face of the creature opposite. with a sharp catch of my breath i left my chair and stood with clenched fists beside it. man or beast, which was it? the flame leaped up and then went out, and in the mere red glow of the fire it looked more devilish than before. "for a few moments we regarded each other in silence; then the door opened and the old man returned. he stood aghast as he saw the warm firelight, and then approaching the table mechanically put down a couple of bottles. "'i beg your pardon,' said i, reassured by his presence, 'but i have accidentally overturned the screen. allow me to replace it.' "'no,' said the old man, gently, 'let it be. "'we have had enough of the dark. i'll give you a light.' "he struck a match and slowly lit the candles. then--i saw that the man opposite had but the remnant of a face, a gaunt wolfish face in which one unquenched eye, the sole remaining feature, still glittered. i was greatly moved, some suspicion of the truth occurring to me. "'my son was injured some years ago in a burning house,' said the old man. 'since then we have lived a very retired life. when you came to the door we--' his voice trembled, 'that is-my son---' "'i thought," said the son simply, 'that it would be better for me not to come to the dinner-table. but it happens to be my birthday, and my father would not hear of my dining alone, so we hit upon this foolish plan of dining in the dark. i'm sorry i startled you.' "'i am sorry,' said i, as i reached across the table and gripped his hand, 'that i am such a fool; but it was only in the dark that you startled me.' "from a faint tinge in the old man's cheek and a certain pleasant softening of the poor solitary eye in front of me i secretly congratulated myself upon this last remark. "'we never see a friend,' said the old man, apologetically, 'and the temptation to have company was too much for us. besides, i don't know what else you could have done.' "'nothing else half so good, i'm sure,' said i. "'come,' said my host, with almost a sprightly air. 'now we know each other, draw our chairs to the fire and let's keep this birthday in a proper fashion.' "he drew a small table to the fire for the glasses and produced a box of cigars, and placing a chair for the old servant, sternly bade her to sit down and drink. if the talk was not sparkling, it did not lack for vivacity, and we were soon as merry a party as i have ever seen. the night wore on so rapidly that we could hardly believe our ears when in a lull in the conversation a clock in the hall struck twelve. "'a last toast before we retire,' said my host, pitching the end of his cigar into the fire and turning to the small table. "we had drunk several before this, but there was something impressive in the old man's manner as he rose and took up his glass. his tall figure seemed to get taller, and his voice rang as he gazed proudly at his disfigured son. "'the health of the children my boy saved!' he said, and drained his glass at a draught." captains all by w.w. jacobs the boatswain's mate [illustration: "the boatswain's mate"] mr. george benn, retired boat-swain, sighed noisily, and with a despondent gesture, turned to the door and stood with the handle in his hand; mrs. waters, sitting behind the tiny bar in a tall windsor-chair, eyed him with some heat. "my feelings'll never change," said the boatswain. "nor mine either," said the landlady, sharply. "it's a strange thing, mr. benn, but you always ask me to marry you after the third mug." "it's only to get my courage up," pleaded the boatswain. "next time i'll do it afore i 'ave a drop; that'll prove to you i'm in earnest." he stepped outside and closed the door before the landlady could make a selection from the many retorts that crowded to her lips. after the cool bar, with its smell of damp saw-dust, the road seemed hot and dusty; but the boatswain, a prey to gloom natural to a man whose hand has been refused five times in a fortnight, walked on unheeding. his steps lagged, but his brain was active. he walked for two miles deep in thought, and then coming to a shady bank took a seat upon an inviting piece of turf and lit his pipe. the heat and the drowsy hum of bees made him nod; his pipe hung from the corner of his mouth, and his eyes closed. he opened them at the sound of approaching footsteps, and, feeling in his pocket for matches, gazed lazily at the intruder. he saw a tall man carrying a small bundle over his shoulder, and in the erect carriage, the keen eyes, and bronzed face had little difficulty in detecting the old soldier. the stranger stopped as he reached the seated boatswain and eyed him pleasantly. "got a pipe o' baccy, mate?" he inquired. the boatswain handed him the small metal box in which he kept that luxury. "lobster, ain't you?" he said, affably. the tall man nodded. "was," he replied. "now i'm my own commander-in- chief." "padding it?" suggested the boatswain, taking the box from him and refilling his pipe. the other nodded, and with the air of one disposed to conversation dropped his bundle in the ditch and took a seat beside him. "i've got plenty of time," he remarked. mr. benn nodded, and for a while smoked on in silence. a dim idea which had been in his mind for some time began to clarify. he stole a glance at his companion--a man of about thirty-eight, clear eyes, with humorous wrinkles at the corners, a heavy moustache, and a cheerful expression more than tinged with recklessness. "ain't over and above fond o' work?" suggested the boatswain, when he had finished his inspection. "i love it," said the other, blowing a cloud of smoke in the air, "but we can't have all we want in this world; it wouldn't be good for us." the boatswain thought of mrs. waters, and sighed. then he rattled his pocket. "would arf a quid be any good to you?" he inquired. "look here," began the soldier; "just because i asked you for a pipe o' baccy--" "no offence," said the other, quickly. "i mean if you earned it?" the soldier nodded and took his pipe from his mouth. "gardening and windows?" he hazarded, with a shrug of his shoulders. the boatswain shook his head. "scrubbing, p'r'aps?" said the soldier, with a sigh of resignation. "last house i scrubbed out i did it so thoroughly they accused me of pouching the soap. hang 'em!" "and you didn't?" queried the boatswain, eyeing him keenly. the soldier rose and, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, gazed at him darkly. "i can't give it back to you," he said, slowly, "because i've smoked some of it, and i can't pay you for it because i've only got twopence, and that i want for myself. so long, matey, and next time a poor wretch asks you for a pipe, be civil." "i never see such a man for taking offence in all my born days," expostulated the boat-swain. "i 'ad my reasons for that remark, mate. good reasons they was." the soldier grunted and, stooping, picked up his bundle. "i spoke of arf a sovereign just now," continued the boatswain, impressively, "and when i tell you that i offer it to you to do a bit o' burgling, you'll see 'ow necessary it is for me to be certain of your honesty." "_burgling?_" gasped the astonished soldier. "_honesty?_ 'struth; are you drunk or am i?" "meaning," said the boatswain, waving the imputation away with his hand, "for you to pretend to be a burglar." "we're both drunk, that's what it is," said the other, resignedly. the boatswain fidgeted. "if you don't agree, mum's the word and no 'arm done," he said, holding out his hand. "mum's the word," said the soldier, taking it. "my name's ned travers, and, barring cells for a spree now and again, there's nothing against it. mind that." "might 'appen to anybody," said mr. benn, soothingly. "you fill your pipe and don't go chucking good tobacco away agin." mr. travers took the offered box and, with economy born of adversity, stooped and filled up first with the plug he had thrown away. then he resumed his seat and, leaning back luxuriously, bade the other "fire away." "i ain't got it all ship-shape and proper yet," said mr. benn, slowly, "but it's in my mind's eye. it's been there off and on like for some time." he lit his pipe again and gazed fixedly at the opposite hedge. "two miles from here, where i live," he said, after several vigorous puffs, "there's a little public-'ouse called the beehive, kept by a lady wot i've got my eye on." the soldier sat up. "she won't 'ave me," said the boatswain, with an air of mild surprise. the soldier leaned back again. "she's a lone widder," continued mr. benn, shaking his head, "and the beehive is in a lonely place. it's right through the village, and the nearest house is arf a mile off." "silly place for a pub," commented mr. travers. "i've been telling her 'ow unsafe it is," said the boatswain. "i've been telling her that she wants a man to protect her, and she only laughs at me. she don't believe it; d'ye see? likewise i'm a small man--small, but stiff. she likes tall men." "most women do," said mr. travers, sitting upright and instinctively twisting his moustache. "when i was in the ranks--" "my idea is," continued the boatswain, slightly raising his voice, "to kill two birds with one stone--prove to her that she does want being protected, and that i'm the man to protect her. d'ye take my meaning, mate?" the soldier reached out a hand and felt the other's biceps. "like a lump o' wood," he said, approvingly. "my opinion is," said the boatswain, with a faint smirk, "that she loves me without knowing it." "they often do," said mr. travers, with a grave shake of his head. "consequently i don't want 'er to be disappointed," said the other. "it does you credit," remarked mr. travers. "i've got a good head," said mr. benn, "else i shouldn't 'ave got my rating as boatswain as soon as i did; and i've been turning it over in my mind, over and over agin, till my brain-pan fair aches with it. now, if you do what i want you to to-night and it comes off all right, damme i'll make it a quid." "go on, vanderbilt," said mr. travers; "i'm listening." the boatswain gazed at him fixedly. "you meet me 'ere in this spot at eleven o'clock to-night," he said, solemnly; "and i'll take you to her 'ouse and put you through a little winder i know of. you goes upstairs and alarms her, and she screams for help. i'm watching the house, faithful-like, and hear 'er scream. i dashes in at the winder, knocks you down, and rescues her. d'ye see?" "i hear," corrected mr. travers, coldly. "she clings to me," continued the boat-swain, with a rapt expression of face, "in her gratitood, and, proud of my strength and pluck, she marries me." "an' i get a five years' honeymoon," said the soldier. the boatswain shook his head and patted the other's shoulder. "in the excitement of the moment you spring up and escape," he said, with a kindly smile. "i've thought it all out. you can run much faster than i can; any-ways, you will. the nearest 'ouse is arf a mile off, as i said, and her servant is staying till to-morrow at 'er mother's, ten miles away." mr. travers rose to his feet and stretched himself. "time i was toddling," he said, with a yawn. "thanks for amusing me, mate." "you won't do it?" said the boatswain, eyeing him with much concern. "i'm hanged if i do," said the soldier, emphatically. "accidents will happen, and then where should i be?" "if they did," said the boatswain, "i'd own up and clear you." "you might," said mr. travers, "and then again you mightn't. so long, mate." "i--i'll make it two quid," said the boat-swain, trembling with eagerness. "i've took a fancy to you; you're just the man for the job." the soldier, adjusting his bundle, glanced at him over his shoulder. "thankee," he said, with mock gratitude. "look 'ere," said the boatswain, springing up and catching him by the sleeve; "i'll give it to you in writing. come, you ain't faint-hearted? why, a bluejacket 'ud do it for the fun o' the thing. if i give it to you in writing, and there should be an accident, it's worse for me than it is for you, ain't it?" mr. travers hesitated and, pushing his cap back, scratched his head. "i gives you the two quid afore you go into the house," continued the boatswain, hastily following up the impression he had made. "i'd give 'em to you now if i'd got 'em with me. that's my confidence in you; i likes the look of you. soldier or sailor, when there is a man's work to be done, give 'em to me afore anybody." [illustration: "'i gives you the two quid afore you go into the house,' continued the boatswain."] the soldier seated himself again and let his bundle fall to the ground. "go on," he said, slowly. "write it out fair and square and sign it, and i'm your man." the boatswain clapped him on the shoulder and produced a bundle of papers from his pocket. "there's letters there with my name and address on 'em," he said. "it's all fair, square, and above-board. when you've cast your eyes over them i'll give you the writing." mr. travers took them and, re-lighting his pipe, smoked in silence, with various side glances at his companion as that enthusiast sucked his pencil and sat twisting in the agonies of composition. the document finished--after several failures had been retrieved and burnt by the careful mr. travers--the boat-swain heaved a sigh of relief, and handing it over to him, leaned back with a complacent air while he read it. "seems all right," said the soldier, folding it up and putting it in his waistcoat-pocket. "i'll be here at eleven to-night." "eleven it is," said the boatswain, briskly, "and, between pals--here's arf a dollar to go on with." he patted him on the shoulder again, and with a caution to keep out of sight as much as possible till night walked slowly home. his step was light, but he carried a face in which care and exultation were strangely mingled. by ten o'clock that night care was in the ascendant, and by eleven, when he discerned the red glow of mr. travers's pipe set as a beacon against a dark background of hedge, the boatswain was ready to curse his inventive powers. mr. travers greeted him cheerily and, honestly attributing the fact to good food and a couple of pints of beer he had had since the boatswain left him, said that he was ready for anything. mr. benn grunted and led the way in silence. there was no moon, but the night was clear, and mr. travers, after one or two light-hearted attempts at conversation, abandoned the effort and fell to whistling softly instead. except for one lighted window the village slept in darkness, but the boatswain, who had been walking with the stealth of a red indian on the war-path, breathed more freely after they had left it behind. a renewal of his antics a little farther on apprised mr. travers that they were approaching their destination, and a minute or two later they came to a small inn standing just off the road. "all shut up and mrs. waters abed, bless her," whispered the boatswain, after walking care-fully round the house. "how do you feel?" "i'm all right," said mr. travers. "i feel as if i'd been burgling all my life. how do you feel?" "narvous," said mr. benn, pausing under a small window at the rear of the house. "this is the one." mr. travers stepped back a few paces and gazed up at the house. all was still. for a few moments he stood listening and then re-joined the boatswain. "good-bye, mate," he said, hoisting himself on to the sill. "death or victory." the boatswain whispered and thrust a couple of sovereigns into his hand. "take your time; there's no hurry," he muttered. "i want to pull myself together. frighten 'er enough, but not too much. when she screams i'll come in." mr. travers slipped inside and then thrust his head out of the window. "won't she think it funny you should be so handy?" he inquired. "no; it's my faithful 'art," said the boat-swain, "keeping watch over her every night, that's the ticket. she won't know no better." mr. travers grinned, and removing his boots passed them out to the other. "we don't want her to hear me till i'm upstairs," he whispered. "put 'em outside, handy for me to pick up." the boatswain obeyed, and mr. travers--who was by no means a good hand at darning socks--shivered as he trod lightly over a stone floor. then, following the instructions of mr. benn, he made his way to the stairs and mounted noiselessly. but for a slight stumble half-way up his progress was very creditable for an amateur. he paused and listened and, all being silent, made his way to the landing and stopped out-side a door. despite himself his heart was beating faster than usual. he pushed the door open slowly and started as it creaked. nothing happening he pushed again, and standing just inside saw, by a small ewer silhouetted against the casement, that he was in a bedroom. he listened for the sound of breathing, but in vain. "quiet sleeper," he reflected; "or perhaps it is an empty room. now, i wonder whether--" the sound of an opening door made him start violently, and he stood still, scarcely breathing, with his ears on the alert. a light shone on the landing, and peeping round the door he saw a woman coming along the corridor--a younger and better-looking woman than he had expected to see. in one hand she held aloft a candle, in the other she bore a double-barrelled gun. mr. travers withdrew into the room and, as the light came nearer, slipped into a big cupboard by the side of the fireplace and, standing bolt upright, waited. the light came into the room. "must have been my fancy," said a pleasant voice. "bless her," smiled mr. travers. his trained ear recognized the sound of cocking triggers. the next moment a heavy body bumped against the door of the cupboard and the key turned in the lock. "got you!" said the voice, triumphantly. "keep still; if you try and break out i shall shoot you." "all right," said mr. travers, hastily; "i won't move." "better not," said the voice. "mind, i've got a gun pointing straight at you." "point it downwards, there's a good girl," said mr. travers, earnestly; "and take your finger off the trigger. if anything happened to me you'd never forgive yourself." "it's all right so long as you don't move," said the voice; "and i'm not a girl," it added, sternly. "yes, you are," said the prisoner. "i saw you. i thought it was an angel at first. i saw your little bare feet and--" a faint scream interrupted him. "you'll catch cold," urged mr. travers. "don't you trouble about me," said the voice, tartly. "i won't give any trouble," said mr. travers, who began to think it was time for the boatswain to appear on the scene. "why don't you call for help? i'll go like a lamb." "i don't want your advice," was the reply. "i know what to do. now, don't you try and break out. i'm going to fire one barrel out of the window, but i've got the other one for you if you move." "my dear girl," protested the horrified mr. travers, "you'll alarm the neighbourhood." "just what i want to do," said the voice. "keep still, mind." mr. travers hesitated. the game was up, and it was clear that in any case the stratagem of the ingenious mr. benn would have to be disclosed. "stop!" he said, earnestly. "don't do anything rash. i'm not a burglar; i'm doing this for a friend of yours--mr. benn." "what?" said an amazed voice. "true as i stand here," asseverated mr. travers. "here, here's my instructions. i'll put 'em under the door, and if you go to the back window you'll see him in the garden waiting." he rustled the paper under the door, and it was at once snatched from his fingers. he regained an upright position and stood listening to the startled and indignant exclamations of his gaoler as she read the boatswain's permit: "_this is to give notice that i, george benn, being of sound mind and body, have told ned travers to pretend to be a burglar at mrs. waters's. he ain't a burglar, and i shall be outside all the time. it's all above-board and ship-shape. "(signed) george benn_" "sound mind--above-board--ship-shape," repeated a dazed voice. "where is he?" "out at the back," replied mr. travers. "if you go to the window you can see him. now, do put something round your shoulders, there's a good girl." there was no reply, but a board creaked. he waited for what seemed a long time, and then the board creaked again. "did you see him?" he inquired. "i did," was the sharp reply. "you both ought to be ashamed of yourselves. you ought to be punished." "there is a clothes-peg sticking into the back of my head," remarked mr. travers. "what are you going to do?" there was no reply. "what are you going to do?" repeated mr. travers, somewhat uneasily. "you look too nice to do anything hard; leastways, so far as i can judge through this crack." there was a smothered exclamation, and then sounds of somebody moving hastily about the room and the swish of clothing hastily donned. "you ought to have done it before," commented the thoughtful mr. travers. "it's enough to give you your death of cold." "mind your business," said the voice, sharply. "now, if i let you out, will you promise to do exactly as i tell you?" "honour bright," said mr. travers, fervently. "i'm going to give mr. benn a lesson he won't forget," proceeded the other, grimly. "i'm going to fire off this gun, and then run down and tell him i've killed you." "eh?" said the amazed mr. travers. "oh, lord!" "h'sh! stop that laughing," commanded the voice. "he'll hear you. be quiet!" the key turned in the lock, and mr. travers, stepping forth, clapped his hand over his mouth and endeavoured to obey. mrs. waters, stepping back with the gun ready, scrutinized him closely. "come on to the landing," said mr. travers, eagerly. "we don't want anybody else to hear. fire into this." he snatched a patchwork rug from the floor and stuck it up against the balusters. "you stay here," said mrs. waters. he nodded. she pointed the gun at the hearth-rug, the walls shook with the explosion, and, with a shriek that set mr. travers's teeth on edge, she rushed downstairs and, drawing back the bolts of the back door, tottered outside and into the arms of the agitated boatswain. "oh! oh! oh!" she cried. "what--what's the matter?" gasped the boatswain. the widow struggled in his arms. "a burglar," she said, in a tense whisper. "but it's all right; i've killed him." "kill--" stuttered the other. "kill----_killed him?_" mrs. waters nodded and released herself, "first shot," she said, with a satisfied air. the boatswain wrung his hands. "good heavens!" he said, moving slowly towards the door. "poor fellow!" "come back," said the widow, tugging at his coat. "i was--was going to see--whether i could do anything for 'im," quavered the boatswain. "poor fellow!" "you stay where you are," commanded mrs. waters. "i don't want any witnesses. i don't want this house to have a bad name. i'm going to keep it quiet." "quiet?" said the shaking boatswain. "how?" "first thing to do," said the widow, thoughtfully, "is to get rid of the body. i'll bury him in the garden, i think. there's a very good bit of ground behind those potatoes. you'll find the spade in the tool-house." the horrified mr. benn stood stock-still regarding her. "while you're digging the grave," continued mrs. 'waters, calmly, "i'll go in and clean up the mess." the boatswain reeled and then fumbled with trembling fingers at his collar. like a man in a dream he stood watching as she ran to the tool-house and returned with a spade and pick; like a man in a dream he followed her on to the garden. "be careful," she said, sharply; "you're treading down my potatoes." the boatswain stopped dead and stared at her. apparently unconscious of his gaze, she began to pace out the measurements and then, placing the tools in his hands, urged him to lose no time. "i'll bring him down when you're gone," she said, looking towards the house. the boatswain wiped his damp brow with the back of his hand. "how are you going to get it downstairs?" he breathed. "drag it," said mrs. waters, briefly. "suppose he isn't dead?" said the boat-swain, with a gleam of hope. "fiddlesticks!" said mrs. waters. "do you think i don't know? now, don't waste time talking; and mind you dig it deep. i'll put a few cabbages on top afterwards--i've got more than i want." she re-entered the house and ran lightly upstairs. the candle was still alight and the gun was leaning against the bed-post; but the visitor had disappeared. conscious of an odd feeling of disappointment, she looked round the empty room. "come and look at him," entreated a voice, and she turned and beheld the amused countenance of her late prisoner at the door. "i've been watching from the back window," he said, nodding. "you're a wonder; that's what you are. come and look at him." mrs. waters followed, and leaning out of the window watched with simple pleasure the efforts of the amateur sexton. mr. benn was digging like one possessed, only pausing at intervals to straighten his back and to cast a fearsome glance around him. the only thing that marred her pleasure was the behaviour of mr. travers, who was struggling for a place with all the fervour of a citizen at the lord mayor's show. "get back," she said, in a fierce whisper. "he'll see you." mr. travers with obvious reluctance obeyed, just as the victim looked up. "is that you, mrs. waters?" inquired the boatswain, fearfully. "yes, of course it is," snapped the widow. "who else should it be, do you think? go on! what are you stopping for?" mr. benn's breathing as he bent to his task again was distinctly audible. the head of mr. travers ranged itself once more alongside the widow's. for a long time they watched in silence. "won't you come down here, mrs. waters?" called the boatswain, looking up so suddenly that mr. travers's head bumped painfully against the side of the window. "it's a bit creepy, all alone." "i'm all right," said mrs. waters. "i keep fancying there's something dodging behind them currant bushes," pursued the unfortunate mr. benn, hoarsely. "how you can stay there alone i can't think. i thought i saw something looking over your shoulder just now. fancy if it came creeping up behind and caught hold of you! the widow gave a sudden faint scream. "if you do that again" she said, turning fiercely on mr. travers. "he put it into my head," said the culprit, humbly; "i should never have thought of such a thing by myself. i'm one of the quietest and best-behaved----" "make haste, mr. benn," said the widow, turning to the window again; "i've got a lot to do when you've finished." the boatswain groaned and fell to digging again, and mrs. waters, after watching a little while longer, gave mr. travers some pointed instructions about the window and went down to the garden again. "that will do, i think," she said, stepping into the hole and regarding it critically. "now you'd better go straight off home, and, mind, not a word to a soul about this." she put her hand on his shoulder, and noticing with pleasure that he shuddered at her touch led the way to the gate. the boat-swain paused for a moment, as though about to speak, and then, apparently thinking better of it, bade her good-bye in a hoarse voice and walked feebly up the road. mrs. waters stood watching until his steps died away in the distance, and then, returning to the garden, took up the spade and stood regarding with some dismay the mountainous result of his industry. mr. travers, who was standing just inside the back door, joined her. "let me," he said, gallantly. the day was breaking as he finished his task. the clean, sweet air and the exercise had given him an appetite to which the smell of cooking bacon and hot coffee that proceeded from the house had set a sharper edge. he took his coat from a bush and put it on. mrs. waters appeared at the door. "you had better come in and have some breakfast before you go," she said, brusquely; "there's no more sleep for me now." mr. travers obeyed with alacrity, and after a satisfying wash in the scullery came into the big kitchen with his face shining and took a seat at the table. the cloth was neatly laid, and mrs. waters, fresh and cool, with a smile upon her pleasant face, sat behind the tray. she looked at her guest curiously, mr. travers's spirits being somewhat higher than the state of his wardrobe appeared to justify. "why don't you get some settled work?" she inquired, with gentle severity, as he imparted snatches of his history between bites. "easier said than done," said mr. travers, serenely. "but don't you run away with the idea that i'm a beggar, because i'm not. i pay my way, such as it is. and, by-the-bye, i s'pose i haven't earned that two pounds benn gave me?" his face lengthened, and he felt uneasily in his pocket. "i'll give them to him when i'm tired of the joke," said the widow, holding out her hand and watching him closely. mr. travers passed the coins over to her. "soft hand you've got," he said, musingly. "i don't wonder benn was desperate. i dare say i should have done the same in his place." mrs. waters bit her lip and looked out at the window; mr. travers resumed his breakfast. "there's only one job that i'm really fit for, now that i'm too old for the army," he said, confidentially, as, breakfast finished, he stood at the door ready to depart. "playing at burglars?" hazarded mrs. waters. "landlord of a little country public-house," said mr. travers, simply. mrs. waters fell back and regarded him with open-eyed amazement. "good morning," she said, as soon as she could trust her voice. "good-bye," said mr. travers, reluctantly. "i should like to hear how old benn takes this joke, though." mrs. waters retreated into the house and stood regarding him. "if you're passing this way again and like to look in--i'll tell you," she said, after a long pause. "good-bye." "i'll look in in a week's time," said mr. travers. he took the proffered hand and shook it warmly. "it would be the best joke of all," he said, turning away. "what would?" the soldier confronted her again. "for old benn to come round here one evening and find me landlord. think it over." mrs. waters met his gaze soberly. "i'll think it over when you have gone," she said, softly. "now go." captains all by w.w. jacobs the madness of mr. lister [illustration: "the madness of mr. lister."] old jem lister, of the _susannah,_ was possessed of two devils--the love of strong drink and avarice--and the only thing the twain had in common was to get a drink without paying for it. when mr. lister paid for a drink, the demon of avarice masquerading as conscience preached a teetotal lecture, and when he showed signs of profiting by it, the demon of drink would send him hanging round public-house doors cadging for drinks in a way which his shipmates regarded as a slur upon the entire ship's company. many a healthy thirst reared on salt beef and tickled with strong tobacco had been spoiled by the sight of mr. lister standing by the entrance, with a propitiatory smile, waiting to be invited in to share it, and on one occasion they had even seen him (him, jem lister, a.b.) holding a horse's head, with ulterior motives. it was pointed out to mr. lister at last that his conduct was reflecting discredit upon men who were fully able to look after themselves in that direction, without having any additional burden thrust upon them. bill henshaw was the spokesman, and on the score of violence (miscalled firmness) his remarks left little to be desired. on the score of profanity, bill might recall with pride that in the opinion of his fellows he had left nothing unsaid. "you ought to ha' been a member o' parliament, bill," said harry lea, when he had finished. "it wants money," said henshaw, shaking his head. mr. lister laughed, a senile laugh, but not lacking in venom. "that's what we've got to say," said henshaw, turning upon him suddenly. "if there's anything i hate in this world, it's a drinking miser. you know our opinion, and the best thing you can do is to turn over a new leaf now." "take us all in to the goat and compasses," urged lea; "bring out some o' those sovrins you've been hoarding." mr. lister gazed at him with frigid scorn, and finding that the conversation still seemed to centre round his unworthy person, went up on deck and sat glowering over the insults which had been heaped upon him. his futile wrath when bill dogged his footsteps ashore next day and revealed his character to a bibulous individual whom he had almost persuaded to be a christian--from his point of view--bordered upon the maudlin, and he wandered back to the ship, wild-eyed and dry of throat. for the next two months it was safe to say that every drink he had he paid for. his eyes got brighter and his complexion clearer, nor was he as pleased as one of the other sex might have been when the self-satisfied henshaw pointed out these improvements to his companions, and claimed entire responsibility for them. it is probable that mr. lister, under these circumstances, might in time have lived down his taste for strong drink, but that at just that time they shipped a new cook. he was a big, cadaverous young fellow, who looked too closely after his own interests to be much of a favourite with the other men forward. on the score of thrift, it was soon discovered that he and mr. lister had much in common, and the latter, pleased to find a congenial spirit, was disposed to make the most of him, and spent, despite the heat, much of his spare time in the galley. "you keep to it," said the greybeard impressively; "money was made to be took care of; if you don't spend your money you've always got it. i've always been a saving man--what's the result?" the cook, waiting some time in patience to be told, gently inquired what it was. "'ere am i," said mr. lister, good-naturedly helping him to cut a cabbage, "at the age of sixty-two with a bank-book down below in my chest, with one hundered an' ninety pounds odd in it." "one 'undered and ninety pounds!" repeated the cook, with awe. "to say nothing of other things," continued mr. lister, with joyful appreciation of the effect he was producing. "altogether i've got a little over four 'undered pounds." the cook gasped, and with gentle firmness took the cabbage from him as being unfit work for a man of such wealth. "it's very nice," he said, slowly. "it's very nice. you'll be able to live on it in your old age." mr. lister shook his head mournfully, and his eyes became humid. "there's no old age for me," he said, sadly; "but you needn't tell them," and he jerked his thumb towards the forecastle. "no, no," said the cook. "i've never been one to talk over my affairs," said mr. lister, in a low voice. "i've never yet took fancy enough to anybody so to do. no, my lad, i'm saving up for somebody else." "what are you going to live on when you're past work then?" demanded the other. mr. lister took him gently by the sleeve, and his voice sank with the solemnity of his subject: "i'm not going to have no old age," he said, resignedly. "not going to live!" repeated the cook, gazing uneasily at a knife by his side. "how do you know?" "i went to a orsepittle in london," said mr. lister. "i've been to two or three altogether, while the money i've spent on doctors is more than i like to think of, and they're all surprised to think that i've lived so long. i'm so chock-full o' complaints, that they tell me i can't live more than two years, and i might go off at any moment." "well, you've got money," said the cook, "why don't you knock off work now and spend the evenin' of your life ashore? why should you save up for your relatives?" "i've got no relatives," said mr. lister; "i'm all alone. i 'spose i shall leave my money to some nice young feller, and i hope it'll do 'im good." with the dazzling thoughts which flashed through the cook's brain the cabbage dropped violently into the saucepan, and a shower of cooling drops fell on both men. "i 'spose you take medicine?" he said, at length. "a little rum," said mr. lister, faintly; "the doctors tell me that it is the only thing that keeps me up--o' course, the chaps down there "--he indicated the forecastle again with a jerk of his head--"accuse me o' taking too much." "what do ye take any notice of 'em for?" inquired the other, indignantly. "i 'spose it is foolish," admitted mr. lister; "but i don't like being misunderstood. i keep my troubles to myself as a rule, cook. i don't know what's made me talk to you like this. i 'eard the other day you was keeping company with a young woman." "well, i won't say as i ain't," replied the other, busying himself over the fire. "an' the best thing, too, my lad," said the old man, warmly. "it keeps you stiddy, keeps you out of public-'ouses; not as they ain't good in moderation--i 'ope you'll be 'appy." a friendship sprang up between the two men which puzzled the remainder of the crew not a little. the cook thanked him, and noticed that mr. lister was fidgeting with a piece of paper. "a little something i wrote the other day," said the old man, catching his eye. "if i let you see it, will you promise not to tell a soul about it, and not to give me no thanks?" the wondering cook promised, and, the old man being somewhat emphatic on the subject, backed his promise with a home made affidavit of singular power and profanity. "here it is, then," said mr. lister. the cook took the paper, and as he read the letters danced before him. he blinked his eyes and started again, slowly. in plain black and white and nondescript-coloured finger-marks, mr. lister, after a general statement as to his bodily and mental health, left the whole of his estate to the cook. the will was properly dated and witnessed, and the cook's voice shook with excitement and emotion as he offered to hand it back. "i don't know what i've done for you to do this," he said. mr. lister waved it away again. "keep it," he said, simply; "while you've got it on you, you'll know it's safe." from this moment a friendship sprang up between the two men which puzzled the remainder of the crew not a little. the attitude of the cook was as that of a son to a father: the benignancy of mr. lister beautiful to behold. it was noticed, too, that he had abandoned the reprehensible practice of hanging round tavern doors in favour of going inside and drinking the cook's health. [illustration: "a friendship sprang up between the two men which puzzled the remainder of the crew not a little."] for about six months the cook, although always in somewhat straitened circumstances, was well content with the tacit bargain, and then, bit by bit, the character of mr. lister was revealed to him. it was not a nice character, but subtle; and when he made the startling discovery that a will could be rendered invalid by the simple process of making another one the next day, he became as a man possessed. when he ascertained that mr. lister when at home had free quarters at the house of a married niece, he used to sit about alone, and try and think of ways and means of securing capital sunk in a concern which seemed to show no signs of being wound-up. "i've got a touch of the 'art again, lad," said the elderly invalid, as they sat alone in the forecastle one night at seacole. "you move about too much," said the cook. "why not turn in and rest?" mr. lister, who had not expected this, fidgeted. "i think i'll go ashore a bit and try the air," he said, suggestively. "i'll just go as far as the black horse and back. you won't have me long now, my lad." "no, i know," said the cook; "that's what's worrying me a bit." "don't worry about me," said the old man, pausing with his hand on the other's shoulder; "i'm not worth it. don't look so glum, lad." "i've got something on my mind, jem," said the cook, staring straight in front of him. "what is it?" inquired mr. lister. "you know what you told me about those pains in your inside?" said the cook, without looking at him. jem groaned and felt his side. "and what you said about its being a relief to die," continued the other, "only you was afraid to commit suicide?" "well?" said mr. lister. "it used to worry me," continued the cook, earnestly. "i used to say to myself, 'poor old jem,' i ses, 'why should 'e suffer like this when he wants to die? it seemed 'ard.'" "it is 'ard," said mr. lister, "but what about it?" the other made no reply, but looking at him for the first time, surveyed him with a troubled expression. "what about it?" repeated mr. lister, with some emphasis. "you did say you wanted to die, didn't you?" said the cook. "now suppose suppose----" "suppose what?" inquired the old man, sharply. "why don't you say what you're agoing to say?" "suppose," said the cook, "some one what liked you, jem--what liked you, mind--'eard you say this over and over again, an' see you sufferin' and 'eard you groanin' and not able to do nothin' for you except lend you a few shillings here and there for medicine, or stand you a few glasses o' rum; suppose they knew a chap in a chemist's shop?" "suppose they did?" said the other, turning pale. "a chap what knows all about p'isons," continued the cook, "p'isons what a man can take without knowing it in 'is grub. would it be wrong, do you think, if that friend i was speaking about put it in your food to put you out of your misery?" "wrong," said mr. lister, with glassy eyes. "wrong. look 'ere, cook--" "i don't mean anything to give him pain," said the other, waving his hand; "you ain't felt no pain lately, 'ave you, jem?" "do you mean to say" shouted mr. lister. "i don't mean to say anything," said the cook. "answer my question. you ain't felt no pain lately, 'ave you?" "have--you--been--putting--p'ison--in--my--wittles?" demanded mr. lister, in trembling accents. "if i 'ad, jem, supposin' that i 'ad," said the cook, in accents of reproachful surprise, "do you mean to say that you'd mind?" "mind," said mr. lister, with fervour. "i'd 'ave you 'ung!" "but you said you wanted to die," said the surprised cook. mr. lister swore at him with startling vigour. "i'll 'ave you 'ung," he repeated, wildly. "me," said the cook, artlessly. "what for?" "for giving me p'ison," said mr. lister, frantically. "do you think you can deceive me by your roundabouts? do you think i can't see through you?" the other with a sphinx-like smile sat unmoved. "prove it," he said, darkly. "but supposin' if anybody 'ad been givin' you p'ison, would you like to take something to prevent its acting?" "i'd take gallons of it," said mr. lister, feverishly. the other sat pondering, while the old man watched him anxiously. "it's a pity you don't know your own mind, jem," he said, at length; "still, you know your own business best. but it's very expensive stuff." "how much?" inquired the other. "well, they won't sell more than two shillings-worth at a time," said the cook, trying to speak carelessly, "but if you like to let me 'ave the money, i'll go ashore to the chemist's and get the first lot now." mr. lister's face was a study in emotions, which the other tried in vain to decipher. then he slowly extracted the amount from his trousers-pocket, and handed it over with-out a word. "i'll go at once," said the cook, with a little feeling, "and i'll never take a man at his word again, jem." he ran blithely up on deck, and stepping ashore, spat on the coins for luck and dropped them in his pocket. down below, mr. lister, with his chin in his hand, sat in a state of mind pretty evenly divided between rage and fear. the cook, who was in no mood for company, missed the rest of the crew by two public-houses, and having purchased a baby's teething powder and removed the label, had a congratulatory drink or two before going on board again. a chatter of voices from the forecastle warned him that the crew had returned, but the tongues ceased abruptly as he descended, and three pairs of eyes surveyed him in grim silence. "what's up?" he demanded. "wot 'ave you been doin' to poor old jem?" demanded henshaw, sternly. "nothin'," said the other, shortly. "you ain't been p'isoning 'im?" demanded henshaw. "certainly not," said the cook, emphatically. "he ses you told 'im you p'isoned 'im," said henshaw, solemnly, "and 'e give you two shillings to get something to cure 'im. it's too late now." "what?" stammered the bewildered cook. he looked round anxiously at the men. they were all very grave, and the silence became oppressive. "where is he?" he demanded. henshaw and the others exchanged glances. "he's gone mad," said he, slowly. "mad?" repeated the horrified cook, and, seeing the aversion of the crew, in a broken voice he narrated the way in which he had been victimized. "well, you've done it now," said henshaw, when he had finished. "he's gone right orf 'is 'ed." "where is he?" inquired the cook. "where you can't follow him," said the other, slowly. "heaven?" hazarded the unfortunate cook. "no; skipper's bunk," said lea. "oh, can't i foller 'im?" said the cook, starting up. "i'll soon 'ave 'im out o' that." "better leave 'im alone," said henshaw. "he was that wild we couldn't do nothing with 'im, singing an' larfin' and crying all together--i certainly thought he was p'isoned." "i'll swear i ain't touched him," said the cook. "well, you've upset his reason," said henshaw; "there'll be an awful row when the skipper comes aboard and finds 'im in 'is bed. "'well, come an' 'elp me to get 'im out," said the cook. "i ain't going to be mixed up in it," said henshaw, shaking his head. "don't you, bill," said the other two. "wot the skipper'll say i don't know," said henshaw; "anyway, it'll be said to you, not----" "i'll go and get 'im out if 'e was five madmen," said the cook, compressing his lips. "you'll harve to carry 'im out, then," said henshaw. "i don't wish you no 'arm, cook, and perhaps it would be as well to get 'im out afore the skipper or mate comes aboard. if it was me, i know what i should do." "what?" inquired the cook, breathlessly. "draw a sack over his head," said henshaw, impressively; "he'll scream like blazes as soon as you touch him, and rouse the folks ashore if you don't. besides that, if you draw it well down it'll keep his arms fast." the cook thanked him fervently, and routing out a sack, rushed hastily on deck, his departure being the signal for mr. henshaw and his friends to make preparations for retiring for the night so hastily as almost to savour of panic. the cook, after a hasty glance ashore, went softly below with the sack over his arm and felt his way in the darkness to the skipper's bunk. the sound of deep and regular breathing reassured him, and without undue haste he opened the mouth of the sack and gently raised the sleeper's head. "eh? wha----" began a sleepy voice. the next moment the cook had bagged him, and gripping him tightly round the middle, turned a deaf ear to the smothered cries of his victim as he strove to lift him out of the bunk. in the exciting time which followed, he had more than one reason for thinking that he had caught a centipede. "now, you keep still," he cried, breathlessly. "i'm not going to hurt you." he got his burden out of bed at last, and staggered to the foot of the companion-ladder with it. then there was a halt, two legs sticking obstinately across the narrow way and refusing to be moved, while a furious humming proceeded from the other end of the sack. four times did the exhausted cook get his shoulder under his burden and try and push it up the ladder, and four times did it wriggle and fight its way down again. half crazy with fear and rage, he essayed it for the fifth time, and had got it half-way up when there was a sudden exclamation of surprise from above, and the voice of the mate sharply demanding an explanation. "what the blazes are you up to?" he cried. "it's all right, sir," said the panting cook; "old jem's had a drop too much and got down aft, and i'm getting 'im for'ard again." "jem?" said the astonished mate. "why, he's sitting up here on the fore-hatch. he came aboard with me." "sitting," began the horrified cook; "sit--oh, lor!" he stood with his writhing burden wedged between his body and the ladder, and looked up despairingly at the mate. "i'm afraid i've made a mistake," he said in a trembling voice. the mate struck a match and looked down. "take that sack off," he demanded, sternly. the cook placed his burden upon its feet, and running up the ladder stood by the mate shivering. the latter struck another match, and the twain watched in breathless silence the writhings of the strange creature below as the covering worked slowly upwards. in the fourth match it got free, and revealed the empurpled visage of the master of the _susannah_. for the fraction of a second the cook gazed at him in speechless horror, and then, with a hopeless cry, sprang ashore and ran for it, hotly pursued by his enraged victim. at the time of sailing he was still absent, and the skipper, loth to part two such friends, sent mr. james lister, at the urgent request of the anxious crew, to look for him. captains all by w.w. jacobs over the side [illustration: "over the side."] of all classes of men, those who follow the sea are probably the most prone to superstition. afloat upon the black waste of waters, at the mercy of wind and sea, with vast depths and strange creatures below them, a belief in the supernatural is easier than ashore, under the cheerful gas-lamps. strange stories of the sea are plentiful, and an incident which happened within my own experience has made me somewhat chary of dubbing a man fool or coward because he has encountered something he cannot explain. there are stories of the supernatural with prosaic sequels; there are others to which the sequel has never been published. i was fifteen years old at the time, and as my father, who had a strong objection to the sea, would not apprentice me to it, i shipped before the mast on a sturdy little brig called the _endeavour,_ bound for riga. she was a small craft, but the skipper was as fine a seaman as one could wish for, and, in fair weather, an easy man to sail under. most boys have a rough time of it when they first go to sea, but, with a strong sense of what was good for me, i had attached myself to a brawny, good-natured infant, named bill smith, and it was soon understood that whoever hit me struck bill by proxy. not that the crew were particularly brutal, but a sound cuffing occasionally is held by most seamen to be beneficial to a lad's health and morals. the only really spiteful fellow among them was a man named jem dadd. he was a morose, sallow-looking man, of about forty, with a strong taste for the supernatural, and a stronger taste still for frightening his fellows with it. i have seen bill almost afraid to go on deck of a night for his trick at the wheel, after a few of his reminiscences. rats were a favourite topic with him, and he would never allow one to be killed if he could help it, for he claimed for them that they were the souls of drowned sailors, hence their love of ships and their habit of leaving them when they became unseaworthy. he was a firm believer in the transmigration of souls, some idea of which he had, no doubt, picked up in eastern ports, and gave his shivering auditors to understand that his arrangements for his own immediate future were already perfected. we were six or seven days out when a strange thing happened. dadd had the second watch one night, and bill was to relieve him. they were not very strict aboard the brig in fair weather, and when a man's time was up he just made the wheel fast, and, running for'ard, shouted down the fo'c's'le. on this night i happened to awake suddenly, in time to see bill slip out of his bunk and stand by me, rubbing his red eyelids with his knuckles. "dadd's giving me a long time," he whispered, seeing that i was awake; "it's a whole hour after his time." he pattered up on deck, and i was just turning over, thankful that i was too young to have a watch to keep, when he came softly down again, and, taking me by the shoulders, shook me roughly. "jack," he whispered. "jack." i raised myself on my elbows, and, in the light of the smoking lamp, saw that he was shaking all over. "come on deck," he said, thickly. i put on my clothes, and followed him quietly to the sweet, cool air above. it was a beautiful clear night, but, from his manner, i looked nervously around for some cause of alarm. i saw nothing. the deck was deserted, except for the solitary figure at the wheel. "look at him," whispered bill, bending a contorted face to mine. i walked aft a few steps, and bill followed slowly. then i saw that jem dadd was leaning forward clumsily on the wheel, with his hands clenched on the spokes. "he's asleep," said i, stopping short. bill breathed hard. "he's in a queer sleep," said he; "kind o' trance more like. go closer." i took fast hold of bill's sleeve, and we both went. the light of the stars was sufficient to show that dadd's face was very white, and that his dim, black eyes were wide open, and staring in a very strange and dreadful manner straight before him. "dadd," said i, softly, "dadd!" there was no reply, and, with a view of arousing him, i tapped one sinewy hand as it gripped the wheel, and even tried to loosen it. he remained immovable, and, suddenly with a great cry, my courage deserted me, and bill and i fairly bolted down into the cabin and woke the skipper. then we saw how it was with jem, and two strong seamen forcibly loosened the grip of those rigid fingers, and, laying him on the deck, covered him with a piece of canvas. the rest of the night two men stayed at the wheel, and, gazing fearfully at the outline of the canvas, longed for dawn. it came at last, and, breakfast over, the body was sewn up in canvas, and the skipper held a short service compiled from a bible which belonged to the mate, and what he remembered of the burial service proper. then the corpse went overboard with a splash, and the men, after standing awkwardly together for a few minutes, slowly dispersed to their duties. for the rest of that day we were all very quiet and restrained; pity for the dead man being mingled with a dread of taking the wheel when night came. "the wheel's haunted," said the cook, solemnly; "mark my words, there's more of you will be took the same way dadd was." the cook, like myself, had no watch to keep. the men bore up pretty well until night came on again, and then they unanimously resolved to have a double watch. the cook, sorely against his will, was impressed into the service, and i, glad to oblige my patron, agreed to stay up with bill. some of the pleasure had vanished by the time night came, and i seemed only just to have closed my eyes when bill came, and, with a rough shake or two, informed me that the time had come. any hope that i might have had of escaping the ordeal was at once dispelled by his expectant demeanour, and the helpful way in which he assisted me with my clothes, and, yawning terribly, i followed him on deck. the night was not so clear as the preceding one, and the air was chilly, with a little moisture in it. i buttoned up my jacket, and thrust my hands in my pockets. "everything quiet?" asked bill as he stepped up and took the wheel. "ay, ay," said roberts, "quiet as the grave," and, followed by his willing mate, he went below. i sat on the deck by bill's side as, with a light touch on the wheel, he kept the brig to her course. it was weary work sitting there, doing nothing, and thinking of the warm berth below, and i believe that i should have fallen asleep, but that my watchful companion stirred me with his foot whenever he saw me nodding. i suppose i must have sat there, shivering and yawning, for about an hour, when, tired of inactivity, i got up and went and leaned over the side of the vessel. the sound of the water gurgling and lapping by was so soothing that i began to doze. i was recalled to my senses by a smothered cry from bill, and, running to him, i found him staring to port in an intense and uncomfortable fashion. at my approach, he took one hand from the wheel, and gripped my arm so tightly that i was like to have screamed with the pain of it. "jack," said he, in a shaky voice, "while you was away something popped its head up, and looked over the ship's side." "you've been dreaming," said i, in a voice which was a very fair imitation of bill's own. "dreaming," repeated bill, "dreaming! ah, look there!" he pointed with outstretched finger, and my heart seemed to stop beating as i saw a man's head appear above the side. for a brief space it peered at us in silence, and then a dark figure sprang like a cat on to the deck, and stood crouching a short distance away. a mist came before my eyes, and my tongue failed me, but bill let off a roar, such as i have never heard before or since. it was answered from below, both aft and for'ard, and the men came running up on deck just as they left their beds. "what's up?" shouted the skipper, glancing aloft. for answer, bill pointed to the intruder, and the men, who had just caught sight of him, came up and formed a compact knot by the wheel. "come over the side, it did," panted bill, "come over like a ghost out of the sea." the skipper took one of the small lamps from the binnacle, and, holding it aloft, walked boldly up to the cause of alarm. in the little patch of light we saw a ghastly black-bearded man, dripping with water, regarding us with unwinking eyes, which glowed red in the light of the lamp. "where did you come from?" asked the skipper. the figure shook its head. "where did you come from?" he repeated, walking up, and laying his hand on the other's shoulder. then the intruder spoke, but in a strange fashion and in strange words. we leaned forward to listen, but, even when he repeated them, we could make nothing of them. "he's a furriner," said roberts. "blest if i've ever 'eard the lingo afore," said bill. "does anybody rekernize it?" nobody did, and the skipper, after another attempt, gave it up, and, falling back upon the universal language of signs, pointed first to the man and then to the sea. the other understood him, and, in a heavy, slovenly fashion, portrayed a man drifting in an open boat, and clutching and clambering up the side of a passing ship. as his meaning dawned upon us, we rushed to the stern, and, leaning over, peered into the gloom, but the night was dark, and we saw nothing. "well," said the skipper, turning to bill, with a mighty yawn, "take him below, and give him some grub, and the next time a gentleman calls on you, don't make such a confounded row about it." he went below, followed by the mate, and after some slight hesitation, roberts stepped up to the intruder, and signed to him to follow. he came stolidly enough, leaving a trail of water on the deck, and, after changing into the dry things we gave him, fell to, but without much appearance of hunger, upon some salt beef and biscuits, regarding us between bites with black, lack-lustre eyes. "he seems as though he's a-walking in his sleep," said the cook. "he ain't very hungry," said one of the men; "he seems to mumble his food." "hungry!" repeated bill, who had just left the wheel. "course he ain't famished. he had his tea last night." the men stared at him in bewilderment. "don't you see?" said bill, still in a hoarse whisper; "ain't you ever seen them eyes afore? don't you know what he used to say about dying? it's jem dadd come back to us. jem dadd got another man's body, as he always said he would." "rot!" said roberts, trying to speak bravely, but he got up, and, with the others, huddled together at the end of the fo'c's'le, and stared in a bewildered fashion at the sodden face and short, squat figure of our visitor. for his part, having finished his meal, he pushed his plate from him, and, leaning back on the locker, looked at the empty bunks. roberts caught his eye, and, with a nod and a wave of his hand, indicated the bunks. the fellow rose from the locker, and, amid a breathless silence, climbed into one of them--jem dadd's! he slept in the dead sailor's bed that night, the only man in the fo'c's'le who did sleep properly, and turned out heavily and lumpishly in the morning for breakfast. the skipper had him on deck after the meal, but could make nothing of him. to all his questions he replied in the strange tongue of the night before, and, though our fellows had been to many ports, and knew a word or two of several languages, none of them recognized it. the skipper gave it up at last, and, left to himself, he stared about him for some time, regardless of our interest in his movements, and then, leaning heavily against the side of the ship, stayed there so long that we thought he must have fallen asleep. "he's half-dead now!" whispered roberts. "hush!" said bill, "mebbe he's been in the water a week or two, and can't quite make it out. see how he's looking at it now." he stayed on deck all day in the sun, but, as night came on, returned to the warmth of the fo'c's'le. the food we gave him remained untouched, and he took little or no notice of us, though i fancied that he saw the fear we had of him. he slept again in the dead man's bunk, and when morning came still lay there. until dinner-time, nobody interfered with him, and then roberts, pushed forward by the others, approached him with some food. he motioned, it away with a dirty, bloated hand, and, making signs for water, drank it eagerly. for two days he stayed there quietly, the black eyes always open, the stubby fingers always on the move. on the third morning bill, who had conquered his fear sufficiently to give him water occasionally, called softly to us. "come and look at him," said he. "what's the matter with him?" "he's dying!" said the cook, with a shudder. "he can't be going to die yet!" said bill, blankly. as he spoke the man's eyes seemed to get softer and more life-like, and he looked at us piteously and helplessly. from face to face he gazed in mute inquiry, and then, striking his chest feebly with his fist, uttered two words. we looked at each other blankly, and he repeated them eagerly, and again touched his chest. "it's his name," said the cook, and we all repeated them. he smiled in an exhausted fashion, and then, rallying his energies, held up a forefinger; as we stared at this new riddle, he lowered it, and held up all four fingers, doubled. "come away," quavered the cook; "he's putting a spell on us." we drew back at that, and back farther still, as he repeated the motions. then bill's face cleared suddenly, and he stepped towards him. "he means his wife and younkers!" he shouted eagerly. "this ain't no jem dadd!" it was good then to see how our fellows drew round the dying sailor, and strove to cheer him. bill, to show he understood the finger business, nodded cheerily, and held his hand at four different heights from the floor. the last was very low, so low that the man set his lips together, and strove to turn his heavy head from us. "poor devil!" said bill, "he wants us to tell his wife and children what's become of him. he must ha' been dying when he come aboard. what was his name, again?" but the name was not easy to english lips, and we had already forgotten it. "ask him again," said the cook, "and write it down. who's got a pen?" he went to look for one as bill turned to the sailor to get him to repeat it. then he turned round again, and eyed us blankly, for, by this time, the owner had himself forgotten it.